I killed my best friend. The snowstorm brewed, and I mistook him for the enemy. I let my Corsair's rockets loose, and they shot him into the mountains. What kind of veteran am I, murdering my best friend?
"Daddy, Daddy, we're here." Natalie's sweet voice frees me from the memory.
I force a smile when I see the USS Yorktown resting gallantly at the end of Patriots Point on the edge of Charleston, South Carolina. She's eighteen decks high (doesn't compare to the Ford and Nimitz-classes today), and whew, I don't see my enemy on the 1,000-foot-long Flight Deck.
For seventy years, I have stayed away from the Corsair. As a retired Navy pilot, though, I miss my days on Valley Forge, so Natalie suggested I begin volunteering here. Reluctance is my best friend now, ever since The Incident—yet here I am.
Natalie parks in the Employee lot behind the long pier that leads to the ship.
"There's not a Corsair here, right?" I first ask when she shuts off the car. I'm not great with computers, so I failed to check the Patriots Point website before starting today.
Natalie reaches back and grabs my cane, handing it to me. "Let's not talk about that right now." She looks just like me when I was sixty: a stout girl with stringy brown hair that has not yet wholly grayed.
My dear daughter has helped me considerably since the war, but I still want nothing to do with the Corsair. Natalie has tried me with PTSD counselors, but none worked. Nothing will rid the Whistling Death's scream from my head as Ted went down. To Hell with you, William! That's where I'll go when I pass.
Natalie exits the car and opens my door.
Hot air washes over me like an endless heat wave, and I step into it, my blue Patriots Point volunteer shirt already sticking to my ninety-two-year-old skin. Damn, I remember when getting out of a car was easy.
Natalie and I just moved to South Carolina from New York, so the smell of pluff mud knocks me back a step. How do South Carolinians do it?
This is my first time on an aircraft carrier since Valley Forge. I attempted to avoid Intrepid, Lexington, Hornet, Yorktown, and Midway with the possibility of running into a Corsair. Why am I here again? Oh, I know why: CV-10 looks regal sitting in the Charleston Harbor, and I miss the Valley Forge.
Natalie grasps my arm and leads me toward the pier. I see the marsh surrounding it and an eight-person red golf cart sitting beside the gatehouse at the top of it. Old geezers like me, in blue volunteer shirts, roam slowly. Most are veterans, but did any of them shoot down their best friend?
Natalie and I stop before a gentleman in front of the gatehouse. He wears a gray Public Safety short-sleeved shirt, khaki shorts, and a Vietnam Veteran cap. His nametag reads Cory.
"Hello," Natalie says. "We're Natalie and William Beckington. My daddy starts today."
"Well, I'll be!" Cory notices the cap on my head. "Welcome, William, and thank you for your service. You served on the Valley Forge?"
I keep my mouth shut.
Natalie nods. "Yes, he flew Corsairs during the Korean War."
"Well, I'll be!" Cory repeats. "We don't have a lot of Corsair fliers here." He grins and reaches for the walkie-talkie on his belt. "I'll let the Volunteer Coordinator know you're here and get you a ride to the ship."
"Thanks." Natalie faces me and points at a bench beside a photo booth. "Would you like to sit, Daddy?"
I'm fine standing, but if she insists—I approach the bench and sit, crossing one leg over the other.
Natalie joins me and squeezes my shoulder. She always does it when she knows I'm nervous.
Before long, a younger volunteer emerges from around Patriots Point's gift shop, the Ship Store, and stops before Cory, who points at us. "They're new, Sebastian, and need a ride. The Volunteer Coordinator says they can wait for him at the Info Booth."
Sebastian nods and approaches us. "Hello, hello, and welcome to Patriots Point." He giggles and gestures at the golf cart. "Your Uber has arrived."
Natalie giggles, too, but I remain nonchalant. One of the main lessons we learned in the Navy was to try not to show emotion, no matter how much it hurts. While I haven't cried over Ted in years, his face remains plastered in my brain.
I stand, and Natalie, Sebastian, and I reach the cart, where Natalie says, "You take the shotgun, Daddy."
I thank her and slip into the ride, my butt hitting the uncomfortable seat cloth. Don't show emotion, Bill.
Natalie sits behind me, Sebastian beside me. The cart tips a bit but soon straightens. I now have a clear view of the USS Yorktown, the Charleston Harbor, and the marsh. What a beautiful aircraft carrier! She's Essex-class, like the Valley Forge, and a short-class carrier compared to Valley Forge. I see Yorktown, and I see her—the days Ted and I would smoke cigarettes on the Flight Deck before a big battle and play poker soon after—because when young men know they may not survive, a game of poker relieves us.
On our way down the pier to the ship, Sebastian asks me, "What did you do on Valley Forge?" He must've also seen my hat.
I stick with a one-word answer: "Pilot."
"He flew Corsairs," Natalie explains.
My skin prickles, and I lower my round glasses over my nose.
"Oh, that's sick!" Sebastian says. "You'll love it here, um..." His voice trails.
"Bill," I say. Ted called me that, so I never let the nickname go. I used to call him "Roosevelt". We were Bill and Roosevelt on the aircraft carrier. It got a good laugh out of all the guys. And then I shot Ted down. I distanced myself from the others for the rest of my service and only flew my plane when needed. Luckily, the war ended soon after The Incident, but that scar remains.
Sebastian's voice pulls me out of my trance. "Here we are. If you take this ramp and turn left, you'll pass the galley. An elevator is at the end of it. Press M for the Hangar Bay and Information Booth."
"Galley". Now, that rings a bell. Ted and I were always impatient when we went for the midrats.
I lift my head and see CV-10 lurking over me. The ramp Sebastian mentioned is beside us, leading from the pier to the ship. I also notice a large staircase before the golf cart and a sign at its top that reads I Pledge Allegiance. I'm okay going up stairs, but Natalie fears I'll fall and hurt myself. It sucks getting old.
We enter the ship from the ramp, and the first thing I see on my left is a group of wheelchairs.
Natalie gives me a gentle smile. "Would you like a wheelchair, Daddy?"
To Hell with that!
"I can still walk, Natalie," I growl, passing the chairs.
She blushes. "Sorry."
Natalie's looking out for me, but I'm ninety-two, not one hundred. I don't need a damn wheelchair.
Natalie and I turn left in the narrow hallway, where we find Yorktown's Machine Shop. The galley is beside it. Wow, that cafeteria dining brings back memories. Although, the plastic pies and meat look a little better than what I had.
A sense of comfort washes over me while Natalie and I follow the galley to the elevator. Within minutes, the doors open, and we are on Yorktown's Hangar Bay, the Information Desk before us, and a line of airplanes on the right.
My instincts take me to the airplanes, but Natalie approaches the Information Desk and begins chatting with another veteran behind it. I am home after seventy years. The distinct diesel smell says everything.
I approach the first plane in the line—an F9F Cougar. I remember it from the war; its unique nose and lack of a propeller distinguish it from World War II planes. An AD Skyraider, an attack aircraft, is beside it, and then there is a fighter, the Hellcat. While I know little about CV-10, I know that the Hellcat was her best fighter during World War II. Wow, it's incredible that I still know my airplanes. What's next, what's next?
I freeze and feel the blood draining from my wrinkled face. No! Why? I recognize that double-wasp engine and gull wings anywhere.
The F4U Corsair in the Hangar Bay is black and sports the number 21 on its fuselage. Its side is decorated with a pirate skull.
Don't show emotion, Bill. Don't show emotion. But it isn't easy. That—That...!
I storm to the Corsair and lift my cane over my head. I knock it against the plane's propeller and yell, "You son of a bitch! You killed my best friend!"
"Whoa!" Natalie shouts from the Info Desk. Luckily, the museum is not open yet. Natalie rushes to me and grabs my arm. She drags me away from the Corsair, past the Information Booth, and sits me on a bench before it. "Deep breaths, Daddy. Deep breaths."
The volunteers behind the Information Desk hurry to us. "Does he need a bottle of water?" one asks.
Natalie nods. "Yeah, I would get him one."
"Right." The volunteer salutes and hurries back to the Info Desk.
I shiver and rub my nose. "I'm sorry, Natalie, but... but why?" I look past her at the Medal of Honor Museum across from us. Wait, Patriots Point has a Medal of Honor Museum?
I face Natalie again when she says, "Daddy, I've tried everything. Patriots Point is your key to finally moving on. You'll be with other veterans and make tons of new friends."
I growl. "So, you knew there was a Corsair here?"
Natalie nods. "It's not the Corsair that haunts you, Daddy, but the memory." She smiles at the second volunteer and then at the one who returns with the water bottle.
"Thank you," I say, accepting it.
Natalie kisses my forehead. "The Volunteer Coordinator is on his way up. I'm going to leave but will be back at twelve with lunch." She gestures at the volunteers. "These volunteers will take care of you. Promise. Please, Daddy, give Patriots Point a chance."
"One day," I say, holding up my index finger. "After today, I never want to see that Corsair again."
Natalie smirks and stands up straight. "All right. One day, it is." She gives me one last peck and nods at the volunteers, who return it. From here, Natalie leaves, and I'm alone—trapped on an aircraft carrier with my worst enemy and the brutal memory.
"Ted!" I yelled when I realized that the plane I shot down wasn't the enemy. I turned my Corsair and fought the storm, looking for him. "Ted!" I called into my radio. "Ted, can you hear me? Ted!"
Nothing. I never found him or his plane and eventually had to return to Valley Forge. They deemed Ted "Missing in Action", and he never returned.
That night, in our berthing area, one of my brothers asked, "Do you want to play poker, brother?"
"No." I sniffed and turned over in my rack, placing my pillow on my head. The guys attempted to comfort me, to no avail.
While my mind places the memory on a loop, something tickles the corner of my eye, and I reach for it.
Don't be a baby, William. You're ninety-two years old. You're not allowed to feel emotions.
The volunteers help me stand and escort me to the Information Booth.
A shorter, younger man emerges from below deck and stops before me. "Hey, sorry I'm late." He runs his fingers through the hair on either side of his head (he's bald on top) and offers me his hand. "Welcome, William Beckington. I'm Temple, the Volunteer Coordinator. Let's get started, shall we?"
No. That's the only word that comes to mind.