Understanding Times (Part I)
"I feel that a growing understanding between us will perhaps mean more in the future, not only to us but to the world, than we can now know."
– Eleanor Roosevelt, 1 November 1942
8 NOVEMBER 1942
November 7, 1942
8:00 PM
Mr. A,
Allow yourself a drink in our honor tonight, for I should say there is reason to celebrate: the eggs have been laid. One has hatched, one is confined restlessly inside her shell, and one flies swimmingly. The chick trapped inside her shell fights but has not yet touched ground, and the one who has hatched flaps and squawks against resistance, but those of us who laid them harbor little doubt that they will succeed in torching the coals outside the nest. It's rather hot on the other side anyway, but it couldn't surely be worse than California in August.
Do I sound like Winston, yet? It would be a shame if I didn't; I spent good time creating that metaphor.
Speaking of which, Eleanor has spent the past two weeks touring the the British Isles, boosting morale, visiting the garrisons, meeting with the royals and hitting it off beautifully with his better half, both of whom have endless praises for her and the gifts I sent with her. I asked them to let me know occasionally how things were going, and Eleanor seems, reportedly, to be enjoying herself; she wrote me last month about the unquenchable spirit of the British people in spite of the hardships they face daily, the brave work of innumerable women on their Home Front, and of the general desire of our servicemen to see battle.
I imagine the men on your side of the country are equally as eager. Give them some advice from me, will you? Make it encouraging, of course. We cannot afford to discourage them from service, but you and I both know how the toll of a battle strikes a man's heart and mind—perhaps something of the nature of Mr. Kipling:
"If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much…
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And – which is more – you'll be a Man, my son!"
I know you aren't one for poetry, Mr. A, but see if that inspires anything the boys will take heart in.
I have little knowledge surrounding your equivalent across the Atlantic; however, my conversation with Winston on the first of November suggested to me that he is present in my better half's proceedings. He indicated a certain uneasiness about him—an eagerness to return to the fight and "prove his mettle once again", as Winston phrases it, perhaps as soon as Eleanor's visit concludes. I don't expect you to write me a response, but I wonder if this behavior appears at all strange to you. Lord B. certainly seems the fighter, but I never imagined him so compelled to war. I sent a letter with Eleanor updating him on your current, and soon to change, circumstances, lest Mr. Williams be unavailable or, more likely, uninformed.
Harry spoke to me early in September and indicated that you are not aware of his condition. I find it difficult to believe that none of our friends and allies in England thought to send you a telegram, but I suppose none of that matters at this moment.
Winston sent me a gram near the end of August informing me that your brother is in safe hands with Lord B. I learned later that he was severely wounded in the raid on Dieppe, but he is healing. Winston would not provide specifics as to his injuries. Truthfully, he sounded rather astonished that he survived, but in all else I believe Mr. Williams to be convalescing smoothly. I will keep you informed as need requires.
I assume you have heard something by now of the battle for the Solomon Islands, whether from Harry or the press. As of the date I write, it continues unpredictably and at a slug's pace. The Japanese have an unfortunate advantage in torpedo technology and in their development of night-fighting technique. Our forces—American, British, Dutch, and Australian primarily—clash with them continually on the island of Guadalcanal, the territory of Papua, and on the seas with short-lived victories. Reports of fighting inland—and in particular to retain Henderson Airfield, on the foremost mentioned—detail gruesome atrocities committed by the enemy, the likes of which, accompanied by an onslaught of tropical diseases and poor climate conditions, incessantly degrade morale.
Fortunately, the Japanese attempt to capture Port Moresby has been all but halted, though vicious fighting continues on the Kokoda Track in the north.
To be sure, the Southwest Pacific has seen some indomitable victories, but in all it has been a devastating blow to morale, which is part of the reason I must ask you to join our allies there and assume marching army command of our forces. Your additional grade in the Air Forces shall also be acknowledged by Fighter and Bomber Groups in the area. Spirit is desperately needed on his islands, and you are the best weapon I can wield against the oppression of it.
You will be serving in coalition with General MacArthur, and in this position I must ask you to tread cautiously. I believe he still resents losing the Philippines—in heavy mind of the "Death March" to Bataan that followed—and that he holds aspirations of commanding the Pacific Oceans Area in cooperation with his own. His reasons for such claim, essentially, that he needs to eradicate the threat in the Pacific immediately—as we all wish to, but MacArthur's plans are ambitious and at times careless of the reality of our situation. We are facing a shortage of volunteers here at home; the life of every man in this cause is vital, and yet it appears that MacArthur would prefer to take uncalculated risks instead of conducting a method similar to how you travel, albeit at a slower pace.
Harry has not informed you of this, due to a lack of necessity for you to know before, but the Japanese—the chief wasters of life in this conflict—send convoys nightly to replenish their armies on Guadalcanal. In the past, these reinforcements have often come from a particulaR Base. Both MacArthur and your equivalent in Australia will be able to inform you in greater detail the workings of that which is to come. Bear in mind that they disagree how to go about it, as I evidenced when the latter met with me briefly to collect some missives. And so is my second reason for terminating your training early: I need you to bring MacArthur to a more reasonable compromise than what his current demands request of me and my staff. I know that you share my view in wanting to preserve as much American life as possible. Help those of us here at home keep that belief intact.
In other news, Winston's mission to Moscow went as well as optimism can allow. Stalin consented to our nascent egg, among others, but with his eponym currently in such tight constraints against the Germans, I cannot help but wonder if this opinion has changed. The Russians are holding their ground in Stalingrad, and we can only pray that they continue to with the hope of a safer world in the future. We will need them to fulfill our intentions when this war is over, as will I need you to assist in the safe return of our men and women. There is growing demand from a public concerned with what we plan to do in the aftermath, but that is not intelligence I want to disclose in a letter. It shall be saved for when we see each other next.
Remember, the only precedent I can ask for in these decisions is yours, Mr. A.
Do us both the favor of burning this when you're finished with it; toss it in the plane propellers if you must, so long as the sensitive information contained within does not have a per cent chance of meeting the eyes of the enemy.
P.S. My hawk as not paid another visit, but I shall keep searching. I know you cherish him.
Alfred skimmed the letter twice more before leaning back in his makeshift seat within the B-24 and blowing out his cheeks, relieved. Roosevelt had spared nothing with what he'd written, and had taken risks that would never have made it through a censor had it been mailed. Risks of a man confident that the letter stood little chance of being intercepted.
Alfred knew the President stored mountains of anxiety and rarely ever showed it. A little burst of confidence was healthy once in a while, but Roosevelt was also habitually arrogant. Too much confidence, too often, could lead to dangerous consequences. Alfred had experienced that firsthand many, many times.
Nonetheless, the letter was useful, and the risks he'd taken hadn't been compromised. Alfred focused on that as he studied the first hint.
The egg—eggs, meaning there were three. Three landings. Torching. California in August. That could only be the Moroccan and Algerian landings. Everyone on the base had been talking about it—everyone in the plane had, too, before they took off—but he hadn't heard the announcement on the radio yesterday, and he wasn't sure that he believed it. This was good news—great news, actually. Churchill was probably ecstatic.
He hoped, wherever Ludwig was, that he felt the same.
On the other hand, Roosevelt's tangent on Eleanor was clearly another request to make the Anglo-American alliance more than a façade between he and Arthur. Fat chance, Alfred wanted to write back, but Roosevelt was right to suspect that Arthur's behavior was odd. As long as Alfred had known him, he had been trapped in wars, but he had never liked war. He wasn't fond of guns, and much less the Brown Bess's that were popular at the time; he'd preferred swords and longbows—something with an art to it.
Roosevelt wouldn't know any of that, but Alfred wondered what weighed on him concerning the Brits—Churchill, or Arthur. The need for the Russians at the end of the war, and a certain wariness of both groups. Alfred might have dwelled on it—he might have been sympathetic—if not for the next note.
Arthur had known for months that Matthieu was safe, and no one—not even Français, whom Alfred was certain was living with him—thought to let him know. As if he wasn't the reason they were still able to fight in this damn war. Not one of them so much as considered it—not even Churchill had written, and the imperialist bulldog loved him.
He should have just written Roosevelt. Now more than ever, Alfred loathed not being in Washington. He would've made sure he knew the second Matthieu was brought across the Channel. Hell, he would have gone with Eleanor to England himself if he'd known his condition was that bad.
Scowling, Alfred glanced down at the statement which had urged the breath he'd been holding, only to suck it straight back in. Your brother is in safe hands with Lord B.
That stubborn, pompous bastard.
Remind me to kick his ass next time I see him. Regardless of whether or not he'd win, Alfred meant it this time. The rush of anger made his fingers clench around the onionskin paper, tearing holes where the tips of his gloves dug in.
The sound of the fine paper ripping—barely audible over the wresting purr of the engines, the tick of the radar, and the thread of loose conversation through his head set—brought him back from the verges of fury, and he forced his muscles to relax, smoothing the holes with his thumbs as he sank against the humming metal of the navigator's cubby. Thankfully, the navigator himself was too absorbed in his charts to notice the swift changes in Alfred's demeanor.
Did they think he didn't care? Was that why no one had said anything? He found it hard to believe that Arthur was cruel enough to purposely deprive him of the news, but then…
Anyone could see that you're not fit for the responsibility of being a nation.
You still act like a child.
1917. Right. He had been that man once.
Alfred moved on, pushing against the needle of pain that pricked the back of his head at the thought. Matt was safe. That was all that mattered.
He was going to Australia, and he needed to prepare.
He let himself dwell on that revelation for the remainder of the trip, piecing together the other clues. It was clearer now why Hap had approved upgrading him. He'd been made a Captain so he could work with the fighter pilots and bomber crews in coordination the ground men—that which might be lacking in the South Pacific. Alfred had no expertise with the Navy, but Alfred suspected Roosevelt wasn't particularly concerned on that front—not after Midway. It was getting the commanders to cooperate that would be the issue. That, and morale.
He'd heard stories on the home bases—stories that scared the men, although they tried to hide it. Alfred hadn't been out that way since the mid-1890s, but he remembered Honda Kiku from the fifties. He remembered the fierce denial in his eyes when Harris and Perry made their demands, the urge to fight mercilessly back. It hadn't scared him then, but knowing now what Japan was capable of, what they had accomplished, Alfred worried for the lives trapped on those islands. He wouldn't be surprised if some of them chose the unthinkable, finding no reason to continue in lively terror if he believed he would die regardless.
Spirit was what soldiers needed. In this respect, flying directly into the fight on Guadalcanal or Papua would make more sense, but Alfred didn't have any equipment—or his Army uniforms. All he had was the duffel he'd left Washington with at his feet.
No one was going to believe he was a four-star general unless MacArthur told them to believe it. Hence: tread cautiously. Opening with a request to negotiate would not get him on solid ground. He had to play the compliant soldier first, but it would be better if he knew something other than what's already been reported in the papers, so he wouldn't be entirely useless.
Alfred had met MacArthur before, the first during his 1914 occupation of Veracruz. He'd been cocky, albeit highly intelligent, and if he had stayed any longer, they surely would have clashed heads. As it was, thirty years was a long time to forget a face, and he didn't doubt MacArthur had—regardless of the fact that they worked on the same staff for seven years before his "retirement".
Meaning that Alfred also knew his arrogance hadn't abated. More than likely it was stronger these days. He had a war to play with.
After borrowing a map from the navigator and asking a couple questions, Alfred realized that the apparent typing error in "particular base" implicated Rabul—a base that had been occupied by the Japanese since January. From the framework of the paragraph, and the abrupt inclusion of the convoys, Alfred concluded that this was the primary goal of whatever missions MacArthur was causing trouble for.
Hopkins told him about Task One, that Guadalcanal was the first secure station the Allies needed in order to go forward, but those updates had given Alfred the impression that Roosevelt's staff and the commanding voices in the Southwest Pacific knew what needed to be done, even if the going was slow. Wouldn't he be more useful in Europe?
Or did Roosevelt truly believe he could change the way MacArthur thought?
Stubborn men made sore heels; Roosevelt may be pitting his hopes too high, but if all else failed, Alfred could always resort to old ways and abuse his authority to make decisions.
In a war for democracy. Swell idea.
About an hour into his brooding, the plane dipped, dragging his stomach with it, and the pilot's announcement came through his headphones that they were preparing to land in Hickam Field to break and refuel. Stuffing the letter into the waistband of his trousers—the only real pocket he had—Alfred glanced at his wristwatch. It was midnight in California. Hawai'i was two hours behind.
Hawai'i…
He hadn't been on these Islands since the dissolution of the monarchy.
Swallowing hard, Alfred clenched the straps of the Mae West around his shoulders and waited as the green pilot and co-pilot guided the B-24 in an uneven slope downward, following the ground crew's signals. He tensed when the landing gear slammed onto the pavement, squeezing his eyes shut as the engines and wind outside crescendoed into a deafening roar. His heart leapt into his throat each time the plane jerked as the pilots tried to maintain balance on the plane's small wheels, praying for the crew's sake that it wouldn't tilt too far.
Alfred had discovered during his year of training how little he liked landing; it felt harsh, as if the ground was angry that he'd tried to escape, and it reminded him why he chose the Army instead of the Navy in prior conflicts. Seas didn't sit well with him. Land was familiar.
Skies, on the other hand, were uncharted and beautiful. For Alfred, that was paradise, and he almost loathed when he had to come back underneath the clouds, that awful feeling of being tied down, restrained by gravity.
One day he wouldn't have to. Advancements in technology happened all the time these days. One day, he'd find a way to go up there and stay.
As the plane slowed and the pilots guided it into the hangar, Alfred felt their cage settle around him, metal creaking and her crew relaxing. He offered a compassionate grin to the navigator as the man—a boy, really, he didn't look older than nineteen—looked eagerly out the window at his shoulder, sympathizing instinctively.
The B-24 wasn't called the "Flying Coffin" for nothing. Accidents and fatalities seemed to occur in this model more than any other. There were several reasons, but thinking about them while inside the plane was practically a death sentence. Despite assurances of safe skies, and the Japanese won't get you here, these planes were so plagued with mechanical difficulties that they were fortunate to have made it safely at all.
When the crew received the all-clear, each man headed quickly for the hatch in the back, boots heavy and echoing on the catwalk in the bomb bay. Alfred was last to swing out, dropping onto the concrete strip with ease and taking a deep breath.
Nights in Hawai'i were pleasantly cool. He knew that from experience, and though he'd never been here in November, the change wasn't much. As he walked off the air strip—the crew settled around the plane to wait—a light breeze toyed with his hair, smelling of sea brine and fragrant puakenikeni, and he heard waves in the distance. He headed for them. Neither the crew nor the engineers and supply personnel who set up to screen and reenergize the plane noticed him slip away, working steadily and noisily by the light of a silver moon. He felt his shoulders slope forward as he stepped off the tarmac, releasing formality as he weaved around the barracks and followed the curving pavement northeast.
He stayed on the grass. He could have chosen the lazier route of materializing in the spot he needed, but he wasn't certain where that spot was, and he liked the slow burn building in his legs as he trekked along the uneven ground. It was easier to focus on than what he knew was coming.
On any other night, he would have gone down to the beach and sat in the sands to wait, watching the gentle lap of the waters and the hazy blue edges where the sky met the sea.
In any other time, the windows of the field office behind him would not bear blackout curtains. Yellow lamps would light the way, and these streets, which used to be dusky earth lit with lū'au torches, would not be trapped in the darkness.
It was not coincidence that he landed here tonight. There was something he needed to see, or else he would regret never knowing.
It confronted him as he crested the artificial mound near the border of the airfield, where the base became the naval yard. Alfred hesitated, staring at the tips of his shoes. Then, he sucked in a breath and stepped over the edge.
The pain of thousands hit him all together. He almost dropped to his knees and only just managed to stay in an upright wobble. His heart thudded in his chest, leaving him breathless. Almost a year later, and the tragedy was anything but forgotten. Quite the opposite, actually: Pearl Harbor was wrought into the hearts of each and every man and woman on this base. Resolution forged like iron carried them onward willingly into danger, molding with the ash and certain as the concrete they walked on.
Death lingered heavily on this soil; it hadn't had time yet to settle into the oblivions of history, and Alfred could almost sense the shed blood pulsing with his own, pounding in his ears with the force of every bomb dropped on these small swaths of land and sea. He shuddered—he didn't want to look, afraid the dead might rise—but he forced himself to lift his eyes.
To the untrained eye, the damage would not appear all that present, but in the silver light Alfred picked out the sharp black recesses of craters and dark shadows in the swaying waters with practiced ease, as if he had been there himself that morning. Perhaps he should have been.
And perhaps it was the blood guiding him, but he studied each and every one, coaxing the names of the dead from the reluctant earth with gentle whispers and feather-brush touches.
Among those on the Arizona, resting within the largest shadow in Battleship Row, he learned of twenty-six sets of brothers. Of one father and son.
Their last name was Free.
Warms tears spilled onto his cheeks, dripped off his chin, and fell to the ground. Each one worked against the land's pain, soothing it by degrees with his own. It wasn't enough, but it was all he had to give, so he let them fall.
People died. They died every day. Tragedies hit and faded with the cruelty of time, and those who survived moved on. Alfred knew that, and in all truth, he shouldn't be crying over so simple an attack. It wasn't the worst part of this war, but then he'd never quite learned how to shut out his peoples' beliefs, and they believed firmly that this was the worst to happen to America since his establishment.
Were there worse times? Yes. The Civil War was one. His first battle was another. Both haunted him to this day, whereas this…he'd barely felt it. An electric ping, an ache, and then it was gone.
People died, were dying, every day, but still he cried, because this meant something more.
It meant he couldn't pretend anymore.
Whether he liked it or not, whether Britain liked it or not, he was next in line for the throne.
Alfred wasn't certain how long he stood there, but eventually an alarm went off in the back of his mind, telling him he needed to return to the airfield.
He pushed it back.
"Catch."
His instincts reacted faster than he did, a hand flying up to seize the object thrown at him from behind. His fingers wrapped around something cylindrical, and he drew his hand into view to find it was an unmarked aluminum can.
He heard the amusement in the thrower's voice. "You are as swift as I remember."
Alfred turned, wiping his face as he went, and his mouth fell open.
Dressed in paint- and oil-stained coveralls, the Hawaiian woman crossed her arms and grinned, not unkindly—a sheer one-eighty-degree difference from the last time he had seen her.
"H – hi," Alfred said dumbly. Hawai'i. Holy—
Her grin broadened, exposing the tips of her teeth. "It has been some time, America."
His head bobbed, blinking. "I wasn't sure if…" He wasn't sure if she would still be around after becoming a territory, although in retrospect he should have realized that last December. The dull ache he'd felt would have been much more pronounced if she had faded…died.
The bases may be his soil in all the legal terms, but it was still hers in connection. With such small area space and so large an attack, her pain must have been unbearable. A shudder twisted upward through Alfred's spine, a sadistic whisper for him to turn back around, bask in the crime and death he had brought upon her.
But he didn't dare do any of that. He couldn't even finish the statement without feeling rude.
Fortunately, Hawai'i didn't take offense, offering a soft, conciliatory smile. "Not yet, but it is beginning." She brushed a hand over her dark hair, silver strands gleaming in the moonlight. "It started on the day this"—she waved a gentle hand to the remnants of destruction behind him—"happened."
A twitch creased his brow and Alfred grimaced, but she didn't sound accusing. Her voice was too soft. It unnerved him nonetheless. "I'm sorry." It's my fault. But he couldn't form the words. Quite a few things from recent history were his fault, and he didn't think he could bear it if she asked him to specify which one.
She didn't. She only shrugged, eyes the warm, inviting hue of black coffee roving over the naval base at his back. Perhaps it was due to the Hawaiians' willingness for change, or perhaps it was because of how they had retained their culture in the process, but she had maintained her natural body much more than he had. While he had a few flecks of brown in his eyes and cervine-tinted skin, Hawai'i had a stocky build that she wore proudly, and her hair fell in a silken braid down her back, lacking the roughness of the Mainland and bearing a vibrant hibiscus. Alfred wondered, if he dared to take a step closer, whether she would still smell like the coconut oil she used in it.
He only realized he was staring when her gaze flicked back to him, and he jerked his down to the can in his hand, face hot.
It wasn't her beauty that captivated him. It was the courage that he knew lay beneath it, and the adventurous spirit—things he had forgotten how to live for when he came out here on Cleveland's orders in the spring of 1894 to tackle the few wealthy old men who decided to overthrow the Queen and rule without the consent of the people. Tyrants, in the simplest sense.
He tensed when he arrived and found British influence blanketing Honolulu like an itching scab. It shouldn't have surprised him by that point, but it put him on edge, especially when he looked up and found the ensign waving haughtily in the ocean breeze. He believed he could change it, give Hawai'i the kingdom her people wanted and still come out above Britain in true value, but then, on July fourth that year—the day he celebrated his autonomy, his freedom from the very nation whose presence he couldn't escape—a small rebellion of Royalists stormed the 'Iolani Palace. And when he found out Hawai'i had planned the coup from behind the scenes with the express purpose of antagonizing him into public disgrace—
Even if the aim of those who carried it out had been different and with better intentions, Alfred had been angry enough to allow the provisional government to lock her up with Lili'uokalani. He himself suppressed the reports, claiming it was to protect Hawai'i's—and by extension, all personifications'—identity. Few people know about the attempt even now, and those who did were dying out.
Only when he was on a ship bound for the Mainland—away from the restlessness of the people and the omnipresent reminder of his disavowed father—did he fully understand what he'd done. How arbitrary, selfish, and tyrannical his actions were.
He heard Arthur's voice in his head then, telling him what a disappointment and hypocrite he was, and Alfred was not ashamed to say that he cried upon realizing it was the truth.
Before the Depression, it was one of the few times after his independence that he let himself believe he was anything less than great.
Nowadays, Alfred liked to think his perspective on life was changing, but neither of them could forget the history.
"What's in here?" he asked now, twisting the can in his fingers.
"Pineapple," Hawai'i answered, with a calm he couldn't hope to reciprocate. "I thought you would be hungry after the flight."
Alfred looked up, studying the open kindness in her face. "Thanks."
She nodded, watching as he opened the tin and bit into a round. "I wasn't sure if you would ever come back here, until I saw you sneak off the air strip. I thought Europe would be more important to you."
Alfred snorted and immediately regretted it when the acid of the pineapple juice scorched his throat. "Japan started it. And I can't defy Commander's orders." He grinned, hoping that statement didn't run too close to hurt. He held out the tin as a peace offering in case it had.
Hawai'i stepped forward to take a round and moved past him to look out over Pearl Harbor, chewing thoughtfully. "That is true… Americans are furious about this, aren't they?"
It struck him as unsurprising that she still didn't consider herself American; he couldn't blame her. After all, her people were depressed upon hearing the news that their land had become his territory. Forty-five years and two world wars weren't making it any easier. Not to mention that he'd heard whispers of martial law on the Islands, tensions between servicemen and civilian. Alfred really should write to Roosevelt about lifting that.
And then there were the Japanese who had made this beautiful place their home. Desperate to serve and prove their loyalty. Unable to, because of everything spread out before them.
Pausing beside Hawai'i, he muttered, "Yes, they are."
He listened idly to the lap of water against the docks until something she said resurfaced, and he frowned. "How did you know I snuck off the air strip?"
At that, Hawai'i smiled and wiped sticky fingers on the pants of her coveralls. "I help repair planes in the airfield when they are short of hands, but I usually stay with the boats in the navy yard."
Alfred would admit, he hadn't seen that coming. "I didn't know you liked engineering."
"I don't," Hawai'i confirmed, "but I need to make myself useful, and if I can make canoes with ease, working with boats seems the right direction to take."
"Well, if any of those sailor shits who think women are easy give you trouble, don't hesitate to write. I'll make sure they keep their pants buckled." Alfred winked.
Hawai'i laughed. It wasn't a sound he had heard before, melodious and lilting and perfect for singing. He liked it—even more when she turned amused eyes on him. "You've changed, America. This new man suits you better, I think."
Grinning, Alfred looked up at the millions of tiny little lights in a cloudless sky. The moon was a pale sliver in it, but it felt brighter from the ground, where there was no electric or gas lighting to push against the quiet, natural beauty of this time of night, when most of life slept. It gave Alfred the feeling that he had no limits, as if the next time he hopped in a plane, he would fly and never reach an end. Never forget how it felt to simply breathe.
He took them now, slowly and deeply. Everything from the sea salt to the tart pineapple to the sweet wisps of coconut and hibiscus coming from the strong woman beside him. Even the lingering ash and blood he took in, let settle.
"Thank you, Hawai'i." No more than a whisper, but it held immeasurable gratitude.
Thank you for not holding a grudge.
Another soft smile lifted Hawai'i's lips, and she stood with him in companionable silence, listening to the night's subtle sounds. Alfred didn't know for how long, and he didn't care.
For the first time since his war began, he didn't feel as though he was wasting time.
Footnotes:
1. Roosevelt's letter is an attempt to cover what's been going on in areas relevant to Alfred's location over the past several months while still offering a semblance of confidentiality. Because of all that we know now, it's difficult for me to tell sometimes what was and wasn't considered sensitive information, but I've tried my best.
2. The "eggs" Roosevelt writes about stem from how he addressed the Torch landings to his confidants on the night of the operation; the time noted on the letter marks an hour before radio publicly confirmed that the landings were successful. Daisy Suckley notes that it was "history" by then (which means I probably messed up in the last chapter), but it could still be nascent enough that Roosevelt felt the need to guise the operation somewhat—or confuse the enemy if it gets into their hands. However you like. For what it's worth, Roosevelt also used the term "chicks" in reference to his children, most of whom served in the war, giving the terms a much more personal air than he probably intended.
The three chicks:
a. "One has hatched": Western Task Force, which landed in Morocco on the eighth; it met with resistance before moving eastward.
b. "One is confined restlessly inside his shell": Central Task Force, which wasn't able to land in Oran until 10 November.
c. "One flies swimmingly": Eastern Task Force, which met little resistance upon reaching Algiers.
3. "Among others": Alfred actually missed this clue. Read the next note and think back to the Moscow Conference last chapter. Then it should make sense.
4. Russians: If you would like a clue as to what Roosevelt's statement about needing them in order to "fulfill our intentions" after the war refers to, look back to chapter four. New Year's.
As for the current status of Stalingrad: at this point, it had dissolved into brutal house-to-house, street-to-street fighting. Nazi resolve was shredded, but Hitler would not allow surrender, and so they had no choice but to carry on in a city which had become nothing but rubble. On 19 November, the Soviets launched a counterattack of over one million men, coming in from the north and south ends of the salient. Four days later, they closed in. Remember, this is the city named after their leader. To lose the eponym of a man so ingrained in the patriotic principles of the country—and to the Nazis who loathed them, no less—would have been very much like losing their dignity—not to mention the toll it would have on heart and morale. In this regard, Roosevelt has cause to doubt, especially in the knowledge that Stalin wasn't happy about Churchill's news of no second front in 1942; he explicitly questioned whether America and Britain would keep their promise in 1943.
5. Veracruz, 1914: MacArthur (then a Captain) was not involved in the three-day battle instigated by the United States to occupy the Mexican port city of Veracruz, but he was assigned as an intelligence officer to the staff of Brigadier General Frederick Funston, who organized the administration and subsequent seven-month occupation of the city.
6. Papua, 1942 = New Guinea, present-day
7. Mae Wests were life preservers used on B-24s, designed to let the survivor float even if he was unconscious. I don't believe crew members usually wore these while flying, but as a passenger it could be requirement that Alfred does.
8. B-24s were indeed called "Flying Coffins" and many, many fatal accidents occurred in them—especially stateside. They were clumsy, a lumbering weight and delicate in construction, but they were used frequently because of their long-range fuel tanks and slender (ahem, delicate) wings. That didn't mean much to the crews; the B-24s' mechanical difficulties earned the disdain of many airmen.
Obviously, these weren't transport planes, but I don't doubt that new ones were constantly needed on fronts. The place Alfred might sit is with the navigator in his little cubby underneath the cockpit, or with the engineer behind the cockpit. In the former, he would be close to the bombardier and nose gunner, too.
9. Hickam Airfield: This base sits adjacent from Pearl Harbor; they're practically connected, but a lot of the land seems to be flat, and I imagined a downward slope for Alfred's viewing, so if I wrote some of the landscape wrong, that is my own error.
10. Pearl Harbor (third time's the charm): The familial statistics that Alfred pulls from the soil are true, if memory serves me correctly. I don't know why I remember these details in particular from the Arizona Memorial, but I do, and I will admit that I started crying when I learned them. The father and son's surname isn't made up. Their last name really was Free.
11. Hawai'i: I will say right now that I am not a fan of making OCs from American states, but I believe Hawai'i and Alaska would have representations, and here's why: They weren't states at this time, and their native populations still exist(ed). Once Hawai'i becomes a state in 1959, I can see her gradually becoming mortal and—well, as Al speculated—dying. The silver strands in her hair represent that. Speaking of hair, it's my understanding that Hawaiians often go out with flowers in their hair because they're so abundant and fragrant, so I chose the hibiscus, which becomes the state flower. I hope you liked her characterization, and that it wasn't too stereotypical.
12. Marshal Law: The effect of World War II on the Hawaiian Islands was significant. Within hours of the attack on Pearl Harbor, marshal law was declared and military censors were so strict that people who spoke on the phone were required to speak in English and they could not discuss the weather, among other topics. Labor shortages were severe and crowding happened frequently due to the servicemen on the naval and air bases, which led to the tensions mentioned in the scene. Beaches were strung with barbed wire and buildings were painted to camouflage the cities. Half of Hawai'i's parks were claimed by the military for storage, all of the sugar Hawai'i produced went to the armed services, and everyone above the age of six had to be fingerprinted and carry an ID card. Marshal law should not have lasted as long as it did, but it continued even when it became evident that there would be no other Japanese invasion, finally ending in October 1944.
13. "Cleveland's Orders": On 17 January 1893, the Hawaiian monarchy was conspired against and deposed by sugar plantation owners and businessmen after Queen Lili'uokalani tried to replace the Bayonet Constitution (which is as nasty as it sounds) instituted under threat of force with something more favorable to her people. Her deposition resulted in her being confined to her palace and a new government heedless of whether the people consented to their rule or not. When Grover Cleveland came into the US Presidency two months later, he refused to acknowledge the provisional government's treaty to annex Hawai'i. He respected Hawaiians and their sovereignty, which in turn earned the respects of Lili'uokalani, who frequently requested reinstatement.
14. Hawai'i's Coup: This is fictional. As far as I know, no rebellion happened on the day Hawai'i became a Republic, but the date—4 July 1894—was simply too coincidental to pass up. Combined with the Islands' British influence (King Kamehameha IV and his wife were pro-British, and the (in)famous King Kalākaua's wife represented him at Queen Victoria's Jubilee), it makes for a damn good reason why Alfred would be upset enough to leave.
What is real is the short rebellion to restore the monarchy in January the following year. Its failure led to the arrest, trial, and imprisonment of Lili'uokalani (who never really gave up the fight), and in 1898, Hawai'i was formally annexed by the United States.
15. Pineapple is a symbol of hospitality in Hawai'i. In other words, Alfred's forgiven.
I have done my best to be accurate and respectful towards native Hawaiian Islanders, but if there are any inaccuracies or insensitivities, do not hesitate to contact me.
16. Japanese Service: Along with being relocated to internment camps, Americans of Japanese descent weren't allowed to serve in the military, and anyone who was in it when war broke out was asked to leave. When Japan started using this as propaganda, however, Roosevelt reversed the policy early in 1943, with the result of some incredibly hardworking men desperate to prove their loyalty—notably, the 442nd Regiment in Italy and France.
Chapter Sources:
1. "Fighting for Democracy: Japanese Americans" – PBS
2. Franklin and Winston
3. "Franko's" Map of Pearl Harbor
4. "Hawaii's Monarchy Overthrown With U.S. Support, 120 Years Ago" – Jesse Greenspan, History Channel
5. "MacArthur, Douglas (1880 - 1964)" - David Horner, Australian Dictionary of Biography
6. Stalin, by H. Montgomery Hyde
7. "Touring the British Homefront (1942)" – Eleanor Roosevelt Papers Project, Columbian College of Arts & Sciences, The George Washington University
8. Unbroken
9. "United States occupation of Veracruz" - Wikipedia
10. "Wilcox Rebellion" – Wikipedia
11. WWII
13. Yesterday in Hawai'i, by Scott C. S. Stone
Quote Sources:
1. Eleanor Roosevelt: Franklin and Winston
It comes from a press conference Eleanor gave in Canterbury concerning the potential for a post-war Anglo-American alliance, and I loved it. It applies to other characters, too, and would be good to keep in mind through the next chapter, but that is the biggest reason.
2. "If—" by Rudyard Kipling: Poetry Foundation