Vignette: Desperate Hour
- 7 hours ago
- 5 min read
By Matthew Kresal.
On the Sea Lion Press Forums, we run a monthly Vignette Challenge. Contributors are invited to write short stories on a specific theme (changed monthly).
The theme for the 96th contest was The Sea.
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Even in spring, the north Atlantic could be cold. It was something that Lt. Carl Evans felt in his bones, the wind rippling his baggy flight clothes. The only thing still in place was his the front of his shirt and his jacket, the life jacket he wore holding them down. It provided the only warmth he would be feeling.
Evans scanned the horizon, looking for the bug like shapes on the horizon. He thought over events during recent months, the despair and the hope. This had been the first election first since the crash of ‘29 had set in motion the depression. Times had been hard, even for the navy. Roosevelt’s election seemed set to turn everything around.
Seemed.
“How did it come to this?” Evans asked aloud. There was a loud clank behind him, causing him to turn. Ensign Ladd was racing toward him, holding a piece of paper in his hand.
“They’re inbound!” The young man declared. Evans could see the white of Ladd’s knuckles holding the page. “We should see them shortly.”
“Did they manage to get them?”
“As far as I know. The message didn’t say much. I can’t imagine they’d have left Washington without them. The captain says we need to be ready to scramble if we spot anyone else following.”
Evans gave the ensign a nod. Ladd was gone in the next moment, racing back for the relative comfort of the carrier’s interior. Not that the Lexington was the Titanic or anything, but Evans had briefly flirted with the submarine service and seen how cramped those were. He’d gone the opposite direction, taking to the skies instead of going below the waves.
Black dots above the northwest horizon. That was what they appeared to be at first. A few years before, Evans would have dismissed them outright as birds or a trick of the eyes. Hearing how how ships had been “lost” during Fleet Problem exercises had taught everyone better of that. Especially knowing someone else might be out there.
Would Hap Arnold try to send his boys all the way out here? It was a fair question as far as Evans was concerned. Radio messages from shore indicated which position Arnold had taken, setting the tone for current events. To think it might end up in a shooting match was not an appealing proposition to contemplate.
Evans watched the growing shapes then with curiosity and fear. He remembered hearing as a young ensign himself about Billy Mitchell bombing a battleship, how the navy brass had reassured themselves that their great ships could never be sunk so easily. Evans had never been so convinced, especially after the most recent fleet problem out at Pearl Harbor. He could only hope that Mitchell wasn’t going to be proven right today.
To his relief, Evans saw the familiar shape of two Navy fighter planes forming either side of a slightly larger plane. To his surprise, it was a Ford Trimotor. Evans felt his chest and stomach tighten, realizing what he was about to be a witness to seeing.
The Trimotor’s nose dipped and rose, swaying with apparent gentleness. The two biplanes escorting it broke off, their paths taking them around the Lexington. Given the Trimotor had never been intended to land on a carrier deck, that wasn’t a surprise. That someone would attempt to put a plane like the Trimotor down here was crazy.
Desperate times, Evans reminded himself. The radio messages they’d received in recent days had been met with disbelief at first, then horrific realization. Then came word of what might be to come, if the small party that fled Washington could stay one step ahead of the Army.
“Let’s see if it was worth it,” Evans muttered, scarcely loud enough over the crosswind sweeping the flight deck. He watched as a young sailor stood on the deck, flags in hand, directing the Trimotor’s pilot. The plane grew in size, approaching with an aching lack of speed. That the silver plane was staying airborne was scarcely believable.
Then Evans heard the engines. Over the wind, he listened as they seemed to slow. His face crinkled in thought, eyes focused on the growing plane. Looking down the deck, Evans understood what was happening and how dangerous the situation had become.
They’re trying to slow down enough to land. The Trimotor wasn’t meant for a carrier, so there was no arresting wire. The pilot, whomever they were, would have to bring it down at minimal speed so they could stop but hopefully not undershoot and stall before that point.
God help them, Evans shook his head. The Trimotor’s engines suddenly stopped and the young pilot took a deep breath that he held onto. He watched the flags in motion, giving last minute instructions and the Ford dipped.
Evans closed his eyes. He heard the squeal of breaks and a clunk of metal. He imagined the sight he would see when he opened his eyes, expecting to see a crash unfolding.
The Ford sat there a short distance from him on the deck. It even looked like it might fly again, having made what must have been a miraculous landing on the deck. Evans heard laughter from behind him and couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
The door on the side of the Ford opened. Two men stepped out, one after the other, dressed in civilian clothes. They stood on either side of the door, looking inside. Evans made his way toward the plane, catching sight of shapes moving inside. Someone was being scooted along the floor of the Trimotor, apparently with some discomfort.
Then in the gray sea light, Evans saw him. A pair of spectacles on his nose, gray hair at the temples with salt and pepper hair swaying in the wind. The man’s hands grabbed onto each suited figure and with a grunt that Evans heard over the ocean and the wind, he pulled himself up. Catching his breath, he stood proudly upon the Lexington’s deck.
“Well!” President Roosevelt laughed. “Let’s see General McArthur and his Wall Street boys get me here!”
“Mr. President!” Evans howled over the wind, cracking a salute. “Welcome to the Lexington.”
Roosevelt let go of the man on his right and returned the salute, then held out the hand. The relief in those eyes was palpable. Evans took a moment, then extended his hand.
“It’s good to be here, lieutenant! Now, who do I talk to about taking back the capital from those bastards?”
Evans couldn’t help but smile. Whatever else could be said for this President in Exile, he had spirit. They would need it for the battles ahead.
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Matthew Kresal is, among other things, the author of the SLP book Our Man on the Hill and short stories in the anthologies AlloAmericana, The Emerald Isles, and The Scottish Anthology.
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