In praise of Herman Wouk
Author of The Winds of War and War and Remembrance
“Wouk’s real genius lies not just in the narrative power of his books, but in his empathy with the people and the times of which he writes…. The genius of The Winds of War and War and Remembrance is that they not only tell the story of the Holocaust, but tell it within the context of World War II, without which there is no understanding it.”
— Ken Ringle, Washington Post
“Herman Wouk is an American legend”
— Gerald F. Kreyche, USA Today
“The whole two-volume work constitutes a very good popular history of the Second World War and the Holocaust…. The quality of the military reasoning in this document is impressive, and so is Wouk’s scholarship in contemporary history…. As a historian of naval warfare Wouk is as good as Samuel Eliot Morison, while as an analytic narrator of land battles, particularly Soviet here, he invites comparison with someone like B. H. Liddell Hart… When he turns from people to significant public environments and ’things Wouk is also wonderful…. He does even the inside of the cattle cars superbly: give him an environment of any kind — the Kremlin, Hitler’s Wolfsschanze in the East Prussian forest, the president’s private quarters in the White House, a gas chamber posing as a mass showerbath, the flagplot room on a battleship, an atomic pile, the interior of a submarine or a bomber — and he renders it persuasively. There’s hardly a contemporary writer so good at depicting locales authentically, places as varied as Honolulu, Bern, Lisbon, Leningrad, Columbia University, and London. They are perfect.”
— Paul Fussell, New Republic
“Herman Wouk has the touch… the ability to tell a story that grips you from beginning to end.”
— Donna Levin, San Francisco Chronicle
Books by Herman Wouk
Novels
AURORA DAWN
CITY BOY
THE CAINE MUTINY
MARJORIE MORNINGSTAR
YOUNGBLOOD HAWKE
DONT STOP THE CARNIVAL
THE WINDS OF WAR
WAR AND REMEMBRANCE
INSIDE, OUTSIDE
THE HOPE
THE GLORY
Plays
THE TRAITOR
THE CAINE MUTINY COURT-MARTIAL
NATURE’S WAY
Nonfiction
THIS IS MY GOD
THE WILL TO LIVE ON
Copyright
COPYRIGHT © 1978 BY HERMAN WOUK
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. EXCEPT AS PERMITTED UNDER THE U.S. COPYRIGHT ACT OF 1976, NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED, DISTRIBUTED, OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS, OR STORED IN A DATABASE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEM, WITHOUT THE PRIOR WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
www.twitter.com/littlebrown
Originally published in hardcover by Little, Brown, October 1978
First eBook Edition: January 2010
Back Bay Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company. The Back
Bay Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author is grateful to the following publishers for permission to reprint excerpts from selected material as noted below: Chappell Music Company for “Hut-Sut Song” by Leo V. Killion, Ted McMichael, and Jack Owens. Copyright 1941 by Schumann Music Co. Copyright renewed, assigned to Unichappell Music, Inc. (Belinda Music, publisher). International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission; Edward B. Marks Music Corporation and Chappell Music Company for “Lili Marlene” by Norbert Schultze. All rights for the United States copyright © by Edward B. Marks Music Corporation. Used by permission. All rights for Canada copyright © by Chappell Music Co., Inc. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission. All rights for the Philippines reproduced by permission of EMI Music Publishing Ltd. 138-140 Charing Cross Road, London WC2N OLD; Southern Music Publishing Company, Inc. for “Der Fuehrer’s Face” by Oliver Wallace. Copyright 1942 by Southern Music Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright renewed. Used by permission; United Artists Music Publishing Group, Inc. and West’s Ltd. for “Three O’Clock in the Morning” by Dorothy Terriss and Julian Robledo. Copyright 1921, 1922, renewed 1949, 1950 by West’s Ltd. All rights for North America administered by Leo Feist, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. All rights for the Philippines administered by West’s Ltd. 138-140 Charing Cross Road, London WC2N OLD.
ISBN: 978-0-316-09776-5
In Remembrance
Abraham Isaac Wouk
“Abe”
firstborn son of
Betty Sarah and Herman Wouk
September 2, 1946-July 27, 1951
He will destroy death forever.
WRITE THIS FOR A REMEMBRANCE IN A BOOK… THAT THE LORD HAS A WAR WITH AMALEK FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION.
Exodus 17
Contents
In praise of Herman Wouk
Books by Herman Wouk
Copyright
The Author to the Reader
Preface to the First Edition
PART ONE: "Where is Natalie?"
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
PART TWO: Midway
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
PART THREE: Byron and Natalie
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
PART FOUR: Pug and Rhoda
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
PART FIVE: pug and Pamela
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
PART SIX: The Paradise Ghetto
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Ch
apter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
PART SEVEN: Leyte Gulf
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Historical Notes
Also by Herman Wouk
The Author to the Reader
Little, Brown and Company, the publisher of The Winds of War and War and Remembrance, has requested a special author’s introduction to this new edition of the novels in a changed format. The two books tell one overarching story — how the American people rose to the challenges of World War II, the first global war, after fearsome setbacks forgotten today in the shining memory of final victory.
As I write these words late in October 2001, a new war is just beginning, global again in scope but totally different in character. In the last global war, before VE day and VJ day came, there befell the collapse of France, the Bataan death march, the fall of Singapore, the siege of Stalingrad, bloody Tarawa, and bloodier Guadalcanal; and at the hidden heart of that global war, concealed by the smoke of battle, there burned the Holocaust. That eternal benchmark of barbarism, let us remember, was set not by a Third World country, not by Orientals, not by the Muslims, but by the Germans, an advanced European nation. The evil in human hearts knows no boundary, except the deeper, stronger human will to freedom, order, and justice. In the very long run, that will so far has prevailed.
Now it is the destiny of America — for all its faults and weaknesses, the greatest free society in history — to lead the world against a new grim outbreak of evil, a savage stab at the core of freedom on earth, a dark, shocking start to a new millennium. May the Father of all men prosper our arms in the new fight, as He prospered — in the end — the cause of men of good will in World War II, the great and terrible global battle that these two novels portray.
— Herman Wouk
Preface to the First Edition
War and Remembrance is a historical romance. The subject is World War II, the viewpoint American.
A prologue, The Winds of War, published in 1971, set the historical frame for this work by picturing the events leading up to Pearl Harbor. This is a novel of America at war, from Pearl Harbor to Hiroshima.
It is the main tale I had to tell. While I naturally hope that some readers, even in this rushed age, will find the time for both novels, War and Remembrance is a story in itself, and can be read without the prologue.
The theme of both novels is single. The last words of Victor Henry’s commentary on the Battle of Leyte Gulf give it plainly enough:
“Either war is finished, or we are.”
I have put this theme in the colors and motion of the fiction art, so that “he who runs may read,” and remember what happened in the worst world catastrophe. As to the history in both tales, I trust that knowing readers will find it has been presented responsibly and with care.
These two linked novels tend to one conclusion: that war is an old habit of thought, an old frame of mind, an old political technique, that must now pass as human sacrifice and human slavery have passed. I have faith that the human spirit will prove equal to the long heavy task of ending war. Against the pessimistic mood of our time, I think that the human spirit — for all its dark side that I here portray — is in essence heroic. The adventures narrated in this romance aim to show that essence in action.
The beginning of the end of War lies in Remembrance.
Washington
23 March 1978
Purim, 5738
PART ONE
“Where is Natalie?”
1
A LIBERTY boat full of sleepy hung-over sailors came clanging alongside the U.S.S. Northampton, and a stocky captain in dress whites jumped out to the accommodation ladder. The heavy cruiser, its gray hull and long guns dusted pink by the rising sun, swung to a buoy in Pearl Harbor on the incoming tide. As the boat thrummed off toward the destroyer nests in West Loch, the captain trotted up the steep ladder and saluted the colors and the quarterdeck.
“I request permission to come aboard.”
“Permission granted, sir.”
“My name is Victor Henry.”
The OOD’s eyes rounded. In his starched whites with lacquered gold buttons and his white gloves, with the ritual long glass tucked under an arm, this fresh-faced ensign was stiff enough, but he stiffened more. “Oh! Yes, sir. I’ll notify Captain Hickman, sir — messenger!”
“Don’t disturb him yet. He isn’t expecting me. I’ll just mosey around topside for a bit.”
“Sir, I know he’s awake.”
“Very well.”
Henry walked forward on a forecastle already astir with working parties in dungarees, who were dodging the hose-down by barefoot deckhands. The iron deck underfoot felt good. The pungent harbor breeze smelled good. This was Pug Henry’s world, the clean square world of big warships, powerful machinery, brisk young sailors, heavy guns, and the sea. After long exile, he was home. But his pleasure dimmed at the tragic sight off the starboard bow. Bulging out of the black oil coating the harbor waters, the streaked red underside of the capsized Utah proclaimed the shame of the whole Pacific Fleet in one obscene symbol. Out of view in the shambles of Battleship Row, the ship he had come to Hawaii to command, the U.S.S. California, sat on the mud under water to its guns, still wisping smoke ten days after the catastrophe.
The Northampton was no California; a treaty cruiser almost as long, six hundred feet, but with half the beam, a quarter the tonnage, smaller main battery, and light hull far too vulnerable to torpedoes. Yet after his protracted shore duty it looked decidedly big to Captain Henry. Standing by the flapping blue jack and the anchor chain, glancing back at the turrets and the tripod mast, with bridge upon bridge jutting up into the sunlight, he had a qualm of self-doubt. This ship was many times as massive as a destroyer, his last command. Battleship command had been a dream; getting the California had never seemed quite real, and after all, it had been snatched from him by disaster. He had served in heavy cruisers, but command was something else.
The roly-poly gangway messenger, who looked about thirteen, trotted up and saluted. Altogether the crew appeared peculiarly young. Pug had at first glance taken for junior lieutenants a couple of young men sporting the gilt collar leaves of lieutenant commanders. Surely they had not served the grinding fifteen years that two and a half stripes had cost him! Fast advancement was a sugar-coating of wartime.
“Captain Henry, sir, Captain Hickman presents his compliments, sir. He’s taking a shower, is all. He says there’s mail for you in his quarters, forwarded from the California’s shore office. He invites you for breakfast, sir, and please to follow me.”
“What’s your name and rating?”
“Tilton, sir! Cox’un’s mate third, sir!” Crisp eager responses to the incoming captain.
“How old are you, Tilton?”
“Twenty, sir.”
Ravages of age; everybody else starting to seem too damned young.
The captain’s quarters enjoyed the monarchical touch of a Filipino steward: snowy white coat, round olive face, dark eyes, thick black hair. “I’m Alemon, sir.” The smiling astute glance and dignified head bob, as he handed Captain Henry the letters, showed pride of place more than subservience. “Captain Hickman will be right out. Coffee, sir? Orange juice?”
The spacious outer cabin, the steward, the handsome blue leather furnishings, the kingly desk, elated Pug Henry. Capital ship command would soon be his, and these perquisites tickled his vanity. He couldn’t help it. A long, long climb! Many new burdens and no more money, he told himse
lf, glancing at the batch of official envelopes. Among them was a letter from Rhoda. The sight of his wife’s handwriting, once such a joy, punctured his moment of pride, as the overturned Utah had gloomed his pleasure at walking a deck again. In a wave of desolate sickness, he ripped open the pink envelope and read the letter, sipping coffee served on a silver tray with a Navy-monogrammed silver creamer.
December 7th
Pug darling —
I just this minute sent off my cable to you, taking back that idiotic letter. The radio’s still jabbering the horrible news about Pearl Harbor. Never in my life have I been more at sixes and sevens. Those horrible little yellow monkeys! I know we’ll blow them off the face of the earth, but meanwhile I have one son in a submarine, and another in a dive-bomber, and you’re God knows where at this point. I just pray the California wasn’t hit. And to cap it all I wrote you that perfectly ghastly, unforgivable letter six short days ago! I would give the world to get that letter back unread. Why did I ever write it? My head was off in some silly cloudland.
I am not demanding a divorce anymore, not if you really still want me after my scatterbrained conduct. Whatever you do, don’t blame or hate Palmer Kirby. He’s a very decent sort, as I think you know.
Pug, I’ve been so damned lonesome, and — I don’t know, maybe I’m going through the change or something — but I’ve been having the wildest shifts of moods for months, up and down and up and down again. I’ve been very unstable. I really think I’m not quite well. Now I feel like a criminal awaiting sentence, and I don’t expect to get much sleep until your next letter arrives.