Lance Andrews On the Aircraft Carrier, U.S.S. Franklin

The hand of an engineer reached for the cord, and the whistle blast of a locomotive split the air. Lance Andrews listened to the long wail of the approaching train, about half a mile from his home. It was early January; the New Year was one week old.

Lance was born in Manchester, Virginia, in 1923 and educated at the University of Maryland. He inherited from his father a love for writing, especially war stories. He was a World War Two veteran, having served two tours in the Navy. His last tour of duty was served on the Aircraft carrier Ben Franklin.

Mr. Andrews spends most of his time alone these days on the back porch, sitting in his favorite rocking chair, looking out into the woods, reminiscing about his youth, his family, and days gone by. His hands now shake too much for him to write, and his eyes have dimmed to the point where reading is difficult. Lance’s wife died twenty years earlier of natural causes, and most of his friends are now gone.

His two daughters are in their late seventies; both live in retirement communities in Tampa, Florida. His son Jeff married a woman who lived in Atlanta, Georgia, and has remained there ever since. Jeff had one granddaughter; her name was Carolyn. She lives in Alabama and is married to a Pastor named Joseph Ashton. She calls Lance once each month to see how he’s doing. He was told she had two daughters and a son.

Lance’s assigned nurse, Margaret, would stop by each day to help him with his chores and prepare his lunch. Other than that, Lance remained independent and, for his age, in reasonably good health. He could still get around with a cane, but because of poor vision, he could no longer drive.

It was toward the end of World War II, on March 19, 1945. Lance was on the Aircraft carrier Ben Franklin sixty-five miles off the Japanese coast near Kobe when his ship was attacked and hit by three 500 kg bombs in an enemy air strike. The ship began to burn uncontrollably following a series of exploding bombs, rockets, and ammunition stored below deck. He recalled, amid continued explosions and fires while the ship was still under attack, he, with two other sailors, continued to fight the fires below deck, moving ammunition away from the fires. Suddenly, he was struck in the head by shrapnel from an exploding bomb. Trapped below deck and injured, his two shipmates attempted to reach him, but could not because of the heat and flames from the fire. That moment has been burned into his memory as he thought, “I was a goner.”  

Lance recalled being on the verge of passing out when two men came out of nowhere, walked through the flames, lifted the heavy beam off his legs, and carried him through the smoke and exploding munitions. Remarkably, he suffered only a few burns on his hands and a broken leg. He was lying in a bed on a Naval Hospital ship when he woke up six days later. Several months had passed when two of his shipmates came to see me; “How could I ever forget those two guys?” he thought.

While lying in bed, his Boatswain mate William Neilson said, “Hi Lance, how are you?”

Lance fought to hold back his tears. “Oh, it’s so good to see you two. I’m doing better; how about the two of you?”

The second man, Ralph, said, “We made it out okay, but we lost plenty of the guys. You probably heard that the ship was saved and made it back to Hawaii. We thought you were dead, but they found you on the top deck. You must have crawled up the stairs, but how in the heck did you get that beam off your leg? It would have taken at least two men to lift it. We could never figure it out.”

Stunned at their words, Lance replied, “I thought you two came through the fire and brought me out.”

“It wasn’t us; we couldn’t get through. It was so hot we had to get ourselves out of there.”

“Then who carried me out?”

“Nobody carried you out; no one could have gotten through those flames.”

Sitting quietly rocking in his rocker, thinking of the past, he felt his cat, Stranger, rub up against his leg. “What’s the matter, Stranger? Are you lonely?” He reached his hand down and patted him on the head. “I guess we’ve both seen our better days. How old are you now? Hmm, I think you’re almost fifteen.

I remember when we met; I believe it was early Spring on a Sunday afternoon in 2011. I was in the kitchen making lunch when I heard a knock on the front door. When I opened the door, four young children were standing on the porch; one of the boys was holding a small kitten. I asked, “What can I do for you kids?”

They replied with one voice, “Mister, would you like to have a kitten?”

I looked at the four of them, smiled, and asked, “Where did you kids get him?”

The oldest boy said, “His mother was run over by a car, and this is the last kitten left.”

I thought, how ironic. The day before, on a Saturday afternoon, I saw several signs nailed to a tree that read, “Free Kittens.” I almost stopped, but decided not to. It was springtime; there were usually a few households that advertised free kittens. The next day, you came to my door. You were small and hadn’t been weaned yet, so I fed you with a baby bottle for several weeks. You were light beige, smoky in color, with a few stripes here and there; now you’re all gray. I saw a bit of Siamese and other mixes in you. You were so cute; I told the kids, ‘Okay, I’ll take him.’ I remember, as small as you were, you always pestered Little Bit, you remember, my dog? You were a stranger, but you seemed to fit right in, so I called you Stranger.  

Come on now, go out in the woods and catch yourself a mouse.” Lance opened the screen door, and Stranger slowly walked to the woods.

Margaret came to the back porch and asked Lance if he needed anything.

“Yes, Margaret. There’s a book on the top shelf in my bookcase; it’s about World War Two. It should have a clear plastic folder in it; would you please get it for me?”

Margaret reminded him, “Lance, there are two bookcases; which one?”

“Oh, I forgot, it’s the one on the left.”

Several minutes passed before Margaret returned carrying the book Lance had requested. “Thank you, Margaret.” After putting on his glasses, he took the folder from the book, opened it, and pulled out several old pictures and four postcards. The first photo was of his father and mother when first married; at the bottom, they had written, ‘Love, from Mom and Dad.’ The second photo was of his parents and his younger sister and brother. All four have passed away, leaving Lance alone now. The four postcards were sent to him while serving in the Navy. There was also a photo of him in uniform. He had a broad smile on his face and was holding a Coke in one hand and a sandwich in the other.

Looking at the photos, his thoughts flashed back to his younger days and the good times he shared with his family and friends. Reaching into the folder, Lance removed two sheets of typing paper. He carefully unfolded them, then laid them on the table. They had yellowed over the years, but the print on them was still legible. 

At the top of both papers, it stated, ‘Citation.’ The body of the first letter read, ‘For distinguished service and meritorious achievement while serving aboard a United States aircraft carrier, Ben Franklin, which was preparing to strike the main Japanese islands near Kobe. On March 19, 1945, the ship was hit in an enemy air attack, followed by a series of explosions from ready bombs, rockets, and ammunition below deck that threatened to destroy the carrier. In the face of ongoing explosions and raging fires, and during further enemy air attacks, Lance Andrews continued to fight fires, jettison hot ammunition, and courageously assist in bringing the damage under control. Despite being injured, your courage, loyalty, and devotion to duty significantly contributed to the saving of the ship and were in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.’

When he finished reading, tears came to his eyes; he could never forget the pain. ‘Get hold of yourself, Lance; it was a long time ago.’ He reached for the second sheet. It was a citation for the Purple Heart. It read, ‘For military merit and wounds received in action.’ Lance had also received a Purple Heart and a Silver Star for bravery under fire.

Margaret was in the kitchen cooking lunch for Lance and herself when the doorbell rang. She looked out the window to see two young men standing by the front door. She walked over, opened it, and asked, “Can I help you?”

“We are sorry to bother you, Margaret, but we would like to speak to Mr. Andrews.”

Margaret thought, ‘I wonder how he knows my name?’ Then said to them, “Is he expecting you?”

“Yes.”

“Come in then.” Thinking to herself, ‘Mr. Andrews must have told them about me.’

The two then stepped into the house. The one man thanked Margaret for inviting them in.

“Can you wait one moment? Lance is on the back porch; I’ll tell him he has company. Can I tell him who’s calling?”

“My name is Jonathan; this is my friend Caleb. We would like to speak to Mr. Andrews about the time he was wounded when his ship was attacked and set afire near Kobe, Japan.”

Margaret looked at the two men and asked them, “Are you reporters?”

“No, just friends.”  

“Mr. Andrews doesn’t speak much about those days, please don’t upset him,” Margaret replied.

“We won’t.”

Okay then. Wait here; I’ll be right back.” Margaret walked out to the back and told Lance he had two visitors, Jonathan and Caleb. Lance slowly looked up and said, “Show them in, Margaret; I’ve been expecting them.”

Margaret looked at him funny, thinking to herself, “Strange, he usually tells me when he’s expecting visitors; he must have forgotten.” 

She returned to the kitchen and motioned for the two men. “Gentlemen, follow me. Mr. Andrews will see you on the back porch.”

The two walked to where Lance was sitting, and Margaret returned to the kitchen. “Hello, Lance, do you remember us?”

Lance looked up at the two standing there and said, “Yes, I do; you’re the two that pulled me from the fire.”

“That’s right, now it’s time for you to come home with us.”

Lance smiled at the two men, removed his glasses, reached out, took the two photos of his parents, and put them back into the folder with the postcards and two citations. He then took the folder, placed it back into the book, and closed it. On a small pad sitting on the table next to him, he wrote, ‘Please send this folder to Carolyn Ashton in Tuscaloosa, Alabama; her name is in my Address book.

Lance looked out into the backyard and saw two white doves standing in the grass. Lance reached out his right hand, opened the Bible on the side table, put his finger on it, and then closed his eyes. 

Margaret had finished preparing lunch. She listened to hear voices but heard nothing. She called, “Lance, lunch is ready.” But there was only silence. “Ah, he must be busy talking.” She walked to the back porch and saw Lance slumped over in his chair; the two men were nowhere to be seen. “Lance, wake up.” But he never moved. Margaret immediately knew Lance was gone. She saw his hand was on the Bible by his side, his index finger on one verse. She looked down to see it was on 1 Thessalonians 4:14, ‘For the dead in Christ shall rise first.”

Margaret began to cry. She had grown fond of Mr. Andrews and had gained a great deal of respect for him. He was a kind and gentle man and a man of honor. She knew the horrors of war had left deep scars on his heart and body. She saw the note lying on the folder and read what were to be Lance’s last words. She said to herself, “I’ll take care of this tomorrow.”

She walked over to the screen door, opened it, and saw three  White-Winged doves fly off. She stood there momentarily, staring at the wooded area in the rear of the house. It was an overcast and chilly day, yet peaceful and quiet. After a few minutes had passed, she saw Lance’s cat, Stranger, approaching the house with a tiny mouse in his mouth.