Finding the Admiral’s place the next day was not difficult, given the directions his great-grandson gave me, but it did take awhile to get there. During that time, I tried my best to keep hope alive that this interview would turn out to be a good thing. But any hope of an easy day of work was rapidly becoming a distant memory. I’d already spent most of it in my search for this guy the day before. My consolation prize was that a retired admiral might know something more than the average veteran about the attack at Pearl Harbor. That is, if the old geezer could remember anything about anything at all. And what a hundred-year-old man would be doing that he would be so sensitive to being kept waiting, entirely mystified me.
Nonetheless he is my boss’s great-grandfather, so I will be certain to do as little as possible to irritate him.
After carefully following the directions to their end, I found myself driving up a small but paved country lane that led to what could be best described as a medium sized cottage in the woods. Everything was kept neat and trimmed. The grass, trees, and bushes were all cut with care. If it hadn’t been November, it would have looked like the quiet summer retreat you would see on a postcard. There was a small shed on one side in the back and a garage on the other. There was also another small cottage house a short distance off, with a stone sidewalk connecting them, much like the one I was walking on that connected the driveway to the house.
Still wondering what I was in for, I looked at my watch and found it to be 7:57 A.M. “Perfect; at least the Admiral won’t be angry at me for being late,” I said to myself as I stepped onto the welcome mat and rang the bell.
After about thirty seconds, I was just about to ring again when I found myself face to face with a woman most likely in her seventies. She was dressed pretty much as a woman her age would be expected to dress, but she was also a little taller and perhaps a little “straighter” than you would expect for someone her age.
“Yes, can I help you?” she said as she looked straight at me with shockingly bright blue eyes and the warm kind of smile that can only be worn by a person who genuinely cares to help someone.
“Yes,” I said, “my name is Donald Ritter. I called yesterday from the radio station about an interview with Mr. Williams.”
“Oh yes, come on in; he’s been expecting you. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
“No thank you; I wouldn’t want to impose.”
I was thinking this woman looked strangely familiar. The smile and the eyes reminded me of my boss. And seeing how I had already been bitten by the relationship of the Admiral to him, I wasn’t going to chance it by giving her anymore run around than I had to.
“It’s no problem,” she said waving her hand with a little laugh and her smile not fading. “I was just going to get some for the Admiral. What’ll ya have, hon?” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder and looking into my eyes in that certain way that made you think she could see right through you and somehow know you really did want something.
“Coffee, I guess; black will be fine.”
“Well, alright then. Why don’t you come into the den and have a seat? The Admiral will be here in just moment. He’s getting cleaned up from working out back.”
She led me through a door off to the side and I followed.
“Come on in and sit down anywhere except the chair behind the desk or the large one at the window. He likes those for himself. I’ll be back soon with your coffee.”
As soon as I set foot in the Admiral’s den, I knew any hope for an easy day of work was dead on arrival. It was one of those kinds of rooms that somehow looked larger from the inside than the house could contain from the outside. It had a rather large oak desk off to the right. The desktop was very neat with a laptop computer on it. A large picture window was straight ahead with a reclining chair next to it that I took to be the Admiral’s. Opposite the recliner were several other chairs arranged so that several people could comfortably sit and talk. The room had soft plush carpet on the floors and wood everywhere else. A small fire was warming the room from a fireplace on the left-hand wall, and a table with several chairs were placed in an orderly fashion nearby.
The thing that grabbed my attention the most was that all available wall space was covered with pictures, awards, and displays of all sorts—more than you could possibly imagine. Instead of finding a seat, like the old woman suggested, I started to look at the items on the walls. There were several keys to cities and awards from dozens of charities. Firearm shooting awards covered a large section of one wall. There were autographed pictures of celebrities like Bob and Dolores Hope, Errol Flynn, and Ronald Reagan as the actor, governor, and president. An autographed record of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” along with a photograph of Glenn Miller handing it to a young navy officer whom I took to be the Admiral. Military awards included letters of a commendation from more people than I can name, a Purple Heart, Navy Cross, Bronze Star, and Silver Star among them.
Behind the desk to the left was a display that looked like a family tree. Curiosity getting the better of me, I took a closer look. At the top was what looked like a recently taken picture of an older man; next to it was a picture of an older woman. Looking closer at the picture of the man, I noticed in the background was the wall with this family tree on it and realized this must be a picture of the Admiral. Under that, with the connecting lines, were pictures of four other people, two men and two women. One of the women I recognized immediately as the woman who welcomed me at the door. Below that, the tree began to branch out rather rapidly into twelve branches, almost fifty branches, and then abruptly narrowed back down to just nine. Two were pictures of younger children under the picture of my boss, Scott Murphy.
In the center of the wall behind the desk was a glass display case containing a Japanese Samurai sword and facing it a handgun with three silver stars on the handgrip. Relics from the war, I guessed. It was surrounded by pictures of several military ships, including a cruiser, several battleships, destroyers, a submarine, and an aircraft carrier. The aircraft carrier had a name on it which said USS Hornet, and was signed by William F. Halsey and Jimmy Doolittle. Of course, there were pictures of the Admiral with Halsey and Doolittle. There was also a small display case that held rank insignia from the gold bars and silver bars at the bottom, through gold and silver oak leafs, a bird, to one star, two stars, and finally three stars at the top. Now I was certain why they called him the Admiral.
On the right side of the desk were diplomas. Not your usual collection for literature or basket weaving, or some such thing, but PhDs in history and philosophy. On top of everything else, this man was a college professor! This wasn’t just a den or an office for an old man; it was a collecting place, almost a museum, for a person who was involved with a hundred-year-long aggressive pursuit of life!
I was suddenly startled out of my amazement by an old man’s voice speaking softly behind me.
“Been keeping busy, son?”
Jumping slightly, I turned to see a pair of bright, clear blue eyes looking at me over the top of a pair of half-moon reading glasses. Any trace of hair he once had was just a memory. The face wore the same kind and gentle expression as my boss’s, although it was surrounded by an abundance of wrinkles. There was a clear familial resemblance between the Admiral and the woman who let me into the house. He wasn’t in a wheelchair or using a walker, but a single cane, which he only leaned on slightly. And he came in so quietly, I had not heard him. I would not have guessed he was much more than eighty, and there was a certain youthful air about him that suggested he was only in his mid-thirties.