The Other Side of Life Read online

  "Profound, smart, and entertaining—the path through The Other Side of Life is an amazing journey through history."

  --Joe Weisberg, Creator and Executive Producer of FX's The Americans, and author of An Ordinary Spy

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  “Employing some new twists on the novelist's technique of time travel, Andy Kutler sends a naval officer bombed at Pearl Harbor back to the Civil War. Among his comrades in a Union cavalry regiment he absorbs the enduring values of trust, loyalty, love, and selflessness during the chaos and tragedy of a war that took place a half century before he was born. Readers will find themselves immersed in this story and captivated by the principal characters.”

  --James M. McPherson, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Battle Cry of Freedom and The War That Forged a Nation

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  "Andy Kutler's war scenes are gripping, his characters vulnerable and honest, and his story ultimately triumphant—an exciting journey back into two levels of the past."

  --David Hardin, author of Emblems of Woe: How the South Reacted to Lincoln's Murder

  "Andy Kutler has written a thoughtfully imaginative adventure across time, approaching the Civil War from a fresh perspective while creating memorable, compelling characters. The story flows beautifully and is consistently challenging."

  --Ivan R. Dee, Publisher, Now and Then Reader

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  “The Other Side of Life imaginatively mingles brutal scenes of Civil War battlefields with thought-provoking moral issues. It describes the conflicted loyalties and sufferings of that tragic era and the spiritual growth of the book’s hero—a naval officer wounded in the Pearl Harbor attack—and those he becomes close to when he is transported to the past. The swift-moving, compelling narrative grips the reader from first page to last.”

  --Bernard Weisberger, Historian and Author of America Afire: Adams, Jefferson, and the Revolutionary Election of 1800

  The Other Side of Life

  by

  Andy Kutler

  Neverland Publishing Company

  Miami, FL

  This book is a novel and a work of fiction. References to real people such as historical figures, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination, are fictitious or are used fictitiously and are not intended to be considered real or factual.

  Copyright © 2015 by Andy Kutler

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Design by Cary Polkovitz

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015909320

  Printed in the United States of America

  www.neverlandpublishing.com

  For Jeff

  CHAPTER 1

  The piercing shriek of the train whistle startled him into consciousness, and yet as soon as his eyes opened, Mac Kelsey knew he was dead.

  He could see he was no longer aboard his battleship, the USS Nevada, let alone anywhere near Pearl Harbor. Gone was the scent of seaweed mixed with ocean salt that always lingered over the water. Nor was there any trace of the diesel exhaust and burning oil that had nearly choked him minutes earlier.

  But the most obvious change was the relative quiet. The earsplitting explosions and frenzied mayhem that he had witnessed just moments ago, devastating the Pacific Fleet and consuming so many lives, had been abruptly silenced.

  Rather than on a navigation bridge, he found himself standing on a railway platform, teeming with passengers anxious to board a pair of trains that sandwiched the platform and snaked back for some distance. Squinting into the afternoon sun, his eyes swept across the crowd, studying the endless parade of travelers forming into long queues to board the passenger cars. There wasn’t a single suitcase in sight, and yet nothing about that surprised him.

  He allowed the brilliant sunshine pouring from the sky to warm him for a few seconds. It was the starkest of contrasts. Within minutes of the attack, the morning sky over Pearl Harbor had darkened, the sun almost completely obscured by the layers of smoke billowing up from the destruction across the harbor. Here the sky was a crisp, magnificent blue, the air dry and cool.

  The throngs of passengers continued to stream by him. They seemed eager and anxious to board, their spirits buoyant. Uniformed men abounded, a blur of white, blue and khaki. He looked down, surprised at the transformation of his own uniform. The Navy dress whites were as gleaming and freshly pressed as the day he purchased them in San Diego three years ago, not a crease to be found.

  Amid the large pack moving toward the closest train, he thought he heard his name. Faint at first, then louder. He saw a hand shoot up among the boarding passengers. He heard it clearly now, the voice familiar.

  “Commander Kelsey!”

  The figure emerged from the crowd. He was a compact young man, wearing Navy khakis with the insignia of an ensign on his collar tabs. As he approached, there was a wide grin behind his short stubble; the young man’s abiding eagerness as transparent as ever.

  Kelsey was surprisingly pleased. “Mr. Daniels,” he said, as he grasped the other man’s extended hand. “You look like you’re in one piece.”

  “As do you, Sir,” replied Ensign Bryce Daniels, happily pumping Kelsey’s arm. He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “I saw Chief Middleton back there; he’s with a group from the Arizona. We may see some of our other shipmates soon.”

  Kelsey scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “Do you know where we are?”

  “Sure do, Commander,” said Daniels with a wink. “Looks like I didn’t waste all those Sundays at the First Baptist Church of Portsmouth.”

  Daniels looked past Kelsey and pointed toward one of the nearby trains. “That conductor seems to be eyeballing you, Sir.”

  Kelsey followed the ensign’s indication and saw a uniformed gentleman perched on the steps of a passenger car, accepting tickets as a queue of travelers shuffled aboard. It looked as if the passengers were peppering him with questions, or possibly directions, but the man was clearly preoccupied, staring right at Kelsey and Daniels. He waved the two officers over.

  They joined the long procession and made their way to the entry, climbing the handful of steps to reach the conductor. He was an older man, clearly nearing his retirement years. His uniform fit loosely over his lithe frame and the shock of white hair protruding from his hat had a matching, bushy mustache that covered his upper lip.

  The conductor checked his pocket watch. “Train is leaving in one minute, Commander Kelsey,” he said, snapping the watch shut and slipping it back into his vest. “You coming aboard, son?”

  “You know my name?”

  “Malcolm Anderson Kelsey. Lieutenant Commander, United States Navy. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you coming aboard?”

  “I don’t have a ticket.”

  “Then what’s that in your hand?”

  Kelsey lifted his hand and saw the small piece of paper, not even realizing how tightly he was clutching it. He handed it to the conductor who didn’t bother to examine it. “First class. All the way forward, Commander. You’re welcome to some refreshments, complimentary of course.”

  Kelsey felt a rumble in his stomach. “They serving any breakfast?”

  The conductor stopped taking tickets from the others and looked at Kelsey curiously. The reflection of sunlight gave the man’s soft blue eyes a charcoal-colored appearance. “You’re hungry?”

  “I’ll live,” Kelsey shrugged, stepping onto the train. “Ensign, g
ive him your ticket.”

  The conductor directed a thumb to the other side of the train. “You’re in third class, Mr. Daniels. Any of the cars in the back. Find yourself a seat, we’re filling up fast.”

  Daniels waived a hand. “With rank comes privilege. I’ll see you on the train, Sir.”

  Kelsey watched him go, sensing something was amiss. It was. This was the first time in months the two had separated without Kelsey barking at him over some triviality.

  He thought of Chief Middleton’s rebuke minutes before the first bombs fell. The sharp words had struck a nerve with Kelsey, who heard the plain implication in the man’s message, loud and clear. Kelsey’s unwillingness to mentor Daniels was a failure of leadership. That had pissed Kelsey off. Maybe because he didn’t think it was true. Maybe because he knew it was.

  “Bryce!” Kelsey called, chasing after him.

  Daniels turned as Kelsey approached. “Sir?”

  He struggled to find the words. “You did good today.”

  Daniels smiled. “Thank you, Commander.”

  Kelsey took a step toward him. “The Arizona, the Oklahoma, the West Virginia. That would have been us if we hadn’t been able to raise enough steam. You can be an arrogant little bastard. But your deck crew respected you. Chief Middleton and the other warrants relied upon you. You had a fine career ahead of you. I—I’m sorry I never shared that.”

  The surprise was evident on the ensign’s face, unused to such words from his prickly superior. He stood there gazing at Kelsey.

  Oh, come on. I’m not that much of an asshole, am I?

  Unable to find any words, the ensign finally gave Kelsey a simple nod of gratitude. He then turned and resumed his trek to the rear passenger cars, hiding from Kelsey the grin plastered on his face. Kelsey turned as well and made his way forward where the conductor had directed him. He gripped a nearby railing as he felt the train begin to lurch ahead and stepped into a dining car.

  “Wet your whistle, sir?”

  A small bar sat at the fore of the car, the counter a rich mahogany grain, highly polished and framed in stainless steel. The bartender looked at him expectantly, offering a wide grin that stretched the deep ebony skin hanging loosely from his chin. He was a heavy man, wearing a starched white service jacket and black bow tie.

  Kelsey lowered himself on to a stool. “Just what the doctor ordered. Martini, bone dry.”

  “Sorry sir, we’re out of olives. Had a full train earlier today. Seems to be a busy day in these parts. How about a Gibson?”

  “No idea what that is, but you look like a man who knows his liquor.” Kelsey read the man’s name tag. “Red. Interesting name.”

  The bartender looked up after pouring ice into a shaker. “First name tag said Colored. Then I got me promoted to Red.” He winked. “Old joke.”

  Kelsey wasn’t listening. He looked around the dining car.

  Red noticed. “Help you find someone, Mr. Kelsey?”

  Everyone knows my name.

  “No, I guess this just wasn’t what I was expecting.”

  “What were you expecting?” Red asked, amused, as he emptied the contents of the shaker into a glass and pushed it across the bar.

  “I don’t know. Clouds maybe. Angels with harps.”

  Red chuckled. He leaned over the bar, his voice a whisper. “I hear that a lot.”

  Kelsey took a sip of his drink, then a longer one. “That’s not bad.” He looked at his glass thoughtfully. “Also thought their standards here might be a little higher. Wouldn’t expect a jackass like me to make it.”

  A half-truth. He could hope. And while Kelsey was hardly a religious man, nearly every day for the last two months he had considered the question of whether such a place could exist for Lucy. He cared much less about his own fate. He knew he only needed to escape the despair that engulfed him, leading him to his flirtation with death more than once these last several days. His little girl was all he had, and there seemed little point in going on. And though the peace he was so desperate for had always seemed so close, he was never able to take that final step.

  Until the Japs took it for him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Forty Minutes Earlier

  December 7, 1941

  Honolulu, Hawaii

  Even in the early morning hours, with the sun still low in the sky, the air was warming quickly. The heat would become searing by late morning, baking the fleet like loaves of bread in an oven. His bronzed skin was a testament to the tropical environments that had become his home these last few years.

  “We’ll have you to the Nevada in a jiffy, Commander,” said the coxswain at the tiller.

  Malcolm Kelsey ignored the young man’s cheerfulness, continuing to stare at the churning blue water below him. He was leaning on the gunwale of the small whale boat that was ferrying him from the Navy Yard to his ship, moored adjacent to Ford Island. His visored cap fit tightly on his head, which was more square than rounded, and barely covered his tussled dark hair. A flat nose and high forehead were his most prominent features, followed closely by his eyes, a shade of blue that his wife had once called gunmetal.

  He yawned and tried to wipe some of the sleep from his eyes. Kelsey was barely in one piece. He had made it through last call at the Officers Club again, and then endured another short, sleepless night. He caught the eye of the boatswain’s mate in charge of the gig, seeing what he thought might be a hint of disapproval.

  Probably because I smell like a still.

  He knew his appearance was wretched. A starched uniform and clean shave could only cover up so much. His tunic was stained and reeked of beer and stale cigarette smoke. And even though he had squeezed every last ounce out of the toothpaste tube, he couldn’t mask the heavy traces of Scotch on his breath.

  The cox’n eased the small craft alongside the quay. Kelsey hopped out without a word, crossing over to the ladder leading up to the quarterdeck of his battleship. When he reached the deck, he saluted the officer on duty, who had found a patch of shade behind Number Three turret.

  “Morning, Pete,” said Kelsey. “Permission to come aboard?”

  Lieutenant H. Peter Brown was one of the Nevada’s supply officers, and junior enough to draw the Officer of the Deck assignment on an early weekend morning. He looked up from his crossword puzzle, returning the salute with a smile. Though Kelsey outranked Brown, they had previously served together in San Diego, and reported for duty on the Nevada on the same day.

  “Ah, Lieutenant Commander Kelsey. Permission granted, Mac. Early bird getting the worm?”

  Kelsey shrugged. “Nothing better to do.”

  Brown eyed the stubble on Kelsey’s face and the disheveled uniform. “Hey, XO’s team could use that left-handed bat of yours this afternoon. California’s got a lot of big hitters I hear. One of their guys is being scouted by the Cardinals.”

  The Nevada’s baseball team was the defending Pacific Fleet champion, thanks to Mac Kelsey and his power slugging. Without him the last two months, the team had slipped to the bottom of the Battleship Division standings.

  Kelsey’s eyes grew distant as he recalled bringing his daughter to watch him play in last year’s championship game. He still held the image of her sitting on the UCLA Bruins blanket, sipping her Coke.

  Brown cleared his throat and held out a pack of Wrigley’s. “Mac?”

  Kelsey stirred back to the present and nodded his thanks, accepting a piece and jamming it in his mouth.

  “Knee is still bothering me,” he lied, unconvincingly. “Skipper back yet?”

  “Not yet, I don’t think he’s due in for another hour or two. And given this weather, I would imagine he’ll be hitting the greens this morning rather than eating ham and eggs in his state room.” Brown skimmed the page on his clipboard. “We have the presentation of Colors in about fifteen minutes. Civilian work crews coming aboard at 0900. Ensign Daniels has the bridge right now. You may want to check on him, he’s been up there all night.”

  Br
own paused. “He had a second boiler lit off last night.”

  Kelsey frowned, putting his hands on his hips. “Without Hayward on board? Who authorized him to do that?”

  “I did.”

  The baritone voice carried across the deck. The officers turned and saw Francis Middleton approaching. The Warrant Officer Boatswain, or bos’n in Navy-speak, was an imposing presence. He stood some six feet three inches, and probably weighed close to 225 pounds. He came from a family of Maine fishermen and had been in the Navy since the two officers who stood before him were children. He was a hard man, a legend on the Nevada. The bos’n oversaw the deck crews and was responsible for virtually every rivet and piece of ground tackle and teakwood decking on board. Middleton saluted the two officers.

  “Bos’n,” said Kelsey, returning the salute. “The boiler was your idea?”

  “No, sir. It was Ensign Daniels’ idea, and when he asked, I backed him.”

  “With all due respect, Bos’n, you’re not an engineer.”

  Middleton squared his jaw. “Commander Hayward was not on board. As for why it was necessary, I suggest you ask Mr. Daniels.” He paused. “Sir, a private word if I might?”

  Kelsey nodded to Brown and followed Middleton away from the quarterdeck. The bos’n pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Kelsey, who declined, and then fished one out for himself.

  “Commander,” he said, thumbing the wheel of his Zippo. There was a breeze, strong-enough to loosen a few strands of Middleton’s Brylcreemed hair, and he had to cup his hand around the lighter. Middleton pressed the flame to his cigarette.

  “Permission to speak freely?” he asked, inhaling the rich smoke and flipping the lighter closed.