The Lonely War (38 page)

“Our deal was that he would be my consort for as long as I required, nothing more. Andrew shared my meals and my bed. He never passed information and he never asked for special treatment, although I was willing to give it.”

“What treatment did you offer?”

“I tried repeatedly to persuade Andrew to leave the camp for good. To stay with me, not as a prisoner but as my lover. He refused me flatly.”

“Why would he refuse such a generous offer?”

“Because he is a member of the American military and he has a duty to it and to you, his commanding officer. If he had left the camp for good, he’d be marked a deserter. If he were a civilian, things would be different, but he knows his duty and he intends to fulfill that duty.”

The mist in Mitchell’s mind lifted. He saw the situation in a clear, cold light.
Yes,
he thought,
if Andy were a civilian, then Tottori would protect him. But Andrew is a member of the USN and has acknowledged his guilt of the charge of consorting with the enemy.
He couldn’t take Tottori’s word that no information exchanged hands, and Andrew was unwilling to defend himself. What to do? He knew in his heart that Tottori had told the truth. He wanted more than anything to issue a not guilty verdict, but if he let Andrew off, free to wander the camp, he’d surely be killed by the British prisoners, who saw him as a traitor. What to do?

Mitchell glanced at Fisher and nodded.

“Seaman Waters,” Fisher said, “is what the Commandant told the court correct? Did you become his lover in order to save your commanding officer’s life?”

“I’ve already told the court that I will say no more.”

“Then the prosecution rests.”

“Ensign Moyer,” Mitchell said.

“No cross-examination, sir.” Moyer didn’t even bother to lift his head.

“Judge Advocate, your closing argument.”

Fisher and Fowler put their heads together and traded low whispers, which became harsh, angry-sounding grunts. They shook their heads with heated hissing, until Fowler slammed his fist on the table.

Fisher dropped his head and rose. “The accused stands convicted by his own admission. His motives, if we are to believe the Commandant, are irrelevant under the law. The court has no choice but to find the defendant guilty and punish him with the maximum penalty of military justice.”

Moyer stood. “Andrew Waters is a hero. He has gone above and beyond his duty in order to save the life of his commanding officer. We cannot punish this kind of selfless act. We must find the defendant innocent of these charges and hope to God that he can forgive us.” Moyer held Mitchell’s gaze with his piercing eyes. “You of all people must realize what a sacrifice this young sailor has made, and who has benefited.”

Mitchell lowered his head before saying, “Andrew Waters, do you have anything to add before I pass judgment?”

Andrew lifted his head high and said in a strong voice, “‘Let me speak proudly: tell the constable, we are but warriors for the working day, our gayness and our guilt are all besmirched with rainy marching in the painful field.’”

The Shakespeare quote punctured Mitchell’s heart as all the conversations on the
Pilgrim
’s bridge rushed back to him. The prayer beads that Andrew had given him on the
Pilgrim
’s quarterdeck still hung around his neck, and now those beads seem to burn his flesh. Mitchell lowered his head and scribbled notes on the yellow paper, the whole time wondering what the hell he could do to preserve Navy regulations but release Andrew.

Mitchell scrutinized Tottori, who stood stone-faced and scowling. The answer, the only possible solution to this madness, blossomed in his mind.

He lifted his head and stared first at Tottori, whom he now realized had held the answer all along, then at Andrew, who sat with downcast eyes. He cleared his dry throat. “The defendant will rise and face the bench.” When Andrew turned, their eyes met. Mitchell continued with a steady voice. “This court finds the defendant guilty of the charge of consorting with the enemy.”

A crushing hush blanketed the entire assembly, like an athlete holding his breath at the top of a high dive right before the plunge. Only Fowler smiled. Andrew stared, his eyes growing moist. He showed no anger or disappointment, only sorrow, as if he was sorry that Mitchell must endure this humiliation.

“In light of these findings,” Mitchell said, “this court sentences the defendant to a bad-conduct discharge from the United States Navy. As of this moment, Andrew Waters, you are a civilian. You are entitled to all benefits and back pay up until today, but as of now you will no longer receive any salary from the United States government. Your duty to the American military, and to me, your commanding officer, is finished. That is all. These proceedings are concluded.”

Moyer barked a joyous laugh as he jumped to his feet, rushed to Andrew, and crushed him in a bear hug.

Tottori nodded at Mitchell. An understanding passed between them, along with a full measure of respect.

Fowler leaped to his feet, screaming, “You’ve let him off scot-free, given him exactly what he wants!”

“These proceedings are closed.” Mitchell’s voice was calm, with a hint of satisfaction at the edges. He snatched his sheet of paper and rose to his feet.

“He’s a traitor. I caught him red-handed. I have witnesses. He deserves to be hung.”

“Lieutenant Fowler, I said these proceedings are over. You’re dismissed.”

Fowler’s temper snapped. “They’re not over, you sniveling little twit! I won’t let them be over until that queer bastard gets his due. He’s been eating like a king all these years we’ve been starving to death, and by God he must be punished!”

Colonel Henman stepped from the crowd of stunned onlookers. “Hold your tongue, Fowler. No need for this dribble. This matter is closed.”

“The hell it is. I have witnesses. The dirty bugger’s guilty and I want him rotting in my stockade, begging for mercy. He’ll crawl on his belly for scraps before I’m through with him.”

“Fowler!” The colonel’s voice cut the air like a razor. “Get hold of yourself. You’re an officer in the Royal Army—act like one! Stand at attention. I said attention!”

Fowler’s body went as rigid as a block of granite.

“In light of your behavior, I am relieving you of your post as Provost Marshal until I can discuss this matter with the senior staff. And if I were you, I would keep my mouth shut and hold the dignity of your rank high. That is all. You are dismissed.”

“Just a moment,” Tottori said as he pointed a finger at Fowler. “You would make my lover crawl on his belly for your entertainment?” He turned to his corporal and uttered a crisp sentence in Japanese.

The four guards jumped to surround Fowler and grabbed him by both arms.

“Lieutenant,” Tottori said to Fowler, “you’ll be taken to the transit stockade and shipped north to the railway gangs.”

Fowler’s thin lips drooped. His stony eyes looked dazed.

As the four guards carried Fowler away, Tottori stepped toward Mitchell. “I’m convinced that people in love are seldom happy for long. Love is the root of desire, and desire eventually brings unhappiness. It’s ironic that the person you most love is the person who can cause you the most torment, because one always ends up attempting to possess him, which is an impossible undertaking. Possession is such a vile concept. No wonder it causes such pain. I will take him now, and perhaps when my time is up, you will be there to take him again.”

Tottori bowed low, and turned to walk away. He stopped. “By the way, Lieutenant. Had you issued a verdict that would have harmed Andrew in any way, you would have joined that sniveling twit at the work camps.” He turned again and wrapped his arm across Andrew’s shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

With Tottori supporting Andrew, they marched out of the courtyard. Ten thousand pairs of eyes watched them go without a single blink. As they made their way through the huge open gate, Hudson sang in a loud, joyous voice, “For he’s a golly good fellow, for he’s a golly good fellow.” Clifford and Stokes joined in. Several others took up the tune. By the time Tottori had led him out of the high prison gate, hundreds of American, British, and Australian were singing, “fellow, and so say all of us!”

A
S
THE
lovers climbed the steps to Tottori’s quarters, Andrew noticed that the tortoise Tottori kept tied to the stone lantern was missing. One end of the cord was still tied to the lantern, but the end had been cut or bitten off. Andrew searched the length of the terrace and spotted the rock-like shell at the far end, resting in the cool afternoon shade.

Tottori made a beeline to the bedroom and returned with his opium pipe. He sat at the dining table across from Andrew and held a flame to the bowl. It was the first time he had smoked during the day. He usually waited until after making love. He took another hit and passed the pipe to Andrew.

“Smoke,” he said. “It helps.” His fingertips caressed Andrew’s cheek. “You’re so beautiful it is agonizing.”

Andrew took Tottori’s hand and said, before inhaling the drug, “Thank you, although I would rather he had never found out.”

“Every night I consume you, your flesh, your spirit, and I relish every mouthful. But this love has turned into torture because it must end soon. There is no prolonging this joy.”

“I don’t understand,” Andrew said.

“I release you from your debt. You gave me much more than that serum was worth.”

“Hikaru, what’s happened? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“My superior has disclosed a report from Admiral Shimada, an analysis of massive air and shipping losses. American forces will soon be poised to launch an assault on Japan itself. Japan will assuredly lose this war. There is talk of negotiating a peace offensive and settling for any conditions that would let Japan retain her honor. All is lost.”

“Hikaru, I’m so sorry. What will happen if the Americans invade your homeland?”

A visible, terrifying apparition revealed itself behind Tottori’s dull eyes. Andrew sensed that every moment now was a countdown to some future mourning. The realization of this approaching sorrow would overshadow any attempt at normalcy. 

“I will make arrangements to smuggle you across the border before that happens. You can make your way to Saigon. As for me, I’ve requested another transfer to a fighting unit. I’ve been turned down, but I’m not giving up. I implored my superior for a transfer. He must understand, my honor must be allowed the fitting end of defending the homeland.”

“What will happen to the prisoners?”

Darkness veiled Tottori’s face. “It’s useless to speak of it.”

Andrew moved into that hollow space between Tottori’s arms, embracing the man’s immense and appalling pain while the opium carried his mind across the universe and into a new dimension.

Chapter Thirty-Two

May 28, 1945—1000 hours

A
S
THE
scorching days passed, a new pattern emerged. The hours spent together seemed grueling; every minute was an ordeal. Andrew and Tottori drifted on an ocean of sorrow that stretched into infinity, but at the same time had a rapidly approaching end. Only the opium could dull the pain. They both spent the long days in a drug-induced fog.

Silence pervaded Tottori’s quarters. Andrew often asked him why he remained so silent. Tottori always answered with a taciturn stare that said: all is lost, what’s the point of talking? Tottori’s entire being exuded this maddening silence.

Andrew occasionally lifted himself above the opium-induced mist to initiate a conversation about routine topics, but every subject twisted its way into the minefield of their onrushing end. Andrew had the bizarre feeling that he was living with a dead man, that the life force within Tottori’s body was merely a sad hoax.

As the days bled on, Tottori was plagued by migraines. He lay limp on his bed, ghostly white, motionless, with a wet cloth over his eyes. During these attacks, Andrew realized that Tottori was mortal, that the possibility of losing him was real.

Tottori no longer made love. Desire, like every other emotional response, had been sucked away by the opium. He had no potency. Sometimes, he tried to behave as before, taking baths, eating a scrumptious dinner, carrying Andrew to the bed. But once there, he simply hugged Andrew and gave an apologetic smile. The sorrow in his eyes was all too visible.
His pain
, Andrew thought,
he’s in love with it. He makes love to it instead of to me
.

At night under snow-white mosquito netting, Andrew embraced the officer, but Tottori was unable to respond. As the fibers of blackness wove a shroud around them, Tottori sucked his life out of the opium pipe. He clung to the pipe as desperately as Andrew clung to him. 

Chapter Thirty-Three

August 12, 1945—1600 hours

T
HREE
weeks of continuous torrent, gushing drains, mud, and the echo of rain battering the roof. Andrew had grown sick of the sound of it, and of the constantly damp sheets, blankets, and clothing.

He sat on Tottori’s veranda with his body folded into the lotus position. His chi expanded until he felt boundless. His essence soared up on wings above the gray cloud cover. Wind brushed his face and the sun’s golden glare penetrated his eyes. The clarity of the light was stunning. The mass of clouds below him swirled like a boiling soup, but up there the day was warm and buttery.

In that wondrous flight, the world washed away unnoticed until, through the whisper of wind, he heard the faint shouts of angry men. He resisted the urge to descend, but curiosity won him over. Sitting on the terrace, he opened his eyes.

Shouts erupted from Japanese guards herding a new batch of prisoners up the muddy path that led into the prison. They passed a dozen yards away from Tottori’s hut. Through the rain, Andrew saw that the prisoners were American marines. About forty of them sloshed by before something caught his eye, something familiar. It took him several seconds to realize that what he saw was Lieutenant Hurlburt, the marine he had threatened to kill on Guadalcanal.