The Lonely War (7 page)

“Hey, you and me need to help each other out. It’s us two against all these crackers. They’re waitin’ for the chance to take us down. I overheard the officers say that the crew’s got them a bettin’ pool. They bet on anythin’, like when we get our next liberty or how soon we’ll see action. I heard they’re bettin’ on which one of us get thrown overboard first.”

“Oh yeah?” Andrew said with a smirk. “What kind of odds am I getting?”

“Man, you don’t want to know. You make up your own mind, but as for me, I don’t care how hot the forecastle gets, I ain’t sleepin’ on deck. Even that cracker Cocoa’s smiling sweetly and actin’ all buddy-buddy, but don’t go trustin’ him. I heard him put a bet down on you, sho’ ’nough.”

Andrew glanced over at Cocoa.

“Believe only this,” Grady continued, “all we got here is each other. You watch my back and I’ll be watchin’ yours, and maybe we’ll get through this alive.”

Andrew envisioned it happening. It would transpire during the twelve-to-four watch, that loneliest and darkest hole of the long night. It would start with the muffled thud of a splintering skull, and, already dead, he would plunge over the side and into the sea’s cold embrace. His body would drift close to the ship until the stern’s vortex sucked him into the whirling propeller blades. The vision crystallized in his mind, and the smirk faded from his lips.

Andrew scrutinized Cocoa with an accusing stare. “You bet on me?”

“You’re not going to believe this….” Cocoa stopped himself.

Andrew shook his head.

“Shit,” Cocoa said, “and I thought we was gonna be pals.” Cocoa couldn’t even finish the last of his pie. He tossed it into the garbage bin, plate and all, and stomped out. Grady nodded his head, as if that proved his point perfectly. He stalked out himself, leaving Andrew to clean the galley alone.

Andrew’s spirits fell as he surveyed his new domain. The room felt heavy with greasy odors. Too many meals cooked in too small a space had compressed into a thin film of yellow grease that covered every surface and stained everything the same lifeless color.

Andrew trudged to the sink and turned on the tap. Steam congested the already sweltering room. The soap he added had a disinfectant stench. He held his breath while stacking a tower of metal trays in the soapy water and launched himself into the physical act of meticulously washing each tray, mug, dish, and utensil. His mind emptied until his head was a mute cavern. It became simply movement, a ballet written in C minor—C for cleaning and minor for the effect it had on his spirits.

The hiss of the PA system startled Andrew as it resonated throughout the ship, followed by the shrill cry of the boatswain’s pipe. “Now hear this. Now hear this,” began the announcement. Captain Bitton’s voice magnified the humid air. “Men, it is my pleasure to pass on some good news that came over the harbor circuit.”

Andrew halted in midtask with his ear cocked toward the nearest speaker, attached to the bulkhead.

“Yesterday at eight hundred hours, our time,” the captain said, “General James Doolittle led an air strike aimed at the very heart of the enemy. The carrier
Hornet
launched twenty-eight B-25 bombers, six hundred miles off the Japanese mainland. They dropped their payloads on Tokyo to successfully achieve our first bombing raid over Japan. There is no word on the extent of the damage or the number of casualties. That is all.”

Jubilant seamen raised a deafening roar below decks, but Andrew sank deeper into depression.
Blowing people to bits is nothing to cheer about,
he thought.
How many new widows were made today, how many mothers lost their sons, how many branches were severed from family trees?

There was nothing else to do but stow the clean dishes, but his depression still weighed heavy on his heart, so he scoured the pots and mixing machines and counters and walls. An hour later, Andrew surveyed his domain again.
A job well done
, he thought.

Satisfaction lifted his mood as he hauled himself to the deserted crew’s quarters. Lights-out was still hours away, so the men were lounging in the mess hall. Andrew looked forward to the pure silence to go with his solitude. He thought a cold shower would revive his exhausted body and he unbuttoned his shirt with unsteady fingers.

He opened his locker and there on the top shelf sat his Buddha statue. But in the dim light, he saw that someone had taken a knife and hacked the face off the wooden deity.

Andrew’s fingers caressed the statue’s wounds. The faceless Buddha sat as serenely as ever, unconcerned about the violation, but Andrew felt heat burning his temples. The statue itself meant little, but someone sneaking behind his back, too gutless to confront him to his face, infuriated him. He felt no compulsion for revenge, but he wanted to know who the culprit was. He considered long and hard about how to identify the coward, until an idea clicked in his head.

He rebuttoned his shirt and pulled Jah-Jai, his flute, from the locker. Holding the instrument with both hands, he ran his fingers over the smooth finish.

Jah-Jai was made of thick bamboo. Beautifully subtle veins weaved through the wood, and each hole was worn smooth from years of use. It had been a gift from Master Jung-Wei, who had hand carved the instrument and taught Andrew how to call forth its voice.

Andrew sauntered into the ovenlike mess hall. The compartment reeked of a mixture of fried potatoes, burnt chicken fat, and human sweat. He wandered through the rows of tables with his flute held chest high as he studied the remaining empty seats with a troubled scowl, trying to find the safest spot available.

He saw Grady sitting in the far corner with his head bent over a sheet of yellow paper, writing a letter. Andrew rambled toward him and swung into the next seat over. He glanced at Grady, as if noticing him for the first time. Grady offered him a relieved grin.

Cocoa played bridge at the next table with Stokes, Kelso, and Nash. Hudson was perched on a table in the center of a group of spellbound crewmen, chewing on a half-burned cigar and recounting what it was like at Pearl on that fateful day. Although he described the horrors of battle, he used tones that might be used to depict something thrilling, as if he were bragging about an alluring sexual conquest. His chest swelled, stretching his T-shirt tight across his pectorals. Each movement of his hands and each facial expression broadcasted his arrogance, even as his words tried to assume modesty.

Sailors gathered around Hudson like baby chicks huddled around their mother with open mouths. Even the old salts listened as they read novels, sewed, or played cards. Only Andrew ignored him. Only Andrew did not bow to his pride.

Andrew brought Jah-Jai to his lips and notes rippled across the smoke-filled room with a cheerful refrain.

Andrew’s snub visibly diminished Hudson’s dignity. Hudson raised his voice to drown out the flute’s melody, but Andrew continued to play, seemingly unaware of him. Hudson paused to stare. He gestured in Andrew’s direction with his stubby cigar held between two fingers. “Hey, rookie. Can that chink music.”

The room hushed. Every head swiveled toward Andrew. Hudson pulled out his Ronson, relit his cigar, and exhaled an authoritative puff of smoke in Andrew’s direction.

Andrew reminded himself of survival rule number one as he lowered Jah-Jai. “I’d hardly consider Mozart a chink. However, I can play Handel if you’d prefer. Is he racially acceptable to everyone?”

Mozart affected Andrew deeply. His spirits soared from the music and he realized that he was not being as cautious as he should be. He swallowed hard, noting a metal taste in his mouth.

Hudson’s face flared purple. “I’ll get a handle on your fucking balls if you keep playing that shit!” The bluster in his voice showed he meant what he said.

Laughter erupted around Andrew. Scornful laughter—what a penetrating thing it was. Giddy and gay and joyful, yet it touched a hidden nerve ever so masterfully. Only Andrew and Grady remained silent.

“Speaking of balls,” Andrew said, loud enough for all to hear. “Whoever defaced my statue, I understand that you’re angry, but try growing enough spine to confront me to my face.”

“Don’t strain your milk over it, rookie,” Hudson said. “It’s only a piece of wood.”

Hudson’s matter-of-fact tone proved that he knew what had taken place, but Andrew was sure that he didn’t do it himself. Andrew’s lips tightened into a frown as he wondered if the whole crew knew about the violation. He had assumed it was the act of a single person, but now he was not so sure.
Are they all in on it?

“Say, Andy,” Grady said, “can you play any jazz on that thing?”

Andrew realized that Grady was trying to divert his attention away from the scorn. He patted Grady on the shoulder and gave him a grateful nod. “I was raised in a French school. The French love good jazz even more than good wine.”

“Can you play ‘Swinging Shepherd Blues’?”

Andrew raised the flute and blew while Grady sang in a low smoky voice, as if they were in a neighborhood speakeasy surrounded by friends
. “In a mountain pass there is a patch of grass where the swingin’ shepherd plays his tune
….” Grady was hardly a professional singer, Andrew thought, but his voice gave a soulful feeling to the music. Fingers snapped and toes tapped the deck. “
His sheep never stray, dancin’ all day till they see the pale and yellow moon
….”

Stokes threw his cards on the table and jumped up. He seductively swayed his hips as his feet carried him around the room. All the sailors smiled as he passed their table—all, that is, except Hudson.

Kelso struck a feminine pose, batting his eyelashes and poofing up his hair like a brash schoolgirl. Wolf whistles soared as Stokes danced over and took Kelso in his arms. As they twirled around the room, onlookers cheered each difficult move and whistled at every lewd gesture.

“
Wail on, shepherd, let it echo through the hills
….”

As Andrew played, he kept an eye on every man in the room. Kelso and Stokes performed their lewd boogie, others returned to their card games and writing letters. Hudson, having lost his audience, frowned.

Andrew noticed Smitty, the redheaded coxswain who had stared him down in the whaleboat. He skulked toward the hatch with his head bent, and disappeared through it.

Andrew had only been aboard a day, but that was enough time to notice that most of the enlisted crew had a talent for expressing obscenities. Smitty, however, managed to squeeze the word “fuck” into every sentence. If he felt particularly good or particularly frustrated, he used the word three or four times per sentence. That didn’t make him guilty, but Andrew now had a particular feeling about him.

Andrew and Grady performed three more tunes before calling it quits. The men groaned, wanting more.

“If you play like that,” Stokes said, slapping Andrew on the shoulder, “you must have some Louisiana bayou blood in you somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Hudson said, and spat on the deck. “He ain’t your regular kind of chink.”

A muffled, pinging noise sounded overhead, making everyone look up. A collective sigh propagated through the hall. The squall that had crawled toward the ship all day had finally overtaken them and engulfed the ship with rain.

The men, one after another, piled through the hatchway and ran to their lockers. Andrew was last to leave. He climbed through the hatch and stepped into the cooler temperatures brought on by the squall. Heavy raindrops stuck his face.

Rain. The clean scent of it reached into Andrew’s lungs and lifted his heart.
Yes,
he thought,
even this steel hell has an element as pure as rain
. He tilted his face up and opened his mouth, gathering a mouthful of freshness.

The wind drove sheets of water against the ship, rainfall so heavy that Andrew couldn’t see the shoreline or the other ships at anchor. Even in that protected bay, the
Pilgrim
rocked like a native woman’s hips as she meandered along the beach. Outside the reef, on the open sea, white, foamy jets leaped into the air.

Turning forward, Andrew saw most of the crew grouped together on the quarterdeck, bathing naked in the wild rain. Waves broke across the deck, hurling seawater over their ankles as the ship pitched side to side. They scrubbed themselves from scalp to toes while leaning into the wind-driven rain.

They all had deeply tanned faces and arms, but their bodies glowed a pale white; all except Hudson, who had an apelike pelt covering his chest, back, shoulders and legs.

Andrew smiled boyishly at the sight of eighty naked men drenched in lather and rain. He ran to his locker, ripped off his clothes, and grabbed his cake of Lifebuoy soap. On deck, the rain buffeted his amber skin with force. He felt reluctant to join the others, but he saw Grady on the fringe of the bathers and rushed to stand beside him.

A joyous excitement animated the party, as if the men were all happily drunk. Swept up in the energy, Andrew surprised himself by laughing out loud.

He turned away from the crowd to let Grady scrub his back, and there, above him, stood Mitchell under the bridge awning. Their eyes locked through the slashing rain. Mitchell leaned over the bulwarks, raindrops soaking his head.

Andrew felt a strong urge to cover his nakedness. The feeling grew until he finally turned around, but he still felt the officer’s gaze on his backside. He waited a minute before turning to see Mitchell still staring at him. Only when several bathers moved between him and Mitchell, swallowing Andrew in the crowd, did Mitchell walk inside the wheelhouse, where he was protected from the storm.

The setting sun momentarily broke below the cloud cover and the light caused the raindrops to gleam silver. Andrew inhaled sharply and held his breath. The men seemed to dance in liquid light. The sight of the crew being pelted with silver droplets caused him to exhale slowly.

As the squall passed, Andrew darted to his locker, toweled off, pulled on clean skivvies, and stared up at his bunk. They were stacked five high and his was the top one. Only eighteen inches of space separated the mattress and overhead, allowing him roughly the same space as a coffin.