The Lonely War (9 page)

“If that happened to my family, I’d want to kill as many Japs as possible.”

“You mean to say, you’d kill as a justified means of revenge? Sir, what makes you different from them?”

Mitchell’s nostrils flared and his eyes smoldered. “There’s a vast difference. I’m a patriot! I’m defending my country.”

“In my view, that is exactly what the Japanese are doing: defending their nation. In ’37, they invaded China, and in ’41, Roosevelt put an embargo on Japan, cutting off all supplies, including oil. Roosevelt used the embargo to strangle Japan into being weak and defenseless. Japan was forced to choose between being a third-rate country begging for Western crumbs or going to war and becoming a superpower. America is like the hunter who traps a tiger in a cage and stands in the open doorway. You cry self-defense when the tiger lunges for freedom and you have to kill it to save your own skin. If you’re placing blame, don’t overlook Roosevelt.”

“Japan was wrong to attack China.”

“Why was it right for the whites to invade the continent of America and slaughter the native Indians, but wrong for the Japanese to do the same in China?”

In the darkness behind them, Ogden audibly sucked in his breath.

“You make it sound like the war is all the result of racial issues,” Mitchell said.

“I don’t see any other way to view it. Why should there be a Monroe Doctrine in America and an open-door policy in Asia? Why was it perfectly acceptable for England and Holland to occupy India, Hong Kong, Singapore, and the East Indies, but a crime for Japan to follow their example? After stealing land from Indians through trickery and massacre, why should America be so outraged when Japan did the same in China?”

“They had no claim on China and no right to attack us.”

“That reminds me of a line in
Henry V
,” Andrew said. “‘And God forbid, my wise and learned Lord, that you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading, with opening titles miscreate, whose right suits are not in native colors with the truth; for God doth know, how many now in health shall drop their blood, in approbation of what your reverence shall incite us to.’”

“My God, you quote whole passages of Shakespeare?”

Andrew continued, “‘Therefore take heed how you impawn our person, how you awaken the sleeping sword of war.’”

Mitchell smiled and added, “‘We charge you in the name of God take heed; For never two such kingdoms did contend without much fall of blood, whose guiltless drops are every one a woe.’”

Ogden became visibly agitated. He cleared his throat in an effort to make Andrew realize that he was way out of line, but it was Mitchell who heard the chief’s snarl.

Mitchell stared at Andrew with a confused expression, as if wholly aware of how much he had enjoyed their exchange and equally aware of how wrong it was to get sucked into a personal conversation.

Andrew sensed the officer’s abrupt mood change. He raised his binoculars and scanned the darkness off the starboard bow. He’d gone too far, carried away by his feelings of love. He knew that, to continue their debate, the lieutenant must be the one to rekindle it. He waited, praying that Mitchell would renew the conversation. He gazed into the night while his wool watch cap caused his head to itch madly, or could it have been the anticipation of the officer’s next statement?

Thirty silent minutes crawled by.  Mitchell kept glancing at Andrew and the tension on his face seemed to build as the minutes crept by. Mitchell finally cleared his throat. “Why are you standing a lookout watch? Cooks are exempt from watches.”

“Sir, you confiscated my salary to pay for my new uniforms. Skeeter Banks is paying me a dollar a night to stand his midnight-to-four. I have to get up at eleven-thirty and three-thirty to make coffee for the watches, so I figured I might as well stay up and earn some money.”

Once the silence was broken, Mitchell seemed to relax.

“Sometime when we’re not on watch, you’ll have to tell me how you can justify the attack on Pearl. No declaration of war, no warning, nothing.”

Andrew could hardly believe the offer. Three hundred lifetimes had passed in that thirty-minute silence. Convinced that their interchange was over for good, his heart had retreated into its shell. Now he strained to hide his joy.

“The answer is simple, sir. I can explain anytime you would care to hear.”

“Simple? How’s that?”

“America has ten times the resources that Japan has. Ten times the oil, the manpower, the raw materials, and the military might. Ten times! You have to ask yourself why a nation would wage war against such overwhelming odds. Simply, America is consumed with the war in Europe. Japan felt that if they could knock out the Pacific fleet with one blow, that would buy them two years to secure their position as ruler of the Western Pacific.”

Mitchell nodded while the discussion, phoenixlike, launched itself again. They debated war and motives until the top of the hour, when Mitchell made a log entry. For the next hour they discussed how a country had an identity, and how a country’s psyche was an aggregate of the egos of the people who form that country’s population. The last hour of their watch was consumed with discussing why men strived for power, so much so that they risk life and honor for it.

Mitchell talked more than he had since stepping aboard the
Pilgrim
; he said so himself, with an air of surprise.

Stokes and Ogden stood at their posts, listening to the give and take in a debate between two intellectual equals. They occasionally exchanged questioning glances, as if trying to stitch together the threads of logic. The lieutenant had a reputation among the crew for having a head on his shoulders, being a man who could express his opinions, but Andrew held his own with the officer.

At 0345 hours, the captain scaled the ladder to relieve Mitchell.

Andrew rushed to the galley to make fresh coffee for the relief watch. After, there were a few precious hours of sack time left, so Andrew headed for his bunk. In the empty forecastle, he pulled off his clothes, stepped into a clean pair of skivvies, and hurled himself onto his bunk.

The temperature in the forecastle had cooled to near comfortable, and he settled himself on his back with hands clasped under his head. He felt dog-tired but he was too excited to sleep. He relived portions of his conversation with Mitchell in his head, hearing the tones in the officer’s voice and seeing the vivid expressions on the man’s face. It was thrilling to match wits with him, like holding his own against a superior chess player. He felt a flash of loving unity with that rich mind.

His memory turned to what he had seen before the watch: Mitchell asleep, naked save for his T-shirt and underwear, the beautifully peaceful face, the muscular lines of his chest, and the curve of his hips pressed against those bleached skivvies.

Andrew resisted his impulse to masturbate, but the vision turned to more concrete sexual images. He heard the officer’s slow exhalation, sounding like a soft moan. Andrew’s breathing deepened. He wrapped the memory of Mitchell around him like a velvety cocoon and lured his intellect into nothingness—no thoughts about conversations, no visions of sunburnt skin, no scent of sweet breath.

He drifted in tranquility, which lasted only a moment before sleep took him.

Chapter Nine

April 20, 1942—0500 hours

T
HE
ship vibrated like a tuning fork, a low-wave oscillation that traveled through the superstructure and up Mitchell’s legs. His skeleton carried the pulsation to every cell in his body. The excitement of getting underway supplanted his calm demeanor. For him, going to sea on any ship was always exhilarating, and always a little sad.

From the bridge, he watched the deck crew unmoor the ship with clocklike precision. With the swing of the tide, the bow pointed toward open sea. Propellers slashed the water. The ship hesitated, her twenty-thousand-ton bulk resisting the clout of her engines, and she inched forward under her own power. Her movement was imperceptible at first, but built in strength and speed until the bow wave grew to a three-foot arc and two man-made combers funneled away from her sides.

She steamed into open water before the sun rose, swaying and creaking as she sliced through waves at 15.7 knots—which was SOA, or standard Speed of Advance—toward the line in the east where water met the sky. While underway, the
Pilgrim
operated in a battle-ready status called “Condition Able,” where the men stood watch four hours on, four hours off. It was a grueling schedule that left the men insufficient time for sleep and induced a zombielike state.

Bitton cleared his throat. “Full speed ahead, Nathan. Orders came a half hour ago directing us to Papeete. Let’s put the spurs to her. We’ll do battle-readiness drills on the way. Run a standard zigzag pattern until oh-nine-hundred tomorrow.”

While Mitchell knew zigzagging was a defensive maneuver, to make the ship harder to hit with torpedoes by making it an erratically moving target, he had always believed that the practice had negligible value and used more time and fuel. It was, however, required by Navy regulations, so he didn’t argue.

Andrew popped onto the bridge with a coffeepot and a tray of mugs, saying that breakfast was ready at the officers’ leisure. Mitchell gratefully poured himself a mug and thought of Andrew long after his departure. Their debate had made the watch pass in a flash, and now Andrew had had the thoughtfulness to deliver coffee.  Feeling the hot liquid warm his insides, Mitchell finished his mug and left the captain in command of the bridge while he hurried to the wardroom.

Tedder and Fisher sat at the table, finishing their breakfast. A pitcher of orange juice, freshly squeezed and pulpy, sat beside a platter of sliced pineapple, mango, and papaya. There was also a plate of fragrant cinnamon rolls and a basket of warm baguettes.

Mitchell scanned the crowded table as he took off his cap. “Wow! Look at all this chow.”

Fisher winked at the medical officer.

As Mitchell settled himself at the table, Grady breezed through the hatch with a coffeepot in hand. He poured Mitchell a cup and drawled, “Suh, would you like the banana pancakes, poached eggs on toast with hollandaise, or the tomato, shrimp, and spinach omelet?”

Mitchell’s mouth fell open while the other officers traded gleeful laughter.

“No powdered eggs, burnt toast, and crispy Spam?” Mitchell asked.

“I can ask the chef, suh, if that’s what you want.”

“No. Please inform the chef that I’ll have the poached eggs.”

“An excellent choice,” Tedder said. “Although the omelet was ambrosial. I couldn’t decide, so I had both. And save room for the cinnamon rolls. They’re a sliver of paradise.”

“Keep that up and you’ll end up looking like Cocoa.”

Grady cackled as he exited the wardroom.

Mitchell served himself some fruit and a baguette. He eyed the cinnamon rolls, but decided to save those for last. The coffee tasted delicious, and he finished off his cup and poured another.

Grady burst into the wardroom, out of breath and eyes bulging as large as goose eggs.

“Suh, come quick. They’s fightin’ in the mess hall.”

Mitchell held a golden slice of mango below his nose. He popped it into his mouth and rose to his feet, falling in behind Grady as he ran down the passageway.

The trouble had started when Andrew carried a tray of cinnamon rolls behind Cocoa, who was serving up flapjacks on the chow line, and placed them on the next serving station. There were three dozen rolls on the tray; the frosting glistened and the spicy cinnamon aroma wafted on the air.

As Andrew walked to the galley, Hudson, who was waiting in line for his breakfast, yelled at Andrew that nobody was going to eat his chink cooking. His voice ricocheted off the bulkheads and into the consciousness of every sailor in the room. All the men traded questioning glances, as if wondering if they should follow Hudson’s lead or follow their noses.

Stokes sat at a table chewing rubbery flapjacks. He jumped up, marched to the front of the chow line and helped himself to four cinnamon rolls. Everybody glared as he returned to his seat and devoured a roll. He took his time sucking the gooey frosting from his fingers before starting on another roll.

Skeeter Banks stepped out of line and bypassed the flapjacks altogether. He loaded his tray with six rolls. An instant later, eighty sailors lunged for the remaining rolls. Men cursed, shirts were ripped, and fists hurtled through the air like hail.

Mitchell stationed himself at the hatchway, red-faced and both hands on his hips, watching a whirlwind of flying trays and overturned chairs and biting, gouging, fist-pounding men. In the eye of the storm, Ogden stood with his feet planted wide and his arms stretched out. His voice thundered as he tried to break up the men.

Cocoa saw the lieutenant and bellowed, “Attention on deck!” His voice recoiled off the walls and the fight unraveled. Exhausted men struggled to their feet and came to attention while mopping blood from their faces and checking for loose teeth.

“Chief,” Mitchell snarled, “who started this fight?” He struggled to keep his voice even, but the way he hissed the question through his clenched jaw made his anger more than apparent.

Ogden scratched his chin. “Sir, Seaman Waters started it. Yes, sir, he’s to blame.”

Mitchell’s eyebrows lifted high on his head. He scanned the room but didn’t see Andrew. “Waters, front and center.”

Andrew rushed into the hall and stood next to Cocoa behind the chow-line serving stations.

“I’m here, sir.”

Mitchell glanced over his shoulder at Andrew. He turned to Ogden. “Chief, explain to me how Waters is responsible, seeing as how he was in the galley when the fight took place.”

“Well, sir, he laid out a tray of cinnamon rolls, but the little bastard only made enough to tease us. The men started fighting to see who would get a roll.”

Silence. Mitchell glared at Ogden, not quite believing the absurdity of the situation. He finally turned to look at Andrew.

“Sir, I didn’t make more because I didn’t think they would eat my cooking. At least that’s what everyone said until the fists started flying.”