War and Remembrance (91 page)

* * *

J
ANICE
answered a ring at the front door and blinked. Victor Henry stood there hunched, his eyes troubled and weary, his face as gray as his ill-fitting work uniform. He carried a wooden footlocker and a bulging leather portfolio.

“Hi.” The voice too was troubled and weary.

Clutching at her open housecoat collar, she exclaimed, “Dad! Come in, come in! What a surprise! The place is a mess, and so am I, but —”

“I tried to telephone. I know the rule against surprising the female persuasion. The line was busy, and I’m crowded for time. I had a problem finding where you’d moved.”

“I wrote to you.”

“I never got it.” He glanced around the small living room, his eyes jerkily avoiding Warren’s photograph on the wall. “Furniture’s sort of jammed in here.”

“Does it seem a comedown? It’s all Vic and I need now.”

“Have you stored my stuff?”

“No, it’s all there in Vic’s room.”

“Good. I’ll need my dress blues and bridge coat.”

“How long will you be in Honolulu?”

“A few hours.”

“Wow! No more?”

He raised heavy eyebrows in which Janice saw new flecks of gray. “I’ve got orders back to Washington. Class One air priority.” The quick tart grin, with a flick of a knuckle across his nose, was a Warren mannerism that gave her a turn. “In the Nouméa NATS terminal I bumped an Australian newspaper editor. He was madder’n hell.”

“Why the rush?”

“Beats me.”

“Well, there’s a whole closet full of your Stateside things.”

“Good. I can use whatever’s here. That footlocker is empty. Even this outfit is borrowed.”

It was her opening to say softly, “I’m sorry about the
Northampton.”

“Was it in the papers?”

“Grapevine.” Embarrassed, she hurried on, “How about some breakfast?”

“Well, let me think now.” He dropped in a chair, rubbing his eyes. “I could use a hot bath. I’ve spent three days and nights in NATS planes.” His head down on a hand, he spoke in a remote exhausted tone. “The thing is, I’m wanted at Cincpac at two, and my plane takes off at five.”

“My Lord, they’re pushing you!”

“Where’s the baby?”

“Out there.” She pointed to french doors opening on a sunlit garden. “He’s no baby, though. He’s grown like King Kong.”

“Jan, suppose I see him, then clean up and rest a bit before I pack? If you’ll wake me and just give me some scrambled eggs about noon, we can talk and — what’s the matter?”

“Why, nothing. That’s just fine.”

“Got something else on?”

“No, no, that’s just what we’ll do.”

She picked up the telephone as he went out to the grassy yard. His grandson, in swimming trunks in the blazing sun, was making a coal-black Scottie jump for a red rubber ball. A young Hawaiian girl sat watching the tanned plump child.

“Hi, Vic. Remember me?”

The child turned his head to inspect him, said, “Yes, you’re Grandpa,” and threw the ball for the dog to chase. He had Warren’s eyes and jaw, but his cool response struck Pug as pure Byron.

“You know who has a dog like that, Vic? The President of the United States. What’s your doggie’s name?”

“Toto.”

The dog chased the ball under a clothesline, where Janice’s pink two-piece swimsuit dangled beside a man’s flower-print trunks. Janice came out in the sunshine, pushing up her thick blonde hair with both hands. “Well, what do you think of him?”

“Perfect physical specimen. Mental giant.”

“How unprejudiced. This is Lana.” The Hawaiian girl smiled and bobbed her head. “She follows him around, or tries to. Problem about lunch. You remember Lieutenant Commander Aster?”

“Sure.”

“We were going on a picnic today. I was making the sandwiches when you arrived. So —”

“Well, just go ahead with it, Jan.”

“No, no. I’ll call it off. The thing is, his room at the Royal Hawaiian doesn’t answer. He may get here while we’re eating. That won’t matter, will it?”

“Why scrub the picnic?”

“Oh, it couldn’t be more casual. We’re a five-minute walk from the hotel. You know, SubPac’s taken it over. Carter was teaching Vic to swim there yesterday, so sort of to thank him I suggested a picnic, but we can do that any time.”

“I see. Well,” Victor Henry said, “me for that hot bath.”

In the Tulagi hospital cot, and dozing in iron bucket seats on the planes, he had kept dreaming of the
Northampton.
His nap now was broken by such a nightmare. He and Chief Stark were aboard as the ship dizzily heeled up on its beam ends, and black warm water came rushing along the deck, engulfing them to their thighs. The feeling in his dream of being drenched was real and not unpleasant, like settling into a bath. The chief seized a sledgehammer and banged at the brackets that held a life raft, his eyes bulging with terror, and Pug Henry woke with a shudder. The hammering became a knocking at the door. Relieved to find himself dry and in bed, he could not at first recollect how he came to be in this yellow nursery room decorated with animal pictures.

“Dad? Dad? It’s a quarter past twelve.”

“Thanks, Jan.” Memory flooded in. “What about Aster?”

“Come and gone.”

He appeared in the yard in a white dress uniform. He was spruce and straight, and his color was better. The clothesline was empty. The Hawaiian girl sat by Vic on the grass as he fed himself yellow mush from a tray, smearing half the stuff on his nose and chin. “Got his appetite back, eh?”

“Oh, yes, long since. Do you mind eating in the kitchen?”

“I’d like it.”

They talked haltingly over eggs and sausages. There were so many sore topics — the unknown whereabouts of Natalie, the sinking of the
Northampton,
the uncertainty of Pug’s future, above all the death of Warren — that Janice had to force voluble chatter about her job. She was working for the Army. A colonel with the sonorous title of Director of Materials and Supplies Control had met her at a party and pirated her away from Cincpac. Martial law now ruled the territory, and under the jolly surface of Honolulu — the leis, the brass bands, the luaus, and the beautiful scenery — there was a cold tough dictatorship. Her colonel had the newspapers cowed. He and he alone decided how much paper to import, and who would get allotments, so the editors grovelled to him and to the Military Governor. There was no criticism in the editorials. Military tribunals, called “provost courts,” had superseded the law, handing out strange verdicts like sentencing offenders to buy war bonds or donate blood.

“It’s all more or less benign,” she said. “The Army does keep order, and takes good care of us. There’s nothing rationed but booze and gas. We eat
like lords, and most everybody’s happy as a clam, but it’s disturbing, when you see its inner workings as I do. It’s not America, you know? If we ever get a Stateside dictatorship, God forbid, it’ll start as a military emergency measure.”

“Mmph,” said her father-in-law. His end of this conversation was nothing but such grunts. Perhaps, she thought, he disliked criticism of the military. She was just trying to keep the talk going. The change in him hurt her to see. There was about the quiet man an air of loss, a smell of ash. His accustomed silence now seemed a threadbare cloak against misfortune. Despite his impeccable air and the dogged toughness in the worn face, she pitied him. Once Warren’s father had seemed so formidable — this brilliant senior naval officer, this intimate of President Roosevelt who had talked with Churchill, with Hitler, with Stalin… how he had dwindled! He looked all right. He was eating. His core of strong energy showed in this bounce back after a short nap. He was a hard nut to crack, but he was being squeezed hard. So his daughter-in-law thought, without knowing anything of the betrayal by his wife.

Over coffee, she showed him Rhoda’s latest letter, hoping the warm sprightly run of chitchat would cheer him up. Rhoda had taken to church work; details of this, and some Navy gossip, filled three sheets. A postscript mentioned that Madeline’s movie job had fizzled out, and that she had returned to New York to work for Hugh Cleveland.

Pug’s face darkened over the letter. “Damned idiot of a girl.”

“I thought you’d be pleased about Madeline. Hollywood’s such a sinkhole.”

He threw the letter on the table. “Incidentally, what’s that canal out in front of your house?”

“The Ala Wai Canal. It runs down to the yacht harbor.”

“Got trouble with mosquitoes?”

“You would think of that. I didn’t. Monsters, by the millions.”

“Rhoda and I have rented a lot of tropical houses. You learn.”

“Well, I got it for a steal. A fighter pilot from the
Yorktown
had it. His wife went home after —” Janice’s voice wavered. “Actually, Toto was their dog.”

“You don’t want to go home?”

“No, I feel I’m in the war here. When you and Byron come back, here I’ll be. You’ll both have a place near the beach. Vic will get to know you.”

“Well, that’ll be nice for Byron.” Pug cleared his throat. “About me, I dunno. I’d guess I’ve had my shot at the blue water.”

“But why? That’s not fair.”

Again the quick acid grin. “Why not? The parade moves fast in wartime. You lose step once, you drop to the sidelines. I can make myself useful in
BuOrd or BuShips.” He drank coffee, and spoke on thoughtfully. “My judgments under fire may be questioned at Cincpac today. I just don’t know. Our loss of life was small. Still, my portfolio contains fifty-eight letters I’ve written to next of kin. That’s how I passed the time, flying here. I regret every man we lost, but we took two torpedoes in a running gun battle, and that was it. I’ll be moseying along. Thanks for lunch.”

“Let me drive you to Cincpac.”

“I cadged a Navy car.” He went into the bedroom and brought out the footlocker and portfolio, carrying over his arm a heavy brass-buttoned blue coat that smelled of camphor. “You know, I started out for Moscow over a year ago in this coat, going the other way. It’s circling the world.” Halting before Warren’s picture, he briefly looked at it, then at her. “Say, tell me about Lieutenant Commander Aster.”

“Carter? Oh, he’s becoming one of the famous submarine skippers. The
Devilfish
sank twenty thousand tons under his command. Now he’s putting a new fleet sub in commission, the
Moray.
In fact, he’s gotten orders for Byron to the
Moray.
“

“Then what’s Aster doing here? New construction’s in the States.”

“There’s a flap with BuOrd about some radar he wants. He flew here to twist arms at SubPac. Carter doesn’t fool around.”

“What’s the fellow like? I’ve never quite figured him out.”

“Neither have I. But he’s nice to Vic and to me.”

“Do you like him? Not that it’s my business.”

“Yes, it is.” Her jaw was set, her eyes faraway and clouded. Pug Henry had seen this sort of look on her face often after Midway. “You’re asking me if it’s serious, aren’t you? No. I’m not interested in becoming widowed twice in one war.”

“He’ll be rotated to the beach after a year or so.”

“Oh, no!” She spoke with swift flat assurance. “ComSubPac sends the high-scoring skippers back out as often as they’ll go. I’m sort of sorry Byron’s been ordered to the
Moray.
No doubt he’ll love it, but Carter’s too adventurous for me. Vic and I swim with him, and every now and then he takes me dancing. I’m the widow lady, the backup date when there’s no hotter action.” Her crooked-tooth smile was wryly pretty. “Okay?”

“Okay. Does Aster have any word on when Byron’s due back?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, I’ll take my leave of the senior officer present.”

Vic slept on a spread-out blanket in the shade, still holding the red ball, with the dog curled at his feet. It was very hot. Lana drooped dozing over her magazine, and the child was perspiring. Victor Henry contemplated him for perhaps a minute. Glancing at Janice, he saw her eyes glittering with unshed tears. A look like a long conversation passed between them.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, walking out with him to a gray Navy sedan. “Give my love to my folks. Tell them that I’m all right, will you?”

“I’ll do that.” He got in and closed the car door, whereupon she tapped on the glass. He rolled down the window. “Yes?”

“And if you see Byron, tell him to write. I treasure his letters.”

“I will.”

He drove off, never having mentioned Warren. It didn’t surprise her. Since the Battle of Midway, the name of his dead son had not once, in her presence, passed his lips.

Pug had no notion of what to expect at Cincpac. At three that morning, in mid-flight, the co-pilot had brought him a scrawled dispatch:
PASSENGER VICTOR (NONE) HENRY CAPTAIN USN REPORT CINCPAC DUTY OFFICER
14OO. In the red beam of the flashlight the words had looked ominous. A favorite saw of Pug’s had once been, “I’ve had a lot of troubles in my life, and most of them never happened,” but this incantation had lately lost its force.