Winter in June (9 page)

As one course made way for another, they debated the ongoing problems with submarine torpedoes and what it would take to improve the Mark 14. The first problem was its magnetic exploder, an issue I couldn't exactly follow, but merited spirited yapping. The second issue was that the device involved some sort of drinkable alcohol to power it. The men onboard the submarines had fallen into the nasty habit of drinking the stuff, leaving the torpedoes with so little fuel that they fizzled and died upon ignition.

“Wait a second,” I said. “They're drinking their weapons?”

“They call it torpedo juice,” said one of the naval officers. He was from Chicago, which morphed his
th
's into
d
's and did a number on most of his vowel sounds. “You mix it with a little grapefruit juice to make a cocktail they call a pink lady.”

“But why would they do that?” asked Kay.

“They're stuck on a submarine in the middle of a war,” said Violet. “Why wouldn't they?”

The conclusion drawn by the men assembled was that they would have to replace the drinkable alcohol with something toxic to discourage pilfering. Personally, I thought a better tactic might be to end the days of the navy being dry. At least, that way, nobody ran the risk of dying for a drink.

The atmosphere in this officer mess was drastically different from what we'd faced on the boat. There I'd felt a camaraderie with the men, but here there seemed to be a constant, quiet reminder that they were the ones in charge and we were there only at their pleasure. In fact despite the coy looks and careful use of manners, I had a strong impression that they would rather we weren't there at all.

There was something else though. After being in New York during two years of war, I had grown used to being part of a world where being a broad meant something very different than it had for my mother and grandmother. The war had brought a change to the States. Women were finding themselves in more and more important roles that had previously been open only to men. We were traveling the streets alone, working in munitions factories, running corporations, and taking jobs, even when there were children at home that we also needed to tend to. Being among the military made it clear that what we had experienced was a civilian phenomenon only. In the world of the armed forces, women were still second-class citizens.

Gilda sat on the other side of the American I was seated next to. She feigned polite interest as he changed the subject from torpedoes to tales of naval espionage. There was something about him that I didn't like, aside from his mature Aryan good looks, and I spent much of the meal eavesdropping on him, trying to figure out what it was that was bothering me. He was arrogant, that was flat, but then you could say the same about half the actors I knew.

I caught the Brit's eye and gestured him over to me. “Who is he?” I asked.

He leaned in close enough that his voice tickled my ear. “Rear Admiral Nathanial Blake. The men call him Late Nate. As the senior-most American officer, he's the king of Tulagi.”

I tried to make sense of the fruit salad on Blake's shoulder, but it was just a bunch of pretty ribbons to my eyes. He launched into a tale about an enemy capture that occurred days before our arrival. They had ambushed three Japanese on foot near the Quonset huts where the supplies were kept.

The other women were hanging on his every word.

“What do you do with them after you capture them?” asked Jayne. “Do you torture them to get their secrets?”

Blake turned toward her and smiled a warm, reassuring grin that I wouldn't have believed if it had been on my own face. “After they are captured, they are interrogated, and then as prisoners of war they're detained at a facility at the other end of the island. We certainly don't torture anyone, and it's not necessary. Trust me: to them a warm bed and a nice meal is worse than any torture.”

That caught my attention. “How so?”

His lips were freakishly thin. In fact, it almost looked like he didn't have any at all. “The Japs believe that being captured is the greatest dishonor they can suffer. They would much rather be killed in the line of battle and suffer a heroic death. Their people won't exactly hail their homecoming when they learn they were held by us, and they certainly won't be impressed when they hear how well we treated them.”

“So you're being nice to them to get them in worse trouble later on,” I said.

He turned his attention to me, his eyes never blinking. “The Japs are savages, plain and simple. They're raised that way. They have no regard for human life. If they wish to punish their own, I say let them.”

The American papers were lousy with stories about the savagery of the Japanese. We were told tales of how they would eat any Allied airman who landed on Japanese soil, and there were whispers of the terrible atrocities they'd done to the Chinese prior to the outbreak
of the war. Just a few weeks before, the
Times
had run a piece trying to dissect just how hard the Japanese were compared to soldiers from other nations. While they dismissed the theory that the Japanese were less afraid of death than other cultures, they described the Japanese as being well trained, uniquely suited to the South Pacific terrain, and free of cowardice. Lest it seem that the writer felt impartial to this one particular Axis nation, in the end he concluded that the Japanese weren't any tougher than other soldiers but that they were less intelligent, which made them much more susceptible to their training, and possessed an egotism, rudeness, and brutality that was unique to their culture.

The piece had been illustrated by a cartoon depicting a Japanese soldier as King Kong. I wanted to believe it was propaganda on our part, trying to indict the enemy by showing how they weren't even capable of playing fair. And perhaps some of it was. But when you read about the things they did, it was hard to dismiss claims that this particular enemy was worse than most.

Still, despite my own moments of war-induced racism, and I'd had plenty of them, I didn't like the way Late Nate—and the press—painted all the Japanese with the same brush. If I knew there were Americans who were capable of evil—and I'd certainly learned that there were—didn't it follow that there were good Germans and good Japanese? Besides, we were hearing just as many awful things about the Russians, who'd also held out on agreeing to the terms decided at the Geneva Convention. And we considered the Ruskies our
friends
.

I wanted to express my confusion to him, but before I could, he relaxed his smile. His eyes seemed to change color as his expression altered. No longer were they blue; they were as gray as the sky right before a heavy rain. “Don't tell me you're a Jap lover.” It wasn't a joke. He really wanted to diagnose what ailed me, and I was certain that if I so much as hinted at empathizing with the Japanese, something very bad would happen.

“I'm not anything,” I said.

He folded his hands and placed them on the table before him. “Have you ever heard of the Rape of Nanking?”

“No. Who was she?”

“She wasn't a who, she was a they. The Japanese slaughtered hundreds of thousands of Chinese in the city of Nanking. They raped women no matter what their age and littered the city with grotesque souvenirs of their crimes.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because they could. And what about the Bataan Death March? Have you heard of that?”

“Yes.” I felt incredibly small. I longed to climb under the table and remain there until the end of the meal.

“That time it was our men they killed, forcing many of them to walk until they died of hunger and exhaustion. They were the lucky ones.” He smiled, keeping his voice at such an even keel that I had to wonder if I wasn't imagining his menace. “And yet you still wonder if it's all right if we let the Japanese suffer at their own hands?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Have you captured a lot of them?” asked Jayne. I looked her way, but she was careful to keep her eyes on the rear admiral.

“Not on Tulagi. Ever since we took the island, I don't think there's been more than a handful found here.”

“Why do you think the ones you captured were here?” asked Gilda.

“They claimed they were deserters. They had satchels with them, though, so I'm pretty certain they were doing supply recon.”

“What's the matter? Did they run out of toilet paper?” asked Violet.

“Actually, that's not too far off,” said another man. This one had a pencil-thin reddish mustache that made him look like a nineteenth-century rake. “There's an embargo on Japanese cargo ships. Their ships can't get here, so they can't get what they need. We think they're sneaking onto the island and taking it.”

“Think?” asked Kay.

“Well, there's no proof, other than the missing supplies. And the quantity has sharply decreased in recent months, which you wouldn't think would be the case if the enemy was plundering. The
only other explanation is that someone internally is taking them. In fact, the Wac CO thought—”

“I certainly hope you're not suggesting that woman's theory was accurate,” said Blake. “There was no evidence that our men had anything to do with the missing supplies. And, frankly, given that she chose to leave here, it's clear even she realized her opinion didn't have merit.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Red Mustache swallowed hard and then took a long drink of colored water. Across the table, Kay stiffened. Did she know the Wac they were talking about?

“What sort of stuff is missing?” asked Jayne.

Red Mustache looked at Blake for permission to answer the question. Blake gave him a subtle nod. “Some food, but most of it is medical supplies. Morphine. Bandages. Antibiotics.”

“And that,” said Blake, “is exactly the sort of stuff that would be of most value to the Japanese.”

Yeah, I thought. Or a dope addict.

“What was that all about?” asked Jayne. We opted to ankle back to camp from the high commissioner's house, whereas the others waited for the Jeep to return.

“I don't know. Rear Admiral Fancypants has it in for me, that's for sure.”

“He's dangerous, Rosie. You don't need to be making enemies.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. I'm keeping my trap shut from here on out.” We hooked arms and took the road toward camp. We passed groves of cacao plants that were dotted with the brightly colored pods that would eventually be harvested. All around us the skinny trunks of palm trees jutted out of the soil at odd angles, forming triangles with the ground. It seemed so strange to see the botanical symbol for Hollywood here in its natural habitat. Shouldn't there be a movie premiere happening around here somewhere? “Pipe this,” I said. “What if the Wac he was talking about was Irene Zinn?”

“The dead girl?”

The sun was setting, turning the sky a brilliant medley of orange, pink, and red, the colors blending as gently as the brushstrokes on a watercolor. “According to the
Queen of the Ocean
's newsletter, she was a captain stationed in the Solomon Islands.”

“But surely there are other Wacs who were stationed here who resigned?”

“Probably, but I just can't get her out of my head. It can't be a coincidence that she's dead and we're here, right? I feel like I'm supposed to find out what happened to her.”

We made it off the hill and onto the main road. Even from a distance away, we could hear the activity taking place at camp: men laughing, music playing, Jeep engines purring as they drove over uneven surfaces.

“What about Kay?” asked Jayne. “If she knows the Wacs who are stationed here, she was probably stationed here too.”

“Blake doesn't strike me as a subtle guy. If Kay was the squeaky wheel, he would've pointed his finger at her and said so.”

Jayne struggled to keep pace with me. I sometimes forgot that her gams were only two-thirds the length of my own. “She could've known Irene.”

“Maybe.” That would certainly explain her behavior when she found out Irene was dead.

“It's strange she didn't say anything before now,” said Jayne.

“About being a Wac? She's pretty shy,” I said. “We're lucky she's started making eye contact.”

Jayne hummed a response that I couldn't quite read.

“What's got your goat?” I asked.

She took a deep breath and set her shoulders back. “I heard something. Back on the boat.” I raised an eyebrow, urging her to go on. “Kay had her physical before me, and they left the door open. I didn't mean to eavesdrop.”

“Stop with the justification and give me the dirt.”

Jayne stopped walking. “When the doctor asked her if she'd ever been pregnant, she said yes. Five months ago.”

“Did she say if she had the baby?”

“No, but her tone pretty much implied she hadn't.”

“Wow. So I guess we know why she isn't a Wac anymore.”

We arrived at camp. As we headed homeward, we peeked inside each tent we passed. It was amazing the ways the men occupied themselves. Some played poker. Some napped. Some listened to baseball games being broadcast all the way from the States. Some made primitive furniture from scrap wood, working the piece as if it was an antique constructed of the finest mahogany. Many of them wrote letters that never really told what was going on, since they knew the censor would delete it anyway.

All of them left their tents open, encouraging one another to drop by to kill time. Inside were chess sets awaiting a new game, posters of Hollywood stunners like Gilda, and photos of wives and children propped up in frames that had long before had the glass broken out of them.

Had one of these tents been Jack's? Probably, though I imagine he spent most of his time at sea.

Jayne squeezed my arm. “Have you thought about how you want to start looking for him?”

“Jack? I suppose I should just start asking people.” Somewhere a tinny radio broadcast a woman speaking English tinged with a strong Asian accent. “I have a feeling he was here.”

“On Tulagi?”

“Yeah. I don't know why, but the moment I stepped off the boat I just got the sense that we were in the right place.”

Jayne swatted a fly away from her face. “What's with you and the feelings? First Irene, now Jack?”

“I don't know. Maybe it's this place. It's like I'm finally in touch with my instincts here. At home everything was static, but here I can finally hear the radio.” A wolflike dog trotted past us, his fur caked with mud. He gave us the once-over and, deciding we were friends not foes, continued on his way. A whistle rang out and he stopped in his tracks. With a look that I assumed was canine reluctance, he turned around and headed back the way he came.

“Where are you ladies headed?” A voice stopped us in our path,
and I immediately feared we'd broken a rule nobody had bothered to share with us yet.

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “We're just walking.” I couldn't quite make out our companion in the setting sun, though our four-legged usurper had joined him.

“It's me. Spanky,” he said. Our tour guide from that afternoon stepped out of the shadows. His bald head reflected the setting sun the way a crystal ball reflected the future.

“Hiya,” I said. “Who's your friend?”

“This here is Mac.” He winked at us. “Short for Macarthur.” I had a feeling the general wouldn't be flattered to find that this scrawny little beast had been named in his honor. At the sound of his name, Mac wagged his pitiful excuse for a tail, a set of military dog tags tinkling around his neck. He was a mishmash of German shepherd and a dozen other breeds that all added up to generic dog. His tongue was too long for his mouth, and the scruff around his snoot was in desperate need of a trim. He smelled like the grave, but there was something about him that said he was a good egg.

“We have a cat named Churchill,” said Jayne.

“Had,” I corrected her. “He's Ruby's problem now.”

“No sir,” said Spanky. “Macarthur and Churchill? I'd love to see what would happen if we got the two of them together.”

I hated to tell him that Mac wouldn't stand a chance. Our Churchill had the fire but lacked the diplomacy of his namesake.

“Rumor has it you girls are looking for a cocktail and some conversation.”

Jayne and I looked at each other. “Twist our arms,” she said.

Spanky offered us his wings, and we each took one. He led us down a winding path that grew closer and closer to the ocean, as Mac followed on our heels. At the end of it, practically teetering off the edge of a cliff, was a wooden deck shaded by a roof made of palm fronds. Torches mounted on poles framed the space and illuminated the edges with flickering flames. At one end was a stage outfitted, remarkably, with a piano. At the other were mismatched tables and chairs, where enlisted men were already gathered, saluting one an
other with beer bottles in their hands. A phonograph played a tune whose volume varied depending on which way the wind blew. It took a couple of sea changes before I figured out that we were listening to Kate Smith singing “I Blew a Kiss in the Ocean.”

“Wow,” said Jayne. “How the heck did all of this get here?”

“Navy ingenuity,” said Spanky. “If it needs to be done, we find a way to do it.”

Strangely, more than anything else, the makeshift dance hall made it clear how complex the logistics of war really were. It was a matter not only of moving men to a remote island nation but also all the things those bodies needed to survive. For some reason, even after seeing all the activity at the port of San Francisco, I hadn't pictured the enormity of it all. In my mind, a ship arrived, boys with guns hopped off, did what they needed to do, and sailed away. There was none of this need for toilets, mess halls, cantinas, and pianos.

Of course I knew otherwise. The newspapers were terribly fond of reporting statistics of how much stuff it took to supply the troops. Because of the news articles we knew it took seven hundred thousand different items to outfit the forces, from darning needles to tanks. A single soldier needed a ton of supplies a month to adequately do his job. No wonder the Japanese were sneaking on the island and taking our stuff. We were better supplied than the local A & P.

There was something terribly sad about seeing this little bit of America plopped down in the middle of the jungle. These men had to eke out their own little world, and rather than adapting to the environment and customs of wherever they landed, they tried to make the place they were trapped in like the home they were missing. Even I could tell what a poor substitute it was.

Spanky released us from his grip and pointed out a table that was currently unoccupied. As we made our way toward it, the other men hollered out greetings, hailing Spanky as a savior for showing up with two dames in tow.

“How did Spanky lure you here?” one of them asked.

“Spanky had nothing to do with it,” I said. “I only agreed to come at Mac's urging.” We told the other men where three more women could be found, and a group of them took off to try to fetch them. We were offered a variety of libations: from plain Coca-Colas in bottles to beer donated by other branches of the armed forces, including those from other countries, and Japanese lagers and sake that were considered spoils of war. As we mulled over our choices, Spanky took me by the elbow and brought me to the cardboard box he'd retrieved in the mess tent. He lifted the lid just enough to show me jars full of clear liquid.

“If none of that's to your liking, we've also got jungle juice, kava, night fighter, and plonk.” Given what we'd heard about the navy's tendency to drink liquids intended as fuel, we opted for something delivered in a sealed and labeled bottle. In a matter of moments Jayne and I each had a lukewarm bottle of beer in our hands and a cluster of men at our side.

I tossed back the first beer and eagerly liberated a second. For one dizzying moment I kept up five conversations at once, but the complexities of figuring out which person had asked which question was making my head spin.

Word of our arrival spread fast, and soon a wolf line formed of men clamoring to jaw, dance, or just exist with us. Violet, Kay, and Gilda arrived, and the attention momentarily shifted to the fresh meat.

I wasn't a beer drinker—I limited my booze to the truly potent kind—but the combination of heat, exhaustion, and a long week of teetotaling was giving that libation a curious power over me. I soon found myself dancing cheek to cheek with one sailor after another, so lightheaded and relaxed that I didn't even patrol their hands as we moved across the floor. Eventually I begged for a breather and gratefully slumped into a chair. Before I'd been there ten seconds, Violet joined me.

“Hiya,” I said. “Having fun?”

“How couldn't I?” She bit her lip and her wide grin disintegrated. “That was some scene at dinner.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I promised Jayne I'd close my head from now on.” I mimed locking my mouth and throwing away the key.

“Now don't go overreacting. It was kind of nice to have someone else be the center of attention for once.”

The beer was begging me to talk, even though I knew it would be better not to. “Do you still have a bee in your bonnet about her? I thought you'd made your peace.”

“I tried. Believe me, I tried.” She took a drink from her flask and chased it with a gulp of Coca-Cola. What would she do when she ran out of booze? Start drinking people's blood? “But then she makes little remarks like how you and Kay faked being sick to get out of rehearsal and I can't help but get my dander up.”

“She didn't say that.”

She fished a gasper out of her cigarette case. “Right, and she didn't say that she's known dogs who were smarter than Jayne either.”

My hands involuntary contracted into fists. “Watch yourself, Violet. I'm three sheets to the wind.”

She raised her hands. “Don't shoot the messenger. I just want you to know what's going on when you're not in the room. That's all. Like it or not, she's not all sweetness and sunshine.”

“Thanks for the tip.” I left her alone and headed for the dance floor. Spanky had just left Jayne. Before he could exchange my pal for a beer, I grabbed his hand and pulled him back onto the floor.

“Dance with me, Spanky.”

He sighed dramatically and tipped his head back. “I love a woman who takes control.”

“Easy, sport, I'm just using you to get out of an awkward conversation.”

He spun me to the left before rolling me back toward him. As the room passed in a blur I could see Mac sitting on the edge of the dance floor, wagging his tail to the rhythm of the music.

“So how'd you meet Mac?'

“Found him on the beach in Guadalcanal. He was a scrawny little guy, destined to become a meal if someone didn't take charge. We
made him
The McCawley
's mascot and we've been inseparable ever since.”

“Then how come he didn't join us on our tour today?”

He leaned into me. His breath had a sharp antiseptic smell that I suspected came from drinking ample amounts of plonk. “He was in training.”

“Let me guess: he's a code breaker.”

“Close: we're training him to be a Wag. You know, sniff out bombs and booby traps and the like. If he's going to bunk with us, he's got to earn his keep like everyone else. I won't tolerate feather merchants in my crew.” The music picked up and he swung me around with much more grace than I would've thought possible. “So what's Uncle Sugar like these days?”

“The same I suppose, but with less stuff. The things you want they don't make anymore, and the stuff they have they expect everyone to ration.”

“What don't we have anymore?”