The Lonely War (10 page)

Mitchell noted the concern etched on Andrew’s face.

“I’ll be happy to cook more next time.”

More strained silence as Mitchell’s anger drained away. “Waters, from now on you will ensure there is plenty to go around or I’ll haul your butt before the captain. Is that clear, sailor?” He barked the question but at the same time he winked one eye.

“Aye, sir. Understood loud and clear.”

Mitchell had his back to all the men in the room except Cocoa and Waters, so Cocoa was the only other person who saw the nonverbal exchange.

Thirty minutes later Mitchell stood on the bridge describing the incident to the captain.

Bitton frowned.

“They’ve accepted him,” Mitchell said. “Once things settle down, they’ll be happy as clams eating his cooking. It’s exactly what we wanted.”

Bitton shook his head. “The officers are his first priority, Nathan. I don’t want the quality of our meals dropping because he spends time cooking for a hundred men.”

Mitchell grinned. “I’ll see to it, sir.”

“This is no laughing matter, Nathan. We’ve struck gold here, and I don’t want it tarnishing.” Bitton scowled as he pulled his pipe and tobacco pouch from his hip pocket and filled his bowl. “Damn that Waters,” he said. The ends of his lips lifted into a smirk as he brought the pipe stem to his mouth and struck a match over the bowl. He exhaled a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke and said, “Damn that Waters,” again for good measure.

F
OR
the next two days the crew drilled from breakfast until dinner—general quarters, weapons firing, collision, fire, abandon ship, even surprise drills in the middle of the night. The crew’s performance improved until each action was accomplished with smartness and speed. Captain Bitton timed each drill as he chewed on the stem of his pipe, which seemed to sputter as many sparks from the bowl as it did tendrils of gray smoke.  By the third day, even he allowed himself a slight nod after each performance.

Mitchell often dropped by the galley between drills, saying, “As you were. Just need a drink.” His visits became so frequent that Cocoa and Grady stopped gaping at each other with raised eyebrows.

Andrew came to expect Mitchell during the lulls and always had cold lemonade, iced tea, or a special snack waiting. Mitchell chatted easily with Andrew, his body relaxed and his smile genuine. They talked about the dinner menu, progress of the drills, or supplies needed at the next port.

On the midnight-to-four watch, there was no longer any pretense of protocol. They debated politics, philosophy, and literature. They discussed topics as equals and as friends. Ogden and Stokes simply manned their posts and listened while the two friends exchanged viewpoints.

What Ogden and Stokes gleaned from the conversations always made interesting scuttlebutt for the rest of the crew. The men regarded Mitchell as an intellectual, and now they judged Andrew to be that same rare breed of animal. They were proud that one of their own could go toe-to-toe with the brains running the ship, but at the same time there was an uneasiness about the personal relationship developing between officer and enlisted. It was a serious breach of the naval code, and that meant trouble was brewing.

An hour before dawn on their fourth night at sea, the
Pilgrim
steamed through the Sea of the Moon off Tahiti’s western coast and plowed into Papeete Bay at seventeen knots. On that windless morning, the
Pilgrim
crossed the bay, came about, and tied up to the fueling dock north of town. The engines shut down and a hush fell over the ship even before the deck crew could secure all lines.

The sun peeked over the horizon. Effulgent light bathed Papeete’s bustling marketplace and lively wharf area as the town came to life. Mitchell stood beside Andrew at the quarterdeck railing, absorbed in the spectacle of the world changing colors before their eyes.

Andrew finally said, “I better get it in gear if you want your breakfast.” He brushed past the officer and disappeared through the open hatch.

Watching him go, Mitchell noted the way the sunlight tumbled off his lean body and, suddenly feeling hungry, he checked his watch to see how long he had to wait for his breakfast. He strolled to the wardroom and joined the other officers gathered around the dining table. To his surprise, Bitton handed him a tumbler of neat whiskey.

Bitton earned a sharp glance from Mitchell, which he ignored, while lifting his glass high. “We live in a time of absolutes, gentlemen. At the end of the day, it’s all about whether our ship, our crew, and we are still alive to tell about it.”

Mitchell noted, from the level of liquid in the bottle and the boozy smile on Tedder’s face, that this was not their first round of drinks that morning. All five officers hoisted their tumblers and everyone but Mitchell swallowed their whiskey. Mitchell only brought his glass to his mouth and wet his lips, in order to not to offend the captain. He placed his glass on the table.

Bitton held out the bottle. “One more? Should make breakfast that much sweeter.”

Everyone but Moyer and Mitchell held out an empty glass. Moyer flashed a sheepish grin, “Not for me. I’ve got services this morning.”

On Sunday mornings the crew split into shifts for breakfast and church services. First the Protestants enjoyed an early breakfast while the Catholics attended Mass on the fantail. Even though Moyer was Episcopalian, he chanted in Latin, gave the sacraments, and even heard confessions after Mass from anyone who needed to get something off his chest. Because he was not Roman Catholic, he had no official authority from the Church in Rome to perform these services, but in wartime one had to make do, and giving the boys a semblance of Mass was better than nothing.  After Mass, the Catholics piled into the mess hall and the Protestants assembled on the fantail for a sermon on how a virtuous sailor should apply himself during shore leave. They finished by bowing their heads in prayer and singing a few well-known hymns: “The Old Rugged Cross” and “Onward Christian Soldier.”

Bitton attended the Protestant service, but the other officers never attended either. Mitchell stood the morning OOD watch, and Fisher and Tedder had no religious interests.

Bitton joined Mitchell on the bridge before the second service. They peered thirty feet below at the forecastle deck as Andrew strolled to a clearing forward of the gun turrets and behind the anchor chains.

Andrew wore orange saffron robes covering yellow silk undergarments. The inner robe was secured around his waist like a sarong to cover his lower body. The upper robe hung on his left shoulder, looped around his back under his right armpit, and swept across his chest and over his left shoulder. It hid most of his upper body but left his slender neck and right shoulder bare. Prayer beads hung from his left hand and his feet were clad in leather sandals.

Andrew faced the sun and struck a pose with his feet eighteen inches apart and arms held chest high. As oblique sunrays spread an ethereal glow around him, he began to move.

Bitton’s face flushed. “What in holy hell is going on?”

“He calls it tai chi,” Mitchell said. “I gave him permission. He told me that, and I quote: ‘the unstained purity of the eternal present is maintained consciously by moving from one pose to another with all one’s concentration.’”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Mitchell chuckled. “I think he’s trying to attain a state of detachment through motion. That’s why all his movements are so precise and simple—no gesture is hurried.”

Andrew glided without the slightest expression on his face. He spun, bent, and dipped this way and that as if in a trance. All the while his hands gracefully traced patterns on a canvas of air.

It must take incredible strength to perform those moves so slowly
, Mitchell thought.
He makes it look effortless, like a silk scarf floating on the wind.

“Never thought I’d see such a thing on a warship,” Bitton muttered.

“Neither did I,” Mitchell replied, entranced by the beauty of the shifting cloth.

Bitton shook his head. “Have the padre pound some sense into him.”

“Ben, there’s nothing wrong with him practicing his religion.”

“You’re forgetting your duty,” the captain barked. “This crew needs to integrate into one team, and that means one point of view. This boy is way off base with this religious ballet stuff. I want him schooled in the ways of the Lord, the true Lord.”

Mitchell’s mind swirled with one argument after another that he thought might sway the captain, but he knew that Bitton’s mind was snapped shut, like a bear trap, as long as he watched Andrew perform.

Andrew eventually became a statue, balanced in every respect and quiescent as stone. He held that pose for five minutes before sinking to the deck. He folded his legs into a lotus position, lifted Jah-Jai from beneath his robes, brought the flute to his lips, and played a concerto in a minor key.

Mitchell was hunched over the chart table when he heard a sudden burst of Mozart. The sound drew him to the windows that overlooked the bow, and onto the port bridge wing to hear better. He felt the melody vibrating from his head to the base of his spine as he stood gazing down on Andrew, lost in the sonority of that beautiful morning. The music seemed to ripple through Mitchell’s body in airy gushes. His pulse raced and beads of sweat coated his upper lip. It was the sexiest thing he had ever witnessed.

Mitchell watched Andrew until the sailor rose and glided down the forecastle. After Andrew slipped out of sight, the officer surprised himself by joining the remainder of the services on the fantail. He stood behind the last row, on the fringe of the believers.

Moyer read from the book of Luke, gripping his Bible and speaking with a trembling voice as he told of the love between Jesus and his disciple, John. How, at the Last Supper, John laid his head on Jesus’s breast.

Mitchell listened to the intimate tones of Moyer’s voice while trying to picture the loving scene. He imagined the Savior’s hand holding out the bread that represents his body, and he focused on the smooth skin spread over delicately formed bones. Moyer mentioned Calvary, and Mitchell’s vision shifted to the Savior’s nakedness lay against the rough wood, awaiting the press of the nails.

A sheen of sweat spread over Mitchell’s forehead. His midsection tightened as the vision expanded and he imagined his own cheek pressed against the taut skin of the Savior’s breast. He stared up into the Savior’s eyes and was jolted back to reality as he realized that his vision had Andrew’s almond-shaped eyes and amber-colored skin.

“Let us pray,” Moyer said.

Mitchell did not bow his head with the others. He was afraid to close his eyes, afraid that the vision would return. He gazed at the sky over Moyer’s head as if he were looking for a sign from the Holy Spirit.

Moyer’s voice swelled as he recited the closing prayer. The expression on his face looked as if a vision of heaven had penetrated his eyes.

Mitchell left the service in a daze. He stumbled down the steel deck on his way to the wardroom to retrieve his glass of neat whiskey.

Chapter Ten

April 23, 1942—1000 hours

A
JEEP
from naval headquarters drove onto the dock and parked alongside the quarterdeck. The driver pulled two weather-stained mail sacks from the jeep and hoisted them aboard. Seaman Cord cried, “Mail Ho!” His call echoed along the deck and was repeated by other voices throughout the ship.

Cord heaved the sacks to the port side of the quarterdeck, opened one, and grabbed a fist-full of moldy letters. He stood on a torpedo launcher to elevate himself above the sailors gathering around, yelling the name on a letter. When the owner shouted a quick “Here,” Cord tossed the envelope in the direction of the voice while reading the name on the next letter. 

Hudson sauntered to the crew’s quarters. He switched off the overhead lamps and sluggishly climbed into his bunk like a weasel crawling into its hole. He laid his head on his sweat-stained pillow, dragging his right arm over his face to cover his eyes with the inside of his elbow. He lay stock-still, as if trying to ignore Cord’s voice calling out names.

Andrew breezed into the forecastle still wearing his orange robes and a dreamy smile. He flipped on the overhead lamps on his way to his locker and peeled off his upper robe.

“Turn the lamp off when you leave,” Hudson said with a throaty snarl.

Andrew whirled around, somewhat surprised. “Sorry, didn’t know anybody was in here. Guess we haven’t been aboard long enough to have mail routed to us. Maybe by the next delivery.”

“I never get mail,” Hudson snapped. “No family, no sweetheart, no one to write to, and no one to get a letter from. All my family is here on this ship. It’s all I got.”

Andrew felt overwhelmed that Hudson of all people would make such a personal confession to him. He faced his locker and stripped out of his inner robe and yellow undergarments, carefully folding and storing the fine material. He climbed into his work dungarees and switched off the lamps. As he stepped through the hatch, he leaned his head back inside the compartment.

“I never get mail either. I have family, my father, but he got used to ignoring me when he traveled on business. Guess it’s a hard habit to break.” Andrew paused, groping for something to add, but he came up empty. He closed the hatch, leaving Hudson alone in the dark.

G
RADY
strolled into the wardroom carrying a handful of letters and a package.

“Mister Mitchell, Suh, you gots a letter and a box.”

“Anything for me?” Ensign Fisher asked.

“Yes, Suh. Five letters, and one don’t have no stamp.”

Fisher smiled as he took his letters. The one on top had only his name written on the envelope. He held the envelope under his nose.

“Yes, Suh. It smells real pretty. Like this girl I know’d back home.”

“Perhaps you’d like to read it to me as well,” Fisher said.

Grady flashed his white teeth. “If that’s what you want, Suh. I can read. I been educated.”