by Herman Wouk
“Something like my last glimpse of Singapore.”
“I heard you broadcast from there. About the Mills bomb.”
“Oh, did you?” Another awkward pause. Arms folded, she was staring out to sea.
“Last time we stood on a balcony like this the view was different,” he ventured.
“I should say. The Thames docks on fire, searchlights on a black sky, sirens, AA popping, German planes falling —” She turned her face to him. “And then you went off to ride a bomber over Berlin.”
“And that made you furious.”
“Indeed it did. Look, I’ve lost my taste for tropic nights. The Southern Cross now signifies for me — and probably always will — nothing but god awful sickness and fear. Let’s go in.” She led him through the french window and rustling blackout curtains. A streak of yellow light shone under the bedroom door.
A muffled call: “I say, Pam, is that you?”
“Yes, Talky. Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Going over my notes. Where’s Victor?”
“He’s just leaving now.”
“Oh, is he? Well, good-night there, Victor.”
“Night, Talky, “ Pug called.
“Pamela, will you bring your pad and take just a little dictation?”
“No, I won’t. Turn out the light. You’re exhausted.”
“Well, since you’re so eager to go to bed, all right.” The streak of yellow disappeared. “Pleasant dreams, Pam,” Tudsbury called in a teasing tone.
“He’s a small boy,” Pamela muttered. “We’ll go to my room.”
The corridor smelled very hotel-like. The lights glared. As she took a key from a little gray purse, the elevator door slid open, and with a heart-thump Henry saw his son Warren step out. The discomfort lasted only a second or two. It wasn’t Warren, but a tall young man in a white uniform with gold wings, who gave Pamela an admiring glance as he passed.
She unlocked her door and in they went. The room was small and dingy, as Pug expected it to be on the hotel’s landward side: the gray paint faded and peeling, the red curtains in need of a dusting, the double brass bed hiding a threadbare carpet.
“I suspect it’s a chambermaid’s quarters,” Pamela said. “I couldn’t argue. The hotel was jammed and they did give him the royal suite. I wasn’t expecting to entertain, anyway.” She tossed aside key and purse, and held out her arms. “But I guess I am, at that.”
Pug seized her.
“Oh, God Almighty, high time,” Pamela gasped. She kissed him hard, sending sweet fire shooting all through him. Pug’s awareness of other things — battle conference, oncoming enemy, sons, wife — was blotted out by a sensation forgotten since his honeymoon: the unique and fiercely exalting thrill of a woman in his arms signalling with mouth and body her love and her first surrender.
The worn lonely wounded man returned her kisses, crushing her close. Their rush of endearment, an incoherent blaze of kisses and broken words, at last slowed. They caught their breaths. There was the squalid little room again, and the big bed.
“This is one hell of a surprise,” he muttered against her questing mouth.
“Surprise?” She leaned back in his arms, her eyes dancing with a joyous light. “How? Why? Didn’t I declare myself very crudely in Moscow?”
“I thought tonight it was all off, from your manner.”
“Dearest, your sons were right there.“
“I thought you liked young Aster.”
“Oh? He was handy.” She put caressing fingers to his face. “My problem was to keep my eyes off you. Now then. What’s all this about a conference tonight?”
“I have to leave in half an hour.”
“Half an hour! My God! Can we spend all day tomorrow together?”
“Pam, the fleet sails in the morning.”
“NO! Damn! Oh, damn, damn!” She pulled free, and made an agitated gesture at a small seedy armchair. “What a disaster! Sit down. Damn! In the morning! There’s never time, is there? Never! I should have hunted you up directly we got here.” She sat on the bed, and struck the brass frame with a clenched white fist. “I thought of it, but I wasn’t sure how you felt. It’s been half a year, you know, and I’d never heard from you. What was in the letter you sent me?”
Pug said miserably, “I was giving you up.”
“Had you heard from your wife when you wrote it?”
“No.”
“She’s reprieved me. Oh, how could the misguided woman do it? Do you know who the man is?”
“You met him at our house. That tall engineer, Fred Kirby. He’s not a bad fellow.”
“He made no impression on me. Half an hour! Oh, blast! Oh, hell!”
She swung up her legs and hugged them, leaning her back against the frame. The girlish pose troubled Pug. Madeline sat so, sometimes. Pam looked piercingly sweet and desirable, but young, young, hunched there with white slender arms clutching her folded legs and thighs outlined in gray silk.
“Now listen, darling,” she said, talking fast. “Before I left London, I checked on ways and means of staying on in Honolulu. The chief of our military liaison here, a Commodore Alexander Pike, rather likes me. Also I’ve brought a high-powered letter from Lord Burne-Wilke. Milord’s a dear boring man who’ll do anything for me. In short, my love, I’ve got an offer of a job here. Just today I put down a month’s rent to hold a sublease on a small flat. You see —” She was ticking off all this like an executive secretary, but at his headshake she stopped and grinned. “Have I been a trifle forward, mon vieux? My plan was to offer myself to you on a silver platter, all set, no problem. I couldn’t foresee that we’d have so little time tonight. Or that your wife would go dotty on you. Exactly how does that stand, Pug?”
He repeated passages from Rhoda’s divorce letter that were branded into his brain; and he spoke of the breezy tone of her writing since then, and of the anonymous notes.
“Oh, ignore that filth!” A disgusted headshake. “It’s only what Rhoda writes that counts.”
“She’s stringing me along, Pain. That’s my strong hunch. Maybe she feels it’s her duty, because I’m out here fighting the war. Or maybe it’s because the other fellow isn’t nailed down yet. There’s a phony note in her letters.”
“You can’t be sure. She’s self-conscious, Pug. She’s put herself in a false position. Can’t you see that? Don’t be too quick to judge her.” Pamela glanced at her wristwatch. “Hell, time’s burning down like a fuse. You’re off to sea, and Talky will want to leave for the States. What a mess Rhoda’s made! It’s my golden opportunity, of course, but would it complicate your poor life if I stayed on?”
“Talky isn’t going to leave. I’ve advised him to stay.”
“You have?” She waited. He said nothing more. “Well. Interesting! Still, I’d better let old Alex Pike know about that job.”
This lovely creature was no dream girl, Pug thought. She was almost as tough and pushy as her father. She sat there within reach, real as a rock, pale and anxious-looking, demanding a decision. Matters were blazing forward between them, after the long slow empty months.
“So the ball’s in my court, then,” he said.
Anger flashed across her face. “There’s no ball and no court. This is no game.” She sat up straight, her legs on the floor. “I’m here. If you want me, I’ll stay. If you don’t, I’ll go. Is that explicit enough? I want to be where you are. I love you. To me you’re life. You’re distressed about Rhoda, and I can’t blame you. Well, make your regulations and I’ll obey them. But there’s no place for me to go from here, Victor, unless you send me away. Do you understand, or don’t you?”
How many men would give all they had to hear such words from such a woman? It was his God-granted chance to rebuild a ruined life. He got to his feet and pulled her up into an embrace. All but overwhelmed by the power of the moment and the joy of her body seeking his, he could only choke out, “I’m too damned old for you.”
“I have to tell you something,” s
he said, clinging to him hard, bowing her face on his white jacket. The words came muffled and fast. “In Singapore I went back to Phil Rule. He was there. I don’t know why. It was the end of the world. He’s the same old swine. Still, I went back to him. It happened once. I didn’t plan it. I’m still sick about it.” She raised her face. It looked as pale and ill as it had earlier.
Pug said, quelling agonized anger and hurt, “You didn’t owe me anything. Now, you asked about regulations. Here’s regulation number one. Never make me late for a Navy conference.”
“Oh, Lord, that bloody conference! Is it time?” Her voice shook. “Be off with you, then. No, wait. Here.” She darted at her purse, pulled out a white card and put it in his hand. “Here’s where you’ll find me when you get back. It’s an apartment hotel.”
“ ‘Dillingham Court,’ “ he read. “That still exists?”
“Yes. Seedy, but convenient and — why that peculiar smile?”
“Rhoda and I stayed there once. Before we had the kids.”
She looked him straight in the eyes. “When will you return? Do you know?”
His face turned grave. “I’m telling this to you alone. We’re heading out to fight a hell of a big battle, Pam. The odds are against us. I’m going now to Admiral Nimitz’s headquarters.”
Her face stiff with tension, her eyes huge and brilliant, she took his head in her hands and lingeringly kissed his lips. “I love you, Pug. I’ll never change. When you come back, and you willy111 be here.”
She opened the door for him.
Thin brown smoke wisped from the Northampton’s stacks as it rode to a chain hove short. Through the smoke, the morning sun dappled a deck alive with sailors hurrying here and there under the long guns and the float planes on catapults, securing the heavy cruiser for sea. In his cabin, Victor Henry was downing a breakfast of fresh pineapple, oatmeal, ham and eggs, and hashed brown potatoes, as his amazed steward poured cup after cup of steaming coffee for him.
“Appetite fine this morning, Cap’n.”
“Food’s fine,” said Pug.
The sunlight that fell through the porthole in a brilliant oval on the starchy white cloth seemed to be streaming into his spirit. He had slept only two or three hours, yet he felt wonderful; a half-year of funk was blasted away, like fog by a fresh sea wind. Before springing from his bunk for exercise and a cold shower, he had lain in the dark thinking it all over: an amicable settlement with poor fouled-up Rhoda, a second marriage, perhaps a second family — why not, why not? He knew men his age who lived in bliss with glowing young wives (none like Pamela Tudsbury!), even with fresh crops of babies around them. Fantasy was finished; fact was sweeter.
His concern about the battle was dissolving into nervy relish, now that his spirits were up, and he knew what would probably happen — that is, if Cincpac’s cryptanalysts were right. Even with this intelligence break, the battle estimate went massively against the Pacific Fleet’s chances of survival. Yet in the peculiar configuration of the Japanese attack plan there was some hope. Their power would be spread out from the Aleutians to the Marianas. In at least the first phase, carriers against carriers, the odds might be endurable, though the damaged Yorktown and the unblooded Hornet were weak sisters compared to the battle-hardened Japanese flattops. Anyway, he was heading for a fight, and he was a fighting man; and Pamela’s love made him feel ready to take on any odds.
A ringing telephone broke into Pug’s reverie.
“Sir, this is the OOD. Your son’s come aboard.”
“Send him along.”
Warren appeared in the doorway in workaday khakis, with gold wings pinned on a faded shirt. “Hi, Dad. If you’re too busy for me, say so.”
“Come in. Have something to eat.”
“No thanks.” Warren held up a hand, dropping into an armchair. “Janice just gave me the royal send-off. Steak and eggs for breakfast.” He looked around at the sunny cabin. “Hm! I’ve never yet seen you in your glory. Nice quarters.”
“Well, you’ve been invited often enough.”
“I know. My fault.”
“Byron get away all right?”
“Oh, he’s in San Francisco by now. With a historic hangover, no doubt.”
Pug glanced at the steward, who bobbed his head and vanished. Warren lit a cigarette, saying quietly, “It’s Midway, isn’t it, Dad? And the whole damn Jap fleet?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Guy on Halsey’s staff.”
“Sorry to hear Halsey’s staff is a sieve.”
“What about this Admiral Spruance? You’ve been steaming around with him for months.”
“What about him?”
“Well, to begin with, he’s a battleship man, isn’t he? The word is that he’s an electrical engineer, a War College type. Not even qualified in aviation like Halsey. They say he’s Halsey’s buddy, and that’s how he got the job. The staff’s worried.”
“Cincpac’s choice of task force commander isn’t your business or the staff’s.”
Warren’s tone hardened like an echo. “Dad, the boss man of this show has to understand aviators. Halsey’s flight qualification was just one of those things, but at least he went and did it. Actually he doesn’t think like an aviator. When we struck the Marshalls he wanted to launch unescorted bombers beyond flight range, and at that his staff navigation was off. Half of us would have fallen in the drink getting back to Point Option. We staged a pilots’ sit-down, damn near, and got the orders changed.” His father shook his head in stern disapproval. Warren threw up both hands. “Well, that’s what happened. You can’t shoot off dive-bombers like sixteen-inch shells. They have to turn around and come back. It’s a big difference, but admirals have no end of trouble remembering that.”
“Spruance will remember it.”
“Well, I’m glad you say that. If he’ll just close the range and give us a chance, we’ll do a job for him.” Warren blew out a thick smoke ring. “Two carriers against the whole Jap navy. Should be interesting.”
“Three carriers.” Somewhat piqued, Pug added, “Also some nine cruisers, Warren.”
“Three? The Sara? She’s in California, isn’t she?”
“The Yorktown.“
“Dad, the Yorktown had her insides blown out. It’s a six months’ repair job.”
“The Yard has promised to put her in combat shape in seventy-two hours.”
Warren whistled. “I’ll believe that when I see it. Incidentally, did you hear the morning news — that battle around Kharkov?”
“No.”
“Biggest tank fight of all time. Both sides say that. Did you ever get to Kharkov?”
“The Germans held Kharkov when I was in Moscow. It’s been taken and retaken since. I’ve lost track.”
Warren nodded. “And Rommel’s fighting still another tank battle in Africa. Where do the Germans get all these tanks? The RAF’s supposed to be levelling their factories.”
It struck Pug that this gossip had an empty, wandering note not like Warren. “See here, it’s 0814. I’m getting underway at 0900. Shall I send you to Ford Island in my gig?”
“In a minute.” Warren crushed his cigarette, audibly blowing out gray smoke. “Look, I was going to give Byron this, but he’s gone.” Warren pulled out a white envelope from a back pocket. “It’s just some financial dope. Janice is a smart cookie, as you know, but arithmetic throws her into catalepsy.” Victor Henry silently accepted the envelope and dropped it in a drawer. “Dad, coming back from a strike, I’ll make a pass over the Northampton and waggle my wings. If I don’t that won’t mean anything. I may be in formation or low on gas, or something. But I’ll try to do it.”
“I understand perfectly. That’ll be fine, Warren, but I won’t count on it.”
Warren’s glance, avoiding his father’s, rested on a desk photograph of Rhoda beside very young pictures of himself, Byron, and Madeline. “I missed Mom and Madeline last night.”
“There’ll be family reunions yet, Warr
en. And you’ll do the hula again for us.”
“The hula! Ha! It’ll be some other dance by that time.”
As they walked up to the passageway, Victor Henry could not resist asking, “What did you think of the Tudsburys?”
“He’s sort of a blowhard. I liked the daughter.”
“Oh, you did? Why?”
“Well, the way she devotes herself to her father. Also, though she’s quiet, she strikes me as sexy as hell.”
The comment gave Victor Henry a long-forgotten kind of male satisfaction, the pleasure of a midshipman hearing his girl praised.
In the sunlight on the main deck Warren squinted, put on dark glasses, and looked fore and aft along the busy six-hundred-foot deck. “It’s a magnificent ship, Dad.”
“It’s not an aircraft carrier.”
“Attention on deck!” The OOD rapped out the order. Hurrying sailors froze. As Victor Henry and his son shook hands at the gangway, Warren looked into the father’s eyes and smiled. Never before had he smiled in quite this way at his parent: a remote reassuring smile, almost like a pat on the back, as though to say, “I’m not your little boy any more, though you don’t quite believe it. I’m a dive-bomber pilot, and I’ll do all right.“
Harry Hopkins’s phrase leaped into Pug Henry’s mind: the changing of the guard.
“Good hunting, Warren.” The son tightened his grip, then turned and saluted the OOD. “Request permission to leave the ship.”
“Permission granted, sir.”
In his loose-limbed jaunty way Warren went down the ladder. “Carry on,” Pug said, freeing the rigid sailors. He stood at the gangway, watching the gig pull away and head for Ford Island with his tall son standing arms akimbo in the stern sheets, steady despite the choppy waves.
The destroyers of the task force screen were steaming down channel for the sortie, signal flags flying. The long gray shape of a destroyer, passing close aboard, hid Warren from view. Pug felt self-conscious about lingering on the quarterdeck, just for another glimpse of his son. He went up to his bridge to take the Northampton out to sea.