Hewitt studied the page. He flushed a little. "Well, sir. It is to my wife. That makes it a little different. Special, you might say."
Dr. Benoway looked at the amazing motor mech. Was the boy pulling his leg? Was this a big joke at his expense? Had Harbison staged all this? No, such a thought was preposterous and ungallant. He decided, by heavens, that he'd have this thing out.
"Hewitt," he began again. The obvious perplexity in the young man's face unnerved him, but he went ahead. "You must be aware that the words you use there and the things you talk about, well..."
"But this is a letter to my wife, sir. That's what we got married for. That's what people get married for. So they can talk about things and things."
"What's your wife say about these letters, Hewitt?" Benoway blurted out.
"Bingo? Why she never says nothing, sir. Nothing that I remember."
"Her letters to you? Are they... like... that?" Dr. Benoway pointed at the letter which now lay on the table.
Hewitt smiled. "Not exactly like that," he said fondly. "I got one right here," he said suddenly, and before Dr. Benoway could stop him, the sailor whipped out a sweaty wallet and produced a letter written in a fine. Southern hand. It was from Louisville. "You can read it if you wish," the man said with embarrassment. "You're just like a doctor, sort of."
Paul was pleased with the intended compliment. He opened the letter and read a little on the first page. Then he turned abruptly to the last page. He read only a few sentences there-this letter was written in passable English-blushed as if something had happened to him in Independence Square, and returned the letter. Hewitt took it and lovingly replaced it in the disintegrating wallet.
"Do you and your wife always write like that?"
"Well, you might say so, sir."
Benoway gritted his teeth and swore to himself: "Well, son. You asked for it. Here it is..."
"Hewitt," he said. "I don't know whether you're kidding the pants off me or not." (Oh, no, sir!) "But maybe I can tell you a few things that will clear the air. First of all, you could be arrested and put in jail for writing a letter like that." (Don't interrupt me. Sit down) "A letter like that, and especially one like your wife's, is never written by a lady or a gentleman. It just isn't done. I should think you would have more respect for one another. That you might talk that way in your own bedroom is possible. But if you were to show that letter, either of them, around in the Navy, you could be court-martialed. Now don't you know any better, or do you?" Lt. Comdr. Benoway glowered at the sailor.
"But, sir," Hewitt replied. "She's my wife. I'm married to her. That's not just a letter. It's to my wife."
"Damn it all, Hewitt? Is this a game?"
"Oh, no, sir! I don't know what you're talking about." Hewitt showed no signs of standing on his dignity and playing the role of insulted virtue. He was clearly bewildered by the doctor's blast.
Dr. Benoway shook his head. Maybe the boy was telling the truth. After all, there were the letters. He tried again. "Tell me, Hewitt. Why do you write letters like that?"
"It's just a letter to Bingo, Doctor."
"Have you always written to one another like that?"
"Well, no sir. You see, Bingo. That's my name for her. We were at a Bingo one night and we both yelled 'Bingo' at the same time, and that's how we met. We split a grand prize of twenty-five dollars. Well, at first, sir, Bingo was awful strange. She lived with three sisters. Old women, that is, who brought her up. She wouldn't even let me kiss her. And when we were married... Well, you're sort of a doctor, but this is hard to say. Well, Bingo wouldn't sleep with me very much, if you know what I mean and if you'll pardon the expression things was pretty much going to hell. So one night I just up and told her why I got married and what she got married for and from then on things was different I can tell you and we got to love one another all over again and it was like a different world and we used to laugh at her old women. Then when I went away to war it all ended and I didn't know how to write about it, and our letters was pretty much like the old women again, but then one night as I was writing to her I got to thinking about the swell times we used to have, especially on Wednesdays, and this was a Wednesday, too, and I just sort of wrote exactly what I was feeling, and I just didn't give, if you'll excuse the expression, I just didn't give a good goddam, if you'll excuse me, sir."
Dr. Benoway picked the letter from the table, sealed it, wrote his initials on it, and stamped it with his little inked censor's circle.
"I'll tell you what, Hewitt," he said. "You mail all of your letters right here from now on, will you? I'll trust you not to send any military secrets. That is, information of any kind."
"Oh, sir, I'd never do that. No, sir."
"I'll trust you, Hewitt. But I may censor one now and then to make sure." There was a long moment of silence. "You can go, now, Hewitt."
"But, sir?"
"Yes?"
"You said my wife could be arrested..."
"Only if you show her letters to anyone else."
"I'd never do that! They're from my wife."
"That's good. Well, goodnight, Hewitt." The doctor extended his hand to the young man. Hewitt grabbed it warmly, shook it, and left.
"Whew!" the doctor whistled to himself as he slumped into his chair. The haunting fear stayed with him that the entire scene had been an obscene joke cooked up by some ghoulish mind. But somehow or other Hewitt acted like a man, and like a man who might write just such a letter.
"Passion!" Benoway said to himself. "By heaven! The Lord certainly dispenses uneven quantities of it to different people."
Ruefully, he picked up his own unfinished letter to his wife. He started to read it. "Dearest Nancy:" it began. The colon looked formidable, but all of Dr. Benoway's letters had a colon in the salutation. He had read somewhere a long time ago: "It is always proper to use a colon in the salutation. It is dignified, universal, and appropriate for all occasions, especially when doubt arises as to the proper greeting." The letter ran: I would like to be the first to tell you that I have had a somewhat trying experience and that I have safely recovered from it without the slightest harm or injury. The details of this little adventure must remain a military secret until I see you in person. I can only give you the barest outlines at present, and even some of them may be deleted by the censor.
Some time ago I had to make a routine flight over water. You can probably guess the nature of the mission. As sometimes happens, our plane ran into difficulty, and we were forced down into the ocean. We were able to break out a life raft without much difficulty, and before long we were aboard it.
I am sorry to say that we had not too much water or food for the persons aboard. I was not the senior officer-the plane captain was- but I was given the important task of apportioning our rations amongst us. This I did to the best of my ability, and although there was natural complaining about the smallness of the rations, there were no accusations of unfairness.
The Navy has already announced that we were adrift for four days. Some of the passengers suffered from severe sunburn. All of us had chills, but I must say that when I think of the poor men who have been lost in the great ocean for twenty and thirty days I consider myself lucky indeed that we were rescued so soon.
On the evening of the fourth day, after twelve hours of blazing sun and no rain, we saw a ship just at dusk, but it could not see us. Our captain made an instant judgment of the course on which we might come closest to the ship, and we started to paddle, swim alongside the raft, and pray. The ship passed us by, and I thought my heart would break, but in the darkness-for it was now pitch black-a little dog saw us, or smelt us, or heard us, and started to bark. Of course, we couldn't hear him bark, for if we could have heard him, the men aboard ship could have heard us, but there he was, barking when we were taken aboard. He was a little mixed dog like the one the Baxter's used to have, and I thought him a very lovely dog indeed.
Darling, all during the time I was in that raft and when I was aboard ship, I thought o
f you. It would have been terrible never to see you again. Once we had a bad time of it when the raft started to ship water, and I prayed pretty furiously, and you were all mixed up in the prayers. I don't want you to worry about anything, Nancy, for I am all right. When I think of what others have gone through, I'm a little bit ashamed, but I must admit that I am somewhat proud to say that I stood up as well as most. Only once was I really beaten down. On the fourth morning, when I saw the great sun again...
Then followed the part about the Aztec sacrifice that had seemed so phoney to him that he had torn it up.
Compared with Hewitt's letter, Paul's wasn't much of a job, and he knew it. For example, he hadn't put in the part about getting all mixed up when he prayed, so that he actually prayed to Nancy and not to God at all. Or that time in the third night when all he could see was Nancy. She had even obliterated the ocean then, and one of the gunners had asked, "What you looking at, Doc?" and he had replied, "The ocean." Or the terrible moment when the ship sailed past in the darkness, seen but unseeing, and all that he could think of was not his loneliness in the ocean, but the fact that the silent ship was like Nancy when she left a room: a stately, gracious thing that all eyes followed. Nor could he put on paper the fact that when he saw that blessed little hairy dog aboard the ship, he grinned all over, for it looked just like Nancy's sleepy head tossed in disarray upon a pillow at night.
"No," he said, "I'll tear up that letter and start all over again. It didn't happen the way I have it written at all. It was much deeper than that. By God, it was probably the biggest experience I'll ever have in all my life. And I'll tell Nancy just that... and the part she played in it, too."
He took a new piece of paper, but as he did so, he turned over Bill Harbison's unsealed envelope. Usually, like all officers, he merely initialed his friends' mail, relying upon their honesty. But tonight he idly revolved the letter in his fingers.
He opened the envelope and glanced casually at the first page. The salutation caught his eye. My only Beloved Lenore, it read. Automatically, in the manner of all censors, he turned to the envelope to see if the letter were to Harbison's wife or to one of the several other girls the man wrote to. It was addressed to Mrs. Bill Harbison, 188 Loma Point, Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was to his wife.
Paul Benoway studied the salutation. My only Beloved Lenore! That's the way he wished he could write to Nancy, for she was his only girl, and she was his beloved. As beloved, that is, as anything he would ever know. But he never thought of openings like that, and if he had had to say the words aloud, he would have felt undressed. But in Bill Harbison's letter they seemed all right.
Mechanically, Dr. Benoway started to read the first page. Without wishing to do so-and with considerable feeling of guilt-he read the entire pulsating letter: My only Beloved Lenore, My darling, I have just returned from a trip which took me almost to the vale of death, and from which I returned loving you more than ever I did before in this life. There is so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin. I know that all of it will worry you, but I can only say that terrible as it must seem to you, it brought me nearer to you than all the happy days of the past.
We were on a difficult mission toward the Japs. (Dr. Benoway grew a little resentful. The trip was an ordinary, routine one down to Noumea to pick up some fresh vegetables. Harbison had gone along to sleep with one of the French girls at Luana Pori.) Our flying boat was only moderately armed, but our skipper was about as resolute a man as I have ever known. I thought when we left that if a flying boat were to tangle with a bunch of Japs, I couldn't think of a better man than Joe to do the dirty work. My reliance in him was proved.
We were flying at about 3,000 feet near the island of... (Here Harbison had cut out a section of his letter to simulate the censor's relentless vigil.) I must admit that I was half dozing off when I heard our rear gunner cry, "Zeroes at seven o'clock!" And there they were, two of them! They had the advantage of the ceiling on us, too. Everyone in the flying boat prepared for the battle, but before I could even get to a gun, the first bullets were smashing at us. They hit one gunner in the leg.
Fortunately, we had a doctor with us. You remember my remarking about Dr. Benoway. Well, he fixed the lad up in no time. By now the Japs were on their way back, and we were impotent to stop them. Again their slugs tore through the cumbersome plane. They made four more passes at us, and even though our gunners did their best, we never touched the yellow devils.
On their sixth pass, the second Jap knocked out both of our motors and we started to plunge toward the sea. This threw the Japs off us for a few precious minutes.
Down we plunged, and in that terrible time I could think only of you. My heart beat like a mammoth drum, always booming out, "Lenore! Lenore!" It was a horrible fantasy which ended only when our magnificent pilot pulled us up at the last moment and skidded the plane along the tips of the waves and finally into a trough that stopped our flight. ("Heavens," Benoway thought. "We glided in perfectly from 1,500 feet, just the way it's done in a clear bay. There were no waves, thank God, and there wasn't a Jap in sight. Some damned fool mechanic had left two large pieces of sandpaper in the oil tank. Don't ask me why!")
As we perched for a precious half minute on the water, the dastardly Japs came at us again! But after one violent burst of firing which killed the wounded gunner, we saw two American planes on the horizon. The Japs saw them too, and off they went. There was a long dogfight. Three of the planes went into the ocean, all of them in flames. One American fighter limped away into the growing darkness. We don't know whether he reached shore or not, but wherever that boy is tonight, you can pray for him as a great hero who saved a raft-ful of defenseless men.
There were eight of us on the raft, and I shall not tell you of the misery and the suffering. If it had not been for the iron will of our skipper and the skill of Dr. Benoway, few of us would be alive to write to our loved ones. The days were scorching. The nights were cold. We were fevered, and we had little to eat or drinks- The doctor was in charge of the food and...
My beloved darling, I'll tell you about those fifteen days when 1 am once more safe in your cool arms. Suffice it to say that we were rescued. What is important is that all through the terrible days and lonely nights you were with me. I saw your face in the stars, and when the hot sun beat down upon our wretched raft, you were there to shade me. I cried aloud for you, and wherever hope dawned, you were there. A seagull followed us for a day, hoping for scraps that never came, for we, too, were hoping for scraps. All of the men saw in that gull some omen of good, but I saw only you. The soft whiteness was you. The constancy was you. The lovely dip of the wing was your lovely walk, and when the night shadows closed over the white gull, it was the darkness of our love closing over you. ("It was two brown birds," Benoway muttered to himself. "No gulls in sight.")
If I live to be a thousand, my beloved wife, you will never be nearer to me than you were that night. I realized then what I had only half realized before: that you were all the good I know in this world and all the good I shall ever know. My body, my heart, and my immortal soul cried for you, and when we were rescued, it was not the rough arms of the sailors that carried me to safety, but your own dear, cherishing hands.
When I see you again I may not be able to tell you all of these things, but sleep tightly tonight, my beloved darling, for my love wings its way across the boundless ocean to you, wherever you are. You are mine tonight, mine forever and forever until my heart is still and time no longer beats for us. I love you, I love you, Oh my darling.
Paul Benoway wiped his forehead and listened to the mighty ocean pounding on the coral reefs. He knew, and every officer in camp knew, that Bill Harbison was having serious girl trouble in the South Pacific. He knew of Bill's escapades at Luana Pori and with the blonde nurse. But he also knew that Harbison had touched a throbbing core of life unknown to many men, unknown particularly to Paul Benoway.
What did it matter how Harbison came to know about this si
de of life? What did it matter which key the man had used to unlock his heart, so long as it was open, so long as it was a heart to share, a heart that could give freely? What matter were morals and old sayings if they kept you tied up like a burlap bag while other men unfolded their secrets and grew in the way God meant to have men grow?
Dr. Benoway looked at the dulcet words again. They were his words! That was the way he felt! What is important is that through all the terrible days and lonely nights you were with me... the lovely dip of the wing was your lovely walk... my body, my heart, my immortal soul cried for you... That's what he, Paul Benoway, meant to say to his wife. That's what he had been trying to write.
Suddenly, he took up his own unfinished letter to his wife, went with his finger to the part that read, When I think of what the others have gone through, I'm a little bit ashamed, but I must admit that 1 am somewhat proud to say that I stood up as well as most. Only once was I really beaten down. He struck out the last sentence and got a fresh piece of paper. What business was it of anyone's that he was beaten down when he thought of an Aztec sacrifice to the sun god? That was a mighty silly thing to say in a letter when you compared it with what Bill Harbison was able to write.
Furtively, he laid Bill's letter on the table before him and began to copy rapidly. My beloved darling, I'll tell you about it when I am once more safe in your cool arms. Feverishly, as if this were the ultimate expression of what he had been storing up in his heart, he copied the last two pages of Bill's letter. His pen scrawled on, I love you, I love you, Oh my darling.
He dropped his pen and looked at the last line. In his letter it didn't look right. Never in his life had he said anything even remotely like Oh my darling. It sounded utterly silly when you said it that way: Oh my darling, Oh my darling, Oh my darling Clementine! You are lost and gone forever, Drefful sorry, Clementine!
The words sounded good! He started to sing the whole song, and as he did so, he began to laugh within himself and to feel very happy. With dancing motions he stuffed Bill Harbison's letter back into its envelope. He sealed the letter and stamped it. Then, with the same mincing, half dancing gestures he neatly tore up the last half of his own letter. Laughing loudly by this time, he signed the part that he had first written. He signed it, All my love, Paul.
Tales of the South Pacific Page 27