"A destroyer, the Stacy Wright, in 1937."
"You're going to find a cruiser a lot different. It's closer to a battleship. You've got to have a good exec and a tough master at arms. You can't run a capital ship on personality, the way a lot of destroyer captains get by."
"Thanks for the advice, Admiral."
In his own crusty way, Tomlinson was wishing him well.
They rounded a tanker's stem, and suddenly there was the USS Jefferson City, silhouetted between the open breakwater and the sea. Arthur McKay felt his chest tighten, his throat fill. Not from anticipation of the imminent encounter with Win Kemble. It was the beauty of that long slim hull, the haughty curve of her cruiser's bow, that moved him. The superstructure was a clutter of housing and equipment necessary for survival in battle: fire control towers, radar gear, gun directors. But it did not detract from the spirit of speed and power the unknown naval architect had infused into her basic design.
The crew was mustered on deck in dress whites, row on row of men in compact divisions, facing their officers. Their presence added to the tightness in Arthur McKay's chest. Within the hour, these 1,300 sailors would become his men. This great steel creature would become his ship, his to command, to lead, to conn. His responsibility. Whatever had happened under Win Kemble's command would make no difference in the assessment the Navy made of Arthur McKay's performance as captain of the USS Jefferson City.
As Admiral Tomlinson's black-hulled barge came alongside, a bugle rang across the still harbor. Tomlinson's two-star flag soared up the mainmast. When the admiral reached the top of the accommodation ladder, a boatswain's pipe shrilled and six sailors —the prescribed number of sideboys for a rear admiral — snapped to attention. The ship's band gave him two ruffles and flourishes.
"Request permission to come aboard, Captain," the admiral growled, throwing a salute to Winfield Scott Schley Kemble.
"Permission granted, Admiral."
They shook hands. Captain Arthur McKay also saluted the American flag on the stern and asked his best friend for permission to come aboard. Until he was relieved, Win Kemble was absolute ruler of the USS Jefferson City. If he decided for some insane reason to order Captain McKay and Admiral Tomlinson back into their barge, they would have had no choice but to obey.
"Hello, Win," Art said as they shook hands.
"Hello, Art."
McKay was shocked by the haggard face that confronted him. There were dark ovals of sleeplessness beneath Win's blue eyes, lines of weariness — or grief? — around his mouth. His skin looked papery, drained of the vital force he had always exuded. Was this what combat did to a man?
Win was looking him over too and did not seem to like what he saw. Was it the standard reaction of the fighting sailor to the rear area desk jockey? If Win gave him a chance, McKay was sure he could convince him that working for Ernie King was almost as harrowing as combat.
"The crew would welcome an inspection, Admiral, if you have time," Win said.
A nod from Tomlinson signified agreement. They walked swiftly past the assembled ranks until they reached the fire control division. The admiral stopped and peered at a third class petty officer. "Peterson," he said, "did you get busted again?"
"I'm afraid so, Admiral."
"You should be a warrant officer by now, Peterson."
"Thanks, Admiral."
"Best damn fire controlman I've ever seen," the admiral said to Arthur McKay. "Also the worst goddamn fuckup."
Peterson almost smiled but wisely changed his mind at the last moment.
"What did you do at Savo Island?" Tomlinson asked.
"Not a damn thing, Admiral."
"So I heard," Tomlinson said.
You son of a bitch, Arthur McKay thought. Win Kemble's face remained expressionless.
The inspection completed, the two captains and the admiral walked to a row of leather wardroom chairs set up in front of turret one. The gray eight-inch guns lifted their snouts toward them like submissive animals. Captain Kemble introduced his executive officer, Commander Daniel Boone Parker. Was Win's use of the full name sarcastic? McKay did not like the fat that hung from Parker's jowls, but he had a man's handshake. Next came the chaplain, a short, doleful lieutenant named Emerson Bushnell. McKay did not like his looks either. He preferred cheerful chaplains.
A microphone and a lectern had been set up facing aft. Win Kemble turned to Admiral Tomlinson. "Would you like to say a few words, Admiral?"
"No."
Win asked the chaplain to give an invocation. Bushnell walked to the microphone and uttered a series of lugubrious platitudes about the need for God's blessing on the ship and the man who was about to take command of it.
Win stepped to the lectern. "Men of the Jefferson City," he said, in that crisp voice which made many people urge him to run for political office, "I am leaving you, after seven months as your captain. I've tried to make you into a crew that is second to none in the U.S. Navy. Fighting men. Men ready to do their duty for their country and their God, no matter what price the fortunes of war may exact. You have performed well. I take pride in handing you over to your new captain. He is my closest friend, and I am sure he will find you as willing to obey his commands as you were to obey mine. Godspeed to you all."
He turned to Arthur McKay. "Sir, I am ready to be relieved."
McKay advanced to the microphone. "Captain Kemble," he said, "I have received the following orders from the Bureau of Navigation." As he read the officialese of this document, Arthur McKay felt the eyes of the crew studying him with an intensity few human beings ever encounter. He understood they were all trying to decide whether he was soft or hard, mean or generous. Would he give them a happy ship or a miserable one? This was the standard question every crew asked when a new captain came aboard. But today, there was something more ferocious in their scrutiny. Looking at the impassive faces beneath the white hats, he sensed a different question — but he did not know what it was.
When McKay finished reading his orders, he turned to Win, saluted and said, "I relieve you, sir." Win returned the salute. McKay then turned to Admiral Tomlinson, saluted and said, "Sir, I report for duty." The admiral returned his salute.
Arthur McKay faced the microphone again. "I'm not much good at making speeches, so I won't try. I only want to wish Captain Kemble the best of luck in Washington, where his brains are badly needed. I'm proud to take command of this ship. I hope to be even prouder of its performance — your performance —in the months ahead."
The officer of the deck dismissed the crew. "You've got your own gig now, McKay," Admiral Tomlinson said. "You don't need my boat.” He departed with another series of ruffles and flourishes and the whine of a boatswain's pipe.
"Let me show you to your cabin, Captain," Win said, in a light tone of voice that McKay found encouraging.
McKay nodded to the chaplain and the executive officer. "We'll have lots of time to talk in the next two weeks," he said. "I haven't seen this fellow for a good year and it'll probably be longer than that before I see him again. I want to get the word on everything from the war to who's going to win the pennant races."
"Of course, Captain," the chaplain said. "We understand."
The expression on the executive officer's face made McKay wonder what he understood. It seemed to be something unpleasant. Win turned his back on them without a word and led McKay below to the captain's cabin. A large compartment served as a combination office and sitting and dining room; behind it was a smaller sleeping compartment. Here was where he was going to spend a lot of lonely hours, McKay thought. On a cruiser, as on a battleship, the captain ate alone and slept alone, except when he invited someone to join him for dinner or supper. It was a tradition inherited from hundreds of years of seafaring wisdom. The greater a captain's power, the more remote he must become from the men over whom he exercised it.
"I'm all packed," Win said. "I trust I can borrow the gig. It may take two or three trips. I had a lot of my China stuff with m
e.”
He gestured toward a half dozen paintings lying on their sides against the bulkhead. Arthur McKay instantly recognized one of a bearded Chinese sage coming down a mountain road in the mist, while peasants toiled in the fields below him. He had one just like it. They had purchased them together on Bubbling Well Road in Shanghai when they were lieutenants, mutually fascinated with China. The paintings were also part of their half serious, half joking plan to furnish their offices exactly alike, when Win became Chief of Naval Operations and Arthur McKay was his chief of staff.
"Consider the gig yours for the day. But what's the hurry?" McKay said. He picked up the painting and stood it against the wall, right side up. "I've been hoping for a letter from Po Chu-i for a good three months now. A couple of hours of conversation would be even better."
After their tour in China, Win had begun writing elaborate letters to Arthur McKay, in imitation of the epistles that the great Chinese poet Po Chu-i sent to his friend Yuan Chen. Like those two state servants from the eighth century, they were fated to live apart most of the time. So they sent letters "from one side of the civilized world to the other side" with news of their inner and outer lives, their hopes, their disappointments with wives, mistresses, children, careers. The letters always began with a salutation from the Chinese, "Friend of all my life." Often they were full of mocking sarcasm about "our noble Navy" and wry comments on the "lamentable civilians." They frequently included sarcastic observations about presidents, senators and congressmen.
"I'm afraid what Po Chu-i has been thinking could get us both court-martialed," Win said. "He decided it might be better to keep it to himself."
"Come on," Arthur McKay said. "You're just afraid you might lose an argument or two."
Win stared at a silk scroll of a husband rebuking his wife, by the fifth-century painter Ku K'Ai-chih. McKay had given it to him and Lucy for their tenth wedding anniversary.
It was odd, McKay mused, the role China played in their friendship. It was the place where Win's sense of destiny, his life-drama of himself as a man who would lead Americans into an imperial future, had been confirmed. Arthur McKay and everyone else had been awed by the masterful way Win had dealt with the Chinese — and the Japanese and the British — when he was captain of the gunboat Monocacy on the Yangtze. They had called him the "Mandarin."
But the following year, when Arthur McKay became captain of the Monocacy, China became the place where they discovered fundamental disagreements in their views of America's role in the world. They had argued about it — and other things, such as differing views of careers, women, politicians — ever since. Cheerful arguments, of course, full of the kinds of insults best friends fling at each other, knowing there is no possibility of offense.
Arthur McKay was not trying to revive any of those arguments now. He was reaching back into a deeper part of the past. He was trying to regain those magical days when he and Win had sat in their battered easy chairs in Bancroft Hall and Win had held forth about Annapolis, the Navy, women, politics, war, heroism, leadership. He wanted to recall the exhilaration of those days, when Win Kemble had been part older brother, part father, but above all, his friend.
"Anyone from our class aboard?" he asked.
Win shook his head.
McKay began filling him in on what various members of the class were doing. Win had always enjoyed hearing this kind of information in the past. He invariably had a pungent comment on the foibles of some, the ambitions of others. Today he barely listened. McKay could not resist noting how many men who had gone into aviation were rising rapidly on staffs and on ships at sea. Win had never favored the "aviators," as the battleship men contemptuously called them, when they were not sneering at the hooligan navy.
"Sammy's trying to decide whether to apply for flight training," McKay said. "Rita's all for it. What do you think?"
"I don't know," Win said, his voice toneless. A few years ago they had devoted entire letters to planning Sammy's career for him. Win was his godfather — and almost a second father.
"I'm inclined to agree," McKay said. "Although Cominch doesn't let the wings on his chest prejudice him too much. He didn't start flying until he was forty-five. He's still got a lot of battleship in his blood."
Suddenly there was an expression on Win's face that Arthur McKay had never seen before. It mingled anger and dislike and something worse — something close to contempt "Let's cut the bullshit," he said "Why am I being relieved?"
Arthur McKay felt his face flushing, his palms sweating. Suddenly he was back in plebe year at Annapolis, struggling with the morbid shyness that had made him duck his head and avoid the instructor's eyes when he recited in class. Win had bullied and bellowed and mocked him out of that ruinous habit in hours of rehearsals in their rooms. He could hear him roaring, Look me in the eye, McKay. Think of yourself as Jesse James. Imagine yourself pointing a gun at those fucking instructors.
"King says he wants to rotate people back and forth from sea duty—"
"I said cut the bullshit, Art. Look me in the eye and tell me the truth."
They were back in plebe year, but Arthur McKay did not like it. His temper rose. "I can't read the bastard's mind, Win. But I know he's going to ask you what the hell happened off Savo Island. You were the OTC--"
Win Kemble laughed. But it was not a pleasant sound. His haggard face changed into a stranger's in front of McKay's eyes. Dark hollows appeared in the smooth cheeks that had won him comparison to Richard Harding Davis and other beau ideals of their youth. The mouth on which Arthur McKay had never seen anything but a smile of friendship: became a sneer.
"I knew it. I saw this or something like it coming the minute I heard our bubblehead President had made that bastard Ernie King Commander-in-Chief of all the ships at sea. I saw Rita turning you into a ball-wiping slob, with me as target number one. This is her idea, isn't it? Her way of winning the game we've been playing for the past twenty years? You're not here just to relieve me. You're here to get a confession of guilt, right? I'm supposed to spill my guts to you now — or sometime tonight, after three or four drinks, up in the Hollywood hills."
"Jesus Christ, Win! Don't you know me better than that?"
"Maybe I know you better than you know yourself, Art."
"Bullshit! That might have been true in 1913, but it isn't true in 1942."
Win's smile was crafty now, almost cruel. "Are you absolutely sure of that?"
Arthur McKay looked the friend of his life in the eyes. What he saw there was not pretty. A bitter icy blankness that suggested their friendship was a sham. Was it possible? Was he seeing his own soul, corrupted by Rita's tireless denigration of Win?
For a moment Arthur McKay almost capitulated to Win's old dominance. It took a terrific effort to deny the redoubled accusation that whirled in his brain.
"Absolutely sure. I didn't want this job, Win. I told King to his face I didn't want it. He gave me a goddamn order."
"And you had to obey it. You had to come out here to shaft your best friend."
"I'm not here to do anything of the sort!" It was incredible the way Win could throw him on the defensive. For a moment Arthur McKay almost hated him.
"Okay. I can play the game too. I'm not going to tell you anything. I'm going to let you take this ship to the South Pacific and find out for yourself the travesty of a war we're fighting out there."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm not answering any questions on the subject. Do you understand? I will only answer questions at a formal court of inquiry. Or before a congressional committee. Send that message to Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King."
"You tell him," McKay said. "You'll be seeing him before I will. I've got a ship to get ready for sea.”
There was the ultimate answer, as brutal as the accusation Win had shoved in his face. Whatever his motives, whatever his fate, Arthur McKay was now the captain of the USS Jefferson City.
Dear Liberty
"It's the most b
eautiful word in the English language, kid," Jack Peterson said as he spitshined his shoes.
"It's what we're fighting for," bellowed George Jablonsky. "For liberty, God, country and Poland."
"Why didn't you join the fucking Polish Navy?" someone yelled from the other side of the compartment.
"Because I'm a fucking American," Jablonsky said, "and today, with the help, of a certain brunette named Hildegarde, I'm gonna prove it."
"What can you do on liberty when you don't know a soul in California?" Frank Flanagan asked.
"What can you do?" Peterson said. "You can find a dame and some Jack Daniel's and for a little while you can forget you're livin' like a goddamn slice of baloney in a sandwich while those assholes in Officers' Country are lyin' around like millionaires. You can buy yourself a steak instead of having some yo-yo of a Navy cook feed you shit on a shingle."
The savagery with which Jack Peterson denounced the enlisted man's life bewildered Flanagan. He had to admit that being a sailor aboard the Jefferson City had its disadvantages. Sixty men slept in a compartment about the size of his parents' bedroom. The only space a sailor could call his own, besides the twenty-four inches between his rack and the one above it, was his locker, which was two feet high, two feet wide and two feet deep. In this six cubic feet he had to keep his white and blue dress uniforms, his spare dungarees and underwear, his extra hats and pair of shoes, his socks and his neckerchiefs and his toiletries — all squared away in perfect order.
Everywhere aboard the Jefferson City, a sailor was part of a crowd. He had to stand in line to shower, to shave, to urinate, to move his bowels and to get dubious substances slung on his tray in the chow line. Yet Flanagan refused to complain. For him, the experience was a test, a chance to find out whether he was a man among men or some special creature, set apart by his mother's solicitude and Father Callow's rhetoric.
"Listen to me, you guys, especially the boots," Boats Homewood shouted from the center of the compartment. "There's one place I want you to stay out of — Shanghai Red's over in San Pedro. The only thing you'll lose there is your wallet. If you get anywhere with Red's broads, the clap comes with it and maybe the syph in the bargain. I knew the bastard in Shanghai and he was no good then. He's not a sailor, he's a fuckin' thief.
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