Time and Tide

by Thomas Fleming

Arthur McKay looked at his watch. Could it be right? It was 0020. No more than twenty-five minutes had elapsed since they had sighted the Japanese. He felt as if he had spent twenty-four hours in the ring with heavyweight champion Joe Louis. He thought of the carnage aboard the Boise and shuddered, knowing the same punishment could have befallen the Jefferson City.

  For a moment he pondered the dilemma of how to deal with Commander Parker and decided there was no hurry about it. Maybe it might be best to forgive and forget that moment of panic. Maybe it was an opportunity to convince Parker, once and for all, that he was not Admiral King's prosecuting attorney. Maybe encouragement, example, could make a decent officer out of this man.

  Captain McKay was exultant. He saw himself writing the story of the battle to Rita and to Win Kemble. He thought he was echoing the feelings of everyone aboard when he said, "I think we evened the score for Savo Island tonight."

  Spiritual Dilemmas

  "Chaplain."

  There was a hand on Emerson Bushnell's shoulder. He sat up, violently afraid again. He was amazed he had gone to sleep. He had spent the battle in sick bay, watching Dr. Cadwallader nip from a flask while his young assistant, Dr. Levy, glared and fussed with his instruments. In the red battle lights, the anxious faces of the pharmacist's mates had floated through his consciousness like nebulae while the guns thundered above decks.

  Captain McKay bent his head to speak to him. He looked weary, but his eyes were aglow with something that resembled happiness. "We're back in Espiritu Santo in the New Hebrides. The Boise just asked us to send over our doctors and corpsmen. They've got a lot of dead and wounded. Their chaplain's been killed. Maybe you could be some help."

  "I don't know the men, but— I'll do my best, of course."

  Dawn was beginning to pale the stars in the Pacific sky as he joined the two doctors and five pharmacist's mates in the motor whaleboat. The air was thick with humidity. Not a trace of a breeze. The boat whirred across the glassy water of Segund Channel toward the Boise.

  Bushnell felt his body bracing for a blow. He would face it. This time he would face the reality he had fled so often before. He would impart faith, that inner conviction which he had affirmed in his books and lectures as humanity's most important dimension, to men in desperate need of it. It was why he had joined the Navy. To place himself in situations where the need was paramount. And by creating it in other souls, perhaps reincarnate it in his own.

  "When was the last time you operated on a man, Dr. Cadwallader?" asked Dr. Levy. He had an unaccountable air of authority, although he was only a year or two out of medical school.

  "Oh, about five years ago. I took out an appendix when we were about five hundred miles up the Yangtze."

  "Did the man recover?"

  "Beautifully."

  "If I may suggest it, you might refer the more complicated cases to me. As you know, I just finished a residency in surgery."

  "I don't think we're going to have time to run a referral service. They're going to have to take their chances with whatever doctor they get, Lieutenant."

  "I really think—"

  "Doctor, I'm twice your age and I happen to outrank you. We're going to do it my way. I know you think I'm a lousy doctor. I'll admit I'm not the best. But I'm not quite as bad as you think I am."

  Bushnell silently applauded. He disliked Levy, not because he was Jewish — he had long since rid himself of such a puerile prejudice — but because Levy had an absurd faith in science's power to create a better world — an idea Bushnell had come to scorn. He preferred Cadwallader's kindness to Levy's arrogant insistence on the latest medical procedures.

  The first thing they saw as they stepped onto the deck of the Boise was a human arm lying in the scuppers. Bodies were dimly visible entangled in the smashed superstructure. A dazed, looking young lieutenant led them to the wardroom, now converted into a sick bay. At least two dozen men lay on the deck, some with their faces burned beyond recognition, others with missing arms or legs. More men lay in the passageways. The doctors took off their coats and went to work. Emerson Bushnell knelt beside a young sailor who was waiting for surgery. He clutched his stomach and groaned in agony.

  "Can I help you, son? I'm a chaplain."

  "Am I going to die?" he asked, his terror visibly increasing.

  "I don't know. But I think it would help you to pray. Try to visualize God reaching down to lessen your pain. He wants to help you, son."

  "I need help. I need help awful bad. Why don't you get me a doctor?"

  Bushnell rushed over to Dr. Cadwallader, who was cleaning a gaping wound in the brown chest of a mess steward. "Can you take him next?" he said, pointing to the frantic sailor.

  Cadwallader shook his head. "The ones in that corner aren't going to make it," he said. "We're using the triage system, trying to save those who can be saved."

  Again Emerson Bushnell felt the gulf opening between him and the rest of the world. The gulf of silence, the vacuum of nothingness that had swallowed his brother. Alcott the brilliant, the brave, the generous, the serene, the quintessential Christian hero. What sort of God, if He existed, could fail to sustain such a man?

  Almost no one else saw the gulf or understood it. Everyone presumed their lives were real and important while the chaplain saw them all falling, falling into this stupendous abyss of death which swallowed their words, their hopes, their lives — and his futile prayers.

  An officer seized his shoulder. "Chaplain, could you speak to the captain? He's in a bad way."

  In the captain's cabin, a big muscular man in khakis paced up and down, tears pouring down his cheeks.

  "Who the hell are you?" he snapped.

  "I'm the chaplain of the Jefferson City."

  "Are you a Catholic priest?"

  "No."

  "I need someone who can forgive me for a hundred and seven dead men. Can you do that?"

  "No."

  "Then get the hell out of here."

  The men of the Jefferson City studied the Boise's torn, smashed superstructure and ripped bow. All morning, landing craft had been taking off her dead for burial ashore. "I was down in sick bay," Leo Daley told Flanagan. "I heard the pharmacist's mates saying they had three hundred and sixty dead. Three hundred and sixty!"

  Sprawled on the deck of main forward, Flanagan nodded listlessly. He had watched those six- and eight-inch shells tear the Boise apart last night. He had seen men blown overboard by the explosions. He had seen others writhing in the orange flames. For the first time Flanagan began to believe in the possibility of his own death. Terror had engulfed him as he stood behind his waist-high shield and Japanese guns had hurled shells at him. They had roared over his head like subway trains and exploded in the water around the Jefferson City. It was his helplessness that overwhelmed Flanagan. What could an individual do to protect himself against that rain of steel? There was no way to fight back, no place to hide. Prayer was his only hope, and he was losing that with every page he read of The Quest of the Historical Jesus.

  Flanagan was at least fit for duty. In almost every division compartment other men lay in their bunks staring into space. A few were sobbing. Sick call had produced a long line of complainers such as Daley searching for a pill to soothe anxious stomachs, agitated bowels.

  "I'm glad I can't see anything in the director," Daley said. "I couldn't stand it out in the open where you are, Frank."

  "Shut the fuck up," Flanagan said.

  "I'm sorry, Frank," Daley whined.

  Flanagan could see that he was not sorry at all.

  Daley was sure God had persuaded Flanagan to abandon his relative safety in the main battery gun director to play forty-millimeter hotshot and get himself killed. It would be his punishment for committing mortal sins with Teresa Brownlow and with Honolulu prostitutes and reading heretical books by Protestants with unpronounceable German names. Unfortunately Flanagan was afraid Daley might be right.

  Into main forward strutted Jack Peterson. "Hey," he said, "w
hat the hell's the matter with you guys? You look like you just came back from your own funerals."

  "We did, almost," Flanagan said.

  "Are you kiddin'?" Peterson said. "You see the way we blasted them Japs last night? They thought we was all, patsies like the Boise. We sunk that destroyer, and I bet one of them cruisers didn't make it home either."

  "You think so?" Flanagan said.

  "I know so. I was handin' out those ranges, kid. Right on the nose every time. I don't think we wasted a shell."

  Flanagan started to feel better. "How many did we sink, all told?"

  "Eight, from what I hear in Radio Central. They're listenin' to the flagship's stuff to Noumea. You won't see them Japs comin' back for more of what we handed them last night for a long time."

  "I'm still glad I couldn't see anything," Daley said.

  "It was one hell of a show," Flanagan said, almost meaning it.

  "That's the spirit, kid. We ain't the joke of the fleet any more. This joker is wild," Jack said. "We got a captain with balls. From now on you're gonna find out how it feels to be on a fightin' ship."

  Something indefinable, a blend of electricity and pride, stirred in Flanagan's body. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe this was part of being a sailor too.

  "In my opinion," said Commander Parker as the mess stewards refilled coffee cups after dinner, "Captain McKay disobeyed Admiral's Scott's orders by leaving the formation. He endangered all our lives by steaming into the line of fire of those two Japanese cruisers. Putting us into the same ranges Captain Moran had attracted to the Boise with his idiotic searchlights."

  "In my opinion," Robert Mullenoe said, "Captain McKay exhibited seamanship and courage of a very high order."

  "I agree," said Edwin Moss, although his stomach churned at the thought of what Parker could do to him when he wrote his fitness report.

  "Annapolis has been heard from, as expected," Parker sneered. "What do you think, Mr. West?"

  "I'm too far below decks to think," West said. "I was too busy obeying orders."

  He was startled by the glares he received from Mullenoe, Moss and several other Annapolis men.

  "It's the truth," he said. "I don't know enough about seamanship or naval tactics to comment."

  "Hear, hear," said several other reserve officers.

  "At least you don't buy the argument that our heroic captain deserves a medal," Parker said.

  Montgomery West heard Ina Severn saying, Your Commander Parker is a baddy.

  "Does it matter what any of us think?" West said. "He's the captain."

  "If he pulls one more stunt like last night's, I may have to appeal to higher authority for all our sakes," Parker said.

  "It seems to me we ought to be talking about the crew's morale," West said. "My boatswain tells me he's never seen it lower. That battle last night scared the shit out of most of the new men. And some of the old ones too."

  "What do you expect when we've got a captain who has yet to put a man in the brig?" Ensign Kruger said.

  "If you want my opinion," snapped Lieutenant Buzz Jamieson, their short, peppery communications officer, "we're all acting like a bunch of assholes who think the war is over because we sank a couple of Jap ships last night. I just picked up an intercept from Guadalcanal to Admiral Ghormley at Noumea. The Marines are being bombarded by at least two Jap battleships right now. They've destroyed every plane on the damn island and killed God knows how many men."

  The clang of the general alarm, used only in moments of extreme emergency, resounded through the ship. "Air raid, air raid," yelled the boatswain's mate of the watch. "All hands man your battle stations."

  "See what I mean?" Lieutenant Jamieson said as the officers of the Jefferson City stampeded from the wardroom.

  Mail Call

  Dear Husband:

  I got your letter about the battle. Your pretensions to being a hero are not visible in Norman Scott's report. The Jefferson City isn't even mentioned and the Boise gets showered with praise for her gallant fight. You obviously blew any hope of getting mentioned when you declined to agree with Scott's scorecard of the battle. If you think you are making white points in Washington by criticizing Scott's tactics and insisting that we only sank two ships while Scott claims eight, you must be out of your mind. I showed your letter to Cominch and all he did was growl.

  As for the rest of that epistle, about your noble decision not to interrogate your crew and find out the truth about Savo, I was — and still am—speechless. How could you let an opportunity like this slip through our fingers over such a ridiculous scruple? If you found out the truth about the debacle, even if it included revealing the imperfections of your boyhood hero Win, you might have also discovered a lot of bad apples in your crew and gotten rid of them. I don't buy your argument about hurting morale. Not for one minute. You just didn't have the guts to do it!

  Notice I'm writing in the past tense. The opportunity is gone beyond recall now. On the basis of Scott's report, Cominch feels we evened the score for Savo and he no longer has to keep it under the rug. He's appointing old Admiral Hepburn to head an inquiry into the debacle. At the rate he moves, it will take a year at least to finish — which is fine with Cominch. He's betting by that time he won't have to worry about it, no matter what Heppy concludes.

  Cominch sent copies of Scott's report to the President and the Naval Affairs Committee. He's pretty sure it cancels out Win Kemble's letter and any others that may be lurking in Republican pigeonholes. I don't know what he's going to do about Win, who's reporting from his thirty-day leave tomorrow. I suspect it won't be pretty — but it'll be exactly what he deserves. As for you, all you can do now is fight your ship while I try to repair the damage. I have a dreadful feeling you won't stay as lucky as you did in the last battle. If you get shot up the way Mike Moran did, we're finished.

  Your devoted disappointed almost disgusted wife, Rita

  Dearest Jack:

  I read your letter over and over and over instead of sleeping for about three nights. It made me feel rotten at first. I cried, I swear I did. Imagine shedding tears for you — something I swore I'd never do again, about two years ago. Now I'm starting to feel better. In fact, I feel great. I'm not sure I can make much of a difference in your life over the long haul. I don't rate myself that high. But if I can make any difference at all, even for a while, that's fantastic.

  I'm inclined to give a lot of credit to the war. For the first time I begin to think something good may come out of it. If it's changed you that much, maybe it will change a lot of other people too. By the end of the third day (or night) I was almost ready to go to church! I wanted to thank somebody, and he had to be big and important, because that was the way I felt. I was practically exploding! I felt like hiring a blimp and sending it over the Navy Yard at Bremerton trailing one of those ads that said: JACK PETERSON LOVES MARTHA JOHNSON.

  I do love you. Hasn't that been obvious all along? But there has to be a limit to how far a woman can throw herself at a guy. I thought all you wanted to find out was my limit. Oh, Jack, you make me so happy when I'm with you. Now you've made me happy when we're apart.

  Yours, Martha

  Dear Joey:

  I got your empty envelope and I almost died. Then I got the real letter with all those wildly unrealistic tributes to me in it and I recovered sufficiently to go to work that day. Of course I was terrible. I blew at least twenty lines in a row in this dreadful thing we're perpetrating about the fall of Singapore, and Haroosh the Mad Hungarian said he was going to commit suicide definitely, that night, without any ifs or buts. Unfortunately he was back the next day trying to turn me into one of his Budapest schmaltz queens.

  Now for the bad news. My contract is not being renewed. My writer friend Rosamund, the one who has all those informants in the front office (actually I think she taps their phones), tells me your dear Uncle Mort is behind it. I have talked about you continuously to numerous friends, and he seems to think I am responsible for your staying i
n the Navy. That may be my fault. I am terribly proud of what you're doing and I don't try to conceal it. I did not realize I was falling afoul of the local Gestapo.

  What to do? I can go back to London and try to convince them I haven't betrayed my art by selling out to Hollywood or I can try Broadway or I can buck the system here. My friends tell me that's a lost cause, once someone as big as Uncle Mort alias Louis B. Mayer passes the word against you. Nevertheless I'm inclined to stand my ground (British grit and all that sort of thing, you know) because I don't want to put several thousand miles between you and me if by some miracle you should come for Christmas or New Year's or Twelfth Night or St. Swithin's Day. Any day will do!

  Don't worry about me, darling. I have a fair amount of money saved, which I can make go quite a long way now that I no longer have to live like a would-be star in that oversized cheesebox in the hills. I am really feeling quite wonderful. I have you and I don't have to take any more direction from Haroosh!

  Love, my love, Gwen

  Dear Edwin:

  How I treasured that letter you sent about the new baby. There aren't many husbands who would write that kind of letter to their wives. It made me feel our marriage had reached a new level of meaning for both of us. For a whole week I didn't scream at the kids once.

  I do feel profoundly that we have to accept God's decrees for us. I'm glad you feel the same way. There are times (I know your mother feels this way) when we don't seem meant for each other, but most of the time we are. I can't imagine being married to a man without your ideals. I always thought he'd be a Catholic but I have learned so much about faith as you understand it from being your wife.

  I wish you could translate some of your ideals into reality on the ship. But as long as Parker stays as Executive Officer, I think this will be impossible. As for Captain McKay, the more I hear about him, the less I like him. He seems to be one of those Navy politicians who's gotten ahead thanks to a pushy wife and never rocking the boat. I still think you should transfer to another ship as soon as possible.

  Love, Eleanor

  Dear Harold: