He was a lousy drunken sailor because he was afraid of dying. They were all afraid of dying. Except Boats Homewood. He was not afraid of anything. What was his secret?
Other F Division stalwarts joined the party. The liquor continued to flow in prodigious quantities and Flanagan's perception of what was happening grew hazy. More whores arrived and Jablonsky offered to service them all to prove the Poles, not the Germans, were the master race. Bets were placed on his endurance, and the ladies lost, even though there were at least six in the lineup.
At another point, Flanagan was in bed with Terry and she was telling him that she was going home to Brooklyn after the war to open a beauty shop and maybe they could meet in Manhattan and who knows they might fall in love and she could support him while he wrote his stories. At still another point Camutti and Genevieve demonstrated the finer points of fucking while a drunken circle applauded.
The hilarity was abruptly demolished by a scream. People in various stages of undress or no dress at all blundered into the living room and then into a bedroom where they found Jack Peterson smashing Sally in the mouth with back and forehand cuffs. "You always did remind me of my goddamn mother," he raged.
They dragged Jack off the bed and tried to fix up Sally's face, which was a mess. Charlie Chan rushed in demanding a little peace and quiet. Homewood dangled him out a window by his ankle, and he became more agreeable. But no one could placate the whores, who decided the damage to Sally's face could only be assuaged by a hundred dollars. They got the money and departed with a marvelous imitation of offended virtue.
Other revelers drifted away as the liquor ran out. Finally only Flanagan and Homewood and Jack were left. Jack sat on the side of the bed in his undershorts shaking his head. "It's no good any more," he said. "I don't know what the fuck's the matter, but it's no good any more."
"Aw, shit," Homewood said. "What you need's a couple of months at sea. There's nothin' like sea duty to beat the blues. I always get down when I'm on the beach too long. A good fight'll help too. A coupla big hits with them eight-inchers and you won't have a worry in the world."
Jack sat there shaking his head. "I don't know, Boats, I don't know if it'll work. The whole thing's no good any more."
The Odor Of Sanctity
Chastity, virtue, sinlessness. These words paraded through Harold Semple's mind as he pecked out the Combat Information Center's weekly report to the executive officer.
Something incredible had happened to the chaplain. He was no longer mumbling old mealy-mouthed Bushnell. He preached to them with amazing fervor about the importance of leading Christian lives. He talked about faith and redemption with the eloquence of a Methodist. He had made Harold thoroughly ashamed of himself.
Edna, who was a Catholic, had been unimpressed by the transformation. But she was delighted by the way the chaplain's rebirth had reformed Harold. He had stopped flirting aboard ship and was working hard to improve his typing speed. His only self-indulgence was wearing a set of lacy silk underpants under his skivvies. Edna said that was all right. She often did the same thing herself.
Ashore of course was another matter. They were sailors, after all, and liberty still meant something. Hawaii had an elaborate network of secluded beach houses and inconspicuous bars where boys and girls found each other in spite of - or perhaps with the aid of — the blackout. Everybody but the enlisted men wore civilian clothes, so you never knew who you were dancing with. As Edna remarked with a giggle, he might be an admiral.
All you had to do was stroll up and down in front of Kamehameha's statue for a few minutes. A car would roll up and off you would go to the countryside. That was the really marvelous part of the deal. There would be drinks and music and lots to eat and a beach with waves rumbling in the darkness. Harold could barely swim, so he never did more than splash in the shallows. Then there would be love on the beach, in the trade wind. It was so romantic, he blubbered like a baby when he got back to the ship.
That was the first time. Pretty soon they were going steady with a couple of bozos who drove a big black Buick and had a house at the opposite end of the island. Oscar was a chief petty officer in some part of CINCPAC, and Bert had a higher rank. Oscar called him sir and acted like a chauffeur a lot of the time. There was quite a crowd at the house every night, but Oscar managed to hang on to Harold, who was, as usual, incredibly popular, especially when he started doing his imitations of Bette Davis and other stars. Oscar was a little brutal, but Harold still liked that. He had tattoos everywhere (yes even there, Harold told Edna). It was like doing it with an art museum.
Now Oscar was telling Harold he would be crazy to sail again on the Jefferson City. They were going to attack the main base of the Japanese Fleet, Truk. It was going to be the sea battle of the century, and a lot of ships were going to get sunk. Oscar could get him transferred to shore duty in five seconds if he said the word. They could spend the rest of the war making beautiful music while the heroes fed the fishes.
This was really tempting. Even Edna, with her lectures on loyalty to the ship, was hard put to argue against it. She - was actually a little jealous, because Bert had made no such offer to her.
There she was in the doorway, a pout on her prissy face. "Have you made up your mind?" she asked.
"No," Harold said, banging out the last line of the report with only three typos.
"Made up your mind about what?" Lieutenant West said, rushing into the office.
"Whether to go to the YMCA or the base movie on liberty tonight. I heard the base is showing Yankee Doodle Dandy with Jimmy Cagney," Edna said.
"It's great. I saw it the other night," West said. He picked up the report and groaned. "Jesus, Harold. This looks like it was typed by a bosun's mate wearing mittens."
Harold sighed. "My eyes have been bothering me terribly."
"Go to sick bay and get something for them. I can't hand this thing in to Tombs. He'll hang me up by the heels."
Poor Lieutenant West, Harold thought. What will he have to complain about when I leave him? Harold loved working for someone who told him stories about the stars, who had been part of that incredibly glamorous world. All by himself West kept him on the ship. He would never know that Harold loved him from afar.
"I'll do it over," Edna said. "Things have been slow this morning."
"You've got a real pal there, Harold," West said, handing the report to Edna. Her smile was a grimace. It occurred to Harold that Edna loved him too in her quiet way.
But a lifetime of nights on Okapaku Beach with Oscar and others! Harold had no doubt he would soon be vamping guys with a lot more sex appeal than Oscar. Bert had given him the eye in the car the night before last. He could have taken him away from Edna with a wink. But he could not be that mean to her.
They went ashore at 1700 hours, and Oscar and Bert were waiting in front of the King's statue, as usual. Off they whizzed on the coast highway. Harold noticed that Bert barely looked at Edna on the way out and Oscar was pretty quiet too.
"I'm dancing with you tonight, Harriet," Bert said as they got out of the car.
"I'm not sure I'm in the mood," Harold said. "I thought I might just walk the beach and add some shells to my collection."
"Is there a cunt shell?" Edna asked. "Sort of a first cousin to the conch? If so, you definitely should have one."
Of course after two or three drinks Harold was dancing with Bert. He was a dream of a dancer, infinitely smoother than Oscar, who waddled like an overweight kangaroo. Harold was telling Bert all about Australia and he got so interested he told the band to play "Waltzing Matilda." Harold sang it in his ear as they danced to it.
God, Edna was right. He was a cunt.
Suddenly the night exploded with police whistles. From all sides of the veranda where they were dancing under the stars, huge Marines in white helmets appeared like zombies in a horror movie. An officer was roaring, "You are all under arrest. Anyone who resists arrest will be shot."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Ber
t snarled. He picked Harold up, threw him at an advancing Marine and dove past him onto the lawn that led down to the beach, with two Marines after him.
Things grew immensely confused. Some people ran into the house and hid under beds and in closets. Others tried to get past the Marines and were unceremoniously clubbed to the ground. Harold and Edna and most of the sailors surrendered without resistance.
Edna told Harold what to say when they questioned him. It was their first night at the place. They had no idea what was going on. These two men just invited them to a party, and when they got there they found no women in sight. They could not get back without a ride.
"Admit nothing," Edna whispered, as the Marines, with leers on their murderous faces, marched them to a canvas-topped truck and shoved them inside. "What are you going to do, take us to the firing squad?" one victim cried.
"Shut your fuckin' mouth, faggot," said the nearest Marine, adding a nightstick in the poor thing's face for emphasis.
Back at Pearl Harbor, they were shoved into a room in one of the administration buildings and questioned for the rest of the night. Harold went through four teams of questioners. They all told him sodomy meant ten years in Portsmouth Naval Prison. They said they had pictures of him performing sodomy with a lot of people and if he did not talk he was going to get those ten years behind bars.
"Did you ever hear anyone discuss the plans or future operations of the U.S. Fleet?" asked his first questioner, a broad-chested Navy commander with a wide, hard pockmarked face.
"No," Harold said, wondering with a shudder if Oscar would admit telling him about the coming attack on Truk. He stuck to his story that he and Edna had been invited to what they thought was an innocent party. He denied ever having performed any homosexual acts with anyone, ever.
It was awful the way this made him feel ashamed. Not for the acts, but for the cowardice of the denial. There were times when he was tempted to scream in his questioner's sneering face, "Sure. Would you like a piece?" But Harold was intelligent enough to know that was death. He would die in Portsmouth Naval Prison with a lot more certainty than he might die if he could talk his way back aboard the Jefferson City.
Morning brought the worst humiliation yet. Lieutenant West, Commander Tombs and Captain McKay arrived to discuss their cases. The first questioner, the commander with the pockmarked face, told them the story. "In my opinion, Captain," he said to McKay, "these men are guilty as hell. They could be guilty of espionage. They're certainly guilty of sodomy. I'm sure you don't want them back aboard your ship."
"I'm not so sure of that, Commander," McKay said. "It seems to me you're railroading these men to a prison sentence without any evidence."
"I just gave you the evidence," the commander snapped.
"It isn't a crime to go to a party."
"I told you the kind of party this was."
"They claim they didn't know that."
"They're a couple of fucking liars."
"Maybe. But if you try to court-martial them, I intend to testify on their behalf. So will these two officers, their immediate superiors."
The commander glared. "I don't think Admiral Nimitz will be terribly pleased if I tell him how you people are interfering with this investigation. I want to keep these men under arrest until they talk. One of them might be able to tell us what they heard from an officer whose rank would shock you if I told you what it was. He broke away from my Marines and dove into the surf. His body washed up an hour ago."
Bert. Harold almost wept. But he was too amazed by the way the captain was defending them. It was true what Edna said, about a ship sticking together, from top to bottom. Captain McKay really cared about them simply because they were part of his crew. His men.
"That's regrettable, and deplorable, I agree," McKay said. "But I don't see why these men should have their lives ruined because an officer was desperate enough to do a thing like that to protect his reputation. You have no right to demand them as a kind of sacrifice. As far as I can see, you don't have the evidence to convict these men of anything. It's not a crime to dance with another man. British sailors do it all the time."
The commander gritted his teeth and stubbed out his hundredth cigarette of the night. "Okay. We'll release them. But if we obtain any evidence against them from the other prisoners, we'll rearrest them. If they get into any similar trouble, you can depend on it that your complicity will be noted, Captain."
"Sure, Commander, sure. You're just doing your job. I understand."
Back aboard ship, Captain McKay led them to his cabin. "All right," he said. "Let's understand each other. You two people are here under one condition. That you promise me you will never perform a homosexual act aboard this ship."
"Captain, I never have — I swear it," Edna blubbered.
"Me neither," Harold lied. "And I never will."
"What you do on the beach is your business — except in Hawaii, which is under military government. But you won't have to worry about Hawaii for a while. We're sailing tomorrow."
For Truk? For the naval battle of the century? Oh, Oscar, wherefore art thou? Harold wondered.
No matter. He had a new love to worship from afar. His captain.
Love Letters
Dear Rita:
I've spent several weeks trying to begin this letter. Now we're at sea, on the way to invade the Marshal's.
I don't know whether we can begin again after what I've said and done to you. But I would like to try, some day.
During these weeks of indecision, I've thought mostly about love — how hard it is to understand it — how easy it is to misunderstand it.
I think I've always misunderstood it. Maybe it goes back to my mother, the first woman I loved. Maybe it's part of a wider misunderstanding, which afflicts the whole race of males. I don't know.
But I do know this. For the first time I recognize the depth of your love for me. I'm afraid too often I thought of it as nagging, even as a kind of dislike. Maybe I was just too damn stubborn, too determined to be a lonely hero, making it on my own in my own perverse way. Maybe that was why I resented your advice, your concern.
You must be wondering if I've been hit on the head by an eight-inch shell. In a way, I have. I won't tell you what happened, but I've found out you were right and I was wrong about Win at Savo Island.
Not completely wrong, I should add. You could argue that with a different executive officer the thing would never have happened. Parker's cowardice exposed Win to a terrible temptation — and he yielded to it. You could also argue that Win's whole life had been a long tragic progression to that terrible moment.
You can see I still love him. He's still my friend. You'll have to understand that. Some wise man wrote that to know all is to forgive all. I don't know all, but I know enough to forgive him. I also know —as he knew—that the Navy could not forgive him. Can you forgive me? Do you know enough? Do you still care enough? I hope SO.
Your husband, Art
Dear Barbara:
There is no need to keep apologizing to me for not joining the WACS or the WAVES. Somebody in the country ought to be getting an education they can use after this interminable war finally ends. If it lasts much longer we'll have eight or ten million male ignoramuses on our hands who don't know how to do anything but shoot guns. We'll need some educated women around.
Most of the time, Bobbie, I've tried to stay out of the fights you have with your mother. That was probably a mistake. But women have mystified and confused me from birth. It may have something to do with having three older sisters. I sort of instinctively keep my distance from the female world for fear of being overwhelmed. Now I'm issuing an urgent recommendation that you sign a treaty of peace with your mother. She could use some support from a loving daughter. She and I have had a profound disagreement, in which I behaved pretty badly. I won't go into details, but we came close to breaking up. I'm trying to repair the damage, but in the meantime (or if in the long run I fail) I wish you'd let Rita know you want
to help. She's very proud and fancies she's as tough as any son of a seacook who ever walked up a gangplank, so it won't be easy. But if you can do the job, you will have made a lot bigger contribution to my personal war effort than you could ever make banging a typewriter in uniform.
With much love, Dad
Dear Martha:
We're pulling out of Pearl tomorrow. I can't tell you where we're going, naturally, but it's going to be big. I keep thinking about you all the time.
Flanagan was reading a poem to me the other day. The guy's getting queerer by the minute, with this poetry stuff. Anyway, it was about the Lady of the Lake. I said to him, Hey, Martha's my Lady of the Sound. I mean Puget Sound. It's not very poetic. Flanagan, the snob, turned up his nose at it.
Hawaii was a bore as usual. We spent most of our time swimming and drinking beer. I got a sunburn like you can't believe. If only you were around to rub some Unguentine on it. I'd rub some on you and you know what would happen next.
Jesus what a difference you've made in my life! I'm so different, I'm thinking of changing my name. How would you like to be Mrs. Roland Effingham. Or Mrs. Wilbur St. John? Or Mrs. Theodore Van Pelt? Seriously, I might want to change my name because I'm beginning to think I'll blow the Navy and try to get into something legit, like the movies. Would you like a little forty-six-room place in Beverly Hills? Stick with Jack. I'm sticking with you, Baby.
Jack
Dear Gwen:
I've been racking my brain for some way to get you to Honolulu and now it's too late. We're off to see the Wizard again. I was ecstatic to hear you'd gotten a small part in Preston Sturges's next film. He's the most talented director in Hollywood and you are perfectly suited to his kind of comedy.
If I get out of this thing in one piece, I'm beginning to think I'd like to direct instead of act. Maybe I'm just tired of taking orders and I'd like to give a few. Not to you, though. You're much too hotheaded.
At the moment, the idea of having another life beyond the war is as fanciful as another life beyond the grave. I spent most of my time in Hawaii going to a school for CIC officers. They're giving us more and more responsibility. Too bad some rank doesn't go with it.
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