Tommy

by William Illsey Atkinson

  Maddeningly, he keeps trying to wreck everything. He addresses letters to strange acronyms — cincpac, sowespac, navinfo — begging, pleading, demanding to be put in the way of sword and fire. What’s wrong with this place! she wants to shout. It’s clean, it’s pleasant, it’s safe! But she doesn’t say that. She knows it’s no use.

  Still, she thinks, there may be a way.

  Tommy, deserted in Ann Arbor, marooned and forgotten in the safest, cleanest, most prosperous place in the world, obsesses on the news. His body is in Michigan, but his heart and soul are in the South Pacific with U.S. Navy Task

  Force 58.

  In June 1942, reports begin to emerge of a massive carrier battle near Midway Island, a flyspeck halfway between somewhere and nowhere. Tommy scours papers and magazines, twiddles radios, accosts superiors and students for anything they know. He frets like a frantic lover.

  The news is fragmented and contradictory. The Imperial Japanese Navy force under Admiral Yamamoto, the man who bloodied Pearl, has launched a strike on Midway Island. Midway has fallen. No it hasn’t. American defenders under Admiral Spruance have been shattered. No they haven’t. They’ve fallen back to regroup, which is pr speak for disaster. No they haven’t. Spruance has launched an attack, several attacks. Most have failed. All have failed. Some have failed.

  Tommy sees what’s happened before the big correspondents, Cronkite and Greene, figure it out. The Midway garrison’s land-based planes have had the shit shot out of them by a better-trained enemy. The few that survive are in disarray. Wave after wave of U.S. planes, both in the air and on the ground, have been torched by the Nips’ fast fighters and anti-aircraft fire.

  At this point Spruance launches his perfectly executed counterstrike. Tommy is stunned by Spruance’s audacity. Carrier-based U.S. dive bombers catch Yamamoto’s strike force with its pants down as they negligently prepare more attacks. The Japanese planes — so far without a scratch on their paint — are fully fueled, exposed on their carriers’ decks, and stacked to the eyeballs with munitions. The U.S. flyers punch through low cloud and hit the enemy with diamond-cutter accuracy. Two Jap carriers explode and sink. Three. Four. With them go over two hundred planes. The Japanese, dripping blood, turn tail for home. The mid-Pacific will be secure for the rest of the war.

  Fast carriers: that’s the future. Fast carriers will win the war. That’s where Tommy Atkinson wants to be.

  He writes more letters.

  July 18, 1943

  On a perfect morning, Tommy rises at five and perks strong coffee. The kitchen casement is open to birdsong and sweet air. Bet has always kept banker’s hours, but lately she’s been sleeping in longer; she’s felt poorly the last two weeks and can’t say why. Tommy’s asked her to see the doctor. Later today, if she still hasn’t gone, he’ll put his foot down and insist.

  The paper lands with a thump and Tommy descends the row-house steps to fetch it. At the tiny kitchen table he sips his coffee and scans the news. MacArthur strutting for the cameras: nothing new there. Nothing new on Midway, either; hostilities are in abeyance. There’s a list of U.S. casualties, mostly aviators. A page-three headline says: Congress Slags Spruance for Not Pursuing Japs.

  Tommy rolls his eyes. Hail congressmen! Feel free to fly your fat butts and frosted hair out to the Pacific and bomb Yamamoto with empty bourbon bottles! Spruance has won an overwhelming victory. He was lucky, but with the luck that comes to the brilliant and prepared. If he’d run westward he’d have stretched his supply lines another five thousand miles and left himself open to riposte. And then these same fat congressmen would want his head for recklessness.

  By six o’clock Tommy has drained his cup, washed up, and slipped out the door. He grows a skewed grin, wondering what kind of fool would want out of a college town whose gravest crimes are panty raids. Everything’s in bloom, every garden and window box spills color, and he’s doing his best to escape it. Know thyself, Dr. Gibb advised, but Tommy is beyond his own comprehension.

  He strides past the library’s stone lions to his office building, nods to the guard, takes the stairs two at a time, and walks along an empty hall, brogues clicking on dark hardwood. The quadrangle carillon chimes six-fifteen, as it does every morning when he enters his office. Tommy removes his hat and coat and hangs them behind his door. Turns. Stares stupidly at a dark-haired Navy Lieutenant Junior Grade who sits and twirls in Tommy’s desk chair. It’s George Carrington Mason the Fourth.

  My God, says Tommy. It’s you.

  Last time I looked. How are you?

  Good! It’s good to see you! Feathers has sprung up and their hands are going like wash-pump handles.

  What in heaven’s name are you doing here? says Tommy. Then a thought strikes him. There’s a guard back there. How did you get in?

  Allow a simple man his mysteries, says Feathers, grinning.

  I’m serious, Carrington. Did you shinny up the drainpipe?

  In a sense. The cultural drainpipe, which serves me as trees do orangutans.

  What?

  I used my charm. You can master guards and other domestic animals if you don’t show fear.

  So you brazened?

  Brazenly. What’s your guard’s name, Lewis? Lewis is convinced I’m on a secret mission for the White House.

  You told him that?

  I implied that. He can think what he likes as long as he lets me in.

  Tommy laughs. You still haven’t told me what brings you here.

  Materially, Mother’s Dusenberg. Morally, my duty to the Republic. Spiritually, a desire to see my best friend. And officially, orders. Sir! Feathers takes a folded document from his jacket’s inside pocket and tenders it to Tommy with a crack of heels. Tommy tears it open and reads.

  Hereby requested and required . . . Assigned to the Naval Instruction Unit at the University of Michigan . . . Good God, Feathers. I don’t have you in my class, do I? I needn’t try to teach you anything?

  Set your mind at ease, sir. You’ve coached me, you know I’m far too dense for spherical trigonometry. I’m a trainee over at met across the quad. Reams of stats, but I had an excellent prof for that at mit.

  Tommy looks puzzled. You, you idiot, says Feathers. You idiot, sir.

  Weather prediction? Good choice. If the weather doesn’t do what you want, it’s different from everything else on Earth. When do you start?

  This morning. What can you tell me about the C.O. here?

  Cassidy? Fine man. Friendly, smart, experienced. The two of you will get along fine. Just don’t break too many rules. Speaking of which, don’t you find our naval regulations . . .

  Chafing? Disconcerting? Insulting? You assume that I, the dissolute spawn of wealth and leisure, am unused to rules? Not so! The Four Hundred have imprisoned every eventuality, real, imaginary, and impossible, within an immense and staggeringly detailed book, the Codex Asinorum. It’s ten times the size of Navy regs. Worse, it’s not even printed. Entirely understood, you see. That’s why it’s damn near impossible — correction, utterly impossible — for anyone outside our little village of cross-eyed interbreeders to figure it out. I mean, Tommy, you can look up Navy regs. You can learn how to wipe your ass in a manner approved by the U.S. Navy, set forth in black and white. Us, now, we rich bastards, we’re not like that — honest, fair, respecting no persons. We respect persons. In fact that’s all we respect, besides money. That’s also why we never write anything down. Either you’re one of us and you know, or you’re not one of us and you don’t know. And then there’s the biconditional. How do you know you’re one of us? You just know. And how do you know you’re not one of us? You just don’t know. So those of us who know, know we know. And those who don’t know, don’t know that they don’t know. But us, now, we know that they don’t know, those unknowing ones. Whereas even though they know we know we know, or at least they suspect so, they still don’t know we know that t
hey don’t know. Because that’s the most critical part of what they don’t know: their not knowing about their not knowing. See what I mean?

  Tommy stares. I have, he says, no idea what in the hinges of Hell you are talking about.

  Feathers claps his hands in delight. Wonderful, sir! As you have so perspicaciously understood, the intent of the Four Hundred is not to be understood. A-ny-way, there’s this vast welter of cabalistic stuff, this immense rulebook, that’s all hidden. It doesn’t even exist in material form. To be merely hidden, it would first have to exist. And it doesn’t. It’s floating out beyond the orbit of Pluto, in the ether, like the fairies at the bottom of the garden. Don’t follow me? Here’s how it works. Say some nouveau-riche is eaten up by envy of our inner circle. He tries to breach our bastion. This is not conjecture — thousands of these nitwits are attempting it as we speak. Our exemplar spends like a Marine on shore leave. He opens his treasure chest and fairly broadcasts coin. He goes to the priciest tailors and outfitters and yacht manufacturers and real-estate brokers and interior decorators and etiquette advisors and dialogue coaches — yes, they do that — and dolls himself up to perfection. Takes sailing lessons till he’s seasick and his hands bleed from the coffeegrinders and sheets. Months later, he figures he’s ready to storm the gates. He ties up his fifty-foot ketch at Passaquannet, steps onto the dock, and prepares to dazzle his way into social heaven. And two hours later he crawls back aboard his shiny new yacht with his tail between his legs, wondering why no one in that whole community would even catch his eye. Do you know why, Lieutenant Commander?

  Tommy shakes his head, stunned.

  Because his shoes were new, says Feathers. Unwritten Rule Number 3,446,822-1c-r4229-a: Each boat shoe must at all times show wear, specifically: (1) rubber surfaces shall show dock stain and boat paint; (2) fabric shall be scuffed; (3) each shoe shall have more than two but fewer than five holes; (3a) each of said holes shall in size be larger than a dime but smaller than a one-cent piece. And the poor bugger never knew that. Never guessed that, never observed that. And of course none of us ever told him that. Because, you see, he wasn’t one of us. Because if he had been, he would have known.

  You, says Tommy slowly, are going to fit the Navy like a sideboy’s glove.

  Tommy’s running. He hasn’t run since plebe year, when he ran so much he vowed he’d never so much as walk fast for the rest of his life. But he has to get home, he has to tell Bet. He bursts through his front door, finds her doing dishes, picks her up by the waist and swings her through the air.

  Careful! Careful! What are you doing!

  Guess what, honey! I have great news!

  Put me down, Arch! I have news for you. And it trumps yours.

  Tommy sets her on her feet, stands looking at her. She smoothes her apron, smiles, gleams, glows. You, she says, are going to be a daddy.

  There is a long silence. When, Tommy says.

  First week in February. You don’t look happy.

  I’m . . . Tommy waves a hand. Bet, I just got fleet orders. navinfo sent a teletype this morning. I’m seconded to a new fast carrier, Independence class. USS Bataan. She’s outfitting in New Jersey and I’m ordered aboard for shakedown the instant she’s commissioned. I’m 2ic navigation.

  Bet looks stricken. When?

  November sometime. Probably mid-month.

  November. November this year.

  Yes, in New Jersey. Look, I’ll show you the town first. New York!

  Before you go away, you mean.

  Well. Yes.

  You wouldn’t want to stay? The birth of your first child?

  Bet, Bet! Of course I want to stay! But orders are orders. And it’s wartime so they’re really orders.

  You could apply for compassionate leave.

  When I’ve been angling for active service for the last eighteen months? How far do you think I’ll go in the Navy after that? Even if they grant me leave I’ll be dead in the water. Stuck here for good.

  Stuck in Ann Arbor. Stuck with me and your child.

  Tommy looks at her.

  You could refuse the posting, she says.

  Bet. I signed the papers half an hour ago. It’s done.

  Come in, Tommy, says Captain Cassidy. Scotch, as I recall?

  Tommy rolls his hat in his hand. Better not, sir. This is official.

  Then I’ll make it an order. Scotch?

  Yessir. Double, please. No ice. Thank you.

  Cassidy subsides into a worn armchair, motions Tommy to its mate. Your lead, he says. You said you had an issue.

  Yessir. I don’t know if it’s a moral issue or a personal one.

  The big issues are both.

  Well sir, it’s like this. You know I’ve been happy here.

  I’m delighted to hear it, it certainly seems that way. Go on.

  And I know I’ve done good work, important work —

  The best, Tommy. I’ve never had a nav instructor half as good. The kids think you walk on water and I agree.

  Thank you, sir. But I’ve always hankered to, well, get out there.

  There? Where? But Cassidy knows.

  Battle, sir. The front. If there’s a front at sea.

  Cassidy emits a long sigh. You won’t rest until you’re being shot at.

  I suppose not, sir. Seems like my duty.

  And you got your wish. I saw the flimsy this morning. We’re going to miss you, Tommy.

  Yes, sir. Afraid that’s the problem. Tommy mauls his hat.

  Cassidy pours a refill. Why not just go? Why bend my ear?

  Well, sir, it’s Bet.

  She’s pregnant, Cassidy says. Tommy stares at him.

  Jean told me yesterday, says Cassidy. You and I wouldn’t guess but some women sense these things. You just found out?

  Yes, sir. Right after I’d countersigned my orders for Bataan.

  And your wife wants you to stay. Of course she does. That’s what I’d want to do in her shoes. What do your orders say? Explicitly.

  Tommy pulls out a sheaf of papers. Attend at the discretion of your superiors, the final outfitting of USS Bataan

  . . . Present at her commissioning 17 November 1943 . . . Report for duty 18 November 1943 to Captain Valentine Schaeffer and per said Captain to Commander J. Kraweski, icnav . . . Assist sea trials immediately following ship’s commissioning.

  Cassidy sips. What does Bet want you to do? Compassionate leave, I suppose.

  Yessir.

  And you told her . . . ?

  That avoiding orders, especially ones I’d grubbed for, would ground me for the duration. If it didn’t get me court-martialed first.

  Ground, interesting word. Grounded here in Ann Arbor. Condemned to health and comfort and safety.

  Um, yes. Yes, sir.

  Lieutenant Commander Atkinson, answer me one question. Where do you yourself think your duty lies?

  Not sure, sir.

  And that’s why you’re here.

  Sir.

  Cassidy refills their glasses again, sits back down. People say they’re unsure when they really are sure, he says. They’re just scared to announce the decision. What’s your take here, Tommy? Your gut feeling?

  Torn, sir. I want to stay with my wife and baby. My first child. But also I want to guard them against people who want to hurt them. I want to avoid letting down my classmates and friends. I don’t know what to do.

  And you want me to decide for you? Give you orders? Take it off your hands?

  No, sir, not that. Just . . . guide me, I guess. Remind me what my priorities are.

  Cassidy gets up, paces. Jesus, Tommy, this is the worst thing. You’re like a son to me, you know that? You don’t. So what do I do? Send you into the thick of battle like Uriah the Hittite, here’s your weapon and good luck to you? Or keep you close and make your family
happy and break your heart in five years’ time when your friends return triumphant?

  Cassidy rubs his eyes. Okay, try this. As your C.O. I give you compassionate leave till your kid arrives. Not an exemption, a postponement — say, seven, eight months. I’ll tell bupers you can’t be replaced immediately, which, as I think about it, is true. Till then you stay here and crank out ninety-day wonders. Make flying visits to your new ship, attend her commissioning, go on her shakedown. But be based here till your child arrives. Is Feathers still piloting that land-based fighter of his?

  The Dusenberg? Far as I know, sir. He totaled his Buick last year.

  I’ve heard rumors he made Manhattan in ten hours. That’s damn near as fast as a plane. He can chauffeur you back East. That suit you?

  Fine by me, sir. It might not suit Feathers. He’s seeing some local ladies.

  My God! Mason can boink his broads in New York. Best marks in Met, too. They say camouflage is a sign of intelligence . . . Okay, that’s settled. Most likely Bataan won’t be fully ready before next March, but the instant she is, you’re aboard for the duration. Suit you?

  Tommy mulls it over. Then: Yes, sir. It’s a good compromise.

  This is it, mind. No coming back to me. You’re clear on everything.

  Tommy swallows. Clear, sir. That’s an order?

  Damn right it is. Now go home to that pretty little wife of yours. Tell her you’ll be with her through the birth.

  Tommy stands, salutes, knocks off his scotch. Walks out, conflicted.

  She knew, he thinks. She tried to keep me here.

  Sir? Shouldn’t you be in the back seat?

  It’s a sweltering day in mid-Pennsylvania and the Dusie’s top is down. Tommy’s catatonic from the heat. His tie is off, his shirt is open, and he’s tied a handkerchief around his head in vain resistance to the sun. At Annapolis his appearance would earn him a century of demerits. By contrast, Feathers looks dapper in dress whites, his jacket buttoned and his officer’s hat at the regulation angle, and has yet to break a sweat.

  The back seat? Tommy asks.

  I’m your driver, sir, remember? You’re the passenger, the cargo, the vip. You should be back there reveling in the adoration of the commoners. Hitler does it. Goering does it. Even Uncle Dougie does it.