The Lonely War

by Alan Chin

  Hudson’s matter-of-fact tone proved that he knew what had taken place, but Andrew was sure that he didn’t do it himself. Andrew’s lips tightened into a frown as he wondered if the whole crew knew about the violation. He had assumed it was the act of a single person, but now he was not so sure. Are they all in on it?

  “Say, Andy,” Grady said, “can you play any jazz on that thing?”

  Andrew realized that Grady was trying to divert his attention away from the scorn. He patted Grady on the shoulder and gave him a grateful nod. “I was raised in a French school. The French love good jazz even more than good wine.”

  “Can you play ‘Swinging Shepherd Blues’?”

  Andrew raised the flute and blew while Grady sang in a low smoky voice, as if they were in a neighborhood speakeasy surrounded by friends. “In a mountain pass there is a patch of grass where the swingin’ shepherd plays his tune….” Grady was hardly a professional singer, Andrew thought, but his voice gave a soulful feeling to the music. Fingers snapped and toes tapped the deck. “His sheep never stray, dancin’ all day till they see the pale and yellow moon….”

  Stokes threw his cards on the table and jumped up. He seductively swayed his hips as his feet carried him around the room. All the sailors smiled as he passed their table—all, that is, except Hudson.

  Kelso struck a feminine pose, batting his eyelashes and poofing up his hair like a brash schoolgirl. Wolf whistles soared as Stokes danced over and took Kelso in his arms. As they twirled around the room, onlookers cheered each difficult move and whistled at every lewd gesture.

  “Wail on, shepherd, let it echo through the hills….”

  As Andrew played, he kept an eye on every man in the room. Kelso and Stokes performed their lewd boogie, others returned to their card games and writing letters. Hudson, having lost his audience, frowned.

  Andrew noticed Smitty, the redheaded coxswain who had stared him down in the whaleboat. He skulked toward the hatch with his head bent, and disappeared through it.

  Andrew had only been aboard a day, but that was enough time to notice that most of the enlisted crew had a talent for expressing obscenities. Smitty, however, managed to squeeze the word “fuck” into every sentence. If he felt particularly good or particularly frustrated, he used the word three or four times per sentence. That didn’t make him guilty, but Andrew now had a particular feeling about him.

  Andrew and Grady performed three more tunes before calling it quits. The men groaned, wanting more.

  “If you play like that,” Stokes said, slapping Andrew on the shoulder, “you must have some Louisiana bayou blood in you somewhere.”

  “Yeah,” Hudson said, and spat on the deck. “He ain’t your regular kind of chink.”

  A muffled, pinging noise sounded overhead, making everyone look up. A collective sigh propagated through the hall. The squall that had crawled toward the ship all day had finally overtaken them and engulfed the ship with rain.

  The men, one after another, piled through the hatchway and ran to their lockers. Andrew was last to leave. He climbed through the hatch and stepped into the cooler temperatures brought on by the squall. Heavy raindrops stuck his face.

  Rain. The clean scent of it reached into Andrew’s lungs and lifted his heart. Yes, he thought, even this steel hell has an element as pure as rain. He tilted his face up and opened his mouth, gathering a mouthful of freshness.

  The wind drove sheets of water against the ship, rainfall so heavy that Andrew couldn’t see the shoreline or the other ships at anchor. Even in that protected bay, the Pilgrim rocked like a native woman’s hips as she meandered along the beach. Outside the reef, on the open sea, white, foamy jets leaped into the air.

  Turning forward, Andrew saw most of the crew grouped together on the quarterdeck, bathing naked in the wild rain. Waves broke across the deck, hurling seawater over their ankles as the ship pitched side to side. They scrubbed themselves from scalp to toes while leaning into the wind-driven rain.

  They all had deeply tanned faces and arms, but their bodies glowed a pale white; all except Hudson, who had an apelike pelt covering his chest, back, shoulders and legs.

  Andrew smiled boyishly at the sight of eighty naked men drenched in lather and rain. He ran to his locker, ripped off his clothes, and grabbed his cake of Lifebuoy soap. On deck, the rain buffeted his amber skin with force. He felt reluctant to join the others, but he saw Grady on the fringe of the bathers and rushed to stand beside him.

  A joyous excitement animated the party, as if the men were all happily drunk. Swept up in the energy, Andrew surprised himself by laughing out loud.

  He turned away from the crowd to let Grady scrub his back, and there, above him, stood Mitchell under the bridge awning. Their eyes locked through the slashing rain. Mitchell leaned over the bulwarks, raindrops soaking his head.

  Andrew felt a strong urge to cover his nakedness. The feeling grew until he finally turned around, but he still felt the officer’s gaze on his backside. He waited a minute before turning to see Mitchell still staring at him. Only when several bathers moved between him and Mitchell, swallowing Andrew in the crowd, did Mitchell walk inside the wheelhouse, where he was protected from the storm.

  The setting sun momentarily broke below the cloud cover and the light caused the raindrops to gleam silver. Andrew inhaled sharply and held his breath. The men seemed to dance in liquid light. The sight of the crew being pelted with silver droplets caused him to exhale slowly.

  As the squall passed, Andrew darted to his locker, toweled off, pulled on clean skivvies, and stared up at his bunk. They were stacked five high and his was the top one. Only eighteen inches of space separated the mattress and overhead, allowing him roughly the same space as a coffin.

  To maneuver into his slot, he had to fling his body seven feet in the air, up and sideways at the same time. He missed by six inches with his first two leaps, but managed to land on fresh-laundered sheets his third.

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the overhead, twelve inches above his nose. A woman’s genial brown eyes gazed at him. Taped to the overhead was a picture of a Vargas pinup girl ripped from an issue of Argosy magazine. He grinned as he studied her wavy hairdo and shapely legs. He carefully peeled the picture from the overhead, folded it in half, in half again, and let it drop to the deck, knowing that a crewmember would find and treasure it.

  Andrew listened for the sound of rain battering the ship, but the storm had passed and he only heard the crew, setting up cots along the main deck. The murmur of their conversations echoed through the night air. Careless bursts of laughter peppered with obscenities soared above the steady rumble of voices.

  Because the men slept on deck, he and Grady had the compartment to themselves. He was not sleepy. He simply wanted to lie in his allotted space and relish the sensation of being perfectly clean. A breeze drifted through the open portholes and he focused on the sensation of air moving over his skin.

  His mind wandered through the day’s events and he envisioned that smile on Lieutenant Mitchell’s face. He smiled back at the image. Mitchell winked at him and he winked too. The image leaned closer and Andrew lifted his hand to caress that sunburnt cheek. He fantasized the officer leaning closer to kiss him. He could almost feel those lips touching his, and he laughed at himself.

  He indulged in this reverie for another half minute before letting the image evaporate. It is enough, he thought. On this killing machine, it is enough to lie on crisp sheets and caress the memory of Mitchell, enough to anticipate the next time I’ll see him.

  His mind gravitated into nothingness and he floated in a comfortable dimension of no thoughts, no fears, no hopes, and no disappointments. A half hour later he drifted into sleep.

  When the dream came, he was a boy again, reliving a memory. He and his schoolmates followed Master Jung-Wei through a rainforest. The boys wore the traditional saffron robes and shaved heads of acolytes. Master Jung-Wei was thin and bald, and his ivory-colored eyebrows were perch
ed high on his wrinkled face.

  Clifford Baldrich marched at the end of the line. He was Andrew’s only friend and the only pure European in the school. His father was a diplomat with the British consulate in Saigon. Clifford was pale, and his angelic face swept below his silky brush of blond eyebrows.

  They hiked along a path that led to a clearing on a mountain slope. Andrew saw their destination below: nestled beside a lake at the base of the mountain sat the Bai Hur Sze Temple, where he would spend the summer months between school terms. The clutch of red-roofed buildings looked like an illusion floating between the azure lake and the fiery mountains of Siam. Gliding above the lake were hundreds of the cranes that made the monastery famous.

  When Long-Jin, the oldest acolyte, spotted the cranes, he began his favorite game of poking fun at Clifford. He teased Clifford that his hair was the same color as a crane’s feathers. Laughter burst from the other boys as Long-Jin scrunched up his elongated face, set between two enormous ears, and imitated a birdcall.

  “Fly here, bird-boy,” Long-Jin shouted. “Stretch your neck and fly to the treetops, bird-boy.”

  Clifford’s face reddened and he tried to respond, but he was too flustered. All he could do was stutter the first syllable of his defense, which sent the boys into fits of hysteria.

  Andrew stepped between the two boys and gave Long-Jin a cold stare. “You taunt Clifford because you’re jealous of his beauty.” Long-Jin’s face drooped as Andrew added, “Although it’s true that your looks are ordinary, you shouldn’t feel ashamed of your snout-like nose and elephant ears.”

  “A half caste’s opinion is like farting in the wind,” Long-Jin snarled. “It stinks for a moment and blows away, leaving nothing.”

  Andrew continued, unfazed. “I would gladly have a bird’s white feathers and graceful body.”

  “Andrew.” Master Jung-Wei’s penetrating voice turned every head. “I shall call you, Lingtse,” the master told Andrew. “Ling meaning spirit and Tse meaning stone. For I can see that you are destined to become one of the Pebble People.”

  Andrew had never heard of the Pebble People, but he nodded as if he knew them well. His pride swelled as the other boys exchanged questioning glances, but his curiosity refused to stay silent, and he finally asked, “Master, who are the Pebble People?”

  A smile broke across the monk’s face. “Throw a pebble into a still pond and what happens? Ripples. Waves move across the surface in all directions. You are a person who, when placed in any situation, will cause waves and bring change to everything.”

  “Master, you name me after a tiny pebble?”

  “You hold the essence of the Pebble People. That is your nature. Whether you are small and make ripples or huge as a mountain and make a tsunami depends on how you live your life.”

  The monk bent and randomly selected a stone lying beside the path. He popped it into his mouth to wet it and spat it onto the palm of his hand. “See what happens when the pebble gets thrown into a pond.”

  They all leaned forward and stared. Glistening with saliva, the stone looked polished. Andrew saw that the small gray mass was intricately marbled with fine blue lines and had golden specks imbedded throughout that sparkled in the sunlight.

  “Keep watching,” the monk said.

  The sun’s rays dried the pebble, transforming it into an ordinary gray stone.

  “Is that good?” Andrew asked.

  “What is good and what is bad I cannot say. We all have Chi, and when we focus our Chi it reveals our nature. We can bend our Chi to achieve any purpose. Lingtse, you must be careful how you use your Chi because it has such a disruptive quality.”

  Andrew wondered if this was a gift or a curse. He glanced at Clifford and decided he would prefer being a lovely crane gliding above a lake rather than a dusty stone lying along a path. He spread his arms, pretending that they were limber wings, and ran along the path with his arms rhythmically gliding up and down. Right on his heels, Clifford mimicked Andrew’s arm movements while laughing with wild delight.

  In his sleep, Andrew smiled. The dream faded, and once again he floated in emptiness.

  Chapter Eight

  April 18, 1942—2330 hours

  NIGHT descended with only the glimmer of stars to disturb the inky sky, and with night came the long and lonely watches. Andrew drifted in a light slumber. He had no sooner submerged into deep unconsciousness than he felt a tug on his shoulder.

  “Eleven-thirty, sailor. You’ve got the twelve-to-four bridge watch.”

  Andrew rolled over.

  Another tug. “On your feet, sailor. And wake up the XO on your way to the bridge.”

  Andrew yawned, smiled. He jumped to the deck, tottering about on unsteady legs while he climbed into his dungarees. He hurried to the galley and made coffee for the relief watch.

  Stokes and eight others gathered around the urn, all looking as tired and jagged as Andrew felt. Over coffee, they traded glances but not words. Andrew ignored their truculent stares. He filled another mug and weaved through the corridor heading toward officer’s country, drawing aside the curtain that served as a door to Mitchell’s quarters.

  Red light from the passageway infiltrated the cabin. Andrew saw that the room was an iron cube seven feet long and slightly wider. Against one bulkhead rested a narrow desk piled high with naval publications, files tucked in manila envelopes, and a stack of freshly laundered khakis. Above the desk and running the length of the room was a metal shelf supporting a platoon of books standing at attention. Andrew brought his face to within inches of the book spines so he could read the authors; Joyce, Eliot, Proust, and Shakespeare were all he could make out in the weak light.

  Nestled against the other bulkhead and crouching low to the deck was the bunk that cradled the sleeping lieutenant. Mitchell lay on his side, with no blanket. He wore skivvies with his name stenciled above the curve of his butt, and also a T-shirt that stretched across his chest, showing the imprint of his pecs and his bullet-shaped nipples. Mitchell looked rumpled and peaceful, angelic.

  Andrew touched Mitchell’s arm, gently shaking the officer until his eyes opened. He stretched languorously, like an old house cat, and yawned while slipping a hand up under his T-shirt to stroke his midriff. The sight of that triangle of pale waist with the soft trail of hair flowing down from his bellybutton doubled Andrew’s heart rate.

  “Time for your watch, sir,” Andrew said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “I’ve brought some coffee.” He stood frozen as the officer sat up.

  Mitchell’s face was streaked with two red lines caused by creases on his pillowcase, and his disheveled hair stood out at rakish angles. He seemed more human now than in sleep.

  “Thanks, Andy,” he said, taking the mug. He sipped and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. He set the mug on the desk and grabbed his trousers. “That’ll be all, Andy.”

  “Yes, sir.” Andrew was surprised that, in the privacy of the lieutenant’s quarters, Mitchell had called him by his nickname. Only Clifford had called him that. Even his father called him Andrew.

  ANDREW glided through the corridor leading to the bridge, following Mitchell, Stokes, and Ogden. The bridge, like the entire inside of the ship, was illuminated with dim red light rather than white to keep from being seen by enemy planes and ships.

  Ogden positioned himself next to the captain’s chair. Stokes took his post at the port railing, lifting his binoculars to scan the dark water for any sign of another ship, and Andrew did the same on the starboard side. Mitchell relieved Ensign Fisher, who reported the current status: all quiet. That done, Mitchell ambled to the operations desk and wrote an entry into the Rough Logbook.

  “How about that Doolittle?” Fisher said. “Bet that put the fear of God into those yellow bastards.”

  Mitchell bestowed an arid smile on Fisher before scanning the darkness beyond the bow. He said, “I would love to have seen Hirohito’s face while the bombs were falling. That SOB must have shit his drawers, th
inking he might be next.”

  Fisher slapped Mitchell’s shoulder as he headed for the hatch. “You have the bridge, Mr. Mitchell.” He smiled. “And yes, it would be great to see that murdering bastard get what he deserves.”

  Hearing the officers’ comments, Andrew felt the hot knife of indignation slide into his gut. He tilted his binoculars upward to scan the starlit sky. Through the firmament and beyond the myriad of familiar shapes—the Hunter, the Bear, the Pleiades—and even beyond the dim specks from the most distant stars, he surveyed the darkest regions of the unknown. His mind emptied and he felt himself become the unknown until a voice echoed in his head.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the voice said, sounding vaguely like his own. “My father had business dealings with the Japanese government for twenty years and he knew quite a bit about the Emperor. He said that Hirohito is a pure man, free of all vanity and pride, and he is only concerned with the well-being of the Japanese people.”

  Andrew knew he’d trampled on military etiquette, but his indignation had forced him to speak.

  Mitchell stared at Andrew.

  Stokes’s fingers tightened on the railing in front of him and he held his breath. An immediate sense of danger gripped the air. Andrew had vaulted over that gulf that separated enlisted men from officers, and he hung suspended over that chasm, Icarus-like, soaring too close to the sun. Stokes let out his breath, unable to hold it any longer.

  “You’re suggesting that the Japanese supreme leader is an honorable man? Pure?” Mitchell said. “He slaughtered a million Chinese and bombed Pearl Harbor! The man’s a fanatic, no better than Hitler.”

  Andrew stepped closer to Mitchell, drawn by the timbre of the man’s voice. He knew Mitchell should have reprimanded him for expressing a personal opinion, so Mitchell must have been intrigued by his statement. That bolstered his courage and allowed him to continue.

  “Sir, the Japanese people regard Hirohito as a god, a deity. He does not rule Japan, he reigns over it, which means he abstains from politics. From everything that I’ve heard, he loves and guides his people with compassion, much like the Buddha. I believe that the resolution for war came from the military-controlled government, not Hirohito.”