The Lonely War

by Alan Chin

  The crane flashed its slender wings and disappeared, while the boys splashed into the lake empty-handed.

  The shock of frigid water felt exhilarating, and laughter spilled from their lips. They hauled themselves to their feet and realized their robes were now soaked and befouled with mud. They sloshed to shore and removed their robes, spread them along the bank to dry. They lay side by side on the bank to let the sun warm their bodies.

  “Will you become a monk?” Andrew asked.

  “Na-na-na-no. I-I-I-I’m going to fly airplanes across the sky. Ha-ha-how about you?”

  Andrew thought for a moment. “If I were a monk, I could study the scriptures and play my flute all day long. But I want to be a mountain climber. I’m going to scale Everest.”

  “Lingtse and White Crane, up to no good it seems. How did your robes become soiled?” Master Jung-Wei had walked up without a sound and now stood above them, his shadow falling over their pale bodies.

  Andrew dropped his eyes. “Master, we fell into the lake trying to catch a crane.”

  “It is not desirable to possess a crane,” Master Jung-Wei said with a sagacious nod. “That brings unhappiness to the bird and unnecessary responsibility to the boy. If you wish to have a crane, be a crane.”

  Clifford’s laughter sparkled. “Ha-ha-ha-how can a boy be a crane?”

  “The essence of the bird is within you. You carry the same fundamental nature of every living creature. Within you are the saint and the murderer, the crane and the swine, the butterfly and the serpent. All these possibilities lie within your being.” He paused, as if to let silence underscore his words. “You must choose which you will be and walk that path one step at a time.”

  Andrew sat up, crossed his legs, and arched his back. His eyes narrowed in fierce concentration as he spread his arms like wings and imagined himself floating on currents of air high above the lake. Silence engulfed him. His only sensation was the cool morning breeze on his skin. There on the ground by the lake, for Andrew Waters, the universe seemed to fold in on itself. It came to him in a flash of knowing, all the master’s lessons. He truly was a perfect, unlimited life force, bound only by his own thoughts. A shock of joy shivered through him as he felt the weightlessness of flight, lifting… lifting… and for an instant, he was a glorious crane.

  Andrew was shaken out of his dream.

  “Look alive, sailor, you’ve got the watch.”

  It was his last midnight-to-four watch before reaching the island, and his last chance for reconciliation with Mitchell. He untied his restraining ropes and immediately became airborne. He hit the steel deck with a thud and tumbled into the line of lockers. Dressing was a wild affair, like pulling on clothes while riding a rodeo bull, but Andrew crawled into his uniform, life vest, and watch cap in only a few jarring minutes. He sloshed through the corridors to the galley, where he made an urn of coffee. When the coffee was brewed, he poured a mug, placed a saucer over the top, and stumbled through the ship to Mitchell’s cabin.

  Andrew scratched on Mitchell’s curtain door, but there was no answer. He drew the curtain aside and stepped into the cabin. The room was as orderly as always. Books were jammed on the shelf. A wooden hanger held a uniform to a wall hook, neat, pressed, and ready to cover the lieutenant’s body. It swayed out from the wall with each roll of the ship and swung back flush, like a clock’s pendulum measuring time.

  Ropes held Mitchell to his mattress. Andrew took a moment to admire the sleeping form before shaking the officer’s shoulder.

  Mitchell was slow to wake because he taken phenobarbital in order to sleep. He finally opened his eyes and stared up. He lifted his left arm and glanced at his wristwatch.

  “I brought some coffee, sir. Do you need help getting those ropes off?”

  “I can do it,” Mitchell said with a drug-blurred voice.

  Mitchell unstrapped himself. He wore only his skivvies, and two angry red welts lashed across his skin where the ropes had held him, one across his chest, the other across his legs. Mitchell rolled out of bed and took the coffee. He gazed into Andrew’s bruised face, as if searching for something to say, but there was only the awkward hush that towered between them like a stone wall.

  Mitchell sipped his coffee. “Thanks, Andy. I’ll be with you in a minute,” he croaked. He opened his mouth to say more, but before he could, Andrew ducked behind the curtain door.

  Andrew heard a muffled, “Shit,” on the other side of the curtain.

  Five minutes later, Andrew followed the lieutenant onto the red-lit bridge.

  “Barometer’s holding steady at 29.32,” Fisher said. “The wind is at force seven.” He stood with his elbow hooked through the side of the captain’s chair. “Storm’s one hundred and twenty-five miles due west. We’re riding her ass pretty tight.”

  Andrew relieved the watch at the port side of the wheelhouse. A northeasterly wind whined through the guy wires and heeled the Pilgrim over each time she rolled to starboard. Horizontal lines of rain blew across the bow and drummed into the pilothouse windows. Andrew peered into the blackness, but it was impossible to see anything but the white spray flying over the bow.

  Mitchell relieved Fisher, made a log entry, and checked the latest movement of the storm on the charts. After verifying that everything was as it should be, he staggered to the window and stood two feet from Andrew, staring out to sea.

  Andrew’s mind groped for words of reconciliation, but he couldn’t think of how to restore the rapport they had once shared. The one relationship they still had was the rigid naval code. It was a fine thread binding them.

  They stood for thirty silent minutes. Mitchell checked the barometer, made a log entry, returned to Andrew’s side, all perfectly quiescent.

  Ogden’s eyebrows rose as he clasped the engine room telegraph with both hands. He leaned toward Stokes. “Hell’s bells, what’s up with those two?”

  Stokes had his legs spread wide for balance. His hands gripped the wheel and his eyes were glued to the gyrocompass. “Beats me. They haven’t said a word since Papeete. The lieutenant is probably still sore about the fight.”

  A mountainous wave broke over the bridge and buffeted the ship far over to starboard. Andrew tumbled to his hands and knees while the others tossed about, clutching for handholds.

  “Hard left rudder,” Mitchell yelled. “Chief, have Baker ballast all empty tanks.”

  “About Goddamn time,” Ogden said to Stokes. He grabbed at the phone and buzzed the fire room. “Chief, flood your empty tanks, on the double.”

  Sweat beaded on Mitchell’s upper lip. As he helped Andrew to his feet, he seemed to grope for something to say, but Andrew beat him to it.

  “Will she founder, sir? Are we going to make it?”

  “All our hatches are sealed and our engines are pumping out over thirty thousand horse power. As long as our screws keep turning, we’ll be fine. This is not as dangerous as going ashore with the marines. That’s what you should be worried about.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. I get sick to my stomach every time I think about it.”

  “You can change your mind. You’re more valuable aboard the Pilgrim.”

  “I caused that marine’s death. It’s my karma to replace him. Besides, I can’t be responsible for any more deaths. Next time it could be you.”

  “I can’t lose you, don’t you see?” Mitchell hissed, loud enough for only Andrew to hear.

  “No, I don’t see. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying—” His words trailed off. He couldn’t voice what was on his tongue, not even to himself.

  Sensing that Mitchell still cared for him, Andrew’s anxiety fell away. A sensation of exhilaration swelled up in him, from being in a dangerous situation and suddenly feeling unafraid.

  Kelso stumbled into the pilothouse. “Another storm warning, sir.” He lunged for the captain’s chair with one hand and held out a radio message to Mitchell with the other.

  Mitchell read the message. He staggered to the
chart table, picked up the dividers and a pencil, and made some calculations. He jotted another entry into the ship’s log before joining Andrew once again.

  “Hundred twenty-five miles due west. We should be clear of it sometime late tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to seeing the sun again,” Andrew said. “Funny what we take for granted.”

  Mitchell draped his right arm over Andrew’s shoulder. “I’ve taken you for granted,” he whispered. “Now that I’m losing you, I realize how special you are to this ship, and to me.”

  A wave of dizziness hit Andrew and his knees weakened as he felt their friendship germinating again. For the first time in four days, he felt happy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  April 28, 1942—0200 hours

  ON THE fourth night out from Bora Bora, Andrew’s exhaustion catapulted him into a deep and dreamless sleep that did much to restore his strength. At 0200 hours, Lt. Hurlburt tugged on his shoulder, telling him it was time to gear up. Andrew stirred and, opening his eyes, had the most peculiar sensation; his bunk gently rocked back and forth. The compartment rode comparatively smoothly, and the only sound was the rumble of the engines.

  He untied the ropes holding him to the mattress, bounded out of bed, and pulled on his borrowed marine outfit—green T-shirt and skivvies, fatigues, combat boots. But before pulling on his over-gear, he removed the shoestrings from his Navy boondockers and tied them together, then he tied the shoestrings to both ends of his flute and slung it across his back, carrying it under his green jacket like a hunting bow.

  His loose-fitting clothes felt awkward. He took a moment to reconsider his decision, and chased the thought away with a shake of his head. He climbed into a life vest, cinched the straps tight, and covered his head with a metal helmet. The helmet, like his borrowed fatigues, was too big—the front edge dropped down over his eyes. He had to tilt his head back in order to see straight ahead.

  On deck, he saw the sea running slightly rough with long ground swells. The sky pressed low with a blanket of gray clouds. He felt a peculiar quality in the blackness that surrounded him.

  Now that the storm had passed, most of the men slept topside on cots spread across the deck. Chief Baker ambled among them, shaking the crew to consciousness.

  Andrew joined the marines for a breakfast of eggs laid over rare beefsteak, fried potatoes, and mountains of crispy toast. Andrew had no taste for red meat, but he chowed down, knowing that this would be his last real meal for months. He ate his fill, sopped up the egg yolks with a piece of toast, and washed it down with strong coffee.

  Hurlburt entered the chow hall. “I want everyone to leave their brain buckets behind. I don’t want anyone jeopardizing this mission with a clank of a chin strap or your helmet thudding against a tree branch.”

  Andrew was only too happy to shed his helmet. He wished he could shed the whole assignment and stay with Mitchell, but that was no longer an option.

  At 0300 hours, they filed out of the mess hall and geared-up. The marines lined up on the quarterdeck for debarkation while Baker supervised the lowering of the black whaleboat. The marines were dressed in fatigues with heavy packs strapped to their backs and rifles slung over shoulders. They waited silently.

  Mitchell ambled up to Andrew, who stood at the end of the line.

  “Well, sir, I guess this is it,” Andrew said.

  “Wish you’d change your mind.”

  Andrew gave a nervous grin. “‘In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the actions of a tiger: stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favor’s rage.’”

  At that moment, he really didn’t even realize where his words were coming from, but he tried to gain strength from them, if only for enough time to climb into the boat and leave Mitchell behind.

  Mitchell blinked once, looking like the entire world had imploded before his eyes. “I’ll miss your Shakespeare,” he said with a slight tremble in his voice. “Well then, do what you’re told and keep your head down. I’ll do everything I can to bring you back here with us.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Andrew shrugged, smiling weakly. He reached into his pocket and extracted a string of prayer beads, all bunched into a ball. He pressed them into Mitchell’s hand, telling him that it was something to remember him by.

  Mitchell unballed the string, took off his hat, and slipped the beads over his head, letting them fall around his neck. As their cool smoothness pressed against his throat, he seemed embarrassed, as if he realized he should have brought something to give Andrew but had forgot.

  Silence. A thousand luminous thoughts raced through Andrew’s head, but he could not make himself voice a single one.

  Mitchell also seemed to stall for time, no doubt fearful of his own ineptness, even more fearful of the approaching separation.

  Andrew imagined himself leaning into Mitchell’s solid mass, kissing him right on the mouth with all the tenderness and love he could muster. The thought made him wildly alive, breathless. The tips of his ears burned and his head spun. He couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He leaned toward the officer, lips pursed.

  Before he came too close, Mitchell held out his hand for Andrew to shake, stopping Andrew cold. Andrew grasped that hand, clung to it until the marines moved forward and clambered down the debarkation net two at a time.

  Mitchell followed Andrew all the way to the net and stood on the quarterdeck to watch him slip aboard the whaleboat. The six oarsmen manned their stations on the thwarts. Ogden, acting as coxswain, stood at the tiller. Andrew was the last man into the boat. He sat next to Hudson, who was one of the oarsmen.

  Once away, Ogden barked, “Let fall.” The oars came down and were held a foot above the surface until Ogden said, “Give way together, boys.” The oars dug into the water and the boat slid into the blackness. Working with brusque, over-emphasized movements, the rowers strained to haul the boat across a mile and a half of water.

  The marines sat with rigid backs. Black shoe polish covered their faces, their M1 rifles pointed skyward, and their ammunition belts hugged their waists. They all peered forward, trying to see through the inky night. Only Andrew stared at the ship. He knew that Mitchell stood on the bridge, binoculars pressed to his face, following their progress. He tried to imagine how the officer looked while straining to see him. He kept his eyes on the ship, gray superimposed on the night sky, until it merged with the blackness and he could no longer distinguish its outline.

  Andrew wished more than anything that he would have brushed past that outstretched hand and kissed the officer on the mouth like he meant to, even with everyone watching. He’d had that one last opportunity to show Mitchell his love, to give him a gesture that he could carry to his grave, but he let fear snatch it from him. Coward. I’m such a coward.

  THE roar of surf became progressively louder until the whaleboat came to that area beyond where the waves swelled up and toppled over as they raced to shore. Ogden signaled and the oars lifted out of the water and hung in midair. He studied the beach for a possible landing site.

  Beaching the boat in huge surf was hazardous even in daylight, and Ogden had never attempted such a feat at night. If the boat should lean sideways to the wave even a smidgen, they would do a loop the loop and jettison the men from the boat like peas from a pod. If they capsized, every man would have hell swimming through the breakers—the marines especially, being weighed down by their weapons and packs.

  Beads of sweat ran down Ogden’s face. After two minutes of straining to see the layout, Ogden took hold of the tiller. The oarsmen, all facing the stern, saw a change come over Ogden. They collectively braced their legs and took a firm grip on their oars.

  “We’ll take her straight in from here, boys,” Ogden ordered. He turned to see a wall of water speeding at them that was tall enough to block his view of the sea behind it. “Give way together and give it everything you’ve got.”r />
  Six backs bent and stretched toward the bow, away from the oncoming wave. The boat drove smartly forward. The boat’s aft rose, going perpendicular as it crawled up the concave front of the monster. Ogden could reach out and touch the white ridge of foam at the top. The boat seemed to hang there, cresting the immaculate white foam. The crew rowed at a frenzied pace as they flew toward shore.

  Water sprayed Ogden’s face and the salty mist blinded him. Maneuvering on instinct alone, he deftly wielded the whaleboat through the waves. He blinked several times and his vision returned as another liquid monster was about to thunder down on them.

  “Put your back to it… Christ! I’m out here with a bunch of fucking pussies.”

  The boat gained momentum, and by the time the next wave scooped down, they were far enough in front of it to keep from being swamped. The boat lifted above the raging foam, spinning like a spider being flushed down a toilet.

  When the boat scraped sand, Ogden ordered, “Trail oars,” in his normal voice. The six oarsmen hauled their blades into the boat and jumped over the side into waist-deep water. They seized the gunwales and heaved the boat high onto the beach. The marines leaped from the boat and spread out with rifles drawn to form a perimeter.

  Unexpectedly, the night shattered with the sound of a rifle discharge; the noise echoed from above the cliff. Everyone froze. They waited, crouched while anticipating another shot, but only the waves pounding onto shore and the wind whistling up the cliff disturbed the silence.

  Ogden signaled Hudson, and the big man passed the communications gear to waiting hands. The sound of two more rifle shots reverberated down the cliff. Hurlburt signaled his men to move out. They heaved the communications equipment to the base of the cliff, leaving Andrew and the other sailors to push the whaleboat into the surf.