The Iceman_A Novel

by P. T. Deutermann

  TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning, after a surprisingly good night’s sleep aboard Firefish, he and the other inport COs were summoned to a meeting with the commodore. They got an intel update from the admiral’s intelligence officer on progress at Guadalcanal, and plans to begin the ultimate drive-out of all the Japanese forces still on the island. The ship losses from the calamitous sea battles of November were being replaced with new ships from back home. Then came some sad news: Rear Admiral English, ComSubPac, had been killed in an airplane crash in California, along with several other officers. The new ComSubPac was going to be Rear Admiral Charles Lockwood, currently commanding the American submarine operations being run out of Brisbane on Australia’s east coast.

  “That will be a big improvement,” one of the other skippers said, and then looked around to see if he’d made a mistake in saying that. The commodore’s expression made it clear that the comment was somewhat uncalled for.

  “I’m sorry, Commodore,” the skipper said. “That was disrespectful to Admiral English. But I know Admiral Lockwood, and he’s going to be a whole lot more sympathetic to our complaints about the Mark fourteen. He might even do some more testing to refute the Gun Clubbers back in Washington.”

  “Don’t get too excited, Captain,” the commodore said. “Remember the old adage about the new watch officer not changing the setting of the sails for at least the first half hour of his watch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir, but—?”

  “Well, I hope that’s as long as he waits to get after these goddamned fish. One half hour.”

  Everybody laughed, including the commodore. They talked about other operational issues, matériel problems, people problems, and then the meeting ended. The commodore asked Malachi to remain behind. He asked for a progress report on Firefish, and then told Malachi that he’d sent the Navy Cross nomination to the admiral.

  “He read it, thought that the medal was entirely deserved, and said he’d forward it to SubPac. I told him that you had offered to divert your medal to your exec.”

  “How did he react to that?”

  “He said he’d include that information in his endorsement of the nomination.”

  “Might that not raise eyebrows at ComSubPac?” Malachi asked.

  “It well might,” the commodore said. “The proposed recipient of the nation’s second-highest naval decoration implying that ComSubPac got the wrong guy?”

  Malachi hung his head. He couldn’t win.

  “It was your idea, yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” Malachi replied with a sigh. “It absolutely was.”

  The commodore smiled sympathetically. “Don’t worry about it, Malachi,” he said. “I, too, know Charlie Lockwood, and he doesn’t indulge in penny-ante bullshit like that. You just keep sinking those Jap cruisers. Now, new subject—I think you could do with a week’s leave.”

  “But the repairs aren’t finished, and—”

  “Your exec is competent to supervise the repairs, is he not? The one you just recommended for a Navy Cross?”

  “Well, of course he is, but I’m the captain.”

  “And I need you to get away from all this for a week, the repairs and the political machinations of perhaps too many staffs. Now, most COs would take leave, go to the hotel, get boiled every night, recover all day, and do it again until they get bored with the hangovers. Then we send them back to sea. But you don’t drink, I understand.”

  “No, sir. I have a single beer, but, no, I do not get boiled. Ever.”

  “Good,” the commodore said. “I like a drink like the next man, but getting drunk? I’m with you on that. So, maybe take a trip out of town? There’s some beach resorts south of here. Or go inland; see the great Australian outback. I’m told it’s spectacular, if a bit dangerous.”

  Malachi thought about it. Then he had a much better idea.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do something of the sort. And thank you for thinking of it. Off Truk Lagoon, I was ready to pack it in, especially when I realized I’d disobeyed the patrol orders.”

  “You did the right thing, Captain. If two carriers came past my boat I’d throw potatoes at ’em if nothing else. As Chester Nimitz just reminded everybody, that’s why we’re out here. All of us.”

  That evening Malachi called Kensie from the hotel to see if she was free for dinner. The hospital operator said she’d get the doctor to call him back when she could. He was on the rooftop nursing his daily brew when one of the lovely bartenders told him he had a phone call at the bar.

  “I can come down for dinner,” she said, “but there’s a hospital ship coming in tonight from Guadalcanal around ten o’clock, and I suspect we’ll be busy for the next two days.”

  He told her about the commodore ordering him to take a week’s leave, and wondered if she could manage a few days off so they could go somewhere.

  “Go somewhere?” she asked with bright laugh. “We’re in western Australia, dear heart. The nearest worthy ‘somewhere’ is three thousand miles to the east. But my family’s country home has about sixty-five thousand acres and plenty of spare bedrooms in the main house. We could go out on horseback and see the countryside, and there’s some fabulous trout fishing not a mile from the house. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds wonderful,” he said. “If your family wouldn’t mind, that is.” He still remembered his talk with Lambert Richmond.

  “No worries, there, Captain. They’re rather starved for company out there in the bush.”

  “The ‘bush’?”

  “Anywhere five miles out of a town or city is considered the bush by city folk. The back of beyond, as my Irish nanny called it, and, mind you, we’re only talking fifteen miles out of Perth. Oh, shit, there’s my SA coming down the hall. Get some rest for the next few days. I will arrange my escape.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Malachi had expected something along the lines of one of those big English country manors he’d seen when he’d taken a week’s leave in Britain, but Richmond Station was completely different. The main house was single storied and about 150 feet long, surrounded by extensive porches on all four sides. There were four chimneys protruding through a metal roof, and the house was made entirely of wood. Three wooden log cabins, the guest cottages, flanked the sides and back of the house at a respectful distance, and covered walkways provided access to the main house. The ranch operations buildings were visible about half a mile away, and there was a large water storage tank between the houses and the barns. The house was situated on a low hill overlooking a ten-acre lake, surrounded by willows, which Kensie told him the locals called peppermint trees, as well as isolated groups of eucalyptus trees. A circular drive brought them to the front porch and then she turned left onto a larger circle that gave access to each of the cabins. There were several different kinds of bushes around the house but no lawn. The predominant color was brown. There were trees about, but it looked like some of them had had to struggle to survive.

  “Looks more like Texas than England,” he said to Kensie as she pulled the Ute up in front of the first cabin.

  “The farther you get from the coast, the less water there is,” she replied. “Father Time, that’s my dad, tried to grow some of the more elegant, decorative trees here when he started up the station, but in the end, he went with what comes natural out here. Here we are, Captain.”

  The cabin contained two bedrooms, a living room/dining area, and a kitchen. There was a single bathroom between the two bedrooms, and a fireplace in the kitchen. There were porches on three sides in a smaller version of the big porches surrounding the main house. The cabin was compact but the walls were polished wood, as were the floors, which gave a warm gloss to the interior. Two large fans stirred the air up in the exposed rafters. They brought in Malachi’s travel bag and then took a nap.

  That evening they joined Margery on the front porch of the big house for drinks. Malachi had his usual beer; Kensie her usual Scotch. Margery fussed over Kensie for
a few minutes until Kensie got her calmed down. Malachi got the impression that Margery wasn’t entirely sure who he was or why he was there, but she quickly recovered her usual gracious and welcoming manners. She informed them that Lambert was away negotiating one of the biggest deals of his financial career, the acquisition of three anthracite coal mines north of Perth and the railroad that serviced them.

  “There’s coal in Australia?” Malachi asked.

  “Oh, Lord, yes,” Kensie said. “Most of it on the other side, but coal is just one of the minerals we’ve been blessed with. Some of the biggest iron ore deposits in the world are north of here about a thousand kilometers in an area called Pilbara.”

  “I forget how big this country is,” Malachi said.

  “Most of it entirely empty,” Kensie said.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “The bush.”

  “The Outback, actually,” Kensie corrected him gently. “It’s a perfectly descriptive term. I’m a native and I haven’t seen a tenth of it. Forty something million acres. Most of western Europe could disappear into the Outback without a peep.”

  “And probably wishes it could just about now,” Malachi quipped.

  They spent the next three days touring the farming and ranching operations and relaxing along some of the trout streams and ponds scattered about the nearby lands of the station. The summer heat was increasing, so they spent their afternoons in the library of the big house or in discreet bouts of afternoon delight back in the guest cottage. Malachi kept in touch with the boat through a daily phone call from the exec. There was talk they might be going out sooner than originally scheduled, but so far, nothing official. No serious liberty incidents, the new admiral making himself unpopular.

  On the afternoon of the third day there was a small commotion outside as Lambert returned from his trip up north. Kensie went out to greet him, as did Margery and the house staff. Malachi lingered on the cottage porch, not wanting to intrude on the family. An hour later they joined Lambert and Margery in the main living room of the house for drinks. Lambert was pouring some champagne, celebrating, Malachi found out, the conclusion of the coal mine deal. He greeted Malachi with enthusiasm, pouring him a full measure of bubbly and then toasting the new acquisition. Malachi discovered that this was indeed good champagne, but he paced himself anyway. He didn’t consider wine to be real drinking, but he did know it could creep up on you. Kensie showed no such inhibitions, matching Father Time glass for glass. She’s bottomless, Malachi thought as he watched her fondly, and way out of his social reach.

  After a wonderful dinner and even more wine, they all retired to the library to listen to Lambert describe the deal and the properties he’d acquired. There was to be a formal, celebratory dinner in two weeks’ time down at the central bank in Perth. Everybody who was anybody in Perth would be there. Malachi realized he’d be at sea. For some reason he felt a pang of jealousy at the thought of Kensie loose among all those “anybodys.” Dream on, he thought, and then sighed.

  By the time they got back to the cottage Kensie had her blood up, leading to an almost violent encounter on the bed. Afterward he lit up a cigarette and offered her a drag. She actually took one and then coughed, making them both laugh. The fans drove the warm air up in the rafters down onto their bodies in a gentle, feathery massage.

  “I got you a present,” she announced. “Father Time brought it back. Where he got it remains a mystery. It’s over there.”

  Malachi got up on slightly shaky legs and went over to the table next to the front door. A white box with a ribbon stood there. He picked it up and felt liquid inside. He opened it to find a bottle of Woodford Reserve Kentucky bourbon. He stared at it for almost thirty seconds.

  “Is it a good one?” she asked from the bed.

  “It’s an exceptional one,” he said, trying now to hold back the memories that this bottle had unleashed. He was unaware that he’d begun to weep.

  Suddenly she was by his side. “What, Malachi? What’s the matter? What have I done?”

  He put the bottle down on the table and turned to hold her. “You haven’t done anything,” he said finally. “You have been marvelous since I’ve met you. But I’ve been sitting on a secret, and I’m scared to death it’s going to be a mortal one. The bourbon, and the reason I don’t really drink, is a big part of that.”

  “Oh, Malachi, I’m so very sorry,” she said. “I never meant—”

  He put his fingers to her lips. “Get your robe on, and let’s go out to the porch. And bring two glasses.”

  Out on the porch he cracked opened the bottle and poured them each two fingers. The sensuous aroma of barrel-aged whiskey rose in the night air. He raised his glass to hers and then they each took a sip.

  “Wow,” she said. She took another sip. “Just, wow.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “They’ve been making this since the early eighteen hundreds. It’s basically Kentucky corn whiskey, and in the States, that can only come from Kentucky.” He took a deep breath. “It was my father’s favorite, but he drank it to excess, which is why, one terrible and indelible night, I had to kill him.”

  Kensie dropped her glass, the sound loud in the shocked silence. She stared at him, open-mouthed.

  He sighed and put down his glass. “Hear me out, my dear Kensie. It’s a terrible story, but I feel I owe it to you to come clean. My crew call me The Iceman, the guy with no feelings and no fears. They’re wrong about all of that, but I’m the way I am around people for a reason. Will you hear me out?”

  “Of course I will,” she said in a small voice, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Of course I will.”

  “My father was a deep-coal, hard-rock miner,” he began. “Big man, powerfully built. He was a line supervisor who could swing a ten-pound maul with both hands and knock a railcar over. He was respected and he was feared. No one crossed him without getting hurt, sometimes seriously hurt.”

  He paused, looked at the glass in his hand for a second, and then finished it off. He poured himself another. He couldn’t look her in the eye when he did that, and that made him put the glass back down on the table.

  “He was a bad drunk. A really bad drunk. And when he got loaded, he took it out on my mother and me. Mostly my mother. She was as small as he was big, and she took great pains to please him and to mollify him. And yet, there were just too many times when he’d start shouting at her and then throwing things and then throwing her. As a kid I couldn’t do anything but cower in the hallway. But eventually I grew up.”

  “One night I intervened. He hit me so hard I didn’t wake up until the morning when he’d already left for the mine. My mother had a black eye. She told me it was nothing compared to the one I had. A neighbor’s wife came to the back door and asked if he was gone. When my mother nodded, she came into the kitchen with coffee and some biscuits. Apparently they’d all heard it, and not for the first time. The houses were all close together, shotgun shacks, the miners called them.

  “Over time I got bigger, and stronger. He got drunker and meaner. It got bad enough that he started coming home drunk, and I’d pay local kids twenty-five cents to act as lookouts to see what state he was in. If necessary, I’d get Mom out of the house to a neighbor’s house. Usually she’d already made his supper, so he’d come in, sit down and eat, and then go out to the porch where he kept his jug of whiskey. I’d lay low, do my homework, and listen to him mutter and curse out on the porch. He’d usually pass out and end up sleeping outside, unless it was deep winter.

  “When I finished high school I finally went to work in the mine, but I made sure I was on another shift. I didn’t want to be down there with him. There came a day when he came up from the mine and got into it with two other miners. It was a brutal fight; coal miners don’t back down from anyone. Two men were hospitalized, and my father was arrested and then fired. After thirty days he got out of jail, hit the local saloon, and then came home, bottle in hand. He blamed it all on us, my mother and me. The whole world was against him, and
we didn’t back him up, ever. More like that. He started to throw things, chairs, tables, pots and pans. My mother knew what was coming next and ran out the back door. He followed her out, shouting names at her and threatening to kill her. She made it to a neighbor’s porch, and the neighbor, another miner, came out with a shotgun. My father backed off and then came back to our house. I was in the kitchen, picking things up.

  “He started up on me, yelling incoherently, smashing his fist down on the stove and then punching out the kitchen windows. He picked up a straight-backed wooden chair and broke it to pieces on the kitchen sink. One of the chair legs hit me in the forehead and I went down on the floor, seeing stars. He stood over me, purple-faced, spittle coming off his jaw. At that moment, my mother came through the kitchen door and screamed at him to stop it. When he saw her he reached down for the chair leg that had hit me. I beat him to it and, still on the floor, hit him on the shin. I think I broke his leg. He howled, dropped the bottle, stepped back, and then fell down. He picked up the bottle and swung it at my head. He missed, but not by much. Then my mother tried to grab his arm. He smashed the whiskey bottle against the corner of the stove and tried to stab her with what was left of the bottle’s neck. By then I was on my knees with that chair leg—rock maple, it was, and axe-handle heavy—and I hit him on the head with all the force I had.”

  Malachi paused to picked up his glass and take another sip, feeling the punch, but needing the alcohol to give him the strength to finish this story that had poisoned his sleep for so many years.

  “When it all got quiet, deputies from the sheriff’s office came. My father was dead on the floor, and I was sitting in a chair, crying, with that chair leg still in my hand. My mother was in shock. The deputies tried to talk to her but all she could do was shake her head. I was arrested and hauled off to jail. I didn’t protest; how could I? I’d just killed my own father.”