The Lonely War (11 page)

“That will do, Washington,” the captain said, snatching his two letters.

Mitchell stuffed his letter in his breast pocket and studied his battered, oblong package. He recognized the swirling handwriting, ripped the brown paper, and opened the box. It held a note, a Bible, and a book of poems by e.e. cummings. The note read:

Darling,

Here’s the poetry you asked for. I was lucky to find it in a used bookstore on Third Street, marked down to $0.75. I’ve included the Bible that Reverend Thorn gave me last Sunday. I know you don’t believe, but please read a little each day. You may find comfort in it, as I surely do.

I found a wedding dress in the catalog last week that I think you will like. It’s not too expensive but it is lovely. I want you to be proud of me. I know you can’t tell me where you are, but please give me some indication of when I will see you again.

Until then, all my love,

Your Kate

Mitchell heard paper tearing. He glanced up to see Fisher ripping a letter in half without opening it. The ensign checked the return address on another letter and ripped that one too. Mitchell watched while he ripped four letters in half, and finally opened the last one, the one without a stamp.

“Let me guess,” Mitchell said. “The ones you didn’t read are no doubt the last batch of ladies you left standing at the pier as we sailed from Pearl. But what about the one you opened? No stamp means it’s some charming little thing waiting for you here in Papeete. Someone connected with the Navy, because she was able to drop that letter in the mail pouch without sending it through the post.”

Fisher nodded, grinning.

“How do you do it?” Mitchell asked. “How do you get so many women to fall for you? No offense, but you’re no Clark Gable, and I’ve seen you in the head with your morning woody, which is not terribly impressive. So what is it?”

Fisher’s grin spread into a smile. “I love women—short or tall, fat or slim, brunette or blonde, slant-eyed or round, single or married—it makes no difference. I love every woman I meet because I have the ability to see past her skin and social situation to the jewel of her spirit. Of course it helps to come from a wealthy family that schooled me in country-club charm.”

Mitchell scoffed. “So who’s the little bird waiting in port?”

Fisher held the letter under his nose. “Admiral Gleason’s wife. Seems the admiral is out on maneuvers, so she’s asked me to tea. It must be lonely out here for an officer’s wife.”

Mitchell let out a low-pitched whistle.

“Nathan,” the captain said. “Pass that Bible over to our young Romeo here. He needs some examples on moral behavior. Let me remind you that your conduct ashore reflects on this ship. Dabbling in the admiral’s business will have serious consequences.”

Not wanting to get caught in a moral debate with Bitton, Mitchell excused himself and hurried to his cabin. He pulled the letter from his pocket, ripped open the envelope and unfolded the scented paper.

Dearest,

I’m going mad in this backwater town. People have noticed that I’m with child and everybody has turned vicious. Even your mother believes that I became pregnant in order to snare you.

Living near your parents while we wait for your return is in many ways a comfort, but these townspeople are so hateful. I’ve got to go someplace where people are more educated. I’m moving to San Francisco so that I can be there when you return.

You’re kind and gentle, and I’m truly happy when I’m with you, but if you don’t love me, if you feel trapped by our situation, then please tell me. I won’t marry a man who doesn’t love me. The baby and I will somehow find our way without you.

I’ll send you my new address when I’m settled. I love you more than any woman has a right to. I hope you feel the same love for our baby and me. We will be waiting for your speedy return in San Francisco.

A thousand times I love you,

Your Kate

Do I love her
?, he asked himself. He had met her in Washington, DC while working as an aid with Naval Intelligence. She had come to the ranch to meet his folks during his last leave.

He could envision her clearly on that winter morning. She rode an old, soft-eyed gelding named Dollar. Mitchell rode his own horse, a six-year-old Appaloosa stallion named Caesar, who kept dancing around while flagging his long tail, not content to meander at Dollar’s pace. Caesar would toss his head like haughty royalty and prance ahead until Mitchell reined him in. Even Smoke, who followed from a respectful distance with his nose to the ground, seemed impatient.

Whenever Dollar managed a brief trot, Kate would cling to the saddle horn and squeal with a mixture of fear and delight.

He felt sure she didn’t enjoy the ride, but there was two inches of snow carpeting the pasture and the view of the mountains was magnificent. The crisp air had a hint of sweetness. The mountains were covered with pine, and down in the meadows the aspens were bare, like white roots growing toward the sky. That landscape had touched his heart with its clattering streams and glistening pastures; it swallowed him whole with its fathomless, uncomplicated open space. It was grand to be alive and able to share the grasslands with someone on such a morning.

They came across tracks stitched across a meadow that led into a steep canyon. Smoke began to follow the tracks, but Mitchell’s whistle brought him back.

“What made those tracks?” she asked. “A deer?”

With an effort to hold a straight face, he told her, “Naw, not a deer, and it’s too big for a coyote. Must be a mountain lion.”

She looked up the canyon where the tracks led. “Mountain lion! Nathan Mitchell, you take me back to the house this instant. Do you hear me?”

He couldn’t hold it any longer. A burst of laughter flew from his throat as he bent forward over Caesar’s neck. The horse took several side steps, adjusting to the shift in weight.

Her cheeks burned red, angry red. She turned old Dollar in the direction they had come and gave his ribs a good kick. Dollar took a couple of quick steps and began to amble toward the barn. She didn’t say another word the long ride home.

In the barn, she lay on a pile of hay while he pulled the saddles and blankets off the horses and brushed both animals down. The barn was warm with the rich smell of horse and hay and manure. He pulled a hoof pick from his pocket and methodically cleaned the dirt from Dollar’s hooves. He did the same to Caesar.

She beckoned to him with her hands and he lay beside her. The horses, standing in their stalls, watched with their ears pricked forward, sensing a change in mood.

“You think it’s funny to tease a city girl. I think you’re mean, but I forgive you.” She kissed him, not a girlish peck but a sensual kiss that opened his mouth and allowed her tongue to explore. They made love for the first time.

“Do I love her?” He repeated the question.
It doesn’t matter
, he thought.
She’s having my baby.

He crumpled the sheets of paper into a tight ball, tossed it onto his desk, and hurried topside to inspect the liberty party.

Chapter Eleven

April 24, 1942—0700 hours

T
HE
captain mustered the liberty party, which was all but a skeleton watch, on the quarterdeck. Using a fatherly tone, he said, “Now look here, men. I know you’re anxious for liberty and all you can think about is getting drunk and laid, which has got you all so excited you’re about to burst. It may help you restrain yourselves from temptation ashore if you release some of that sexual tension before you leave the ship. Remember, the Navy does not condone the practice of masturbation, no matter how excited you are. But while you’re in the shower getting cleaned up for liberty, feel free to scrub your dicks as long and hard and fast as you like.”

Laughter spilled over the ranks.

“That’s a tradition in the Navy,” the captain added. “That’s why on warships, whenever it rains, every man aboard gets a hard-on.”

More nervous laughter—even the captain let go with a belly laugh. Mitchell and Fisher stared at each other with raised eyebrows, having never seen him so jovial.

A
S
THE
Officer of the Deck, it was Mitchell’s responsibility to inspect the liberty party before allowing them ashore. Anyone who failed inspection had to stay aboard. As the liberty party prepared for inspection, Mitchell ambled through the crew’s quarters to hurry along the stragglers. A buzz of excitement traveled through the crew like electricity through a lightning rod. The fatigue of the last four days’ voyage had vanished. The men were high on the promise of cold beer and soft, sweet-smelling women.

Mitchell saw Smitty checking himself in the mirror for what must have been the twentieth time. His aura of aftershave was substantial. He took his hat off, combed his grease-laden hair again, and replaced his hat, tilting it forward on his head. “You devil,” he said. “You’re going to get you some tonight, lover-boy.”

“Put it in gear, Casanova,” Mitchell said. “Time to move out.”

Mitchell noted that Cocoa stood by his locker, only half-dressed. He had had his dress uniforms tailor-made to fit him like a glove before they left San Francisco, but that was thirty pounds ago. Mitchell watched Cocoa puff, swear, and suck in his gut while straining to shimmy into his cotton jumper. Once dressed, he bulged from the ill-fitting uniform at every opening, stretching every seam. Mitchell shook his head and ambled on deck to inspect the liberty party.

The men sparkled in their dress white jumpers and pillbox hats rolled over at the sides, but the reek of cologne made Mitchell’s eyes water. He crawled along the ranks to allow Cocoa enough time to finish dressing and sneak into the last row. He checked the sharp creases of each man’s trousers, razor-cut hairlines, and buffed shoes.

Mitchell came to a full stop in front of Cocoa, who resembled a cream-filled donut being squeezed so tight that the filling oozed out. He considered keeping the cook aboard until he could change into a suitable uniform, but he was not sure Cocoa had a dress uniform that still fit, and he knew all too well how long it had been since Cocoa’s last liberty. Mitchell glanced up at the bridge wing to ensure the captain was not looking and dismissed the liberty party. With a loud cheer, the men raced down the gangway.

Mitchell joined Moyer and Tedder on the quarterdeck, easing himself into a wicker chair and pulling a pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket. He cocked his head as music floated from the nearest loudspeaker. The duty radioman pumped Benny Goodman over the PA system. Mitchell couldn’t help tapping his foot to the swinging beat.

Bitton strolled up, settling into a chair. He pointed the stem of his pipe in the direction of the liberty party galloping down the dock. “Those men are racing as fast as they can into one hellacious binge.”

“Might not be a bad idea to have a hair of the dog they’re chasing,” Tedder said.

At that moment, Andrew walked through the hatch carrying a tray crowned with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a bowl of ice, and four tumblers. A smile spread over each officer’s face as they anticipated the sweet feeling of being tipsy before lunch.

A
FTER
lunch, while Andrew scrubbed dishes, Grady rambled into the galley from officer’s country. “Chaplain Moyer wants to see you in the wardroom.”

Andrew dried his hands and hustled forward, coming to attention before Moyer.

The room was stuffy even with the vent fans blowing full out.

“Sit down,” Moyer said, swiping at the sweat meandering down the side of his face. He showed a nervous smile as Andrew sat in the chair across from him.

“I want to talk to you about a couple of issues. First, I wanted to say how sorry I am that someone defaced your statue.”

“How did you know?”

“Nothing happens aboard this ship that I don’t hear about.”  Moyer smiled again, still noticeably uncomfortable. “Any idea who did it?”

“It doesn’t matter who, but it seems there are some things aboard you don’t know.”

“You got me there.” His smile faded. He stared at his hands, which were fiddling with a paperclip. He swallowed. “There’s a rumor that you’re developing a close friendship with Lieutenant Mitchell.”

“We talk from time to time.”

“The men are calling you his puppy dog. Aboard ship that could only mean one thing. Look, when I studied to become a member of the clergy, I witnessed many examples of intimacy between men. Although I don’t approve of it, I understand what loneliness does to a man.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m trying to say—” The words lodged in his throat. He fell silent, still staring at the paperclip in his hands. “Be careful. You could damage his career if things go too far.”

Andrew dropped his eyes, staring at the green-felt tabletop. Heat rose to his head even though he knew he had done nothing wrong.

“I understand that Buddhists don’t believe in God,” Moyer said. “That’s too bad. In times of confusing emotions, we Christians find comfort in asking for God’s help. It makes our trials easier to bear.”

“Tell me something, sir. Is your life really any easier because of your belief in a god?”

Moyer stared into Andrew’s eyes for the first time. He hesitated, struggling for an answer, as if he were trying to determine if he could trust Andrew with a secret he wanted to get off his chest. He moistened the corner of his mouth with his tongue. “That’s none of your business, okay?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Andrew said, holding up a hand. “I only wanted to understand. I didn’t—”

“Personally speaking,” Moyer cut him off. “No. In fact, the opposite is true. My belief in the Divine keeps me living in a state of hell. It’s especially hard for me during these trying times because I feel that God has turned his back on me. I’ve spent my life trying to ease the suffering of others, but I’ve never gotten even a glimpse at a sign that he acknowledges my efforts, or even my existence.”