The Lonely War (14 page)

Hudson’s legs unflexed and, with the speed of a cat, he jumped to his feet, upsetting a table and spraying mugs of beer in all directions. Men scrambled to get out of his way. Mitchell recovered himself and called Hudson to attention, but the big man ignored him. He grabbed Andrew by his black neckerchief, pulled Andrew’s face up to fist level, and smashed Andrew once, twice, a third time. He let go of the necktie and Andrew tumbled backward with the fourth devastating blow. Hudson took a quick half step and savagely kicked Andrew’s gut.

As the big man stepped back to deliver another kick, Mitchell tackled him, knocking them both to the floor.

Hudson hit the floorboards and rolled like a log crashing down a hillside. A crowd of spectators circled the three men. Andrew lay unconscious while Mitchell held his head up, trying to revive him. A deep cut over Andrew’s left eye bled profusely down his face. Mitchell’s fingers probed the mangled jaw, skull, and neck for broken bones.

Hudson staggered to his feet and paced to and fro, waiting for either Andrew or Mitchell to rise off the floor so he could continue the drubbing.

Cocoa found the whole episode indigestible. He knew Andrew had thrown himself in the line of fire because Andrew had feelings for the officer. He’d seen the way Andrew looked at Mitchell. He didn’t approve of those feelings, but he thought Andrew had done an honorable thing. And even though Cocoa agreed with the unwritten Navy code that a strong man has every right to beat the pulp out of a weaker one, given enough provocation, there was something in the ferocity of Hudson’s attack that went beyond the code, something sinister, as if Hudson’s hatred of Andrew had somehow caused the whole incident to happen in the first place.

Cocoa mumbled to himself, “Bastard’s got it in for the boy, hated Andy from day one. Somebody should stuff his weenie in a bun and chow down.” Cocoa swallowed the last bit of rum with two gulps and slammed the glass on the table. He lumbered to his feet and belched. “What the fuck,” he said. “God hates a coward.”

He could see Hudson was unsteady from too much booze. It might be enough of an advantage. He squared his shoulders and moved from one foot to the other, testing his movement. He felt fine. He hadn’t had enough rum to slow him down, but he wished he had on his regular, loose-fitting uniform. He felt too restricted in his liberty dress whites. Cocoa walked over to Mitchell, who was bent over Andrew. Blood from the cut over Andrew’s eye had drenched the front of his white jumper.

Cocoa rubbed his hands on his pant legs to wipe the sweat off before he faced Hudson. “You’re pretty hot stuff with a boy, asshole. What have you got when they come a little bigger?”

Hudson’s face colored to a vibrant shade of purple, but he smiled as he bent his knees and leaned forward, lowering his center of gravity. “You’re beggin’ for it, you crummy son-of-a-bitch, and I’m the man to give it to you.”

Everyone surrounded Hudson and the cook. The two men moved in a circle, facing one another with fists held high. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Fight!” The cry was echoed on the street. Locals and sailors crowded into the bar while men along the walls stood on tables and chairs to see.

Before the first blow was struck, however, Chief Ogden jostled through the crowd with his arms raised over his head. Everyone assumed he would break things up, but it only took Cocoa an instant to realize that Ogden intended to referee the fight. At that moment, Cocoa cut the air with his right fist and connected with Hudson’s jaw, knocking his head back six inches.

Hudson reeled backward, shook his head, and charged forward. They exchanged blows. Whenever Hudson moved in close, Ogden stepped in to pry them apart.

Cocoa was grateful for the chief, for in the clinches Hudson could do more damage with his heavy bodyblows. But with regulation boxing, Cocoa used his superior footwork to sidestep those blows and move in with skillful jabs to Hudson’s face.

The crowd roared encouragement to both men, but the majority were clearly pulling for Cocoa.

After a dozen swings and misses and as many lunges, which Cocoa sidestepped, Cocoa saw that the big man was already tiring. It took more energy to swing and miss than to connect, and Cocoa figured if he could keep sidestepping those powerful swipes he would soon have the upper hand. He jabbed and hooked effectively, intently executing his plan.

Hudson did connect every now and then. Cocoa took several staggering blows to the face and gut. He tasted the blood oozing through his mouth, but his vision stayed clear and he moved better than Hudson, whose swings were wild and dangerous. It was obvious that Hudson went for a knockout blow with every punch.

Hudson swayed to and fro between swings. He blinked his eyes constantly, as if trying to clear his vision.

Sensing an advantage, Cocoa stepped up his offensive, aggressively taking it to the big man with clockwork precision. Every blow landed on Hudson’s face, opening up several deep cuts.

Blood oozed into Hudson’s eyes. He swung blindly.

The cook fought carefully, passing up one chance after another to deliver a knockout punch. He was not ready to let the big man off the hook. He intended to cut Hudson’s face to ribbons before ending the fight, so that Hudson would think twice before ever tangling with him again. Hudson would remember this fight every time he looked in a mirror.

Cocoa felt good physically, and the pain in his jaw was not too bad. He still moved well and his only concern was that Hudson would connect with one of his powerful swings and knock him out cold, or worse, knock him down where Hudson could finish him off with kicks to the gut. He was taking a risk by prolonging the fight, but he kept at it, cutting Hudson’s face with one good jab after another until he had lashed both the big man’s eyes shut and opened up several more gashes on his cheeks. Cocoa landed so many blows that his hands cramped from the pain.

The crowd grew impatient. Someone yelled, “Take him out, Cocoa. Drop him like a turd.”

The front of Hudson’s dress jumper had turned solid red. He made animal noises, sniffing at the blood blocking his nostrils. He lunged this way and that, obviously desperate to land one good blow before his strength gave out. Through his blindness, his big right fist finally connected with something solid. As it did, his feet slipped out from under him and he fell flat on his butt. The room went silent. Something clicked off in Hudson’s mind, and he slumped forward, spent.

B
EHIND
the ring of men, Mitchell had brought Andrew to consciousness and helped him to his feet. Andrew scrutinized the scene and grabbed Mitchell by the shirt, begging from bloody lips for Mitchell to stop the fight.

Mitchell cut through the ring of spectators and stepped between the combatants with his arms raised, bellowing, “You men stop fighting this instant!”

Cocoa lowered his fist.

Hudson, however, must have been beyond hearing or seeing anything. He swung an iron fist that connected with the side of the lieutenant’s face, knocking the officer off his feet and into the crowd of onlookers. That was when Hudson slipped on a pool of his own blood and went down like a sack of spuds.

Andrew stooped over Mitchell, slapping the officer’s face until he regained consciousness. When his eyes finally popped open, Cocoa grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him off the floor. “Better get you both to the ship and put some raw steaks on your faces before the swelling starts.”

Andrew and Mitchell gazed at each other’s broken and bruising faces, and through their pain, they both grinned.

The sky darkened. Palm trees bent before the wind and rain began to fall. The downpour pummeled them all the way to the ship.

An hour after the men were aboard, the
Pilgrim
steamed out of Papeete harbor, gray as the night with her portholes and deck lights darkened.

Chapter Thirteen

April 25, 1942—0500 hours

T
HE
Pilgrim
drove northeast at twenty-two knots through a swirling sea, heading straight for Bora Bora. The crew grew edgy. Mitchell overheard the men calling their hurried departure “a major piece of grab-ass,” which could only spell trouble.

In the rain-drenched dawn, she maneuvered into Povai Bay, berthed alongside the fuel depot, and began taking on fuel. Mitchell waited under the quarterdeck awning, watching an Army troop truck thunder onto the wharf and stop beside the ship. The canvas flaps in the rear opened and a detachment of armed marines scrambled out. They hoisted crates of communication gear on their shoulders and marched aboard.

Mitchell greeted the squad leader, Lieutenant Bernie Hurlburt, who stood at medium height but seemed shorter in his damp fatigues. Thick, black eyebrows framed his piercing brown eyes. His face was square and flat, as if during childhood someone had smashed his nose with an iron skillet. Hurlburt commanded a dozen men—one sergeant, one corporal, ten privates—all trained in guerilla warfare. He saluted Mitchell and they clasped hands.

Both men had firm handshakes. They glared eye to eye, measuring each other’s mettle.

“Chief Ogden,” Mitchell said, “show these men to their quarters and stow this gear.” He turned to Hurlburt. “Lieutenant, please join the ship’s officers in the wardroom for a briefing as soon as your men are squared away. By the way, I have a man doing brig time. I’ll expect your men to provide a security guard while you’re aboard. The chief will show you to the brig.”

Thirty minutes later, with the ship headed out to sea, Hurlburt joined the
Pilgrim
’s officers around the green felt table. They sipped coffee and munched on sugar donuts while waiting for the captain.

Hurlburt had fastidiously dry-shaved, changed uniforms, and re-buffed his combat boots. His face, however, was as green as his fatigues, no doubt caused by the ship rolling though ten-foot swells.

“Say, this coffee’s delicious,” Hurlburt said.

“Wait until you get a load of breakfast,” Moyer said. “You’ll think you’re in your mama’s kitchen. That is, if you still have an appetite by then. You look a bit green.”

“I’m not used to my stomach sloshing up and down like a yo-yo.”

“No doubt you’re accustomed to riding in heavy transports,” Mitchell said. “These tin cans get tossed around in a rough sea. Right now is not so bad, but we’re heading right up the ass of a bad storm. You and your men may find the going pretty tough.”

Before Hurlburt could respond, Captain Bitton entered the wardroom and stalked to the head of the table. He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, the Joint Forces have been kicked around the Pacific for five months, and the brass is finally fed up enough to launch an assault. A joint operation, dubbed Operation Watchtower, is being planned by Admiral Nimitz at Pearl and MacArthur in Melbourne. The first targets for invasion are the Solomons, followed by New Guinea and New Britain. The operation is still in the planning stage and it will be months before we land troops, but the
Pilgrim
is now taking part in a top-secret intelligence-gathering operation targeting an island the Japs call Gadarukanaru; we Americans call it Guadalcanal. The
Pilgrim
will drop Hurlburt and his squad on the island to gather and report information on troop strength, enemy ship movement, and any progress the Japs make on building an airstrip. This mission will be known as Operation Green Stealth.”

Hurlburt stood to address the officers. “Gentlemen, Guadalcanal is Japan’s southernmost outpost. It lies ten degrees below the equator. Ninety miles long and thirty miles wide, it has an eight-thousand-foot-high mountain range that cuts up its middle like a backbone. The only possible spot for military operations is a narrow strip along the northern coast. It has a deep-water port and is one of the few islands in the Solomon chain with enough level ground for an airstrip that can accommodate heavy bombers. Before the Japs came, there were only a few Catholic missions for the natives. Now we figure it stations over two thousand Japs. This island is key for securing the entire area. Once again the Navy gets to taxi the marines into the hot zone, and we thank the Navy for their part. Fortunately for you boys, it’s an in-and-out operation. You drop us on the beach and hightail it to safety. My men will setup a mobile base and stay hidden until our troops charge ashore. We are strictly an observe-and-report operation. If we’re lucky, the Japs will never know we’re there.”

Mitchell had a queer feeling that something was wrong. He was not sure if it was Hurlburt’s arrogance that didn’t sit well or something about the mission. He gave the captain a pensive look and asked if a submarine would be better suited for the drop-off, being that secrecy was such a critical element.

“Right on target, Nathan. The
Tigerfish
was slotted for the job, but we lost contact with her four days ago. Besides, we can get in and out three times as fast as any sub, not to mention that God is looking out for us; He’s created a typhoon over the Cook Islands that’s heading due west. It’s the perfect shield. No other ships will sail within two hundred miles of that storm. I plan to ride that baby’s coattails right into the slot.”

“Sir,” Fisher said, “that’s an arduous haul even in a normal sea, but riding the back of a typhoon? Is she up to the task?”

Bitton nodded. “The risk is high, but it could save thousands of lives. The invasion is too critical to go in without knowing what we’re up against, and the sooner we know, the better.” Bitton’s gaze bore into each face, one at a time, as if he were assuring himself that everyone understood the mission’s significance. “We’ll cruise at maximum speed under radio silence, lights out, and we won’t waste time zigzagging. There shouldn’t be anyone close to the storm anyway. We’ll hit the island in the darkest part of night. I want the whaleboats painted black so no one spots them taking the lieutenant’s party ashore.”

“Do I understand you correctly, Lieutenant,” Tedder said, “that you intend to live for two or more months undercover? Can you carry enough supplies for that long a stay?”