The Lonely War (15 page)

“We’re trained to live off the land. I’d like to take food, but we’ll have our hands full moving the radio equipment from camp to camp.”

“What will you eat?” Fisher asked.

“Bananas, papayas, crocodiles, lizards, fish, snakes, insects.”

“Well, Lieutenant,” Tedder said, “let me know what medical supplies you need. God willing, we’ll have enough to spare.”

C
OMPARING
the stability of the
Pilgrim
to his last ship, the
Indianapolis
, a cruiser four times the
Pilgrim
’s size, Andrew had noted in his first days aboard that the destroyer’s rolls and plunges were more severe. But even with that exaggerated movement he had kept his sea legs, a fact that gave him a twinge of satisfaction. But after two days of chasing a typhoon, enduring fifteen-foot swells that created gut-heaving dips and vaults, he realized that his pride was premature.

The ship groaned over every wave. The wind screeched at a pitch that hurt his ears. Andrew, like everyone else, had not slept for two days because the ship rode like a bucking bronco, with a paroxysm of twists, lunges, and plunges—the whole menu. He had to constantly concentrate on keeping his stomach calm and his feet on the deck. The black, puffy crescents under his bloodshot eyes were only partly due to the fight with Hudson. Most of the swelling had subsided, but bruises still curled under both cheeks and his lips were a raw, raspberry color. The pain had diminished into a dull ache, but he was so exhausted from lack of sleep that his head was numb and he had difficulty forming thoughts.

Cooking was nearly impossible. Andrew stood at the stove, grilling a shallot pancake coated with sesame seeds, which he held down on the grill with a spatula to keep it from hopping around like a jumping bean. It was a slow process, because he could cook only one pancake at a time.

The ship lunged and, once again, Andrew’s butt hit the deck with a thump. He rolled sideways, tumbled under the sinks, braced one arm through the plumbing, and lifted himself to his knees. As the ship rolled again, he tasted bile against the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, managing to control it, but he leaned over an empty bucket in case.

Cocoa stood across the galley with one hand clutching the overhead pipes, swaying with the ship. His face glowed reddish-purple and his left eye was swollen to a slit, making it appear locked into a permanent wink.

Andrew yelled, “Two days of this—how long will it last?”

“How long will what last?” Cocoa said as a grin spread his puffed-up lips. Cocoa was in his element. For two days it had been his turn to show Andrew how to cook—that is, how to prepare food as the galley careened up, down, and sideways. Cocoa instructed without a trace of arrogance, and between the fight with Hudson and the cooking lessons, they had formed a definite, albeit fragile, camaraderie.

“So tell me,” Cocoa said. “What gives with you and Mister Mitchell? He ain’t been down to see you since Papeete. You two have a lovers’ spat?”

“He’s got better things to do than watch this room spin around.”

“True, but that never stopped him before Papeete. I figured you two were sweethearts, the way he hung around here, and you with those puppy-dog eyes for him. Now he doesn’t give you the time of day. Could it be that you’re not as special now that your face ain’t so pretty?” Cocoa chuckled to himself, clearly enjoying a good tease.

Grady stumbled through the hatchway to get the appetizers for the officer’s lunch. As the smell of shallot pancakes hit his nose, he held his stomach and vomited, barely missing Cocoa as he splattered the deck. Fortunately for him, he didn’t splash any on his pristine white coat.

“Not again,” Cocoa yelled. “Get your black ass on deck for some air. I’ll clean this up.” Cocoa grabbed the mop and dropped it into a sink. He turned on the hot water and tossed in a dash of soap. “Never thought I’d end up nursemaidin’ a—” He looked at Andrew with an apology etched across his face. He turned off the water, wrung out the mop, and swabbed the deck.

Andrew decided to make a Caesar salad and, for dessert, vanilla ice cream with a crushed cherry sauce. He gathered the ingredients, shredded the greens, cracked the eggs over a bowl, and added a splash of oil, mustard, and a tin of anchovies. He located a wheel of Parmesan in the pantry and sliced off a wedge, then grated a snowy mound of cheese. The ship lunged and he fell again. He crawled to his feet, poured the rest of the ingredients into a bowl, and whisked with practiced flicks of his wrist. Now he focused on the cherry sauce. After taking a carton of canned cherries, he crushed them, added syrup, a dash of brown sugar, and stirred it all together.

Once the sauces were done, he pulled a slab of beef from the walk-in refrigerator and proceeded to slice off thick, red steaks, concentrating on the knife as if it were a precision instrument. He grilled them only enough to warm the center, added a dab of horseradish, and placed them on plates already filled with salad.

He studied the menu: shallot pancake appetizers, rare prime on a bed of Caesar salad, ice cream with crushed cherry dessert, and cheese with yellow pears to go with coffee. It was not as much as he wanted, but it was the best he could do while riding a roller coaster.

Grady stumbled through the hatchway to take the officers’ dinner to the wardroom. Stokes was right on his heels.

“Are you ready?” Stokes asked Andrew. He zeroed in on the bowls of cherry-covered ice cream sitting on the counter while moistening his lower lip with his tongue.

Andrew dropped a spoon into a bowl and pushed it toward him. “Knock yourself out. I made plenty.”

“Jesus, thanks.”

Andrew stuffed a knapsack with food—everything on the officer’s menu, including a container of ice cream. He walked to the pantry and positioned his body so that Cocoa could not see what he was up to. He pulled a whiskey bottle from behind two large jars, filled a flask, and tucked the flask in his hip pocket. He hid the whiskey again and, returning to the galley, donned a pea coat and watch cap.

He turned to Stokes, who had a layer of cream around his lips. “Take the thermos and I’ll take this.” Andrew slung the knapsack over his shoulder.

They trudged down the center passageway, cut through the mess hall, and stepped onto the deck outside, clutching at the hatchway stanchions. The wind slanted rain horizontally across the deck. It whipped Andrew’s pant legs and drove drops of water into his face with stinging force. They inched along the deck, groping for handholds.

The bow plunged into a trough and disappeared into the next wave, spouting streams of water as it rose again. Water funneled down the deck. A moment later a wall of black water rose over the port side fifteen feet higher than Andrew’s head. When it seemed the wall was about to fall on them, the ship lurched upward, balanced on top of the wave, and plunged. Another wall rose on the starboard side. Watching the
Pilgrim
’s hull twist over every wave, Andrew wondered how much stress the twenty-five-year-old vessel could tolerate. If she foundered, he knew, there was no hope of a rescue ship reaching them.

Andrew felt himself panting from an intense, nervy rush as he crawled toward the fantail with Stokes dogging him. He used both hands to grab hold of different parts of the ship as they struggled by the torpedo launchers. Out of nowhere, a wave collapsed upon them, rocketing them along the deck. Andrew kept from being swept overboard by locking an arm though the port depth-charge rack. Stokes saved himself by latching on to Andrew’s legs.

They scrambled to their feet and ran before another wave could catch them. Stokes threw open the hatch leading into the airless cell that was used for the brig. Andrew peered down into the faintly luminous compartment. An armed marine sat in front of the cell, which surprised Andrew until he remembered that whenever marines were stationed aboard a Navy ship, they always took responsibility for guarding prisoners.

They descended the ladder and the marine stood while loosely holding his M1 rifle.

“We’ve brought dinner for the prisoner,” Stokes said.

“I need to check that bag. This prisoner gets only bread and water.”

“Give me a break, corporal,” Andrew said. “I can’t bake bread in this storm.”

“Orders are orders.”

Andrew set his knapsack on the deck but didn’t lift the cover. He pulled the flask from his hip pocket and unscrewed the lid. The pungent aroma of whiskey filtered through the air. Andrew winked at the corporal. “Medicine,” he said, in a drawn-out way, and told the guard that he intended to pour about half of the whiskey into the coffee and give the corporal the other half for safe keeping. Andrew suggested that the corporal cop a smoke break in the chow hall while they fed the prisoner.

The corporal nodded as Stokes unscrewed the thermos lid and Andrew added a healthy dose of whiskey. He handed the flask to the corporal, who disappeared up the ladder and out the hatch.

Behind a wall of bars, Hudson sat cross-legged on the deck. He was seminaked and his shaved head leaned forward, as if bent in prayer. Bruises shaded everything from chin to scalp, his eyes were swollen, and pus oozed out of the eyelids like tears. His lips were easily twice their normal size and his left ear was so swollen it resembled a cauliflower.

“Hey, sailor, chowtime,” Stokes said.

Andrew knelt on the deck and pulled two containers from the knapsack.

Hudson lifted his head and tried to focus through the slits of his puffy eyelids. “Thought you were gyrenes come to nursemaid me.” He strained to stand, and with bandaged hands grabbed hold of the bars to steady himself. “Say, is that ice cream? Sweet Jesus, pass that here, quick. I’m a starved man.”

Andrew stuck a spoon into the ice cream and passed it through a hole in the bars. Hudson lunged for it and wolfed it down, smearing gobs of cherry-colored cream around his lips as he shoveled it in. Through a mouthful he said, “Say, rookie, show me your face.”

Andrew moved closer and Hudson inspected the purple bruises and swollen left cheek.

“Lord, I did some damage, but nothin’ that won’t heal proper. Rookie, you should know better than to come between two men in a fist fight.”

“Had to. It was the only way to save you.”

“Save me? You was saving me? Ha! Listen rookie, I don’t blame you. I mean, everybody knows you have a crush on him. And to tell you the truth, he is the whitest son of a bitch that ever wore a gold braid, but don’t try to bullshit old Hud into believing you was helpin’ me.”

“If he hadn’t tackled you,” Stokes said, “you’d be doing ten to twenty in Sing Sing instead of three days bread and water. No doubt in anybody’s mind whose ass he saved back there, even if you’re too stupid to figure it out.”

Hudson fell silent, chewing as he glared at Andrew.

“Never figured it that way. Guess I owe you.”

“Look, Hudson, let’s put it behind us.” Andrew said.

“Call me Hud. You earned the right. And I still owe you.”

Hudson polished off the ice cream and they passed him the plate of steak and the thermos of coffee. He took a whiff of the coffee and his broken lips spread into a smile. He drank two deep gulps and glared at Stokes though his puffy eyelids.

“So where the hell were you when we was tearing the town apart?”

“With a girl. The girl I aim to marry.”

“She sure is pretty,” Andrew told Stokes. “With a girl like that, a fella can’t live in the White House, but you can sure be happy raising babies in Papeete.”

“Marry,” Hudson scoffed. “She must be a great piece of ass if you’re thinking of getting hitched. Take it from me, don’t buy the cow when you’re already up to your ass in milk.”

“She’s not like that,” Stokes said with a shy grin. “She’s a virgin and she’ll stay that way until our wedding night. Her father owns a grocery store. She was working the counter and I saw her through the window. Man, her smile lights up the moon. Andy, is there anything special I need to know about marrying an Asian girl?”

“How would I know? I was raised in a boy’s school. I’ve never been with a girl.”

“Hold on there,” Hudson said. “Forget about this virgin bullshit. I’ve been with women in every port. Take it from me, boys. Any woman between the age of sixteen and sixty, married or single, will spread her legs when the right man comes along.”

Stokes and Andrew gaped at each other, while Stokes’s face colored a precise shade of red.

“I don’t give a damn who she thinks she is,” Hudson said, “she’ll do it with a dozen different men in the same year if a dozen right men happen to come along. With most of them broads, you get a shot of whiskey in ’um, and any swinging dick’s the right man. Yes sir, they’re all whores underneath those fancy clothes and pretty manners. I don’t know how many nice girls have given me a dose of the clap, but if you line them up end to end, it would sound like a fucking standing ovation.”

Hudson stuffed a slice of steak into his mouth and chewed while waiting for a response. Both Andrew and Stokes dropped their gaze to hide their embarrassment. Hudson’s chewing slowed to a standstill under their unresponsiveness. He swallowed, choking on his crumbling prestige.

“Hud,” Andrew said, “have you ever been with a woman that you didn’t meet in a barroom or a whorehouse? I mean, one that you didn’t pay for?”

“That’s got nothin’ to do with anything. We all pay one way or another. I keep things simple by taking women who operate on a cash-only basis.”

“So, you’ve never had a woman who felt love for you?” Andrew tilted his head to one side. A wave of sadness rushed through him.

“Don’t you feel sorry for me, God damn you. I chose this life and no man has the right to look down his nose at me. You don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about. You’re the virgin in this conversation, so keep your stinking yap shut.”

It occurred to Andrew that Hudson was searching for something every time he went after a woman, but he couldn’t find it because he was looking in the wrong places.

“I hope someday you find what you’re looking for,” Andrew said.

“Rookie, thanks for the chow and thanks for saving my ass from Sing Sing, but take your pity somewheres else. I don’t need that shit thrown in my face, so fuck off.” Hudson turned his back and waited for them to leave, head bowed and silent.