The Lonely War (6 page)

April 18, 1942—1300 hours

F
ROM
the navigation bridge, Mitchell watched Andrew hail a passing fishing boat and slip them a note. Twenty minutes later, a withered Chinese man in a dugout canoe glided alongside and haggled with Andrew for the better part of an hour. A short time later, a dozen native canoes pulled alongside. Baskets, sacks, bamboo cages, and sweaty earthen jars were lifted over the railing to cursing sailors, who carried them to the storage lockers: live ducks, chickens, sea turtles, lobsters; a hog carcass the color of old wax; sacks of rice; bushels of mangos and pineapples and guavas and papayas; bottles of soy sauce; baskets of fresh gingerroot and lemon grass and bean sprouts.

Mitchell shook his head, wondering who the hell was going to eat all those supplies. He glanced over at Ensign Fisher to make a funny comment, but the ensign seemed a million miles away.

Fisher had an aristocratic face that radiated a facade of superiority even when he was lost in thought. He leaned against the bridge railing with a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck and struck a pose that reminded Mitchell of Gary Cooper in the movie they’d shown on the quarterdeck a week before.

Fisher had studied law at Yale for a career in politics, and Mitchell suspected that Fisher joined the Navy solely to swing the veteran votes his way when he ran for Congress. He liked Fisher and would have loved to give the ensign the benefit of a doubt, but he had the niggling suspicion that all of Fisher’s motives were self-serving.

Mitchell turned to the captain. “Chowtime, sir. Shall we see if this new kid is worth the two tons of provisions we brought aboard?”

The three officers left Chief Baker in charge of the bridge and descended three levels to the wardroom. They found Tedder and Moyer perched at the table, sipping iced tea. A silver platter of appetizers—shrimp dumplings with a soy-based dipping sauce and steamed pork buns—alongside a frosty pitcher of unsweetened tea sat in the center of the table, which was dressed with a snowy-white linen tablecloth.

As the officers took their seats, Tedder beamed. “We were about to start without you. Sweet Jesus, these things smell good.”

“Otis, will you say grace?” the captain asked as he removed his tortoiseshell spectacles and slipped them into this breast pocket.

Bowing their heads, Moyer began, “We thank you, Lord, for the blessings we are about to receive. May your gift strengthen our bodies to perform your will against our enemy.”

“Amen,” they all sang out, not letting him ramble on as he usually did.

Beside each silverware setting rested a pair of wooden chopsticks. Mitchell lifted his pair and adjusted them in his right hand. He raised a dumpling, dipped it into the dark sauce, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. The others held their breaths, waiting for his verdict.

A wave of savory elation flowed from his tongue to his brain. He quickly counted the number of dumplings and divided by five.
That only leaves me three dumplings and one bun
, he thought.
I need to have a talk with Andy about proper quantities
.

Mitchell finally swallowed. “Fantastic.” He awkwardly lifted a pork bun with the chopsticks, took a quick bite, and moaned.

Bitton grabbed a fork, saying, “I don’t care how good they are, I’m not using those damned sticks.”

The room went silent for the two minutes it took the officers to polish off the appetizers. Only Mitchell used chopsticks. They all leaned into their seatbacks, smiling at the empty tray while waiting for the captain to comment. He remained quiet, so they mimicked his silence.

Grady sauntered into the cabin, wearing a virginal white steward’s coat, buttoned all the way to the collar. He whisked the tray away.

“Nathan, did we complete all the repairs?” Bitton asked.

Mitchell nodded. “She’s now as seaworthy as we can make her, skipper.”

Grady hurried through the hatchway, balancing a tray crammed with bowls, a soup tureen, and a breadbasket. The fragrance of turtle soup suffused the cabin. Each man leaned forward to stare as Grady placed the tray on the serving table, filled five bowls, and served each officer. He sat a basket of warm baguettes in the center of the table and exited the cabin.

“Excellent,” the captain said. “Now that the old girl is fit, we can spend time at sea doing battle drills.”

Mitchell lifted his spoon and dug in. Thick and meaty, the soup’s richness permeated his mouth and warmed his stomach. The baguettes were crusty on the outside and soft and fragrant on the inside. A hush settled over the table as he sampled a spoonful.

He lifted his head. “I do believe this is the tastiest soup I’ve ever eaten. It’s remarkable.”

Heads nodded.

Ten minutes later, Grady served the main course of roasted duck in a red curry sauce resting beside sautéed vegetables, with a side dish of stir-fried noodles topped with chunks of fresh lobster, cooked sweet and gingery.

Each man gawked at his plate while Grady slipped from the cabin.

“Nathan,” Bitton said, “I think it’s safe to say we should give our Mr. Waters a promotion to seaman first class and make him the permanent officers’ mess cook.”

“Amen,” Moyer said, grabbing his fork and digging into his noodles.

Above the whir of the electric fan over the vent hole, the only sounds were silver scraping china and the occasional slurp from Ensign Moyer. The absence of conversation lasted for the several minutes it took the officers to devour their food.

The curry ignited a delicious fire in Mitchell’s mouth and broke a sweat across his forehead, but he couldn’t stop eating the blistering dish as fast as decorum allowed.

Bitton swallowed the last bit of succulent duck and wiped his forehead with a napkin. He turned to Moyer. “Otis, what’s the latest poop from the crew?”

Mitchell knew that Moyer held a fascination with what continually happened in enlisted country. He once explained that he saw the officers as the ship’s brain and the enlisted men as the nervous system—officers made decisions and issued orders, enlisted men carried those orders to the affected part of the ship and made things happen. He was tenaciously interested in the crew’s behavior and studied them as if he were comparing different specimens of insects under a magnifying glass. To Moyer, the sailors were not so much individual men who drank and fought and complained and held opinions, but rather, collectively formed that mysterious component that was the
Pilgrim
’s soul. He loved hearing gossip concerning the crew and always had some interesting story to tell. It was unclear where he got his information, whether in the confessional or from spies who informed on their shipmates, because he never revealed his sources.

Grady entered the room, and the officers fell silent while he removed the plates and brought in dessert. He placed a plate with a wedge of Bavarian cream pie and two scoops of coconut ice cream in front of each officer. The pie had slivers of toasted almonds on top and trembled next to the ice cream. He also set a cheese plate, with flakes of sharp cheddar and warm baguette slices, in the center of the table, and served each officer a cup of green tea before leaving the cabin.

The captain shook his head. “Gentlemen, we’ve hit pay dirt.” Laughter filled the room as he nodded at Moyer. “Well, Otis. You were about to say?”

Moyer swallowed a mouthful of pie. “Well, Skipper, as you can imagine, these new men have caused quite a stir among the crew. They don’t like fraternizing with Waters or Washington. They call them ‘The Dirty Ws’. The good news is that these new men are bringing the crew together, bound by a common hatred.”

Mitchell felt heat gathering about his scalp and knew it was not caused by the curry.

Bitton frowned. “And the bad news?”

“The crew has organized a betting pool. They’re betting on which W gets thrown overboard first.”

Mitchell slammed his fist on the table hard enough to rattle the china. “God dammit! I won’t stand for this.” His voice quivered and he could feel the veins bulge in his neck. “Spread the word that if anything happens to either of those boys, I’ll rip this crew a new asshole. If these boys so much as stub a toe, this crew won’t see liberty for the duration of this war. I’ll put them all on bread and water!”

The captain’s face flushed and his voice rose above Mitchell’s. “I couldn’t agree more. A gift from God drops in our laps—a real chef, a man who takes pride in his work—not to mention Washington, who is perfectly capable steward. I’m not losing either of these boys because of ignorant bigotry. I pity the poor son of a bitch that tries to harm these boys. By God, I do.” He stared into each officer’s face, as if to insure they understood the seriousness of his threat. The silence became deafening.

Grady stepped into the room again, balancing a tray on which he carried a bottle of Jack Daniels, a bowl of ice cubes, and five tumblers. He placed the tray next to the cheese plate before stacking the dirty dishes. The subordinate officers stared at the captain as tension sizzled in the air.

“Where the hell did he find that?” Bitton muttered, his voice returning to normal. “Washington, tell Seaman Waters to report to me immediately.”

“Yes, suh.”

Two minutes later, Andrew hurried into the room and came to attention.

“Seaman Waters,” Bitton said. “Dinner was superb, except for one thing.”

“Yes, sir, I know. I should have served a variety of cheeses with dessert, but I couldn’t find any. If we moor at a French-Polynesian island, I’ll find some Brie, Camembert, and perhaps a fine bleu.”

Bitton was visibly flabbergasted, and Mitchell had to suppress a smile.

Bitton recovered himself. “I’m talking about the whiskey. Transporting liquor aboard a United States warship is a criminal offense. I’m responsible for everything that happens aboard the
Pilgrim
. We can both be court-martialed.”

“Sir, I didn’t know. I’ll throw it overboard.” Andrew leaned forward to grab the bottle.

“No!” the captain barked, freezing Andrew in midreach. “Now that it’s here, it’s Navy property, and we have an obligation to use it wisely.”

The junior officers visibly relaxed. Tedder slid his tongue over his lower lip.

“I appreciate a stiff drink after dinner as much as any man,” Bitton said. “But only at anchor and only when the engines are shut down. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you find a bottle of fine whiskey? God knows it’s worth its weight in gold.”

“Sir, there’s a thriving black market on the island. I traded fourteen cases of Hershey bars for one case of whiskey, and I got two cases of burgundy wine in exchange for ten cases of cigarettes. I would have served wine with dinner, but I couldn’t find where they stowed it. Would the captain care for wine with dinner at sea, or is that restricted to being served at anchor as well?”

A full minute passed before Bitton, visibly stunned, mumbled, “Restrict the serving of all alcohol to in-port dinners. There’s one other issue. I must say that if you were trying to make a good first impression, you overshot the mark by a nautical mile. Based on your performance tonight, Lieutenant Mitchell and I agree that you are, as of now, promoted to Seaman First Class and the permanent officers’ mess cook. Normally the XO would inform you of a promotion, but I wanted to be the first to congratulate you. Well done, sailor.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That is all, Waters. Keep up the excellent work.”

Bitton pulled a pipe and tobacco pouch from his hip pocket. While he filled the pipe bowl, Mitchell withdrew a pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket, took one, and threw the pack on the table for the others. Moyer measured two fingers of whiskey and two ice cubes into each tumbler while the men lit up. Each man paid careful attention to smoking and sipping his tea, but each man kept at least one eye on the whiskey.

Bitton finally grabbed his glass and knocked back his whiskey. The junior officers, except for Mitchell, joined him.

Mitchell paused another moment, savoring the anticipation, letting saliva gather in his mouth. He lifted his glass, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled the fragrant whiskey. He finally downed it in one long, sweet swallow. A lovely burn ignited his throat and he felt it settle in his full stomach. When a pleasant buzz hit his head, he immediately craved another, and he saw from the way his fellow officers stared at the bottle that he was not alone. His mind turned to Andrew, and his level of respect ratcheted up several notches. Once again, he felt that connection ripple through his center.

“Hell of a temptation, hey, gentlemen?” the captain said, waving out his match and tossing it into the ashtray. Sweet-smelling smoke stained the air. “I don’t think that’s putting it too strongly.” He slid his spectacles from his pocket and placed them on his face. “Much as I’d love to have another drink and see what other surprises jump out of the woodwork, I think we’ve left Chief Baker in command of the bridge long enough, so I’ll take my tea and join him.”

The officers rose. Mitchell stubbed out his cigarette and followed the captain, while the others sat again to finish their tea.

Chapter Seven

April 18, 1942—1800 hours

A
NDREW
rambled into the galley in time to see Grady and Cocoa polishing off the last of the pie.

“Buddha-boy,” Cocoa said through a mouthful of cream filling, “that’s the finest meal I ever ate aboard ship.” Cocoa consumed another spoonful. “What I can’t figure is why you ain’t eatin’ any of this. You fix a banquet, and sit there eatin’ steamed rice and vegetables. You got some kind of weird stomach problem?” He winked at Grady.

“I eat what I like,” Andrew said, as he stacked dirty dishes in the sink.

Grady said, “Never ate chow like this. All I ever had back home was pork belly, greens, grits, and good ol’ cornbread. But this spicy stuff taste’s real good, like Creole cookin’. Say, Andy, I’ll help you clean up.”

Andrew was afraid Grady would stain his pristine steward’s coat. “Thanks, Grady. Appreciate the offer, but I’ve got it covered.”