The Lonely War (13 page)

He grabbed another can, punched two more holes. Sipping this beer, he savored the bitter flavor. As the first beer settled in his empty stomach, he felt the buzz hit his head, that keenly gratifying feeling of being borderline drunk in the early afternoon. A pint bottle of whiskey hid in the paper bag, getting cold beside the other beers, but he was saving that for later.

He leaned against the tree, listening to the surf caressing the sand, a steady rhythm that lulled his mind into a fog of slow sensations. Under the sound of surf was that beautiful perception of silence—no growling ship’s boilers, no knocking engines, no foul-mouthed sailors bitching about pulling K.P., and no smart-ass comments about the food. Nothing here but a beer, a beach, and some whiskey to look forward to. It was all he wanted. He needed it like he needed another breath to fill his lungs.

He relaxed, loosening that stone that was lodged in his chest. The one that now felt as small as a spit wad, but sometimes felt as large as a ship’s anchor.

He drained the beer, tossed the can alongside the other empty, and reached into the paper bag. He smiled as his fingers glided over the pint bottle. Changing his mind, he latched on to another cold can, teasing himself with anticipation. He popped two triangular holes in the can again and sipped, knowing he had a lovely day in front of him. He didn’t want to get too drunk and end up sleeping his time away.
Better to go slow and enjoy this freedom of being nobody, being nothing more than a drunken sand crab on the beach, not having to act the part of the sailor, or the cook, or the man, or any other damn thing.

He knew that he acted differently toward each person on the ship, that his demeanor changed when talking with Mitchell as opposed to Hudson, or Grady, or the skipper. Each man engaged a subtly different set of responses. He once thought that the sum of all those different responses made up the man, but lately he had begun to think that the man, Cocoa, was that blurry indefinable mass hovering behind all those facades.

He laughed for the sheer pleasure of hearing himself. Yes, he thought, he’d be that gray mass for a few precious hours. Later, he knew, hunger would drive him into town for a cheap dinner and a good woman. Or maybe, he thought, it’s the other way around. He smiled to himself and sipped more beer. Right then it was enough to feel the sun on his toes and cold beer running down his throat, and he intended to enjoy every second of that simplicity.

A
NDREW
was plucking a chicken when Mitchell trooped into the galley.

“Seaman Waters, we received a priority action dispatch,” Mitchell said. “Orders from CincPac—Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet. The skipper wants to sail as soon as we can gather the liberty party aboard. You will accompany me ashore to help round them up.”

Seaman Waters? What happen to Andy
? Andrew knew then that their friendship would never be the same.

On their way to the gangplank, Bitton intercepted Mitchell on the quarterdeck. The captain took him by the arm and drew him away from Andrew, but not quite out of hearing distance. Andrew overheard everything.

“The orders are direct from Admiral Nimitz,” Bitton said, holding up the flimsy sheet of carbon-blurred dispatch. “We sail to Bora Bora, pick up a detachment of marines, and make flank speed into the hot zone to an island called Guadalcanal. We drop the marines on the beach and hightail it back here. I want to sail in two hours.”

“Might be tough to round up everyone, but we’ll do our best, sir.”

“I’m counting on you, Nathan. Whoever we can’t find gets left ashore until we return.”

Andrew realized that Mitchell had selected him to help gather the liberty party out of fear of leaving Grady and him on the ship together without supervision.

They marched down the rue Pomare on their way to the center of town. Embarrassed by Mitchell’s lack of trust, Andrew felt compelled to say something, but he had already said all there was to say about the washroom incident. He waited for Mitchell to open the conversation. Mitchell, however, walked with his jaw locked tight, as if he were afraid to open his mouth lest something dangerous fly out.

A nameless, irascible obstacle lodged between them, separating each from the relationship they had so carefully constructed. Andrew suspected that their friendship had abruptly ended primarily because Mitchell was now aware of that intimate presence that hovered between them, and he was afraid—terrified of his own feelings. He wondered if Mitchell was perceptive enough to realize it too, but he would not broach the topic.

They spoke only in the line of duty. Mitchell gave an order, “Check that bar across the street while I check this one.”

Andrew returned an illusively contemptuous, “Aye, aye, sir.”

They worked their way toward the center of town, checking every bar, brothel, hotel, and restaurant. On the rue de Paul Gauguin they ran into Stokes strolling arm in arm with a pretty girl.

Stokes introduced his companion, Miss Chew-Gin Lee, and explained that her mother was a native islander and her father was a Chinese merchant who owned a local grocery store. He said that her name was Chinese for “autumn pearl” but that she was prettier than any pearl he’d ever seen.

Chew-Gin blushed a lovely shade of pink while keeping her eyes focused on the ground. She demurely leaned into his solid mass, as if dreamily leaning against a shade tree on a summer afternoon.

Andrew noted her finely embroidered dress and her impeccable manners. Chew-Gin was clearly no prostitute. It was equally clear that Stokes was smitten by the way he gazed into her face. Stokes, like himself, had fallen deeply in love within a matter of hours. Andrew wondered if this was natural or if the pressures of war somehow created these desperate feelings in the blink of an eye. 

As Mitchell ordered Stokes to report aboard, said that the
Pilgrim
was shoving off, a fearful expression ripped across his features. He pulled her closer, unable to respond. He finally blurted out, “But, sir, we’ve only had an afternoon together.”

“I can’t help that, sailor,” Mitchell replied. “On your way to the ship, stop at the Royal Papeete Hotel. You’ll find Ensign Fisher there. If he’s not in the restaurant or the bar, ask at the front desk to see if he’s checked into a room. Tell him that leave is canceled. Got that?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And Stokes,” Mitchell’s voice dropped as he said, somewhat humorously, “I’m sure she’s a wonderful girl, but don’t even think of going AWOL on me. We’ll be back here inside of a week and she’ll be in your arms again.”

“Aye, sir.” 

C
OCOA
shuffled along the outlying streets off the rue Jeanne D’arc. The street was lined with palm trees and nipa shacks. He searched for a run-down barroom or shabby whorehouse where he could linger at a table, nurse a whiskey and beer chasers through the evening, and perhaps enjoy some chitchat with an island girl.

The first bar he passed was Quinn’s, a typical waterfront establishment. But it was already half full and getting rowdy.
No,
he thought,
won’t do.
He found a semi-open-air dance hall attached to a Chinese restaurant where, for a reasonable price, they served a plate of chow mein and fried bananas along with a glass of beer.

He stood at the doorway, scanning the patrons and smelling the musky blend of perfume, native tobacco, and frying oil. He recognized only one sailor, an old acquaintance whose name had slipped his mind. Cocoa waved cordially as he crossed the room and sat at the corner table.

After eating his fill, he sipped his beer and watched a sailor dance with a bargirl to some lively music from an Edison phonograph. In addition to the dance girls, there were a dozen prostitutes congregated at one end of the unpolished wooden bar. Cocoa watched a sailor walk up to one of them to ask how much. The girl motioned for him to bend down to her level, and when he did, she whispered her price in his ear. The sailor nodded. She giggled and they disappeared out the back doorway where a lane lined with nipa huts disappeared into the dusk.

Half a dozen sailors from the
Pilgrim
crowded through the door, and Hudson was among them. Cocoa considered moving on, but he liked the feel of the place and the music suited him. He watched Hudson grab the first girl he passed and haul her to the dance floor. The big man moved across the floor like some loose-jointed animal, sliding his feet in extravagant patterns. His left hand held the girl against his loins while his right hand roamed over her backside. She tried to break free of his groping hand but he held her tight, laughing as he spun her around. He laughed the kind of arrogant guffaw that made other men want to slug his face; they seldom did, however.

The men from the
Pilgrim
took over two tables at the edge of the dance floor, ordering pitchers of beer and a bottle of island hooch. They talked in exaggerated voices as they surveyed the room, as if expecting some show of admiration from the others. But everyone ignored their bravado.

After a time, Hudson joined the group and added his voice to the flaunting banter. By the time the drinks came, they seemed vaguely indignant to the perceived snub, which dampened their mood and visibly angered Hudson. He downed a shot of fiery hooch, chased it with a full glass of beer, and poured himself another round.

Cocoa’s attention alighted on a woman with slim legs and silky hair that cascaded over her hybrid-brown shoulders. Her body was covered with a cloth wrap that was the same color as the pink orchid she had tucked into her hair. She was a dancer, the one Hudson had dragged onto the floor.

Cocoa shoved his empty plate aside and ordered a whiskey from the hostess, but he changed his mind. “Honey,” he yelled after her, “make that a rum collins. One that will grow hair on my chest.”

He lit an Owl cigar and smoked it neatly, connoisseurlike, rolling the cigar this way and that while he sipped his drink. He felt contempt for Hudson, who always chewed the ends of his cigars. Cocoa nodded at the dance girl with the pink flower in her hair. She smiled and sauntered to his table. He saw why she made a point of not smiling before then. With her mouth closed, she was rather pretty.

“You buy me whiskey?” she said in broken English.

“Sure thing, Kitten. Sit right down.” Cocoa signaled the hostess for another round.

At the other tables, Smitty gulped his beer and slammed his mug on the tabletop. “This fuckin’ place is dead. Let’s find a joint with live music and prettier girls.”

“These whores look fine to me,” Skeeter Banks said, scanning the room. “Say, isn’t that Cocoa horning in on Hudson’s girl?”

Hudson turned to stare at the corner table. His eyes narrowed as the girl sitting with Cocoa glanced at him with a patronizing grin. She shimmied closer to Cocoa, took hold of his arm, and snuggled up to him.

“Say, Hudson,” Smitty said, “that fuckin’ bitch is playing you for a sucker.”

Skeeter laughed. “She dumped you for that smelly ol’ cook. What gives with that?”

Hudson swallowed a double shot of hooch. He stood and crossed the room with three quick steps, grabbed the girl’s arm, and yanked her to her feet.

“This bitch is mine.” Hudson glared at Cocoa. “You got anything to say?”

Nausea gripped Cocoa’s gut as he looked into Hudson’s whiskey-eyed face. He paused for an instant to make sure that his voice would sound smooth and without any trace of fear.

“Take her. Plenty more where she came from.”

Hudson snorted contemptuously. Cocoa could only stare as Hudson dragged the girl to his table. He sat on his chair and pulled the girl onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her to keep her there. She struggled to free herself, but he had her arms pinned to her side and she only managed to squirm on his lap, a movement that brought a lewd smile to the big man’s face.

“That’s right honey, you keep rubbin’ that spot with your hot little fanny.”

She leaned into Hudson to bite his shoulder, but he slapped her face, hard, stunning her. The room went silent except for the Andrew Sisters crooning on the phonograph. All eyes watched as Hudson grabbed her jaw and turned her head to look into his eyes. “You little spitfire, you’re gonna sit right here while I finish my beer, then you and me are going out back and you’re gonna straddle the best cock in the Navy.” He glanced around the table as if to assure himself that no one would challenge his boast.

At that moment, Mitchell and Andrew ambled though the front door and scanned the room. Mitchell said with an authoritative voice, “You men from the
Pilgrim
, liberty is canceled. Fall-in on the street.”

Hudson’s lip lifted, baring his upper teeth in a gesture that was somewhere between a sneer and a snarl. “I ain’t going nowhere until I’ve had me some of this little bitch right here.” He brutally pinched the woman’s breast, and she shrieked.

“All right, Hudson, that will do. Unhand that woman and fall-in.”

Cocoa watched the two men glaring eye to eye. He waited for Hudson to drop his gaze and bow to the prestige of authority standing before him.

The room went still. The Andrew Sisters’ song came to an end and the phonograph repeated a harsh scratching noise.

After a dozen interminable seconds of watching the hostility seething behind the big man’s face, Cocoa understood that Mitchell had made a serious blunder. He was enmeshed in an explosive situation, because Hudson was visibly grappling with the realization that the officer was ever so casually taking away his prize.
With his customary arrogance,
Cocoa thought,
Mitchell had stripped away Hudson’s dignity in front of his shipmates, which was a dangerous mistake
.

Hudson leaped to his feet, dropping the woman and kicking his chair across the dance floor. His eyes zeroed in on the lieutenant’s face as he crossed the room with an animal-like trot. His right hand balled into a fist, cocked and ready to knock Mitchell into next week. He lunged, drove his fist forward while his eyes never left his target. But before he connected with Mitchell’s wide-open mouth and bugged-out eyes, Andrew tackled the big man at the knees and they both fell sideways, sprawling on the gritty floorboards.