The Lonely War (5 page)

Lieutenant Horace Tedder, the medical officer, and Ensign Otis Moyer, the chaplain, relaxed in wicker chairs around the table, sipping coffee from brown mugs. As Mitchell came close to the table, he overheard Tedder telling Moyer about his morning activities.

“After reveille,” Tedder explained, “the skipper and I inspected the mess hall and crew’s quarters, then came sick call. I’ll tell you, the ingenuity of these goldbrickers astounds me. They must have a medical book stashed somewhere aboard, because nobody could invent such elaborate ailments. This morning, Smitty gave such a detailed description of his stomachache I knew it was a phony. I told him I needed to perform an emergency appendectomy using only a local anesthetic. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know what an appendectomy is, but he jumped up and ran out of sick bay so fast you’da thought his pants were on fire.” Tedder joined Moyer in a belly laugh.

Mitchell knew something was up when he heard Tedder laugh. Having grown up in Seattle where the temperatures are cool, Tedder was always miserable in the tropics, so to see even a smile on his face was shocking. His silver hair was oiled and neatly parted, but his uniform looked like he had slept in it. He was a civilian dressed in officer garb. If it weren’t for the war, he would be sitting in his office in a two gas-station town, sneaking shots of whiskey between seeing elderly ladies complaining of back pains.

“Okay, Doc, I’ll bite. What’s up?” Mitchell asked.

Tedder sipped his coffee and glanced at the burly, dark-haired chaplain. Both men grinned. 

“It seems we have a new cook,” Moyer said.

“Seaman Waters. Did you meet him?” Mitchell grabbed the coffeepot and poured himself a mug.

“No, we just now found out about it,” Moyer replied.

“How’s that?” Mitchell asked.

“You’ll see.”

Mitchell wondered what game these two were playing as he put the pot down and sat on the edge of a wicker chair. As he sipped his coffee, his eyebrows lifted high on his forehead.

“Goddamn, this is great. Do I detect a hint of chicory?”

“Affirmative,” Moyer beamed. “Our slumming days are over, thank the Lord.”

Mitchell noticed Captain Ben Bitton rambling onto the quarterdeck from the forward conning tower, looking stern, unflappable, and fit for his fifty-two years. Beneath his salt-and-pepper hair and hiding behind his tortoiseshell glasses were his piercing hazel eyes, which revealed his self-assured temperament. His khaki uniform was crisply pressed and his shoes buffed, communicating respect for his position and underlining his attention to detail.

Before they could all rise, Bitton said, “As you were, gentlemen.”

Silence descended over the table, and Mitchell bent his head over the clipboard on his knee, updating the repair paperwork. Bitton poured himself a mug of coffee before relaxing into a chair.  Moyer and Tedder watched the captain’s face while seeming not to notice him at all. The captain sipped his coffee and grinned. Never one to go overboard, his grin, however, was very telling. He drank the rest of his coffee in silence and filled another mug while Moyer and Tedder exchanged gleeful smiles.

Grady emerged from the passageway leading to the galley. He carried a silver tray, which he put on the officer’s table. Dominating the tray was a frosted pitcher of lemonade and four equally frosted glasses. In that crush of sweltering heat, the officers stared open-mouthed at the visible corona of coldness surrounding the tray.

“My God,” the captain said. “He even chilled the glasses. What the hell’s gotten into Cocoa—first, delicious coffee, and now this?”

“There’s good news and bad,” Mitchell said. “One of the new seamen is striking for cook. This is obviously not Cocoa’s doing.”

“Don’t tell me the bad news. I want to enjoy this.” Bitton took his spectacles off and slid them into his breast pocket. His hazel eyes blinked several times, as if testing the vision before him. He grabbed the pitcher handle and ceremoniously poured himself a generous portion. He sipped the frigid ambrosia, smacked his lips, and took three long gulps.

Mitchell watched a remarkable change come over the captain. His shoulders visibly lowered as his whole body relaxed. Like a snake uncoiling, the muscles in his face released the tension that had been a permanent fixture.

“God has answered my prayers,” he said. “This new cook will raise morale in no time. Glorious, utterly glorious. Why, the coffee alone will lift everybody’s spirits.”

Moyer took the pitcher and refilled the captain’s glass before pouring three others. The officers gulped the frigid tartness while making low moaning noises.

Setting his empty glass on the table, Mitchell wondered how much he should tell the captain about Andrew. He knew that within the captain’s spartan cabin there were only two items on the shelf above the bunk: a Bible and a bundle of letters bound with a rubber band. The captain read his Bible for an hour every night. The letters were all from his wife, and he selectively read them before sleep took him. The captain was a staunch Methodist, and Mitchell felt apprehensive about what his reaction would be when he learned that Andrew practiced the same religion as the enemy.

“Nathan, how do we stand on repairs?” Bitton asked.

“Great, Skipper. The depot gang is nearly finished and our men are working damned hard helping them.”

“Excellent. Did you hear any more scuttlebutt ashore about Bataan?” the captain asked.

“Yes, sir. The rumors we heard are true: the Nips cut our boys to ribbons. Some forces fled to Corregidor and they’re holding out for reinforcements, but thousands were taken prisoner and there’s no knowing how many died.”

“Poor bastards,” the captain said, shaking his head. “Starved, devastated by malaria, made to fight, and in the end, killed or taken prisoner.”

Mitchell nodded, “They had a poem that was written up by a war correspondent named Frank Hewlett:

We’re the battling bastards of Bataan,

No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam,

No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces,

No pills, no planes or artillery pieces,

And nobody gives a damn.”

A leaden silence settled over the officers.

Finally, Tedder said, “I don’t understand how a nation of bucktoothed flower arrangers who run around in bath robes and sandals could defeat MacArthur’s troops. Our boys are better trained, better equipped, and they dress like men.”

“Obviously, those are erroneous generalizations,” Mitchell said. “They’re a tough bunch.”

“What about MacArthur, did he make it to Corregidor?” Moyer asked.

Mitchell grinned. “Corregidor? Hell, they smuggled him clean out of the Philippines. He’s in Australia, building an invasion force to retake Bataan. An interviewer asked him about his escape and he said:
It was close, but that’s the way it is in war. You win or lose, live or die—and the difference is just an eyelash.
”

“An eyelash, my God,” Bitton said. “Hell of a man. I’d give anything to lead men into action. I’d love to see if I’ve got his kind of mettle.” Bitton lifted his head and his voice trembled. “All these fierce battles are raging, and here we sit in the war’s backwaters, escorting supply ships, carrying mail, towing targets, and every other menial fleet duty. Well, it’s not very heroic now, is it?”

They all lowered their eyes.

“Sooner or later,” Bitton continued, “we’ll have the chance to prove ourselves, and we better damn well be ready when it comes.”

Grady sauntered onto the quarterdeck carrying another tray, which he sat next to the pitcher of lemonade. There were four plates on the tray, and each officer leaned forward to see what more surprises were in store for lunch.

On each plate sat the same kind of greasy canned-meat sandwich on day-old bread that they had endured for the last two months. Beside the sandwiches were mounds of mustard-yellow potato salad and dill pickle slivers.

One by one the eager smiles fell into frowns.

Tedder cleared his throat and said, “Maybe I’m simple, but I don’t see anything heroic about MacArthur’s dashing to safety with his tail between his legs.”

The captain shook his head. “He has the most brilliant military mind of our time. It’d be devastating if he were captured. As it is, I’ll bet there are some yellow bastards who have red faces now for letting him slip through their fingers.”

Tedder pulled a plate toward him, grabbed a sandwich, and held it under his nose. Before he chomped down, he said, “I can’t help feeling sorry for those men left holding the bag.” He ripped off a mouthful of sandwich and chewed savagely.

Cocoa emerged from the galley, with Andrew close on his heels. Cocoa’s stocky waist supported a grease-stained apron that draped below his knees. His T-shirt was stretched tight over his protruding belly and had a large, yellow stain under each armpit. His face, round with a waddle of fat hanging under his chin, was normally pale, but at that moment it glowed a scalded red. They both came to attention beside the officer’s table.

“Request permission to speak, sir,” Cocoa said, with his chin pulled absurdly high.

“What is it, Cocoa?” Mitchell asked.

“Sir, it’s this new man, Seaman Waters. Much as I need the help, sir, he just won’t do.”

Mitchell exhaled sharply. “And why is that, Cocoa?”

“Well, sir, for one thing, I put him in charge of beverages and the first thing he does is make nine urns of coffee, one after the other. When he gets one made he pours it out and starts over, like he’s loony. Them urns is twenty gallons each. Then I find that he’s used up all my lemons. And there’s the crew, sir. I mean, I don’t mind having a half Jap for a kitchen coolie, but the crew is saying they won’t eat no raw fish heads and rice. They think he’s a plant sent here to poison them. They refuse to eat anything he touches.”

“I take it this is the bad news?” Bitton asked.

Mitchell nodded, and all four officers turned to stare at Andrew.

Mitchell asked, “Why did you make an urn of coffee and pour it out?”

“I’ve never brewed coffee in an urn, sir. The way Mister Cocoa showed me made the foulest-tasting sludge, so I experimented with how much coffee to water mixture would taste best. I remembered that chicory cuts the bitterness, so I tried that too. I’m sorry about the lemons. I thought the officers would prefer something cold rather than hot coffee. And about the fish heads?” Andrew grinned. “Mister Cocoa is fixing something for dinner he calls chitterlings. It’s a stretch for me to believe that the crew would eat a hog’s ass but not a fish’s head, but maybe that’s my upbringing.”

Each officer tried and failed to suppress a smile. Mitchell said, “I’ll gather the crew and have a heart-to-heart with them about being more accepting.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Cocoa said. “You can talk from now until the time I get religion and the men ain’t going to accept him. They got an ugly resentment that’s running bone-deep.”

Mitchell glanced at Andrew. “I’m afraid the crew’s refusal to eat your cooking leaves us in a bind. I’ll have to restrict you to kitchen cleanup.”

Cocoa’s sudden smile showed a full set of dingy teeth.

“Sir,” Andrew said, “I believe it was Voltaire who said:
We should be tolerant of everything but intolerance.
”

All the officers were clearly stupefied, having never before heard an enlisted man quote a philosopher.

Andrew swallowed hard. “I have a suggestion, sir. Let me cook for the officers. If you accept me, perhaps the crew will follow in time. I can cook French, Chinese, Siamese, and Japanese cuisine. And if it’s for only five officers, I can make every meal special.”

Mitchell studied his hands on the table, considering Andrew’s proposal.

Andrew’s voice became raw. “He doesn’t even wash his hands after using the head. I do.”

Tedder swallowed loudly and dropped his sandwich back onto his plate.

Mitchell shook his head, but before he could say anything, Captain Bitton interrupted.

“A splendid idea. We’ll put him in charge of the officer’s mess on a trial basis. But I won’t have Japanese food served aboard this ship—anything but Japanese.”

Mitchell was stunned.  Personnel issues were the executive officer’s responsibility, and Bitton never interfered with letting his subordinates manage their own affairs. It was unheard of for him to step in and overrule a junior officer in front of a crewmember.

“One more thing, sir,” Andrew said. “To cook Asian food, which is what I do best, I’ll need supplies from the Chinese merchants on the island.”

The captain nodded. “Cocoa, requisition whatever he needs. You men are dismissed.”

Cocoa and Andrew disappeared down the passageway as Bitton laced his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. He leaned toward Mitchell.

“Nathan, you should have seen that coming. Now the crew is affected. You’re obviously too wrapped up with repairs to pay due attention to personnel issues. Let this be a wake-up call for us all. We are a fighting ship at war, gentlemen. If the crew is defective, the ship is defective.” Bitton paused before adding, “If there are weaknesses aboard this ship, we have to weed them out and correct them. Our lives depend on us honing these men into a cohesive fighting machine.”

Mitchell felt the pressure of his palms on his clipboard. A stray nerve kept pulsing in his neck, reaching up to spread across his skull. He wanted to defend himself, but he could only manage to nod in agreement.

“What about the other new men,” Bitton asked, “any problems there?”

“They dumped a troublemaker on us named Hudson, machinist-mate with a chip on his shoulder. He needs a kick in the pants and I intend to give it to him the next time he steps out of line. The other two should fit in fine.”

“Any other surprises with this Chinaman?”

“Well, Skipper, he’s half Chinese and was raised by monks in Indochina. He speaks several languages, including Japanese, and he’s a Buddhist.”

The captain’s eyebrows rose and he sat silent for half a minute before turning to Chaplain Moyer. “Well, Otis, looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you with this kid.”

Chapter Six