The Persimmon Tree (86 page)

‘You’re looking a million dollars, Kevin,’ I said, grinning. He was too — immaculate uniform, splashed with fruit salad and well groomed, the little bloke had come a long way from where I’d left him waving to me from a US Navy car, blistered from the sun, the parts that weren’t peeling looking sore and refusing to tan.

‘You look like shit, Nick. Where da fuck yer been? I don’t mean da cockamamie hospital. Da newspaper say you wid da marines in Guadalcanal? Dat true? You’re a hero, Navy Cross? Dat serious shit, buddy! Yer out o’ yer fuckin’ mind! Lissen, sonnyboy —’

I held up my hand. ‘We don’t say that — remember?’

He laughed uproariously. ‘I want yer to unnerstan’, I ain’t no fuckin’ hero! Come, Nick, come meet da chief.’

He’d managed to say all of this without losing the cigar. Walking into his office I remarked, ‘Hey, what’s with the cigar?’

He propped, removing the cigar from his mouth for the first time and looking at it as if surprised that it had been stuck in the corner of his mouth all along. ‘Buddy, this ain’t no ceegar! Dis a Cuban ceegar! Dat a big, big difference.’

‘Kevin, if I didn’t love you, I’d think you were an opportunist.’

‘Hey, Nick, whaddya mean? I’m American! It da same thing, ain’t it?’ he said, spreading his arms. ‘Dis da land of the fee.’

I thought he had simply mispronounced the word, but I was soon to be enlightened. It was strangely comfortable to be back with the little bloke.

The office was big and plush: patterned carpet on the floor, big desk, fancy drinks cabinet with ball-and-claw legs, two easy leather club chairs and a coffee table upon which rested a silver tray containing a big square cutglass bottle with a glass stopper and surrounded by six little glasses to match.

He indicated one of the leather chairs. ‘Sit, buddy, make yourself comfortable.’ He sat in another, facing me across the coffee table.

‘Irish whiskey?’ I asked, pointing to the decanter and glasses on the little tray.

‘Yeah, da best there is,’ he said, not without a touch of pride. ‘Wanna nip?’

I shook my head. ‘Father Geraghty?’ I asked.‘The priest at the orphanage, he’s still got you by the short and curlies, Kevin.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, not denying it. ‘When da bastard was whacking the livin’ crap outta me wit his big leather belt, me touchin’ me ankles wit my shirt tails round me ears, I’d look at dat bottle on his desk.
One day I gonna have me one like dat,
I said to myself.’ He pointed to the whiskey decanter. ‘Because dat cut bottle wit da glass stopper, dem little glasses, dat silver tray — dat got da power!’

‘Ah, the verity of Geraghty,’ I said, laughing.

‘Don’t yoh evah forget nuttin’, Nick?’ he asked.

‘We spent a lot of time talking on
Madam Butterfly
; there weren’t too many distractions,’ I replied.

The little bloke suddenly grew quiet, then looked up at me, his face serious. ‘I also ain’t forgot. I owe you big time, Nick. We gonna have us a good time.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘C’mon, I wan’ cha to meet da chief. How ya like da office?’ he said, sweeping a proprietary hand in the air.

‘Very nice — you must have done something very bad to deserve this,’ I grinned.

He pointed to a door on the right wall that presumably led into the second office. ‘You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet, buddy,’ he boasted. ‘Wait ’til yoh see the set-up next door.’

‘What does it all mean, Kevin? You’re a petty officer. I don’t want to be rude, mate, but even that is a minor miracle.’ I indicated the surroundings. ‘This is — well, what can I say?’

He laughed. ‘Yoh can say dat again, buddy! Opportunity only knock once. When da good Lord place it in ya way, it ain’t logical ya gonna refuse it. Matter of fact, where I come from, it a downright sin — the verity of Geraghty. When I got back to San Diego dey done a big story on me in da newspaper. Next thing I got me a Purple Heart.’

‘But you weren’t wounded!’

‘Wha’ cha sayin’, buddy? Lyin’ under dem bushes wit me head wound, unconscious, concussed? Wha’ cha mean? Dat ain’t wounded?’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, okay, sort of.’

‘Then I got me a Bronze Star.’

‘What for?’ I asked, amazed.

‘Da battleship sinkin’, the raft, me covered in fuckin’ black oil, lone American helping dem Australians to get ashore, lyin’ under dem bushes wounded, escapin’ from duh murderers on the beach. Den dere’s the boat I sailed across the Indian Ocean,’ he laughed, adding, ‘almost single-handed. Navigatin’ by da fuckin’ stars, using dat rope wit da knots. Comin’ through dat storm where I’s at da helm forty-two hours wid no sleep. Jap fighters like fuckin’ bees in da sky above. Livin’ on a handful of weevil rice and rainwater. Sun burnin’ down remorseless, like it the fires o’ hell, peelin’ me skin like a tomato when dey dump it in boilin’ water. Opportunism, buddy! It the American way! When ya got material like dat, if’n yoh don’t use it, it a crime against humanity! This is numbuh one prime bullshit yoh got at ya disposal, buddy! Da best yoh can get! Yoh ain’t nevah gonna find better.’

He patted the ribbons on his chest. ‘Not too many heroes come outta the US Navy Quartermaster’s Department.’ He grinned, recalling, ‘Dey was fallin’ over each other to promote me to petty officer, gimme these ribbons.’ He chuckled. ‘I should’a asked for chief, but by the time I realised it was too late, ’n so I was forced to run outa bullshit.’

‘And how did I feature in all of this?’ I asked with a grin.

Kevin threw back his head and laughed uproariously, ‘Who?’

We crossed the room, Kevin knocked at the inside door and, not waiting for an answer, opened it. He was right. The next office was even grander: carpet deeper, four leather club chairs, bigger coffee table and drinks cabinet. There was a large vase of gladioli on the coffee table but no cutglass decanter. The huge desk was covered in photographs in elaborate silver frames. They seemed to be mostly of family, the usual happy snaps at home or groups of navy personnel. Four telephones and a teletype machine rested on the desk behind which, seated on a leather swivel chair, sat a big bloke I judged to be about fifty. The upper sleeve of his uniform was covered with chevrons (known as ‘hash marks’) and badges denoting his rank and years of service. He was the navy equivalent of the master gunner sergeants at Guadalcanal, the blokes who knew everything, controlled everything and had to be respected regardless of rank.

On the wall behind the desk were three large framed photographs: one of President Roosevelt, another of Admiral Ernest J. King, Commander in Chief of the US Fleet, and the third, which was just as large and important-looking, was also an admiral but one I didn’t recognise. Later Kevin told me it was the Quartermaster General, ‘from where all bounty flow,’ he’d said at the time.

‘Meet da chief,’ Kevin said, smiling broadly. ‘Nick, dis is Chief Petty Officer Bud Lewinski. Bud, dis my buddy, Nick Duncan, who saved my life twice.’

Bud Lewinski rose and extended his hand, coming from behind the desk. ‘We meet at last, Nick,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘For Da Judge here, there’s the Virgin Mary, Jesus and Nick Duncan.’ He laughed. ‘And not necessarily in that order.’ Drawing away he stopped and stabbed a blunt finger in the direction of my chest. ‘Hey, Nick. I hear you got the US Navy Cross — how come you not wearing it?’ he asked, just a tinge of belligerence to his voice.

‘I regret I’m not officially allowed to wear it when in uniform,’ I said.

‘What kind o’ cockamamie bullshit is that?’

‘The King. Some rule. He’s the only one allowed to award medals. Oh, and General MacArthur,’ I replied, ‘but I suspect only our own. The Navy Cross was much more than I deserved,’ I added, so that he wouldn’t think I’d dismissed the American honour lightly.

‘Them limeys are a regular pain in the ass,’ he snorted. I was to learn that Chief Lewinski was a pretty forthright kind of bloke. He was big-boned, carrying a little too much weight, but like Colonel Woon, built solid as a brick shithouse, with a ruddy complexion, hazel eyes, crew-cut hair with thick black Groucho Marx eyebrows. He was what Marg Hamilton would have termed ‘a man of striking presence’, meaning that it had nothing to do with his looks. Rupert Basil Michael Long fell into that category even though he and the grizzled, bearlike man seated at the desk were quite different physical types.

‘This is nice,’ I said, taking in the office. ‘What’s the admiral’s office like?’

Both men laughed. ‘Admirals don’t run the navy, Nick,’ Chief Lewinski replied. Instead of taking a seat with us he was now half sitting on a corner of his big desk.

‘Oh? I thought that was their job.’

‘No way, José!’ Kevin retorted. With his ‘adios’ to the seated men outside and now this expression, he’d obviously picked up a bit of Mexican slang while in San Diego.

‘It don’t work like that,’ Chief Lewinski explained. ‘Startin’ tomorrow mornin’, take away the admirals, generals in the army and air force, the war go on as usual. Take away the petty officers, the chiefs, the sergeants, all the NCOs — and the fuckin’ war stops. Nuttin’ is goin’ nowhere from that moment on. We got admirals on the other three corners this building. If they don’t show up tomorrow nobody will notice; in a month, maybe a few questions, but still no alarm bells are clangin’. On the other hand, if we don’t get here eight hunnert hours pronto, the US Navy in the Pacific gonna miss a heartbeat.’ He pointed to the teletype machine. ‘Every day by o-nine hunnert that thing’s smokin’ and the phones ’r jumpin’ offa the desk.’

‘How do yoh suppose t’irty t’ousand mosquito nets get made and delivered to the wharf to arrive on the 26th at Cape Gloucester — where you goin’ next, Nick,’ the little bloke chimed in.

I was stunned. Kevin couldn’t possibly know this. It was classified information. Like any planned movement, it was a closely guarded secret. My Intelligence training let me pass his comment without remark — it could wait for a private moment with him. I laughed. ‘Looks like I’ve got the wrong rank and I’m in the wrong branch of the navy, gentlemen,’ I quipped.

Chief Lewinski tapped a cigarette out of a Camel soft-pack, threw the box down onto his desk, lit the cigarette, inhaled and exhaled, then squinting at me through the smoke, said, ‘That’s what we do; we make it happen, son. Your little buddy here is my right-hand man and half the left one as well. He can find anythin’ and the little prick has a memory like an addin’ machine.’

‘No admirals, no generals, no war: now that’s a thought,’ I said, musing.

‘Them bums wouldn’t know how to pour piss out o’ a boot, even if we put the instructions on the heel,’ Chief Lewinski retorted.

‘Piss in boots,’ I said as a throwaway line, unable to resist the rather obvious pun. ‘Would I be right in thinking you don’t have an especially high regard for the officer class?’

‘Hey, dat clever, Nick. Piss in boots — but it’s true, we supply da boots, da laces, da instructions, da only thing da brass gotta do is supply da piss and even den dey don’t always aim accurate or pour it out wit’out spillin’ it over der big clumsy feet,’ Chief Lewinski said.

‘The civilians outside when I arrived? I take it they’re suppliers?’

‘Hope to be, bend over backwards to be, crawl-on-their-knees-over-hot-coals and piss-in-every-pocket-I-got-on-me-uniform to be. They’d sell their mothers, sisters and daughters to be Uncle Sam’s suppliers in the Pacific. But we have to first remind them that America is the land of the brave and the fee.’

There it was again, this time from Chief Lewinski. I was beginning to realise that the business of supplying the requisites for the Pacific War was probably the biggest completely safe commercial bonanza Australian businessmen had hitherto encountered. They’d be falling over themselves to get to Chief Lewinski and, now apparently, the little bloke. I guess I’d been naïve, but it had never occurred to me (not that I’d ever thought about it) that all this business opportunity might involve a bit taken, so to speak, off the top.

In a way, I suppose it was navy tradition. Captain Cook was expected to profit from his ship’s supplies. Lord Nelson did the same at Trafalgar, although he didn’t live to spend it. The barrel of brandy in which they pickled his body to prevent it decaying in the summer heat on the way back from Spain to Portsmouth had probably had a nip or two skimmed off the top to find its way into the admiral’s stores before going into the ship’s hold. You may be sure the bosuns at the time had a grubby hand in all of it.

I guess this sort of thing has always been going on, and it explained the anxious-looking bunch in the passageway. Nor did I doubt, now that I thought about it, that the briefcase-and-hat brigade, once they knew the percentages involved, would simply add the gratuity to the cost of their goods so that Uncle Sam was the only ultimate loser.

‘What about the two senior officers?’ I asked. I’d noted to myself that they seemed to have the demeanour of two errant schoolboys waiting outside the principal’s office.

Chief Lewinski grinned, stubbing his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘The colonel wants to see if we can get his ass out of a crack. He’s lost three truckloads of Bud — trucks, beer, the lot, all disappeared.’

‘And you can find them for him?’

‘Not me,’ he turned to the little bloke. ‘Finding things, that’s Da Judge’s speciality.’

‘Jeez, thank you. Nick, I almost forgot. I gotta check dey’ve off-loaded half the cargo off o’ one of dem trucks.’ Kevin walked over to the telephone, dialled and spoke to someone named Naval Rating Wilson. ‘Da colonel can easy explain half a load missin’ and all his trucks and da rest of his beer got back safe,’ he said generously, after returning from making the call.