Time and Tide

by Thomas Fleming

  Roth thought of the fire room fifty feet below the main deck, the looming boilers, the gauges, the challenge of learning how the Jefferson City worked. Was life, opportunity, standing at this bar, drinking with him and Amos Cartwright? Or death in an explosion of steam and flame in the Pacific's depths?

  "Ah tell you, Jesus is waitin' for your hand. He has His hand out to you, just as my hand is out here. Ah'm speakin' for Him. Ah'm reachin' for Him. Is anybody ready to reach back? Is anyone anxious enough about the whirlpool of sin and sorrow and war in which we are plunged in these last days? Is anyone anxious, is anyone courageous enough to seize this lovin' hand?"

  The Reverend James Brownlow prowled the aisle of his church, his hand out, madness or divinity — take your pick — dancing in his blue eyes. He was a big man, as broad as Boats Homewood and a good three inches taller. He was at least sixty, possibly seventy. His skin was as brown and corrugated as the bark of an ancient oak.

  "Someone in this church is ready for Jesus. I can feel it in my gut. Who is it? Who's ready?"

  "I am," Frank Flanagan yelled and leaped to his feet.

  Was it a gag? He wondered as he lunged toward the leathery hand and saw the joy spilling across James Brownlow's haggard face. He was one of those men whom the last ten years in America had battered. Flanagan knew his story. Teresa had triumphantly introduced him to her father and he had eaten supper with them. He had heard about the prosperous church in the wheatlands of Oklahoma that the drought and dust had swept away. As he listened to Brownlow talk, Flanagan had grasped the inner drama of this storefront church, this congregation which had to be scoured from the flophouses and bars for each service. This man was daring God to fail him again. Each time he held a service, he was throwing down a gauntlet on high. He was saying, I dare you not to send me some souls to save.

  Flanagan had joined Teresa in prowling the alleys and back streets of San Pedro for recruits for the evening service. They sat on the metal chairs now, a collection of derelicts lured by the promise of doughnuts and coffee, sailors out of money and looking for someplace to sober up before going back to their ships, a half dozen regulars, remnants of those who had followed Brownlow from Oklahoma.

  The glow of pleasure on Teresa's face doubled Flanagan's sense of reward, even if it did not add an iota of genuine faith to the burlesque he was performing. But it broke the fog of lethargy and alcohol into which the congregation had been sinking. Another sailor, two derelicts, a withered woman from the Oklahoma remnant also seized the Reverend Brownlow's hand and allowed him to lead them to the front of the church, where they all knelt before the pulpit.

  "Lord," he roared in that voice that mingled awe and anger, "Lord God Jesus Christ, Son of Revelation, Bless these souls as they begin the perilous voyage of faith. Keep them safe from the whirlpools of doubt, the typhoons of despair, the shipwrecks of damnation. Protect them from the noonday devil and the midnight demon. Keep them strong in their faith unto a blessed eternity."

  Teresa rippled the keys of a small organ and began to sing.

  "Every day with Jesus

  Is sweeter than the day before. Every day with Jesus

  I love him more and more.”

  Beside Flanagan one of the derelicts was singing the words in a croaking voice that might have come from the grave. A tremendous crash interrupted this dubious harmony. A sailor had come flying through the front window of the church to flatten the gold-lettered cardboard sign that hung there and landed on his back in the aisle.

  It was Jack Peterson. He stood up, shook broken glass out of his hat and yelled, "Anybody here from the Jefferson City?"

  "Excuse me," Flanagan said and headed for the street.

  Peterson was fighting three sailors, who outweighed him by a grand total of at least two hundred pounds. One was a gunner's mate who looked like Bronko Nagurski's twin brother, with red, white and blue anchors tattooed on the backs of his hands. The second was a boatswain's mate with a red moon of a face and a fifty-four-inch chest. The third was a smaller gunner's mate who looked as if he was one quarter shark. His mouth was a mean slash above an almost nonexistent jaw. Each looked capable of murdering his mother. Jack was too drunk to register this fact. "I'll show you crumbs who's got a yellow belly," he yelled.

  He took a swing that would have annihilated all of them if it had landed. Fortunately, his opponents were not in much better shape. They weaved around him, getting ready for a united rush. Flanagan grabbed the big gunner's mate and belted him halfway across the street. Whirling, he caught the second gunner's mate with a terrific punch in the stomach. He staggered away, puking whiskey.

  "You fuckin'—"

  The boatswain's mate charged Flanagan, fist high.

  "Watch out, kid, he's got brass knucks," Peterson yelled. Jack tripped the behemoth as he lumbered past and he went sprawling on his belly. Peterson kicked him in the face, and he rolled away howling, abandoning his weapon.

  "Goddamn," Peterson said, "I always meant to buy one of these."

  He picked up the wicked-looking piece of molded metal and clamped his fist inside it.

  "Destroyers," roared one of the gunner's mates.

  "Get the fuckin' yellow cruiser bastards."

  Sailors poured out Shanghai Red's at the end of the block. About ten of them came at Peterson and Flanagan on the dead run, several wielding whiskey bottles and the legs of chairs. Flanagan thought they were finished.

  Out of an, alley charged a massive sailor who hit this wave of destruction head down from the starboard side and demolished them. He waded among them throwing bodies in all directions.

  "Thank Christ, it's Homewood," Peterson yelled.

  "If he's drunk enough, he'll take on the whole goddamn fleet." `

  “Jefferson City," bellowed Homewood. "Rally round the fuckin' flag."

  He charged another ten-man wave single-handed, as Flanagan and Peterson turned to face an assault from the rear. Jablonsky and several other familiar faces from F Division waded into the fray along with dozens of sailors Flanagan had never seen before. He took on a runty machinist's mate who tried to kick him in the stomach. He stiffened him with a right jab and finished him with a left hook, thanking God he had paid attention to the boxing lessons the Navy had given them in boot camp. A moment later someone spun him around and gave him a terrific shot in the eye. He reeled away and got an equally bad clip in the lip. It was a melee now, with no way to protect yourself. There were at least a hundred sailors pounding each other all over the street.

  Someone hit Flanagan from behind with what felt like a full bottle of whiskey. He went down on all fours. Whistles began shrilling. "Shore Patrol," someone shouted. But the announcement did not diminish the ferocity of the battle. Through a break in the writhing bodies Flanagan saw Teresa Brownlow and her father standing in the doorway of their church, dismay on their faces. He felt an enormous rush of sympathy for them.

  Peterson got knocked down and crawled over to him. He looked deliriously happy. "We may not be any good at fightin' the fuckin' Japs, but we do a hell of a job on each other," he yelled. Someone kicked Flanagan in the side of the head and that was the last thing he remembered for a while.

  Could This Be Love

  "Ensign Schnable, you're shitfaced."

  "Lieutenant Jackson, you're blotto."

  "What else is there to do when you're stuck on a fucking cruiser?"

  "Absolutely agree. Flattop at Savo Island would have sunk whole goddamn Jap fleet. Admirals don't know what the fuck they're doing."

  "Need us. Strategic geniuses."

  "Absolutely."

  "Some Navy."

  "Some war."

  "Hey, listen. Could be worse. We're still alive, for Chris-sake."

  "Just barely."

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Andrew Jackson was the senior flier aboard the USS Jefferson City. Ensign Donald Schnable was the junior pilot. They regularly commiserated with each other about their sad fates, to be assigned to fly the slow-moving fabri
c biplanes that the Jefferson City carried in her hangar when they should be on an aircraft carrier flying Skyhawks or Douglas dive bombers, sinking Jap ships and becoming famous.

  Jackson was from the mountains of Tennessee. He had a hefty slope-shouldered build and a wide reckless mouth. At flight school he had been Schnable's instructor. Irked by the assignment, Jackson had added to the course the art of zooming under bridges and around smokestacks, daring his students to imitate him. Schnable, a compact pink-cheeked German-American from Long Island, was the only one who followed Jackson everywhere. Unfortunately, an admiral happened to be sunbathing when they made a pass over a Key West beach at an altitude of ten feet. Instructor and student were assigned to the Jefferson City when Schnable graduated.

  The fliers were exchanging their profound thoughts in their stateroom aboard the dry-docked Jefferson City. "Holy shit," Jackson said, peering at his watch. "We're gonna miss West's party."

  "Not his party. Some guy named Mayer. Got the address right here," Schnable said.

  Montgomery West had invited all the officers on the Jefferson City to a party being given for him and Mickey Rooney by Louis B. Mayer, a name which meant nothing to Jackson, Schnable or anyone else on the ship. They had no idea Mayer was the head of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the Cominch of Hollywood.

  "Transportation," Schnable said. "Where do we get some transportation?"

  "Motor pool," Lieutenant Jackson said.

  They made their way to the motor pool and strode into the compound looking as authoritative as possible. "Let's take the Cadillac," Jackson said.

  In a few minutes, using the knowledge of engine technology they had acquired at flight school, they had the motor purring. At the Navy Yard gate, the Marine sentry came to attention but his eyes bulged with alarm. "You got permission to take the admiral's car, Lieutenant?" he said.

  "Of course I've got permission. The admiral happens to be my goddamn father," Jackson said.

  They headed for Los Angeles at suicidal speed, convinced, like most fliers, that they were immortal.

  In a bedroom at the Coronado Hotel, thirty-seven-year-old Lieutenant Commander Edwin Moss, the gunnery officer of the USS Jefferson City, was making love to his wife. It was not very good. Eleanor just lay there, letting him do it. They had had a nasty argument over lunch about whether he should try to get transferred off the Jefferson City. He felt the new captain was going to need all the help he could get from his senior officers. Eleanor was convinced Moss was going to ruin his career if he stayed.

  When they married in 1932, Eleanor knew absolutely nothing about the Navy. Her father was a New York banker. She had gone to college in Emmitsburg, Maryland, at Mount St. Mary's. Moss, the son of a Presbyterian minister from Morristown, New Jersey, had been amazed to find himself in love with a Catholic. Now, three children and ten years later, he was wondering if he had made a mistake — and what he could do about it.

  He had never been one of the wild men of the class of 1927. On their midshipman cruises, he had visited famous cathedrals, mosques, temples, instead of famous whorehouses. He had liked the idea of marrying someone with a strong sense of morality, with a spiritual life. But trying to raise three children on a Navy salary had severely diminished Eleanor's interest in sex. Simultaneously, she had begun taking a dislike to the Navy. She found fault with the promotion system, particularly at the top, where according to rumor so many men became admirals thanks to political pull or family connections. This seemed to be the main topic of conversation among the Navy wives in Norfolk.

  Moss was inclined to dismiss most of these tales of influence and favoritism. He had moved up to his present rank with no difficulty by doing a good job, no matter where he was assigned. He was not stupid about trying to get good assignments, of course. Everyone with brains and ambition did that. He had gone for gunnery because that was a fast promotion track. Captains, admirals, paid attention to the performance of a gunnery officer. Gunnery was what the Navy was all about, when you got down to essentials.

  Moss was not sure whether he was disenchanted with Eleanor or with marriage or with the Catholic Church ruining his sex life. He only knew he was very tired of having to wait until his wife took her temperature and consulted her menstrual calendar before he found out whether they could have intercourse. They were practicing rhythm to avoid having another child. Eleanor would not even consider the possibility of getting a diaphragm or letting him use a condom. Birth control was immoral. It was a belief she held far more fervently than almost anything else on her theological-moral spectrum. It made absolutely no sense to Moss, and this conflict made it difficult for him to accept Eleanor's advice on his naval career or anything else.

  Tall and stoop-shouldered, with a big bony nose, Moss knew he was no Adonis. But Eleanor was not exactly Betty Grable either. Her body was built on his own elongated lines, without much on top—or on the bottom, for that matter. Moss was frequently struck by the way the bachelors on the ship, retailing their conquests, smacked their lips over a woman's rump. "She had the greatest ass I've ever seen," Lieutenant Robert Mullenoe said about a triumph he had scored on their one-night layover (an apt term for Mullenoe) in Portland. Eleanor had no ass worth mentioning. It was practically flat.

  Finished, Commander Moss lay beside his wife. He did not smoke, so he could not light a cigarette, a la lovers on the stage and screen. "I wish I never wrote you those letters," he said. "It'd be better if you didn't know what's happened on the ship."

  "I thought sharing that sort of thing with your wife was what marriage was all about," Eleanor said.

  Lately Eleanor had been overusing that phrase. She was too quick to tell him what marriage was all about. Yet she was right. He had believed in total frankness, total honesty, total sharing between man and woman. They had discussed the subject in infinite detail during his last year at Annapolis, when they had been engaged and he had endured torments of desire whenever he kissed Eleanor or even held her hand.

  "It is," he admitted. "But what to do about it is something only I can decide."

  "Why? I graduated summa cum laude, you may recall. I've been in the Navy almost as long as you have. I have a brain, Commander Moss, and I've got a right to a few opinions about this wonderful organization. I was talking it over with Anne Marie Condon only a few days ago. She said there are certain ships that become pariahs. Everyone gets blamed for being aboard them when they mess up. As one of the senior officers, you're more likely than most to get tarred."

  "We didn't mess up! It's all very confused. Captain Kemble may have done the right thing. Only a board of inquiry can decide that. I only know Kemble is one of the finest officers I've ever served under. He has the highest standards and he tried to enforce them. But that fellow Parker, the executive officer, constantly frustrated him. That's why I think the new captain needs me. He needs support."

  "What thanks will you get for this noble gesture?"

  "Eleanor, this isn't the peacetime Navy. We're fighting a war. What do you think the people at the Bureau of Navigation will say if I ask for a transfer from a ship that's about to return to the South Pacific?"

  "Ask for a transfer to another ship that's going there. Ye gods, do I have to draw a diagram for you?"

  "No. I'm very good at drawing diagrams, thank you. Let's get dressed and go to this Hollywood party."

  As if the movement was created by a director's guiding hand, the crowd on the terrace parted, and there, wearing a silver mink over a gold lame evening dress, stood Ina Severn. "Ina," Montgomery West said. "I was hoping you'd come."

  "How could I say no? I was so glad to hear you're safely home again."

  "Only for two weeks."

  "Really? Hardly worth the trip, I should say."

  "That depends to some extent on you."

  She smiled. Montgomery West could not tell if she was bored, amused or pleased. West found himself writhing with the same mixture of confusion and desire that had disoriented him since the first day he saw Ina Severn.
Why did everything he said to this woman sound like lines from a third-rate script? She had him completely intimidated. A year ago, he had been getting twice her salary, he had been ready to move up to A pictures. For a moment West hated this cool remote bitch. But a touch of his hand on her arm as he led her into the party was enough to change his mind. He wanted this woman. He did not understand why, and that infuriated him all over again.

  There was some truth to Captain Kemble's suggestion that Montgomery West did not really know who he was. Like many handsome men, he had used women to define himself thus far in his life. In the beginning, Ina Severn had been a definition that revolved around the word class. Now she had become something else, something connected with this war and a new idea of himself.

  Maybe there was nothing to it. Maybe he just wanted to make a difficult score. After eight years in Hollywood with starlets throwing themselves into bed with him in the hope that he would mention their names to his big-shot uncle, Montgomery West was ready for a challenge. He had heard Ina Severn had refused to sleep with Louis B. Mayer and that was why, after arriving with a hit comedy from London in her credits, she had been banished to the B's. Around the studio's executive offices, according to Uncle Mort, she was known as the English icicle.

  "My goodness, Monty," Ina said, gazing at the crowd spilling off the terrace and down the lawn to the swimming pool. "I thought Mr. Mayer abolished this sort of thing."

  "What God disposes, he can also un-dispose," West said.

  Among the two-tone suits and glittering dresses were the white uniforms of his fellow officers of the USS Jefferson City. Down by the pool, Ensign Richard Baby face Meade was demonstrating to a blond starlet named Maggie MacGuire a dance called the Solomon Islands shimmy. Other ensigns and lieutenants were maneuvering around similar targets of opportunity.