On the bridge, Navigator Marse Lee confidently informed Captain McKay they would be in Sydney Harbor the following morning. At dawn, a summer sun burned away the fog. In an hour they saw huge gray and white cliffs with a spume of waves breaking rhythmically against them. The cliffs ended in a majestic headland. Beyond it, the water frothed and foamed and swirled. A candy-striped lighthouse stood on another headland, beyond this turbulent gap.
On the bridge, Marse Lee pointed triumphantly.
"There it is," he said. "That's where we go in."
"Anything to worry about?" Captain McKay asked.
Lee shook his head. "It's sixteen hundred yards wide and eighty feet deep. Our worrie's are over for a while."
Barely making five knots, the Jefferson City steamed slowly between the headlands. A moment later captain and crew stared, dazed by a city and a harbor that spoke silently but eloquently to their battered spirits.
Safe, said the great rock-sheltered expanse of peaceful water, safe from all your enemies, safe from the treacherous sea, safe from fourteen-inch armor-piercing shells by night and thousand-pound bombs by day. Safe from exploding torpedoes and magazines. Safe from fire and shrapnel and dysentery and fear. Safe and at peace, here in my watery arms.
The city was even more unbelievable than the harbor. Its red-roofed tree-shaded houses crowded the bays and coves in all directions. In the distance a magnificent steel bridge and the dignified buildings of the business center bespoke power, protection. But it was the houses that whispered something even more wonderful than safety, after three months of almost continuous danger. They spoke of home and women and pleasures the Jefferson City's sailors had almost forgotten.
Turning to port, the battered cruiser limped toward a long line of pilings sunk across the harbor. "There's a gate at the west end," Marse Lee said, flourishing his charts.
They headed toward a man-made island to which an antique tug, with a stack at least fifteen feet high, was moored. Hooting a welcome, she briskly went to work pulling aside a submarine net tied to several dozen floating barrels. As they passed the tug, whose deck was littered with an incredible assortment of junk, from empty tin cans to piles of uncoiled line, her five-man crew rushed to the bow to whoop and wave. "Merry Christmas," one of them yelled.
"Did I hear him right?" Flanagan said. "What day is it?"
No one knew. They had lost touch with the calendar. Peterson sent Daley below to Radio Central, where they kept track of such things. He came panting back, wide-eyed. "It's December twenty-fifth!"
Even Flanagan, who thought nothing could surpass New York, and Jack Peterson, who was loyal to the glories of Seattle's Puget Sound, could not stop gaping at Sydney Harbor. On and on went the coves and inlets and bays and the red-roofed houses on the hillsides around them. On almost every cove was a sandy beach. From several of these, young women in bathing suits waved enthusiastic welcomes.
"Swimming on Christmas Day," Flanagan whooped. "I'm going to like this crazy country."
A ferry waddled past them, its decks filled with cheering, waving people. "They act like we've won the fucking war," Camutti said. He clasped his hands over his head like a boxer who had just scored a knockout. "No point in changing their minds."
"Let's check out some of those broads with the range finder," Peterson said.
They jammed into the main battery gun director, and Jack spun them left and right until he found a target. "Oh, Jesus," he said. "Take a look at this, Flan."
There were five of them, four blondes and a brunette, all in white two-piece bathing suits. The range finder's power brought them inside Flanagan's head, larger than life size. The sun created haloes out of their glowing hair. It glistened on their tanned wet skin. Flanagan could almost hear their excited laughter as they pointed and waved at the heroic Americans and their ravaged ship.
Every time they moved, Flanagan's mouth went dry with desire. He had forgotten the soft curve of a woman's arm, the fullness of her thighs, the supple beauty of her neck. He had forgotten almost everything for the last three months but death. Maybe he was ready for a resurrection.
"Get ready to start livin', kid," Jack Peterson said.
Waltzing Matilda
"Whoo Whoo, Woolloomooloo!"
It was the Jefferson City's new war cry. The first two sections reeled back from liberty to report that Woolloomooloo, the dockside part of Sydney opposite Cockatoo Island, the Australian Navy Yard, had more bars and whorehouses per block than any place they had ever seen.
"It's San Pedro, Frisco's Barbary Coast and River Street in Honolulu rolled into one," said Boats Homewood. "It even makes Shanghai look like a goddamn Baptist seminary. And they're givin' Americans the first one free!"
"After that, you just head downtown to Macquarie Place.
They've got sixteen-year-olds ready to give you the next two for the same price," Camutti said, a smile of ecstasy on his pockmarked face. "I didn't even have to show my scars."
"You got to be careful," George Jablonsky said, prone on his rack, his voice a croak. "These broads don't know the word stop. They must have Polish blood somewhere."
"They're athletes," crooned Bob Edison. "Marvelous athletes. I haven't seen anything like it since I left Minnesota."
"I didn't see anything like it in Minnesota," groaned his Bobbsey Twin, Bob Finch.
"You mean those people on the ferry weren't kiddie'? They really think we're winnin' this war?" Jack Peterson asked.
"I don't know about that," Camutti said. "But they're awful glad to see us. Wait'll you get a look at downtown. All the storefront windows are boarded up like they expect a hundred fifty Jap planes overhead tomorrow morning."
"I hope you assholes told them how single-handed we beat back the Oriental hordes," Jack said. "One fuckin' cruiser against all the battleships in the Combined Fleet."
"They know we're one fuckin' cruiser, I can tell you that much," Homewood said, stealing Jablonsky's favorite joke.
Later, up in main forward, Jack reminded Flanagan of his disdain for this kind of carousing. "That ain't the way to operate, Flan. The same thing goes here as in Long Beach. The only way we can have a time to remember is to find some respectable dames with a house — someplace where we can settle in and get to know them. You gotta operate like the officers. You don't see any of them blowin' their cash and riskin' the clap in Woolloomooloo."
"How the hell do we manage that in a foreign country?"
"I don't know. Let's see what turns up."
"I'll settle for a good time in Woolloomooloo," Flanagan said.
He was not sure he wanted to get to know another woman, although the brunette in the white bathing suit he had seen in the range finder aroused him every time he thought about her. Teresa Brownlow was giving him enough trouble to absorb most of his emotions. He had received another letter from her, reporting her father's continuing decline and her mounting fear that his sorrows were her fault.
The next day was Sunday. They hit Woolloomooloo at 9 A.M. planning to have a drink to improve their morale before launching their search for respectable women. Flanagan's experience in Honolulu inclined him to rate their chance of success near zero. Daley and Jim Booth tagged along, the Radical proclaiming his eagerness to meet some of the more extreme members of the Australian labor movement, which had supposedly all but defeated capitalism when the Great Depression struck.
They gazed in astonishment up Bourke Street, touted by their shipmates as the heart of the heart of Woolloomooloo. There was scarcely a human being in sight. The bars were shuttered and silent. Not a trace of a gaudy lady gazing from the window of a palace of pleasure. Jack strolled over to some bored-looking Shore Patrol. "What the hell's goin' on? Has a poison gas attack wiped out the city and nobody told us?"
"It's Sunday, pal," said the weather-beaten boatswain's mate first class in charge of the patrol. "In Sydney, that's a day of rest. As in rest in peace."
"You want the address of the nearest cemetery?" asked a grinning g
unner's mate. "It's the hottest spot in town."
"Whoo whoo, Woolloomooloo," Flanagan said.
"This could be the best thing that ever happened to us," Jack Peterson said. "Now we gotta find some decent dames. There ain't any other kind available."
"How?" Flanagan said.
"We gonna go where they are," Jack said. "We're goin' to church."
A half hour later, they were sitting in the front pew of a Catholic church in the middle class part of Sydney known as Paddington. A cabbie with a thick Irish brogue had suggested it, and refused to accept any money for the trip. Flanagan found himself growing more and more uneasy. Memories of his encounter with Teresa Brownlow floated through his mind. Was God trying to correct that mistake by sending him back to the one true apostolic church? If so, how did He let a character whose intentions were as dishonorable as Jack Peterson's in the door?
A pudgy pug-nosed priest with a brogue as thick as the cabbie's smiled down at them from the pulpit and welcomed them to Australia. He threw in a eulogy to their courage and said he hoped the parishioners would make sure these brave lads enjoyed themselves in Sydney on Sunday in spite of the wowsers. The Americans did not know what he was talking about, but they soon learned. The Catholics, mostly Irish, detested Sydney's Protestant version of Sunday. A wowser was a frozen-faced Protestant aristocrat, usually pictured in a high black hat carrying a Neville Chamberlain umbrella, who perpetually campaigned against drunkenness, lewd behavior, and similar vices most Australians had taken to their roistering hearts.
Outside the church, people swarmed around them, hurling invitations to dinner. Jack Peterson accepted one from stout Mrs. Lundin, who had a blond bosomy daughter named Sally smiling beside her. He nudged Flanagan into the house of broad-beamed Mrs. Flood, whose tall dark-haired daughter Annie smiled beside her. The smile was somewhat contradicted by the cool appraisal in her green eyes. Daley and the Radical were swept off by two other families.
Mrs. Flood served up a six-pound steak for four people. Her longshoreman husband, whose girth matched his wife's, dug in and Flanagan followed his example. They washed it down with about a gallon of beer and numerous denunciations of the wowsers. Flanagan regaled them with stories of the Jefferson City's exploits, which did not require much embellishment. He had barely said a word to Annie when Mrs. Lundin arrived with Jack and Sally. "It's such a beautiful day, and Mr. Peterson here says he's yet to put his toe in our saltwater," Mrs. Lundin said. "They could all have a lovely time at our place on Maroubra Beach, don't you think?"
"Are you game, Annie?" Mrs. Flood asked.
"Sure," Annie said.
"Lovely, we'll get the others," Sally said. She took Jack's hand with a look that practically guaranteed amour.
Old Poppa Jack had obviously turned all engines in his charm machine ahead full.
Annie found a bathing suit for Flanagan, and Mrs. Flood filled a picnic basket with beer and goodies for supper. Outside, a horn began to blow. They found Jack behind the wheel of a 1936 Ford that looked as decrepit as Martha Johnson's Chevrolet. As they went down the steps, Annie said, "Let's get one thing straight, Yank. I'm not yours for the asking."
"Oh, yes. Gwen and I were quite good friends for a year or so in London. Do you know her well?"
"I've worked with her in a picture or two."
"Ah. She can be a bit standoffish. But if she changes her mind, she can be ... quite something. I must say I was almost glad the war started. She was wearing me out"
Charles Benbow had one of those double faces. The right side was noble, valiant, serene. The left side was crafty, crass, petty. Montgomery West cursed himself for going anywhere near the man. They were sitting at a table on the veranda of the Officers' Club on Cockatoo Island in Sydney Harbor. A few hundred yards away, swarms of workers were putting a new bow on the Jefferson City.
Benbow had some vague liaison role with the Australian Navy which left him free to spend an inordinate amount of time in the club bar. West had inevitably been introduced to him as a fellow actor. In that first encounter, he had resisted his Uncle Mort's suggestion that he ask Benbow about Ina Severn. But his resistance had slowly crumbled in the ensuing week, as Benbow greeted him every time he walked into the bar.
They talked shop for a while Benbow was obviously hoping that meeting Americans would improve his chances of getting an offer from Hollywood. He seemed to be in charge of making sure visiting actors and actresses from England and America entertained Australian as well as American troops. The Home Army, which the Aussies had frantically scratched together when the Japanese threatened to invade, seemed to be a major worry. Benbow referred to them as bloody slackers because they had not volunteered to fight Hitler. Australia had no conscription.
"Oh, by the way. Friend of yours is in town with Bob Hope and his gang. Claire Carraway. She asked me to give you her number. She'll be at the Wentworth until next Wednesday."
Claire Carraway. Red hair, a figure that made even jaded casting directors sit up straight, a theatrical temperament — without the talent to match any of it. But a woman. Memories of several weekends on. Catalina Island momentarily made Montgomery West clutch the arm of his chair like a man afraid of falling from a great height.
"You will call her won't you, old sock?" Benbow said. "I've got to spend two weeks in Queensland with her and I got the distinct sensation she could make my life miserable if I didn't deliver you to her door."
"Sure. Sure I'll call her," West said, simultaneously vowing to do no such thing. After three months of celibacy in the bowels of the Jefferson City, one look at Claire Carraway would be fatal.
West found himself wondering how to describe meeting Charles Benbow. Not fatal. Maybe just traumatic. Maybe the difference between getting run over by a small English car and a seven-passenger Packard. He would be limping for a few days, but he would recover. If he managed to avoid Claire.
The thought of Gwen in that two-faced bastard's arms, kissing that spoiled mouth.
Maybe he had been run over by a small English car traveling at very high speed. Maybe it would not make much difference what happened if he strolled into the path of the Packard.
Harold Semple and his new friend, Yeoman First Class Edward McKenzie, hurried through the littered streets of Woolloomooloo, barely glancing at the strolling prostitutes and drunken sailors. They boarded a city bus that whizzed them out to Darlinghurst, which was Sydney's Greenwich Village.
Restaurants displayed chromium-plated cubist furniture, and artists wandered amiably along the street in pajamas.
Harold had been infuriated by the way his beloved boatswain's mate Jerome Wilkinson had abandoned him in Sydney. Semple had refused to join his vulgar carousing in the dives and brothels of Woolloomooloo. He had fled to the Jefferson City like a tearful timid wife and later helped put Jerry to bed when he reeled back from his first liberty roaring that idiotic Australian song, "Waltzing Matilda."
The following day Semple was standing in the chow line feeling sorry for himself when McKenzie asked him if he liked Sydney. "I don't think I'll even bother to go ashore again," Semple said.
"Oh, you should," McKenzie said. "You'd be surprised how easily you can find congenial company. I've got liberty tomorrow. Would you like to join me?"
It was amazingly casual. All the meanings were in Edward McKenzie's eyes, his voice tones. He was tall and so thin he looked half starved. Blond hair popped out in a big curl when he wore his hat on the back of his head. He had remarkably long delicate fingers.
"I'd love to," Harold Semple said.
On the way to Darlinghurst, Harold learned McKenzie was yeoman to Executive Officer Parker. He casually remarked that Parker had not drawn a sober breath since the night they were torpedoed off Tulagi.
McKenzie sighed. "Poor Danny Boy. He's coming apart piece by piece. It'll be interesting to see what happens next."
"What do you mean?"
"You don't know? Darling Jerry hasn't told you?"
"Darling Jerry
doesn't tell me anything."
"He's a bit of an oaf. You have to extract things from him."
"You were his ... once?"
"Of course. Years ago. A little mixture of threats and promises, and presto — I was a yeoman. No more working parties."
While they talked, McKenzie casually took some nail polish out of a small leather shoulder bag and began painting his fingernails a bright red. Semple's heart began to beat faster. His ignorance of what was really happening aboard the Jefferson City was so total, McKenzie disdained to tell him more than he had already revealed. He had obviously invited him along partly to find out what Harold might have heard from Wilkinson.
Semple saw he would have to prove himself in other ways.
At Taylor Square in Darlinghurst, they left the bus and hurried down a leafy side street to a turreted house on a corner. It was a sort of castle in miniature. McKenzie knocked on the big door and a voice said, "Who's there?"
"Mona Lisa."
The door swung open and a huge bearded man in a flowing Elizabethan robe smiled at them. He looked like Charles Laughton playing King Henry VIII. "Edna, darling," he said. "Who's this?"
"A friend who loves to play games. Her name is Harold."
"Much too pretty for that," he said. "We'll have to pick out another name for her."
They followed King Henry into a room thick with cigarette smoke that had a strange sweetish smell. At least two dozen people circulated through the haze. Somewhere a pianist was banging out "Limehouse Blues." A handsome older man with heavily rouged cheeks strolled up to them. He was wearing a mauve suit. "Edna, you should go into the import business," he said. "You keep finding the most marvelous things."
"She doesn't have a name," McKenzie said.
Time and Tide Page 39
