"Come on," Jack said the minute they set foot on the Ten Ten Dock.
"Come on where?" Flanagan asked.
"You're comin' with me."
"You told Boats —"
"Forget what I told that gasbag. I just been thinkin'. One guy shows up, he could be a nut. They'll be more inclined to throw him out. Two guys are less likely to be crazy."
They walked through the base to CINCPAC's low-slung headquarters building. Two tough-looking Marines with white helmets and white holsters for their .45 revolvers glared at them. "Whatta you swabbies want?" one of them growled.
"We're from the Jefferson City. We'd like to pay our respects to Admiral Nimitz," Jack said.
"Your what?" the Marine said.
"Our respects. We been fightin' under his command from Guadalcanal to Tarawa. We'd like to tell him how much we enjoyed it."
The Marines looked at each other, trying to decide what to do. Arrest these nuts? Tell them to shove off? Inform the admiral?
"Flanagan here's from New York. I'm from Seattle. Different ends of the continent, you know. But in the same Navy."
"Is this for some sort of news story?"
"No. This is our idea."
One Marine disappeared into the building. He came back in five minutes looking bewildered. "Lieutenant Lamar says to send them in."
They sat in an outer office for about fifteen minutes while Lamar, Nimitz's aide, looked them over. His questions were similar to the Marines' and so were Jack's answers. At any moment, Flanagan was sure ten Marines were going to arrive and take them away. They had to be breaching some supreme article of the Navy's regulations.
The phone on Lamar's desk buzzed. "Yes, Admiral," he said, "they're still here."
He gestured toward a set of double doors and in ten seconds they were shaking hands with Admiral Chester Nimitz, Cincpac himself. Flanagan was barely able to talk, but Jack retained his composure. "Admiral," he said, "we really did want to pay our respects. But to tell you the whole truth, we also got about a thousand dollars in bets ridin' on this thing."
"I figured it was something like that," the admiral said. "You're a couple of lucky sailors. You got me on the one morning when Lamar here decided I needed some comic relief. How are you going to prove you got in to see me?"
"I don't know, Admiral," Jack said, momentarily panicked.
"Lamar, get the staff photographer in here."
The photographer arrived on the double and took several shots of the admiral standing between them, smiling broadly. "How are things aboard the Jefferson City these days?" Nimitz asked.
"Couldn't be better, Admiral. It's a happy ship," Peterson said. "We think we got the best captain in the fleet."
"I'm glad to hear that," Nimitz said.
That night Flanagan sat in the mess compartment, the photographs on the table, and collected their money. Boats Homewood watched, an uncertain expression on his face. He could not decide whether to be proud of Jack or angry with him. He had pulled off a stunt Homewood would never have dreamt of trying. Jack fondled the cash — which came to 431,980 — and announced they were going to have the revolving party to end them all in their rented apartment.
Unfortunately, they were in Hawaii, not Australia, and the only women Jack or any other sailor ever met in Honolulu were the whores along River Street.
They paid three hundred dollars to a Chinese landlord who looked like Charlie Chan's twin's brother and lugged a case of booze and mixers up the narrow smelly stairs to the four tiny rooms. Jack went off to negotiate with a couple of madams and returned with three girls, one of them his old friend Sally. Camutti, Homewood, Jablonsky and other members of their F Division circle were invited to drop in, and Jack said other girls would be along for the free booze.
"The word's out that Gentleman Jack's in town with a pocket full of dough," Sally said, throwing her arms around him. "What the hell did you do? Hit the ship's safe?"
Jack handed her a bourbon and soda and gave a splendid rendition of their Nimitz gambit. This catapulted the girls' admiration of Jack — and by association, Flanagan — to stratospheric heights. The other two girls were named Terry and Genevieve. Terry was from Brooklyn. She was short and dark, with thick wiry hair and olive skin. Her nose was wide and her jaw was heavy. Put a helmet on her and blow her up to twice her size and she would have looked like one of the seven blocks of granite who played in Fordham's line. Genevieve was from Chicago. She was lanky, lean, with a face that reminded Flanagan of Olive Oyl, except that the cartoon was somehow smudged.
Sally was from Seattle, which turned out to be one of the reasons why she and Jack were friends. After a drink or two, Jack grew less friendly. "Jesus Christ, Sal, your ass is gettin' as wide as a battleship," he said. "You shoulda seen her when she first come out here. If she turned sideways she disappeared."
Sally looked hurt. Terry defended her. "You don't get no exercise in this business," she said. "I mean, you woik all night and you sleep all day. So y'gain weight."
"I eat like a fuckin' truck horse," Genevieve said. "I never gain nothin'. Not an ounce."
"Hey, I remember you in them days, Jack. You looked like you was a candidate for TB," Sally said. "You're puffin' it on too. In a coupla years your neck'll be as thick as Boats's here."
"I wouldn't be surprised," Homewood said.
"Bullshit," Jack said. "I'm gonna get out of the fuckin' Navy the minute the war ends. I'm gonna go into pictures. Act, you know?"
"Come on. The only fuckin' actin' you ever done is at Captain's Mast," Homewood said.
"Hey, Flan's seen me perform. You think I can make it in pictures, Flan?"
"Sure," Flanagan said. He was ready to believe Jack could do anything, at this point.
"See?" Jack said. "This kid's got a brain. He's gonna be a hell of a writer some day. Maybe he'll write a story with a part in it for me. They'll buy it for the movies and I'll act in it."
"What the fuck kind of a story would that be?" Homewood asked. "From the drunk tank to the brig and back?"
"Hey, I don't mean the story of my crummy life. Somethin' that comes out of his head. That's how stories get written. Right, Flan? A guy dreams them up. A guy with the gift of gorgeous bullshit. I got it, but I don't know how to write it down."
Jack started telling the whores about the letters Flanagan had written to Martha Johnson. To his surprise, they were outraged.
"If I ever found out a guy did that to me, I'd kill him," Terry said.
"Me too," Sally said, glaring at Jack and Flanagan.
"Christ almighty, you never know what the fuck a dame's gonna think about anything," Jack said.
A furious argument erupted over the letters. Boats sided with the whores, which further enraged Jack. The quarrel made Flanagan feel guilty. He remembered the joy in Martha Johnson's voice that night on her porch in Seattle as she talked to him about the letters. Now here was Jack, up to his eyeballs in whores in Honolulu and Flanagan beside him.
While his father was grieving for his ruined career in New York.
Jesus, where had that thought come from? He had managed not to think about his father for the past twenty-four hours. Why wasn't he in church praying for him?
Because he did not believe in it any more.
Maybe he ought to pray anyway, instead of acting like a lousy drunken sailor.
But he wasn't acting. He was a lousy drunken sailor!
He was a lousy drunken sailor because he was afraid of dying. They were all afraid of dying. Except Boats Homewood. He was not afraid of anything. What was his secret?
Other F Division stalwarts joined the party. The liquor continued to flow in prodigious quantities and Flanagan's perception of what was happening grew hazy. More whores arrived and Jablonsky offered to service them all to prove the Poles, not the Germans, were the master race. Bets were placed on his endurance, and the ladies lost, even though there were at least six in the lineup.
At another point, Flanagan was in bed with Terry and
she was telling him that she was going home to Brooklyn after the war to open a beauty shop and maybe they could meet in Manhattan and who knows they might fall in love and she could support him while he wrote his stories. At still another point Camutti and Genevieve demonstrated the finer points of fucking while a drunken circle applauded.
The hilarity was abruptly demolished by a scream. People in various stages of undress or no dress at all blundered into the living room and then into a bedroom where they found Jack Peterson smashing Sally in the mouth with back and forehand cuffs. "You always did remind me of my goddamn mother," he raged.
They dragged Jack off the bed and tried to fix up Sally's face, which was a mess. Charlie Chan rushed in demanding a little peace and quiet. Homewood dangled him out a window by his ankle, and he became more agreeable. But no one could placate the whores, who decided the damage to Sally's face could only be assuaged by a hundred dollars. They got the money and departed with a marvelous imitation of offended virtue.
Other revelers drifted away as the liquor ran out. Finally only Flanagan and Homewood and Jack were left. Jack sat on the side of the bed in his undershorts shaking his head. "It's no good any more," he said. "I don't know what the fuck's the matter, but it's no good any more."
"Aw, shit," Homewood said. "What you need's a couple of months at sea. There's nothin' like sea duty to beat the blues. I always get down when I'm on the beach too long. A good fight'll help too. A coupla big hits with them eight-inchers and you won't have a worry in the world."
Jack sat there shaking his head. "I don't know, Boats, I don't know if it'll work. The whole thing's no good any more."
The Odor Of Sanctity
Chastity, virtue, sinlessness. These words paraded through Harold Semple's mind as he pecked out the Combat Information Center's weekly report to the executive officer.
Something incredible had happened to the chaplain. He was no longer mumbling old mealy-mouthed Bushnell. He preached to them with amazing fervor about the importance of leading Christian lives. He talked about faith and redemption with the eloquence of a Methodist. He had made Harold thoroughly ashamed of himself.
Edna, who was a Catholic, had been unimpressed by the transformation. But she was delighted by the way the chaplain's rebirth had reformed Harold. He had stopped flirting aboard ship and was working hard to improve his typing speed. His only self-indulgence was wearing a set of lacy silk underpants under his skivvies. Edna said that was all right. She often did the same thing herself.
Ashore of course was another matter. They were sailors, after all, and liberty still meant something. Hawaii had an elaborate network of secluded beach houses and inconspicuous bars where boys and girls found each other in spite of - or perhaps with the aid of — the blackout. Everybody but the enlisted men wore civilian clothes, so you never knew who you were dancing with. As Edna remarked with a giggle, he might be an admiral.
All you had to do was stroll up and down in front of Kamehameha's statue for a few minutes. A car would roll up and off you would go to the countryside. That was the really marvelous part of the deal. There would be drinks and music and lots to eat and a beach with waves rumbling in the darkness. Harold could barely swim, so he never did more than splash in the shallows. Then there would be love on the beach, in the trade wind. It was so romantic, he blubbered like a baby when he got back to the ship.
That was the first time. Pretty soon they were going steady with a couple of bozos who drove a big black Buick and had a house at the opposite end of the island. Oscar was a chief petty officer in some part of CINCPAC, and Bert had a higher rank. Oscar called him sir and acted like a chauffeur a lot of the time. There was quite a crowd at the house every night, but Oscar managed to hang on to Harold, who was, as usual, incredibly popular, especially when he started doing his imitations of Bette Davis and other stars. Oscar was a little brutal, but Harold still liked that. He had tattoos everywhere (yes even there, Harold told Edna). It was like doing it with an art museum.
Now Oscar was telling Harold he would be crazy to sail again on the Jefferson City. They were going to attack the main base of the Japanese Fleet, Truk. It was going to be the sea battle of the century, and a lot of ships were going to get sunk. Oscar could get him transferred to shore duty in five seconds if he said the word. They could spend the rest of the war making beautiful music while the heroes fed the fishes.
This was really tempting. Even Edna, with her lectures on loyalty to the ship, was hard put to argue against it. She - was actually a little jealous, because Bert had made no such offer to her.
There she was in the doorway, a pout on her prissy face. "Have you made up your mind?" she asked.
"No," Harold said, banging out the last line of the report with only three typos.
"Made up your mind about what?" Lieutenant West said, rushing into the office.
"Whether to go to the YMCA or the base movie on liberty tonight. I heard the base is showing Yankee Doodle Dandy with Jimmy Cagney," Edna said.
"It's great. I saw it the other night," West said. He picked up the report and groaned. "Jesus, Harold. This looks like it was typed by a bosun's mate wearing mittens."
Harold sighed. "My eyes have been bothering me terribly."
"Go to sick bay and get something for them. I can't hand this thing in to Tombs. He'll hang me up by the heels."
Poor Lieutenant West, Harold thought. What will he have to complain about when I leave him? Harold loved working for someone who told him stories about the stars, who had been part of that incredibly glamorous world. All by himself West kept him on the ship. He would never know that Harold loved him from afar.
"I'll do it over," Edna said. "Things have been slow this morning."
"You've got a real pal there, Harold," West said, handing the report to Edna. Her smile was a grimace. It occurred to Harold that Edna loved him too in her quiet way.
But a lifetime of nights on Okapaku Beach with Oscar and others! Harold had no doubt he would soon be vamping guys with a lot more sex appeal than Oscar. Bert had given him the eye in the car the night before last. He could have taken him away from Edna with a wink. But he could not be that mean to her.
They went ashore at 1700 hours, and Oscar and Bert were waiting in front of the King's statue, as usual. Off they whizzed on the coast highway. Harold noticed that Bert barely looked at Edna on the way out and Oscar was pretty quiet too.
"I'm dancing with you tonight, Harriet," Bert said as they got out of the car.
"I'm not sure I'm in the mood," Harold said. "I thought I might just walk the beach and add some shells to my collection."
"Is there a cunt shell?" Edna asked. "Sort of a first cousin to the conch? If so, you definitely should have one."
Of course after two or three drinks Harold was dancing with Bert. He was a dream of a dancer, infinitely smoother than Oscar, who waddled like an overweight kangaroo. Harold was telling Bert all about Australia and he got so interested he told the band to play "Waltzing Matilda." Harold sang it in his ear as they danced to it.
God, Edna was right. He was a cunt.
Suddenly the night exploded with police whistles. From all sides of the veranda where they were dancing under the stars, huge Marines in white helmets appeared like zombies in a horror movie. An officer was roaring, "You are all under arrest. Anyone who resists arrest will be shot."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Bert snarled. He picked Harold up, threw him at an advancing Marine and dove past him onto the lawn that led down to the beach, with two Marines after him.
Things grew immensely confused. Some people ran into the house and hid under beds and in closets. Others tried to get past the Marines and were unceremoniously clubbed to the ground. Harold and Edna and most of the sailors surrendered without resistance.
Edna told Harold what to say when they questioned him. It was their first night at the place. They had no idea what was going on. These two men just invited them to a party, and when they got there they found no women
in sight. They could not get back without a ride.
"Admit nothing," Edna whispered, as the Marines, with leers on their murderous faces, marched them to a canvas-topped truck and shoved them inside. "What are you going to do, take us to the firing squad?" one victim cried.
"Shut your fuckin' mouth, faggot," said the nearest Marine, adding a nightstick in the poor thing's face for emphasis.
Back at Pearl Harbor, they were shoved into a room in one of the administration buildings and questioned for the rest of the night. Harold went through four teams of questioners. They all told him sodomy meant ten years in Portsmouth Naval Prison. They said they had pictures of him performing sodomy with a lot of people and if he did not talk he was going to get those ten years behind bars.
"Did you ever hear anyone discuss the plans or future operations of the U.S. Fleet?" asked his first questioner, a broad-chested Navy commander with a wide, hard pockmarked face.
"No," Harold said, wondering with a shudder if Oscar would admit telling him about the coming attack on Truk. He stuck to his story that he and Edna had been invited to what they thought was an innocent party. He denied ever having performed any homosexual acts with anyone, ever.
It was awful the way this made him feel ashamed. Not for the acts, but for the cowardice of the denial. There were times when he was tempted to scream in his questioner's sneering face, "Sure. Would you like a piece?" But Harold was intelligent enough to know that was death. He would die in Portsmouth Naval Prison with a lot more certainty than he might die if he could talk his way back aboard the Jefferson City.
Morning brought the worst humiliation yet. Lieutenant West, Commander Tombs and Captain McKay arrived to discuss their cases. The first questioner, the commander with the pockmarked face, told them the story. "In my opinion, Captain," he said to McKay, "these men are guilty as hell. They could be guilty of espionage. They're certainly guilty of sodomy. I'm sure you don't want them back aboard your ship."
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