Tommy

by William Illsey Atkinson

  Ander comes to attention, genuine attention, not aircrew mode. Sir! Yes, sir!

  Uh-huh. Whatcha learnin’, boy?

  Sir! Measurin’ distances, sir! Degrees an’ seconds! Findin’ latitude!

  Latitude, Kraweski says. La-ti-ta-ti-fuckin’-tude. You unnerstan’ the term, boy?

  Sir! Yes, sir!

  Means what?

  Means how far y’all are north or south the ’quator, sir!

  Kraweski nods once, twice, slowly. Atkinson?

  Tommy nods. Sir . . . He tries to say it but the word sticks in his throat.

  Why ya show ’em stuff like this?

  Like . . . ?

  Like la’tude? This is kids here. Pilots ’n’ such. What use they got for fancy terms? All they got do’s kill slants.

  I’m teaching them navigation because I want to teach them and they want to learn. Because they’re interested.

  Innress’d, sir!

  Tommy tries to say it; again he can’t. He stays silent.

  Atkinson? says Kraweski. Wha’s cur’nt ship position?

  Thirty-eight degrees six minutes nineteen seconds north latitude. Seventy-six degrees zero minutes thirty-three seconds west longitude. S —

  Current to when, Atkinson?

  Thirty minutes ago. Start of class.

  I shot our position thirty min’s ago. An’ I found different. Fifty seconds northa’ where you say, ten min’s west. What you got to say ’bout that? Huh? Asshole?

  Show me your figures, Tommy says.

  My what?!

  Your computations. The numbers you started with, the numbers you came up with. How you got from the former to the latter.

  Former. Latter. Shee-yit. Kraweski sticks his face in Tommy’s face. Tommy smells liquor. The Marines are getting upset. Tommy fixes his gaze over Kraweski’s shoulder.

  Sees Feathers.

  Good morning, Commander Kraweski! Forgive my interruption sed amicus sum curiae!

  Kraweski, jaw sagging, turns and stares at him.

  Need I translate? I see I do . . . The term means friend of the court. Interlocutor sum pro bono publico, as it were. You are aware, sir, that Lieutenant Commander Atkinson came here from the University of Michigan? And that there he was Adjunct Professor of Mathematics and Naval and Terrestrial Navigation under Captain Professor Doctor J.K. Cassidy? No? Then I am happy to augment your knowledge. I agree that argumentum ad hominem is a rhetorically uncertain gambit, but in this case I am persuaded to present it. As thus: Mr. Atkinson is an academically recognized and internationally certified expert. You, to the best of my knowledge, are not. Thus, in case of epistemological conflict, his opinion stands nemo contradictans. Which is to say the burden of proof rests with you, who are not recognized as an equivalent expert, to show he is in error. If you disagree, I respectfully submit that you give written evidence of your dissenting data and calculations to Captain Schaeffer at earliest convenience. Until then, you might consider that upbraiding your junior in front of his juniors is a specific and major breach of naval discipline. Especially — dixit amicus curiae — in the unlikely event that you, Commander Kraweski, happen to be wrong. Or drunk. Or both. Feathers smiles, salutes, turns to leave.

  Not so fuggin fast, Loot’nant Jun’r Grade. You stay put. You too, Perfesser.

  Kraweski stands in front of Feathers, hands on hips. Feathers is taller but Kraweski outweighs him three to two.

  I got my eye on you since we left harbor, Mason. I got to figurin’ something.

  Sir? Mild curiosity.

  Y’a ponce, Mason. A fuggin’ cocksuckin’ fatherholin’ ponce.

  Feathers considers judiciously. Ponce! Sorry sir, don’t know the term.

  Sure ya do. A ponce, that’s what y’are.

  If you say so. Sir.

  I do. I do say so. Pause. Ya know what’s a ponce, Mason?

  No, sir. Sorry again.

  A ponce is a poofy man. A man like you. That’s why you’re a ponce.

  Feathers cocks his head. Tautology, sir.

  Wha’?

  Begging the question. I am x because x is what I am? Inadmissible.

  You’re tellin’ me what I can and cannot say?

  Only logically, sir. Of course, as my superior officer you can say whatever you like. It doesn’t make you correct, though. Only logic can do that.

  Nose to nose. Mason, Are you laughing at me?!

  Feathers flicks fingertips across his cheek. No, sir.

  Blinking, puzzled: Why ya do that? Feel ya face?

  To verify that I was indeed not laughing at you, sir.

  Ya mockin’ me, Mason?

  Of course not, sir. No more than I was laughing at you.

  Kraweski’s voice deepens. Now it holds real menace.

  Mason. I am ya supeeya. Ya want I put y’on report?

  On what charge, sir, may I ask?

  We get ta that. If I put y’an report, y’up on charges. I judge ya. Captain Schaeffer judge ya. Sec’try of the Navy Knox judge ya. Mason. Ya want I bring ya to th’attention a’ Sec’try Knox?

  Feathers brightens. No problem, sir! Uncle Fred and Mother belong to the same country club. Give me a week and I’ll put the two of you in touch!

  Kraweski’s fat lips move soundlessly for a minute. Then, full of bile: I oughta beat ya poncy insubord’t brains out, Mason. I really oughta.

  Feathers stays bright. Honored, sir!

  Hunh?

  They’re looking for entrants on the Saturday ring card down in Hangar One, sir. We could engage in a friendly and gentlemanly display of the sweet science.

  Awed disbelief. Ya wanna fight me?

  Don’t see why not, sir. Dance, feint, clinch, jab! Touch gloves, score points! Crowd-pleasing workout!

  If I fight ya, Mason, Kraweski says slowly, I ain’t gonna score points. I’m gonna fuggin kill ya.

  Feathers smiles at him, hard. With respect, sir. What you’ll do is try.

  Kraweski blinks, opens his mouth, closes it. Stalks away snarling. Neither Feathers nor Tommy salutes. Tommy takes a deep breath, nods at his class.

  All for now, gentlemen. Monday noon, right here. Local noon, now.

  Nossir! See you both this Saturday in Hangar One! Ander salutes more crisply than usual and leaves.

  Tommy turns to Feathers. Look here, you can’t fight that gargoyle. He’s crazy. He’s stupid. He’s vicious. He’s huge.

  He is all of that, sir. But my strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.

  Well, for Chr — for Pete’s sake be careful, Carrington. He may fight dirty.

  Of course he will, sir. No need for the conditional.

  Then you —

  Shall attempt to prepare, sir. Of course.

  Carrington. I could not stand to lose you. Especially not to an ape like that.

  I doubt it, sir. I’m Golden Gloves Eastern Middleweight Champion, ’31 to ’33.

  Tommy looks at him. Then: Pulp the bastard, Feathers. For me.

  No, sir. For everyone.

  Slow joy kindles in Tommy. Kraweski’s Zero may have found its Hellcat.

  Hangar One is packed when Kraweski walks to the makeshift ring. He gets a mighty cheer. Every enlisted man who can be there is there, and every one of them seems to want Kraweski to mop the canvas with Mason. Tommy scans the crowd and sees Ensign Ander at the top of the bleachers with his arms crossed, wearing dress whites and sitting alone. They catch eyes and nod, understanding. To know Feathers is to love him; not to know Feathers is to dismiss him as a pampered Ivy League prat. A ponce.

  Kraweski lifts his gloved hands skyward, acknowledging the roar. He bounces, shadowboxes, and resumes his walk. Parts the ropes and steps into the ring. Feathers is already there, sitting in his corner with his usual prep-school posture, face frie
ndly and calm. Tommy, his nominal trainer, squats beside him and cranks out the last-minute advice he’s been rehearsing.

  Okay! Watch mostly his feet, not his hands. But continual eye contact. If he —

  Tommy. Sir. I know all that. Shut up, please. Thank you.

  Tommy shuts up.

  Announcements, introductions, further roars. Touch of gloves at center ring. Return to corners. Double bell.

  Kraweski storms out like a tbm, straight at Feathers. Tommy closes his eyes against the coming slaughter. Roar Roar Roar goes the crowd. Tommy opens his eyes. Feathers loafs at center ring. Kraweski hangs face outward from the ropes. Apparently his opening charge has been avoided. Kraweski shakes his head, turns, and charges again. Feathers slips a brutal right-left-right. Kraweski looks puzzled. Feathers is there: he’s not a projection, he exists. Yet every time Kraweski tries to hit him, Feathers disappears. He doesn’t slide sideways or otherwise evade, he’s simply absent from the impact point of every Kraweski punch. Kraweski is breathing heavily: nothing so draining as missing a swing. Feathers hasn’t broken a sweat.

  Then, abruptly, Kraweski has Feathers on the ropes. Kraweski grins savagely and comes in for the kill.

  And again lands nothing. Feathers is frictionless. He moves like smoke, he teleports away. Kraweski snarls in fury. Steps closer. Comes in fast and hard.

  Runs into a single straight left. The bang of its impact is like a drum.

  It looks like nothing unless you’re close to it, as Tommy is. Kraweski’s front foot lifts four inches off the canvas. Drops of sweat blast outwards from his face. He topples backward, eyes open. The back of his head smacks the canvas with a boom like a bad tbm recovery. Medical technicians converge on the ring. The referee completes his count above a swarm of medics and a motionless icnav.

  Feathers unlaces his right glove with his teeth. Nods at the stunned and silent crowd, as if apologizing for a ninety-second fight. Walks to Tommy’s corner.

  Feathers. Jesus Christ on a bicycle. What did you do?

  Halal, sir. Ritual slaughter. Ashamed, really. Not a fight at all.

  At the top of the bleachers, Ensign Ander applauds like a metronome on largo. Clap, clap, clap.

  Captain Schaeffer will see you now, the xo says. Tommy salutes, tucks his hat beneath his left arm, squares his shoulders, and walks to meet his doom.

  Lieutenant Commander Atkinson? Come in, please. Close the door and take a seat. Tommy complies, knees knocking. He sits on the edge of his metal chair.

  You know why you’re here, the captain says. He lights his pipe, shakes out the match.

  Yessir. The fight.

  Saturday fights are friendly encounters, Mr. Atkinson. This thing had the earmarks of a grudge match. We all saw it. It was ugly.

  Fea — Lieutenant Mason was merely defending himself, sir. Commander Kraweski was . . .

  Go on, Mr. Atkinson.

  Well, sir, Commander Kraweski was trying to beat him up. Really hurt him.

  I admit it seemed that way. But we must not assume. Perhaps the commander simply has a forceful fighting style. Untutored perhaps, but direct.

  Yes, sir, he does. But I’m assuming nothing. Commander Kraweski expressly threatened Mason four days ago.

  You heard something?

  I was there, sir. Material witness. Commander Kraweski said, I am going to beat your brains out. Or words to that effect.

  Never mind to what effect. Exactly what did he say?

  He said, I’m going to fucking kill you. Sir.

  The captain puffs his pipe. Anything else you want to tell me about last Wednesday, Mr. Atkinson?

  Tommy shifts on his chair. Yes, sir. There were — additional words.

  Words?

  Strong words, sir.

  By whom?

  By Commander Kraweski, sir. Sir, I don’t want to impugn anyone.

  You’re not under oath, Mr. Atkinson. In fact, I hope it never comes to that. But it could if this gets out of hand and there’s a military finding or a court martial. So have your say and don’t worry about impugning anyone. What did Kraweski say to you and Mason? What did the two of you say to him?

  Tommy tells him. The captain looks like an approaching squall.

  Is that all, Mr. Atkinson?

  There is something else, sir. I detected an odor on Commander Kraweski’s breath.

  Yes?

  Whiskey, sir. Bourbon, I think.

  A whiff? A tinge? A suspicion?

  Strong, sir. Overpowering. I nearly got drunk on the fumes. Ask Mason.

  I did. I also talked to everyone in your navigation class. They corroborate everything you’ve told me.

  Tommy waits and sweats.

  I’ve put Commander Kraweski on charge, Mr. Atkinson. Drunk on duty, dereliction of duty, uttering physical threats, disrespectful and demeaning treatment of juniors. Technically, I’ve confined him to med, though there’s no chance he’ll run away. He’s going back to Philadelphia tomorrow in Bataan’s whaleboat, under guard. Some would say he’s already been punished enough but I’m recommending dishonorable discharge.

  Sir?

  Feathers broke Kraweski’s jaw in three places, Mr. Atkinson. Then the fall to the canvas fractured his skull. He’ll recover, but he’s been through the wringer. Face wired together and fed through tubes. He nearly died on the op table, you know that? He was so intoxicated that the first whiff of anesthetic triggered shock.

  Oh my God.

  That must have been some punch, says the captain. Did you see it?

  Clearly, sir.

  Odd. It didn’t look like much from where I sat.

  It did from our corner, sir. It would have stopped a freight train.

  What happened?

  Kraweski came in fast, sir, and Mason caught him full on the chin with an undeflected left. Incredibly clean punch, I’ve never seen a more perfect delivery in my life. Mason didn’t look planted but he was. He put everything he had into it — he’s slim but he’s strong, sir, like Lincoln. The Commander’s a big man and his momentum added to the force. Mason’s punch lifted his forward foot a handwidth. It must have hit him like a riveting hammer.

  Our Feathers is a surprising fellow.

  He’s my best friend, sir. He never ceases to amaze me.

  The captain tamps his pipe, relights it, takes his time. Now, he says. About you.

  Tommy’s mind races. Here it comes! Schaeffer thinks I set up Kraweski with a semi-pro to get him out of the way. A ringer. Yes, sir, he says.

  They tell me you were a professor of mathematics at UMich.

  Tommy blinks, surprised. Yes, sir, math and navigation. Under Captain Cassidy.

  Who’s an old classmate of mine. He and I chatted about you last night over vhf. He sends his regards.

  Yes, sir, thank you. He’s a fine man.

  That’s what he said about you, strangely enough. He said you moved earth and heaven to get a sea posting even though you could have sat out the war in comfort. So. Here’s my situation. I need a chief navigator. You’re supremely qualified. You want the job?

  Tommy stares.

  Lieutenant Commander Atkinson, I asked you a question.

  Tommy nods jerkily. Yes, sir. Yes, I do. If you have confidence in me.

  You can handle it? You have confidence in yourself?

  Tommy’s still wonderstruck but he feels his self-assurance returning. I do, sir, he says.

  Excellent! I’ll do the paperwork. Captain Schaeffer rises and Tommy rises with him. The captain holds out his hand.

  Congratulations, icnav. For the second time, welcome aboard.

  Tommy shakes his hand, steps back, salutes, and exits. It’s not till he’s back in the companionway that he lapses into an unbelieving smile.

  Stop bleating, sir. It’s no more than you deserve.<
br />
  I thought he’d break me, Carrington. I thought he thought I’d coshed Kraweski.

  Ridiculous, sir. Of course you didn’t.

  Kind of you to say so, but Schaeffer can’t possi —

  Because I did.

  Tommy looks at him. Feathers, untroubled, sips his beer.

  You did, Tommy says, stupefied once more.

  Totally. Not just the fight, the whole argument. Played him like a fish.

  Why?

  No alternative, sir. If I hadn’t intervened he would have killed you.

  How?

  No idea, but he would have. He’d have found a way.

  But why?

  Christ! Sir. Use your head. You scared the living shit out of him. Here’s a Navy lifer, unemployable elsewhere, burrows into safe positions for fifteen years, seniority snakes him up the ladder, two extra rungs when war comes. icnav on a brand-new cvl, he’s got it made. Along comes this jumped-up little jerk — that’s you, sir, I’m afraid — this know-it-all from a big school. Smarter, better mannered, better educated, better qualified, more popular with the grunts, a real scholar and gentleman. Everything Kraweski isn’t and never will be. I’m amazed he didn’t take a crowbar to you. You must have made him piss his pants.

  Me, Tommy says.

  Yessir, little old you. Sir? Your beer’s getting warm.

  January 15, 1944

  Tommy wakes to a strange thing: silence. It’s a flat, unbroken quiet, void of what he thinks are normal shipboard noises — voices calling, Navy-issue soles clomping by at a run, the rush of fluid in pipes. Above all else, the bang and roar of the catapult a few yards away as the Hellcats go off like ungainly birds, rolling and yawing in the launch wind. Feathers says they may take on new aircraft when they go to Hawaii in a few months, something with a gull wing. Tommy can’t imagine such a creature.

  In the meantime there are launches and landings to practice, this time in the Caribbean. The deep-sea swells are long and commanding and compared to them the Chesapeake seems a pond. Tommy’s guts have quieted somewhat, but now and then they remind him that he’s still on probation.

  Now there’s dark and quiet. He has no idea where he is, knows only that it’s as black as it is silent — near-total darkness, lit only by the radium hands of his alarm.