Donovan made a show of checking his watch. “It was six thirty, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was six thirty. Someone caught wind I was going out tonight, so they kicked me out early.”
“You mean interns really do have friends?”
“Few and far between.” She beckoned. “Come on up. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Okay.” He mounted the steps, pulling off his cap and tucking it under his arm, thinking, Oh my God. It’s time for the stiff-necked parents and the bratty little brother. The dog walked over, stood on its hind legs, and looked up to Donovan.
“Hey, Rex, er does he bite?” asked Donovan. He petted the dog, and its tail wiggled rapidly.
“No. He’s fine. Down, Blackie,” she commanded.
The dog kept at it, his front paws on Donovan’s chest.
“Hey, “Blackie, good boy.” Donovan petted and the dog licked, slobbering up his hand. “Great watchdog. He hardly knows me.”
“Good judge of character, I guess.” She walked through door, holding it for him. Pushing the dog aside, Donovan followed her into the parlor and back to the dining room, where two men sat concentrating over a chessboard. “Here he is,” she said.
Chairs scraped as they rose. Diane said, “Commander Mike Donovan, meet my father, Walt Logan.”
Walt Logan had a full head of gray hair combed straight back. His face was red; his enormous nose looked as if it had been through a wood chipper. Stocky, he stood about five-ten and puffed mightily on a pipe. He extended his left hand. Walt Logan had no right arm below the elbow.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” said Donovan.
Logan shook vigorously, his left-handed grip strong. “The pleasure is all mine, Mike. “But only if you call me Walt.”
“Thank you, Walt.”
Diane continued, “And I think you know this man.”
“You look so much better now, Commander.” The man extended his hand. Thin, tall, he wore the same chambray blue work shirt and denims he’d seen that night on board the train bound for”
Donovan gasped, “You. That night on the train. You’re the one who...”
“Say hello to Milo Lattimer,” said Diane Logan.
With broad shoulders, Lattimer’s shirt barely concealed the power that lay within. Donovan had an uncomfortable moment, trying not to grimace as the man gave him an iron squeeze. “Damn, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t carried me off the train. I owe you my life.”
Lattimer gave a small bow. “It was nothing,” he said in a slightly accented voice.
“Forgot something,” said Diane. “Won’t be a minute.” She walked past her father knocking over his beer glass. “Oh, Dad, I’m--”
In a flash Lattimer caught the beer glass before it fell all the way over. With an extraordinarily long reach, he grabbed a dish towel and had the spilled beer covered before it spread.
“How’s that for speed?” said Logan. “But then he’s had lots of practice.”
“I’ll say,” said Lattimer, casting a sidelong glance at Diane. “How’d you ever get through med school?”
Walt Logan jumped in with, “Hey hon, we got time to show the commander here your baby pictures?”
“Stop it, you two,” muttered Diane. “Be right back.” She ran up the stairs.
“Hah! Got her.” He turned to Donovan. “Well, now that I need a refill, how `bout you? Coke? Water? Beer? Maybe something more challenging?”
“No, thanks,” said Donovan.
“Have a seat,” said Walt. “You must be hot in that uniform.”
“You walked over from... “, asked Lattimer, tossing the soaked towel through the kitchen door into the sink. He grabbed a fresh one, wiping up the rest of the beer.
“Barker Hotel,” said Donovan.
“Ummm, you were lucky to get a room,”said Lattimer, pronouncing it>woom.’
“I’ll say,” said Donovan, cocking his head at Lattimer’s accent. “Had to slip the clerk an extra sawbuck.”
Lattimer caught Donovan’s look and said, “That’s right. I’m from Austria. We got out in 1937 when that damn Schicklgruber began making noise all over Europe.”
Walt Logan returned, fresh beer in hand, and sat before his chessboard. “Blackie sat beside him, and Walt began absently petting him. “How>bout you, Mike? Say, look at all those medals. Three battle stars. What do you do in the navy?”
Donovan gave them a rundown on his destroyer career.
“Where you serving?”
“Pacific.”
“Yep,” said Walt. “We get a lot of stuff for you boys through here. See it every day.”
“Well, keep it coming, Walt. We need it all.”
Logan knit his brow. “You ever been through the Solomon Islands?” He cast a look at Lattimer.
“Where in the Solomons?”
“Bougainville?”
Donovan pursed his lips. “Went by it plenty of times.” He looked up, seeing they watched closely. “Why?”
Walt lowered his voice and said, “That’s where Stan went down. Dive bomber pilot with the Marines.”
“Who?” asked Donovan.
“Her fiancé,” said Lattimer softly. With his hands he mimed a plane crash. “Almost a year ago.”
“Ohhh,” said Donovan. “I didn’t know.” Suddenly, he wanted that beer.
Diane’s feet thumped toward the landing upstairs. “Has... has she been going out... you know?”
They shook their heads. “One or two, but nothing serious,” said Walt. “By the way,” he whispered, “she loves Chinese food.”
“Thanks.”
Diane’s footsteps cascaded down the stairs and she walked into the room, flipping a leather case in the air. “Couldn’t find my regular glasses... say, why such sour faces? Must be one heck of a chess game.”
“Milo’s beating me again,” groused Walt. “You lost your glasses again?”
“Lose>em? No. I just can’t find them right at the moment,” said Diane. “Could you keep a watch out?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Donovan stood.
Logan asked, “You play chess?”
“A wee bit,” said Donovan.
“Say, how>bout a game sometime?”
“Maybe so,” said Donovan, “but I’m afraid even Blackie could beat me.”
“Well, let’s see what happens,” said Walt. He stood and took Donovan’s hand. “Sorry we didn’t have time for all the baby pictures. Maybe next time.”
Donovan shook. “Can’t wait. The ones of Diane in the bathtub were great. I look forward seeing more.”
“Come on--” growled Diane.
Walt said, “You two better go before she knocks over the refrigerator.”
They moved into the parlor with Donovan saying, “Well, then, thank you Walt. See you--”
There was a knock at the front door. Outlined in the evening light was a man in uniform. “Hello?” he called though the screen.
Logan walked ahead. “Captain Collins?” He opened the door and shook the man’s hand. “Good to see you again. You remember my daughter, Diane?”
“Ma’am,” said Collins. Wearing summer khakis of the U.S. Marine Corps, Collins was pale with a tall crew cut style and wide, light blue eyes that were near perfect circles.
“This is Commander Donovan,” said Walt. “And you remember Milo Lattimer?”
“Sure do. Evening, Commander.” They shook.
Walt continued, “Captain Collins is working with the army on a special project.” He held a finger to his lips. “All very hush-hush.”
Diane took Donovan’s hand and squeezed. Let’s go.
Donovan took the cue. “Well, gentlemen. Thanks for your hospitality. We’d better be going.” He headed for the stairs with Diane in the lead still tugging.
“Come back soon, Mike,” Walt said, waving.
“As they walked down the steps, Collins said, “Sorry to barge in like this, sir, but Commander Sabovik wants to
know if we can see the manifests for tomorrow.”
“Don’t see why not,” said Walt. “They’re in the top right-hand drawer.”
Donovan stopped short.
“Mike?” asked Diane.
Donovan turned and asked. “Captain. Is that Commander John Sabovik you mentioned?”
Collins turned. “Well, yes, sir.”
“Do you mind if I ask what your MOS is Captain?” asked Donovan.
“EOD, sir,” said Collins. “ bomb disposal expert.
“Do you know him?” Walt asked Donovan.
“Well, yes.”
“Is he in town?” asked Donovan.
Logan said, “Practically lived here the past week. Even had him over for dinner. “And then of course he and Diane--”
“Father!” called Diane.
“Sorry, hon.” Walt turned to the Marine captain. “How>bout you, Nitro? You want to stay for dinner? Of course my paid help” “ he nodded to Diane -- “is taking the night off, so I hope you don’t mind chili and beans?”
“Thank you, sir, but we’re doing a late one tonight. My next stop is the Brown Mug for take-out burgers.”
Donovan took Diane’s arm and began walking.
“Mike, are you okay?”
“Never better.”
“Your face is red. Maybe you should go back in and sit down. Let me take a look at you.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. Come on. I hear you like Chinese food.”
CH APTER SEVENTEEN
17 August, 1944
New China Café
Roseville, California
The New China Café occupied the second floor of a classic turn-of-the-century building on Church Street. Situated on the first floor was the Owl Club, one of the best nightclubs in the area. “At the moment, both establishments did a thriving business, half the customers civilian, the rest military. The difference was that many of the civilians in the Owl Club were railroad workers, the combination with servicemen sometimes brittle, while upstairs patrons tried to eat peacefully. Donovan and Diane Logan had a window table looking down on the street, where they watched the Thursday-night crowd. “ group of police and MPs stood around a lamppost across the street, poised to assault the Owl Club in case of trouble. Like cabdrivers queued up at a train station, MP jeeps and a paddy wagon were parked around the corner on Lincoln Street. Whenever a serviceman staggered out, unable to coordinate his movements, an MP across the street would pump a fist. Within ten seconds, an MP jeep would roar around the corner and pull up before the hapless soldier. IDs would be examined, the soldier sometimes hauled off.
“Not funny, is it?” asked Diane.
“No,” agreed Donovan. “Lonely eighteen-year-old kids from Downpayment, Iowa, away from home, out looking for a good time, trying to forget it all. Instead, they land in the clink.”
“Another jeep screeched to a stop below. Without pulling their clubs, the MPs spoke with two army privates, then motioned get in. The men stumbled, into the backseat and the jeep roared off.
“Not bad,” Donovan said. “No handcuffs. Door-to-door service to the main gate.”
They sat back as the waiter set bowls of wonton soup before them. Donovan had barely lifted a spoon when something thumped beneath. Glass tinkled and the floor shook. Four MPs and two policemen dashed across the street and through the Owl Club’s front door.
“Railroaders versus the army, you suppose?” asked Donovan.
“Probably.”
Something thumped again on the first floor and there was a muffled shout, making Donovan feel uncomfortable. “They should declare the place off limits.”
“They did a couple of months ago. Up to that time, I was sewing up one or two heads a night. With the>off limits,’ things quieted down. Now it’s been lifted.” She rolled her eyes. “Here we go again.”
“Why so much army around here?”
“Security troops for the Military Railway Service. Many are assigned to outposts guarding the railroad here and up on the High Sierra. They get lonely up there. “t times it’s snowy and bitter cold. “And the rail workers don’t really help or take pity; of course they have their own problems just keeping the stock rolling. So the Owl Club is one of the first places the army guys hit when they come down for rest and relaxation.”
“Reminds me of Tijuana.” He finished his wonton soup.
“What’s that like?”
“Not fit for mixed company.”
“Can’t be that bad.” She reached for her water glass and knocked over a tall saltshaker. “Damn.” She shot him a look.
Donovan’s eyes glistened.
“Don’t say it.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I’ll bet. How was your soup?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“And you’re laughing at me.”
“I am. I’m sorry. “Actually, the soup was excellent.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin as they heard another thump downstairs. This one heavy enough to make plates on the wall rattle. “I wonder who’s winning?”
“Army fourteen, Railroaders fourteen.”
The shouting grew loud on the sidewalk below, where MPs and policeman wrestled two soldiers and a brawny civilian in overalls to a paddy wagon and threw them in. It reminded Donovan of a time more than two years ago when he was a lieutenant aboard the heavy cruiser Tampa. En route to the Solomon Islands, they were taking on provisions in Pearl Harbor and half the crew was given liberty. Unlucky at the draw, Donovan was assigned to shore patrol duty one night. Worse, he wasn’t given the Honolulu beat. Instead they sent him to Pearl City, a pest hole replete with sleazy nightclubs and whorehouses, concentrated on Hotel Street. Donovan’s only consolation was that Tiny had also drawn SP duty and was assigned to work with him.
“A disturbance had been reported at Club Hollywood and Lieutenant Michael Donovan and Ensign “Alexander Sabovik walked in, flanked by three burly SPs. They found a Marine slugging it out with a torpedoman from the Tampa. Frantically Donovan tried to work his way to the middle as the yelling, cheering crowd closed tighter around the men who, by this time, were bare-chested, trading blow for crushing blow.
The crowd roared. Donovan pushed hard. Someone threw a punch. Donovan found himself on his rump, more surprised than in pain. His enlisted SPs charged in, brandishing their clubs. Ignoring the mêlée, Tiny leaned down to Donovan, his hands on his knees. He shouted, “You okay, Mike?”
“You get the license number of that truck?” Donovan rubbed his jaw and extended a hand. Tiny yanked him to his feet. The enlisted SPs were clubbing away, but they didn’t seem to be making progress as their adversaries fought back, shoving them to the rear of the room. Tiny looked at Donovan, his face a perfect image of please, please, oh please?
Donovan yelled, “Hold on.” He grabbed a chair, stood, and blew his whistle. “Settle down!”
His reward was a beer bottle flying right at him. He ducked at the last possible instant. When he came up he saw one of his SPs go down; the other two were fighting a losing battle. He looked at Tiny. “Go!”
With a roar, Tiny grabbed the nearest man, a Marine, and threw him onto a table. The table cracked in half, sending the Marine, splintered wood and chairs caroming into a corner. Next, he grabbed two white hats by their collars, butted their heads together, and threw them on top of the Marine. “Another burly sailor leaned back and cocked his arm for a roundhouse punch. Tiny merely grabbed the sailor’s arm, spun him around, and sent him over the bar, the sailor shrieking in pain.
“Apparently the man’s scream and the tinkling glass caught the crowd’s attention, for the fighting petered out within seconds. Looking up at Tiny, they edged back. Roughly shoving men aside, Tiny worked to the center, where he found the sailor and Marine on their knees, having beat each other senseless. One man’s eye was swollen shut; the other’s lip bled profusely. They were too exhausted to raise their arms.
Tiny and Donovan got their SPs organized and threw
twelve men into the brig that night. The longest part of their evening was filling out paperwork.
“Hello?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Who’s Tiny?”
“A friend.” He nodded down to the street as the police threw another overalled civilian into the paddy wagon. The rear doors were slammed shut and it drove off.
He said, “Just kids. Unfortunately, they’ll grow up.”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
The waiter cleared their bowls and set a plate of roast duck in a plum sauce before Diane. Donovan had tender sliced beef smothered with onions and green peppers. It was quiet, and he looked up to see she ate with vigor. But it wasn’t a ravenous hunger; she just enjoyed her food.
She looked up in mid-bite. “You’re staring.”
“How’s your duck?”
“The best. You?”
“Great, except it’s marinated in a garlic sauce that could repel two-pound mosquitoes on Guadalcanal.”
Her face darkened.
“Did I say something?”
“Welcome to the New China Café: lots of garlic.” She looked in the distance.
“I’m sorry.” He put a hand over hers.
She withdrew her hand and looked away. “Thought I’d forgotten all about Guadalcanal and the Solomons.”
“You and me both.” Donovan felt stupid the moment he said it.
“Pardon?”
Donovan tried a smile. “Sounds like we both left ghosts in the Solomons.”
“Those times are past.” She resumed eating.
“Make you a deal. I won’t--”
Someone walked up to their table. It was Walt Logan. “Mr. Logan,” Donovan said, shooting to his feet.
“Daddy?” Diane started up.
“Thought I’d find you here. Sit down, you two, I’m on my way to the yard.” Walt Logan gently pushed on Donovan’s shoulder, easing him back into his chair. “Look, Mike. There’s a problem at the Barker Hotel.”
“What sort of problem?”
“You’re not registered.”
A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF Page 15
