The Lonely War

by Alan Chin

  He resisted it, telling himself that it was impossible, that regardless of Mitchell’s understated sexiness and the man’s kindness, he couldn’t possibly love this man he had seen for the first time only an hour ago. But there was no denying the warmth in his chest. What else could it possibly be? What other feeling could crush him so utterly, so beautifully?

  He was smitten, and as he surrendered to it, his entire being transformed: loneliness, fear, loss, all vanished, soaring off into a void. He pictured himself, face nuzzled against that sunburnt cheek, kissing the neck that smelled of sweat and talcum, the officer’s torso pressed against his belly, grinding.

  These images made it clear he could no longer ignore or deny his homosexuality. Accepting his nature brought no shame or regret. He simply embraced his warm adoration for Mitchell that, for the moment at least, had chased away his overwhelming isolation.

  DURING the time spent ashore at the PX and later on a tour of the ship with the other new men, Andrew hardly heard a word Chief Ogden said. He floated in a cloud of Lieutenant Mitchell.

  Ogden guided them through officers’ country, which was the superstructure between the forecastle and the quarterdeck that included the communications shack, the navigation bridge, the fire control station, and the officers’ living quarters. While walking through the navigation bridge, the others stared down onto the forecastle deck, eyeing the two five-inch gun turrets with their twenty-foot barrels pointing out to sea, but Andrew saw only Mitchell, who leaned over the chart table, scribbling on a notepad.

  Andrew inched toward the officer, close enough to once again catch a whiff of sweat-moistened skin lingering under the pleasant odor of talcum powder. His head spun from a rush of emotion jolting up his spine. He wanted more than anything to caress that sunburnt cheek. His hand drifted toward Mitchell, but he stopped himself and quickly turned to face the others.

  Andrew realized that for him to feel complete, he must somehow make the officer return his love. He was aware, of course, that he couldn’t seduce Mitchell, and that the officer would never feel the sexual longing that he felt. But he had experienced an intense connection when they were staring, eye to eye, in the forecastle, and he was confident that Mitchell had felt it too. He vowed to somehow make this officer care for him. That will be enough, he thought. He would allow himself to love this man entirely, if only the officer returned some measure of affection.

  He was playing with fire, he knew. Buddhist teachings state that the flame of human suffering always begins with the spark of desire; his desire for Mitchell would eventually build into a blaze of anguish. But he was willing to accept that future pain so he could momentarily enjoy this delicious rush of love and longing.

  The main problem with his quest, he realized, was the difficulty in creating an intimate friendship with an officer. The Navy maintains a barrier between the ranks of commissioned officers and enlisted men that is more formidable than tempered steel. To the enlisted man, officers are the unquestionable authority aboard ship and must be obeyed even to the death. In order to keep personal feelings from affecting the officer while giving a difficult order to a crewmember, or a crewmember’s personal feelings from getting in the way of following such an order, strict limits were placed on exchanges between ranks in order to keep those personal feeling from developing in the first place. Exchanges between officers and enlisted men were limited to the business and functioning of the ship. Personal banter of any kind was taboo. This device operated constantly, on ship or ashore, in battle and out.

  An immediate sense of danger clung to Andrew as he schemed how to vault over the gulf that separated enlisted men from the officers, like Icarus preparing to leap off a cliff wearing wax wings.

  Chapter Four

  April 18, 1942—1100 hours

  MITCHELL found Hudson lounging on the port depth-charge rack, smoking a stubby cigar. He beckoned the petty officer with a nod of his head. Hudson tossed his cigar over the side and trailed the lieutenant to the galley, where they grabbed mugs of coffee. They strolled through a passageway to the wardroom and sat facing one another at the officers’ dining table.

  Mitchell opened Hudson’s file as he sipped his coffee. It was traditional Navy coffee, brewed unduly strong, with a pinch of salt. He felt his face tense up as the bitterness made his eyes pool with water. “This bilge will dissolve your fillings.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ like raw Navy joe, sir.” Hudson smirked and gulped a mouthful. His cheeks bulged and he nearly spit it out, but he swallowed and locked his jaw against the taste. “I hear the mess situation is real bad, sir. It’s causing an ugly morale problem.”

  Right on target, Mitchell thought. We’ve got a cook who can’t read a recipe and no one else will strike for cook because the crew derides anyone who works in the galley. And with only one cook, I can’t even give old Cocoa a night of liberty because he has to stay aboard to prepare meals for the watch. I’d sell my mother for a competent cook. He took a hopeful look at Hudson but dismissed the thought. Hudson was obviously too proud.

  Mitchell had approached every ship’s executive officer at each port, begging to trade a boatswain’s mate, or helmsman, or even a machinist’s mate in exchange for a cook. No takers. Most simply laughed and shook their heads. A few gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and suggested another ship he might try.

  Mitchell pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches from his shirt pocket. He offered Hudson a cigarette and lit one himself.

  “Before we get sidetracked onto the ship’s problems,” Mitchell said, waving out the match and dropping it into an ashtray, “let’s talk about you. You’ve been in the Navy twelve years and you’re only a petty officer third class. Why is that?” The lieutenant skimmed through the file while smoke curled above his head.

  “Bad luck, sir. I made first class twice. I do my job and try to uphold the Navy code, but then along comes the code and kicks me on my ass.” Hudson shook his head, making a show of seeming bewildered. “I’m okay with my rank, sir. What’s important is that I do my job and that I get some liberty every now and then. I mean, I love the Navy—the shipboard life, traveling to exotic ports, riding the tail of a storm on the open sea. There ain’t nothing like it, sir.”

  “Says here you were busted four times, each one for fighting, and you hospitalized an MP who tried to break up a brawl that you started. Seems you’re quite the wild man whenever you drink. But here’s a letter of commendation for your actions aboard the California at Pearl.”

  “Just doing my duty, sir. Them swabbies was plain stupid to get caught belowdecks, and someone had to help them.”

  Mitchell closed the file and held Hudson’s eye.

  “We’ve got a green crew. The average age is only twenty, and most of them enlisted after December seventh. We desperately need men with your experience to set an example. That means doing your job, keeping your mouth shut, and helping the officers harmonize this crew into a cohesive fighting unit. The only thing you’ve shown so far is name-calling and instigating trouble. That stops now!”

  Hudson’s gaze fell to the tabletop, with him showing no sign that the message had sunk in.

  “You called Waters a half Jap and would have prompted a fight if I hadn’t been there. That behavior is unacceptable. You will show Waters the same respect that you show the others.”

  “Sir, I was respectful. I called him a half Jap, even though there ain’t no such thing. Just like there ain’t no such thing as a half nigger. You is or you ain’t, and that boy is yellow to the bone.”

  “I suppose you hate Chief Ogden for being an Indian?”

  “At least his grand-pappy was born on American soil instead of some stink-hole in Asia or Africa.”

  “Waters and Washington are every bit as American as you and I, and they are as important to the operation of this ship as you are. You will treat them with respect, and that’s an order.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Shut up! You’re here to lis
ten.” Mitchell stared him down without flinching, letting a silent half minute pass. “Keep your nose clean and I’ll put some stripes on your arm, but if you don’t, I’ll run your ass into the brig for the duration. Then we’ll see what the Marines at Camp Pendleton can do with you.”

  Hudson cocked his head to one side to study the lieutenant, obviously trying to gauge whether or not the man would stand behind his threat.

  “If we weren’t at war, you’d already be rotting in a cell. We’re your last chance to turn things around. Now get the hell out of here and report to Chief Ogden for a job assignment in the engine room, and tell him to send me Seaman Stokes.”

  Mitchell read Stokes’s service record until the sailor ambled into the room and sat at the table. He noted that Stokes had a strong physique without seeming athletic. The same color of red hair that covered his head also covered his arms and the back of his hands. He was twenty years old and had a friendly, likeable demeanor, and he looked at Mitchell without displaying any degree of challenge or evasion. A skilled helmsman, his low-key personality would fit in seamlessly. No problem here, Mitchell thought. He read another page and felt a surge of excitement hit him like an electric jolt.

  “Says here you had cooking experience in civilian life.”

  “Not really, sir. I worked a sheep ranch up around Steamboat Springs. Whenever we sheared the sheep, I helped out cookin’ because we had so many extra hands. That only lasted a few weeks every year, and I only grilled mutton and baked beans and such. It wasn’t real cookin’.”

  “Your fitness report indicates you’re a competent helmsman, but we desperately need a cook. How about it?”

  Stokes gathered his dignity around him like a blanket and said, “No, thank you, sir.” His tone made it clear that no amount of persuasion would change his mind.

  “I could order you to strike for cook,” Mitchell said, using a taste more authority in his voice.

  “Sir, it is my understanding that men who’ve had a venereal disease can’t work in the galley.”

  “True, but your medical record is spotless. According to this, you’re clean as a whistle.”

  “Yes, sir. But the first liberty I get, I’ll go ashore and chase down every two-bit whore in town. I’ll come back with syphilis, the clap, crabs, chancres, and even leprosy if that’s what it takes to keep me out of the galley.”

  “Alright, sailor. You’ve made your point.”

  Following Stokes’s interview, Andrew entered the room and sat, looking sharp in his new dungaree pants and denim shirt. An easy smile creased his lips and his eyes shone. Mitchell felt genuine warmth in Andrew’s smile.

  “You’re quite an enigma,” Mitchell said. “Nineteen years old, have a French accent, are Chinese-American, and I’m guessing you’re a Buddhist monk on active duty aboard a warship. Help me fit all these pieces together.”

  Andrew’s smile widened. “It’s simple, sir. My father works for Standard Oil, who does business throughout Asia. He was based in Saigon, where he met my mother. I was born a short time later. I was six when she died, and Father put me in a boarding school run by Buddhist monks. I also attended a French high school for my formal education, which was where I learned to speak English with a French accent. There was one monk, Master Jung-Wei, who encouraged me to walk the spiritual path. I was planning to do that, but in forty-one the Japanese began their offensive into Indochina. My father was called back to America and he took me with him.”

  “You’re a monk?”

  “Never took the vows. I don’t really consider myself a Buddhist. I follow the Dharma, but I’m simply a man trying to live a moral life, which means I’m sober, celibate, never lie or cheat, and I bring no harm to any creature.”

  “Admirable, but considering we are at war, how can you work aboard a warship and not harm others?”

  “Sir, I joined the Navy because that was my father’s wish, and we Asians have no choice but to obey their family elders. He said I have a duty to his country even though I don’t consider myself an American. I know a little about Chinese medicine, so I had hoped to train as a medic. I requested a transfer to the medical corps, but it all fell apart and I ended up a regular seaman.”

  “If you don’t consider yourself an American, what are you, Chinese?”

  “No, sir. I consider myself a human being—nothing more and nothing less.”

  Startled by the sincerity in Andrew’s voice, Mitchell sat speechless, having no idea how to respond to such a comment. Finally he said, “We don’t need another medic. Says here you worked in the ship’s laundry on the Indy.”

  “Yes, sir. I hated it. They assumed an Asian would be good at laundry. Goes to show there’s no shortage of bigotry in the Navy. Please don’t put me doing laundry.”

  “What other skills do you have?”

  “I’m fluent in French and Chinese, as well as English. I also speak a little Japanese.”

  “We don’t need an interpreter either.”

  “I’m an excellent cook. During school breaks my master took me to his monastery, where everyone took turns working in the kitchen. My master was an impeccable chef, a true artist. He taught me many secrets.” Andrew leaned against his seatback. “Is there something wrong, sir? Let me assure you I can cook French, Chinese, and Japanese dishes.”

  “You’re willing to strike for cook?”

  “Yes, sir. I only ask that I be allowed to cook, rather than be only a coolie pot-scrubber.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Mitchell said, followed by a bark of laughter. “Waters, you’ve answered my prayers.” Mitchell realized that he was showing too much emotion and checked himself.

  In the silence that followed, both men smiled warmly at each other. Again, Mitchell felt caught up in Andrew’s gravitational pull. A satisfying connection formed in his chest, as if a puzzle piece had fallen into place that bridged other pieces.

  “I won’t touch a weapon, sir,” Andrew said. “What a man takes into his hands, he takes into his heart, and I will not allow killing to enter my heart. Same for lying, drinking spirits, and whoring. I refuse to corrupt myself. Don’t misunderstand, sir. I’m not a religious fanatic, simply a human being raised by men who value spiritual awakening above all else.”

  “Simply? I doubt there is anything simple about you. I’ll respect your pacifist feelings for now, but I’m confused. Your record from the Indianapolis shows that you were put on report nine times in the last month alone, each time for fighting.”

  “Sir, I’m a pacifist but I’m not a coward, and I’m not so enlightened that I always turn the other cheek. You saw what happened with Hudson. Men find me an easy mark. I was continually harassed on the Indy.”

  “Looks like you’re a rather intriguing problem.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I know exactly who I am and what I am, and I’m quite comfortable with that. If the crew doesn’t accept me, that is their problem, and ultimately your problem.”

  Mitchell had never commanded anyone this young with so much poise and confidence. This kid was a fresh surprise, but Mitchell sniffed a whiff of trouble in the air. Perhaps working in the galley, separated from the others, is a great idea.

  “Have Chief Ogden introduce you to Cocoa, our cook. You’ll work under his supervision.”

  They sat in silence, and Mitchell watched a line of red rise from Andrew’s collar. Something was happening, and Mitchell puzzled at what it could be. He felt as if there was more to discuss, but didn’t know what. There was a kind of hidden movement in Andrew’s eyes, a rising and falling intensity.

  He offered Andrew a reserved grin, which Andrew returned. Then came the moment when Mitchell could no longer stare, so he dismissed Andrew. As thrilled as Mitchell was to finally have another cook, he felt a slight disappointment as Andrew left the cabin.

  The interview with Grady was quick and routine. Raised in Joplin, Missouri, he was soft-spoken and his movements were as studied as a Broadway actor’s. His high cheeks and curved eyelashes mad
e his face rather handsome. His skin was the color of creamed coffee, but it was not shiny like some Negroes; it had the softened look of crushed velvet.

  Grady requested an assignment to man a deck gun, obviously wanting to prove himself in battle. Mitchell explained that since Grady had been trained as a steward’s mate, and that was what the ship needed, Grady would pull double duty as the captain’s steward and the wardroom attendant until a replacement came along. What Mitchell didn’t tell him was that, although the Navy had recently begun to enlist Negroes as regular seamen with equal pay and status, Mitchell had not heard of any colored man being given a job other than steward or cook’s helper (dishwasher). Mitchell had no problem assigning him to other duties, including manning the guns, but he was painfully aware that others would have serious objections to it, most notably the captain.

  Grady was visibly disappointed, and Mitchell felt sorry for him, but at the same time his spirits soared in anticipation of telling the captain about the new cook.

  Chapter Five

  April 18, 1942—1200 hours

  AFTER inspecting the engine repairs in the ship’s ovenlike bowels, Mitchell climbed the engine room ladder and strolled to the quarterdeck for lunch. He carried a clipboard and jotted notes as he walked.

  Officers usually took their meals in the wardroom, but while in port, a table was set up under the quarterdeck awning so the officers could eat in cooler conditions.

  Lieutenant Horace Tedder, the medical officer, and Ensign Otis Moyer, the chaplain, relaxed in wicker chairs around the table, sipping coffee from brown mugs. As Mitchell came close to the table, he overheard Tedder telling Moyer about his morning activities.

  “After reveille,” Tedder explained, “the skipper and I inspected the mess hall and crew’s quarters, then came sick call. I’ll tell you, the ingenuity of these goldbrickers astounds me. They must have a medical book stashed somewhere aboard, because nobody could invent such elaborate ailments. This morning, Smitty gave such a detailed description of his stomachache I knew it was a phony. I told him I needed to perform an emergency appendectomy using only a local anesthetic. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know what an appendectomy is, but he jumped up and ran out of sick bay so fast you’da thought his pants were on fire.” Tedder joined Moyer in a belly laugh.