by Alan Chin
Mitchell knew something was up when he heard Tedder laugh. Having grown up in Seattle where the temperatures are cool, Tedder was always miserable in the tropics, so to see even a smile on his face was shocking. His silver hair was oiled and neatly parted, but his uniform looked like he had slept in it. He was a civilian dressed in officer garb. If it weren’t for the war, he would be sitting in his office in a two gas-station town, sneaking shots of whiskey between seeing elderly ladies complaining of back pains.
“Okay, Doc, I’ll bite. What’s up?” Mitchell asked.
Tedder sipped his coffee and glanced at the burly, dark-haired chaplain. Both men grinned.
“It seems we have a new cook,” Moyer said.
“Seaman Waters. Did you meet him?” Mitchell grabbed the coffeepot and poured himself a mug.
“No, we just now found out about it,” Moyer replied.
“How’s that?” Mitchell asked.
“You’ll see.”
Mitchell wondered what game these two were playing as he put the pot down and sat on the edge of a wicker chair. As he sipped his coffee, his eyebrows lifted high on his forehead.
“Goddamn, this is great. Do I detect a hint of chicory?”
“Affirmative,” Moyer beamed. “Our slumming days are over, thank the Lord.”
Mitchell noticed Captain Ben Bitton rambling onto the quarterdeck from the forward conning tower, looking stern, unflappable, and fit for his fifty-two years. Beneath his salt-and-pepper hair and hiding behind his tortoiseshell glasses were his piercing hazel eyes, which revealed his self-assured temperament. His khaki uniform was crisply pressed and his shoes buffed, communicating respect for his position and underlining his attention to detail.
Before they could all rise, Bitton said, “As you were, gentlemen.”
Silence descended over the table, and Mitchell bent his head over the clipboard on his knee, updating the repair paperwork. Bitton poured himself a mug of coffee before relaxing into a chair. Moyer and Tedder watched the captain’s face while seeming not to notice him at all. The captain sipped his coffee and grinned. Never one to go overboard, his grin, however, was very telling. He drank the rest of his coffee in silence and filled another mug while Moyer and Tedder exchanged gleeful smiles.
Grady emerged from the passageway leading to the galley. He carried a silver tray, which he put on the officer’s table. Dominating the tray was a frosted pitcher of lemonade and four equally frosted glasses. In that crush of sweltering heat, the officers stared open-mouthed at the visible corona of coldness surrounding the tray.
“My God,” the captain said. “He even chilled the glasses. What the hell’s gotten into Cocoa—first, delicious coffee, and now this?”
“There’s good news and bad,” Mitchell said. “One of the new seamen is striking for cook. This is obviously not Cocoa’s doing.”
“Don’t tell me the bad news. I want to enjoy this.” Bitton took his spectacles off and slid them into his breast pocket. His hazel eyes blinked several times, as if testing the vision before him. He grabbed the pitcher handle and ceremoniously poured himself a generous portion. He sipped the frigid ambrosia, smacked his lips, and took three long gulps.
Mitchell watched a remarkable change come over the captain. His shoulders visibly lowered as his whole body relaxed. Like a snake uncoiling, the muscles in his face released the tension that had been a permanent fixture.
“God has answered my prayers,” he said. “This new cook will raise morale in no time. Glorious, utterly glorious. Why, the coffee alone will lift everybody’s spirits.”
Moyer took the pitcher and refilled the captain’s glass before pouring three others. The officers gulped the frigid tartness while making low moaning noises.
Setting his empty glass on the table, Mitchell wondered how much he should tell the captain about Andrew. He knew that within the captain’s spartan cabin there were only two items on the shelf above the bunk: a Bible and a bundle of letters bound with a rubber band. The captain read his Bible for an hour every night. The letters were all from his wife, and he selectively read them before sleep took him. The captain was a staunch Methodist, and Mitchell felt apprehensive about what his reaction would be when he learned that Andrew practiced the same religion as the enemy.
“Nathan, how do we stand on repairs?” Bitton asked.
“Great, Skipper. The depot gang is nearly finished and our men are working damned hard helping them.”
“Excellent. Did you hear any more scuttlebutt ashore about Bataan?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir. The rumors we heard are true: the Nips cut our boys to ribbons. Some forces fled to Corregidor and they’re holding out for reinforcements, but thousands were taken prisoner and there’s no knowing how many died.”
“Poor bastards,” the captain said, shaking his head. “Starved, devastated by malaria, made to fight, and in the end, killed or taken prisoner.”
Mitchell nodded, “They had a poem that was written up by a war correspondent named Frank Hewlett:
We’re the battling bastards of Bataan,
No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam,
No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces,
No pills, no planes or artillery pieces,
And nobody gives a damn.”
A leaden silence settled over the officers.
Finally, Tedder said, “I don’t understand how a nation of bucktoothed flower arrangers who run around in bath robes and sandals could defeat MacArthur’s troops. Our boys are better trained, better equipped, and they dress like men.”
“Obviously, those are erroneous generalizations,” Mitchell said. “They’re a tough bunch.”
“What about MacArthur, did he make it to Corregidor?” Moyer asked.
Mitchell grinned. “Corregidor? Hell, they smuggled him clean out of the Philippines. He’s in Australia, building an invasion force to retake Bataan. An interviewer asked him about his escape and he said: It was close, but that’s the way it is in war. You win or lose, live or die—and the difference is just an eyelash.”
“An eyelash, my God,” Bitton said. “Hell of a man. I’d give anything to lead men into action. I’d love to see if I’ve got his kind of mettle.” Bitton lifted his head and his voice trembled. “All these fierce battles are raging, and here we sit in the war’s backwaters, escorting supply ships, carrying mail, towing targets, and every other menial fleet duty. Well, it’s not very heroic now, is it?”
They all lowered their eyes.
“Sooner or later,” Bitton continued, “we’ll have the chance to prove ourselves, and we better damn well be ready when it comes.”
Grady sauntered onto the quarterdeck carrying another tray, which he sat next to the pitcher of lemonade. There were four plates on the tray, and each officer leaned forward to see what more surprises were in store for lunch.
On each plate sat the same kind of greasy canned-meat sandwich on day-old bread that they had endured for the last two months. Beside the sandwiches were mounds of mustard-yellow potato salad and dill pickle slivers.
One by one the eager smiles fell into frowns.
Tedder cleared his throat and said, “Maybe I’m simple, but I don’t see anything heroic about MacArthur’s dashing to safety with his tail between his legs.”
The captain shook his head. “He has the most brilliant military mind of our time. It’d be devastating if he were captured. As it is, I’ll bet there are some yellow bastards who have red faces now for letting him slip through their fingers.”
Tedder pulled a plate toward him, grabbed a sandwich, and held it under his nose. Before he chomped down, he said, “I can’t help feeling sorry for those men left holding the bag.” He ripped off a mouthful of sandwich and chewed savagely.
Cocoa emerged from the galley, with Andrew close on his heels. Cocoa’s stocky waist supported a grease-stained apron that draped below his knees. His T-shirt was stretched tight over his protruding belly and had a large, yellow stain under each armpit.
His face, round with a waddle of fat hanging under his chin, was normally pale, but at that moment it glowed a scalded red. They both came to attention beside the officer’s table.
“Request permission to speak, sir,” Cocoa said, with his chin pulled absurdly high.
“What is it, Cocoa?” Mitchell asked.
“Sir, it’s this new man, Seaman Waters. Much as I need the help, sir, he just won’t do.”
Mitchell exhaled sharply. “And why is that, Cocoa?”
“Well, sir, for one thing, I put him in charge of beverages and the first thing he does is make nine urns of coffee, one after the other. When he gets one made he pours it out and starts over, like he’s loony. Them urns is twenty gallons each. Then I find that he’s used up all my lemons. And there’s the crew, sir. I mean, I don’t mind having a half Jap for a kitchen coolie, but the crew is saying they won’t eat no raw fish heads and rice. They think he’s a plant sent here to poison them. They refuse to eat anything he touches.”
“I take it this is the bad news?” Bitton asked.
Mitchell nodded, and all four officers turned to stare at Andrew.
Mitchell asked, “Why did you make an urn of coffee and pour it out?”
“I’ve never brewed coffee in an urn, sir. The way Mister Cocoa showed me made the foulest-tasting sludge, so I experimented with how much coffee to water mixture would taste best. I remembered that chicory cuts the bitterness, so I tried that too. I’m sorry about the lemons. I thought the officers would prefer something cold rather than hot coffee. And about the fish heads?” Andrew grinned. “Mister Cocoa is fixing something for dinner he calls chitterlings. It’s a stretch for me to believe that the crew would eat a hog’s ass but not a fish’s head, but maybe that’s my upbringing.”
Each officer tried and failed to suppress a smile. Mitchell said, “I’ll gather the crew and have a heart-to-heart with them about being more accepting.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Cocoa said. “You can talk from now until the time I get religion and the men ain’t going to accept him. They got an ugly resentment that’s running bone-deep.”
Mitchell glanced at Andrew. “I’m afraid the crew’s refusal to eat your cooking leaves us in a bind. I’ll have to restrict you to kitchen cleanup.”
Cocoa’s sudden smile showed a full set of dingy teeth.
“Sir,” Andrew said, “I believe it was Voltaire who said: We should be tolerant of everything but intolerance.”
All the officers were clearly stupefied, having never before heard an enlisted man quote a philosopher.
Andrew swallowed hard. “I have a suggestion, sir. Let me cook for the officers. If you accept me, perhaps the crew will follow in time. I can cook French, Chinese, Siamese, and Japanese cuisine. And if it’s for only five officers, I can make every meal special.”
Mitchell studied his hands on the table, considering Andrew’s proposal.
Andrew’s voice became raw. “He doesn’t even wash his hands after using the head. I do.”
Tedder swallowed loudly and dropped his sandwich back onto his plate.
Mitchell shook his head, but before he could say anything, Captain Bitton interrupted.
“A splendid idea. We’ll put him in charge of the officer’s mess on a trial basis. But I won’t have Japanese food served aboard this ship—anything but Japanese.”
Mitchell was stunned. Personnel issues were the executive officer’s responsibility, and Bitton never interfered with letting his subordinates manage their own affairs. It was unheard of for him to step in and overrule a junior officer in front of a crewmember.
“One more thing, sir,” Andrew said. “To cook Asian food, which is what I do best, I’ll need supplies from the Chinese merchants on the island.”
The captain nodded. “Cocoa, requisition whatever he needs. You men are dismissed.”
Cocoa and Andrew disappeared down the passageway as Bitton laced his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. He leaned toward Mitchell.
“Nathan, you should have seen that coming. Now the crew is affected. You’re obviously too wrapped up with repairs to pay due attention to personnel issues. Let this be a wake-up call for us all. We are a fighting ship at war, gentlemen. If the crew is defective, the ship is defective.” Bitton paused before adding, “If there are weaknesses aboard this ship, we have to weed them out and correct them. Our lives depend on us honing these men into a cohesive fighting machine.”
Mitchell felt the pressure of his palms on his clipboard. A stray nerve kept pulsing in his neck, reaching up to spread across his skull. He wanted to defend himself, but he could only manage to nod in agreement.
“What about the other new men,” Bitton asked, “any problems there?”
“They dumped a troublemaker on us named Hudson, machinist-mate with a chip on his shoulder. He needs a kick in the pants and I intend to give it to him the next time he steps out of line. The other two should fit in fine.”
“Any other surprises with this Chinaman?”
“Well, Skipper, he’s half Chinese and was raised by monks in Indochina. He speaks several languages, including Japanese, and he’s a Buddhist.”
The captain’s eyebrows rose and he sat silent for half a minute before turning to Chaplain Moyer. “Well, Otis, looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you with this kid.”
Chapter Six
April 18, 1942—1300 hours
FROM the navigation bridge, Mitchell watched Andrew hail a passing fishing boat and slip them a note. Twenty minutes later, a withered Chinese man in a dugout canoe glided alongside and haggled with Andrew for the better part of an hour. A short time later, a dozen native canoes pulled alongside. Baskets, sacks, bamboo cages, and sweaty earthen jars were lifted over the railing to cursing sailors, who carried them to the storage lockers: live ducks, chickens, sea turtles, lobsters; a hog carcass the color of old wax; sacks of rice; bushels of mangos and pineapples and guavas and papayas; bottles of soy sauce; baskets of fresh gingerroot and lemon grass and bean sprouts.
Mitchell shook his head, wondering who the hell was going to eat all those supplies. He glanced over at Ensign Fisher to make a funny comment, but the ensign seemed a million miles away.
Fisher had an aristocratic face that radiated a facade of superiority even when he was lost in thought. He leaned against the bridge railing with a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck and struck a pose that reminded Mitchell of Gary Cooper in the movie they’d shown on the quarterdeck a week before.
Fisher had studied law at Yale for a career in politics, and Mitchell suspected that Fisher joined the Navy solely to swing the veteran votes his way when he ran for Congress. He liked Fisher and would have loved to give the ensign the benefit of a doubt, but he had the niggling suspicion that all of Fisher’s motives were self-serving.
Mitchell turned to the captain. “Chowtime, sir. Shall we see if this new kid is worth the two tons of provisions we brought aboard?”
The three officers left Chief Baker in charge of the bridge and descended three levels to the wardroom. They found Tedder and Moyer perched at the table, sipping iced tea. A silver platter of appetizers—shrimp dumplings with a soy-based dipping sauce and steamed pork buns—alongside a frosty pitcher of unsweetened tea sat in the center of the table, which was dressed with a snowy-white linen tablecloth.
As the officers took their seats, Tedder beamed. “We were about to start without you. Sweet Jesus, these things smell good.”
“Otis, will you say grace?” the captain asked as he removed his tortoiseshell spectacles and slipped them into this breast pocket.
Bowing their heads, Moyer began, “We thank you, Lord, for the blessings we are about to receive. May your gift strengthen our bodies to perform your will against our enemy.”
“Amen,” they all sang out, not letting him ramble on as he usually did.
Beside each silverware setting rested a pair of wooden chopsticks. Mitchell lifted his pair and adjusted them in his right
hand. He raised a dumpling, dipped it into the dark sauce, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. The others held their breaths, waiting for his verdict.
A wave of savory elation flowed from his tongue to his brain. He quickly counted the number of dumplings and divided by five. That only leaves me three dumplings and one bun, he thought. I need to have a talk with Andy about proper quantities.
Mitchell finally swallowed. “Fantastic.” He awkwardly lifted a pork bun with the chopsticks, took a quick bite, and moaned.
Bitton grabbed a fork, saying, “I don’t care how good they are, I’m not using those damned sticks.”
The room went silent for the two minutes it took the officers to polish off the appetizers. Only Mitchell used chopsticks. They all leaned into their seatbacks, smiling at the empty tray while waiting for the captain to comment. He remained quiet, so they mimicked his silence.
Grady sauntered into the cabin, wearing a virginal white steward’s coat, buttoned all the way to the collar. He whisked the tray away.
“Nathan, did we complete all the repairs?” Bitton asked.
Mitchell nodded. “She’s now as seaworthy as we can make her, skipper.”
Grady hurried through the hatchway, balancing a tray crammed with bowls, a soup tureen, and a breadbasket. The fragrance of turtle soup suffused the cabin. Each man leaned forward to stare as Grady placed the tray on the serving table, filled five bowls, and served each officer. He sat a basket of warm baguettes in the center of the table and exited the cabin.
