by Alan Chin
Andrew came to expect Mitchell during the lulls and always had cold lemonade, iced tea, or a special snack waiting. Mitchell chatted easily with Andrew, his body relaxed and his smile genuine. They talked about the dinner menu, progress of the drills, or supplies needed at the next port.
On the midnight-to-four watch, there was no longer any pretense of protocol. They debated politics, philosophy, and literature. They discussed topics as equals and as friends. Ogden and Stokes simply manned their posts and listened while the two friends exchanged viewpoints.
What Ogden and Stokes gleaned from the conversations always made interesting scuttlebutt for the rest of the crew. The men regarded Mitchell as an intellectual, and now they judged Andrew to be that same rare breed of animal. They were proud that one of their own could go toe-to-toe with the brains running the ship, but at the same time there was an uneasiness about the personal relationship developing between officer and enlisted. It was a serious breach of the naval code, and that meant trouble was brewing.
An hour before dawn on their fourth night at sea, the Pilgrim steamed through the Sea of the Moon off Tahiti’s western coast and plowed into Papeete Bay at seventeen knots. On that windless morning, the Pilgrim crossed the bay, came about, and tied up to the fueling dock north of town. The engines shut down and a hush fell over the ship even before the deck crew could secure all lines.
The sun peeked over the horizon. Effulgent light bathed Papeete’s bustling marketplace and lively wharf area as the town came to life. Mitchell stood beside Andrew at the quarterdeck railing, absorbed in the spectacle of the world changing colors before their eyes.
Andrew finally said, “I better get it in gear if you want your breakfast.” He brushed past the officer and disappeared through the open hatch.
Watching him go, Mitchell noted the way the sunlight tumbled off his lean body and, suddenly feeling hungry, he checked his watch to see how long he had to wait for his breakfast. He strolled to the wardroom and joined the other officers gathered around the dining table. To his surprise, Bitton handed him a tumbler of neat whiskey.
Bitton earned a sharp glance from Mitchell, which he ignored, while lifting his glass high. “We live in a time of absolutes, gentlemen. At the end of the day, it’s all about whether our ship, our crew, and we are still alive to tell about it.”
Mitchell noted, from the level of liquid in the bottle and the boozy smile on Tedder’s face, that this was not their first round of drinks that morning. All five officers hoisted their tumblers and everyone but Mitchell swallowed their whiskey. Mitchell only brought his glass to his mouth and wet his lips, in order to not to offend the captain. He placed his glass on the table.
Bitton held out the bottle. “One more? Should make breakfast that much sweeter.”
Everyone but Moyer and Mitchell held out an empty glass. Moyer flashed a sheepish grin, “Not for me. I’ve got services this morning.”
On Sunday mornings the crew split into shifts for breakfast and church services. First the Protestants enjoyed an early breakfast while the Catholics attended Mass on the fantail. Even though Moyer was Episcopalian, he chanted in Latin, gave the sacraments, and even heard confessions after Mass from anyone who needed to get something off his chest. Because he was not Roman Catholic, he had no official authority from the Church in Rome to perform these services, but in wartime one had to make do, and giving the boys a semblance of Mass was better than nothing. After Mass, the Catholics piled into the mess hall and the Protestants assembled on the fantail for a sermon on how a virtuous sailor should apply himself during shore leave. They finished by bowing their heads in prayer and singing a few well-known hymns: “The Old Rugged Cross” and “Onward Christian Soldier.”
Bitton attended the Protestant service, but the other officers never attended either. Mitchell stood the morning OOD watch, and Fisher and Tedder had no religious interests.
Bitton joined Mitchell on the bridge before the second service. They peered thirty feet below at the forecastle deck as Andrew strolled to a clearing forward of the gun turrets and behind the anchor chains.
Andrew wore orange saffron robes covering yellow silk undergarments. The inner robe was secured around his waist like a sarong to cover his lower body. The upper robe hung on his left shoulder, looped around his back under his right armpit, and swept across his chest and over his left shoulder. It hid most of his upper body but left his slender neck and right shoulder bare. Prayer beads hung from his left hand and his feet were clad in leather sandals.
Andrew faced the sun and struck a pose with his feet eighteen inches apart and arms held chest high. As oblique sunrays spread an ethereal glow around him, he began to move.
Bitton’s face flushed. “What in holy hell is going on?”
“He calls it tai chi,” Mitchell said. “I gave him permission. He told me that, and I quote: ‘the unstained purity of the eternal present is maintained consciously by moving from one pose to another with all one’s concentration.’”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Mitchell chuckled. “I think he’s trying to attain a state of detachment through motion. That’s why all his movements are so precise and simple—no gesture is hurried.”
Andrew glided without the slightest expression on his face. He spun, bent, and dipped this way and that as if in a trance. All the while his hands gracefully traced patterns on a canvas of air.
It must take incredible strength to perform those moves so slowly, Mitchell thought. He makes it look effortless, like a silk scarf floating on the wind.
“Never thought I’d see such a thing on a warship,” Bitton muttered.
“Neither did I,” Mitchell replied, entranced by the beauty of the shifting cloth.
Bitton shook his head. “Have the padre pound some sense into him.”
“Ben, there’s nothing wrong with him practicing his religion.”
“You’re forgetting your duty,” the captain barked. “This crew needs to integrate into one team, and that means one point of view. This boy is way off base with this religious ballet stuff. I want him schooled in the ways of the Lord, the true Lord.”
Mitchell’s mind swirled with one argument after another that he thought might sway the captain, but he knew that Bitton’s mind was snapped shut, like a bear trap, as long as he watched Andrew perform.
Andrew eventually became a statue, balanced in every respect and quiescent as stone. He held that pose for five minutes before sinking to the deck. He folded his legs into a lotus position, lifted Jah-Jai from beneath his robes, brought the flute to his lips, and played a concerto in a minor key.
Mitchell was hunched over the chart table when he heard a sudden burst of Mozart. The sound drew him to the windows that overlooked the bow, and onto the port bridge wing to hear better. He felt the melody vibrating from his head to the base of his spine as he stood gazing down on Andrew, lost in the sonority of that beautiful morning. The music seemed to ripple through Mitchell’s body in airy gushes. His pulse raced and beads of sweat coated his upper lip. It was the sexiest thing he had ever witnessed.
Mitchell watched Andrew until the sailor rose and glided down the forecastle. After Andrew slipped out of sight, the officer surprised himself by joining the remainder of the services on the fantail. He stood behind the last row, on the fringe of the believers.
Moyer read from the book of Luke, gripping his Bible and speaking with a trembling voice as he told of the love between Jesus and his disciple, John. How, at the Last Supper, John laid his head on Jesus’s breast.
Mitchell listened to the intimate tones of Moyer’s voice while trying to picture the loving scene. He imagined the Savior’s hand holding out the bread that represents his body, and he focused on the smooth skin spread over delicately formed bones. Moyer mentioned Calvary, and Mitchell’s vision shifted to the Savior’s nakedness lay against the rough wood, awaiting the press of the nails.
A sheen of sweat spread over Mitchell’s forehead. His mids
ection tightened as the vision expanded and he imagined his own cheek pressed against the taut skin of the Savior’s breast. He stared up into the Savior’s eyes and was jolted back to reality as he realized that his vision had Andrew’s almond-shaped eyes and amber-colored skin.
“Let us pray,” Moyer said.
Mitchell did not bow his head with the others. He was afraid to close his eyes, afraid that the vision would return. He gazed at the sky over Moyer’s head as if he were looking for a sign from the Holy Spirit.
Moyer’s voice swelled as he recited the closing prayer. The expression on his face looked as if a vision of heaven had penetrated his eyes.
Mitchell left the service in a daze. He stumbled down the steel deck on his way to the wardroom to retrieve his glass of neat whiskey.
Chapter Ten
April 23, 1942—1000 hours
A JEEP from naval headquarters drove onto the dock and parked alongside the quarterdeck. The driver pulled two weather-stained mail sacks from the jeep and hoisted them aboard. Seaman Cord cried, “Mail Ho!” His call echoed along the deck and was repeated by other voices throughout the ship.
Cord heaved the sacks to the port side of the quarterdeck, opened one, and grabbed a fist-full of moldy letters. He stood on a torpedo launcher to elevate himself above the sailors gathering around, yelling the name on a letter. When the owner shouted a quick “Here,” Cord tossed the envelope in the direction of the voice while reading the name on the next letter.
Hudson sauntered to the crew’s quarters. He switched off the overhead lamps and sluggishly climbed into his bunk like a weasel crawling into its hole. He laid his head on his sweat-stained pillow, dragging his right arm over his face to cover his eyes with the inside of his elbow. He lay stock-still, as if trying to ignore Cord’s voice calling out names.
Andrew breezed into the forecastle still wearing his orange robes and a dreamy smile. He flipped on the overhead lamps on his way to his locker and peeled off his upper robe.
“Turn the lamp off when you leave,” Hudson said with a throaty snarl.
Andrew whirled around, somewhat surprised. “Sorry, didn’t know anybody was in here. Guess we haven’t been aboard long enough to have mail routed to us. Maybe by the next delivery.”
“I never get mail,” Hudson snapped. “No family, no sweetheart, no one to write to, and no one to get a letter from. All my family is here on this ship. It’s all I got.”
Andrew felt overwhelmed that Hudson of all people would make such a personal confession to him. He faced his locker and stripped out of his inner robe and yellow undergarments, carefully folding and storing the fine material. He climbed into his work dungarees and switched off the lamps. As he stepped through the hatch, he leaned his head back inside the compartment.
“I never get mail either. I have family, my father, but he got used to ignoring me when he traveled on business. Guess it’s a hard habit to break.” Andrew paused, groping for something to add, but he came up empty. He closed the hatch, leaving Hudson alone in the dark.
GRADY strolled into the wardroom carrying a handful of letters and a package.
“Mister Mitchell, Suh, you gots a letter and a box.”
“Anything for me?” Ensign Fisher asked.
“Yes, Suh. Five letters, and one don’t have no stamp.”
Fisher smiled as he took his letters. The one on top had only his name written on the envelope. He held the envelope under his nose.
“Yes, Suh. It smells real pretty. Like this girl I know’d back home.”
“Perhaps you’d like to read it to me as well,” Fisher said.
Grady flashed his white teeth. “If that’s what you want, Suh. I can read. I been educated.”
“That will do, Washington,” the captain said, snatching his two letters.
Mitchell stuffed his letter in his breast pocket and studied his battered, oblong package. He recognized the swirling handwriting, ripped the brown paper, and opened the box. It held a note, a Bible, and a book of poems by e.e. cummings. The note read:
Darling,
Here’s the poetry you asked for. I was lucky to find it in a used bookstore on Third Street, marked down to $0.75. I’ve included the Bible that Reverend Thorn gave me last Sunday. I know you don’t believe, but please read a little each day. You may find comfort in it, as I surely do.
I found a wedding dress in the catalog last week that I think you will like. It’s not too expensive but it is lovely. I want you to be proud of me. I know you can’t tell me where you are, but please give me some indication of when I will see you again.
Until then, all my love,
Your Kate
Mitchell heard paper tearing. He glanced up to see Fisher ripping a letter in half without opening it. The ensign checked the return address on another letter and ripped that one too. Mitchell watched while he ripped four letters in half, and finally opened the last one, the one without a stamp.
“Let me guess,” Mitchell said. “The ones you didn’t read are no doubt the last batch of ladies you left standing at the pier as we sailed from Pearl. But what about the one you opened? No stamp means it’s some charming little thing waiting for you here in Papeete. Someone connected with the Navy, because she was able to drop that letter in the mail pouch without sending it through the post.”
Fisher nodded, grinning.
“How do you do it?” Mitchell asked. “How do you get so many women to fall for you? No offense, but you’re no Clark Gable, and I’ve seen you in the head with your morning woody, which is not terribly impressive. So what is it?”
Fisher’s grin spread into a smile. “I love women—short or tall, fat or slim, brunette or blonde, slant-eyed or round, single or married—it makes no difference. I love every woman I meet because I have the ability to see past her skin and social situation to the jewel of her spirit. Of course it helps to come from a wealthy family that schooled me in country-club charm.”
Mitchell scoffed. “So who’s the little bird waiting in port?”
Fisher held the letter under his nose. “Admiral Gleason’s wife. Seems the admiral is out on maneuvers, so she’s asked me to tea. It must be lonely out here for an officer’s wife.”
Mitchell let out a low-pitched whistle.
“Nathan,” the captain said. “Pass that Bible over to our young Romeo here. He needs some examples on moral behavior. Let me remind you that your conduct ashore reflects on this ship. Dabbling in the admiral’s business will have serious consequences.”
Not wanting to get caught in a moral debate with Bitton, Mitchell excused himself and hurried to his cabin. He pulled the letter from his pocket, ripped open the envelope and unfolded the scented paper.
Dearest,
I’m going mad in this backwater town. People have noticed that I’m with child and everybody has turned vicious. Even your mother believes that I became pregnant in order to snare you.
Living near your parents while we wait for your return is in many ways a comfort, but these townspeople are so hateful. I’ve got to go someplace where people are more educated. I’m moving to San Francisco so that I can be there when you return.
You’re kind and gentle, and I’m truly happy when I’m with you, but if you don’t love me, if you feel trapped by our situation, then please tell me. I won’t marry a man who doesn’t love me. The baby and I will somehow find our way without you.
I’ll send you my new address when I’m settled. I love you more than any woman has a right to. I hope you feel the same love for our baby and me. We will be waiting for your speedy return in San Francisco.
A thousand times I love you,
Your Kate
Do I love her?, he asked himself. He had met her in Washington, DC while working as an aid with Naval Intelligence. She had come to the ranch to meet his folks during his last leave.
He could envision her clearly on that winter morning. She rode an old, soft-eyed gelding named Dollar. Mitchell rode his own horse, a six-year-old Appaloos
a stallion named Caesar, who kept dancing around while flagging his long tail, not content to meander at Dollar’s pace. Caesar would toss his head like haughty royalty and prance ahead until Mitchell reined him in. Even Smoke, who followed from a respectful distance with his nose to the ground, seemed impatient.
Whenever Dollar managed a brief trot, Kate would cling to the saddle horn and squeal with a mixture of fear and delight.
He felt sure she didn’t enjoy the ride, but there was two inches of snow carpeting the pasture and the view of the mountains was magnificent. The crisp air had a hint of sweetness. The mountains were covered with pine, and down in the meadows the aspens were bare, like white roots growing toward the sky. That landscape had touched his heart with its clattering streams and glistening pastures; it swallowed him whole with its fathomless, uncomplicated open space. It was grand to be alive and able to share the grasslands with someone on such a morning.
They came across tracks stitched across a meadow that led into a steep canyon. Smoke began to follow the tracks, but Mitchell’s whistle brought him back.
“What made those tracks?” she asked. “A deer?”
With an effort to hold a straight face, he told her, “Naw, not a deer, and it’s too big for a coyote. Must be a mountain lion.”
She looked up the canyon where the tracks led. “Mountain lion! Nathan Mitchell, you take me back to the house this instant. Do you hear me?”
He couldn’t hold it any longer. A burst of laughter flew from his throat as he bent forward over Caesar’s neck. The horse took several side steps, adjusting to the shift in weight.
Her cheeks burned red, angry red. She turned old Dollar in the direction they had come and gave his ribs a good kick. Dollar took a couple of quick steps and began to amble toward the barn. She didn’t say another word the long ride home.
In the barn, she lay on a pile of hay while he pulled the saddles and blankets off the horses and brushed both animals down. The barn was warm with the rich smell of horse and hay and manure. He pulled a hoof pick from his pocket and methodically cleaned the dirt from Dollar’s hooves. He did the same to Caesar.
