“No,” I said. And wasn’t that a sad goddamn thing? Didn’t that say something about the state of my affairs? The only person I could think of to bequeath my riches to was somebody who might or might not exist, a child that Amy may or may not have had on an island where she possibly was, or possibly wasn’t.
He glanced at his watch. “Johnson should be here for our little chat, shortly. He and his crew are eating over at the Navy mess.”
We had eaten, and well, on the Clipper. The famed flying boat had lived up to its storied reputation. We were served our steam-cooked meals by the steward on tables with white linen cloths, china, silver, and water goblets (no liquor was served) in a lavish, spacious lounge where the ten passengers sat in roomy, well-padded seats facing each other, five abreast. A second passenger compartment, aft, served as a sort of game room, with wicker chairs at tables for cards or checkers. Another cabin, further aft, converted to sleeping berths, but we only used them on the first leg of the flight, from San Francisco to Honolulu.
That first leg had seemed endless. The China Clipper had lifted off from the Alameda seaplane base on San Francisco Bay on a beautiful afternoon, accompanied by only the gentlest breeze. Sunshine had glistened off the hull and wings and prop blades of a white, red-trimmed four-engine ship that seemed at once sleek and ungainly, its wing riding atop the fuselage like a perfectly balanced teeter-totter. Once the lines had been cast off, we’d made several circles on the bay, warming the engine up, before surging forward, only barely flying at first, under the heavy burden of fuel, finally gaining altitude, cruising into an afternoon that stubbornly refused to let go of the day.
Many hours later, when darkness finally sheathed the ship, the Clipper settled in between layers of cloud and cruised along. My traveling companion, William Miller, wearing a dark suit and dark blue tie, to add a festive touch to our flight to the tropics, pointed out to me that we were flying a route charted by Fred Noonan.
“Isn’t that reassuring,” I said.
Dawn took its time arriving, too, and out a window, at breakfast, I spotted the familiar shape of Diamond Head; the last time had been from the deck of the ocean liner Malolo. And after only twenty and a half hours, we were landing at Pearl Harbor to a typically flower-strewn welcome. Meanwhile, the Clipper was loaded up with staples of the island Naval bases—crates of fresh fruit and vegetables, mostly—while limos with Pan Am drivers escorted the passengers to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel for a leisurely evening of dining and dancing and the sight of Oahu’s starry purple sky, golden moon, ebony ocean, and white breakers. Then dawn slapped us back to reality and we were soon aboard the Clipper for the easiest leg of the trip, the mere 1,380 miles to Midway.
The entire briefing for my mission took place in hotel rooms, along the way, and of course the passenger cabin of the China Clipper, over the four days of flying. Only ten passengers were aboard—me, Miller, and four wealthy couples, two from New York, one from Los Angeles, one from Dallas—the little California to Hong Kong six-day jaunt, after all, cost $950, one way, one tickee. The cabin soundproofing was remarkable, allowing conversation in a normal, even hushed, voice.
So Miller and I sat apart from the paying customers and played endless games of checkers—which ended invariably in deadlock—while the government agent filled me in on my distressingly detailed cover story, suggested plans of action and various routes of escape. At no time was anything hand-or typewritten given to me; everything, like a pill, was administered orally.
“That saves us the annoying necessity of having to eat the papers,” Miller said, and I was never sure whether he was kidding. Probably not. A sense of humor didn’t seem to have been among his government-issue materials.
Out the window occasionally I’d spot one of the many little islands that we seemed to be following like bread crumbs to the atolls of Midway, where a beautiful lagoon waited for us to touch down. Waiting too were attentive white-uniformed Pan Am staff at the landing float with its long, pergola-style deplaning dock. A brick walkway led to a sprawling white-pillared hotel, its two wings spread like open arms, gathering us up into a sanctuary of Simmons beds, bathrooms with hot showers, classy lounges with wicker furniture, and tasty exotic meals served by white-uniformed native stewards.
On the spacious verandah that evening my bosom pal Miller sat with me as we watched an unruly surf crash upon the encircling reef, and observed bald-headed, turkey-looking birds that would run crazily along the beach, flapping their wings in takeoff, invariably nosing over in a feathery flurry of a crash landing in the sand. Most of my fellow passengers found this endlessly amusing. Takeoffs that wound up in crash landings were never my idea of a good laugh.
“Gooney birds,” Miller told me. “In fact, some people call Midway itself ‘Gooneyville.’…They’re really Laysan albatrosses.”
“Is that something I have to remember? If so, I’m really glad that one wasn’t written down; I’d hate to have to swallow the definition of a gooney bird.”
“No,” Miller said humorlessly. “You needn’t remember that.”
So of course I did.
The next day’s hotel, at Wake, was almost identical to the one at Midway, but the island itself was a barren, cruelly tropical atoll that had been home to hermit crabs and nasty rats and not humans, until flying boats like the Clipper had come along. It was a world with no fresh water, shade or harbor, a wind-blown bevy of scrubby sand dunes. For recreation we were offered air rifles and the chance to go rat hunting. I passed.
The cliff-bordered harbor at Guam had been arrayed with Navy warships and a few freighters. A small yellow bus with a small yellow driver had taken us along a scenic coastal road, dotted with big beautiful poinciana trees bursting with red blossoms. It was almost enough to make me forget about Wake; but my stomach was unsettled, and scenery, barren or bountiful, had nothing to do with it.
My Clipper cruise among millionaire tourists was coming to an end; I wouldn’t even have my warm and wonderful friend William Miller at my side, before long. I would be embarking on what might charitably be called an adventure, what more realistically might be termed a fool’s errand, and what most likely was a suicide mission. Two thousand dollars, give or take a buck, half from the Foundation, half from Uncle Sam, was all I would haul to shore; good money, in these Depression days, but only if I lived to spend it.
Why the hell was I doing this?
It was a question I had asked myself over and over again, on the various legs of this journey; and the answer was Amy. Amy and what she had told her flighty secretary, in confidence, about a possible child on the way. Whenever I had looked out a Clipper window at shimmering Pacific waters, I knew why I’d come. It was waters like these she’d disappeared over.
Now, on a verandah in Guam, outside a Navy Quonset hut, I took a last swig of my drink and looked out toward the ocean. By Clipper, Saipan was only an hour or so away. But I wasn’t going by seaplane.
Miller was on his feet and so was I. We had been joined by a singular physical specimen in a light-blue denim shirt with rolled-up sleeves, darker denim trousers, and white rubber-soled shoes. Leathery tan, his sunlightened brown hair cropped short, he regarded us through the narrow slits his eyes hid behind, the strength of a slenderly hawkish nose offset by a shyly boyish smile. His bull neck led naturally into a massive upper torso, then tapered to a wasp waist; his wrists were small but his hands were big, blunt, and powerful—he extended one to Miller and they shook.
“Skipper,” Miller said, “good to see you again. This is your passenger.”
“We don’t normally take on passengers, Mr. Heller,” he said, without having to be told my name; his voice was a New England drawl. The boyish smile was still alive as he held his hand out.
“This is Captain Irving Johnson,” Miller said, as Johnson and I shook. His grip was firm but not obnoxious. “Pull up a chair, Skipper. Can I get you something to drink?”
Easing into a wicker settee, he said, “Maybe a lemonade.” I must
have reacted to that, because Johnson said, “I run a dry ship, Mr. Heller. No drinking, no smoking, either…hope that won’t be a problem.”
“Not at all, Captain. I understand your crew pays you. That’s a neat trick.”
Miller had stepped away to summon a steward to get Johnson his lemonade.
Johnson’s shy smile settled on the left side of his face, as he said, “My bride and I’ve come up with an interesting way of living…. We go out for a year and a half, sail around the world having the time of our life, with a crew of young people who pay us for the privilege.”
“If I’m not out of line asking, what do you charge these amateur adventurers to play Barnacle Bill?”
“Three thousand dollars per.”
I let out a slow whistle. “You turn rich boys into slightly less rich men.”
He shrugged. “We make sailors out of them. Standing watch day and night, steering, handling sail, rigging, even sailmaking. Everybody works, which is why you’ll be an exception.”
“Hey, I’m just thumbin’ a ride—and I appreciate the favor, though it seems like an awful risk for you.”
Miller was back, joining Johnson on the settee. “The skipper here is generally regarded as the best all-around schooner master on the seas.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “But sailing into Japanese waters…”
Johnson leaned back, a knee locked in his palms. “We’ll drop anchor outside Saipan, beyond the three-mile territorial zone.”
“Who’s going to take me in?”
“I will. And Hayden, my first mate…he’s no rich kid, he’s a real sailor.”
I glanced at Miller. “Who am I on this ship?”
“You’re Nate Heller,” Miller said. “The skipper has told his boys that, should anyone ask, you were along for the full four-week cruise of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands.”
“Captain,” I asked, “is your crew aware this is a government mission?”
“They are,” Johnson said, nodding. “They know none of the particulars, just that we’re doing the red-white-and-blue a favor. They’re good kids, obviously from good backgrounds, and can be trusted.”
I looked at Miller again. “This sounds a little freewheeling to me.”
Miller’s shrug was barely perceptible. “We’ll have a talk with the boys at the first available moment.”
A native steward brought Johnson his lemonade. The skipper nodded his thanks to the man, and sipped at the tall cool glass. “You can have them briefed at Nauru,” Johnson said to Miller.
“Frankly, Captain,” I said, “I’m surprised you’re out in these waters with your boatload of silver spoons, considering what’s going on in this world.”
Geckos were chasing flies; catching and eating them, too, in those spilled circles of light.
“I was worried the war might dog our tracks out on the high seas,” he admitted. “And I have my wife and two young sons with me, after all…. Maybe the time has passed for carefree sailing into the world’s faraway places.”
Or maybe, like Amy, he was a well-known civilian with a handy, credible cover for reconnaissance.
I tossed a nod back toward the tin-hut hotel behind us. “It certainly hasn’t stopped millionaires from taking pleasure cruises.”
“My schooner is not the China Clipper, Mr. Heller,” Johnson said, the smile turning wry. “You’re stepping into the past when you set foot on my deck. The Yankee was sailing the North Sea before any of us were born.”
And in the Guam harbor the next morning, anchored among the warships and freighters, the Yankee indeed looked as if she had sailed out of the past into a harsher, less pleasing present, this majestic white-hulled schooner, nearly a hundred feet long, like a pirate ship of good guys, as the American flag painted on her bow attested.
My travel bag in one hand, with the other I shook hands with Miller, dockside, and he asked, “Any final questions?”
“Yeah. What do you mean, ‘final’?”
And he actually laughed. “Good luck, Nate.”
“Thank you, Bill,” I said, and meant it. He had worked hard, preparing me for this mission. He was one cold son of a bitch, but then I was a smartass bastard, so who was I to talk?
Captain Johnson, at the wheel, invited me to stand beside him as we cast off and glided out. Brown-as-a-berry rich kids scurried around his deck in shorts and no shirts and no shoes, as he called out to them, “Foresail!…Mainsail!…Forestaysail!…Jib!…Maintopsail!…Fisherman staysail!” One by one they were set, then finally a massive square sail dropped from the yardarm, and a triangular one rose above it, thousands of square feet of sail, a skyscraper of canvas.
“Spend much time at sea?” the Skipper asked.
“Does Lake Michigan count?”
He laughed. “On Lake Michigan, do you run into swells two hundred yards from crest to crest?”
“Well, Chicago is the Windy City…. I’ve had some ocean voyages, Skipper. I think I can survive one day of this.”
And one day was all my tour of sea duty with the Yankee would amount to: a long day, ten hours, and after sundown, we would drop anchor and spend the night, so that come morning Johnson and his first mate could row me to the next stop on my itinerary: Tanapag Harbor. Saipan. The town of Garapan.
In the meantime that long day did prove a restful journey into a simpler time. It was a sunny day with a warm breeze, the ship sailing steadily along, the ocean shimmering with sunlight. The boys—and two pretty girls in their twenties were along, too, which considering the dozen young men aboard made for interesting arithmetic—began the day ambitiously, scraping and varnishing the teak trim, splicing ropes and lines; the two girls, a blonde (Betsy from Rochester, New York) and a brunette (Dorothy from Toronto), were sewing canvas covers and mending sail. By afternoon, the barechested sailor boys and the two girls in shorts and boy’s shirts were sprawled here and there on the deck, bathed in sun, or reading in the shade of dinghies.
Belowdeck had a warmth due to more than the sun streaming through the skylights; painted ivory with varnished teak trim, the big main cabin had built-in upper and lower bunks on either side. Down the middle was an endless teakwood table where, between meals, cards were played, books were read, letters written. In the forward galley, Fritz the cook (one of the few crew members getting paid) made the most of powdered milk, canned butter, and wax-coated eggs. Lunch was particularly memorable—turtle stew with curry, baked beans, fried onions, and johnnycakes.
Watching these young people work and play was a reminder of life’s little pleasures. Johnson’s wife, Electa, Exy to one and all, was a compact curvy blue-eyed blonde in a blue-and-white-striped top and blue shorts, and who could blame Johnson for running off to sea in her company? She spent much of her time with her two young sons, a two-year-old and a four-year-old, who nimbly navigated the deck, balancing on forebooms, bouncing on sails.
“They’re fearless,” I said to her.
Exy’s smile was a dazzler. “The Yankee’s their home. They never lived anywhere else…. You’re in their back yard.”
The two kids had their own cabin below, down the hall from the Captain and Mrs. Johnson’s cabin, the engine room and bathroom. There was also a double stateroom for Betsy and Dorothy, who may just have been two more of the “boys” on this trip but nonetheless did not make use of the main cabin’s dormlike bunks.
I had been assigned my own bunk, for my one night aboard the Yankee, six and a half feet long by three feet wide, thirty inches between my thin mattress and the slats of the bunk overhead. The wall next to me was bookshelves, as was the case with every bunk, and the main cabin had an entire wall devoted to books. This was a well-read, and often-reading, crew, reflecting the hours they had to kill, and their good breeding.
The ship’s first mate, Hayden, a tow-headed, long-legged, sinewy middle-class kid from New Jersey, twenty or so, passed along the skipper’s orders with an offhanded ease. Sometimes, seasoned sailor that he was, he seemed to be acting as
an interpreter between Johnson and the rich kids playing sailor. Of course, some of these “kids” were in their late twenties and early thirties. The wealthy crew included a doctor, a photographer, a radio expert, and a guy who knew his way around the ship’s diesel engine. Even so, Hayden had the respect and obedience of them all.
The young man had a serious mien but an explosive smile, and was devoted to Johnson. Thinking about what was coming tomorrow morning, I decided to look for a chance to talk straight with Hayden about what he was getting into.
After a turtle-steak supper, the crew gathered on deck to see what kind of sunset God had in mind for them. The sea turned a glaring red, and the water danced with phosphorescence, as if an underwater fireworks show was going on. The childlike joy on the faces of these pampered, hardened mariners as they leaned at the rail was both touching and a little sickening. Life wasn’t this simple, anymore. These were Depression times; war times. They were hiding, out here in the open. But who the hell could blame them?
Betsy, the blonde from Rochester, kind of sidled up next to me as we studied the sunset; she had a freshly scrubbed soapy smell that reminded me of Margot, B.C. (before Chanel), and her hair was a mop of curls almost as cute as her blue-eyed, apple-cheeked, lightly lipsticked mug.
“Everyone says you’re a mysterious government agent,” she said.
“Everyone’s right,” I said. “Particularly the mysterious part.”
“It’s too bad….”
“That I’m mysterious?”
“That you’re not going to be on the Yankee except just tonight. That isn’t very long.”
“No it isn’t. Isn’t that a shame?”
She licked her lips and they glistened. “Terrible…. Want to sit with me downstairs?”
Her hand locked in mine, and she led me through the deckhouse down the companionway to the main cabin, where I sat with her at the table, getting dirty looks from at least six of the rich sailor boys. We talked a little about my being from Chicago and how she hated Rochester; she also hated the all-girls schools she’d attended. Under the table, she rubbed her leg against mine.
Flying Blind Page 27
