They trudged uphill through tall sweet-smelling green walls of sugarcane under an ever-hotter sun, amid peaceful bird song.
“Pessimistic picture, Admiral,” Victor Henry ventured.
“Not necessarily. I don’t think Japan can cut the mustard. Weak industrial base, not enough supplies for a long struggle. She’ll have a hot run for a while, but we’ll win the war if the spirit at home holds up. We’ve got a strong President, so it ought to. But our country’s in a two-front war, and the German front is the decisive one, so we’re second in line out here. And we’ve started with a big defeat. Therefore the realities are against any early heroics in the Pacific, such as an all-out battle to relieve Wake.”
Set back from the road amid lawns and gardens, its verandas roomy and sprawling, Warren’s home looked more suited to an admiral than to a naval aviator. Spruance said when they halted, pouring sweat, “Your son lives here?”
“His father-in-law bought it for them. She’s an only child. He’s Senator Lacouture of Florida. Actually, it’s not that large inside.”
Patting his red face with a handkerchief, Spruance said, “Senator Lacouture! I see. Rather changed his mind about the war, hasn’t he?”
“Admiral, a lot of good people honestly thought we ought to stay out of it.”
Lacouture had been a leading and noisy isolationist until the eighth of December.
“To be sure.”
Spruance declined to come in and rest. He asked for a glass of water, and drank it in the doorway. Handing back the glass, he said, “So, you’ll be bringing your gear aboard today?”
“Yes, sir. I’d better expedite the change of command,” Pug said, “all things considered.”
Amusement brightened Spruance’s grave eyes. “Oh, yes. Always execute orders promptly.” Neither of them had to mention Halsey’s notion of recruiting Pug for his staff. “Join me for dinner, then. I’d like to hear about your flight over Berlin.”
“I’ll be honored, Admiral.”
Janice crouched in a broad brown dug-up patch of the back lawn, wearing a damp lilac halter, soiled gray shorts, and sandals. Her wheat-colored hair was tumbled, and her long bare legs and arms were burned brown. Because of the special controls being imposed on Japanese truck farmers, fresh vegetables were already becoming scarce. She had started a victory garden and seemed the merrier for it.
She straightened up, laughing, wiping her brow with an arm. “My stars, look at you! Been gardening or something?”
“Admiral Spruance walked me up from the Navy Yard.”
“Oh, him! I hear that all the junior officers hide when he comes on deck. Commanding the Northampton will put you in shape, if it doesn’t kill you. Warren telephoned. He’s coming home for lunch.”
“Good. He can run me down to the fleet landing with my gear.”
“You’re going already?” Her smile faded. “We’ll miss you.”
“Dad?” Warren’s voice sounded some time later through the bedroom door. Pug opened it, pushing aside two half-packed footlockers. Uniforms and books were piled on the bed. “Hi. I stopped by the California shore office. They’re sending your mail to the Northampton, but these just came in.”
The sight of British stamps jolted Pug. Alistair Tudsbury’s office address was on the envelope. First he opened the cable, and without a word passed it to Warren.
WHERE IS NATALIE URGE REPEAT URGE YOU INQUIRE STATE DEPARTMENT CABLE ME DEVILFISH SUB BASE MARIVELES BYRON
Warren wrinkled his sunburned forehead over the cable. In his flying suit, the everlasting cigarette dangling from his compressed mouth, he looked weary and grim. “Who do you know at State, Dad?”
“Well, a few people.”
“Why don’t you try phoning? Briny’s pretty cut off out there in Manila.”
“I will. I should have done it sooner.”
Warren shook his head. “She may be in one hell of a fix.” He gestured at the letter from London. “Alistair Tudsbury. Is that the British broadcaster?”
“That’s him. Your mother and I met him on the boat to Germany.”
“Great gift of gab. Lunch in half an hour, Dad.”
Pug opened the letter after Warren went out. On arriving in Pearl Harbor, he had sadly mailed off a short dry letter to Pamela Tudsbury, finally breaking with her. She could not have received it and answered; the letters had crossed. In fact, he saw, hers was dated a month ago.
November 17th, 1941
My love:
I hope this will somehow reach you. There’s news. The BBC has asked my father to make a sort of Phileas Fogg broadcasting tour clear around this tortured planet, touching the main military bases: Alexandria, Ceylon, Singapore, Australia, Pearl Harbor, the Panama Canal, and so on. Theme: the sun never sets on the Union Jack, and there’s another possible foe besides Hitler — to wit, Japan — and the English-speaking peoples (including the reluctant Americans) must stand to their guns. Talky has stipulated that I go along again. More and more nowadays when he’s fatigued or under the weather — his eyes are getting very bad — daughter writes up the broadcasts and even the articles. By now the product, though ersatz, is usable.
When he broached the thing to me, I heard only two words — Pearl Harbor! If the whole proposal doesn’t blow up, and if we can maintain our dicey plane-and-boat schedule, we should reach Hawaii in a month or so. Where you will be with your blessed California, I don’t know, but I’ll find you.
Well, there you have it! I know you were supposed to write to me before I broke silence. Sorry I violated your rule, but for all I know your letter or cable will come next week and I’ll be gone. Perhaps there’s a screed for me already in the mail from Vladivostok, or Tokyo, or Manila. If so, I hope it was a love letter, not a prudent dismissal, which was what I feared and expected. Whatever it was, Pug, I never got it.
Dearest, you can love your wife and also love me. Do I shock you? Well, the fact is you already do. You know you do. You’ve even told me so. You have only to act realistically about it. To be blunt, it’s just as possible for your wife to love you, and also love another man. Maybe that shocks you even more. But this sort of thing happens all the time, my sweet, I swear it does, especially in wartime, to perfectly good and decent people. You and Mrs. Henry have somehow spent a quarter of a century shut off in a very special church-and-Navy shell. Oh, dear! I haven’t time to type this over, or I’d cut this last stupid paragraph. I know it’s hopeless to argue.
I hate to stop writing to you now that I’m doing it at last. It’s like the breaking of a dam. But I must stop. With any luck you won’t hear from me again, you’ll see me.
The weather in London is unspeakable, and so is the war news. It really looks as though we got out of Moscow none too soon; it actually may fall, as it did to Napoleon! What a prospect! But for me, to be quite honest, the only news that counts — and it’s glorious — is that suddenly there’s a chance to see you again. I had a horrible feeling in Moscow, for all your kindness and sweetness, that I was looking my last on you. Now (crossed fingers) here I come!
Love,
Pam
He could see the young face, hear the young warm elegantly accented voice pouring out these hurried words. The wistful, hopeless little romance with Tudsbury’s daughter which had briefly flared in Moscow was best snuffed out. Pug knew that. He had tried. Moreover, until now he thought he had succeeded. The residue of the strange frail wartime relationship — a little more than a flirtation, pathetically less than an affair — had been a better understanding of what had happened to Rhoda, and a long start on forgiving her. He only wanted his wife back. He had already written her that in strong terms. There was no conceivable future with this young woman, twenty-nine or thirty, drifting in her celebrated father’s wake.
Best snuffed out; yet his mind raced through calculations of where they might be now. Could they have made it to Singapore before December 7th? Tudsbury was a hard-driving traveller, a human bulldozer. If he could hitch rides on warships or
bombers, he would keep going. Supposing by a freak the Tudsburys did show up in Honolulu? What a rich irony Pam’s unwitting defense of Rhoda wasl Pug tore up the letter.
Eating lunch on the back porch, Warren and Janice looked at each other as Pug came out humming in his blue service uniform.
“We’re mighty formal,” said Janice.
“Crease the uniform less if I walk it aboard.”
“Mighty cheerful,” remarked Warren.
“Prospect of sea pay.” Pug dropped in a chair at the iron-and-glass table. He consumed a large plateful of the very savory stew, asking for more onions and potatoes; more food than they had seen him put away at midday since his arrival in Pearl Harbor.
“Mighty good appetite,” observed Warren, watching his father eat. He and Janice knew nothing of Rhoda’s divorce letter; they had ascribed Pug’s boozing and his depression, which now seemed to be lifting, to his loss of the California.
“Admiral Spruance hustled me five miles uphill.”
“Dad, Jan has an idea about Natalie.”
“Yes, why don’t you just call or cable my father?” Pug shot a sharp glance at his daughter-in-law. “He’ll get some quick action from the State Department, if anyone can.”
“Hm! What time is it in Washington? Is he there now?”
“There’s five hours’ difference. He’s probably just leaving his Senate office. Try him at home a little later.”
“That’s a good notion, Janice.”
When Warren helped Pug carry out the footlockers, Janice was bathing the baby. Little Victor was gurgling and splashing at her; she was a flushed, happy, sexy young wife, unabashed at the show of her breasts through the soaked halter. Recollection flashed upon Pug of Rhoda bathing Warren in just this way, in their bungalow on the San Diego base. A quarter of a century and more, gone like a breath! And an infant the image of this one had metamorphosed into the tall hard-faced young man in the flying suit, smiling down at his own baby son. Pug shook off an awed sad sense of passing time, made a joke about having drunk all of Janice’s liquor, and kissed her wet smooth cheek.
“Come back whenever you’re in port, Dad. Your room will be ready, and the bar will be stocked.”
He held up a flat palm. “I’m back on the wagon while I’ve got a sea command.”
Warren drove the pool jeep downhill with one hand. Cigarette bobbing in his mouth, he said after a silence, “Is the Enterprise going all the way to Wake Island, Dad?”
“What makes you think so?”
“You’re in a big hurry to take over the screen flagship.”
“And you’re spoiling for a fight, are you?”
“I didn’t say that.” Warren looked sidelong at him through cigarette smoke. “I have my doubts about barrelling off with our last flattop. I don’t trust the Army Air Corps all that much to protect this base, and my wife and kid. Well? Not talking?”
“I just don’t know, Warren.”
“It’s all over the Enterprise that Halsey’s screaming bloody murder up at Cincpac so we can get to go.”
“Could be. How are your new pilots checking out?”
“Dad, they’re green. Green. They haven’t put in the hours. The squadron needs them, so they’ll break their necks on the barriers, or drown, or learn. While we’re in port, I’ll drill the ass off them.”
“You’re an instructor now? That happened fast.”
“My CO gave me the detail. I didn’t argue. He’s recommended me for instructor duty in the States, too, but I’m yelling plenty about that. This is no time to leave the Pacific.”
Warren dropped his father at the telephone exchange, saying he would take the footlockers to the fleet landing. Their parting was almost as casual as if they expected to dine together, but they shook hands, which they seldom did, and stared for a moment in each other’s eyes, smiling.
The small smoky telephone exchange was crowded with waiting sailors and officers. The chief operator, a buxom lady of forty or so with a heavy Southern accent, brightened when Pug mentioned Lacouture. “Now thah’s a great man! If he’d been President, we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we, Captain? Ah’ll do mah best to put you through.”
Within a half hour Senator Lacouture was on the line, in his Georgetown home. Astounded to hear from Pug, quickly grasping the situation, he put a few terse questions. “Right. Right. Okay. Got it. I remember her from the wedding party. Maiden name again? Right. Jastrow, like that famous uncle of hers. Natalie Jastrow Henry. Dark girl, very pretty, quick tongue. Being Jewish may create problems. Still, Italy isn’t bad in that regard, and travelling with a famous writer ought to be a help. Why, even I’ve heard of Aaron Jastrow!” Lacouture hoarsely chuckled. “She’s probably all right, but it’s best to be sure. How do I get back to you?”
“Just call Captain Dudley Brown at BuPers, Senator. He’ll put the word on a Navy circuit. Make Byron an addressee on the Devilfish.“
“Got that. And you’re commanding the California, right?”
“The Northampton, CA-26, Senator.”
A pause. “What happened to the California?”
Pug paused too. “I’m commanding the Northampton.“
The senator, low and grave: “Pug, can we handle them out there?”
“It’ll be a long pull.”
“Say, I may resign from the Senate and go into uniform. What do you think? The Army’s getting gouged on lumber and paper. I can save the war effort several million a year. They’ve offered me colonel, but I’m holding out for brigadier general.”
“I certainly hope you get it.”
“Well, give my love to the kids. You’ll hear from me about the Jewish girl.”
After twenty-four hours, Victor Henry felt as though he had been aboard the Northampton a week. He had visited the ship’s spaces from the bilges to the gun directors, met the officers, watched the crew at work, inspected the engine rooms, fire rooms, magazines, and turrets, and talked at length with the executive officer, Jim Grigg; a laconic bullet-headed commander from Idaho, with the dark-ringed eyes, weary pallor, and faint air of desperation appropriate to a perfectionist exec. Pug saw no reason not to relieve Hickman straight off. Grigg was running the ship. Any fool could take it over; his incompetence would be shielded. Pug didn’t consider himself a fool, only rusty and nervous.
He relieved the next day, in a ceremony pared of peacetime pomp and flourish. The officers and crew, their white sunlit uniforms flapping in a warm breeze, lined up in facing ranks aft of the number three turret. Standing apart with Hickman and Grigg, Victor Henry read at a microphone his orders to assume command. As his eyes lifted from the fluttering dispatch, he could see beyond the ranks of the crew the oil-streaked crimson bottom of the Utah.
Turning to Hickman, he saluted. “I relieve you, sir.”
“Very well, sir.”
That was all. Victor Henry was captain. “Commander Grigg, all ship’s standing orders remain in force. Dismiss the crew from quarters.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Grigg saluted like a marine sergeant, wheeled, and gave the order. The ranks broke. Pug saw his predecessor piped over the side. Hickman was acting as though it were his birthday. A new letter from his wife, hinting that all might not be lost, had made him impatient as a boy to get back to her. He ran down the ladder to the gig without a backward glance.
All afternoon Pug read dispatches and ship’s documents piled on his desk by Commander Grigg. Alemon served him in lone majesty a dinner of turtle soup, filet mignon, salad, and ice cream. A marine messenger brought him a handwritten note as he was drinking coffee in an armchair. The envelope and the sheet inside were stamped with two blue stars. The handwriting was upright, clear, and plain:
Dec. 19, 1941
Captain Henry,
Glad you’ve taken over. We sortie tomorrow. You’ll have the operation order by midnight. The new Cincpac will be Nimitz. The relief of Wake is looking more dubious. Good luck and good hunting —
R. A. Spruance
N
ext morning, in calm sunny weather, the cruiser got under way. The deck force unmoored with veteran ease. On the swing of the tide the bow was pointed down-channel. With assumed calm that seemed to deceive the bridge personnel, Victor Henry said, “All ahead one third.” The quartermaster rang up the order on the engine room telegraph. The deck vibrated — an inexpressibly heartwarming sensation for Pug — and the Northampton moved out to war under its new captain. He had not yet heard from Senator Lacouture about Natalie Jastrow Henry.
2
SHE was embarked in a very different vessel, a rusty, patch-painted, roach-ridden Turkish coastal tramp called the Redeemer, undergoing repairs alongside a pier in Naples harbor; supposedly bound for Turkey, actually for Palestine. In the stormy week since she had come aboard, the old tub had yet to move. It listed by the stone wharf, straining at its lines with the rise and fall of the tide, wallowing when waves rolled in past the mole.
On the narrow afterdeck, under a flapping crimson flag with badly soiled yellow star and crescent, Natalie sat with her baby. For once the sky had cleared, and she had brought him out into the afternoon sunshine. Bearded men and shawled women gathered around, admiring. There were some thin, sad-eyed children aboard the Redeemer, but Louis was the only babe in arms. Perched on her lap, he looked about with lively blue eyes that blinked in the chilly wind.
“Why, it’s the Adoration,” said Aaron Jastrow, his breath smoking. “The Adoration, to the life. And Louis makes an enchanting Christ child.”