“Sure.”
Returning with a big purple bottle, Warren said, “Well, there’s one good thing. If Hitler does take Moscow, the Japs will jump north to grab their end of Siberia. That’ll give us a breather. Otherwise they’re a cinch to come south soon. Every day they’re getting lower on oil. We’re sure as hell not ready for them. We need a year just to harden the Philippines to where we can hold.”
Byron slapped the copy of Time. “Incidentally, did you read about your father-in-law’s latest speech? He wants us to explore making a deal with the Germans.”
“I know. Well, he’s way off base on that. Hitler’s not making any deals, not while he’s winning so big. But eventually, Briny, the Krauts may be easier to come to terms with than the Japs. They’re white people.”
“True, except for starters we’d have to shoot our Jews.”
Warren slowly turned his bronzed face at his brother. An embarrassed smile played on his thin lips. “Even the Germans aren’t shooting their Jews, guy. I think their policy is disgusting, but—”
“You don’t know what they’re doing. I run into a stone wall when I try to tell people here what the Germans are like. Branch Hoban thinks this war is Saxon civilization against the rising tide of Asia, and the Russians count as Asia, and we and the British should wise up and make common cause with the Nazis in a hurry, because they’re fighting our battle, and it’s the white race’s last chance. He gets all this out of books by a nut called Homer Lea. He reads those books to pieces. The Valor of Ignorance is the main one, and The Day of the Saxon.”
“I’ve read Homer Lea,” said Warren, looking at his watch. “He’s a screwball, but pretty interesting—well, our friend Vic’s due for a bottle, but it’s a cinch Jan’s not going to abandon the governor.”
“I’ll feed the baby.”
“Do you like babies, or something?”
“I like this one.”
While Victor lay on his uncle’s lap drinking milk, Byron drank California Burgundy. Each finished his bottle at about the same time. He tucked the baby away in his side-porch crib, and returned to the lawn. The breeze had died, and it was very hot. The scent from the lemon trees filled Byron with melancholy. He lay face down under the banyan tree and fell asleep. When he woke, Lieutenant Aster, drink in hand, was shaking him.
“Blazes,” Byron said, sitting up, a stale taste of wine in his mouth, “I was supposed to report in at three, wasn’t I? Are you here to take me back in irons?”
“Amnesty. You’re out of hack,” Aster grinned, “and you’ve got twenty-four hours’ leave. This just came in on the harbor circuit from Rome, forwarded via Lisbon, Washington, and San Francisco.”
He handed a dispatch to Byron, who read it sitting cross-legged on the grass.
ENSIGN BYRON HENRY, USS DEVILFISH X CAN YOU THINK OF A GOOD NAME FOR A SEVEN-POUND BOY X BOTH FINE BOTH LOVE YOU X NATALIE AND WHOSIS HENRY
Byron bowed his head and put a hand over his face. Like his father, he had a simple religious streak; he muttered a prayer of thanks for the miracle of a boy, born from the wild lovemaking in Lisbon that had briefly joined two bodies, now almost as far apart as they could be on the planet. After a moment he looked up with a slow smile, his eyes glistening.
“How about that, Lady?”
“Congratulations, Briny.”
Byron got to his feet, looking around dazedly at the party. The radio was pouring out “Lovely Hula Hands,” Janice was wiggling barefoot with the captain of the Enterprise, the governor was dancing with Madeline, evincing pop-eyed pleasure at the play of her hips, and Hugh Cleveland was singing an obscene parody that brought barks of male laughter and delighted shrieks from the women. “I guess I’ll tell my brother and sister.”
Aster strolled beside him, rattling the ice in his glass. “Quite a wingding here. Isn’t that the governor? Your sister-in-law is sure nice. I hardly had my foot inside the door when she handed me a planter’s punch.”
“Janice is okay.”
“Is that her name, Janice? Pretty name. She’s about the best-looking white woman I’ve seen on this godforsaken island.”
“Easy, Lady.”
“Why, Briny, I admire her like a sunset, or the Washington Monument.”
“Say, Madeline—”
Hurrying past him toward the house behind Cleveland and the Hawaiian houseboy, Madeline flipped a hand at him. “Long-distance call from New York, honey. Our sponsor. Imagine!”
Byron told the news to Warren and Janice. Before he could stop her, Janice made a delighted announcement. The guests ringed him with alcoholic jokes, congratulations, and questions, exclaiming over the odd fact that his wife was away off in Italy. The society columnist of the Honolulu Star, a bony hawk-faced blonde named Petsy Peters, stood at Byron’s elbow, scribbling notes.
He went into the house after Madeline. He wanted to be the first to tell her. The telephone lay in its rack on a table in the hall. He heard a chuckle, and glancing down the zigzagging halls to the side porch where the baby lay asleep, he saw Hugh Cleveland embracing Madeline, out of sight of the lawn. Cleveland was holding Byron’s sister with both hands by the rump. Her pink skirt was pulled up in back, exposing her thighs and underwear. She was clinging to him with obscene intimacy. Byron walked out of the house into the sunlight.
“I guess I’ll get back to the Devilfish,” he said to Warren.
“Why? I thought Branch gave you a twenty-four.”
“I want to write Natalie and the folks. Maybe shoot off a cable or two.”
“Briny, the governor’s just invited the whole crowd over to Washington Place for cocktails with Cleveland.”
“Cleveland’s in the house there kissing Madeline. I mean kissing her, and she’s going right along with it.”
“Is she?” the aviator said with a crooked grin. “I guess their sponsor liked the broadcast.”
Madeline came hurrying out of the house, her face alight, her hair disorderly, and ran to her brothers. Behind her Cleveland emerged, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “Hey, guess what, fellows?” Madeline chirruped. “He talked to me, too. He said I sounded fine! But that’s nothing. We had a spot check rating of 23.5. That’s only four points less than Fred Allen—and on our very first show!”
Byron took the dispatch from his breast pocket and showed it to his sister.
“Oh my! More good news! Say, Hugh, what do you know? Briny’s wife had her baby.”
“Hey! Congrats, papa!” He put out a hand that Byron ignored, but he took no offense. “Come on, Madeline, let’s tell the governor what Chet Fenton said.”
Byron, arms folded, glowered at their departing backs.
“Look, Briny,” his brother said, “you’re not going to make trouble, are you? You’ll embarrass Janice.”
“The grinning son of a bitch,” muttered Byron.
“Come off it. She’s over twenty-one.”
“He’s a married man. I’ll talk to Madeline, if you won’t. Depending on what she says, I may tell the bastard to keep his distance from her, if he doesn’t want the shit beaten out of him.”
Warren sized up his brother with amusement. “He’s got the weight on you, and he looks in good shape.”
“That’s just fine,” Byron said.
The radio began blaring the news signal. It was four o’clock, and the governor had turned up the volume of the little portable sitting on the outdoor bar.
“Berlin. German Supreme Headquarters announces the capture of Kiev and claims the greatest victory in the war, and perhaps in the history of the world. According to German sources, four entire Russian armies, numbering almost a million men, have been surrounded and cut to pieces, and with the fall of Kiev all organized resistance in the vast pocket has come to an end. Radio Berlin proclaimed at midnight that, quote, ‘The Soviet Union no longer has a military capability, and the end of hostilities on the eastern front is in sight.’ More news in a moment. Now a word about Pepsi-Cola.”
The governor said, swis
hing his rum drink as merry girlish voices burst into a jingle, “Well, well. The Russkis would really seem to be on the run, hey?”
“Where is Kiev, Governor?” said Petsy Peters. “Is that where caviar comes from? I hope this doesn’t mean no more cavvy. There’s always the Persian, but that’s so expensive.”
“Kiev is in the north, I think,” the governor said. “Frankly my Russian geography is not so hot.”
The Pepsi-Cola commercial ended. The announcer came on with drama in his voice:
“We interrupt this newscast for an urgent announcement by the Joint Army-Navy Command of the Hawaiian Islands. SURPRISE ENEMY ATTACK ON HAWAII! This is a DRILL. A hostile fleet of battleships and aircraft carriers has been located approximately four hundred and fifty miles northwest of Oahu. This is a DRILL.”
“Oh no!” Petsy Peters said. “Not again. Four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon! What a misery! Are they going to keep us off the streets again for hours and hours?”
The governor put his finger to his lips.
“All leaves and liberties are cancelled, and all military personnel will return to their units at once. This is a DRILL. We repeat, this is a DRILL. Surprise enemy attack on Hawaii! All military personnel return to their units at once. Special permission is granted to the players of the baseball game between the Air Command and the Battleship Force to complete the ninth inning, and for spectators to remain at the game until then. Restrictions on civilian travel are not, repeat, not in force.”
“Well, thank goodness for that, at least,” said Petsy Peters.
“All ships in the area will report to force commanders readiness to sortie, but will not, repeat not, leave anchorages or moorings unless ordered. At 1830 target planes towing sleeves will simulate attack on Pearl Harbor. All ships and shore batteries will conduct tracking and aiming exercises but will not, repeat not, fire ammunition. Vessels in dry dock or alongside for repairs will proceed with maintenance work and are excused from this exercise. We repeat. Surprise attack on Hawaii. This is a DRILL. This announcement will be repeated.”
The governor snapped off the radio. “I wasn’t sure they’d still try to get it in today. It was originally scheduled for ten this morning, Hugh, but The Happy Hour conflicted.”
“Yes, sir, that was a real courtesy. My sponsor is writing letters of appreciation to the Army and the Navy.”
“That’s a fine idea.”
The general invitation for cocktails at Washington Place, the governor’s mansion, was called off. The party rapidly broke up. Soon only Cleveland, Madeline, Janice, and the two submariners remained on the lawn amid the party debris, with the governor and his wife. Aster and Byron were in no hurry to leave because the Devilfish was in dry dock.
“Why not join us at Washington Place for a drink, Janice?” said the governor. “Hugh and Madeline are coming along.”
“Oh, not without a man, thank you, Governor,” Janice said.
“There’s an old Navy rule against sticking one’s neck out, Janice,” Lieutenant Aster spoke up, with a fetching grin. “But I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to see the inside of that mansion. I volunteer.”
Janice laughed. “Why, you’re on, Lieutenant. Give me three minutes, Governor.”
Byron separated Madeline from the others, saying he wanted to talk to her and would take her to Washington Place in Warren’s car.
“It’s wonderful news about your baby, Briny,” Madeline remarked, as they drove off.
Byron said, looking straight ahead at the road, “I went into the house before, looking for you. I saw you and Cleveland.”
After a pause filled with engine noise he glanced at her. Her brows were contracted over wide dark eyes in a scowl, and she looked lovely, but tough. She very much resembled their father. “Is this why you offered to drive me to the governor’s place? To lecture me? Thanks, dear.”
“That’s a married man, Madeline. Mom and Dad would be damned upset at what I saw.”
“Don’t talk to me about upsetting Mom and Dad. I have yet to marry a Jew.”
Those were the last words spoken in the car until it drew up at Washington Place. Madeline opened the door. “I’m sorry, Briny. That was nasty. But didn’t you deserve it, accusing me of God knows what? I have nothing against Natalie. I like her.”
Byron reached across her legs and slammed the door shut. The glare on his white face was frightening. “One minute. You tell Hugh Cleveland—you be sure to tell him, Madeline—that if I ever find out he’s done anything to you, I’ll come after him and I’ll put him in a hospital.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, how dare you? You’re cruel, and you have a dirty mind. Do you actually think I’d play around with a married man? Why, The Happy Hour was my idea. I was so excited when Mr. Fenton told us about the rating, I’d have kissed anybody who was handy. You’re being horrible, Byron.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes.
“All right. I didn’t want to make you cry.”
“Don’t you believe me?” Madeline spoke in soft and wistful tones, tearfully smiling. “My God, I thought we knew each other so well. We used to. I admit Hugh would sleep with me if he could. He’ll sleep with anybody, and I find that disgusting. He’s nothing but a whoremaster, and his wife’s the most miserable woman alive. I appreciate your concern for my honor. You’re very old-fashioned and sweet, like Dad. But don’t you worry about Madeline. Forgive me for that mean crack, darling. I’m awfully happy about the baby.” She kissed his cheek. He felt the tears on her skin. She got out of the car, twinkled her fingers at him, and ran into Washington Place.
When Byron got back to the naval base, target planes were coming in high over the harbor, towing long fluttery red sleeves, and on all the ships the gun crews were shouting, and slanting their weapons skyward; but there were no sounds of firing, and the excitement seemed forced and silly. The Devilfish, sitting high and dry on blocks, was deserted except for yard workmen and the watch. Byron took out of his desk drawer a writing pad, and the record of the fado song that he and Natalie had heard together in Lisbon. He put the record on the wardroom phonograph, and started to write:
My darling,
The news about the baby just came and—
The hissing of the bad needle gave way to the guitar chords that opened the song. He put his head down on his arms. He wanted to picture his wife and the new baby, a boy who perhaps looked like Victor. But when he closed his eyes, what he saw was his sister’s uncovered thighs and garters.
Byron stopped the record and spent the next hour drawing a sketch of an air compressor. Working from memory, using different colored crayons and inks, he produced a picture accurate and clear enough to be printed in a manual. To this he clipped a letter he typed in the abandoned mildewy-smelling yeoman’s cubicle, formally requesting transfer to Atlantic duty. He added a scrawled pencil note on a chit:
Captain—I deeply appreciate the amnesty and the leave. The only thing I want in the world now is to see my wife and baby, and try to get them out of Europe. I’m sure you will understand.
Next morning Branch Hoban congratulated Byron on his sketch, explained with regret that he couldn’t spare an officer from the watch list, declared his conviction that Natalie and her baby were quite safe in Rome, and said he would forward the request, not recommending approval.
51
RHODA was startled by the bulk of the wax-sealed envelope from the State Department. Inside she found another fat envelope with pale blue Russian printing on the flap. The eleven-page typewritten letter it contained was much struck-over with pen and ink. Clipped to it, on a small sheet headed MEMORANDUM FROM ALISTAIR TUDSBURY, was a red-pencilled note in Pug’s firm slanted hand:
3 Oct.
Moscow (and still can’t
believe it!)
Hi—
Don’t get scared—guess I haven’t written a letter this long since you’ve known me—haven’t had many experiences like this.
K
remlin banquet was another incredible business—that’s for next letter, this one has to go off pronto—
Regards from Tudsburys. I’ve used his typewriter and stationery. Letter explains. He’s fatter than ever, daughter’s a wraith—
Love
Pug
Hotel National, Moscow
Oct. 2, 1941
Dearest Rhoda—
Three hours from now I’ll be dining in the Kremlin. How about that? It’s God’s truth. And the rest of this trip has been every bit as fantastic.
Now that we’ve got ourselves two grandsons (and how about that, Granny?) I’m beginning to feel I should record some of these things I’m going through, while they’re fresh in my mind. I’m no writer, but just the bare record of the facts should interest those infants one day. So don’t think I’m becoming a garrulous old fud if I start sending you occasional batches of these pages. After you’ve read them, tuck them away for the babies.
I’m somewhat punchy; haven’t had a real night’s sleep since I left London. The trip to Archangel in a British destroyer could have been restful, but for night conferences, and GQ alarms all day long. That is a hot run; you’re in Luftwaffe range almost all the way. The convoys on this route take quite a shellacking. Luckily we had fog covering us about half the time.