The dog chased the ball under a clothesline, where Janice’s pink two-piece swimsuit dangled beside a man’s flower-print trunks. Janice came out in the sunshine, pushing up her thick blonde hair with both hands. “Well, what do you think of him?”
“Perfect physical specimen. Mental giant.”
“How unprejudiced. This is Lana.” The Hawaiian girl smiled and bobbed her head. “She follows him around, or tries to. Problem about lunch. You remember Lieutenant Commander Aster?”
“Sure.”
“We were going on a picnic today. I was making the sandwiches when you arrived. So —”
“Well, just go ahead with it, Jan.”
“No, no. I’ll call it off. The thing is, his room at the Royal Hawaiian doesn’t answer. He may get here while we’re eating. That won’t matter, will it?”
“Why scrub the picnic?”
“Oh, it couldn’t be more casual. We’re a five-minute walk from the hotel. You know, SubPac’s taken it over. Carter was teaching Vic to swim there yesterday, so sort of to thank him I suggested a picnic, but we can do that any time.”
“I see. Well,” Victor Henry said, “me for that hot bath.”
In the Tulagi hospital cot, and dozing in iron bucket seats on the planes, he had kept dreaming of the Northampton. His nap now was broken by such a nightmare. He and Chief Stark were aboard as the ship dizzily heeled up on its beam ends, and black warm water came rushing along the deck, engulfing them to their thighs. The feeling in his dream of being drenched was real and not unpleasant, like settling into a bath. The chief seized a sledgehammer and banged at the brackets that held a life raft, his eyes bulging with terror, and Pug Henry woke with a shudder. The hammering became a knocking at the door. Relieved to find himself dry and in bed, he could not at first recollect how he came to be in this yellow nursery room decorated with animal pictures.
“Dad? Dad? It’s a quarter past twelve.”
“Thanks, Jan.” Memory flooded in. “What about Aster?”
“Come and gone.”
He appeared in the yard in a white dress uniform. He was spruce and straight, and his color was better. The clothesline was empty. The Hawaiian girl sat by Vic on the grass as he fed himself yellow mush from a tray, smearing half the stuff on his nose and chin. “Got his appetite back, eh?”
“Oh, yes, long since. Do you mind eating in the kitchen?”
“I’d like it.”
They talked haltingly over eggs and sausages. There were so many sore topics — the unknown whereabouts of Natalie, the sinking of the Northampton, the uncertainty of Pug’s future, above all the death of Warren — that Janice had to force voluble chatter about her job. She was working for the Army. A colonel with the sonorous title of Director of Materials and Supplies Control had met her at a party and pirated her away from Cincpac. Martial law now ruled the territory, and under the jolly surface of Honolulu — the leis, the brass bands, the luaus, and the beautiful scenery — there was a cold tough dictatorship. Her colonel had the newspapers cowed. He and he alone decided how much paper to import, and who would get allotments, so the editors grovelled to him and to the Military Governor. There was no criticism in the editorials. Military tribunals, called “provost courts,” had superseded the law, handing out strange verdicts like sentencing offenders to buy war bonds or donate blood.
“It’s all more or less benign,” she said. “The Army does keep order, and takes good care of us. There’s nothing rationed but booze and gas. We eat like lords, and most everybody’s happy as a clam, but it’s disturbing, when you see its inner workings as I do. It’s not America, you know? If we ever get a Stateside dictatorship, God forbid, it’ll start as a military emergency measure.”
“Mmph,” said her father-in-law. His end of this conversation was nothing but such grunts. Perhaps, she thought, he disliked criticism of the military. She was just trying to keep the talk going. The change in him hurt her to see. There was about the quiet man an air of loss, a smell of ash. His accustomed silence now seemed a threadbare cloak against misfortune. Despite his impeccable air and the dogged toughness in the worn face, she pitied him. Once Warren’s father had seemed so formidable — this brilliant senior naval officer, this intimate of President Roosevelt who had talked with Churchill, with Hitler, with Stalin… how he had dwindled! He looked all right. He was eating. His core of strong energy showed in this bounce back after a short nap. He was a hard nut to crack, but he was being squeezed hard. So his daughter-in-law thought, without knowing anything of the betrayal by his wife.
Over coffee, she showed him Rhoda’s latest letter, hoping the warm sprightly run of chitchat would cheer him up. Rhoda had taken to church work; details of this, and some Navy gossip, filled three sheets. A postscript mentioned that Madeline’s movie job had fizzled out, and that she had returned to New York to work for Hugh Cleveland.
Pug’s face darkened over the letter. “Damned idiot of a girl.”
“I thought you’d be pleased about Madeline. Hollywood’s such a sinkhole.”
He threw the letter on the table. “Incidentally, what’s that canal out in front of your house?”
“The Ala Wai Canal. It runs down to the yacht harbor.”
“Got trouble with mosquitoes?”
“You would think of that. I didn’t. Monsters, by the millions.”
“Rhoda and I have rented a lot of tropical houses. You learn.”
“Well, I got it for a steal. A fighter pilot from the Yorktown had it. His wife went home after —” Janice’s voice wavered. “Actually, Toto was their dog.”
“You don’t want to go home?”
“No, I feel I’m in the war here. When you and Byron come back, here I’ll be. You’ll both have a place near the beach. Vic will get to know you.”
“Well, that’ll be nice for Byron.” Pug cleared his throat. “About me, I dunno. I’d guess I’ve had my shot at the blue water.”
“But why? That’s not fair.”
Again the quick acid grin. “Why not? The parade moves fast in wartime. You lose step once, you drop to the sidelines. I can make myself useful in BuOrd or BuShips.” He drank coffee, and spoke on thoughtfully. “My judgments under fire may be questioned at Cincpac today. I just don’t know. Our loss of life was small. Still, my portfolio contains fifty-eight letters I’ve written to next of kin. That’s how I passed the time, flying here. I regret every man we lost, but we took two torpedoes in a running gun battle, and that was it. I’ll be moseying along. Thanks for lunch.”
“Let me drive you to Cincpac.”
“I cadged a Navy car.” He went into the bedroom and brought out the footlocker and portfolio, carrying over his arm a heavy brass-buttoned blue coat that smelled of camphor. “You know, I started out for Moscow over a year ago in this coat, going the other way. It’s circling the world.” Halting before Warren’s picture, he briefly looked at it, then at her. “Say, tell me about Lieutenant Commander Aster.”
“Carter? Oh, he’s becoming one of the famous submarine skippers. The Devilfish sank twenty thousand tons under his command. Now he’s putting a new fleet sub in commission, the Moray. In fact, he’s gotten orders for Byron to the Moray.“
“Then what’s Aster doing here? New construction’s in the States.”
“There’s a flap with BuOrd about some radar he wants. He flew here to twist arms at SubPac. Carter doesn’t fool around.”
“What’s the fellow like? I’ve never quite figured him out.”
“Neither have I. But he’s nice to Vic and to me.”
“Do you like him? Not that it’s my business.”
“Yes, it is.” Her jaw was set, her eyes faraway and clouded. Pug Henry had seen this sort of look on her face often after Midway. “You’re asking me if it’s serious, aren’t you? No. I’m not interested in becoming widowed twice in one war.”
“He’ll be rotated to the beach after a year or so.”
“Oh, no!” She spoke with swift flat assurance. “ComSubP
ac sends the high-scoring skippers back out as often as they’ll go. I’m sort of sorry Byron’s been ordered to the Moray. No doubt he’ll love it, but Carter’s too adventurous for me. Vic and I swim with him, and every now and then he takes me dancing. I’m the widow lady, the backup date when there’s no hotter action.” Her crooked-tooth smile was wryly pretty. “Okay?”
“Okay. Does Aster have any word on when Byron’s due back?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, I’ll take my leave of the senior officer present.”
Vic slept on a spread-out blanket in the shade, still holding the red ball, with the dog curled at his feet. It was very hot. Lana drooped dozing over her magazine, and the child was perspiring. Victor Henry contemplated him for perhaps a minute. Glancing at Janice, he saw her eyes glittering with unshed tears. A look like a long conversation passed between them.
“I’ll miss you,” she said, walking out with him to a gray Navy sedan. “Give my love to my folks. Tell them that I’m all right, will you?”
“I’ll do that.” He got in and closed the car door, whereupon she tapped on the glass. He rolled down the window. “Yes?”
“And if you see Byron, tell him to write. I treasure his letters.”
“I will.”
He drove off, never having mentioned Warren. It didn’t surprise her. Since the Battle of Midway, the name of his dead son had not once, in her presence, passed his lips.
Pug had no notion of what to expect at Cincpac. At three that morning, in mid-flight, the co-pilot had brought him a scrawled dispatch: PASSENGER VICTOR (NONE) HENRY CAPTAIN USN REPORT CINCPAC DUTY OFFICER 14OO. In the red beam of the flashlight the words had looked ominous. A favorite saw of Pug’s had once been, “I’ve had a lot of troubles in my life, and most of them never happened,” but this incantation had lately lost its force.
The new gleaming white Cincpac building, high on Makalapa Hill above the submarine base, showed the way the war was going. It had been built fast, it was a work of power and wealth, and the lanais encircling the upper stories were sophisticated adaptations to the tropics. Inside, the building still smelled of fresh plaster, paint, and linoleum. The thronging staff— officers sporting aiguillettes, enlisted men in whites, and many pretty Waves — had a sprightly look and walk. Midway and Guadalcanal, and the bristling array of new warships in the Yard, all showed in that bouncy new pace. It was not a change to triumph or even to optimism yet. Rather, the open confident look of Americans at work had come back. Gone were the stricken expressions of the days following Pearl Harbor, and the driven tension of the months before Midway.
Ensconced in the glass-partitioned cubicle of the duty officer, inside a bastion of junior officers and Waves, sat the youngest three-striper Victor Henry had ever laid eyes on, with lanky blond hair and a creamy face that appeared never to have been shaved. “A full commander,” thought Pug, “and the Cincpac duty officer? I’m really out of step.”
“My name is Victor Henry.”
“Oh, Captain Victor Henry! Yes, sir.” In the inquisitive eyes, at the utterance of that name, Pug could see the burning Northampton going down. “Please have a seat.” The fellow gestured at a wooden chair and pressed an intercom button. “Stanton? Find out if the chief of staff is available. It’s Captain Victor Henry.”
So Spruance would be the interrogator. A tough man to face; old acquaintance would count for exactly zero. Soon the intercom gabbled, and the duty officer said, “Sir, Vice Admiral Spruance is in conference. Please wait.”
While sailors and Waves scurried to and fro, and the duty officer answered the telephone, made calls, and scrawled in a log book, Victor Henry sat reviewing possible lines of questioning. If Spruance was taking time to see him, the battle had to be the topic. The duty officer’s commiserating peeps at him were like wasp stings. So a very long half hour went by before Spruance summoned him. Pug remembered into old age the narrow girl-smooth face of the duty officer, the furtive pitying glances, and the tension of that wait.
Spruance was signing letters at a stand-up desk by a window. “Hello, Pug. Just a minute,” he said. He had never used Henry’s first name before; he addressed almost nobody that way. Spruance looked trim in starched khakis: face gaunt, color high, waist board-flat. Again Pug thought, as he had so many times, how ordinary this victor of Midway looked and acted, compared to Halsey with his battering-ram jaw, glaring eye, bushy brows, and imperious or rollicking humors.
“Well, now.” Carefully inserting the pen in a holder, Spruance faced him, hands on hips. “What the Sam Hill happened out there off Tassafaronga?”
“I know what happened to me, Admiral. The rest is sort of a blur.” The truthful words were scarcely out of his mouth when he regretted them. Wrong tone of levity.
“You’re to be commended on the Northampton’s small loss of life.”
“It’s nothing I ever hoped to be commended for.”
“We’re going to be able to repair those other three CAs.”
“Good. I wish I could have made port, too, Admiral. I tried.”
“What went wrong in the battle, exactly?”
“Sir, we found ourselves in torpedo water after we’d opened fire at twelve thousand yards. That was supposed to be beyond torpedo range. Now, either we were ambushed by submarines — which seems unlikely in view of our sizable destroyer screen — or else the Japs have a destroyer torpedo that far outranges ours. We’ve had intelligence about such a weapon.”
“I recall your memo to BuShips about that, and your recommendation on the battleship blisters.”
Victor Henry allowed himself a short thankful smile. “Well, Admiral, now I’ve been on the business end of a couple of those things. They exist.”
“Then combat doctrine should be modified accordingly.” The large eyes scrutinized Pug. The stand-up desk served the purpose of keeping conversations short, Pug thought. He was making an effort not to shift from foot to foot, and he decided, if ever his time became valuable again, to have a standup desk, too. “A word with Admiral Nimitz might be in order,” Spruance said. “Let’s go.”
Hurrying to keep up, Victor Henry followed Spruance down the corridor to tall royal-blue double doors with four affixed gold stars. Admiral Kimmel had received him in such an office in the old building, he remembered, all brave smiles and good humor, as his blasted fleet smoked in the sunshine beyond the windows. Pug had walked in to see Kimmel with calm confidence. He felt very shaky now. Why? He was now more or less in Kimmel’s shoes, that was why. Another loser.
They went straight in. Nimitz stood alone, arms folded, at a window. To all appearances he was sunning himself. His handshake was cordial, his square tanned face pleasant; but the direct blue eyes under the thatch of sunlit white hair had a slaty look. That kindly, almost gentle face with those hard eyes, half in sunshine and half in shadow, made Victor Henry yet more nervous.
“Captain Henry says the Japs have a destroyer torpedo of very long range,” Spruance said. “That’s how he explains Tassafaronga.”
“How long is very long?” Nimitz asked Pug.
“Possibly as much as twenty thousand yards, Admiral.”
“What do we do about it?”
Forcing words through a tight throat, Pug replied, “In future engagements, Admiral, once our destroyers have made their torpedo attack, the battle line should open fire at much longer range, and make radical evasive turns during the action.”
“Did you make radical evasive turns after you saw the other CAs get hit?” Nimitz spoke in an easy Texas-tinged drawl, but there was nothing easy in his look or manner.
“No, sir.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Victor Henry now had to answer, face to face with Cincpac, the question on which his career hung. He had already tried to handle this question in a fifteen-page action report.
“Admiral, it was a mistake made in the heat of battle. All my guns were bearing. I was straddling the enemy. I wanted vengeance for the three crui
sers he had set afire.”
“Did you get your vengeance?”
“I don’t know. My gunnery officer claimed two hits on two cruisers.”
“Confirmed?”
“No, sir. We’ll have to await the task force report. Even then I’ll have my doubts. Gunnery officers are troubled with creative eyesight.”
Nimitz’s eyes glinted at Spruance. “Any other observations?”
“I’ve listed a few in my report, sir.”
“For example?”
“Admiral, flashless powder was a BuOrd project way back in ‘37 when I was there. We still don’t have it. The enemy does. We discourage use of searchlights in night action, so as not to show where we are. Then we fire a few salvos and disclose our bearing, target angle, and speed of advance. Our battle line that night looked like four erupting volcanoes. It was a glorious sight, sir, very soul-satisfying. It also gave the Japs their torpedo solution.”
Nimitz turned to Spruance. “Get off a dispatch to BuOrd today, and a personal follow-up letter to Spike Blandy on the flashless powder.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rubbing a stringy hand, which was missing a finger, across his square chin, Nimitz said, “Why the devil was our own destroyer attack a total failure? They achieved surprise with radar, didn’t they? They had the drop on the other fellow.”
Pug felt himself— so to say — back in torpedo water. This question might well become the crux of a court of inquiry on Tassafaronga. “Admiral, it was a reverse action, forces moving on opposed courses. Relative closing speed fifty knots or better. The torpedo problem developed very fast. When the destroyer commander requested permission to attack with torpedoes, Admiral Wright preferred to close first. The enemy was abaft the beam before he let him go. So it became an up-the-kilt shot at extreme range. That’s how it looked in the Northampton plot.”
“Yet the enemy had the identical problem, and he got an excellent solution.”
“They won the torpedo duel hands down, Admiral.”
After an excruciating pause Nimitz said, “Very well.” He moved away from the window and offered Pug his hand. “I understand you lost an aviator son at Midway, who distinguished himself in combat. And that you’ve got another son serving in submarines.” He bent his head toward the dolphins on his own khaki blouse.