The Ambassador's Son

  “Our planes or theirs? I heard you boys recently sank Admiral Thompson’s flagship.”

  Carpenter’s smile faded. “That was an accident. Listen, Thurlow, you might have a low opinion of PT boats, but the Japanese don’t. We’re a thorn in their side, and they bomb us with some regularity. Anyhoo, PT-133 could be pumped out. With a good mechanic and the necessary resupply, I’m confident you could get her going. Sorry I can’t help you otherwise, old boy.”

  “I can use my Catalina to find your boats. I figure it will take me no more than fifteen minutes. Likely they’re anchored in the next cove.”

  Carpenter weighed Josh’s pronouncement. “You know, Colonel Burr is not in my chain of command.”

  “He’s not in mine, either. I’m under Admiral Halsey’s orders. You answer to Halsey, I’m fairly certain.”

  The lieutenant waved Josh’s barb away. “Let me explain something, Commander. My officers are not graduates of that trade school in Annapolis. We are for the most part Harvard, Yale, and Princeton boys with the odd Dartmouth interloper. We don’t like to make much of it, but most of the officers in the PTs come from, let us say, influential backgrounds. We don’t have to be out here, but we are, because we love our country and we’re willing to fight and die for it, if we must. But because of who we are and who our families are, we have been allowed to operate with a bit of laissez-faire from the big boys. Of course, Admiral Halsey could certainly come in here and lay waste, but he’s been content to let us do what we do because he knows it’s good politics for him, for us, and for everybody including you. I would advise you to tread very carefully.”

  When Josh didn’t say anything, mainly because he knew Carpenter wasn’t finished, the lieutenant went on. “Our casualty rate is high, so it isn’t as if we’ve established a country club out here or anything. We’re doing the best we can with what we have, which, as you’ve noticed, isn’t all that much. In any case, Commander Warfield and I intend to keep our command intact and will resist with whatever means are at our disposal handing it over boat by boat to you or anybody else. Is the bull cut fine enough for you now?”

  Josh contemplated grabbing the young man by his sharp lapels and lifting him out of his chair and flinging him into the side of the Quonset because he didn’t have time for such horse manure. On the other hand, it probably wouldn’t solve his problem, even though it might make him feel good. He searched instead for a reasonable compromise. “As I came in,” Josh said, “I noticed on your chart that another boat, the PT-59, is listed as under repairs. Where is she?”

  Carpenter rediscovered his smile. “Well, Thurlow, maybe we can do some business after all. As a matter of fact, the PT-59’s in Santa Cruz. An air raid cracked a few of her ribs, and she had to be towed down there to get patched up. You want her, well, that would be fine with me. Just bring her back when you’re through. To be up-front with you, likely somebody’s already stolen her. Every PT squadron’s short of boats, you see. Any PT commander worth his salt sees a boat in the dockyard, he snags it by hook or crook. It’s a game we play. Santa Cruz has always been a good place to pick off a boat. Frankly, I never expected to see the 59 again. But go rescue her for me and I’ll be in your debt.”

  Josh thought about it. “Santa Cruz” was a hundred miles south of Guadalcanal. With Dosie, his boys could get down there in short order. “How about a skipper? I’ll need one of those, too.”

  “You look like a man who could captain a PT boat yourself.”

  “I could, but I’ll be in the Catalina, scouting ahead.”

  “What the hell are you up to, Thurlow?”

  “That’s between me and Admiral Halsey.”

  Carpenter switched gears. “Well, if you need a skipper, you’re in luck, more or less. I’ve got one who’s unemployed. He’s a little beat up and is expecting some R&R with the medics, but if you want him, he’s yours. That is, if he’s willing to go.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “Go outside, turn right, and take the boardwalk to the top of the hill. He’ll be in one of those tents up there. Tell him I’m willing to cut orders that will attach him to you.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Just ask for Shafty. You’ll find he’s competent enough for a Harvard man. I’m from Princeton. What’s your school, Josh?”

  “Virginia Polytechnic Institute,” Josh replied, “otherwise known as Virginia Tech.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “That don’t surprise me. You boys tend to call schools like mine cow colleges. By the way, do you understand how radar works?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Sonar?”

  “A mystery.”

  “Internal combustion engines?”

  “All I need to know about most machines is that they work.”

  “Well, that’s fine, Lieutenant. But a few of us, even if we’re officers, need to know how they work. That’s what they taught folks like me at Tech.”

  Carpenter smiled. “I am duly impressed.”

  “Shafty, you say?”

  “Shafty, indeed. ‘I’ve been shawfted! is his favorite phrase in that awful Boston accent of his. He’ll stand court-martial for losing his boat, but not to worry. The court won’t assemble for another month.”

  “Is he worth anything?”

  “He’s competent, but he’s also through out here. The navy isn’t very forgiving when it comes to losing one of their boats, even a scrap of mahogany and plywood like a PT. You might say the navy is like the world according to Aldous Huxley. It plays fair, just, and patient but never overlooks a mistake.”

  “It wasn’t Aldous who said that,” Josh informed the Ivy Leaguer. “It was Thomas.”

  Carpenter’s smile faded. “Bring my boat back to me, Josh.”

  “How about Shafty?”

  “Him you can keep.”

  7

  Josh carefully climbed the slick boardwalk, peeking into each of the tents, all of which sat in a sea of brown, liquid mud. Josh finally found a tent that was occupied by a young sailor in his skivvies sitting dolefully on a cot. “Got the creeping crud, sir,” he said when Josh asked him how he was getting along.

  “You know an officer called Shafty?”

  “Just follow the music, sir. Can’t miss him.”

  Josh cocked his ear and heard Frank Sinatra somewhere higher on the slope. He climbed until he came to a mud-stained four-man tent, its flaps thrown open. Inside, a thin young man with knobby knees, a large Adam’s apple, and a bush of brown hair sat in his undershorts on a cot. He was reading a book. Around the cot were more books, green mold discoloring their covers. Nearby was a windup record player on an overturned ammo crate, the Sinatra disc spinning and Sinatra happily singing. When the man looked up, Josh saw he had a square-jawed face, though it was emaciated, drawn, and the color of a lemon. “Shafty?” he asked, fearing the answer.

  “That would be me,” the man replied, marking his book with a string and closing it. He allowed a smile, his teeth very white against his sallow, thick lips. “New skipper, are you? Pick a bunk. As a matter of fact, take mine. I’m headed south to visit the medics.”

  The young officer, though it was impossible to tell his age from his skeletal face, spoke in a kind of peculiar Yankee accent that wasn’t exactly Bostonian, despite Carpenter’s description. Josh had heard something similar from Montauk Point fishermen who’d come south to Killakeet. “I hear you’ve been through some trouble,” Josh said, figuring to establish some empathy with the man, not that he really cared a whit about his situation.

  “I lost my boat,” he replied, then gave Josh a closer look. “Your cap insignia says you’re Coast Guard.”

  “We’re part of the navy now.”

  “Tough luck.”

  “What happened out there?”

  The officer lifted the needle from the record, and Sinatra’s last note hung in the air. “You’re part of the investigation, aren’t you? Did you bring handcuffs? I’ll go quietly.” br />
  “I’m not here to investigate anything. I’m here to offer you a command.”

  The ravaged face took on a petulant expression. “I can only presume I heard you inconectly, Commander, or perhaps you are blind. Do you not notice that the fellow sitting in front of you is scratched and bruised, nearly from head to toe? Are you not aware that he has recently been dragged across a coral reef, explaining his wounds? Have you not been advised that he also possesses a back that I can assure you is completely sprung? I should have thought you might also have noted the jaundice that presents itself in his face. He also stands accused of losing his boat, for which the navy has no mercy. Is this the fellow to whom you offer a command?”

  “Maybe. If he convinces me I should. How’d you lose your boat?”

  It had started to rain, and Josh came inside the tent and had a seat on one of the adjoining cots. The raindrops pattered against the roof of the tent and splashed into the mud outside, playing insistent liquid notes in a truculent singsong.

  The PT officer opened one of his books, withdrew two folded sheets of paper, and handed them over. “Here’s my report, short and sweet. I wrote it with my usual attention to literary form, so, unlike most dull naval after-action reports, it’s succinctly told in but four action-packed paragraphs.”

  Josh read the four paragraphs, which did indeed pack a lot of information into a short space. He handed the document back. “I noticed you blamed everybody but yourself.”

  “Oh, the court-martial will take care of blame. I’ve been shawfted ever since I came up to Lumbari and joined this chickenshit outfit.”

  “Shafty, I think you have a bad attitude,” Josh observed.

  The PT officer’s faded blue eyes burned bright for an instant, then subsided. “In my opinion, it’s a miracle I have an attitude at all. Now listen, Commander, this isn’t going to work out between us. You say you need a PT-boat skipper? Very well. I hope you find one. One thing for certain. It isn’t going to be me.”

  Josh was tired of sparring with the sickly and petulant young man. “Now you listen to me, Shafty. I’ve made up my mind. It has to be you, mainly because I don’t have time to find anybody else. Get your things together, go down to Santa Cruz, and get the PT-59 out of the dockyard.”

  The PT officer’s countenance changed to one of amusement. “You want me to go to Santa Cruz? That might be a horse of a different coloration! How would I make my way?”

  “That’s my Catalina tied to your dock. What’s so great about Santa Cruz?”

  “It has a hospital.”

  “You can forget the hospital until we get finished with our mission.”

  A staring match ensued. “Just for the sake of argument,” Shafty said, after blinking, “let’s say I go off on this little adventure. What’s it all about?”

  “What I’m going to tell you goes no further. We’re going after a Marine Corps lieutenant named Armistead. Some say he’s deserted.”

  A glimmer of interest registered in the PT officer’s eyes. “Do you know where this jarhead officer is?”

  “Last seen in New Georgia. But he may have a boat, and he’s not alone. A woman’s involved, wife of a coast-watcher.”

  “An affair of the heart!” he cried, flashing a surprisingly boyish grin. “Adventure and romance in the South Seas! I love it. Well, hell, Captain, let the boy have himself a fling. Likely Jap will capture him, anyway, or the cannibals will eat him. Or he’ll get married. One way or the other, he’s done for. Why chase him?”

  “Lieutenant Armistead comes from an important family.”

  Still amused, Shafty raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fact?”

  “His father was once ambassador to France.”

  “How interesting!”

  “His middle name is Roosevelt.”

  “The plot thickens.”

  “Get your things together,” Josh said.

  The PT officer did not move from his cot. “Let me ask you a question, sport. Are you offering me a chance to avoid court-martial?”

  Josh gave the question some thought. “I can’t make any promises, but I have some influence,” he said finally. “If you do well, I’ll see what I can do. Just keep this in mind. This is an operation that never happened. No one, other than a few very select folks, will ever know about it.”

  The PT officer took on an expression of disbelief. “You’re telling me you have influence? And you want me to be on a secret mission? Can you not understand how impossible all this is, considering who I am?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Surely you josh, Josh. You really don’t know?”

  Josh was through talking. “Get your things together and let’s go. That’s an order.”

  Shafty shook his bushy head. “Add my refusal to the charges. I’m not about to risk my jaundiced hide to catch some poor lovelorn bastard. I’ll take my chances with the court-martial. Sorry, sport.” He reached across to the record player and put the needle back on his record, then closed his eyes and began to snap his fingers as Sinatra started to sing. It was the same song Josh had heard as he walked up: “All or Nothing at All.”

  “Don’t you have another record?” Josh demanded.

  “It reminds me of a woman I once adored,” he replied without opening his eyes. “Her name was Inga. Inga-Binga, she put my heart through the wringa.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She found somebody else. That’s what they all do, sport, when you’re not around to keep them entertained.”

  Josh considered pummeling the aggravating young PT-boat skipper but then decided it wasn’t worth the further aggravation. Let him have his court-martial and go home. Carpenter was right. The man was through out here. Josh rose and left the skinny yellow youth to his misery.

  As he walked down the hill, Josh’s damp shirt clung like warm glue to his chest. At least it had stopped raining. He found Once and Again fishing on the dock, although they didn’t seem to be having any luck. The other boys were lounging around. “You ready to get out of this place, Skipper?” Phimble asked, getting to his feet. “Mosquitoes are so big here, one of them asked Dosie for a date.”

  “Let’s go,” Josh said irritably, and waved the boys into the float plane. Inside, he noticed a stack of crates that hadn’t been there before. “What’s this?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Ready asked, ducking through the hatch. “Oh, them boxes? Some PT mechanics had some extra beer and thought we should have it.”

  “Just handed it over, did they?”

  Ready ran his fingers up under his tub cap and gave his head a good scratch. “Well, we let them take pictures of Pogo, so we figured they owed us something. We didn’t hear any complaints.”

  “They’ll complain plenty when they find out they’re missing their beer,” Josh said, then shrugged. One outfit stealing from another was the big game out here, and his boys were some of the best at it.

  After the boys had cast off Dosie’s lines, Phimble cranked up the engines while Josh subsided into the copilot’s seat. “Lucky these PT boats use avgas,” Phimble said. “I topped us off from the tender. Where to now, Skipper?”

  “Todd Whitman is at the Truax plantation,” Josh said. “You know where that is?”

  “Southwest of Munda. They still shooting around there?”

  “Probably, but not as much as they were. The army finally took the airfield, but Jap’s still around. He don’t give up easy, as you well know.”

  Once stuck his head into the cockpit. “Sirs? There’s a Chinaman out there waving a white flag.”

  Josh looked through the cockpit window and saw it was neither a Chinaman nor a white flag. “Turn around,” Josh ordered Phimble, after hesitating for a long second.

  Phimble turned the Catalina around and chugged back to the dock. Josh poked his head through the cockpit hatch. On the dock stood Shafty, dressed in officer’s khakis, which appeared to be a size too large for him, and holding a skivvy shirt that he’d been waving.
“What do you want?” Josh demanded.

  “I’ve decided to go with you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He lifted his bony shoulders, grimacing as he let them down. “Let’s just say my conscience got the better of me.” When Josh looked dubious, he added, “I know Armistead or, I should say, I used to know him. We were in the Spee together.”

  “What the hell is the Spee?”

  “It’s a club at Harvard. Except it’s more than a club. You have to swear allegiance to one another for all time. I’ve got to help you find Armistead because of my oath, more’s the pity.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “I’d like the chance to pay Jap back for killing two of my men.”

  Josh dropped back into his seat, sorted through his misgivings, then called over his shoulder. “Ready, send a couple of the boys across to give that navy lieutenant on the dock a hand with his traps.”

  Phimble looked askance. “Jesus, Skipper, that bastard looks like he’s about to keel over. Look how yellow he is. Jaundiced, for sartain, and probably malaria, too. And what’s this about paying back Jap? He’s got his mind FUBAR’d.”

  “I need him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have time to find somebody better.”

  Phimble, watching the PT officer flinch when he did nothing more than lean over to lift a small satchel off the dock, shook his head. “Nothing but trouble, that’s all he’s going to be,” he predicted.

  “He can join you in that category, then,” Josh replied.

  Shafty clambered inside the Catalina. At the sight of Dave, he asked, “What is that thing?”

  “A megapode,” Josh answered, ducking through the hatch from the cockpit. “His name is Dave. He won’t peck you too often if you stay away from him.”

  “And that creature?” He nodded toward Pogo, who was asleep in one of the blister wells, apparently worn out from having his picture taken.

  “That would be our bushman. He joined us on Guadalcanal.”

  “Is he a headhunter?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked him. Come forward. I want you to meet Ensign Phimble.”