The Lonely War by Alan Chin Read Free Book Online Page A

Six
     
     
     
    April 18, 1942—1300 hours
     
    F ROM the navigation bridge, Mitchell watched Andrew hail a passing fishing boat and slip them a note. Twenty minutes later, a withered Chinese man in a dugout canoe glided alongside and haggled with Andrew for the better part of an hour. A short time later, a dozen native canoes pulled alongside. Baskets, sacks, bamboo cages, and sweaty earthen jars were lifted over the railing to cursing sailors, who carried them to the storage lockers: live ducks, chickens, sea turtles, lobsters; a hog carcass the color of old wax; sacks of rice; bushels of mangos and pineapples and guavas and papayas; bottles of soy sauce; baskets of fresh gingerroot and lemon grass and bean sprouts.
    Mitchell shook his head, wondering who the hell was going to eat all those supplies. He glanced over at Ensign Fisher to make a funny comment, but the ensign seemed a million miles away.
    Fisher had an aristocratic face that radiated a facade of superiority even when he was lost in thought. He leaned against the bridge railing with a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck and struck a pose that reminded Mitchell of Gary Cooper in the movie they’d shown on the quarterdeck a week before.
    Fisher had studied law at Yale for a career in politics, and Mitchell suspected that Fisher joined the Navy solely to swing the veteran votes his way when he ran for Congress. He liked Fisher and would have loved to give the ensign the benefit of a doubt, but he had the niggling suspicion that all of Fisher’s motives were self-serving.
    Mitchell turned to the captain. “Chowtime, sir. Shall we see if this new kid is worth the two tons of provisions we brought aboard?”
    The three officers left Chief Baker in charge of the bridge and descended three levels to the wardroom. They found Tedder and Moyer perched at the table, sipping iced tea. A silver platter of appetizers—shrimp dumplings with a soy-based dipping sauce and steamed pork buns—alongside a frosty pitcher of unsweetened tea sat in the center of the table, which was dressed with a snowy-white linen tablecloth.
    As the officers took their seats, Tedder beamed. “We were about to start without you. Sweet Jesus, these things smell good.”
    “Otis, will you say grace?” the captain asked as he removed his tortoiseshell spectacles and slipped them into this breast pocket.
    Bowing their heads, Moyer began, “We thank you, Lord, for the blessings we are about to receive. May your gift strengthen our bodies to perform your will against our enemy.”
    “Amen,” they all sang out, not letting him ramble on as he usually did.
    Beside each silverware setting rested a pair of wooden chopsticks. Mitchell lifted his pair and adjusted them in his right hand. He raised a dumpling, dipped it into the dark sauce, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. The others held their breaths, waiting for his verdict.
    A wave of savory elation flowed from his tongue to his brain. He quickly counted the number of dumplings and divided by five. That only leaves me three dumplings and one bun , he thought. I need to have a talk with Andy about proper quantities .
    Mitchell finally swallowed. “Fantastic.” He awkwardly lifted a pork bun with the chopsticks, took a quick bite, and moaned.
    Bitton grabbed a fork, saying, “I don’t care how good they are, I’m not using those damned sticks.”
    The room went silent for the two minutes it took the officers to polish off the appetizers. Only Mitchell used chopsticks. They all leaned into their seatbacks, smiling at the empty tray while waiting for the captain to comment. He remained quiet, so they mimicked his silence.
    Grady sauntered into the cabin, wearing a virginal white steward’s coat, buttoned all the way to the collar. He whisked the tray away.
    “Nathan, did we complete all the repairs?” Bitton asked.
    Mitchell nodded. “She’s now as seaworthy as we can make her, skipper.”
    Grady hurried through the hatchway,