Free The Lonely War by Alan Chin Page A

than he felt a tug on his shoulder.
    “Eleven-thirty, sailor. You’ve got the twelve-to-four bridge watch.”
    Andrew rolled over.
    Another tug. “On your feet, sailor. And wake up the XO on your way to the bridge.”
    Andrew yawned, smiled. He jumped to the deck, tottering about on unsteady legs while he climbed into his dungarees. He hurried to the galley and made coffee for the relief watch.
    Stokes and eight others gathered around the urn, all looking as tired and jagged as Andrew felt. Over coffee, they traded glances but not words. Andrew ignored their truculent stares. He filled another mug and weaved through the corridor heading toward officer’s country, drawing aside the curtain that served as a door to Mitchell’s quarters.
    Red light from the passageway infiltrated the cabin. Andrew saw that the room was an iron cube seven feet long and slightly wider. Against one bulkhead rested a narrow desk piled high with naval publications, files tucked in manila envelopes, and a stack of freshly laundered khakis. Above the desk and running the length of the room was a metal shelf supporting a platoon of books standing at attention. Andrew brought his face to within inches of the book spines so he could read the authors; Joyce, Eliot, Proust, and Shakespeare were all he could make out in the weak light.
    Nestled against the other bulkhead and crouching low to the deck was the bunk that cradled the sleeping lieutenant. Mitchell lay on his side, with no blanket. He wore skivvies with his name stenciled above the curve of his butt, and also a T-shirt that stretched across his chest, showing the imprint of his pecs and his bullet-shaped nipples. Mitchell looked rumpled and peaceful, angelic.
    Andrew touched Mitchell’s arm, gently shaking the officer until his eyes opened. He stretched languorously, like an old house cat, and yawned while slipping a hand up under his T-shirt to stroke his midriff. The sight of that triangle of pale waist with the soft trail of hair flowing down from his bellybutton doubled Andrew’s heart rate.
    “Time for your watch, sir,” Andrew said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “I’ve brought some coffee.” He stood frozen as the officer sat up.
    Mitchell’s face was streaked with two red lines caused by creases on his pillowcase, and his disheveled hair stood out at rakish angles. He seemed more human now than in sleep.
    “Thanks, Andy,” he said, taking the mug. He sipped and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. He set the mug on the desk and grabbed his trousers. “That’ll be all, Andy.”
    “Yes, sir.” Andrew was surprised that, in the privacy of the lieutenant’s quarters, Mitchell had called him by his nickname. Only Clifford had called him that. Even his father called him Andrew.
     
     
    A NDREW glided through the corridor leading to the bridge, following Mitchell, Stokes, and Ogden. The bridge, like the entire inside of the ship, was illuminated with dim red light rather than white to keep from being seen by enemy planes and ships.
    Ogden positioned himself next to the captain’s chair. Stokes took his post at the port railing, lifting his binoculars to scan the dark water for any sign of another ship, and Andrew did the same on the starboard side. Mitchell relieved Ensign Fisher, who reported the current status: all quiet. That done, Mitchell ambled to the operations desk and wrote an entry into the Rough Logbook.
    “How about that Doolittle?” Fisher said. “Bet that put the fear of God into those yellow bastards.”
    Mitchell bestowed an arid smile on Fisher before scanning the darkness beyond the bow. He said, “I would love to have seen Hirohito’s face while the bombs were falling. That SOB must have shit his drawers, thinking he might be next.”
    Fisher slapped Mitchell’s shoulder as he headed for the hatch. “You have the bridge, Mr. Mitchell.” He smiled. “And yes, it would be great to see that murdering bastard get what he