War and Remembrance

Book 2: The Winds of War

by Herman Wouk

Genres: Classics; World War II; War & Military

Synopsis

Herman Wouk's sweeping epic of World War II, which begins with The Winds of War and continues here in War and Remembrance, stands as the crowning achievement of one of America's most celebrated storytellers. Like no other books about the war, Wouk's spellbinding narrative captures the tide of global events - and all the drama, romance, heroism, and tragedy of World War II - as it immerses us in the lives of a single American family drawn into the very center of the war's maelstrom. These multimillion-copy best sellers are stirringly read by Kevin Pariseau for their first appearance in downloadable audio.

Release date: January 30, 2010

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 1056

Sample

A LIBERTY boat full of sleepy hung-over sailors came clanging alongside the U.S.S. Northampton, and a stocky captain in dress whites jumped out to the accommodation ladder. The heavy cruiser, its gray hull and long guns dusted pink by the rising sun, swung to a buoy in Pearl Harbor on the incoming tide. As the boat thrummed off toward the destroyer nests in West Loch, the captain trotted up the steep ladder and saluted the colors and the quarterdeck.

“I request permission to come aboard.”

“Permission granted, sir.”

“My name is Victor Henry.”

The OOD’s eyes rounded. In his starched whites with lacquered gold buttons and his white gloves, with the ritual long glass tucked under an arm, this fresh-faced ensign was stiff enough, but he stiffened more. “Oh! Yes, sir. I’ll notify Captain Hickman, sir—messenger!”

“Don’t disturb him yet. He isn’t expecting me. I’ll just mosey around topside for a bit.”

“Sir, I know he’s awake.”

“Very well.”

Henry walked forward on a forecastle already astir with working parties in dungarees, who were dodging the hose-down by barefoot deckhands. The iron deck underfoot felt good. The pungent harbor breeze smelled good. This was Pug Henry’s world, the clean square world of big warships, powerful machinery, brisk young sailors, heavy guns, and the sea. After long exile, he was home. But his pleasure dimmed at the tragic sight off the starboard bow. Bulging out of the black oil coating the harbor waters, the streaked red underside of the capsized Utah proclaimed the shame of the whole Pacific Fleet in one obscene symbol. Out of view in the shambles of Battleship Row, the ship he had come to Hawaii to command, the U.S.S. California, sat on the mud under water to its guns, still wisping smoke ten days after the catastrophe.

The Northampton was no California; a treaty cruiser almost as long, six hundred feet, but with half the beam, a quarter the tonnage, smaller main battery, and light hull far too vulnerable to torpedoes. Yet after his protracted shore duty it looked decidedly big to Captain Henry. Standing by the flapping blue jack and the anchor chain, glancing back at the turrets and the tripod mast, with bridge upon bridge jutting up into the sunlight, he had a qualm of self-doubt. This ship was many times as massive as a destroyer, his last command. Battleship command had been a dream; getting the California had never seemed quite real, and after all, it had been snatched from him by disaster. He had served in heavy cruisers, but command was something else.

The roly-poly gangway messenger, who looked about thirteen, trotted up and saluted. Altogether the crew appeared peculiarly young. Pug had at first glance taken for junior lieutenants a couple of young men sporting the gilt collar leaves of lieutenant commanders. Surely they had not served the grinding fifteen years that two and a half stripes had cost him! Fast advancement was a sugar-coating of wartime.

“Captain Henry, sir, Captain Hickman presents his compliments, sir. He’s taking a shower, is all. He says there’s mail for you in his quarters, forwarded from the California’s shore office. He invites you for breakfast, sir, and please to follow me.”

“What’s your name and rating?”

“Tilton, sir! Cox’un’s mate third, sir!” Crisp eager responses to the incoming captain.

“How old are you, Tilton?”

“Twenty, sir.”

Ravages of age; everybody else starting to seem too damned young.

The captain’s quarters enjoyed the monarchical touch of a Filipino steward: snowy white coat, round olive face, dark eyes, thick black hair. “I’m Alemon, sir.” The smiling astute glance and dignified head bob, as he handed Captain Henry the letters, showed pride of place more than subservience. “Captain Hickman will be right out. Coffee, sir? Orange juice?”

The spacious outer cabin, the steward, the handsome blue leather furnishings, the kingly desk, elated Pug Henry. Capital ship command would soon be his, and these perquisites tickled his vanity. He couldn’t help it. A long, long climb! Many new burdens and no more money, he told himself, glancing at the batch of official envelopes. Among them was a letter from Rhoda. The sight of his wife’s handwriting, once such a joy, punctured his moment of pride, as the overturned Utah had gloomed his pleasure at walking a deck again. In a wave of desolate sickness, he ripped open the pink envelope and read the letter, sipping coffee served on a silver tray with a Navy-monogrammed silver creamer.

December 7th

Pug darling—

I just this minute sent off my cable to you, taking back that idiotic letter. The radio’s still jabbering the horrible news about Pearl Harbor. Never in my life have I been more at sixes and sevens. Those horrible little yellow monkeys! I know we’ll blow them off the face of the earth, but meanwhile I have one son in a submarine, and another in a dive-bomber, and you’re God knows where at this point. I just pray the California wasn’t hit. And to cap it all I wrote you that perfectly ghastly, unforgivable letter six short days ago! I would give the world to get that letter back unread. Why did I ever write it? My head was off in some silly cloudland.

I am not demanding a divorce anymore, not if you really still want me after my scatterbrained conduct. Whatever you do, don’t blame or hate Palmer Kirby. He’s a very decent sort, as I think you know.

Pug, I’ve been so damned lonesome, and—I don’t know, maybe I’m going through the change or something—but I’ve been having the wildest shifts of moods for months, up and down and up and down again. I’ve been very unstable. I really think I’m not quite well. Now I feel like a criminal awaiting sentence, and I don’t expect to get much sleep until your next letter arrives.

One thing is true, I love you and I’ve never stopped loving you. That’s something to go on, isn’t it? I’m utterly confused. I just can’t write any more until I hear from you.

Except—Natalie’s mother telephoned me not half an hour ago, all frantic. Strange that we’ve never met or spoken before! She hasn’t heard from her daughter in weeks. The last word was that Natalie and the baby were flying back from Rome on the 15th. Now what? The schedules must be all disrupted, and suppose we go to war with Germany and Italy? Byron must be wild with worry. I have never held it against him, I mean, marrying a Jewish girl, but the dangers, the complications, are all so magnified! Let’s pray she gets out, one way or another.

Mrs. Jastrow sounds perfectly pleasant, no foreign accent or anything, except that she’s so obviously a New Yorker! If you get news of Natalie, do send the poor woman a telegram, it’ll be a kindness.

Oh, Pug, we’ve plunged into the war, after all! Our whole world is coming apart. You’re a rock. I’m not. Try to forgive me, and maybe we can still pick up the pieces.

All my love

Rho

Not a reassuring letter, he thought, if wholly Rhoda-like. The passage about his daughter-in-law deepened Pug’s sickness of heart. He had been burying awareness of her plight from his mind, laden with his own calamities and, as he thought, helpless to do anything about her. He was in a world crash, and in a private crash. He could only take things day by day as they came.

“Well! Is Alemon treating you right? Welcome aboard!” A tall officer with thick straight blond hair, a froglike pouch under his chin, and a belly strained into two bulges by his belt burst from the inner cabin, buttoning a beautifully ironed khaki shirt. They shook hands. “Ready for some chow?”

Alemon’s breakfast, served on white linen with gleaming cutlery, was better than anything Victor Henry had eaten in months: half a fresh pineapple, hot rolls, steaming coffee, and a rich egg dish with ham, spinach, and melted cheese. Pug said, by way of breaking the ice, that he had short-circuited protocol and come aboard this way because he had heard the Northampton might be leaving soon with a carrier task force to relieve Wake Island. If Hickman wanted the change of command before the ship left, he was at his service.

“Christ, yes. I’m mighty glad you’ve showed up. I hate to go ashore with a war starting, but I’ve been putting off minor surgery and I’m overdue for relief.” Hickman’s big genial face settled into lines of misery. “And to be frank, Henry, I have wife trouble back home. It just happened in October. Some deskbound Army son of a bitch in Washington—” the thick shoulders sagged in misery. “Oh, hell. After twenty-nine years, and her a grandmother three times over! But Ruth is still gorgeous, you know? I swear, Ruth has got the figure of a chorus girl. And left to herself half the time—well, that’s been the problem right along. You know how that is.”

So often, Pug thought, he had heard such plaints before; the commonest of Navy misfortunes, yet not till it had struck him had he remotely imagined the searing pain of it. How could Hickman, or any man, discuss it so freely? He himself could not force words about it from his throat; not to a minister, not to a psychiatrist, not to God in prayer, let alone to a stranger. He was grateful when Hickman turned prominent eyes at him, ruefully grinned, and said, “Well, the hell with that. I understand you’ve had duty in Berlin and in Moscow, eh? Damned unusual.”

“I went to Moscow with the first Lend-Lease mission. That was a short special assignment. I did serve in Berlin as naval attaché.”

“Must have been fascinating, what with all hell breaking loose over there.”

“I’ll take the Northampton.”

At Victor Henry’s harsh tone of disenchantment with his years ashore, Hickman cannily winked. “Well, if I do say so, Henry, she’s a good ship with a smart crew. Except this big fleet expansion’s bleeding us white. We’re running a goddamn training ship here these days.” Hickman pulled the ringing telephone from its bracket on the bulkhead. “Christ, Halsey’s barge is coming alongside.” Gulping coffee, he rose, put on his gold-crusted cap, and snatched a black tie.

Pug was astonished. The Northampton was the flagship of Rear Admiral Spruance, who commanded Halsey’s screening vessels. It was Spruance’s place to call on Halsey, not the other way around. Straightening the tie and cap, Hickman said, “Make yourself at home. Finish your breakfast. We can get started on the relief this morning. My chief yeoman’s got the logs and other records all lined up, and luckily we just did a Title B inventory. The registered pubs are up-to-date and the transfer report is ready. You can sight the books anytime.”

“Does Halsey come aboard often?”

“First time ever.” His eyes popping, Hickman handed Pug a clipboard of messages. “Something’s afoot, all right. You might want to look over these dispatches. There’s a long intercept from Wake.”

Through the porthole Pug could hear Halsey piped aboard. As he glanced through the flimsy sheets, his pain over Rhoda faded. The mere look and feel of fleet communications, the charge of war electricity in the carbon-blurred dispatches, stirred life in him. Hickman soon came back. “It was the Old Man, all right. He looks madder than hell about something. Let’s go to the ship’s office.”

Impeccable inventories, account books, and engineering records were spread for Victor Henry’s inspection by young yeomen in spotless whites, under the glaring eye of a grizzled chief. The two captains were deep in the records when the flag lieutenant telephoned. The presence of Captain Victor Henry, he said, was desired in Admiral Spruance’s quarters. Hickman looked nonplussed, relaying this to his visitor. “Shall I take you there, Henry?”

“I know the way.”

“Any idea what it’s about?”

“Not the foggiest.”

Hickman scratched his head. “Do you know Spruance?”

“Slightly, from the War College.”

“Think you can relieve me before we sortie? We’re on seventy-two hours’ notice.”

“I intend to.”

“Splendid.” Hickman clasped his hand. “We’ve got to talk some about the ship’s stability. There are problems.”

“Hello, Pug,” Halsey said.

It was the old tough wily look from under thick eyebrows; but the brows were gray, the eyes sunken. This was not Billy Halsey, the feisty skipper of the destroyer Chauncey. This was Vice Admiral William F. Halsey, ComAirBatForPac, with three silver stars on his collar pin. Halsey’s stomach sagged, his once-thick brown hair was a gray straggle, his face was flecked and creased with age. But the square-set jaw, the thin wide crafty smile, the curving way he stuck out his hand, the hard grip, were the same. “How’s that pretty wife of yours?”

“Thank you, Admiral. Rhoda’s fine.”

Halsey turned to Raymond Spruance, who stood beside him, hands on hips, studying a Pacific chart on the desk. Spruance was a little younger, but far less marked by time, possibly because of his austere habits. His color was fresh, his skin clear, his plentiful hair only touched with gray; he seemed not to have changed at all since Pug’s tour under him at the War College. It was a Halsey byword that he wouldn’t trust a man who didn’t drink or smoke. Spruance did neither, but they were old fast friends. In Halsey’s destroyer division, during Pug’s first duty at sea, Spruance had been a junior skipper.

“You know, Ray, this rascal had the sassiest bride of any ensign in the old division.” As Halsey chain-lit a cigarette, his hand slightly trembled. “Ever meet her?”

Spruance shook his head, the large eyes serious and remote. “Captain Henry, you worked on the Wake Island battle problem at the College, didn’t you?”

“I did, sir.”

“Come to think of it, Ray, why were you running a Wake problem in thirty-six?” said Halsey. “Wake was nothing but scrub and booby birds then.”

Spruance looked to Victor Henry, who spoke up, “Admiral, the purpose was to test tactical doctrine in a problem involving Orange dominated waters, very long distances, and enemy land-based air.”

“Sound familiar?” Spruance said to Halsey.

“Oh, hell, what does a game-board exercise away back then prove?”

“Same distances. Same ship and aircraft performance characteristics.”

“Same doctrines, too—like seek out enemy and destroy him.” Halsey’s jaw jutted. Pug knew that look well. “Have you heard the joke that’s going around in Australia? They’re saying that pretty soon the two yellow races may really come to blows in the Pacific—the Japanese and the Americans.”

“Not a bad quip.” Spruance gestured with dividers at the chart. “But it’s over two thousand miles to Wake, Bill. Let’s even say we sortie tomorrow, which isn’t very feasible, but—”

“Let me interrupt you right there. If we have to, we will!”

“Even so, look at what happens.”

The two admirals bent over the chart. The operation to relieve Wake Island, Pug quickly gathered, was on. The aircraft carriers Lexington and Saratoga with their support ships were already steaming westward, one to knock out the land-based air in the Marshalls south of Wake, the other to deliver reinforcements to the Marines, and attack any Japanese sea forces it encountered. But Halsey’s Enterprise was being ordered to a station less than halfway to Wake, where it could cover the Hawaiian Islands. He wanted to go all the way. He was arguing that the Jap fleet would not dare another sneak attack on Hawaii, with the Army Air Corps on combat alert; that carriers operating together vastly increased their punch; and that if the Japs did try an end run for Hawaii, he could double back and intercept them in time.

The 1936 game-board exercise, Pug realized, had been prophetic. In the game, the Marines had been beleaguered on Wake after a sneak Japanese attack on Manila. The Pacific Fleet had sailed to relieve them and bring the Jap main body to action. The mission had failed. “Orange” air had clobbered “Blue” into turning back. “Blue” carrier attacks had not knocked out the enemy’s island airfields, the umpires had ruled, due to bad weather, pilot inexperience, and unexpected Jap strength in AA and aircraft.

Spruance ticked off distances, times, and hazards until Halsey exploded, “Jesus Christ and General Jackson, Ray, I know all that. I want some arguments to throw at Cincpac so I can shake myself loose!”

Dropping the dividers on the chart, Spruance shrugged. “I suspect the whole operation may be cancelled.”

“Cancelled, hell! Why? Those marines are holding out splendidly!”

His sympathies all with Halsey, Pug Henry put in that while flying from Manila to Hawaii on the Pan Am Clipper, he had been under bombardment at Wake Island.

“Hey? What’s that? You were there?” Halsey turned angrily glinting eyes on him. “What did you see? How are their chances?”

Pug described the Marine defenses, and said he thought they could resist for weeks. He mentioned the letter he had brought from the Marine commander to Cincpac, and quoted the colonel’s parting words in the coral dugout: “We’ll probably end up eating fish and rice behind barbed wire anyway, but at least we can make the bastards work to take the place.”

“You hear that, Ray?” Halsey struck the desk with a bony gray-haired fist. “And you don’t think we’re honor bound to reinforce and support them? Why, the papers back home are full of nothing but the heroes on Wake. ‘Send us more Japs!’ I’ve never heard anything more inspiring.”

“I rather doubt that message ever came from Wake. Newspaper stuff,” said Spruance. “Henry, were you stationed in Manila?”

“I was coming via Manila, Admiral, from the Soviet Union. I was naval adviser on the Lend-Lease mission.”

“What? Rooshia?” Halsey gave Victor Henry a jocular prod with two fingers. “Say, that’s right! I’ve heard about you, Pug. Hobnobbing with the President and I don’t know who all! Why, old Moose Benton told me you went for a joyride over Berlin in a Limey bomber. Hey? Did you really do that?”

“Admiral, I was an observer. Mostly I observed how frightened I could get.”

Halsey rubbed his chin, looking roguish. “You’re aboard to relieve Sam Hickman, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Like to come with me and handle operations instead?”

Victor Henry sparred. “I’ve got my orders, Admiral.”

“They can be modified.”

Pug knew this man well enough from the destroyer days. Lieutenant Commander Halsey had given him his first “outstanding” fitness report for duty at sea. Once Bill Halsey went charging into a fleet action—he was bound to do that sooner or later, he had always been hot for fame and a fight—his operations officer might decide the course of a big battle, for Halsey leaned heavily on subordinates. It was a temptation of a sort; much more so than the Cincpac staff assignment Pug had dodged.

But Victor Henry was tired of being a flunky to mighty men, tired of anonymous responsibility for major problems. The Northampton meant a return to the old straight career ladder: sea duty, shore interludes, more sea duty; and at last battle-line command, and the bright hope of flag rank. The Northampton was that all-important last rung of major sea command. He would be firing eight-inch guns in battle. He was a gunnery man to the bone.

Yet rejecting Vice Admiral Halsey to his face was an unhealthy undertaking. Pug was hesitating, wondering how to handle this, when Raymond Spruance, leaning over the chart with the dividers, remarked, “Bill, isn’t that a three-striper slot?”

Halsey turned on him. “It damned well shouldn’t be. Not the way operations are expanding! I can get that changed mighty fast.”

With Spruance’s casual words, Pug Henry was off the hook. He did not even have to speak. Halsey gave Pug a calculating glance and picked up his cap. “Well, I’m going back to Cincpac, Ray, and I mean to win this argument. Stand by to get under way tomorrow. Good seeing you, Pug. You’ve kept very well.” Out swept the gnarled hand. “Still play tennis?”

“Every chance I get, Admiral.”

“And read your Bible every morning, and Shakespeare at night?”

“Well, sort of. At least I still try.”

“You clean-living types depress me.”

“Well, I smoke and drink like anything now.”

“Honor bright?” Halsey grinned. “That’s progress.”

Spruance said, “I’m going ashore, Bill.”

“Well, come along. How about you, Pug? Like a ride to the beach?”

“Yes, thank you, Admiral, if I may.”

At the quarterdeck, he gave the OOD a message for Hickman, then descended the ladder to the sumptuous black barge, and sat apart from the admirals. The boat cruised like a ferry through the malodorous oil and flotsam that since the Jap attack was fouling the harbor. On the fleet landing stood a gray Navy Chevrolet with three-star flags fluttering on the front fenders. A stiff marine in dress uniform opened the door. “Well, gentlemen,” said Halsey, “can I give anybody a lift?”

Spruance shook his head.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Victor Henry said. “I’m going up to my son’s house.”

“Where does your son live?” Admiral Spruance asked as the Chevrolet drove off.

“Up in the hills over Pearl City, sir.”

“Shall we walk it?”

“It’s five miles, Admiral.”

“Are you pressed for time?”

“Well, no, sir.”

Spruance strode off through the clangorous Navy Yard. After a week of heavy drinking to blot out night thoughts of Rhoda, Pug had trouble keeping up with him. They began climbing an asphalt road through green hills. Though Spruance’s khaki shirt blackened with sweat his pace did not slow. He did not speak, but it was not for lack of wind. Pug was embarrassed by his own puffing compared to the even deep breaths of the older man. Rounding a turn of the uphill road, they looked out on a broad panorama of the base: docks, cranes, nests of destroyers and of submarines—and the terrible smashed half-sunk battleships, burned-out aircraft, and blackened skeletal hangars.

Spruance spoke. “Good view.”

“Too good, Admiral.” The admiral’s face turned. The big sober eyes flashed agreement. “I planned to spend the day aboard the Northampton, sir,” Pug panted, now that they were talking, “but when Admiral Halsey thinks of getting under way tomorrow, I figure I better fetch my gear.”

“Well, I doubt the urgency exists.” Spruance patted a folded white handkerchief on his wet brow.

Wake Island’s remote exposed location and the Navy’s present weakness, he said, all but precluded a fight. Admiral Kimmel, no doubt wanting to recover face after December 7th, had ordered the rescue just before the President had fired him. But the Fleet was awaiting a new Cincpac, and its temporary commander, Vice Admiral Pye, was having second thoughts. Abandoning the relief mission would cause great controversy, and there were good arguments on both sides, but Spruance suspected that these marines, like the phantoms in the War College exercise, were fated to spend the war in prison camps.

Talking in a calm War College vein, marching at a pace that made Victor Henry’s heart gallop, Spruance said that December 7th had changed the Pacific balance of forces. The United States had been half-disarmed. The odds were now ten or eleven carriers to three, ten combat-ready battleships to none, and nobody knew where those heavy enemy forces were. The Japanese had shown prime combat and logistical ability. They had unveiled ships, planes, and fighting men as good as any on earth. The Philippines, Southeast Asia, and the East Indies might be theirs for the taking, stretched thin as the British were. Right now the Navy could do little but hit-and-run raids to gain battle skill and keep the Japanese off balance. But it had to hold a line from Hawaii to Australia at all costs, through the arc of islands outside Japanese aircraft range. New carriers and battleships would in time join the fleet. Jumping off from Hawaii and Australia, they would start battering back Japan from the east and the south. But that was a year or more away. Meantime Australia had to be held, for it was a white man’s continent. Its overrunning by nonwhites might trigger a world revolution that could sweep away civilization. With this arresting remark Raymond Spruance fell silent.

They trudged uphill through tall sweet-smelling green walls of sugarcane under an ever-hotter sun, amid peaceful bird song.

“Pessimistic picture, Admiral,” Victor Henry ventured.

“Not necessarily. I don’t think Japan can cut the mustard. Weak industrial base, not enough supplies for a long struggle. She’ll have a hot run for a while, but we’ll win the war if the spirit at home holds up. We’ve got a strong President, so it ought to. But our country’s in a two-front war, and the German front is the decisive one, so we’re second in line out here. And we’ve started with a big defeat. Therefore the realities are against any early heroics in the Pacific, such as an all-out battle to relieve Wake.”

Set back from the road amid lawns and gardens, its verandas roomy and sprawling, Warren’s home looked more suited to an admiral than to a naval aviator. Spruance said when they halted, pouring sweat, “Your son lives here?”

“His father-in-law bought it for them. She’s an only child. He’s Senator Lacouture of Florida. Actually, it’s not that large inside.”

Patting his red face with a handkerchief, Spruance said, “Senator Lacouture! I see. Rather changed his mind about the war, hasn’t he?”

“Admiral, a lot of good people honestly thought we ought to stay out of it.”

Lacouture had been a leading and noisy isolationist until the eighth of December.

“To be sure.”

Spruance declined to come in and rest. He asked for a glass of water, and drank it in the doorway. Handing back the glass, he said, “So, you’ll be bringing your gear aboard today?”

“Yes, sir. I’d better expedite the change of command,” Pug said, “all things considered.”

Amusement brightened Spruance’s grave eyes. “Oh, yes. Always execute orders promptly.” Neither of them had to mention Halsey’s notion of recruiting Pug for his staff. “Join me for dinner, then. I’d like to hear about your flight over Berlin.”

“I’ll be honored, Admiral.”

Janice crouched in a broad brown dug-up patch of the back lawn, wearing a damp lilac halter, soiled gray shorts, and sandals. Her wheat-colored hair was tumbled, and her long bare legs and arms were burned brown. Because of the special controls being imposed on Japanese truck farmers, fresh vegetables were already becoming scarce. She had started a victory garden and seemed the merrier for it.

She straightened up, laughing, wiping her brow with an arm. “My stars, look at you! Been gardening or something?”

“Admiral Spruance walked me up from the Navy Yard.”

“Oh, him! I hear that all the junior officers hide when he comes on deck. Commanding the Northampton will put you in shape, if it doesn’t kill you. Warren telephoned. He’s coming home for lunch.”

“Good. He can run me down to the fleet landing with my gear.”

“You’re going already?” Her smile faded. “We’ll miss you.”

“Dad?” Warren’s voice sounded some time later through the bedroom door. Pug opened it, pushing aside two half-packed footlockers. Uniforms and books were piled on the bed. “Hi. I stopped by the California shore office. They’re sending your mail to the Northampton, but these just came in.”

The sight of British stamps jolted Pug. Alistair Tudsbury’s office address was on the envelope. First he opened the cable, and without a word passed it to Warren.

WHERE IS NATALIE URGE REPEAT URGE YOU INQUIRE STATE DEPARTMENT CABLE ME DEVILFISH SUB BASE MARIVELES

BYRON

Warren wrinkled his sunburned forehead over the cable. In his flying suit, the everlasting cigarette dangling from his compressed mouth, he looked weary and grim. “Who do you know at State, Dad?”

“Well, a few people.”

“Why don’t you try phoning? Briny’s pretty cut off out there in Manila.”

“I will. I should have done it sooner.”

Warren shook his head. “She may be in one hell of a fix.” He gestured at the letter from London. “Alistair Tudsbury. Is that the British broadcaster?”

“That’s him. Your mother and I met him on the boat to Germany.”

“Great gift of gab. Lunch in half an hour, Dad.”

Pug opened the letter after Warren went out. On arriving in Pearl Harbor, he had sadly mailed off a short dry letter to Pamela Tudsbury, finally breaking with her. She could not have received it and answered; the letters had crossed. In fact, he saw, hers was dated a month ago.

November 17th, 1941

My love:

I hope this will somehow reach you. There’s news. The BBC has asked my father to make a sort of Phileas Fogg broadcasting tour clear around this tortured planet, touching the main military bases: Alexandria, Ceylon, Singapore, Australia, Pearl Harbor, the Panama Canal, and so on. Theme: the sun never sets on the Union Jack, and there’s another possible foe besides Hitler—to wit, Japan—and the English-speaking peoples (including the reluctant Americans) must stand to their guns. Talky has stipulated that I go along again. More and more nowadays when he’s fatigued or under the weather—his eyes are getting very bad—daughter writes up the broadcasts and even the articles. By now the product, though ersatz, is usable.

When he broached the thing to me, I heard only two w