War and Remembrance Read Free

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 andother 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, ComAir-BatForPac, 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 onhips, 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