Stumbling on the doormat, he eased the front door closed. He put on his U.S. Navy-issued white leather shoes and squinted up and down the shaded lane of the genteel neighborhood. No one in sight.
“Shut up,” he whispered at the birds, who sang louder than he’d ever heard. He shuffled toward the nearest cross streets and turned east. The rising sun punched him right in the eyes.
Lt. Benjamin Holt had always been an early bird. He loved waking before dawn to watch the sunrise, especially over Lake Huron back home. Sitting in an old rocking chair at the family cabin, alone with a Coleman lantern, a steaming cup of chicory coffee, and an old book. He had watched the golden rays stretch across the blue water, light the tops of trees, alight upon his hair, warm his face, then down the rest of his body, all the way to his moccasined feet.
But this morning, the sun was a blazing white fireball — God’s flashlight, demanding a full confession about last night.
Yes, there’d been drinking. He’d started with beer by the pitcher. Or bitter, as the Aussies called it. Someone had offered him a few drams of mid-range scotch that burned his throat. And … gin? He thought there’d been gin. Hadn’t drank that since submarine school in rotten Groton. 1936? Yeah. Rough year.
Squinting against the sun, he checked his arms and chest for bruises or cuts. None, thank God. No tattoos, either. Good, good. Still had that damn letter from Helen back home. Should have tossed it two months ago.
He was five feet ten inches, slim and fit, with blond hair and deep blue eyes. Sailing on the surface between the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn gave him a rich tan, one that would vanish after a few days underwater. A natural introvert, Holt tried to keep inconspicuous, which often intrigued people more. Very annoying.
The woman. That’s who’d given him the gin. They’d drank it right out of the bottle, his spit smearing into her lipstick. Didn’t know her name, but she’d been a gorgeous brunette. “Been” being the key word.
Lying beside him this morning had been a perfectly ordinary lady drooling open-mouthed onto a silk pillowcase. How old was she? Too old for me, he thought. Better see the medic when leave’s over. Don’t want to spend the twelve days of Christmas scratching my nethers. A twenty-four-year-old submariner who never yet caught the “French pox,” as they called it in the old naval histories. Wait, I’m twenty-five now.
When he’d crept down her stairs, a thin wedge of sunlight had illuminated a wall of silver-framed photographs. Kids, grandparents … and a large hand-colored photograph of the woman staring blankly at the camera. Standing behind her, a grim-faced, mustachioed admiral from the Royal Australian Navy. Looked like he’d stepped out of a recruitment poster.
Great, she’s married. Maybe he’s dead, Holt hoped, then felt bad for hoping. He would have noticed a ring if she’d worn one.
After passing a dozen houses, he gathered some intestinal fortitude and let out a sigh. Let’s do this.
“Um … yeah … hi, God,” he whispered, squinting into the harsh light. “Sorry. Messed up again. Really bad — worse than last time. Would … could You please forgive me? And if You could keep anyone from knowing about this … I know it’s a lot to ask. I think she was married. I know. Extra bad. Full confession. And I drank a lot too. Sorry.”
He closed with a mumbled Lord’s Prayer. At times like these, he wished Lutherans did the sign of the cross. Seemed like a nice formal touch when asking the Big Guy for a favor.
Holt headed for his hotel, though he wasn’t completely confident about the direction. His mind was foggy, and his head began to ache. Damn sun. He sat under a shady tree in a midsized park. Damn birds.
“Oi! Get up. Oi! Yank!” Holt heard as he wiped his eyes. “Sorry, mate. Trying to play footy, yeah?”
Holt clumsily waved his hand to the tanned blond boy, who looked like himself a decade earlier. The officer shuffled further through the park and sat against a larger tree. Straight ahead and across the street, a closed store had a sad little nativity display in the window. Do they sing Christmas carols in the summer? Everything’s upside down here.
A few more hours passed, apparently, before a car horn woke him up for good. At least the birds had shut up. He took a thorough inventory of his person. Two shoes. One sock. Officer’s cap. Check, check, and check. He flicked off two leaves sticking to his sweaty arm and hoped the grass stains would come out of his dress whites. Two trees over lay a fat, snoring chief petty officer. Holt gingerly “borrowed” his belt and headed for the hotel.
But first, the Swan Tavern one door before it. They’d let him use the washroom. Spent enough money there.
After drying his face and a long look in the mirror, he felt almost human again. Holt stepped up to the bar where Keith MacAlpine nursed a tall glass. They’d met three months back over a raucous round of darts. Neither had convincingly won the best of three, then they’d tied up at six and spent the rest of the night tearing down the other’s nationality. All in good fun.
“And there’s my mate!” MacAlpine said laughing and slapped the stool beside him. “Why, you look exceptional, Lieutenant Holt, like a right larrikin!”
“A little quieter please,” Holt said. He asked for coffee.
“Tea’ll do ya better,” the barman grunted.
They need more coffee on this infernal island, Holt thought.
Lt. Cdr. MacAlpine was assigned to the Aussie sub tender in Fremantle Harbor, where he’d charmed several tons of materiel out of the port’s American supply officer. He was a large man with a broad chest and wore an impressive brown mustache above his hearty smile. Six foot two seemed too tall for life on a submarine.
Officially, Holt’s sub was stationed in Manila Bay. Cavite Navy Yard, to be precise. Unofficially, his boat was three thousand miles to the south, down the Swan River from Perth in southwestern Down Under. Fremantle had plenty of room since most of the Aussie navy — army too — was off defending Great Britain and her outposts of empire from the Hun.
“Mr. Holt here has had a long night of it,” MacAlpine told the barman and handed Holt a cigarette. “One cold glass of bitter on my tab! Hair of the dog and all that.”
“One. Just one,” Holt said. “Fair dinkum.”
He still didn’t know what “fair dinkum” meant, but thought he’d used it right. At least no one corrected him this time. He picked up navy slang fast enough but couldn’t wrap his head around the outback patois. Last night he’d found out “billabong” was a pond. Thought it was a drum. Maybe a large bug.
MacAlpine decided the less said about last evening’s misadventures, the better. By Holt’s second glass, the subject turned to old books like usual. When they were younger, both had wanted to be historians; by their late adolescence, they’d decided to make history instead. Reading was a cheap hobby, at least.
“Got another box from dad last week,” Holt said, a bit livelier. “He sent ’em back in July. They were probably stuck in Manila awhile.”
“Five months? Sounds about right. Did the professor send any unconventional titles?”
“Just finished one on the old Byzantine Empire. Dreary prose, but solid research. I knew nothing about them. Penned by John Bagnell Bury … Irishman, I think.”
“The Irish…” MacAlpine tipped the bitter to his lips.
“Lots of slash and thrust between the boring bits,” Holt noted with a slight grin. He wished he’d had the books before last month’s patrol practicing submarine tactics with the Brits off Ceylon. Spent most of it sweaty and bored.
“I think the best part was the nicknames,” Holt said. “They had one emperor, I don’t know, a thousand years ago. ‘The Pale Death of the Saracens,’ they called him.”
“Right martial, that,” MacAlpine said. “What’s a Saracen, again?”
“Mohammedans, of the Persian variety. That’s what they called them in the olden days. Another emperor was ‘Basil the Bulgar-Slayer.’”
“Basil gave up on the Saracens, did he?”
“Slayed them too. He was pretty broad-minded.”
MacAlpine stared again at the barmaid and Holt snuck a look himself. Great curves, medium height, long blonde hair tied back in a wide blue ribbon. One long lock brushed her cheek. The Aussie held his gaze, slowly running his index finger up and down the cold glass.
She ignored them both. She ignored all the thirsty patrons.
“Another round, barman!” Holt said and returned to the conversation. “Mac, I need a nickname.”
“When you stumbled in, that bloke called you a wanker.”
“Wanker. Is that a good thing, Mac?”
“That is not a good thing. And I keep telling you, call me Alpie. Half the boys in town are Macks or Micks. It don’t differentiate.”
Holt carried on. “In the states, we’ve got ‘Black Jack’ Pershing, ‘Bull’ Halsey. There’s ‘Donc’ Donaho on the R-14. I don’t want to be a Benjamin my whole life. That’s a college librarian, not a war hero.”
“You’re not a war hero, Benjamin.”
“Not yet.”
Alpie sighed. “All the war heroes are in Europe, or will be, once we get our act together. We, on the other hand, are wasting our careers in the arse end of the world, defending Perth from bushflies … and maybe the Kiwis if they get salty. There’s no glory for us, mate. No hope of it. At least that’s how our bosses view things.”
This time, Holt gave Alpie a cigarette. “Tokyo might overplay its hand. Saw a Jap sub about thirty miles north of Luzon a while back. They’re running out of oil and seem pretty tied up in China, though. What do you think?”
Alpie was a cheerful guy, friendly with everyone, at least on the surface. Whenever Holt tried to dig a bit deeper, his jokes got louder, and he changed the subject. Most of Alpie’s friends — and both his brothers — had shipped off to the other side of the world to protect the Sceptered Isle. One time, into his cups, Alpie said he was ordered to stay in Western Australia because his role was “vital.” He’d never brought that up again.
A long pause. MacAlpine gave another long look at the barmaid, finished his glass and grabbed another. “‘Breaker’ Morant. There’s a capital nom de guerre.” He wiped foam from his bushy mustache. “You have to be careful, though. Nicknames are usually insults. I think you’ve met ‘Whistlefoot’ Parker on the tender?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Cadet training, probably five years ago. Good bloke but clumsy. One morning, we’re off to the shooting range, and I heard a bang and a yelp. He shot a hole straight through his left foot.
“Shipmates,” Alpie continued, “they’ll give you a name to take the piss. And you can’t declare one for yourself, oh, no. ‘Allo, lads. Henceforth, you shall call me Pale Death of the Nazis! Benny the Boche-Slayer!’”
Now the barmaid aggressively ignored them like it was a competitive sport.
“They called Jubal Early ‘the Bad Old Man,’” Holt said.
“I’ve read my Civil War history. And he was an arsehole.”
“Hell, if my Christian name was Jubal Early, I wouldn’t need a nom de guerre.”
“Ever hear tell of Fruity Metcalfe?” MacAlpine asked. “Fought like a lion in Mesopotamia and India. Whitehall gave him the Military Cross, right proper. Friend of the Prince himself. And the bastards still call him Fruity.”
“Did he … spend too much time with a handsome young sepoy?"
“Ugh, he’s an English toff. You add it up.” Alpie’s eyes wheeled back to the barmaid. “That new sheila, over yonder. Can’t get her to look my way.”
“Done with women.” Holt frowned. “Probably need to cover my down-below with a can of sulfa powder.”
“Ah, there it is, mate. Was she handsome and young?”
“Saturday night, a Hollywood starlet. Sunday morning?” Holt shook his head. “And Alp, between you and me,” he lowered his voice. “I’m thinking she might have been married. Probably to one of your admirals. That’s a first for me and … well … let’s call it suboptimal.”
“Ahh. The lonely navy wife. Lots of those these days. Well, don’t fret about her old Nelson. He’s shittin’ off Scapa Flow ’til the Brits sink Dönitz and the rest of those dirty Kraut bastards. That’ll take a while. First, your dear Mr. Roosevelt needs to send him more resources.”
“Feel pretty low about it all. Haven’t been that drunk since … I don’t know. But I’m done with women, and no more booze. Got a little carried away the past few weeks. I’m proper religious once I return to the boat. Mark it, 10 December 1941, three days from now, I’m back on the straight and narrow.”
“You said that a week ago, right after a dozen birthday toasts,” Alpie replied. “‘Grant me chastity, just not yet,’ as old St. Auggie said.” He took a final drag and stubbed out his cigarette. “Oi, we all make a mistake or two. You’re not exactly a Casanova with the ladies. You’re too shy to even ogle a fetching barmaid. When you’re sober, that is.”
“I blame my ancestry,” Holt said. “The Danish half makes me an introvert around girls. The English half convinces me I’m too good to ask them out anyway.”
Alpie looked at him. “You tossed that letter in the rubbish, yeah?”
Holt stared straight ahead.
“Ya dumb bastard. You’ve dragged around that breakup for two months now.”
“We were engaged, okay?” Holt absently touched the letter in his left breast pocket. That wasn’t true, not exactly. The engagement had never been official, despite his attempts, but eventual marriage had just been understood. He and Helen Anderson had dated since high school, and he planned to propose again as soon as he was reassigned in a couple of months. Hopefully to a submarine in the Atlantic. Maybe captain his own sub and return from patrol to a pretty wife and a month of golden Sundays. Damn, was she beautiful.
Alpie’s face reddened. “‘Were’ is right. Past tense, my boy. Take that Jezebel’s note out of your pocket, burn it, and move on, just like I told you. She may be a looker, but she’s a trifling, low-down succubus. Every other girl in this town would do you better. And they’re sweet on blue-eyed American boys like you.”
“I know. I’ll get rid of it,” Holt muttered and let out a sigh. He’d believed they’d marry after Annapolis, or after sub school, or after his first deployment. Helen always had an excuse. Her life was pretty good, her father being a banker and all. Her mother pampered them both. It didn’t help that the whole family looked down on the military. Just didn’t pay enough.
Alpie slapped Holt on the shoulder. “Ahh, no worries, mate. As for that Mrs. Admiral, she’s right eager to keep your secret deep in her dark old bosom. Wouldn’t want the other wives talking. Prim in a pew this morning, she was, sure as the sun did rise. Mum’s the word, mum’s the word. Barman!”
The sun was setting, and Alpie had left an hour ago. Holt read and reread the letter in his pocket. He stared at his photograph of Helen, a barrage of blonde and blue. She was the one. Had to be. Then he stared at nothing, processing things between his brain, the mug, and an ashtray.
Now he wanted nothing but a long sleep. Alone. As he rambled out of the Swan Tavern, the barmaid brushed back a blonde tress and smiled at him. “A new man. Proper religious. Amen,” a blushing Holt muttered. He made a sign of the cross and entered the hotel lobby.
