Read The Lonely War for Free Online

coffee, but it was not shiny like some Negroes; it had the softened look of crushed velvet.  
    Grady requested an assignment to man a deck gun, obviously wanting to prove himself in battle. Mitchell explained that since Grady had been trained as a steward’s mate, and that was what the ship needed, Grady would pull double duty as the captain’s steward and the wardroom attendant until a replacement came along. What Mitchell didn’t tell him was that, although the Navy had recently begun to enlist Negroes as regular seamen with equal pay and status, Mitchell had not heard of any colored man being given a job other than steward or cook’s helper (dishwasher). Mitchell had no problem assigning him to other duties, including manning the guns, but he was painfully aware that others would have serious objections to it, most notably the captain.
    Grady was visibly disappointed, and Mitchell felt sorry for him, but at the same time his spirits soared in anticipation of telling the captain about the new cook.

Chapter Five
     
     
     
    April 18, 1942—1200 hours
     
    A FTER inspecting the engine repairs in the ship’s ovenlike bowels, Mitchell climbed the engine room ladder and strolled to the quarterdeck for lunch. He carried a clipboard and jotted notes as he walked.
    Officers usually took their meals in the wardroom, but while in port, a table was set up under the quarterdeck awning so the officers could eat in cooler conditions.
    Lieutenant Horace Tedder, the medical officer, and Ensign Otis Moyer, the chaplain, relaxed in wicker chairs around the table, sipping coffee from brown mugs. As Mitchell came close to the table, he overheard Tedder telling Moyer about his morning activities.
    “After reveille,” Tedder explained, “the skipper and I inspected the mess hall and crew’s quarters, then came sick call. I’ll tell you, the ingenuity of these goldbrickers astounds me. They must have a medical book stashed somewhere aboard, because nobody could invent such elaborate ailments. This morning, Smitty gave such a detailed description of his stomachache I knew it was a phony. I told him I needed to perform an emergency appendectomy using only a local anesthetic. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know what an appendectomy is, but he jumped up and ran out of sick bay so fast you’da thought his pants were on fire.” Tedder joined Moyer in a belly laugh.
    Mitchell knew something was up when he heard Tedder laugh. Having grown up in Seattle where the temperatures are cool, Tedder was always miserable in the tropics, so to see even a smile on his face was shocking. His silver hair was oiled and neatly parted, but his uniform looked like he had slept in it. He was a civilian dressed in officer garb. If it weren’t for the war, he would be sitting in his office in a two gas-station town, sneaking shots of whiskey between seeing elderly ladies complaining of back pains.
    “Okay, Doc, I’ll bite. What’s up?” Mitchell asked.
    Tedder sipped his coffee and glanced at the burly, dark-haired chaplain. Both men grinned. 
    “It seems we have a new cook,” Moyer said.
    “Seaman Waters. Did you meet him?” Mitchell grabbed the coffeepot and poured himself a mug.
    “No, we just now found out about it,” Moyer replied.
    “How’s that?” Mitchell asked.
    “You’ll see.”
    Mitchell wondered what game these two were playing as he put the pot down and sat on the edge of a wicker chair. As he sipped his coffee, his eyebrows lifted high on his forehead.
    “Goddamn, this is great. Do I detect a hint of chicory?”
    “Affirmative,” Moyer beamed. “Our slumming days are over, thank the Lord.”
    Mitchell noticed Captain Ben Bitton rambling onto the quarterdeck from the forward conning tower, looking stern, unflappable, and fit for his fifty-two years. Beneath his salt-and-pepper hair and hiding behind his tortoiseshell glasses were his piercing hazel eyes, which revealed his self-assured temperament. His khaki uniform was