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crisply pressed and his shoes buffed, communicating respect for his position and underlining his attention to detail.
    Before they could all rise, Bitton said, “As you were, gentlemen.”
    Silence descended over the table, and Mitchell bent his head over the clipboard on his knee, updating the repair paperwork. Bitton poured himself a mug of coffee before relaxing into a chair.  Moyer and Tedder watched the captain’s face while seeming not to notice him at all. The captain sipped his coffee and grinned. Never one to go overboard, his grin, however, was very telling. He drank the rest of his coffee in silence and filled another mug while Moyer and Tedder exchanged gleeful smiles.
    Grady emerged from the passageway leading to the galley. He carried a silver tray, which he put on the officer’s table. Dominating the tray was a frosted pitcher of lemonade and four equally frosted glasses. In that crush of sweltering heat, the officers stared open-mouthed at the visible corona of coldness surrounding the tray.
    “My God,” the captain said. “He even chilled the glasses. What the hell’s gotten into Cocoa—first, delicious coffee, and now this?”
    “There’s good news and bad,” Mitchell said. “One of the new seamen is striking for cook. This is obviously not Cocoa’s doing.”
    “Don’t tell me the bad news. I want to enjoy this.” Bitton took his spectacles off and slid them into his breast pocket. His hazel eyes blinked several times, as if testing the vision before him. He grabbed the pitcher handle and ceremoniously poured himself a generous portion. He sipped the frigid ambrosia, smacked his lips, and took three long gulps.
    Mitchell watched a remarkable change come over the captain. His shoulders visibly lowered as his whole body relaxed. Like a snake uncoiling, the muscles in his face released the tension that had been a permanent fixture.
    “God has answered my prayers,” he said. “This new cook will raise morale in no time. Glorious, utterly glorious. Why, the coffee alone will lift everybody’s spirits.”
    Moyer took the pitcher and refilled the captain’s glass before pouring three others. The officers gulped the frigid tartness while making low moaning noises.
    Setting his empty glass on the table, Mitchell wondered how much he should tell the captain about Andrew. He knew that within the captain’s spartan cabin there were only two items on the shelf above the bunk: a Bible and a bundle of letters bound with a rubber band. The captain read his Bible for an hour every night. The letters were all from his wife, and he selectively read them before sleep took him. The captain was a staunch Methodist, and Mitchell felt apprehensive about what his reaction would be when he learned that Andrew practiced the same religion as the enemy.
    “Nathan, how do we stand on repairs?” Bitton asked.
    “Great, Skipper. The depot gang is nearly finished and our men are working damned hard helping them.”
    “Excellent. Did you hear any more scuttlebutt ashore about Bataan?” the captain asked.
    “Yes, sir. The rumors we heard are true: the Nips cut our boys to ribbons. Some forces fled to Corregidor and they’re holding out for reinforcements, but thousands were taken prisoner and there’s no knowing how many died.”
    “Poor bastards,” the captain said, shaking his head. “Starved, devastated by malaria, made to fight, and in the end, killed or taken prisoner.”
    Mitchell nodded, “They had a poem that was written up by a war correspondent named Frank Hewlett:
    We’re the battling bastards of Bataan,
    No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam,
    No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces,
    No pills, no planes or artillery pieces,
    And nobody gives a damn.”
    A leaden silence settled over the officers.
    Finally, Tedder said, “I don’t understand how a nation of bucktoothed flower arrangers who run around in bath robes and sandals could defeat MacArthur’s troops. Our boys are better trained, better