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equipped, and they dress like men.”
    “Obviously, those are erroneous generalizations,” Mitchell said. “They’re a tough bunch.”
    “What about MacArthur, did he make it to Corregidor?” Moyer asked.
    Mitchell grinned. “Corregidor? Hell, they smuggled him clean out of the Philippines. He’s in Australia, building an invasion force to retake Bataan. An interviewer asked him about his escape and he said: It was close, but that’s the way it is in war. You win or lose, live or die—and the difference is just an eyelash. ”
    “An eyelash, my God,” Bitton said. “Hell of a man. I’d give anything to lead men into action. I’d love to see if I’ve got his kind of mettle.” Bitton lifted his head and his voice trembled. “All these fierce battles are raging, and here we sit in the war’s backwaters, escorting supply ships, carrying mail, towing targets, and every other menial fleet duty. Well, it’s not very heroic now, is it?”
    They all lowered their eyes.
    “Sooner or later,” Bitton continued, “we’ll have the chance to prove ourselves, and we better damn well be ready when it comes.”
    Grady sauntered onto the quarterdeck carrying another tray, which he sat next to the pitcher of lemonade. There were four plates on the tray, and each officer leaned forward to see what more surprises were in store for lunch.
    On each plate sat the same kind of greasy canned-meat sandwich on day-old bread that they had endured for the last two months. Beside the sandwiches were mounds of mustard-yellow potato salad and dill pickle slivers.
    One by one the eager smiles fell into frowns.
    Tedder cleared his throat and said, “Maybe I’m simple, but I don’t see anything heroic about MacArthur’s dashing to safety with his tail between his legs.”
    The captain shook his head. “He has the most brilliant military mind of our time. It’d be devastating if he were captured. As it is, I’ll bet there are some yellow bastards who have red faces now for letting him slip through their fingers.”
    Tedder pulled a plate toward him, grabbed a sandwich, and held it under his nose. Before he chomped down, he said, “I can’t help feeling sorry for those men left holding the bag.” He ripped off a mouthful of sandwich and chewed savagely.
    Cocoa emerged from the galley, with Andrew close on his heels. Cocoa’s stocky waist supported a grease-stained apron that draped below his knees. His T-shirt was stretched tight over his protruding belly and had a large, yellow stain under each armpit. His face, round with a waddle of fat hanging under his chin, was normally pale, but at that moment it glowed a scalded red. They both came to attention beside the officer’s table.
    “Request permission to speak, sir,” Cocoa said, with his chin pulled absurdly high.
    “What is it, Cocoa?” Mitchell asked.
    “Sir, it’s this new man, Seaman Waters. Much as I need the help, sir, he just won’t do.”
    Mitchell exhaled sharply. “And why is that, Cocoa?”
    “Well, sir, for one thing, I put him in charge of beverages and the first thing he does is make nine urns of coffee, one after the other. When he gets one made he pours it out and starts over, like he’s loony. Them urns is twenty gallons each. Then I find that he’s used up all my lemons. And there’s the crew, sir. I mean, I don’t mind having a half Jap for a kitchen coolie, but the crew is saying they won’t eat no raw fish heads and rice. They think he’s a plant sent here to poison them. They refuse to eat anything he touches.”
    “I take it this is the bad news?” Bitton asked.
    Mitchell nodded, and all four officers turned to stare at Andrew.
    Mitchell asked, “Why did you make an urn of coffee and pour it out?”
    “I’ve never brewed coffee in an urn, sir. The way Mister Cocoa showed me made the foulest-tasting sludge, so I experimented with how much coffee to water mixture would taste best. I remembered that chicory cuts the bitterness, so I tried