War and Remembrance Read Online Free Page A
Author: Herman Wouk
Tags: Fiction, General, Fiction - General, Classics, Literature: Classics, World War; 1939-1945, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), General & Literary Fiction, Classic fiction, Literature: Texts
of it.”
Lacouture had been a leading and noisy isolationist until the eighth of December.
“To be sure.”
Spruance declined to come in and rest. He asked for a glass of water, and drank it in the doorway. Handing back the glass, he said, “So, you’ll be bringing your gear aboard today?”
“Yes, sir. I’d better expedite the change of command,” Pug said, “all things considered.”
Amusement brightened Spruance’s grave eyes. “Oh, yes. Always execute orders promptly.” Neither of them had to mention Halsey’s notion of recruiting Pug for his staff. “Join me for dinner, then. I’d like to hear about your flight over Berlin.”
“I’ll be honored, Admiral.”
Janice crouched in a broad brown dug-up patch of the back lawn, wearing a damp lilac halter, soiled gray shorts, and sandals. Her wheat-colored hair was tumbled, and her long bare legs and arms were burned brown. Because of the special controls being imposed on Japanese truck farmers, fresh vegetables were already becoming scarce. She had started a victory garden and seemed the merrier for it.
She straightened up, laughing, wiping her brow with an arm. “My stars, look at you! Been gardening or something?”
“Admiral Spruance walked me up from the Navy Yard.”
“Oh,
him!
I hear that all the junior officers hide when he comes on deck. Commanding the
Northampton
will put you in shape, if it doesn’t kill you. Warren telephoned. He’s coming home for lunch.”
“Good. He can run me down to the fleet landing with my gear.”
“You’re going already?” Her smile faded. “We’ll miss you.”
“Dad?” Warren’s voice sounded some time later through the bedroom door. Pug opened it, pushing aside two half-packed footlockers. Uniforms and books were piled on the bed. “Hi. I stopped by the
California
shore office. They’re sending your mail to the
Northampton,
but these just came in.”
The sight of British stamps jolted Pug. Alistair Tudsbury’s office address was on the envelope. First he opened the cable, and without a word passed it to Warren.
WHERE IS NATALIE URGE REPEAT URGE YOU INQUIRE STATE DEPARTMENT CABLE ME DEVILFISH SUB BASE MARIVELES BYRON
Warren wrinkled his sunburned forehead over the cable. In his flying suit, the everlasting cigarette dangling from his compressed mouth, he looked weary and grim. “Who do you know at State, Dad?”
“Well, a few people.”
“Why don’t you try phoning? Briny’s pretty cut off out there in Manila.”
“I will. I should have done it sooner.”
Warren shook his head. “She may be in one hell of a fix.” He gestured at the letter from London. “Alistair Tudsbury. Is that the British broadcaster?”
“That’s him. Your mother and I met him on the boat to Germany.”
“Great gift of gab. Lunch in half an hour, Dad.”
Pug opened the letter after Warren went out. On arriving in Pearl Harbor, he had sadly mailed off a short dry letter to Pamela Tudsbury, finallybreaking with her. She could not have received it and answered; the letters had crossed. In fact, he saw, hers was dated a month ago.
November 17th, 1941
My love:
I hope this will somehow reach you. There’s news. The BBC has asked my father to make a sort of Phileas Fogg broadcasting tour clear around this tortured planet, touching the main military bases: Alexandria, Ceylon, Singapore, Australia, Pearl Harbor, the Panama Canal, and so on. Theme: the sun never sets on the Union Jack, and there’s another possible foe besides Hitler — to wit, Japan — and the English-speaking peoples (including the reluctant Americans) must stand to their guns. Talky has stipulated that I go along again. More and more nowadays when he’s fatigued or under the weather — his eyes are getting very bad — daughter writes up the broadcasts and even the articles. By now the product, though ersatz, is usable.
When he broached the thing to me, I heard only two words —
Pearl Harbor!
If the whole proposal doesn’t
Lacouture had been a leading and noisy isolationist until the eighth of December.
“To be sure.”
Spruance declined to come in and rest. He asked for a glass of water, and drank it in the doorway. Handing back the glass, he said, “So, you’ll be bringing your gear aboard today?”
“Yes, sir. I’d better expedite the change of command,” Pug said, “all things considered.”
Amusement brightened Spruance’s grave eyes. “Oh, yes. Always execute orders promptly.” Neither of them had to mention Halsey’s notion of recruiting Pug for his staff. “Join me for dinner, then. I’d like to hear about your flight over Berlin.”
“I’ll be honored, Admiral.”
Janice crouched in a broad brown dug-up patch of the back lawn, wearing a damp lilac halter, soiled gray shorts, and sandals. Her wheat-colored hair was tumbled, and her long bare legs and arms were burned brown. Because of the special controls being imposed on Japanese truck farmers, fresh vegetables were already becoming scarce. She had started a victory garden and seemed the merrier for it.
She straightened up, laughing, wiping her brow with an arm. “My stars, look at you! Been gardening or something?”
“Admiral Spruance walked me up from the Navy Yard.”
“Oh,
him!
I hear that all the junior officers hide when he comes on deck. Commanding the
Northampton
will put you in shape, if it doesn’t kill you. Warren telephoned. He’s coming home for lunch.”
“Good. He can run me down to the fleet landing with my gear.”
“You’re going already?” Her smile faded. “We’ll miss you.”
“Dad?” Warren’s voice sounded some time later through the bedroom door. Pug opened it, pushing aside two half-packed footlockers. Uniforms and books were piled on the bed. “Hi. I stopped by the
California
shore office. They’re sending your mail to the
Northampton,
but these just came in.”
The sight of British stamps jolted Pug. Alistair Tudsbury’s office address was on the envelope. First he opened the cable, and without a word passed it to Warren.
WHERE IS NATALIE URGE REPEAT URGE YOU INQUIRE STATE DEPARTMENT CABLE ME DEVILFISH SUB BASE MARIVELES BYRON
Warren wrinkled his sunburned forehead over the cable. In his flying suit, the everlasting cigarette dangling from his compressed mouth, he looked weary and grim. “Who do you know at State, Dad?”
“Well, a few people.”
“Why don’t you try phoning? Briny’s pretty cut off out there in Manila.”
“I will. I should have done it sooner.”
Warren shook his head. “She may be in one hell of a fix.” He gestured at the letter from London. “Alistair Tudsbury. Is that the British broadcaster?”
“That’s him. Your mother and I met him on the boat to Germany.”
“Great gift of gab. Lunch in half an hour, Dad.”
Pug opened the letter after Warren went out. On arriving in Pearl Harbor, he had sadly mailed off a short dry letter to Pamela Tudsbury, finallybreaking with her. She could not have received it and answered; the letters had crossed. In fact, he saw, hers was dated a month ago.
November 17th, 1941
My love:
I hope this will somehow reach you. There’s news. The BBC has asked my father to make a sort of Phileas Fogg broadcasting tour clear around this tortured planet, touching the main military bases: Alexandria, Ceylon, Singapore, Australia, Pearl Harbor, the Panama Canal, and so on. Theme: the sun never sets on the Union Jack, and there’s another possible foe besides Hitler — to wit, Japan — and the English-speaking peoples (including the reluctant Americans) must stand to their guns. Talky has stipulated that I go along again. More and more nowadays when he’s fatigued or under the weather — his eyes are getting very bad — daughter writes up the broadcasts and even the articles. By now the product, though ersatz, is usable.
When he broached the thing to me, I heard only two words —
Pearl Harbor!
If the whole proposal doesn’t