The Lonely War by Alan Chin Page B

accusing stare. “You bet on me?”
    “You’re not going to believe this….” Cocoa stopped himself.
    Andrew shook his head.
    “Shit,” Cocoa said, “and I thought we was gonna be pals.” Cocoa couldn’t even finish the last of his pie. He tossed it into the garbage bin, plate and all, and stomped out. Grady nodded his head, as if that proved his point perfectly. He stalked out himself, leaving Andrew to clean the galley alone.
    Andrew’s spirits fell as he surveyed his new domain. The room felt heavy with greasy odors. Too many meals cooked in too small a space had compressed into a thin film of yellow grease that covered every surface and stained everything the same lifeless color.
    Andrew trudged to the sink and turned on the tap. Steam congested the already sweltering room. The soap he added had a disinfectant stench. He held his breath while stacking a tower of metal trays in the soapy water and launched himself into the physical act of meticulously washing each tray, mug, dish, and utensil. His mind emptied until his head was a mute cavern. It became simply movement, a ballet written in C minor—C for cleaning and minor for the effect it had on his spirits.
    The hiss of the PA system startled Andrew as it resonated throughout the ship, followed by the shrill cry of the boatswain’s pipe. “Now hear this. Now hear this,” began the announcement. Captain Bitton’s voice magnified the humid air. “Men, it is my pleasure to pass on some good news that came over the harbor circuit.”
    Andrew halted in midtask with his ear cocked toward the nearest speaker, attached to the bulkhead.
    “Yesterday at eight hundred hours, our time,” the captain said, “General James Doolittle led an air strike aimed at the very heart of the enemy. The carrier Hornet launched twenty-eight B-25 bombers, six hundred miles off the Japanese mainland. They dropped their payloads on Tokyo to successfully achieve our first bombing raid over Japan. There is no word on the extent of the damage or the number of casualties. That is all.”
    Jubilant seamen raised a deafening roar below decks, but Andrew sank deeper into depression. Blowing people to bits is nothing to cheer about, he thought. How many new widows were made today, how many mothers lost their sons, how many branches were severed from family trees?
    There was nothing else to do but stow the clean dishes, but his depression still weighed heavy on his heart, so he scoured the pots and mixing machines and counters and walls. An hour later, Andrew surveyed his domain again. A job well done , he thought.
    Satisfaction lifted his mood as he hauled himself to the deserted crew’s quarters. Lights-out was still hours away, so the men were lounging in the mess hall. Andrew looked forward to the pure silence to go with his solitude. He thought a cold shower would revive his exhausted body and he unbuttoned his shirt with unsteady fingers.
    He opened his locker and there on the top shelf sat his Buddha statue. But in the dim light, he saw that someone had taken a knife and hacked the face off the wooden deity.
    Andrew’s fingers caressed the statue’s wounds. The faceless Buddha sat as serenely as ever, unconcerned about the violation, but Andrew felt heat burning his temples. The statue itself meant little, but someone sneaking behind his back, too gutless to confront him to his face, infuriated him. He felt no compulsion for revenge, but he wanted to know who the culprit was. He considered long and hard about how to identify the coward, until an idea clicked in his head.
    He rebuttoned his shirt and pulled Jah-Jai, his flute, from the locker. Holding the instrument with both hands, he ran his fingers over the smooth finish.
    Jah-Jai was made of thick bamboo. Beautifully subtle veins weaved through the wood, and each hole was worn smooth from years of use. It had been a gift from Master Jung-Wei, who had hand carved the instrument and taught Andrew how to call forth its