THE FRIEND
Admiral Sutton must have had some serious pull, because Isabel was able to take a Pan Am Clipper to Honolulu, instead of crossing the country by train and then spending five days on a ship worrying about enemy submarines. Before the war, the Clippers were mostly enjoyed by the wealthy. Now, the military had commandeered the massive flying boats. Getting in the confined space of the plane had caused her palms to sweat, but once they rose above the clouds, she was so taken aback by the fluffy whites and the endless blue above that she forgot to be afraid.
To pass the long hours, she studied one of the Japanese language books that Admiral Sutton had sent, with a note inside that said, “Do your best to learn this before you arrive in Honolulu. And go give ’em hell.”
Nora had laughed and Anna scowled, but Ellen Mary raised her eyebrows and said, “You’re going to, I just know it.”
Isabel wasn’t so sure. Language came easily and her memory was strong, but not photographic like Em’s. One of the books taught structure, the other vocabulary. Both were a few inches thick and daunting. Every so often, she closed the book and pressed her face against the window. After stopping in San Francisco overnight, they were now bobbing around over the Pacific. She looked down for ships or submarines, but only saw whitecaps.
By the time the pilot announced their approach into Pearl Harbor, the air in the cabin had grown warm and sticky and achingly sad. She thought of Walt for the hundredth time that day. He had been here, in this very sky, above this indigo ocean, in a fight for his life—for everyone’s life, really. Once again, her palms heated up. Tears welled in her eyes.
The last time she’d seen her brother he’d been freshly shaved, rattling on about his cushy assignment in Hawai‘i, where a sandy beach was always just a few steps away. As far as he was concerned, he had hit the jackpot. He’d only earned his wings two months before, and he was revved up as all get-out.
“And we’ll be traveling in style, aboard the President Johnson!” he’d said with a huge grin.
His squadron had just returned to Washington from a month of war games in the Carolinas, and now he was off to some speck of sand halfway around the world.
“Any more news on Japan?” she had asked, trying not to show her apprehension.
He shrugged. “Japan is nothing to worry about. Not where we’ll be, at least.”
It was because of him that she’d taken the position with the navy. Even though he was army air corps. His idealism had been catching, and as always, whatever he did, she followed. “That’s not necessarily true, from what I hear,” she said.
“What is it you hear?” he wanted to know.
He had no idea what she did, other than that it involved more than answering telephones. He knew better than to press.
“Just that the Japanese have their sights on the whole of the Pacific. And that they’re unpredictable,” she said.
He checked his watch. “I have to run.”
With his calloused hands, he ruffled up her hair and pulled her in for a hug. It was this exact hug that had seen her through the loss of her mother, the unraveling of her father and years of dust and struggle in their hometown. Walt always smelled of baseball gloves and Old Spice and, more recently, cigarettes.
Pulling away, he looked down into her eyes and gave her a quick salute. “See ya, kid.”
Now, as she sat looking down over the same blue waters of his grave, those final words played over in her mind. Green as they came, Walt had nevertheless been one of the few air corps pilots to get off the ground on December 7, and one of the only ones not to return.
No, I won’t. I won’t see you again.
She couldn’t wait to locate his friends and find out more about his last days, hours and minutes. Several had written, expressing condolences, and one in particular had caused her to fold in half, sobbing. Only someone who knew loss could have written such a moving letter, and she was determined to meet him and thank him. She had saved the letter, neatly tucked away in her suitcase, from Second Lieutenant Matteo Russi.
The passengers deplaned at a floating dock in the greenish waters of Pearl Harbor. Stepping out, Isabel was hit by a warm burst of air that caught her off guard. Here it was, the middle of winter, and men were milling about in short sleeves and cotton. She had been warned, but until now had not quite believed. The smells were different, too—salt water and mud flats mingled with sweetness.
A husky black man appeared at her side. “Miss Cooper?”
It wouldn’t have been hard to guess who she was, seeing that she was the only woman on the plane, and dressed in her blues—a navy coat and skirt with black purse and shoes. “That’s me.”
“Welcome to Hawai‘i, or aloha, as they say here. I’m Chief Petty Officer Jones,” he said in a friendly voice.
“Thank you, Chief Jones. I can’t believe I’m actually here.”
The dock rose and fell beneath their feet, uneven as she felt.
“Oh, you’ll believe it soon enough when that wool uniform starts roasting you like pig on a stick. But it ain’t all bad here. Come on, let’s get your bags,” he said.
“Bag. I only have one,” she corrected him.
He cocked his head and gave her an odd look. “What kind of woman comes to Hawai‘i with only one bag?”
“One that’s here to work, I guess?”
He saluted her. “Touché.”
With so many people around, Jones kept the conversation light, asking about the flight and the weather in DC. Isabel, not in the mood for chitchat, did her best to appease him. She was still taking in the hulking gray ships at what could only be Battleship Row. Where this whole nightmare started. For the past year, the words Pearl Harbor had conjured up such violent and twisted images it was hard to reconcile those with the bluest sky she’d ever seen.
“Kinda takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” Jones said.
“It’s not what I expected.”
After retrieving her suitcase, they drove along the waterfront, passing warehouses and buildings and coconut trees. People, mostly men, walked hurriedly down the sidewalks. Everyone looked as though they had a job to do. This was not the Hawai‘i of hula dancers and wave riding, rather barbed wire and artillery guns.
Jones slowed as they passed a neat white two-story building. “This is the hub of COM 14. This is where you’ll report tomorrow morning at 0700. There’s an unmarked door on the far side that you enter through. The only one like it. Your quarters aren’t far from here, so you can walk.”
Leave it to the navy to be good at keeping secrets. She knew nothing of her housing assignment or transportation or anything, really. Her only instructions had been where and when to catch the flight.
“Can you tell me anything about the job?” she asked.
“I’ll save that for Captain Hudson. But I will say this—you are the first woman to join our ranks. Nor are the boys down there your usual suspects. We have what I like to call a can of mixed nuts. What I mean by that is there are personalities with a capital P. Some are too wrapped up in their own stuff to give you any trouble, but I’m not so sure about others. So, if anyone rubs you the wrong way, you let me know, okay?”
With arms thick as tree trunks, Jones looked like he could handle just about anyone. And he seemed to have an extra helping of confidence to go along with his biceps and triceps.
“Sounds like a deal,” she said. “Oh, and what do you mean by down there?”
“Combat Intelligence Unit, aka the Dungeon. Our office.”
“Why do you call it the Dungeon?” she asked, feeling a chill travel up her spine.
He winked. “You’ll see.
Her quarters turned out to be a tiny green house under a feathery tree, in a neighborhood of similar houses under feathery green trees. A hedge of red flowers lined the drive. The place was farther away than Isabel had expected, but as long as there were no snowstorms, she wouldn’t mind the walk.
“I suspect they were in a quandary with where to put you. In the end, Hudson got you bunked with one of the clerks from upstairs. Apparently, a whole new shipment of girls arrived last week. She’s been informed to help get you situated,” Jones told her.
No one was home, but the door was unlocked, so Isabel said goodbye to Jones and put her things in the empty bedroom. Exhausted, she kicked off her shoes, stripped off her coat and plopped onto the bed. Sunlight slanted in through the window, heating up a patch of skin on her shoulder. The birds outside were chattering and cooing and fluttering around. She was relieved to have the long journey behind her, and excited for the new one to begin. Within minutes, she felt herself drifting off.
She swore she had just closed her eyes when a knocking sound woke her. There in the doorway stood a silhouette of a woman holding a small lantern.
“You must be Isabel. I’m Gloria Moreno, your new roomie. Sorry to wake you, but you’ve been asleep for hours and I brought you back some food from the mess hall. Thought you may want a bite before going to bed for good, you know? Plus, I wanted to meet you,” she said, all in one breath.
Isabel sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Thank you, Gloria. Give me a minute and I’ll be right out.”
The house was dark, but a thin light shone out from cracks in the kitchen door. Isabel entered and found a dark-haired woman sitting at the table reading a newspaper. She looked up and did a once-over of Isabel.
“Why, we could be sisters! One dark, one light,” Gloria said.
Gloria had shoulder-length dark brown hair, eyebrows that curved up as though drawn on, and though her full lips turned down slightly, she radiated goodness. But instead of pale skin and blue eyes like Isabel, her skin was more olive toned and her eyes brown.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Isabel.
“How tall are you?”
“Five foot nine.”
“Me, too!” Gloria said, pulling the chair out and patting it. “Sit. I want to know everything about you. Me, I came from San Diego two weeks ago. I’m single, obviously, and I just finished a course in shorthand. I have nine brothers and sisters and I love to sew and I hate to swim. Coming to Hawai‘i is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I plan on landing a husband just as soon as I can. How about you?”
Isabel laughed. “I’m certainly not here to find a husband. I can’t sew worth a damn and I love to swim. And let’s see, I grew up in Indiana and I studied math and physics at Goucher College.” She paused, unsure of whether to say anything about Walt, but decided to get it out in the open. Plus, Gloria seemed so genuine and sweet. “I had a brother, but he died in ’41.”
Gloria wilted. “Oh, gosh, this breaks my heart. I’m so sorry. Don’t tell me he was here at Pearl Harbor?”
Isabel nodded. “Shot down by a Zero. One of the first casualties, from what they told us.”
“Those bastards! If it makes you feel any better, they have it coming to them. The Japanese army doesn’t stand a chance. Not from what I’ve seen going on here. I’ve never seen such determination and heart in the whole of my life. We mean business at Pearl Harbor, yes, we do. Was your brother navy, then?”
“Air corps. Newly minted.”
“I’m here if you need a shoulder to cry on, or help with anything on that front. I imagine you’ll be wanting to meet up with any of his pilot friends. Count me in on that. I’m good at tracking people down,” Gloria said.
“Thanks. Work comes first, but I do have a few names of guys he flew with.”
“I’m your gal. Speaking of work, what’s your position? With a math and physics degree, you must be smart.”
Gloria had more words in her than a dictionary, and just listening to her made Isabel exhausted. “They have me clerking for one of the communications offices,” she answered.
“Which one?
“Combat Intelligence Unit.”
She’d found that lying was easier when you kept it an inch from the truth.
Gloria frowned. “The one in the basement?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“From what I hear, that’s no ordinary unit. And you should see the guys that come and go from the back door. They never look you in the eye, all bearded and secretive and plain awkward. A bunch of nuts, if you ask me. What exactly is combat intelligence, anyway?”
Isabel shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out.”
The windows were all blocked with thick black paper and the room was stuffy. A plate full of food sat waiting on the other side of the tiny table, and Isabel eyed it. “Would you mind?”
Gloria put her hands to both sides of her cheek. “Look at me, so rude. Please, I brought this home for you. My brothers say I talk too much, so just butt in if I get tiresome. Fried chicken dripping in fat, and rice with coleslaw and pineapple. Not bad for a mess hall.”
They spoke for another hour after dinner, in plenty of run-on sentences, and when they said their good-nights, Gloria told her, “I can tell we’re going to be best of friends.”