coated his upper lip. It was the sexiest thing he had ever witnessed.
Mitchell watched Andrew until the sailor rose and glided down the forecastle. After Andrew slipped out of sight, the officer surprised himself by joining the remainder of the services on the fantail. He stood behind the last row, on the fringe of the believers.
Moyer read from the book of Luke, gripping his Bible and speaking with a trembling voice as he told of the love between Jesus and his disciple, John. How, at the Last Supper, John laid his head on Jesus’s breast.
Mitchell listened to the intimate tones of Moyer’s voice while trying to picture the loving scene. He imagined the Savior’s hand holding out the bread that represents his body, and he focused on the smooth skin spread over delicately formed bones. Moyer mentioned Calvary, and Mitchell’s vision shifted to the Savior’s nakedness lay against the rough wood, awaiting the press of the nails.
A sheen of sweat spread over Mitchell’s forehead. His midsection tightened as the vision expanded and he imagined his own cheek pressed against the taut skin of the Savior’s breast. He stared up into the Savior’s eyes and was jolted back to reality as he realized that his vision had Andrew’s almond-shaped eyes and amber-colored skin.
“Let us pray,” Moyer said.
Mitchell did not bow his head with the others. He was afraid to close his eyes, afraid that the vision would return. He gazed at the sky over Moyer’s head as if he were looking for a sign from the Holy Spirit.
Moyer’s voice swelled as he recited the closing prayer. The expression on his face looked as if a vision of heaven had penetrated his eyes.
Mitchell left the service in a daze. He stumbled down the steel deck on his way to the wardroom to retrieve his glass of neat whiskey.
Chapter Ten
April 23, 1942—1000 hours
A JEEP from naval headquarters drove onto the dock and parked alongside the quarterdeck. The driver pulled two weather-stained mail sacks from the jeep and hoisted them aboard. Seaman Cord cried, “Mail Ho!” His call echoed along the deck and was repeated by other voices throughout the ship.
Cord heaved the sacks to the port side of the quarterdeck, opened one, and grabbed a fist-full of moldy letters. He stood on a torpedo launcher to elevate himself above the sailors gathering around, yelling the name on a letter. When the owner shouted a quick “Here,” Cord tossed the envelope in the direction of the voice while reading the name on the next letter.
Hudson sauntered to the crew’s quarters. He switched off the overhead lamps and sluggishly climbed into his bunk like a weasel crawling into its hole. He laid his head on his sweat-stained pillow, dragging his right arm over his face to cover his eyes with the inside of his elbow. He lay stock-still, as if trying to ignore Cord’s voice calling out names.
Andrew breezed into the forecastle still wearing his orange robes and a dreamy smile. He flipped on the overhead lamps on his way to his locker and peeled off his upper robe.
“Turn the lamp off when you leave,” Hudson said with a throaty snarl.
Andrew whirled around, somewhat surprised. “Sorry, didn’t know anybody was in here. Guess we haven’t been aboard long enough to have mail routed to us. Maybe by the next delivery.”
“I never get mail,” Hudson snapped. “No family, no sweetheart, no one to write to, and no one to get a letter from. All my family is here on this ship. It’s all I got.”
Andrew felt overwhelmed that Hudson of all people would make such a personal confession to him. He faced his locker and stripped out of his inner robe and yellow undergarments, carefully folding and storing the fine material. He climbed into his work dungarees and switched off the lamps. As he stepped through the hatch, he leaned his head back inside the compartment.
“I never get mail either. I have family, my father, but he got used to ignoring me when he
Mitchell watched Andrew until the sailor rose and glided down the forecastle. After Andrew slipped out of sight, the officer surprised himself by joining the remainder of the services on the fantail. He stood behind the last row, on the fringe of the believers.
Moyer read from the book of Luke, gripping his Bible and speaking with a trembling voice as he told of the love between Jesus and his disciple, John. How, at the Last Supper, John laid his head on Jesus’s breast.
Mitchell listened to the intimate tones of Moyer’s voice while trying to picture the loving scene. He imagined the Savior’s hand holding out the bread that represents his body, and he focused on the smooth skin spread over delicately formed bones. Moyer mentioned Calvary, and Mitchell’s vision shifted to the Savior’s nakedness lay against the rough wood, awaiting the press of the nails.
A sheen of sweat spread over Mitchell’s forehead. His midsection tightened as the vision expanded and he imagined his own cheek pressed against the taut skin of the Savior’s breast. He stared up into the Savior’s eyes and was jolted back to reality as he realized that his vision had Andrew’s almond-shaped eyes and amber-colored skin.
“Let us pray,” Moyer said.
Mitchell did not bow his head with the others. He was afraid to close his eyes, afraid that the vision would return. He gazed at the sky over Moyer’s head as if he were looking for a sign from the Holy Spirit.
Moyer’s voice swelled as he recited the closing prayer. The expression on his face looked as if a vision of heaven had penetrated his eyes.
Mitchell left the service in a daze. He stumbled down the steel deck on his way to the wardroom to retrieve his glass of neat whiskey.
Chapter Ten
April 23, 1942—1000 hours
A JEEP from naval headquarters drove onto the dock and parked alongside the quarterdeck. The driver pulled two weather-stained mail sacks from the jeep and hoisted them aboard. Seaman Cord cried, “Mail Ho!” His call echoed along the deck and was repeated by other voices throughout the ship.
Cord heaved the sacks to the port side of the quarterdeck, opened one, and grabbed a fist-full of moldy letters. He stood on a torpedo launcher to elevate himself above the sailors gathering around, yelling the name on a letter. When the owner shouted a quick “Here,” Cord tossed the envelope in the direction of the voice while reading the name on the next letter.
Hudson sauntered to the crew’s quarters. He switched off the overhead lamps and sluggishly climbed into his bunk like a weasel crawling into its hole. He laid his head on his sweat-stained pillow, dragging his right arm over his face to cover his eyes with the inside of his elbow. He lay stock-still, as if trying to ignore Cord’s voice calling out names.
Andrew breezed into the forecastle still wearing his orange robes and a dreamy smile. He flipped on the overhead lamps on his way to his locker and peeled off his upper robe.
“Turn the lamp off when you leave,” Hudson said with a throaty snarl.
Andrew whirled around, somewhat surprised. “Sorry, didn’t know anybody was in here. Guess we haven’t been aboard long enough to have mail routed to us. Maybe by the next delivery.”
“I never get mail,” Hudson snapped. “No family, no sweetheart, no one to write to, and no one to get a letter from. All my family is here on this ship. It’s all I got.”
Andrew felt overwhelmed that Hudson of all people would make such a personal confession to him. He faced his locker and stripped out of his inner robe and yellow undergarments, carefully folding and storing the fine material. He climbed into his work dungarees and switched off the lamps. As he stepped through the hatch, he leaned his head back inside the compartment.
“I never get mail either. I have family, my father, but he got used to ignoring me when he
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