eyes locked through the slashing rain. Mitchell leaned over the bulwarks, raindrops soaking his head.
Andrew felt a strong urge to cover his nakedness. The feeling grew until he finally turned around, but he still felt the officer’s gaze on his backside. He waited a minute before turning to see Mitchell still staring at him. Only when several bathers moved between him and Mitchell, swallowing Andrew in the crowd, did Mitchell walk inside the wheelhouse, where he was protected from the storm.
The setting sun momentarily broke below the cloud cover and the light caused the raindrops to gleam silver. Andrew inhaled sharply and held his breath. The men seemed to dance in liquid light. The sight of the crew being pelted with silver droplets caused him to exhale slowly.
As the squall passed, Andrew darted to his locker, toweled off, pulled on clean skivvies, and stared up at his bunk. They were stacked five high and his was the top one. Only eighteen inches of space separated the mattress and overhead, allowing him roughly the same space as a coffin.
To maneuver into his slot, he had to fling his body seven feet in the air, up and sideways at the same time. He missed by six inches with his first two leaps, but managed to land on fresh-laundered sheets his third.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the overhead, twelve inches above his nose. A woman’s genial brown eyes gazed at him. Taped to the overhead was a picture of a Vargas pinup girl ripped from an issue of Argosy magazine. He grinned as he studied her wavy hairdo and shapely legs. He carefully peeled the picture from the overhead, folded it in half, in half again, and let it drop to the deck, knowing that a crewmember would find and treasure it.
Andrew listened for the sound of rain battering the ship, but the storm had passed and he only heard the crew, setting up cots along the main deck. The murmur of their conversations echoed through the night air. Careless bursts of laughter peppered with obscenities soared above the steady rumble of voices.
Because the men slept on deck, he and Grady had the compartment to themselves. He was not sleepy. He simply wanted to lie in his allotted space and relish the sensation of being perfectly clean. A breeze drifted through the open portholes and he focused on the sensation of air moving over his skin.
His mind wandered through the day’s events and he envisioned that smile on Lieutenant Mitchell’s face. He smiled back at the image. Mitchell winked at him and he winked too. The image leaned closer and Andrew lifted his hand to caress that sunburnt cheek. He fantasized the officer leaning closer to kiss him. He could almost feel those lips touching his, and he laughed at himself.
He indulged in this reverie for another half minute before letting the image evaporate. It is enough, he thought. On this killing machine, it is enough to lie on crisp sheets and caress the memory of Mitchell, enough to anticipate the next time I’ll see him.
His mind gravitated into nothingness and he floated in a comfortable dimension of no thoughts, no fears, no hopes, and no disappointments. A half hour later he drifted into sleep.
When the dream came, he was a boy again, reliving a memory. He and his schoolmates followed Master Jung-Wei through a rainforest. The boys wore the traditional saffron robes and shaved heads of acolytes. Master Jung-Wei was thin and bald, and his ivory-colored eyebrows were perched high on his wrinkled face.
Clifford Baldrich marched at the end of the line. He was Andrew’s only friend and the only pure European in the school. His father was a diplomat with the British consulate in Saigon. Clifford was pale, and his angelic face swept below his silky brush of blond eyebrows.
They hiked along a path that led to a clearing on a mountain slope. Andrew saw their destination below: nestled beside a lake at the base of the mountain sat the Bai Hur Sze Temple, where he would spend the summer months between school
Andrew felt a strong urge to cover his nakedness. The feeling grew until he finally turned around, but he still felt the officer’s gaze on his backside. He waited a minute before turning to see Mitchell still staring at him. Only when several bathers moved between him and Mitchell, swallowing Andrew in the crowd, did Mitchell walk inside the wheelhouse, where he was protected from the storm.
The setting sun momentarily broke below the cloud cover and the light caused the raindrops to gleam silver. Andrew inhaled sharply and held his breath. The men seemed to dance in liquid light. The sight of the crew being pelted with silver droplets caused him to exhale slowly.
As the squall passed, Andrew darted to his locker, toweled off, pulled on clean skivvies, and stared up at his bunk. They were stacked five high and his was the top one. Only eighteen inches of space separated the mattress and overhead, allowing him roughly the same space as a coffin.
To maneuver into his slot, he had to fling his body seven feet in the air, up and sideways at the same time. He missed by six inches with his first two leaps, but managed to land on fresh-laundered sheets his third.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the overhead, twelve inches above his nose. A woman’s genial brown eyes gazed at him. Taped to the overhead was a picture of a Vargas pinup girl ripped from an issue of Argosy magazine. He grinned as he studied her wavy hairdo and shapely legs. He carefully peeled the picture from the overhead, folded it in half, in half again, and let it drop to the deck, knowing that a crewmember would find and treasure it.
Andrew listened for the sound of rain battering the ship, but the storm had passed and he only heard the crew, setting up cots along the main deck. The murmur of their conversations echoed through the night air. Careless bursts of laughter peppered with obscenities soared above the steady rumble of voices.
Because the men slept on deck, he and Grady had the compartment to themselves. He was not sleepy. He simply wanted to lie in his allotted space and relish the sensation of being perfectly clean. A breeze drifted through the open portholes and he focused on the sensation of air moving over his skin.
His mind wandered through the day’s events and he envisioned that smile on Lieutenant Mitchell’s face. He smiled back at the image. Mitchell winked at him and he winked too. The image leaned closer and Andrew lifted his hand to caress that sunburnt cheek. He fantasized the officer leaning closer to kiss him. He could almost feel those lips touching his, and he laughed at himself.
He indulged in this reverie for another half minute before letting the image evaporate. It is enough, he thought. On this killing machine, it is enough to lie on crisp sheets and caress the memory of Mitchell, enough to anticipate the next time I’ll see him.
His mind gravitated into nothingness and he floated in a comfortable dimension of no thoughts, no fears, no hopes, and no disappointments. A half hour later he drifted into sleep.
When the dream came, he was a boy again, reliving a memory. He and his schoolmates followed Master Jung-Wei through a rainforest. The boys wore the traditional saffron robes and shaved heads of acolytes. Master Jung-Wei was thin and bald, and his ivory-colored eyebrows were perched high on his wrinkled face.
Clifford Baldrich marched at the end of the line. He was Andrew’s only friend and the only pure European in the school. His father was a diplomat with the British consulate in Saigon. Clifford was pale, and his angelic face swept below his silky brush of blond eyebrows.
They hiked along a path that led to a clearing on a mountain slope. Andrew saw their destination below: nestled beside a lake at the base of the mountain sat the Bai Hur Sze Temple, where he would spend the summer months between school
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