The Winds of War

had been vying to entertain Hugh Cleveland, and people had flown in from other islands to Oahu just to attend the parties. The Navy had even postponed a fleet drill simulating an enemy surprise attack, since it conflicted with the broadcast time. Front-page headlines in Honolulu papers about the show quite overshadowed the news of the encirclement of several Russian armies around Kiev.

In an awkward, halting manner that had a certain charm, Madeline described the rules of the new show. Only genuine fighting men could take part in the amateur contest. Every participant would receive a five-hundred dollar defense bond. The performer winning the most applause would get an extra prize: the sponsor would fly in his girl or his parents to visit him for a week. “Mr. Cleveland just hopes there won’t be too many winners with girls in Cape Town or Calcutta,” she said, drawing a laugh. “Well, I guess that’s about it. Now here’s the man you’re all waiting for — the star of the famous Amateur Hour and now of our new Happy Hour — my nice boss, Mr. Hugh Cleveland.” Walking to a seat near the band, she demurely sat down, tucking her skirt close to her legs.

Cheers greeted Cleveland as he walked to the microphone. “Okeybe-bedokey,” he drawled. This phrase, delivered in a cowboy twang, had become a sort of trademark for him, and it brought applause. “Maybe I ought to let Madeline Henry keep going. I’ve got the job, but she’s sure got the lines.” He wagged his eyebrows, and the audience laughed. “I’d better introduce her brothers, you’ll see just how big and strong they are. The naval aviator is Lieutenant Warren Henry of the Enterprise. Where are you, Warren?”

“Oh, Christ,” Warren said. “No. No.” He cringed down in his chair in a middle row.

“Stand up, you fool,” Janice hissed.

Warren got grimly to his feet, a long lean figure in white, and dropped at once, sinking far down.

“Welcome, Warren. And now here’s Byron Henry, of the Devilfish.”

Byron half rose, then sat down with an unpleasant mutter.

“Hi, Byron! Their father’s a battleship man, folks, so the family’s pretty well got the sea covered — the surface, the air, and the deeps. That’s the Henry family, and one reason our country remains strong and safe is that we have plenty of Henry families.” The governor and the admirals joined heartily in the handclapping. Slumped low, Byron made a gagging sound in his throat.

The first Happy Hour delighted the audience, and promised great popular success. Cleveland had been all over the United States; he could make folksy knowledgeable jokes about out-of-the-way places. Working without a script, holding prepared gags in his memory, he created the illusion of an easy, bright, small-town wit. What emerged above all was the reticent homesickness of the soldiers and sailors who performed. Their little acts resembled church social entertainment; the band played patriotic marches; it was an hour of sentimental Americana. Madeline’s awkwardness, as she introduced the acts and took some joshing, fitted the homey atmosphere.

Byron was not amused. He sat through the show in a slouch, his arms folded, looking vacantly at his shoe tips. Once Janice nudged her husband, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head at Byron. Warren pantomimed the bulge of a pregnant woman’s stomach.

After the show the stage was so crowded with the governor, his entourage, and the high brass, all ringing Cleveland, that the Henrys couldn’t mount the steps.

“Wouldn’t you know,” Byron said, Branch Hoban’s right in there.” The handsome skipper of his submarine, standing between two admirals, was shaking Cleveland’s hand, talking to him like an old friend.

“You having trouble with Branch Hoban?” Warren said. “He’s an okay guy, Briny.”

“He’s having trouble with me.”

“Hey, the big strong brothers! Come on up.” Cleveland saw them and beckoned, laughing. “Gad, Madeline’s one girl whose honor is safe, hey? Janice, the governor here has just invited me to lunch, and I’ve just turned him down. Told him you’re expecting me.”

Janice gasped, “No, please, you mustn’t do that.”

“You’re dead right about that,” Madeline laughed.

The governor smiled at her. “It’s all right. Hugh’s coming to Washington Place later. I didn’t realize Senator Lacouture’s daughter was lurking in our midst. We must have you to dinner soon.”

Janice took a bold chance. “Won’t you join us for lunch, Governor? We’re just having steaks and beer on the lawn, nothing much, but we’d love to have you.”

“Say, steaks and beer on the lawn sounds pretty good. Let me find my lady.”

Warren and Branch Hoban were exchanging cheerful insults about their nonexistent paunches, and about how old married they both looked. Byron stood by with blank face and dull eyes. He broke in, “Excuse me, Captain. My sister-in-law’s invited me to lunch. May I go?”

Warren said, “Hey! Don’t tell me junior’s in hack.”

“Oh, Briny and I have had a leetle disagreement. Sure, Briny, you have your lunch with Janice and Warren. Report aboard at fifteen hundred.”

“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.” At Byron’s uncivil tone, Warren slightly shook his head.

Janice rode home in the governor’s limousine; Madeline and Byron went in Warren’s old station wagon. The double lei of pink and yellow flowers around the sister’s neck perfumed the air in the car. She said, gaily, “Well, well, just the three of us. When did this last happen?”

“Listen, Briny,” Warren said, “Branch Hoban’s an old pal of mine. What’s the beef? Maybe I can help.”

“I drew a sketch of an air compressor for my officers’ course book. He didn’t like it. He wants me to do it over. I won’t. I’m in hack until I do.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I think so myself.”

“I mean you’re being ridiculous.”

“Warren, on our way from San Francisco, an air compressor conked out because the oil pump froze. The chief was sick. I stripped down that compressor and got it going.”

“Three cheers, but did you draw a good sketch?”

“It was a lousy sketch, but I fixed that compressor.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“It’s the whole point.”

“No, the whole point is that Branch Hoban decides whether or not to recommend you for your dolphins.”

“I don’t care about getting dolphins.”

“The hell you don’t,” Warren said.

“Look, Warren, I was shanghaied aboard the Devilfish. I had orders to new construction, the Tuna, but my exec and Hoban pulled a fast one at ComSubPac. Moreover, it wasn’t my idea to go to submarine school in the first place. Dad shoved me in, mostly to keep me from marrying Natalie. That’s why she went to Italy. That’s why she’s still stuck there. My life is snafued beyond all measure because I went to sub school. God knows when I’ll see my wife again. And my baby, if I’ve got one. She’s having it on the other side of the world. That’s what’s on my mind, not dolphins.”

“You’re in the Navy now. Do you want to get beached?”

“Why not? The hours are better and the mail is more reliable.”

“Oh, horseshit. Pardon me, Mad.”

“Shucks, this is like old times. Anyhow, you should hear Hugh talk. Yikes!” she squealed, as Warren bounced off the highway onto grass, avoiding a rusty old green Buick cutting in front of him.

Warren said calmly, “These Kanaka drivers give you gray hairs.”

“There’s another fellow who leaves me cold, that Cleveland,” Byron said. “How did you get mixed up with him, Matty?”

“I’m not mixed up with him,” Madeline rapped out. “I work for him.”

Byron gave her an affectionate smile. “I know, sis.”

“He does a good job,” Warren said. “That show goes over.”

Byron said, “What? Why, the whole thing is so phony! He doesn’t make up those jokes, he’s got them memorized.”

“You’re dead right about that,” Madeline laughed.

“It’s obvious. He just puts on a big smooth empty act. He reminds me of Branch Hoban.”