The Apostates (7 page)

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Private Alexander Burke was jarred awake to the sound of the morning klaxon blaring out. He groaned, pushed the covers away, and then, jumped off the top bunk to reach his footlocker. Sailors all around him were scrambling like ants to get themselves presentable and fit for their duties. Men double-timed it in every direction, throwing on clothes, thrusting feet into shoes and then bursting through their quarter’s hatchway, emerging from the bowels of the ship like said ants from the colony. They moved to their posts to relieve the skeletal, night crew. Sailors hurried to the engine room, to the bridge, to the weather deck, and to the gun batteries. The battleship had been steaming all night up the Southern East Coast of the United States of America. Their route had taken them from Long Beach, California, down through the Panama Canal, through Caribbean waters and finally backs to U.S. waterways.

Burke found his post within the mark seven, three-gun turret nearest the bow of the ship’s hull. The massive gun turrets required a crew of seventy-nine men to operate, so he was never alone in his job. He was responsible for operating the rammer equipment during combat. The machinery would load high-velocity shells, brought up the projectile hoist from the projectile ring after each shot from the three-gun turret. The job was not very pleasant. Training exercises were already causing a ringing in his ears that would last for weeks, even with ear protection. The gun deck also had a tendency to fill with powder smoke during protracted engagements. The gun deck had adequate ventilation but when the air for miles around the vessel filled with burning fuel smoke and gun-smoke, fresh air was hard to come by.

Burke performed his routine mandatory morning checks. He was relieved that they were not heading for combat for their current mission, and yet he couldn’t help yearn to get stuck into combat, after all, he signed up for a war, and he had not seen any. He grew up watching the newsreels from the Great War documenting the legendary battleship duels between the Royal Navy and the Kaiser’s fleet. He had dreamed of experiencing the full force of letting a ‘broadside’ rip. Of course, during training the reality was not a glamorous as the fantasy or as glorified as newsreels let on.

Private Burke mulled over their current mission. What an honor it was, but it certainly wouldn’t win him any glory or combat credibility. There was a general announcement that sounded out over the crude intercom, “Attention all personnel, the U.S.S. Iowa is preparing to make a port call to the Port of Washington-Dulles. Perform pre-disembarkation checks now. We need the vessel ship-shape for the President of the United States of America.”

Private Burke wondered if he would meet the President in person. He remembered F.D.R.s ‘Fire Side Chats’ during the depression in the thirties. He was a boy back then. Living with his parents and extended family. They had owned a family peach plantation just south of town. It had been the family’s land since at least the early Nineteenth century. For Alexander Burke, a life of peach picking was not going to cut it. He had already spent the majority of his childhood being a glorified field hand. Burke felt a sense of duty to his family and parents, but he had yearned for something more. So in the spring 1942, he took a trip to downtown Fresno and enlisted with the United States Navy.

He received his marching orders and
reported to the Treasure Island Naval Facility just off of Yerba Buena Island
in the San Francisco Bay. He was assigned a post on the U.S.S. Iowa, which was
refueling and preparing for training missions. Burke underwent training and had
a knack for being a member of the gunnery crew. When the crew was ready and the
ship fully manned, they received the mission briefing. It was a top-secret
mission, to transport a high-level government official overseas. The crew was
not told the name of the V.I.P. nor the destination of the vessel. The U.S.S.
Iowa would be part of a sizable task force. The Iowa in actuality would not be
well protected as decoy vessels would be placed in the protective formation to
fool enemy submarines that the important cargo must be located on the most
heavily protected ship. If the Iowa were attacked there would not be much
support, so the Navy was gambling that the subterfuge would hold.

The U.S.S. Iowa slowed its nautical speed as it lumbered toward the anchorage of the port. Burke could feel the rumbling resistance of the engine kicking in to slow the vessel. Sailors rushed on the deck to toss the mooring ropes overboard so they could be secured. With the Iowa moored, a massive gangway was deployed from the deck of the ship to the pier. The crew was given clearance for shore leave because the battleship would be in port overnight. Burke wasted no time disembarking the ship and starting off toward downtown looking for a good time. Burke caught a trolley on the line leading to downtown Washington D.C. The trolley rattled on the tracks and sounded its bell at each intersection; he took a seat near the middle of the trolley, thinking about all the trouble he was planning on getting into. Burke was spacing out staring straight ahead of himself when, in his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of exposed, curvaceous leg, enveloped in a casing of nylon with a seam line traveling up the back of the calf.

Burke tried to look straight ahead, but there was something magnetic that drew his eye to the enticing pair of legs. The feet were dressed in standard issue, heeled brogue women’s dress shoes. He felt compelled, by both heads, to gather more information on the body and head that was attached to the inviting legs. Burke, thinking he was being discreet, continued on his reconnaissance mission to survey the landscape. He gathered that a white knee length skirt, part of a front-buttoned nurse’s uniform, concealed the legs. The legs were crossed in a modest fashion as to deny Burke an addition to the showing that he had already been privy to. Burke’s mind couldn’t help but to try to use its telepathic powers to will the legs to open the gate and reveal the treasure contained within, but his mental powers were non-existent, so he needed to change his strategy.

Burke, trying to conceal his intentions,
decided to study the rest of his query. He quickly moved his eyes over the
torso and bosom, which was generous but not excessive. Burke’s eyes continued
their journey northward. He gazed upon the coffee complexion of exposed neck
and collarbone. The ruby red lips demanded attention, but when he reached the
eyes, he found they stared back with a curious, but annoyed look. The eyes
belonged to the face of a nurse whose symmetrical face drew his glance and
refused to let go. Burke broke his glance and pretended to be looking out the
window, but it did not work. He glanced back in her direction. She was reading
a novel, ‘Brave New World’, he could see, but she glanced up to meet his eyes
the moment she was in his sights.

He felt his palms sweat and a knot
developed in his stomach, and time seemed to stand still in that instant.

“Fuck it,” he thought to himself. He might
be dead in a month’s time, resting in a watery grave for eternity, so what did
he have to lose? He took a deep breath, picked himself up out of his seat and
took the few paces across the trolley to her position. He moved slowly and
methodically. He sensed that she was well aware of his movements and
intentions, but she continued to keep her eyes glued to her book. Burke felt a
sense of dread and elation overtake him in equal parts. There was an empty seat
available next to the nurse, so he claimed it. The nurse pretended to read. He
glanced at the chapter title at the top of the page it displayed “Bernard Marx”.
Burke wondered who that was; he hadn’t read the book.

“Looks like an interesting book you have
there, miss,” he flung the line out clumsily, hoping for a bite.

Yes, very interesting, Do you know the
author?” she inquired with a raised eyebrow.

He glanced at the cover, “By Aldous Huxley”. He wondered who that was. The last novel he had read was “Tom Sawyer” in high school. Books that really interested him were ‘historical reference’. What should he do? Private Burke had a few options in front of him. Firstly, he could lie outright and attempt to fabricate his knowledge of the book or other books by the author. Secondly, he could lie and use overly vague language to feign knowledge, hope she did not quiz him, and then change the subject at the first opportunity. Lastly, he could be truthful, which would not be very exciting but may give an opportunity for conversation. The dilemma weighed heavily on him. Burke decided he would opt for being truthful, and so he spoke, “Can’t say I do know the author, miss. What is the book about?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t blow him off completely.

She continued to play the game. Glancing
at him square in the eyes, she responded, “Well, there’s no simple way to
answer that question. It’s an interesting book to say the least. Not exactly an
enjoyable book to read. But essentially, well, you know Hitler over in Germany
and his government, right?” she asked.

“Well, yeah sure, who doesn’t?” he asked
back, rhetorically.

“Yes, well, it’s like that, but what if
fascism was taking place in England, but with a Capitalistic twist? That’s
sorta what the book has to do with.” She tried to simplify the answer as best
she could, and watched him mull over her answer.

“That’s crazy, though. Something like that
could never happen in England or here. I mean that’s reason why we’re going to
kick Adolf’s ass back into Berlin. That’s the reason for all of this. You and
me,” he responded slightly annoyed. He had noticed previously that she was
wearing a military nurse’s uniform.

“Yes, well, it is a work of fiction. Of curse it wouldn’t happen here,” she agreed, mainly in an attempt to avert a debate.

“So, sailor, where are you from?” She
changed the subject.

“Well, I’m from out west, California
actually,” Burke announced proudly.

“You’re a long way from home, sailor.
Where are you being shipped off to?” she inquired with genuine interest.

“It’s interesting you ask. You aren’t a
Hun spy are ya?” he jested.

“You must know an all-American girl when you see one, don’t ya?” she returned the joke.

“Well, I could tell you, but then well...”
Burke used the tired, old line, expecting her to finish it.

“Don’t tell me. You’d have to kill me?”
she delivered as expected.

“No, Actually I’d have to take you out for a drink, then we’d have to get married before I shipped out, so that when I told you about my mission you wouldn’t talk or risk putting your husband in danger!” Burke smiled at her and made eye contact when he delivered that line. She smiled back and blushed slightly.

“Well, sailor this is my stop,” she
announced as the conductor called out ‘F’ street.

“That means we have to get that drink,
now!” he rapidly fired off, softly grabbing her arm.

She looked at him momentarily, sizing him up, wrestling with an internal monolog, which consisted of an angel and a demon vying for supremacy. The demon prevailed.

“Old Ebbit Grill. That’s my neighborhood haunt. Better get a move on, stranger!” she smiled and walked to the exit, then hopped off the trolley. Finding himself still sitting down, he jumped off the seat and ran toward the exit, the folding door was closing. Private Burke thrust his shoulder through the doorway to force the door from closing, then pulled his body through and jumped to the pavement.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it, sailor,” she jostled his arm and started walking.

“Ya have to give a fellow a cue
sometimes!” he said and walked fast to match her stride.

“So, miss, where are you from?” Burke
asked.

“I don’t know. What do you mean? You mean
my ethnicity or where I’m from geographically?” she specified.

“Gee, I guess, I mean–Yeah, all of
it. I want to know!” he exclaimed.

“Well...If you want to start from the beginning, different sides of my family are from Puerto Rico and Mexico, but myself, I was born and raised here in D.C. American to the core,” she announced gleefully while pulling a cigarette from her purse. Burke took the cue and pulled a matchbook from his white trousers. He snapped a match from the book and struck it against the sandpaper to ignite the head. He presented the flame offering to the tip of her cigarette, which she accepted, that birthed a glowing cherry.

“Hey, that’s swell. You’re like a fusion
of various backgrounds, pretty neat. And you live in the nation’s capital.
Definitely, a little more exciting than me just being a European mutt,” he
conceded.

“I don’t know about that. If you live it
every day it’s routine, nothing exotic about it. Not sayin’ I’m not proud of my
background, mind you,” the nurse added a disclaimer to her statement.

Burke nodded in agreement as they walked two abreast down the cobblestone-lined street. The air was chilled. It was early November and the season had turned. The trees were shedding their multiple-hued leaves and piles began to accumulate in the street and yards. The monumental civic center architecture dominated the street as they moved closer to the White House compound, which could be seen at the end of the street. Military men, sailors, and suits were crisscrossing the street. Delegates and political aides rushed about, conducting important business for the war effort. It was around rush hour and the sun was setting. Reddish streaks spread out across the sky from the sun and collided with cumulus clouds, dyeing them with light.

They finished their stroll from the
trolley to the terminus of F Street, where it slammed into 15th street. A
monolithic building blazoned with an etching that read “Old Ebbit Grill” stood
before them.

“This is the place,” the nurse remarked.

“Looks like that'll do the trick,” he proclaimed as he grabbed the handle of the wooden door and opened it for her. She nodded with appreciation and proceeded inside. Burke couldn’t help but to appreciate the two opposing, mounds composing her rear end, obscured by white fabric that undulated as she took each step. Burke let the door free and followed her in. The establishment exuded an air of regalia with its Victorian decor. Carved and molded woodwork encased the bar and spanned the walls. Ornately framed mirrors lined the back of the bar, reflecting the other side of the room, making it look larger. Black wrought-iron chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, which let off diffused light to set the mood. The one oddity of the space was the taxidermied heads of exotic beasts that lined the walls. The rumor around town is that Theodore Roosevelt, the Warrior-President himself, had bagged the beasts; from a safe distance and with a big gun. Walrus, bear, and buck were among the cast of victims.