Hinman, carefully briefed by Joan Richards, tried to cooperate, to vary his answers to the stock questions and to parry the pointed questions of those reporters whose publishers were strongly opposed to President Roosevelt’s international policies and the entry of the United States into the war.
One of those reporters, a lean man with a sharp nose and an irritating voice, went after Hinman in the question-and-answer section that had become a feature of his luncheon and dinner appearances. The reporter’s nagging questions and his caustic references to the low intelligence level of anyone who would be “deceived” about President Roosevelt’s “real reasons” for the American entry into the war had finally broken through Hinman’s composure.
Hinman gripped the edge of the lectern with his hard hands and looked out over the dinner audience for a long moment, his face grim. Then he looked straight at the reporter.
“Sir,” he began in a quiet voice. “I am getting damned sick and tired of you people who keep saying that I am a fool for fighting President Roosevelt’s war! I am damned sick and tired of it! And I am damned sick of you and everyone like you!
“If you think the other side is so great why in the hell aren’t you over there on that side? I happen to believe that if the other side wins we will lose every freedom we have and I am not going to let that happen as long as I am alive, not to me and by God, not to you!”
The man waved his pencil and started to reply but Hinman cut him off with a raised hand and the harsh ring of command in his voice.
“No, I will not let you speak, sir! I did you the courtesy of hearing you out and you do me the same courtesy!” He pointed his finger at the reporter.
“If you really think that this war we are in is not our war then, damn you, go out to Pearl Harbor and look at the remains of the United States Navy! There are more than two thousand dead men under the water of that harbor! Men who died without a decent chance to defend themselves! Men who were killed in a sneak attack that was timed,” his voice rose, “a sneak attack timed to catch those men as they were on their way to church service!” He leaned over the lectern, his eyes boring into the reporter’s eyes.
“My wife, God rest her soul, was on her way to church, to the chapel at Hickam Air Base in Pearl Harbor.
“She was in a car with the wives of two other officers. A Japanese pilot with a wealth of military targets in the harbor and on the Base machine-gunned that car with three women in it! He caught them fifty yards from the church!
“I don’t want your wife or anyone here to die like that! And I won’t let it happen as long as there is blood in my body, as long as the citizens — I said citizens, mister — as long as the citizens of this country give us the weapons we need to fight this ‘someone else’s war’ you talk about! And if you don’t like my attitude or what I say, mister, I’ll go out in the alley with you right now and you can do your damndest to change it!”
For a long moment there was a dead silence in the hall and then the diners surged to their feet applauding, stamping their feet. A reporter for The New York Times sighed and looked at a reporter for the Chicago Daily News.
“I think The New York Times is entitled to make an editorial comment for all of us,” he said. In full view of the diners and the speaker’s table he walked over to the reporter Hinman had blasted and politely turned him half-way around and then kicked him as hard as he could. The audience began to laugh and applaud and Joan Richards nudged Hinman.
“Make your regrets to the Mayor and let’s get the hell out of here,” she whispered. He nodded and said a few words to the Mayor, who clapped him on the back and started for the door. A radio reporter with a microphone stopped Hinman and Joan Richards.
“I have Captain Hinman right here, folks. You just heard him on this network. Captain, will you say a few words?”
Joan pulled on his arm but he stopped and bent to the microphone the man held up to his face.
“I would be happy to do that, sir,” he said slowly. “If I offended any of your audience with my sea-going language, I apologize. I do not apologize for what I said. I think it’s time someone stood up and said it. We are in a terrible, a bitter, vicious war with an implacable and determined enemy. We are going to win this war come what may and when we do I hope it will be the start of peace for generations to come. Thank you.”
“That was an exclusive statement from Captain Hinman, the submarine hero of the Navy, ladies and gentlemen, an exclusive report on this network….” the radio reporter was still babbling into his microphone as Hinman and Joan left by a side door.
An hour later, sitting in his hotel suite with his tie off and his shirt undone at the neck, Hinman looked at Joan.
“Well, lady, I guess I blew it! You might have to cancel the whole last week of this tour.”
“You don’t know very much about public relations, do you?” she said. “By noon tomorrow I’ll have at least a hundred requests for a speech by you!
“You were great! Absolutely great! And for your information, by tomorrow morning there will be pictures and a front-page story in every newspaper in the country! No, don’t get angry at me, I don’t mean that what you did was good because the story will get a big play.
“I mean that what you did was good because it was time someone told off those creeps! And about two thousand people sitting there listening and watching you do it approved. Didn’t you see them stand up, didn’t you hear them applaud? Didn’t you see Joe Edson of The New York Times walk over and kick that bastard square in his ass?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. You may be right. But I think now that I should have kept my head. I should have kept my answer impersonal, not dragged in that stuff about Marie and the other two women and the church.”
“Who has a better right?” she said softly. He nodded and stood up.
“Joan, lady, I think I’ll hit the sack. I want to think about tonight, about a better way to handle those bastards.”
She rose. “May I use your bathroom?” Without waiting for his assent she went in the bathroom and closed the door. She came out five minutes later dressed in a sheer nightgown that ended half-way between her hips and her knees.
Hinman’s eyes widened as he saw the roseate nipples of her full breasts through the sheer material, the bold triangle of black pubic hair, the slim legs and bare feet. He drew a long, shaky breath.
“Do you always carry your nightgown in your handbag?”
“It’s a habit I started four days ago,” she said calmly. “Nightgown and toothbrush. I told you and Ben Butler in Washington that I thought a woman had the right to ask to be loved by a man. This is how I choose to ask. Now give me your answer.”
“I don’t have the words,” he said simply. He held out his arms and she moved into them with a fluid motion, pressing herself against him, holding him tighter as she sensed and then felt his arousal. They clung together, his face in her crisp black curls, nuzzling her ear and neck, feeling the heat of her body, smelling the womanly aroma of her arousal. He slid his hand down her smooth back and she gently separated herself from him and walked over to the bed and got in and smiled at him.
Chapter 21
Hinman was standing at the half-opened window in the hotel room in San Francisco, listening to the muted rumble of traffic down in the street when he heard the bathroom door open. He turned as Joan came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her that covered her breasts and barely covered her thighs. He poured coffee for both of them.