Voyage To Somewhere Part 7

ALTHOUGH THE mail relieved the basic tenseness of the s.h.i.+p, it had a deleterious effect on some of the men that did not appear until some days afterward. The quartermaster had not been the only one to get bad news. White had received news of his father's death. His mother had written that she thought she could run the family hardware store without much difficulty, and his wife, Betsy, had written that she was going to move in with his mother and help in the store. White told me all this one dark night just before he relieved the wheel. He spoke quietly, and it would have been somehow wrong to give him any blithe rea.s.surances.

"I figure they'll make out all right," he concluded. "My Betsy is pretty smart."

I could tell that Mr. Warren had received some kind of bad news, because right after the mail came he started spending all his time in his stateroom. On the bridge he indulged in no conversation and even at meals he sat silently. His sharp young face which always had had an intent look appeared more strained than ever.

"What's wrong with Mr. Warren?" Mr. Crane asked me after dinner one night, when Mr. Warren had just excused himself.

"I don't know," I said "I guess we better just stay away from him."

Not for a week did I learn what was troubling Mr. Warren. Then one night while he had the watch we were sitting alone together on the starboard wing of the bridge. It was a beautiful night; the moon gilded the water and whitened the night sky. Six miles away to our left the coast of New Guinea showed like a low black cloud. Ahead of us the horizon was clear, and the s.h.i.+p moved over the smooth ocean almost without roll or pitch.

"Nice night, isn't it?" I said.

Mr. Warren leaned on the rail of the bridge and stared moodily ahead. For a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer me at all.

"Yeah," he said at last, "it's all right."

I ducked into the chart room and lit my pipe. Coming out on the bridge again with my hand over the bowl to conceal its glow, I sat on the stool in the corner and watched the smoke drift away in the moonlight.

"Captain," Mr. Warren said at length, "do you have a wife?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I do."

"How long have you been married?"

"About six years."

There was another long silence during which my pipe went out. I held it until I was sure the spark had been extinguished, then I tapped it over the side. Mr. Warren stood with his back toward me.

"Tell me," he said suddenly, "how does your wife act? When you're away, I mean."

"What do you mean, how does she act?" I asked.

"Does she go out with other men?"

I took my pouch from my pocket and filled my pipe slowly enough to give me time to think. "I guess she goes out with old friends," I said. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"Does she go to dances and c.o.c.ktail lounges and places like that?"

"I don't know," I said. "I never asked her."

There was another long silence. I wanted to go back to the chart room to relight my pipe, but there was something so urgent in Mr. Warren's voice that I stayed.

"My wife, Rachel," he said at last, "she was going back East to live with her family I've never met her family, but I guess they're pretty nice. They live in Philadelphia. Anyway, she was going back there, but I got a letter from her saying she had decided to stay in San Francisco."

"Well," I said, "I don't see anything so wrong in that. She probably wants to be there when you come back."

Mr. Warren ignored me. For a moment he was silent, then, still staring straight ahead over the bow, he spoke again.

"I got another letter. It was from a friend of mine, a guy I went to school with. He said that he had met Rachel in a c.o.c.ktail lounge. She was sitting there alone. He said they had a few drinks together, then some guy came for her, and the two of them went out together. It was an Army lieutenant."

"I don't see anything so bad about that," I said. "There could be all kinds of logical explanations of that."

Mr. Warren turned around. In the moonlight his face looked white. "Do you think I ought to ask her for some of them?" he asked. "Do you think I ought to enclose my friend's letter and ask her to explain it?"

"I don't know," I said. "I wouldn't want to give you an answer to that."

The clock on the bridge struck six bells. A seaman appeared in the door of the pilothouse. "Permission to relieve the wheel, sir, on course two nine three?" he asked.

"Permission granted," said Mr. Warren.

A moment later another seaman appeared in the door. "The wheel is relieved, sir, on course two nine three," he said.

"Very well," answered Mr. Warren.

There was a long wait, and we were alone again. Mr. Warren shoved his cap nervously back on his head. "You see," he said, "I don't want to play the part of the jealous husband. That's a h.e.l.l of a thing."

"Yes," I said, "it is."

"But I don't like the idea of my wife living alone in San Francisco and b.u.mming around c.o.c.ktail lounges," Mr. Warren continued. "She's young. She doesn't know much about things."

I realized that it was not necessary for me to make answers. Mr. Warren was talking more to himself than to me.

"She might get in trouble," he said. "She wouldn't mean to, but she might get in trouble. I think I'll write her and tell her to go home."

The bow lookout called that he thought he saw a s.h.i.+p two points on the starboard bow, three quarters of the way to the horizon. Mr Warren picked up the binoculars from their rack on the bulkhead and stared intently into the night.

"It's a Liberty, sir," he said at last, and handed the gla.s.ses to me. I looked, and far away could see the silhouette of a blacked out s.h.i.+p.

"Looks as though she'll pa.s.s us clear enough," I said.

"Sure," said Mr. Warren. "She'll be plenty far away when she's abeam."

I handed him back the gla.s.ses, and he replaced them in their rack.

"I wonder who that Army lieutenant was," he said. "I know that there are no Army lieutenants in her family."

"If you're going to worry about it," I replied, "you better write and ask her. I've seen a lot of people worry about things like that and most of the time it's all through misunderstanding."

Mr. Warren sounded relieved when he answered. "I think I will," he said. "I think I'll enclose that d.a.m.n letter and ask her about it."

We were at sea on our way back to Hollandia when we heard the great news that the Army had gone into the Philippine Islands. Rumor had long had it that the invasion would start pretty soon, but no one had thought that it would be right away.

"Well be going up there ourselves," I heard Guns say. "I wish we had something we could really shoot with."

When we reached Hollandia we felt that we were already part of the invasion. The harbor had changed since last time we were there. Anch.o.r.ed almost gunwale to gunwale were over five hundred s.h.i.+ps. Destroyers, Liberties, tankers, hospital s.h.i.+ps, a carrier, and countless nondescript merchant vessels crowded every nook and corner of the bay so that one could almost walk from s.h.i.+p to s.h.i.+p across the harbor. Mr. Rudd and I stood on deck as we threaded out way into the docks.

"Quite a sight," I said. "Looks like all the s.h.i.+ps in the world are here."

"Yes," said Mr. Rudd. "I don't like to see it. Every time I make fun of the way the bra.s.s hats do things I'll think of these five hundred s.h.i.+ps and I'll wonder."

As soon as we were alongside the wharf I went up to the port director's office to find out whether we were going to Leyte in the convoy that was obviously making up.

"No," he said. "We've got you slated for a milk run between here and Milne Bay. Can't tell how long you'll be on it."

I received the news with mixed emotions. The voyage to Leyte and the possibility of combat it carried with it was nothing to look forward to; the SV-126 was a s.h.i.+p best kept out of action. Still, there was a sort of disappointment in going back to the familiar New Guinea coast, the steady routine of loading and unloading unimportant cargoes. When I returned to the s.h.i.+p and told the men, they were frankly disappointed. Only Boats and Mr. Rudd seemed glad.

"Won't we ever do anything but run errands?" White asked. "Won't we ever get up to the Philippines?"

"Soon enough," I said. "You better be thankful we don't have to go yet."

Three days later with a cargo of motion picture films, canned luncheon meat, and cartons of cigars, we headed back to Milne Bay. Every point of land between there and Hollandia had become familiar and the navigation was no strain. Mr. Crane did all of it. When I congratulated him on learning so fast he said, "h.e.l.l, by now even the s.h.i.+p knows the way herself. The men don't even have to steer her."

As the eventless days slipped by the men complained more and more. There was no place for them to go ash.o.r.e and relax; when we were in port there was nothing for them to do but wander around in the mud and attend an occasional movie. Most of them gave up going ash.o.r.e almost entirely. They did their work listlessly and listened to the news of the battles over the radio. A gradual torpor settled over all of us, a lethargy that was broken only by mild and irritating occurrences. I found myself sleeping later and later in the morning, then resorting to a nap in the afternoon. All of the men developed a remarkable capacity for sleep, and it was not unusual to spend sixteen hours of the day in bed.

One morning while I was thus pa.s.sing the time, a loud and impatient knock at my cabin door brought me from my bunk. I got to my feet, called on the knocker to wait, and washed my face. After donning a pair of trousers, I sat down at my desk and called to him to come in. It was White, and he was very much excited.

"Mr. Crane and the Chief said I could speak to you," he said, before he stepped into the cabin. While I lit a cigarette he stood there, and I noticed that his hands were actually shaking. Quickly he put his hands behind his back.

"What's the trouble?" I asked.

"It's Boats, sir," White said. For a moment his voice faltered, then he suddenly blurted out, "It's Boats-he hit me!"

"Hit you!" I said.

"Yes, he hit me. Here on the face."

He brushed his thin face with one hand. I looked hard and saw no mark.

"Did he hurt you?" I asked.

"No, he didn't hurt me," White replied. He sounded disappointed. For a moment he seemed to lose courage, then he burst out talking in a voice that was slightly tinged with hysteria. "No, he didn't hurt me. But he can't hit me! It's against the regulations for a petty officer to hit a man. He hit me, right here on the face. He can't do that, can he?"

"Now, White," I said, "I'll take what action I think is right. But I think we better conduct this matter in a formal way. You go out and call Wenton. Tell him to bring his pad. And ask Mr. Crane to come in."

"What are you going to do, sir?" White asked.

"Conduct a redress of wrongs mast," I said. "Go get the men I told you to get."

A moment later Mr. Crane came in followed by Wenton and White. White looked somewhat sobered.

"Mr. Crane," I said, "we're going to conduct a redress of wrongs mast. I'd like you to stand by. Wenton, you take down a record of the proceedings."

"Yes, sir," said Wenton. He licked the tip of his pencil.

"Now, White," I continued, "you understand that everyone in the service has a right to complain to his commanding officer if he feels he is wronged. Those who enter false or vexatious complaints will be disciplined. I want you to relate exactly what happened. Wenton will write it all down, and when you are through Mr. Crane will investigate the case. He will ask Boats what happened. If it appears that Boats acted wrongly, he will be disciplined, but if it appears that you are acting wrongly, you will be disciplined."

"Yes, sir," replied White. He looked very serious.

"All right, White," I said. "Now enter your complaint."

"Well," answered White, "I'm complaining about being hit. Boats. .h.i.t me. I was in my bunk, and he told me to get up and go on watch. I didn't get out right away, and he hit me."

White faltered a moment, then continued. "I guess I swore at him a little," he finished lamely.

"Exactly what did you say to Boats?" I asked.

White looked embarra.s.sed. "Do I have to tell you that, sir?" he asked.

"If you don't, Boats will. I have to know to decide what provocation Boats had for hitting you."

White blushed. "Will he write it down, sir?" he asked, nodding at Wenton.

"Of course," I replied. "It's part of the record."

"Well," White said, and bending forward he almost whispered, "I called him a-"

"Yes?"

"I called him a son of a wh.o.r.e."

I suppressed a smile, and there was no sound in the cabin. "Now we're getting down to what happened," I said. "Next I want to find out just how he hit you. Did he hit you hard?"

"Yes, sir," said White.

"Did he leave any mark or ache of any kind?"

"No, sir."

"How much do you think Boats weighs?"

"About a hundred and ninety pounds, sir."

"How much do you weigh?"

"A hundred and thirty-two pounds."

"Well, I said, "if Boats really hit you hard, don't you think he would leave some kind of a mark? Did he hit you with his fist or his open hand?"

"With his open hand, sir. He sore of cuffed me."

"Mr. Crane," I said, "what do you think?"

Mr. Crane took off his gla.s.ses and started polis.h.i.+ng them with his handkerchief. "It's hard to tell," he said. "In the service a man cannot be hit by his superiors. On the other hand, in civilian life, White, do you think you could get away with swearing at a man of Boats' size?"

"No, sir," said White. "I guess I couldn't."

"Nevertheless, Mr. Crane," I said, "White is in the service and he was. .h.i.t by a superior petty officer. If you insist, White, I will have to discipline Boats for that. But also, you did refuse the order of a superior petty officer and you are guilty of the use of obscene language. If you wish, I will discipline you for that. Or we could just forget the whole thing."