Voyage To Somewhere Part 8

"I guess that would be better, sir," said White.

"All right, White, we'll forget the whole thing. In the future you'd do well to obey Boats. He's an old hand. He knows what he's doing."

"Yes, sir," said White. "I guess I just got excited."

He stood indecisively, and when I dismissed him appeared very glad to go. When he had gone I asked Wenton to tell Boats to come in. A moment later Boats appeared. He shut the door after him and stood calmly before Mr. Crane and me.

"White was just in here saying you had hit him, Boats," I said. "Mr. Crane and I dismissed the case. I'd be careful not to use my hands on them any more, though. If you hit a sea lawyer there might be trouble."

"Yes, sir," said Boats. "But if you don't mind I'd rather persuade them than put them on report. When they do something and I can persuade them, no harm comes of it, but if I have to put them on report you have to restrict them or give them extra duty."

"It's all right to persuade them," I said. "It often is better than putting them on report."

Boats turned to go, but just before he got to the door he stopped and looked around. "Sir," he asked, "how long do I have to be master-at-arms?"

"Why, Boats?" I inquired. "Don't you like the job?"

"No, sir, I don't. I don't like to be giving the men h.e.l.l all the time. I'm tired of being master-at-arms. You know all my life I've had to take jobs where I push people around. When I was a kid I was in the Navy and right away they made me master-at-arms. When I came out of the Navy the only job I could get was on the police force. I was a policeman for twelve years. Then I came back into the service, and right away you made me master-at-arms again." He stopped and s.h.i.+fted uneasily on his feet. "I don't know why I always get the job," he concluded, "unless it's because I'm so big. People just look at me and make me master-at-arms."

"That's not the reason, Boats," Mr. Crane said. "It's because you're experienced and because you're older than most of the crew. We need someone like that. Can you think of anyone else who could take the job?"

Boats thought for a long time. He appeared to be going over the entire crew one by one. "They all are pretty young, sir," he said, "but I think any of them could do it under ordinary circ.u.mstances."

"What do you mean by that, Boats?" I asked.

"Well," replied Boats in a troubled voice, "things are going kind of bad. The boys are uneasy. They want to go up to the Philippines and fight, and seeing they can't do that they fight with each other. They're all getting kind of jumpy. They need someone to keep them calmed down."

"I know," I said. "That's why I want you to be master-at-arms."

"All right, sir," Boats said, "but I don't like it. I don't like to be always pus.h.i.+ng people around."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WE HAD HAD SO few disciplinary troubles and the s.h.i.+p had started out, relatively speaking, as such a happy s.h.i.+p, that I was surprised when on the very next day Mr. Crane came to me gravely and said that he had another man on report.

"What for?" I asked.

"Stealing," he said.

"Stealing!" I replied. "Who is it?"

"Wrigly. Guns says he stole a silver cigarette lighter from him."

"Get Wrigly in here," I said. "This is the first real disciplinary case we've had, and we better take care of it right now."

Five minutes later Mr. Crane arrived with Wrigly. Wrigly was a tall, dark boy of nineteen. He was not a tough-looking person, but his manner was tough. His service record said he came from Tennessee, but he spoke with more of a Brooklyn than a Southern accent. I remembered the obscene letters he had written and fought an impulse of dislike. When he stood before me in the cabin, he did not come to attention; instead he sat down on the bunk and lit a cigarette.

"Wrigly, get to your feet!" Mr. Crane thundered.

Deliberately Wrigly ground out his cigarette in the ash tray on my desk and came slowly to attention.

"Now, Wrigly," I said, "you have been accused of stealing. This is not a formal court. I just want to find out about the circ.u.mstances first. Did you steal a silver cigarette lighter from Guns?"

Wrigly smiled. "Why, no, sir," he said. "I found a lighter lying on deck-not much of a lighter, you could buy one like it in any cigar store for five bucks. I stuck it in my pocket until someone claimed it. That's all."

He was very calm. For a moment I looked at him, and he stared steadily back at me.

"Well, Wrigly," I said, "maybe we can't prove that you stole anything. But I want you to understand one thing: at sea stealing is the lowest of all crimes. Do you know how low thieves are considered aboard s.h.i.+p?"

I paused and Wrigly did not answer.

"I'll tell you a story," I continued. "Two years ago in Iceland I was moored alongside a big tanker. They were holding a general muster and I watched. The men were all drawn up on the forecastle deck. As I watched, the commanding officer came out of his cabin with a prisoner. He stood before the men and he said, 'This man beside me is a thief. I want every one of you to get a good look at him, and I'm going to walk him down the ranks so you can.' After he said that he slowly led the prisoner down every row of men standing there. When he had finished he said, 'Now, men, I'm going to turn this man loose. If anybody wants to see him personally it's all right with me. I won't know what happens to this man during the next twenty-four hours. If he turns up with a black eye or is busted up around the nose a bit, I guess he will have fallen down a companionway.'"

I paused to see if my words were sinking in. Wrigly stood rigidly at attention.

"Now Wrigly," I concluded. "That commanding officer could have been court-martialed himself, but that is a true story and it shows the way thieves are sometimes treated aboard s.h.i.+p. This time I won't be able to convict you. But if you ever are convicted of thieving aboard this s.h.i.+p, I won't have you up to mast, and I won't give you a summary court; I'll give you a general court-martial, and I guarantee it'll result in a term of prison."

"Yes, sir," said Wrigly. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"Can I have a transfer, sir? I want to get off this s.h.i.+p."

"You can have a transfer," I said, "when you've convinced me that you're a good seaman. And you better remember that out here it's liable to take me a long while to get a replacement and I won't let you go without one. You'll be aboard here another six months anyway, so you better make a good job of it."

"Yes, sir," said Wrigly.

"All right now, Wrigly, you go back on deck. And we'll consider you innocent of this charge."

Without speaking, Wrigly walked out of the cabin.

When he had gone I lit my pipe. "What did you think of that, Mr. Crane?" I asked.

"I'm not sure you handled it right," he said.

"No," I replied. "I got mad myself. That's a h.e.l.l of a way to discipline a man."

As the long, hot New Guinea days went by, each seemed to leave a burden upon us. The men grew tired of tapping coins and making square knot belts. Instead they began to read. The paper-bound Armed Services Editions were taken down from the shelves in which they had remained so long and were soon dog-eared and worn. The men read "Hamlet," "Destry Rides Again," "Candide," "The Case of the Nude Blonde," and the collected works of Sh.e.l.ley. From what I could hear they never commented upon the books; they just put them back on the shelves and took down another. I never heard a literary discussion.

As we plied up and down the New Guinea coast the men began to worry about their health. Sick call became as much looked forward to as mail call, and when we were in port so many people were ash.o.r.e at the various dispensaries that it was difficult to get work done. The "New Guinea rot," a form of skin disease, took possession of us all in varying degrees. Once contracted, it was almost impossible to cure. Some of the men had their entire feet and ankles covered with its ugly redness and broken skin. The rash itself was not so bad as the worry it brought with it; it seemed a living testimony to the rumors which said that men simply disintegrated in New Guinea. "Each month in New Guinea takes a year off your life," one rumor said, and the men, looking at their rotting feet, almost believed it. Atabrin had to be constantly taken to ward off malaria. The small yellow pills gradually turned our skins almost as yellow as themselves. Even a heavy sun tan could not conceal the unhealthy tinge of the atabrin, and the men found it difficult even to joke about.

"You look like a Chinaman," they'd say accusingly to each other, and the stock reply was, "I look like a Chinaman! h.e.l.l, you look like a Chinaman who's been taking atabrin!"

Some of the men, probably in the normal course of events, began to lose their hair. As baldness crept upon them they examined themselves in the mirrors of the crowded forecastle head, and cursed New Guinea.

"I'll look old when I get back," they said. "h.e.l.l, my wife won't know me."

Gradually a sort of ma.s.s hypochondria seemed to slip over the s.h.i.+p. Sick call became so popular that it finally became necessary to say that those too sick to work were too sick to go on liberty. This had little effect for there was no place to go on liberty anyway. Still the men lined up each morning when we were in port. They complained of backaches, headaches, insomnia, indigestion, diarrhea, and when they came back from the doctor's they took powders and pills for a few days, then put them away and p.r.o.nounced themselves cured. The next time we were in a new port, however, they were at sick call again with variations of the same complaint. They were not goldbricking, and no one accused them of it. When they were pinned down they admitted that they weren't really sick-they just didn't feel good. The fact that we had no doctor nor even a pharmacist's mate aboard bothered them a good deal.

"What would happen if I got appendicitis at sea?" they asked.

When we were in port they sometimes asked to go ash.o.r.e "just for a check-up." They came back relieved for a little while and went back to their reading, their sleeping, and their work.

When we returned to Milne Bay there was more mail for us, and the men were cheered for a little while. This time, however, the mail brought more trouble than benefit. Mr. Warren got no letters at all from or concerning his wife, Rachel. The cook heard that his mother was sick.

"h.e.l.l," said Mr. Rudd, "if they sent all the doctors home and quit sending us mail we might have time to fight a war."

While we were in Milne Bay we cracked a cylinder head and the s.h.i.+p was rendered inoperative until we could get a new one. They had none ash.o.r.e. We were told that they would have to send for one from Australia, or from the States.

All day long we lay at anchor. Mr. Crane had the deck force start chipping and painting the hull from bow to stern, but it was the rainy season, and most days there was nothing for the men to do but lie in their bunks. They joked about it a lot.

"When I get back to civilian life," they said, "I won't be able to stay on my feet eight hours a day. Do they have any jobs you can do lying down?"

The officers reacted to the idleness in different ways. Mr. Crane spent all his time working around the s.h.i.+p. He rearranged the filing system, he drew up a new watch and quarter bill, and he started an inventory of all the equipment aboard. Mr. Warren spent a great deal of his time ash.o.r.e in vain attempts to get supplies. In the evenings he wrote long letters to his wife. The envelopes were so full that he could hardly seal them. I was exceedingly glad that I did not have to censor them.

Mr. Rudd spent most of his time in his stateroom reading. He had taken aboard with him a huge wooden box full of books. These books were taken one by one from the box, and each was replaced in it when Mr. Rudd had finished it, so it was a long while before I knew what kind of books he had. From time to time, however, he came into my cabin with a book he thought I might like. Once he lent me the collected novels of Dostoevski. Another time he brought me Ruth Benedict's "Race, Science and Politics." A collection of Thomas Hardy followed and a book of verses translated from Heinrich Heine.

"You seem awfully literary for a dyed-in-the-wool Regular," I said to him once. "You ought to join the Reserves."

"I do not believe that is a necessary corollary," he replied with some dignity. I noticed he did not take my remark as a joke.

Gradually my curiosity about Mr. Rudd deepened. Since I had known him he had never talked of his personal affairs. In the forward part of the s.h.i.+p's log the names of the officers were written down, followed by their addresses in the States and the names of their wives. Mr. Crane had written that he came from Chicago and his wife's name was Ethel. Mr. Warren had written that he came from New York and that his wife's name was Rachel. Mr. Rudd, however, had written in the s.p.a.ce reserved for his address the single word "Aboard." Nothing followed.

One particularly trying day while we were waiting for repairs in Milne Bay, Mr. Rudd and I decided to go to the officers' club ash.o.r.e. We had the boat set us on the nearest wharf and hitch-hiked down the muddy roads to the club for sh.o.r.e-based officers. Once inside we found a table in the corner and began to drink beer. We sat quietly in the heat of the afternoon. I found myself musing about Mr. Rudd's past. Deciding it was idle to conjecture while the man was sitting right across from me, I put my gla.s.s of beer down on the table and suddenly asked, "Mr. Rudd, where the h.e.l.l do you come from? I've sailed with you over six months now, and I still don't know where you come from."

"I was born in Stoneham," he said. "Stoneham, Ma.s.sachusetts."

"A New Englander!" I said. "I never would have known it!"

Mr. Rudd laughed. "With good reason," he said. "I left there when I was fourteen."

"Where did you go then?" I asked.

Mr. Rudd peered at me over his beer gla.s.s. "Look," he said, "what you want is a life history. Well, I'll tell it to you, only buy me a whisky first. You can't tell life histories over beer. I'm like an old wh.o.r.e; if you want to hear my life history you've got to buy me a drink."

"All right." I said, "I'll buy you a drink."

The whiskies arrived, and Mr. Rudd lit a cigar.

"I was born in Stoneham, Ma.s.sachusetts," he said. "That was a small town-not over five thousand people. My father was the minister there. Episcopalian. I had an older brother and the two of us were given what is known as a decent bringing up. On the record we were told that we should consecrate our lives to G.o.d, turn the other cheek and love all men because they were our brothers. Off the record we were not told, but we were led to understand pretty definitely that no one without a big white house and plenty of money was worth a d.a.m.n, that you had to get out and beat the other fellow to get those things, and that because we were Episcopalians we were of course better than Baptists, Catholics, Jews, and n.i.g.g.e.rs."

"It sounds like a happy childhood," I said.

"Of course it was happy," said Mr. Rudd. "Now if you want to hear my life story keep quiet and let me talk. When I got to be fourteen I met a lot of people around the town and I found that I liked most of those I wasn't supposed to like and I disliked most of those I was supposed to like. As a result I ran away to Boston. My father, I learned later, said I was in the hands of G.o.d. He didn't make any attempt to recover me."

"Were you?" I asked.

"Was I what?" said Mr. Rudd.

"Were you in the hands of G.o.d?"

"Now d.a.m.n it, don't make foolish remarks," said Mr. Rudd, "but as a matter of fact, since you asked, my father was right. I was in the hands of G.o.d, that is in a manner of speaking. I got a job cleaning up in a chemical laboratory, and I supported myself while I went through high school."

"That's quite an achievement," I said.

"Stop making condescending remarks and listen," replied Mr. Rudd. "As I say, I worked my way through high school. After that I worked my way through M.I.T. It took me six years and I ruined my health doing it. Don't congratulate me, because I wish the h.e.l.l I hadn't done it. Anyway, when I got through I was a graduate chemist. I suppose I still am."

"Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned!" I said. "You a graduate chemist!"

"You needn't act so surprised," answered Mr. Rudd. "What an awful thing when people act surprised!"

"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't know why I'm surprised. I just am. You've never acted the part. I've always figured you were an old service man who had worked his way up from apprentice seaman."

"I am and I did," replied Mr. Rudd. "When we get some more drinks I'll tell you about it."

I went to the bar and came back with two double whiskies. Mr. Rudd drained his with frightening suddenness. He lit another cigar.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," he said, and then stopped. "Yes, I do too," he continued, "I'm drunk and I haven't talked about it in a long while. Anyway, when I got through M.I.T., I got a good job as a research chemist. In those days I loved chemistry. I thought that everything could be figured out by it. If I had enough time, I figured, I could find the secret to everything. I worked all day and half the night. The other half of the night I spent drinking and raising h.e.l.l. It just seemed that I had to celebrate figuring everything out. After a year I was sick and had to spend a month in the hospital. During that month I got to thinking and wondering about my mother and father. As soon as I got out of the hospital I went right down to Stoneham."

He paused and tilted his empty gla.s.s to his lips. A little unsteadily he got to his feet, extracted his huge belly from under the table, and lumbered over to the bar. When he came back he sat down heavily and pushed a drink toward me.

"In Stoneham," he continued, "I found my father and mother all right. They were overjoyed to see me. The prodigal son returned, only I wasn't prodigal because I had graduated from M.I.T. My father called and checked with the alumni office just to make sure. When he found out that I was actually listed he came and congratulated me again."

"Mr. Rudd!" a voice called from the door. I turned and saw a warrant machinist, tall and worn as a limbless tree. A thin scar ran down his face and across one side of his mouth.

"Why, Ben Everett!" Mr. Rudd shouted, and got to his feet.

"The last time I saw you was when I left the old Barret Wood," said Ben Everett.

Mr. Rudd turned to me. "Let me introduce an old s.h.i.+pmate of mine," he said. "Ben, this is Mr. Barton, the skipper of my s.h.i.+p."

I said how-do-you-do, but neither of them really heard me. Ben had already unknowingly slipped into my place across the table from Mr. Rudd, and they were talking loud and fast.

"That was down in South America," I heard Mr. Rudd say. "Venezuela, I think. Yes, sir, the old Barret Wood was quite a s.h.i.+p. Remember that old b.a.s.t.a.r.d that was chief machinist's mate on her?"

"Yes, sir!" replied Ben Everett. "He's a lieutenant commander now, and still a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, only more so. I heard from Pete Rogers a couple of weeks ago ..."

I walked away without disturbing them. My capacity for liquor was somewhat less than that of Mr. Rudd, and I had already reached it. Instead of hitchhiking I walked all the way back to the wharf, signaled for our boat and rode happily out to the s.h.i.+p. After a hasty dinner I retired to my cabin. In the morning I remembered all that Mr. Rudd had told me of his life, but when I saw him he appeared a little cold, so I made no mention of it. After breakfast he asked to see me in my cabin, but it was only to give me a list of engine parts that he said we needed.

"You know we won't be able to get them," I said.

He turned and gave me one of his sardonic grins. "It is the duty of the engineering officer to acquaint the commanding officer with his needs," he said. "I have done so."