The Med

by David Poyer

  “Don’t say that! I don’t want to hear about that. Nothing’s going to happen, is it?”

  “Not that I know of. But that’s what we’re here for, Susan.”

  “I don’t know what you’re here for. I don’t know what business the Navy has this far from America anyway.”

  They both sensed the argument coming, and neither of them wanted it; they dropped the subject tacitly. She turned to look across the bay. “There’s yours—the big one,” she said. “And that other one—didn’t you say there were six ships in the squadron? Where are the others?”

  “You don’t put the whole task force into the same place for liberty, not in the Med. The port authorities don’t like it, too many sailors at once. And it’s not a good idea if we’re attacked.”

  “Where are the other ships?”

  “Scattered around. Guam and Barnstable County here … Newport and Ault in Naples … Spiegel Grove and Coronado in Palermo … Charleston in Civitavecchia. We’ll join up after the port visits for the next exercise.”

  “I’d like to go to Greece. And maybe one of the islands, look at some of the digs. Moira’s on a project in Cyprus. She wrote me about it.”

  “Our next port is Iskenderun. Turkey. I guess you could go through the islands on the way.”

  “And Yugoslavia…”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a Communist country, Susan.”

  “So what? They allow tourists.”

  “You say that like it doesn’t matter.”

  “That they’re Communists? Dan, don’t be ridiculous. You act like we were at war with them, or something.”

  “I just don’t think it would be a good idea.”

  “Well, is Turkey any better?”

  “That’s a good question,” he said, thinking of the last exercise. “They don’t seem to want to play on our team anymore, as Sundstrom would say. They can’t even answer their radios right.”

  “I don’t see why they have to,” she said. “Here we are, in their ocean—”

  “It’s everybody’s ocean, Susan.”

  She twisted, to look up at him. “Dan. Speaking of that—have you thought about what we talked about, before you left?”

  “What’s that?”

  “About your getting out of the Navy.”

  He didn’t answer for a while. He was looking out at the bay. At last he said, “Some.”

  “You promised me you’d think about it.”

  “I know. And I am. I’m just not ready to talk about it yet.”

  And again they both stopped, unwilling to go farther, and looked out to sea in silence. After a time he put his arm around her, felt the coolness of her bare shoulders. “You getting cold, babe?”

  “A little.”

  “Want to head back?”

  “I ought to stop by and pick Nan up. She’ll get worried if she has to go to bed again without me.”

  He saw her, just for a moment, not as a wife or lover, but as a mother. He smiled. He had wondered, when Nan was coming, how she would adapt. But she had. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go back to the bar. Jack Byrne has a rental car. Maybe he’ll give us a lift up the hill after we pick her up, and we can show them Taormina.”

  “All right,” she said, hearing the meekness in her voice and wondering at it. Where did it come from, when she was with him? All her friends said she was so independent, so sure of herself. But when she was with this tall man—her husband on and off, he was gone so long it seemed like that—it all changed. She changed, became someone different. She did not like it; she reacted with resentment, and then in surprise heard herself arguing, complaining.…

  She made herself stop thinking about it. This was his liberty, and they would enjoy it. They went out of the wind, out of the uncertain reaching and drawing back that was always there when they were together, into the hotel to look for the others.

  3

  Palermo, Sicily

  You could smell southern Italy, Sergeant Silkworth had told the mortar squad, long before it came over the horizon. He had described the flies, the heat, the sewage that fouled the soft crystalline air.

  And then, relishing the open-mouthed attention of the privates, he had described its pleasures.

  Sweating that morning at formation, Private First Class Willard Staunton Givens, U.S. Marine Corps, slid his eyes beyond the flight deck of the Spiegel Grove. Past Corporal Cutford’s broad back, beyond the life nets, to where a line of palest blue trembled in the early light. He sniffed.

  Once again, the sergeant had been right.

  “Ten-hut!” bawled the Top, and the two hundred marines of Bravo Company came to instant and complete attention. They stared out over the starboard side, ranks swaying with the roll of the old landing ship as the officers strolled out. Givens watched the back of Cutford’s neck darken. It happened whenever the assistant squad leader saw brass. He glanced sideways at Harner, but the Kentuckian was looking straight ahead, his narrow face as still and empty as a worked-out mine.

  “Have them stand easy,” he heard one of them say.

  “Bravo Company. At … ease!”

  With two hundred other men, Givens went back to parade rest with the joint-cracking snap that every marine carried from boot camp and never let decay. Above them, looking down from a crane, two sailors snickered, then went instantly silent as a score of eyes swung up to memorize their faces. The company executive officer—Will could never remember his name—stepped forward and raised his voice over the omnipresent whine of the ship’s ventilators.

  “Got a message from the colonel last night,” the exec began. “A ‘well done’ on the practice landing yesterday. The movement inshore was expeditious. Units hit the beach in good order, with an aggressive spirit. Specific comments on Bravo Company: generally good, but battalion staff heard too much undisciplined chatter on the portable radios. In battle, reports have to be short, military, and to the point. You’ll hear more from your noncoms, but in general, a good exercise.

  “Today, I figure this is no news to you, we’re slated for some well-deserved liberty. We’ll be in Palermo for four days. For those who haven’t seen the country on previous floats, you can have a good time here. But you can get really screwed up, too. The way to enjoy yourself ashore is to keep a few simple precautions in mind.…”

  As he talked on, Givens stared at the back of Cutford’s head. A rifle butt, he thought idly, would fit it so fine. Even the plastic Mattel toy shoulderpiece of the M-16 would fit so nice right behind the main gunner’s chocolate-dark ear.

  These six things doth the Lord hate. Yea, seven are an abomination unto him: a proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood. An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief. A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.…

  His eyes drifted down to the lance corporal’s hands. At attention, they rested curled against the seams of his utilities as if asleep, black-haired, pale-palmed, the index finger of the left hand nicotine-brown over brother-brown.

  A good swing, and then the satisfying chunk as the rifle butt hit …

  “This off-limits area extends from just beyond the railway station, the Estazione Ferroviaria. Under no conditions are military personnel permitted to cross into it. The Shore Patrol will point the limits of this area out to you, should this be necessary.”

  Ess-tossy-onay Fairy Veahria, Givens repeated in his mind. The exec sounded like a pansy.

  No. That wasn’t right. For a moment he felt scared. Thinking about hitting another marine—being disrespectful, even in his mind, to an officer—that wasn’t him. His lips moved, calling for strength to resist the unrighteous. He was letting Cutford and Silky get to him. Make him like them, in their own different yet like images of power. So what if the exec knew some Italian. Maybe he could learn some himself. It had been easy enough to pick up a couple of words in Spanish at
Rota. Hernandez said he sounded like a real “raza,” whatever that was.

  No, he had to discipline his thoughts. The exec was all right, for a officer. For an officer. Maybe, he thought guiltily, I better start listening up.

  “… Palermo has been a center of historical events and military campaigns for centuries. In A.D. 835 the Saracens captured the town, and held Sicily for two centuries, till Roger the Norman recaptured it. It was taken by Allied forces under General Patton in 1943, in the largest amphibious assault in history.…”

  “Jee … sus,” he heard Liebo mutter to his right, his round face outthrust so that Will could see him even with his eyes straight ahead. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Dippy,” came Sergeant Silkworth’s rasping murmur down the line.

  Where do they learn all that? Givens wondered. Was that college, too? Or did all the officers get briefed, before they hit a port? Read it out of some manual?

  “… And remember, as in any Catholic country, women are respected. Make no advances until you ascertain their status. A lot of the men here carry knives, and they know how to use them.

  “That brings up one last point: politics. The Italian Communists are active here. They’d love to embarrass the Marine Corps and through us the United States. Don’t be drawn into arguments. We don’t want any international incidents, and we don’t want any of our troops hurt, either.

  “Any questions?… Top, take over and dismiss the men.”

  As the formation broke Givens let his knees sag for a moment. He looked around. The land was nearer, a hazy stroke of pastel across a blue-gray morning. The snickering sailors were gone from the crane. Cutford was talking to another brother. He looked dangerous, as he usually was after being subjected to an officer’s lecturing. Will moved toward the rail to avoid hearing, to avoid being drawn in. His boots scuffed on the nonskid of the deck.

  The ship was turning, the wind shifting to the starboard side, and as he reached the nets the land came suddenly into full view, much closer than he had thought. He dropped to sit, dangling his legs above the wake sixty feet below, and looked out.

  Low, blue, the flattened hills were hazy and contrastless, curved in a sweep of sea and morning-pure sky. Other marines were looking on, saying little. One of them was Washman, clicking away with an Instamatic. Givens stared out. He was a long way from Carolina. For a moment he wished he had never come.

  “Where you planning on going, Will?”

  “Oh. Hey, Washout.” He looked behind him to make sure Cutford was out of earshot, then turned back to the squad rifleman. “I guess, just ashore. You heard the stories Silky been telling. Be fun to see the town, wouldn’t it?”

  “Shit, yeah. I never been here, either. That off limits, that sounds like the place to go. ‘Everything past the railway station.’ We could spend all fucken four days there.”

  “We could go there for a little while, yeah,” said Givens cautiously.

  “And all the other stuff, too. The castles and the volcano and the mummies.”

  “Mummies?”

  “Wa’n’t you listening? Lieutenant said they buried ’em in a cave, dressed and standing up. Said they scared the piss out of him. Well, he didn’t say ‘piss.’ But it’s going to be on that tour they set up.”

  “Yeah. Sure. The tour.” Givens paused, knowing that what he really wanted, every waking moment and most achingly at night, was forbidden. “Well—I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go ashore, look around a little.”

  “I know one of the squids,” said Washman, twisting his pimpled face nervously around the deck; he was afraid of Cutford, too. “One of the gunner’s mates. We was talking about the mortars. He wanted a round of eighty-one and I told him no way, José; Butterbars counts them fuckers every time we open the ammo locker. But he said he been to Palermo lots of times. He’s an old guy, thirty. I bet he’d tell us the places to hit.”

  “So let’s go find him, man,” said Will, thrusting his thumbs under his web belt and scowling. It was easy to act tough around the Washout.

  “In your pack, man.”

  They found the gunner’s mate coming out of the mess decks with a mug of coffee. He didn’t seem to recognize Washman, but when they asked about town he nodded. They followed him up to the after three-inch mount and sat on a ready service locker. Washout borrowed his ball pen and got the essentials down on a torn-out page of his Guidebook for Marines.

  * * *

  The rest of the morning oozed by, slow as promotion, like all the time they spent on shipboard. He and Washman wandered up to the bridge and watched the coast draw clearer until a lookout chased them off. They wandered down to the first-class mess, attracted by the sound of a television, and were ordered to move along. They went by the ship’s store, hoping for pogey bait, chocolate or gum, but it was closed. So after that there was nothing to do but go back to the berthing space. Two decks down into the hull, it was as hot and smelly as any cavern inhabited for months on end by two hundred prehistoric men. They sat at the card table and watched Dippy and Hernandez in their endless game of spades. Harner was there, sitting beside the Chicano rifleman, chain-smoking Marlboros like he always did; he never touched the cards, never kibitzed, volunteered nothing. He was the tallest in the squad and never complained, even on forced marches. Cutford was there, but he seemed to be on safe for the moment. Lying in his bunk, eyes closed, earphones over his stocking cap, he was nodding to his stereo. Silkworth, Liebo muttered, was in a meeting with the Top. A fly droned among the slowly tilting bunkframes, the drowsing men:

  A little after lunch they heard the squids man up for sea detail. The squad played one more hand and then drifted off to their lockers. Givens pulled a set of fresh Charlies from the wrappers they had been stowed in since the States. Liebo dimpled his tie in the mirror by the hatch. Hernandez patted on cologne, and tropical flowers filled the compartment. Harner meditated in the head, his straight razor dangling in his hand, sucking silently at a bloody lip.

  Givens checked himself in the polished glass. His garrison cap sat straight on short, wiry hair. The collar of his khaki shirt was straight with starch, his globe-and-anchors a dull and warlike black. He pinned his ribbons level with the deck, conscious of their paucity. Someday, he promised himself for the hundredth time, there would be more. A whole chestful. He bared his teeth at his image and wrinkled his nose, wishing it were not quite so wide, wishing he did not look quite so young—

  “What the fuck you doin’, Oreo?”

  “Nothin’, man.” He moved aside as Cutford shouldered his way into the mirror. “Uh … you goin’ on libs, bro’?”

  Cutford said nothing. He stared into the mirror, then shifted his narrow eyes to Will’s. He’s so much darker than I am, Givens thought.

  “Jesus, you stink,” said the corporal.

  “That’s Hernandez.”

  “Why don’t you put some on, too?”

  “I don’t like the smell. It’s too strong.”

  “Hey,” said Cutford. “Dap, brother.”

  Givens dapped him unwillingly. He felt clumsy doing the rhythm. He missed one and Cutford sneered and turned back to the mirror, flipping out a comb. There were gray wires in his hair. “Oreo, you fucked-up ofay-lover, you can’t even pass power right.”

  “Cutford, nobody goes for that power stuff anymore.”

  “That’s what they been tellin’ you. Where you think you’re goin’?”

  “Out on liberty, like everybody else.”

  “‘Like everybody else.’ Yeah, that’s just your tune, Oreo. You just want to be one of the boys.” He accented the last word. “And where you plannin’ to go on this sweet liberty the big man give you?”

  “I don’t know. Just go ashore, walk around a little.”

  “Who with?”

  “Nobody. Just us pees in the squad.”

  “You referrin’ to your swan friends, of course.”

  “The whole squad’s goin’, man.” Will sounded plaintive even to himself. He looked around, hoping som
eone else needed the mirror; but the compartment was emptying, men pushing by them, stepping carefully up the ladder to keep their starched O.D. trousers from bagging at the knees. He wanted nothing more than to get away from this man, but he was part of the squad; the offer, at least, was a necessity. “Why don’t you come with us?”

  The corporal’s face came closer. Givens dropped his eyes to his gold chain, the twisted-carrot trinket Cutford wore without explaining even under his uniform, even in the showers, and the invitation died on his lips.

  “Private Givens. Will, baby.” The corporal’s voice became soft. “Listen. You don’t need to go out with those people. You don’t need to suck up to them and buy them beer. You don’t need to snake their dirty whores in some enlisted man’s off-limits craphouse, then cover your ass with that Jesus talk of yours. You’re a black man, a black king, every place but in your head, man.”

  “Get off my case, Cutford. We bunk with them and eat with them and we’re supposed to be ready to fight with them. You’re the main gunner, man. Why can’t you figure you got to live with them, too?”

  “Fuck you, then, Oreo. Someday you’re going to see the light. Till then—”

  He tensed, expecting violence, but the corporal disappeared from the mirror. He hadn’t touched him, even. When he was sure he was gone Will breathed out. He removed his cap, ran his comb through the stubble again, and ran up the ladder to the main deck.

  From sixty feet up he could see all of Sicily. From the pier back the city lay like a pastel carpet. Miles of buildings festered between the hills and spread beyond them. Far inland a massive volcanic cone thrust upward like a thunderhead. In the afternoon brightness of the Mediterranean, Palermo seemed endless, immense, the largest city on the planet, and after weeks at sea or on barren maneuver areas the honking, dog-barking murmur of land, the chuffing of a rusty tugboat, the rich smells of exhaust and sewage and pasta were intoxicating. He joined ten score other marines and a few sailors at the rail and leaned his elbows on the warm metal, breathing deep. Silkworth was right, he thought again. He had smelled it from far at sea; had smelled it, stronger and deeper, all through the morning. Even the stink of the compartment, soap and ship, starch and cologne had become part of it, natural, like the perfume of a beautiful, unwashed woman, a naked woman who spread her legs from hill to hill before him.