WARRIORS

by Warriors (retail) (epub)

  “Nope. Checked all cartons three times.” The man didn’t add “sir” as of course he would have done in Scandinavia. Get used to such as this, Swede told himself as he exclaimed, “Devil. Didn’t come! Don’t these people know how to count? Ja then.” Automatically, he corrected to “Okay, I see” and hoped that nobody had noticed. He confirmed with one head man that the Filipino workers who had assembled in Seattle were to be met that afternoon by the cannery bus at King Salmon airport, then from another that all bunkhouse spaces were ready for them. “These foreigners. They need to be watched. Not to wander from the places provided for them. They might get lost. They might steal.”

  “Same ones come every year since that law stopped the chinks coming,” said Hostetler, the canning line foreman, drily. “People who work hard, eat their Jap noodles, don’t get lost, keep to themselves, don’t steal. Hell of a sight steadier than the Natives we’ve hired—the ones that quit when they please for what they call sustenance fishing when the reds start running good. You’ve seen it yourself in other years, Swede, before you got put in charge of everything, so relax.”

  Swede suppressed a frown. The man’s tone wasn’t respectful. Yet, this was how they spoke in America. He turned to ask the machinist about a disassembled conveyor and was assured it would be functioning by day’s end, noted to the boathouse foreman that poisons should be set for rodents that had winter-nested in the vessels, and told the foreman supervising the bunkhouses that two of the toilets he’d tested that morning had overflowed. There was, by design, at least one item on his clipboard for each man to answer for.

  “Ja. Yes, okay.” Time to dismiss everyone back to work. Swede considered, decided that he had to speak on the record, and cleared his throat to gain their attention. “But now! A caution from the company main office in Seattle, so please pay attention. They direct us to watch for strangers among our workers. Especially anyone with the pamphlets they give out. Pamphlets were handed out by the men from this new union, picketing beside our supply ship. I didn’t wish to be seen taking such papers. But I instructed a man of ours to take one for me. I saw no others of our people take one.”

  “Least not while you were watching,” said Hostetler. The other foremen laughed. Swede considered a moment, then chuckled himself. Best to join them.

  “They call the new union a co-op,” Hostetler continued. “Even got its own store outside of the cannery. Sells hip boots a dollar and fifty cents cheaper than our company store here. That’s what I hear. Work gloves fifty cents cheaper. Popsicles eight cents, I hear.”

  “Shows right there somebody outside’s footing the bill,” growled Smith, the loading-dock foreman. “So I’ll call it commie if you won’t. Next thing it’s that strike being called by the bunch up north. That’ll show everybody. Boats don’t fish, fish go free up the river, nothing loads or unloads, no work, everybody’s fucked. Just what the commies want to happen. Then they can move in and take over. You saw what they tried in Berlin before we did that airlift. And now like they’re doing in that Korea shithole? You can count on it.”

  “And with such a small run of fish predicted . . .” Swede began. He shrugged and decided not to speak further. Rumors without proof had been a tool of the Nazi bastards. This wasn’t the year for anyone to start trouble. The biologists had already announced a possible closing of the waters to fishing boats in the middle of each week to allow full escapement. “So. We shall all be ready on time for the fishing to start next week—with no foolish strike—and then the processing, eh? Please spend a productive day, gentlemen. Good-bye.” After they left and before calling Mrs. Lacey in for dictation, Swede took pencil to paper with an English language dictionary and a thesaurus for reference. It was daily work to improve his English so that no one would mistake him for a foreigner. Thus, he wrote and corrected before finally copying in ink:

  To Personnel Director Horace Stevens, Seattle.

  Sir,

  In the matter of new unions among our fishermen, it is difficult to be accurate. The new union has held meetings here, but my reports say few have attended. Only two of our people, of lower level, have been seen, so I do not recommend firing them, which would draw attention. To be frank, I cannot confirm, or disprove, that Communists are in charge.

  He wrote and then rewrote the next paragraph, checking practically every word as he bit into his pencil. Once, he tore it in half, then reconsidered and placed the two halves of paper back together. I’ll say it, for my father and all whom the German bastards murdered, he decided. Even if they discharge me!

  You will forgive me, even when this is your valued suggestion. But I do not find it American to send a spy to these meetings, even if I could find a man we could trust. Forgive me again, but this is not an American way of doing. The United States is a nation where everybody speaks what he is thinking at the moment. Thus, any words that fishermen who are contracted to us may say at these meetings are justified, as they exercise their right to talk freely without fear of penalty.

  He wrote the rest of the letter with greater confidence.

  As you know, some of the fishermen contracted to us this year now own power boats that we do not control. But still loyal fishermen, committed to delivering exclusively to us. Since fishing boats under engine power will make fishermen more independent if they assume private ownership, I suggest urgently that the company purchase engine boats of which they retain ownership. This is perhaps the only means to retain the loyalty and dependence of many fishermen who fish for us. This year in Bristol Bay the government biologists predict a run of fish as poor as last year. With so much changing up here, such scarce catches might attract fishermen to sell to other canneries if such canneries raise the price they pay for fish. This, I think, does not mean that fishermen have listened to Communists but that they have acted like Americans who are by their nature competitive. Therefore, nevertheless, please understand that I shall be alert to what knowledge I can gain of competitive pricing. I shall learn this from the crewmen aboard our collector vessels, and I will report to you immediately on this matter. Will report at once by telephone, no matter how long it is necessary to wait for the connection, which is often difficult in this place far from good telephone lines.

  To summarize in answer to your special question—I do not think that any of our fishermen are members of the Communist Party.

  Respectfully yours,

  A.S. Scorden

  Swede sealed the letter, taped the envelope at the edges where the glue might not hold, then marked it “confidential” and sealed it in a larger envelope also marked “confidential.” He tore the pencil drafts into pieces and stuffed half of the scraps into his pockets to distribute into other waste cans. He put the well-thumbed dictionary and the thesaurus back on the shelf. So many words that he had taught himself in English, and yet there were always more. It almost made him wish that, when his GI loan had finally come through, he had taken a language class or two in Seattle. Instead he had spent those summers—in between seasons at the cannery—studying adamantly for the Business Administration degree Miles Jackson had encouraged him to get. It might be wise now, since he was determined to become a proper American, to take a night class at some school or college.

  “Come in now, Mrs. Lacey. Bring a notebook, please,” he called to his secretary. She appeared quickly. Their relationship had cemented in the five years since he’d been accepted into management. Perhaps, since she had lost a son in the war, she regarded him as her own charge, even though they always remained businesslike. At the beginning she had occasionally counseled him, even covered for him, whether he needed it or no. He, in turn a year ago, had insisted she not be retired against her will when the Seattle management tried to streamline its personnel, citing complaints that she’d become snappish. Had, in fact, risked his own position with Seattle management in the process, Had even used his growing authority to ensure that she’d return to Bristol Bay when he learned that she looked forward to it each year. Otherwise he’d have c
hosen someone younger and prettier from among the available secretaries. At least his Mary wouldn’t have an excuse to be jealous. Out of the question for a man’s wife to join him here for two months, whatever she said, when there were young children to care for and one of them not yet out of diapers. That was one American notion he need not embrace.

  “Now, my number one message, Mrs. Lacey. To John Nielsen at Industrial Supply in Seattle. Try first as usual, if the telephone line is open, to read it to him. Otherwise send a telegram. Copy down, please: ‘Shipment of cans is short by twenty-hundred number ten flats. We shall need same by two weeks from this date. Best it comes sooner.’”

  “You’d better say ‘must have’ if you want it on time.”

  “Yes, good, okay, ‘must have,’ please. Continue then, so-and-so, eh? Now, second message, same thing, phone or telegraph this to Henry Sollers of Marine Grocery in Seattle. Copy down, please: ‘You have sent me short by thirty-six dozen eggs, also by one hundred and sixty jars of peanut butter, both ordered with other items two months ago but missing from shipment received last night on vessel Haida. We shall—must have—same no later than’ . . . so-and-so, eh?”

  She nodded without looking up. Yes, as his wife had suggested once after meeting her, Mrs. Lacey probably dyed her hair a little bit—he could see strong gray at the roots. It made this bony, brusque, capable woman seem more human, even if she persisted in doing things her own way despite the fact that he was now the boss.

  “Then continue please the letter Mrs. Lacey: ‘Furthermore, you have sent me one hundred and twenty more boxes of oatmeal than I have ordered. Will accept this extra oatmeal only at two-thirds original price . . .’” He allowed himself a smile, hoping to be thought agreeable. “Yes. Ha. ‘. . . since the rats will probably eat half of it in the place where it must be stored.’” Her slight laugh rewarded him. No harm to make a joke when you could. Although the rats, of course, were real enough. He leaned back, more relaxed. “Now please, Mrs. Lacey, read back to me those letters.”

  He listened carefully, twice changed the wording to make it sound more American, and felt a pleased sense of relief when she read, corrected, and left, all in good humor. Every day he improved himself. He’d even begun to swear like an American, although not yet without thinking the words through first. Even the family name change from Skovkus to Scorden was now properly recorded, although his first name remained Arnie for any official who needed to know.

  Earlier, he had brewed the first coffee of the morning, making it stronger by far than he had yet persuaded Mrs. Lacey to do during the rest of the day. Now, he paused over a third or fourth cup as he stood on the porch of the building that housed both the office and the company store. From here he faced the assemblage of wood sidings and corrugated roofs that were now his charge. The buildings formed their own community, fronting the tidal Naknek River that led from the Bay, but otherwise it was surrounded by the wilderness of stunted northern trees and undergrowth where bears roamed freely. Each cannery along the river was a similar colony for seasonal occupants who, for three months a year, worked, ate, and slept within its compound, only driving to the actual village miles away for the rare necessity. A little kingdom wrested from the bears, May through July. Left to his care to keep it functioning and productive. And do it he would.

  From his porch (yes, mine!) he gazed down the wide-paved ramp that led past the fronts of buildings to the wharf. From here he could see any cargo ship that docked, but not the company fishing boats clustered along the piers behind the buildings. Forklifts carried crates or boxes, and men in coveralls walked with purpose from one building to another. A pickup truck drove down the ramp and turned from view. Two men in the back stood amongst gear and a pile of nets. Wasn’t one of them—the one with the cap pulled close to his eyes, standing straight without bracing himself as did the other—his old friend Jones Henry the fisherman? Certainly possible, since Jones delivered to the company in Ketchikan. They had seen each other less and less except for business, since he himself had left Cousin Nels’s boat to work ashore. Certainly there had long since been no more meetings at Creek Street, though the brothel district had indeed survived. Old visits that he’d never admit to Mary. What would Jones have told his own wife? Adele, was that her name? Yes. He had attended Jones’s wedding—been a groomsman, even—and Jones had returned the favor at Swede’s own union to Mary. Should invite them over some time, even though management and dockside didn’t share views. Didn’t in the old country at least. One more thing to change in himself.

  Swede informed Mrs. Lacey of where he was going—a manager should never be out of reach—and followed the truck. His course took him down the causeway and along the docks. The cargo ship that had come with supplies from Seattle had left hours before on high water. All had been delivered properly, despite the annoying picket line that his workers had been instructed by their own union to ignore. The tide, now low again, exposed strips of mud that the screaming gulls encircled. At such low water the whole complex of piers, set atop barnacled pilings, now stretched up twenty feet. A few boats were already afloat below, and men in them stowed their sails and gillnets in preparation. Swede paused to take in the sight. The gang on the beach bustled and shouted. Vehicles puffed black exhaust. From the boat warehouse came the thump of big chains on blocks and the clatter of skiffs being lowered from their racks. Men pushed handcarts, shouldered gear, drove forklifts piled with cartons. Some lifted the double-ended skiffs from dollies, and others rigged them for lowering into the water. A good manager knew all his people. In past years as an assistant manager in whatever assignment, he’d memorized scores of names and faces that he now recognized—but there were inevitably some newcomers. At least those in the rubber boots would be the fishermen.

  Despite the activity, things still felt suspended, awaiting the explosion of activity that would happen when the fish arrived. Swede remembered such expectation from his father’s plant in the old country. Thrived on it! Bins, scrubbed and stored nearly a year before, waited empty outside the high-sliding doors that opened onto the cannery floor. The boats—empty shells now—would soon ride weighted under piles of fish. For the present, the area smelled of oils and of wood dried by winter blows and rain. In another few days, the odors of fish would obliterate all else—from the gurry that slithered out of the brailers that lifted the catch from the scows, to the heavy steam clouding inside the factory. All familiar, but here on a scale much grander. And he in charge!

  In one of the previous years, Swede had helped supervise the breaking out and assignment of company boats—a promotion from being merely a management novice. One among many others. Now he could watch his own former aide do the job, while he himself assumed a critical frown learned from his own mentor—one that said he knew all the tricks and unspoken agreements. It was important to stay above fishermen’s petty tricks to get assigned the best boats, while of course giving priority to the old timers who remained faithful to the cannery. You especially favored those who fished hard, stayed the whole season, and delivered only to company scows when the fish runs turned scarce. It meant that a good manager had to make notes and records and documents year by year, both on paper and in his head. In his nearly five years as a company man he’d already assembled a vast memory. Not a job to be learned in a month, or even a season. A career. A calling.

  Yes, there was Jones Henry on the dock. Scorden watched as he received a net, then a small primus stove from the older man standing on the bed of the truck, and as he carried them to the boat lettered with a black G-32 on the bow. Older boat, if memory served. Not one of the best. Boat whose days were numbered, to use an American expression. The twenty-nine footer routinely had small leaks that were never quite reached by caulking and a mast never firmly seated without wedges. He’d made it his business to evaluate the vessels of the company’s fleet by interviewing fishermen at the end of the season—even though fishermen were born complainers. Next season or the one after, canneries would finally
need to give in to pressures and modernize the Bristol Bay salmon fishery. When engines inevitably replaced the compulsory sailboat on Bristol Bay, fishing boats would change. Lengths still locked at thirty-two feet, perhaps, but it was rumored that no restrictions applied to beam width nor hull construction. Steel hulls would be permitted. Such aged wooden sailboats as this G-32 vessel would quickly be consigned to firewood.

  Had Swede been in charge of boat distribution he’d have found a way to assign Jones a newer boat for camaraderie’s sake, newcomer or not. Should he interfere now? Why not?—the authority was his. Swede approached Jones Henry.

  “Nice that the sun is shining today,” he ventured pleasantly.

  Jones barely paused to grunt “Oh. You. Up here now, eh?” He called over to the man still in the truck: “Dad! Don’t forget them cans of peanut butter and coffee, and that sack with the wrench and pliers. Nothing else I can think of we got left up there. Oh, that belt roll of woolens and long johns—don’t forget them over in the corner. Then you can tell the driver we’re unloaded this trip.”

  “Ah . . . Jones. So you’re new this year to fishing salmon here in Bristol Bay?” Jones Henry stopped long enough to push up the cap that nearly covered his eyes. “New to this pier, mebbe. New if you don’t count three seasons with my old man before the war. Used to deliver up to Dillingham—though that’s all gone Native now.” He cocked his head and gave the closest stretch of his mouth to a grin that Swede had ever seen from him. “Back before you ever came to this country. This thing didn’t start yesterday, you know.” Swede grabbed the opening, glad for a subject to relieve the awkwardness. “Ho, I do know! Even boys in my country know of Bristol Bay. Before the war, fathers and grandfathers would come to fish here every July. So it’s a famous history, Bristol Bay. Everybody knows about the famous runs of sockeye salmon here. Everybody who fishes.”