Ten days in hack means for an officer ten days' confinement in his room, and in the Old Navy, the Regular Navy, it was considered a drastic punishment. An officer thus punished was considered to be publicly humiliated, and undoubtedly felt that way himself. This punishment was viewed in a somewhat different light by the Reserve officers of the Reluctant. To say that ten days in hack was considered a reward of almost unbearable loveliness is not to exaggerate. The Captain had carried out his threat with only one officer, Carney, and Carney had had a wonderful time in his room. He slept happily for most of the ten days, getting up only to eat, to work on his water colors, or to entertain the almost continuous stream of envious officers who visited him. If the Captain had been at all a perceptive man, he would have seen that with these officers his threat was not the proper one.
On this afternoon Roberts had had a very busy watch. The ship was simultaneously unloading cargo from three holds onto LCM's and LCTs, and he had not only the routine of the watch, but also the complex duties of cargo officer to occupy him. He had to see that the boats tied up at the right place, that they were loaded properly, and, since there was need for speed, that the whole operation kept moving. It is a complicated and highly trying business, moving cargo onto half a dozen landing craft at one time, and Roberts's patience would have been strained even without the series of petty interferences from the Captain. Normally the Captain had just enough sense to leave Roberts alone — except for a little nagging in a routine way to keep up appearances — but today he clearly forgot himself. If he had called the bridge once this afternoon, he had called fifteen times, and every time Roberts had to drop what he was doing and listen to the Old Man's views on some such absurd detail as a man on deck without a cap, or cigarette butts on the flying bridge.
Roberts had a fair store of patience, but the Captain was going through it fast.
The last time the Captain called Roberts was out on the wing telling three different boats where he wanted them. He refused to talk to the Captain. "Tell him I'm busy!" he said to the quartermaster. The quartermaster did that and came back grinning. "Flash Red!" he announced. In the usages of the ship this meant, not that an air attack was imminent, but rather a visit from the Captain. A second later the Captain stormed onto the wing. As always when in extreme anger, his face was beet-red.
He shouted at Roberts. "What the hell do you mean, telling me you're busy? Who the hell do you think you are anyhow? By God, I'm running this here ship and when I tell you I want to talk to you, by God, you get on that phone in a goddamn quick hurry! Do you understand?"
Roberts had been standing in the outboard corner of the wing with a megaphone in his hand. He put the megaphone down very carefully and turned to the Captain. "Captain," he said easily, "there's no use your coming up here and getting all excited. We're doing this job as well as we can, and if you just leave us alone and quit bothering, we'll get along all right." And with that he picked up the megaphone and shouted instructions to an LCT.
Bergstrom, the quartermaster, and the messenger and the talker were all right there and they saw the whole thing. They told later how the Captain's eyes popped almost out of his head, how his mouth fell open, and how for a space of several seconds it worked soundlessly. Then he was shouting again, and shaking his fist at Roberts, and absolutely quivering with rage.
"Now you've gone too far! You've gone too far this time! By God, you can't talk to me like that and get away with it! By God, I'm the Captain of this ship, and no smart son-of-a-bitching college officer is going to talk like that! I don't have to put up with crap like that and I don't intend to! You can go in your room for ten days and see how you like that!"
Roberts had slung around his neck a pair of binoculars, which he had been using for spotting the numbers of approaching boats. He faced the Captain now and removed the glasses. "Do you believe me, Captain!" he said coldly. "Can I go down in my room now? I'd like ten days in my room, you know!"-
The Captain's mouth worked again, and then he said: "Yeah, I know you would! You think you're pretty goddamn smart, don't you?"
"Are you relieving me, Captain?" Roberts persisted. "Are you giving me ten days in hack? Can I start now, Captain?" He extended the glasses to the Captain.
Captain Morton had deflated visibly now. A slightly trapped look had come into his face. He didn't look at Roberts and he didn't shout. He looked uneasily out over the water. He ignored the proffered glasses. "By God," he said defensively and quite inconsistently, "I don't ask a lot from you officers, but when I want a thing done I want it done! Now, by God, you just do your job and don't go trying to tell me how to run this here ship and we'll get along all right. But, by God, I'm not going to take a lot of crap from you officers!"
The Captain turned and started to slouch away, but Roberts was implacable.
"How about it, Captain?" he demanded. "Am I going in my room for ten days or not?"
The Captain's face filled with blood again, but still he didn't turn around to Roberts. "By God," he muttered fiercely, "I'll let you know when I give you ten days and, by God, you'll know it! Now you just get to work and take care of your job up here!" And the Captain started walking away into the wheelhouse.
Roberts stayed right at his heels. "Captain, if you don't like the way I'm handling my job, why don't you get me transferred? You could do it, you know, Captain!"
Captain Morton was now in complete rout. It was public rout, too, for suddenly there were half a dozen enlisted men in the wheelhouse. He didn't turn even now to make a stand. "By God, you just take care of your job and don't go trying to run the ship," he mumbled again, and he kept on walking toward the door.
Roberts was as relentless as a Fury. "It would be easy, Captain," he went on. "All you have to do is write a letter and say you want to get rid of me. I'll even write the letter for you, Captain!" he offered.
But the Captain, trailing an unintelligible mutter, had ducked quickly through the door and down the ladder.
The incident was an instantaneous sensation on the ship. Everyone talked of it, and Roberts's name was on everyone's lips. He could not conceivably have been more of a hero. Everywhere he went, hands were thrust into his and he was effusively congratulated. To the crew of the Reluctant, it seemed a splendid victory.
But Roberts didn't see it that way. That night Ensign Pulver, sitting talking in his room, said to him: "Boy, you really won a round today!"
And Roberts shook his head thoughtfully and answered: "No, I didn't win. He won."*
"How the hell do you figure?" Pulver demanded.
Roberts turned up his palms. "I'm still on the ship," he pointed out. Then he said wearily: "No, Pulver, he won. He wins them all. The Captain's bound to win, every time."
CHAPTER NINE
This happened on a very hot day. It was shortly after' noon, about one o'clock, and the sick, white-hot sun was slamming down from almost directly overhead. But for a few scattered puffy cirrus clouds the sky was clear, and it was almost colorless. Even at its zenith the sun had faded it to pallid blue, and lower down, all the way around the horizon, it was bleached to a dead, dirty white. The sea wasn't blue either, but a sudden uniform shine crawling in all directions to the flawed line of the horizon. There was no breeze; even the ten-knot motion of the ship didn't create any. The air was as stored, baled, stagnant as that of an attic room on a summer day. The deck and all of the metal surfaces of the ship were scalding to the feet and to the touch. Except directly beneath the gun tubs and close against the mast-tables and the house there was no shade.
The gun crew of the forward three-inch battery was miserable. Big Gerhart, the gun captain, and Wiley, the third-class gunner's mate, stood leaning on the pointer's seat. Red Stevens was standing with his elbows propped on the splintershield looking out to starboard. Reber, wearing the headset, was also propped against the splintershield facing aft. The fifth man, little Porky Payne, was stationed over on the port gun, ostensibly keeping a lookout in that direction. All of them we
re on their feet because they were right there under the Captain's eye all the time. For the same reason all of them kept their dungaree shirts on and all of their shirts were sweated soaking wet. That was the hell of being up here where the Old Man could see you. The five-inch crew back aft could sit down in the shade, if there was any, and take off their shirts; but not up here. Big Gerhart wiped the sweat from his face and flicked it away. "Christ!" he said. His hair was cropped short and his eyes were small and piglike in a round, small-featured face. He walked to the forward edge of the gun tub and looked down. Below him a couple of first division men were lying in the shade with their heads cradled on life-jackets. Lady, the terrier-bull-dog-spaniel, was flattened on her stomach in a little puddle of shade on the hatch-cover. Her tongue was out and flopping from the side of her mouth as she lay head down, panting.
"Christ!" Gerhart said again, and then, "To hell with it!" He jerked open his shirt, stripped it off and flung it over the pointer's seat. His fat white back was greasy with sweat. "To hell with it," he announced. "I'll be goddamned if I'm going to keep a shirt on today!" Nobody said anything.
He stood for a moment leaning over the splinter- shield. "Hey, Whitley," he called to one of the men lying below him, "pass the dog up here." Grumbling, the man picked up the limp little dog and passed her up the ladder to Gerhart. Wiley watched disapprovingly. "Why the hell don't you leave her alone?" he said. Gerhart said, "Shut up," and knelt beside the dog.
The dog looked up at him with pleading, infinitely weary eyes. He started talking to her. "What do you say, Lady? How're you getting along?" He prodded her in the ribs. He rolled her over on her back and started slapping her stomach sharply. His lips clenched tightly as he did this. "What's the matter, Lady?" he said. "What ya lying around like that for? Didn't you get the word? 'Turn to,' they said, 'turn to.'" He pulled the dog to her feet, grasped her two front paws and started waltzing her about. "That's the stuff, Lady," he said. "You got to step lively in this here outfit. Got to get off your ass."
Wiley said again: "For Christ's sake, leave the dog alone! Can't you see she's half dead!"
Gerhart looked up coldly. "Why don't you mind your own business?" He turned again to the dog. "Eh, Lady," he said. He took her then by the hind legs and wheeled her from side to side. She was panting in quick, fierce gasps and saliva ran from her mouth. "Yessir, Lady," said Gerhart, "you're getting out of shape. Sit around on your ass too much. Got to get off your ass in this outfit." Finally he allowed her to lie down on the deck. He took her then by the ears and jerked her head from side to side, first by yanking one ear, then the other. The little dog whined in pain. Gerhart gave one last tug. "Okay, Lady," he said, "you're a cry-baby. Go back and lie on your ass." He stood up and left the dog lying on the hot deck. Wiley picked her up and stepped down the ladder and put her in the shade of the gun tub. "Jesus Christ!" he said disgustedly.
The gun crew stood in heavy, sodden silence. They hardly moved, seemed hardly to breathe. Once Gerhart slapped at his stomach as a drop of sweat rolled down. There was no let-up to the lidless sun, and the heated air settled with almost palpable weight. The gun crew slumped beneath it. Gerhart and Wiley leaned hard against the pointer's seat. Red Stevens stood staring bewitched at the water. Reber, the talker, hitched at his binding pants around the crotch. Somewhere back aft a chipping hammer was being worked; otherwise there was no sound but the hiss that the bow made as it slid through the viscous water. The surface writhed with heat waves, and it was possible to see upon it many things that weren't there at all.
"What time is it?" Gerhart said suddenly. "Must be after two."
"It is like hell," said Wiley. "It's ten after one."
"Jesus!" said Gerhart. "Is that all it is? Let me see." He grabbed Wiley's arm and looked at the watch. "Jesus!" he said. "I thought sure it was two anyhow." He shook his head and turned and walked around the gun.
Reber put his hand to the mouthpiece of his headset. "Three-inch, aye aye," he said into it. Then he listened for a moment. The others watched him incuriously. "Aye, aye," he said again. He took his hand away from the mouthpiece and announced: "The Captain says to tell Gerhart he's on report and to get his shirt on in a damn quick hurry."
Gerhart's red face got very red all the way down to the white line of his neck. He grabbed his shirt and almost ripped it off the seat. "On report!" he snarled as he struggled into the shirt. "That miserable bastard! That dirty miserable son-of-a-bitch! I wonder if he thinks he's getting a cherry!" He turned around, facing aft, and looked fiercely up at the wings of the bridge and the portholes of the wheelhouse.
"Better watch out," said Wiley. "He's probably got the glasses trained right on you reading everything you say.
Gerhart's lie curled back in a sneer. "I don't give a goddamn what he's doing! If he wants to come down here I'll tell the son-of-a-bitch to his face! Any miserable bastard that'd make a man wear a shirt out here today ought to get the hell kicked out of him. Jesus!" He spat on the deck. He picked up a block of wood under the ready box and flung it over the side. "Jesus!" he said. He started pacing up and down the catwalk between the two guns.
"What a miserable screwing outfit!" he muttered. "What a miserable screwing life!"
All this time Red Stevens had been standing at the starboard edge of the gun tub looking down into the water. Gerhart walked over to him now and stopped, hands on his hips. "What the hell are you looking at, bright eyes?" he demanded.
Red Stevens was a boy of twenty or twenty-one with orange hair and freckles, and although he was very shy he was well-liked. He was the best-natured kid on the ship, and so he always took a lot of ribbing. But he always took it. He was so shy that no matter what was said to him he would grin and blush. He grinned now at Big Gerhart. "I was watching the flying fish," he said softly.
"Oh, you was watching the flying fish!" Gerhart mimicked. "Well, ain't that nice! How long you been out here, anyhow?"
Red blushed. "Eleven months," he said.
"Eleven months," said Gerhart. "Eleven months and you're already watching the flying fish! Boy, when you finish up your five years out here, you'll really be Asiatic! You'll really be seeing flying fish then!" ' Wiley walked over and joined in. "Red can't stay out here no five years," he said. "He's got to get back to his wife."
Gerhart snorted. "Get back to his wife, hell! They got it ten years out here now for married men." He stopped and looked at Red. "Are you married, Red?" he asked with sudden interest.
Red started to blush, and Wiley answered for him. "Sure he's married. The cutest little doll you ever saw. Show him her picture, Red," he said.
"Yeah?" said Gerhart. "You got a picture of her, Red?"
"Sure," said Wiley. "Show him the picture, Red."
Very embarrassed, Red got out his wallet and passed it to Gerhart. Gerhart stood and studied the pictures. He let out a long whistle. He smacked his lips. "Mm-mmmh," he said, "that's all right. That's all right, boy. Where'd you ever get a gal like that?" He looked again at the wallet before passing it back. "Man, that bathing suit gets me!"
His voice became easy and conversational. "How long you been married, Red?"
Red smiled, "About fourteen months."
"Yeah?" said Gerhart. 'You was married about two months before you come out here?"
Red nodded.
"Your wife, how old would she be? About twenty?"
"She's twenty now. She was nineteen then."
"What's her name by the way?"
"Margie."
"Margie," said Gerhart. "That's a nice name. Where did you and Margie go on your honeymoon?"
Wiley said: "All right, Gerhart, don't go getting started on Red's wife." His voice, though, didn't really protest and he continued to stand by listening with a half-smile.
Gerhart ignored him. "Where did you and Margie go for the first night you was married?" he went on.
Red blushed. "San Jose," he said. "That's where we were married."
"San Jose, huh? Well, that's a n
ice town. Did you stay at a hotel there?"
Red nodded and looked down at the water.
Gerhart's voice got confidential. "Tell me something, Red," he said. "I ain't married myself and I've always wondered. How was it that first night? Huh?"
Red blushed deeply. "How do you mean?" he said.
Gerhart prodded him in the ribs and winked. "You know how I mean. How was it?"
Red started to say something and then stopped. "Okay," he said finally.
"Okay?" said Gerhart. "Well, that's fine. Tell me," he went on, "how many times did you do it that first night, Red?"
Red didn't look up. "I don't know."
"Oh, sure you know. How many times was it?"
"I don't remember."
"You don't remember? Jesus, a pretty girl like that, I'd sure remember it!"
Red didn't say anything. He was absorbedly peeling paint off the outside of the splintershield.
"Say, tell me something," Gerhart said smoothly "Was your wife a virgin when you was married? I mean I'm just an old country boy and I want to find out about these things, so when I get married."
Red looked up quickly at Big Gerhart. Then he looked puzzledly over to Wiley. He started a smile and then stopped. "Naturally," he said.
"Hey," said Wiley, "for Christ's sake knock it off. That's none of your damn business."
"Shut up," said Gerhart. He turned again to Red. "So Margie was a virgin. Well, I'm glad to hear that. So many girls ain't these days, you know." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "How did Margie like it that first night?"
Red's blush by now had turned to a deep, solid flush. "I don't know," he said shortly.
"Oh, sure you do," Gerhart coaxed. 'What did she do — did she just lie there and whimper?"
"I don't know," Red said. He kept looking out at the horizon.
Gerhart took on an offended tone. "Aw, Red," he said, "you ain't any help at all. How am I going to know what to do when I get married if you ain't going to tell me things? You, an old married man like you are. "
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