Men Die

by H. L. Humes

  The procession left and rank was restored; the brass went first.

  But none of this was what registered on the forefront of his mind. The impressions had merely worked in his gut to make him more aware of himself and of the flesh-and-blood woman who seemed to stumble on his arm even when she was standing motionless. The weight of her was live weight, and he was furtively aware of the softness of her and of the way she held him. She kept a grip on his arm that confirmed everything he secretly knew, that this was a fire in a palace of ice. Her face was utterly, even serenely, composed. She was precisely the widow, drained of feeling, submissive to her loss, bravely aware that life is short and man is mortal. Yet betraying this mask, her fingers, black-gloved and hidden, dug into his forearm again and again, as though in spasm. Once he even had to gently loose them out of sheer pain, and once he had to bear up her whole weight as her knees betrayed her. He couldn't tell whether she was aware of her state or totally lost in the private hell of her feelings. And yet, whether from fact or from guilty knowledge of her, Sulgrave sensed communication in her movements. Unconscious, perhaps, but not unknowing. She kneaded the flesh of his forearm as though lost in passion, as though driven by grief to heedless caress. And though everything told him that this woman was a woman whose grief was real, whose grief should not be profaned, still his thoughts rioted about a single image, some rare fire, the treasure that was in her. Dolfus had seen it, and had said it well: a woman of private beauty; in another age, a Helen.

  Big Randy took his place beside the others and stood quietly through the prayers. When the prayers were over and the first volley was fired, Lace nudged him and said, “They gonna get us good.”

  “Keep talking they will, man.”

  “Don't you respect the dead, man?”

  “A-men.”

  “Let 'em look inside that box just one good look …” Lace began.

  BANG!

  “Great God A-mighty,” Randy breathed, “ain't you got no sense at all?”

  BANG!

  Taps. Taps.

  But Dolfus could talk when he had a mind to. He could provide an hour's or a night's entertainment, preaching or clowning, cursing or beseeching, chivvying or exhorting, or even just talking about nothing. He had a manner, a style for every mood, for every occasion. Every occasion, that is, that moved him to speech in the first place; there weren't many such occasions.

  One night shortly after his arrival, Sulgrave listened from the shadows as Skully entertained the dog watch with an extended and erudite version of the labors of Hercules. Dolfus sat on the dock with a bollard for a throne and unspun the rambling myth as an old salt might have told a seaman's yarn. The five listening blacks leaned on the hose lockers and smoked—it was the only place on the dock where smoking was allowed, and then only when both ship berths were empty—and Sulgrave in his underwear watched them against the setting moon. Every so often one of the men would interrupt to query a detail or merely to comment, usually humorously, on some turn in the action. “What kind of ships did they use in them day?” And Skully would interrupt the narrative and discourse for a time on ancient ships and trade routes, on Phoenicians, on Crete, on lodestones and amber, on ancient means of celestial navigation, on the origins of modern customs (“… you salute the quarterdeck because it used to be holy ground—they kept statues of their gods there”). After a while someone would ask what happened next to Hercules, and the narrative would resume until the next diversion. Sulgrave listened for nearly two hours—he hadn't been able to sleep and had come out to sit under the stars and relax. When Skully finally got up to go make his entries in the O.D.'s log he nearly stumbled over Sulgrave: “I was just going to wake you,” he said. “It's your watch.” Sulgrave said, “I was enjoying listening to you.” Dolfus seemed embarrassed, even irritated at being overheard. “I didn't know you were here,” he said. He didn't add otherwise I would have stopped, but it was clear from his manner what he meant; Sulgrave had no business intruding on Dolfus' private relationship with his men. Sulgrave, to cover the moment, said, “You should have been a teacher.” Skully relented, grunted, “I was.” “What did you teach?” Dolfus said, “It was a long time ago.” It wasn't until later, after he'd earned his spurs, so to speak, that Dolfus told him he'd even once been an instructor on a teaching fellowship in physics at Sulgrave's alma mater.

  At first Dolfus had seemed uncertain of Sulgrave. While he didn't distrust him actually, it was clear that neither had he unbounded confidence in the younger officer, the newly arrived unknown quantity. Sulgrave's position as de facto adjutant to the Commander put Dolfus at one remove from Hake, a situation which he seemed to have desired and yet distrusted. It was clear from the beginning that there was some kind of profound friction between the Commander and his prime mover Dolfus—for that was what Dolfus was, the fountainhead of plans and action—and yet the nature of this friction was hidden from Sulgrave at first. He had called on the Commander, in accordance with good protocol, the first hour of the morning after his arrival, and it was made clear then that he was to function as a buffer between the Commander and the rest of the world. It was clear also that the Commander too had ambivalent feelings toward the new situation he was creating, almost as though it were a situation not of his voluntary creation but something in which he'd been forced to acquiesce. By Dolfus? By the area Commandant? Sulgrave couldn't have then said, but he knew that his presence was not wholeheartedly welcome.

  If the first interview with Dolfus the day of his arrival had been unrevealing, the first brief meeting with Hake offered even fewer clues. The Commander met him in his shirtsleeves but slipped into his jacket, with its symbols of rank, before seating himself behind his desk. Yet he didn't bother to button the jacket. Sulgrave remained standing throughout the interview; there was no other chair in the room, which was the front room of the bungalow where the Commander also lived. Bookcases covered two walls, and behind him a table was scattered with open volumes. The Commander had his desk placed so that his back was to the bay, which gave the visitor, when standing, a clear view across the veranda of the limitless shifting glaze of morning sea. There was only a light wind and Sulgrave was sweating from the short climb up from the operations area.

  After some pedestrian inquiries as to his training and prior experience, the Commander outlined Sulgrave's duties. Aside from the usual paper-shuffling routines, which Sulgrave knew and expected, the chief injunction laid upon the new aide was to “keep people away from me.” The broad formalities quickly over, the Commander relaxed slightly and swiveled in his chair to gaze out the open window—one of the louvered shutters was not secured and he reached out ir-ritatedly and hooked it back against the wall. “Damn it,” he muttered, “that boy will have to learn.”

  The Commander's appearance surprised Sulgrave; while he had formed no conscious image of what he expected Hake to look like, nevertheless the man himself came as a surprise. Eyebrows. The black furry eyebrows would give him an angry look even when he smiled, which he hadn't yet. Black eyebrows were the unlooked-for, unexpected detail that instantly distinguished his uniqueness, particularly because of the contrast with his hair, which was also coarse, but wavy, and as gray as old lead tinsel. When he talked he looked at his visitor only in brief flashes, as though he knew that the pale, almost colorless intensity of his eyes had to be administered in small doses if people weren't to look away.

  Sulgrave took advantage of the Commander's back being turned to lean discreetly forward over the desk to read the title of the battered and dog-eared book that lay with a paper knife in it for a place mark; it was Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. The Commander laced his fingers behind his head and sighed as he stared away out to sea. Without turning around he asked, “How do you like our island, Mister Sulgrave?”

  “Very well, sir. It's a beautiful place.”

  “Don't let the beauties of the place carry you away. I have been sent here to do a labor which you may have already decided is ridiculou
s. But whatever you think …”

  “I don't think it's ridiculous, sir. When I was briefed in Washington—”

  Hake swung around in his chair. “You say you don't think it's ridiculous, Mister Sulgrave?”

  “No, sir.”

  Hake grunted. Irritation? Satisfaction? Sulgrave wondered what he was thinking. Hake swiveled back to the window; Sulgirave studied the back of his head; it offered no clue.

  There was a silence. Somewhere in the hazy morning, a gasoline concrete mixer puttered an irregular jazzy rhythm.

  “We are at war. With this rock,” Hake said, stamping one foot unconsciously. “It is hard, unyielding, stubborn as hell.

  It breaks tools, plays for time, fights back in a continuing delaying action. I'm behind schedule.”

  Sulgrave said nothing, waited.

  “The men I have here are all Nigras”—Sulgrave noticed for the first time the Commander's ever-so-slight southern accent—”and while some of them are hard workers, a large majority of them are nothing but lazy surly unintelligent children who joined the naval service because they couldn't get anyone else to hire them. Do you understand me?”

  “I'm not sure, sir.”

  “One of your jobs will be to ride herd on them. In the next room you'll find a surveyor's map of this island with the plan of work laid out on it. It's tacked on the wall. You'll take it down to your office when you leave here today. In addition to that there is a work schedule, which you will also remove with you, that will show you precisely how far behind we are on this job. We have adequate men and equipment already on this island to do the job. I don't want to hear any requests for more. We'll do this job with what we've got, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Some of the men here think I'm driving things too hard, but I'll drive a lot harder if we haven't made up the time we've lost within the next four weeks.” He swung around in his chair and slapped his hand on the volume of Gibbon. “This job will be done on time, Mister Sulgrave, even if I have to resort to courts-martial to do it. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hake's manner relaxed. “Tell me, why don't you think this enterprise is ridiculous?”

  “Why, sir?” Sulgrave searched his mind for the reason behind the question before he answered.

  “That's what I said. Why?”

  “Well, sir, I should think that in the event of war, we'll need all the advanced submarine bases we can get. Especially on the approaches to the Panama Canal.”

  “Hmm. I see Mister Dolfus has given you his little talk about this being an unsinkable ammunition carrier.”

  “Well, sir …”

  “Sulgrave, you're a green officer. You know that, don't you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, forget it. I want you to act as though you've been in the navy for twenty years. In your daily contacts with the men down there I want you to remember that you carry all the weight and authority of my office. Conduct yourself accordingly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me, do you think the United States will be going to war?”

  “I don't know, sir.”

  “Come. A candid answer.”

  “It seems very likely, sir. I don't see how we can keep out, unless …”

  Hake grunted again, as though he'd heard all the answer he wanted, and turned back to the window. “You're to take Lieutenant Dolfus' office. He will move into the dock master's shed as soon as it's finished. In the meantime you two can share space.” He turned around and rose from his chair. He was smiling. Sulgrave was surprised to see that his whole face changed when he smiled, that, in fact, he was a handsome man, probably capable of great charm. The Commander came around the desk and held out his hand. “I hope you found your quarters comfortable, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. I have a nice view of the bay.”

  “Good. Now if there is anything you want, don't hesitate to call. I'll post a memorandum defining your functions so that you can hit the ground running.”

  “Thank you, sir. I was going to ask about that.”

  “I will expect you to come here each morning with the daily progress reports and the log. At ten, please. You will lunch with me from time to time and let it be known that you are doing so—it will help illuminate your status. And for the rest, I expect to see you each afternoon before the close of business, say, at five. I'm sure you have questions, but save them and ask me all at once tomorrow. It is my habit to nap in the early afternoon, and at such times I wish to be disturbed only in matters of urgent importance requiring my notice or decision.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “One more thing, keep in mind that you are not in the chain of command. You are a staff officer. When you give directions always give them in my name. ‘The Commander wishes so-and-so to be done.’ Never give a command on your own if you can help it. Any decisions you make in my name I wish to be advised of in time to countermand them. Otherwise you will have reasonable latitude and discretion in the pursuit of your functions.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Hake smiled again, and waved his hand toward the bookcases in the room. “You may avail yourself of my library any time you wish, Mister Sulgrave. Are you any relation to Captain Sulgrave who fought under Bainbridge?”

  Sulgrave was taken by surprise. “I don't know, sir. Possibly. There aren't very many of us.”

  “Well, don't be too anxious to adduce the connection, Lieutenant. He was not a very distinguished hero. Committed suicide after losing an engagement. Not mentioned in most naval histories.”

  “Oh.”

  “Then I'll see you tomorrow morning at ten. You'll ask Lieutenant Dolf us to accompany you. You needn't come this afternoon. We'll start officially tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, sir. I could use the time today to get settled into my quarters.”

  The Commander shook hands, and Sulgrave noticed that he hadn't shaved yet that morning and that his eyes were red-rimmed from what could have been lack of sleep.

  As Sulgrave went down the steps, the Commander said, “Remember. We're at war with damned black rock. Keep that in mind and don't let these men forget it. I don't like stowing material in the open, but until they get those tunnels cut out there'll be no other place to put it. And I don't want to hear any more suggestions that we slack up on shipments from the States. That's out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It won't hurt to drum it into them. I think of it all the time, no reason why they shouldn't. Even when I'm asleep, I think about it. I dream of digging tunnels in black rock, Mister Sulgrave. Even when I'm asleep, do you understand? I want them to stop conspiring to break tools and waste time, I want them to get on with it. I'm the hand, Mister Sulgrave From now on, you're the whip.”

  Hake smiled warmly, as though he'd cemented an alliance. They shook hands and Sulgrave took his leave. He walked down the hill at an easy trot; going downhill, it was less effort to jog than to walk.

  Sulgrave left Vanna Hake in the care of another officer, an Annapolis classmate of the deceased whom he'd been introduced to but whose name slipped him, and approached the group of prisoners as they stood waiting for the van that would return them to prison. They'd been transferred temporarily to Washington for the investigation of the disaster, from whence they would be remanded to naval district headquarters for trial. Lace saw him coming and came to attention, alerting the other five; their conversation ceased.

  Big Randy made a wary nod. “Afternoon, Lieutenant.”

  “Hello, Randy.” Sulgrave returned the salute casually. “How did you boys manage this?”

  Lace took it up. “Well, sir, he was The Man”—he said it with capitals—”and he probably wasn't such a bad stud if we'd got to know him. An' we all thought it would be nice to do right by his memory, an' so here we …”

  Big Randy almost sneered at Lace, a gesture of impatience. “You can stop playin' Uncle Tom, man. He know what's in that box, you outa your head?”


  Sulgrave said nothing. Randy calmed quickly, looked furtively toward the guards, who had moved discreetly out of earshot. Then he said, “The Lieutenant didn't get us in this mess. Ain't no point Tommin' him” The others seemed to agree by their silence.

  Randy faced Sulgrave. “No, sir. We got a lawyer. He fixed it for us to come to the funeral.”

  Sulgrave couldn't help glancing toward the guards himself, an unconscious glance that seemed to make him part of the conspiracy. He said, “You have to be careful of what you tell me, Randy. I will probably be called to testify against you.”

  Poke said quickly, “We wanted to come, Lieutenant. Only we couldn't a done it without help from him. He just got us permission, him an' the chaplain.”

  “Nice stud for a preacher,” Lace remarked.

  “I just thought it would be fair to tell you,” Sulgrave said, “that I'll be under oath and I'll have to answer truthfully.”

  Orval BlueEyes stared at his feet. “I sure feel bad about him” he said, nodding sideways without looking up. Involuntarily they all looked toward the burial place.

  “Man,” Lace said impatiently, “I told you a thousand times, we put all of him in there was to put. At least all we could find. Now why can't you be a reasonable cat and stash it?”

  “Yeah, but …”

  Randy cut off discussion with a quick grimace of irritation. “Leave it be, man, leave it be. You want to get us busted for worse than we got already?”

  Sulgrave asked, almost as though against his better judgment, “I imagine you haven't told your lawyer about it.”