by Sloan Wilson
“Is that what you did on a subchaser?” Syl as a small boy had asked his father.
“More or less.” His father had smiled when he said it, but he was serious.
Now all that sounded fine and maybe some of it was true, but it would be hard to feel any transporting exhilaration standing on the deck of a gas tanker under fire. There he would be just a big fat explosive target with no chance to fight back …
All right. Enough. I’ve been elected, whether all that romantic garbage makes sense or not. I can’t bug out because I’d feel too bad if I did. It probably helps to think that life wouldn’t be too great for me even if I did get home, but meanwhile I’ve got a few weeks in Australia, maybe a month. I’m not going to waste that mooning about Sally, or touring lonely bars. There must be some way to meet a girl who will give me a good month, but how …?
Syl fell asleep, his erotic dreams full of faceless women, products of his imagination, not memory. Still … when he woke up at eight he felt oddly refreshed. Maybe something had been resolved.
CHAPTER 4
INSTEAD OF THE hangover he had expected, he had a throbbing erection and was damned annoyed about having failed to find a woman the night before. At sea or in places like New Guinea, masturbation was a natural release for sailors, but in this city swarming with pretty girls, it seemed an unholy waste. Now was not the time to go on dreaming about sex. He should get back to his ship, but the very thought of the Y-18 made him want to lie down and again escape into sleep. After all, the tanker was a damn wreck and her crew could do little until she was cleared of gas and repaired by the yard. There would not be much point in just wandering through that rusty hull or sitting in his cabin talking with his roommate, that holy man, Simpson. All he really had to do was check in once a day and stay ashore until the workmen had rebuilt the pilothouse and painted the ship.
That was not really true. He was still in command of a crew. Men deserved attention. He had no right to let his gloomy premonitions of doom for the Y-18 to become self-fulfilling. He should be studying the ship’s blueprints and inspecting every inch of her battered hull. There would be damage reports and work orders to review.
As he climbed out of bed he remembered that he had checked into the hotel without luggage and now could not even shave or brush his teeth. He was lucky to be able to take a bath—the showers on the ship were shut off on the ways. His erection would not die even when he followed a steamy tub with a cold one, but he would not kill it with his hand, not, by damn, in Australia. Tonight he would find a girl, even if he had to advertise for one. He had a brief mental image of himself walking the streets as a sandwich man with big signs, front and rear, saying GIRL WANTED! He hoped no such stunt would be necessary. Any woman who was interested could guess his needs from his uniform, his age and his face. Last night he had just been looking in all the wrong places. He should not have been surprised to find that drunks, not eager young women, inhabited most bars.
When he drew on his undershorts and dirty pants, buttoned up his soiled shirt with distaste, he was able to walk down to the dining room of the hotel with dignity if not cleanliness. Breakfast was a delight. He had forgotten how good fresh fried eggs looked and tasted. They quivered like a woman’s breasts when an aging but buxom waitress put them down in front of him, and the rich yellow yolk had a flavor that seemed just invented. Juicy sausages and buttered toast with strawberry jam he washed down with cold fresh milk and coffee, not the instant kind but a brew with incredible fragrance. Fresh sweet oranges he ate not as an appetizer but as dessert. The trouble with shore food was that it made a man never want to go back to a ship, never want to die.
He went back anyway, telling himself he had a job to do, the privileges of a commanding officer had to be earned, and so forth. When a taxi let him off at the yard, he walked in past the workmen with a cocky strut which was not entirely an act. He was Lieutenant Sylvester G. Grant, the captain of the Y-18, nobody to fuck around with.
The smell of gas hit him when he was still fifty yards from the ship, and the blunt-ended old hull on the ways suddenly looked at him like a 180-foot coffin, the kind made for cremating corpses. But that was no way to think. If nothing else, she was a ship, and if anybody could whip her into shape, well, he could. (He’d better.) The tall ladder leading to her decks was at least new and safe—one small success.
He climbed the ladder briskly and saluted the quarterdeck in defiance of a ship which seemed to make all military customs ridiculous. Catching his mood, Cramer, the chief boatswain’s mate, saluted him too and Syl crisply returned the salute.
“Good morning, skipper,” Cramer said. “They pumped out the gas last night. The tanks are empty, but not steamed out yet.”
“That was quick.”
“I think Mr. Buller had it all set up. They’re getting ready to steam the tanks now.”
“Good.”
“Mr. Simpson is in your cabin, sir. He asked me to tell you that he would like to see you as soon as you get aboard.”
There was a contradiction in Simpson’s behavior—he was excessively humble but somehow he often acted as though he really were in command of the ship. He found Simpson sitting at the desk in their cabin writing up the rough log.
“Good morning, Mr. Simpson,” Syl said briskly.
Simpson turned toward him, his face severe with steel-rimmed spectacles.
“Good morning, captain. There’s a lot I have to talk to you about.”
Syl sat down on the port bunk, the one that did not have the picture of Jesus and the photograph of Simpson’s wife hanging over it, or maybe it was Simpson’s mother—she looked astonishingly like Simpson himself. He wanted to smoke his pipe but with the whole ship still reeking of gas, that would not be a good idea.
“Shoot, Mr. Simpson,” he said.
“Some tank trucks arrived last night and took the gas. I did not stop them. I know you gave permission, but how do I log this transaction?”
“Just say the remaining cargo was condemned and unloaded. You don’t have to say how.”
“Sir, that won’t wash if there’s a board of investigation.”
“If there’s a board of investigation, this whole ship won’t wash—she should be condemned. That’s one reason why there won’t be a board of investigation.”
“But sir—”
“I don’t want to discuss this anymore. The decision has been made. The gas is gone. As soon as the tanks are steamed out, the rebuilding can begin. That, Mr. Simpson, is called progress and I think that’s what I’m here to get.”
“Yes sir. I have important papers for you to sign here. I tried to get you last night before you left but—”
“What have you got?”
“There are the papers which formally transfer command of the ship from me to you. I was temporary commanding officer …”
Maybe that was what was really bugging him. Maybe he wanted command of this ship for himself and had been disappointed to see a superior arrive.
“I’ll need to attach a description of the ship’s deficiencies as I found them,” Syl said.
“I have a detailed list ready, sir. I drew it up when Captain Munger took over.”
“Was he the one who was killed?”
“No sir. Captain Carlson was killed. Captain Munger took over as soon as we got here, two weeks ago.”
“What happened to him?”
“He didn’t like this ship too much, sir. He got himself transferred.”
“How?”
“He looked over the damage reports and the work orders and reported that unless much more rebuilding were done, this ship would not be ready for sea. He said he’d refuse to sail her unless she was in what he called apple-pie order, so they got rid of him.”
Syl said nothing but he thought this explained a lot. Probably he had been sent here because he had already refused to sail a ship after declaring her unseaworthy and could probably be counted on to avoid getting another such incident on his record and finding
himself back in the transient officers’ camp. Nobody wanted that … The devil you knew was better than the unknown …
“Here are the papers,” Simpson said, handing him a stack an inch thick.
“Give me an hour. I’ll need to go over them.”
“I have another problem, sir. When Mr. Buller went ashore last night I told him to be back before eight this morning. He’s not here yet and it’s almost nine-thirty.”
“I’ll speak to him.”
“His manner to me is insubordinate, sir, and he continues to wear that cowboy hat. I never thought I’d serve aboard a Coast Guard ship with an officer who wears a cowboy hat on duty.”
“He’s new to the service, Mr. Simpson, and it’s possible that he will be an asset to the ship. Let me handle him.”
“I cannot serve as executive officer if a junior officer flouts my authority.”
“It takes time to settle a ship down, Mr. Simpson. Don’t press me. It’s not your job to do that.”
“Aye, aye, sir. I also had trouble with Chief Cramer, sir.”
“One thing at a time. Please let me read these reports.”
Simpson got to his feet and stiffly walked out of the cabin. Syl read the damage reports, which were horrendous—hull strained by beaching, leaking gas out and water in. New bottom plates needed, a bulkhead to be reinforced, on and on the list went, adding up to a description of a wreck. Simpson had said, “I drew it up,” and Syl suddenly realized that though the ship was in rough shape, these reports were exaggerated. If Simpson was ambitious to get a command on his record, maybe he had composed all this to scare Captain Munger off, apparently with success.
Syl next read the work orders, which called for some new plates but not a whole bottom job, and in general looked as though they were the result of a more optimistic inspection of the vessel. He was no engineer and decided that he would have to wait until the yard completed its work before deciding whether the ship was ready for sea. In effect his orders had been to take command of the ship as is, where is, and to get her back into operation as soon as possible. He signed the papers with a flourish. What the hell …
He put the stack of papers on the desk and went to the wardroom, where he found Simpson talking to the engineer, Wydanski.
“Mr. Wydanski has more bad news for us,” Simpson said. “You should put it in the damage reports: he says our wiring is bad.”
“Not all of it, skipper, just some of it’s a little worn and frayed. We can replace it easily enough if we can get the materials.”
“If some has gone, the rest will go before long,” Simpson said. “One thing we don’t need on a gas tanker is a lot of short circuits.”
“Mr. Simpson, I appreciate your caution, but don’t let’s get in the habit of exaggerating the ship’s weaknesses,” Syl said. “Things are bad enough without making them sound worse.”
“Yes sir. Now may I talk to you about Chief Cramer?”
“What’s the problem?”
“There was a fight in the forecastle last night. He went in to break it up and ended up by knocking heads worse than any of them.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’d restrict all hands who were fighting, including the chief, to thirty days aboard the ship.”
“While we’re on the ways? In Australia?”
“We can’t allow fighting aboard, sir. You have to nip that kind of thing in the bud—”
“Mr. Simpson, we have to keep our crew sane. How many men were involved?”
“Five.”
“If you lock up five men, including our chief boatswain’s mate, during the whole time we’re in Brisbane, what kind of cooperation do you think we’ll get from them when we sail?”
“I don’t ask for cooperation, captain. All I need is discipline.”
“Mr. Simpson, have you ever commanded a ship?”
“No.”
“Do you ever want a command of your own?”
Simpson’s thin face flushed. “In God’s own time I hope that will come to me, sir. After more than twenty years of sea duty I think I am qualified—”
“Whether you ever get a command will depend a lot on the fitness report I give you. Now I’m half your age and have had a hell of a lot less sea duty than you, but this is my third command and maybe you can learn a little something from me.”
“Excuse me,” Wydanski said, “I have some work to do in the engine room,” and he quickly left.
“Sir, you shouldn’t dress me down in front of another officer,” Simpson said, his face still red.
“You’re right about that, but I didn’t start out to dress you down. If I ever do that, you’ll know it.”
Simpson said nothing. He swallowed hard, making his Adam’s apple wobble in his thin neck. Suddenly Syl felt sorry for him and ashamed of himself.
“Mr. Simpson, you’re a damn good officer and I am glad to have you aboard this ship. I think you’re something of a damn hero to stay here after she was hit. But all the men on a gas tanker, especially this one, are under a lot of strain. They must be touchy, just the way we are. Discipline is important, of course, but the end result is what counts. You and I can’t run this ship alone.”
“No sir. What do you want to do about Cramer and the others?”
“I’ll talk to them. Sometimes just talking helps a lot.”
“If I may say so, sir, in my experience that has not been true. Action is all most men understand.”
“How did Captain Carlson handle this sort of thing?”
“I don’t want to speak ill about the dead sir. If he let this ship get too lax, he paid the price.”
“I see. Look, I don’t want a lax ship any more than you do, but I have my own way of doing things. The two ships I had survived a lot of voyages without the loss of one man. You and I can work together. Let’s try. Okay?”
Feeling more than a little artificial, Syl held out his hand. Simpson shook it briefly. This is a bad scene, Syl thought, but the play must go on.
Suddenly there was a loud roaring noise. Syl’s muscles tensed.
“I guess they’ve started to steam out the tanks,” Simpson said. “I better go make sure they do it right.”
Syl went to his cabin. The sound of the steam hoses would make a conversation with Cramer and the other men who had fought difficult, and if tempers were running high in the forecastle, delay might be all to the good. Syl lay down and closed his eyes. A lot of the time, he’d discovered, the best thing a commanding officer could do was nothing. He wished he had a book to read. If he didn’t get a bunch of books he’d go bonkers in the months ahead. There must be some place in Brisbane where a vessel could draw books—some kind of a ship’s library would have to be built even if he had to buy it. Somehow his mind went from that to the need for making sure a good medical chest was aboard and of course an adequate supply of charts and navigational books. Sitting down at his desk, he began to write a checklist.
An hour later he was interrupted by Buller, who walked into his cabin without removing his white cowboy hat.
“Skipper, things are going great!” he began, his enthusiasm sounding a new note aboard the Y-18.
“Thanks for getting rid of the gas.”
“I got a lot of Aussie cabbage cash which amounts to almost ten grand. I put it in a bank first thing this morning, before I could get into a poker game.”
“Congratulations.”
“Now there’s a hell of a lot we can do for the benefit of the crew with all that bread.”
“Renting them a house is a good idea. Living conditions are almost impossible here now.”
To punctuate that statement the steam hoses gave a louder roar. Syl closed the forward porthole, but Buller’s normal speaking voice was so loud that this was hardly necessary.
“I’ve already found a house,” Buller said. “Hell, it’s only two hundred a month and we won’t be here much longer than that. Even after we stock it with food and booze, our bank account won’t hardly be scr
atched.”
“What else do you have in mind?”
“A washing machine.”
“That won’t cost much.”
“I got something more in mind. Have you seen the forecastle?”
“Sure.”
“Come look at it with me anyway. I want to show you something.”
Buller led the way across the deck which was now crisscrossed with steam hoses running down the open hatches to the six tanks. As they were surrounded by clouds of escaping steam, Syl was reminded of an illustration in an old copy of Dante’s Inferno. Opening the door to the forecastle, the two officers went in and closed it behind them to deaden the noise.