Pacific Interlude

by Sloan Wilson

  “I can try,” Buller said. “Skipper, will you come with me?”

  “I got to go up and get some life rafts with Mr. Schuman. They could be important too … Mr. Buller, have you got a couple of bottles of booze I can trade for them?”

  “I’m out of Jack Daniels but I can give you gin.”

  “I’ll pay you. How much?”

  “Shit, if they’re for life rafts I may want a ride too.”

  He got two bottles in a paper bag from his cabin, gave them to Syl and went ashore.

  Syl found Schuman waiting for him patiently in the pilothouse. “Sorry to be so long,” he said. “Just one of the usual crises …”

  “Trouble’s our business, or so they say,” Schuman said with an eye on the paper bag. “One bottle, plus what I got, ought to be enough for the rafts. Maybe, old buddy, we can save the other for ourselves …”

  CHAPTER 25

  WHILE MAKING PREPARATIONS for joining the convoy to Manila the next morning, the Y-18 and Schuman’s ship lay anchored a few hundred yards apart in San Pedro Bay while their boats ran back and forth with supplies and liberty parties. Before going for the life rafts, Syl lifted the restrictions and let everyone but the anchor watch go into Tacloban.

  It was seven in the evening when Syl returned to the Y-18 with the new life rafts in Schuman’s boat. Buller met him at the rail.

  “I saw everybody from the personnel officer up to the captain in charge of the whole detachment,” he said. “All I got was a lecture about learning to love the niggers—I mean the nigras or the neegrows. Nobody gives a damn what happens to us or to Willis …”

  He sounded a little drunk but lifted up with ease the two heavy yellow bags containing the life rafts.

  “I’m glad you got these damn things,” he added. “Why didn’t you get some parachutes while you were at it?”

  “The s-o-b took every drop of booze we had for these,” Schuman said.

  “I got plenty more if you don’t mind gin,” Buller said. “Come on aboard. I hear you’re a hell of a poker player. Maybe we all need some action tonight.”

  They gathered with the rest of the ship’s officers in the wardroom. Perhaps because Buller was now obviously drunk, Schuman was a little reluctant to play, but the big man was insistent.

  “I hear you’re a regular shark,” Buller told Schuman as he spread the cards facedown on the table. “You don’t have to worry about me. I play wildcatter’s poker.”

  Schuman looked at him.

  “That means no wild cards but high stakes. Sky’s the limit as far as I’m concerned.”

  “That’s no game for me,” Wydanski said, but he helped count out stacks of poker chips. “I’ll be banker.”

  “Too rich for my blood too,” Simpson said, and went to the bridge.

  “It’s good to get the chickens out,” Buller said. “Three’s enough for stud poker, red dog or twenty-one. Dealer’s choice. Cash money or personal checks accepted. Blue chips are hundreds, reds fifty and the whites ten. Ante a white and let’s cut for first deal.”

  Syl had never played for stakes this high but decided to ride along. At poker he never won or lost much because he usually folded unless he had a good hand. This time he won the deal with a king and called for seven-card stud. He was startled when Buller bet a hundred dollars on his first show card, which was only a jack. He dropped out of the game.

  “And the chicken bites the dust,” Buller said. “Are you in, Paul?”

  “I’ll raise you a hundred,” Schuman said casually, his face stolid as he pushed two blue chips to the center of the table.

  Buller looked surprised as he stared at Schuman’s face card—only a seven of hearts. “I like your style,” he said, and added a blue chip. “You just ain’t never played with a bayou boy, Paul. You should have been in the games we played down around the oil rigs.”

  “Deal the cards, Syl.”

  Syl dealt a ten to Schuman and another jack to Buller.

  “Kick my ass if that ain’t class,” Buller said. “Up two hundred.”

  “Two hundred more it is,” Schuman said, adding his chips to the growing pile.

  The pot reached seven hundred dollars before the betting on that hand was finished.

  “Beat a pair of jacks,” Buller said, flipping his down cards over.

  “I guess three sevens does that,” Schuman said, raking in the chips.

  “You had a pair down from the start?” Buller said, sounding a little sore.

  “Lucky,” was all Schuman said.

  “As usual,” Syl said.

  “Don’t worry about me none,” Buller said. “I still got a few oil wells pumping away for me down in Louisiana. I call one of ’em Old Faithful. She’s been pumping away about two years now. I get about a buck with each stroke …”

  He moved his big arm and fist back and forth like a piston.

  “Deal,” Schuman said. “What’s your game?” …

  Buller won a few hands, but by eleven o’clock he was down more than two thousand dollars. He was also drinking heavily—Schuman took only token sips from his glass—and his face got increasingly red. Syl kept in the game, but folded so often that he was losing money on the chips he had to ante.

  After dropping five hundred on a full house he bet against Schuman’s higher full house, Buller slammed down his cards. “Goddamn … you can’t just be riding on luck …”

  “Maybe it’s just practice.”

  “You sure that’s your only secret?” Buller demanded.

  “I think it’s time we racked up,” Syl quickly said. “We’ve all got to be up early with clear heads.”

  He was relieved when Buller said, “I guess I can’t argue with that. At least you took my mind off this damned ship, Paul. I’ll go get you your money—”

  “Don’t bother,” Paul said. “You can pay me any time—”

  “Hey … I pay my debts on time. Is Australian cabbage okay?”

  “Fine, or a check will do.”

  “I got plenty of cash and I should get rid of it before this goddamn ship blows up,” Buller said, and went to his cabin.

  Schuman sighed. “I’m beginning to feel sort of bad about this.”

  “You won it fair and square. Apparently he can afford it,” Syl said.

  Buller soon returned with a paper box, from which he scooped piles of ten-pound Australian notes still done up in bands of bank paper. He was drunk enough now so that he had trouble counting them and figuring out the exchange rate. Wydanski helped him and finally Buller pushed a pile of the money toward Schuman.

  “I tell you what,” he said. “How about cutting for double or nothing?”

  “I’m afraid not—”

  “Don’t be chicken.”

  “Sorry. I just never do that.”

  “So the hell with you,” Buller said and, leaving the box of money with its remaining bills as well as Schuman’s winnings on the table, went off to his stateroom.

  “Hell, I’m feeling worse and worse about this,” Schuman said. “Give this back to him in the morning.”

  “He’d be insulted.”

  “Tell him he won it back. He’s so far gone he won’t remember. I got no business playing with drunks, especially an officer on your ship—”

  “He pushed you into it.”

  “Forget it. Compared to him I’m a pro. I’ll leave this money here.”

  “What do you expect me to do with it?”

  “Every ship needs a welfare fund.” Schuman finished his drink in three gulps and went back to his boat. As it pulled away he waved and said, “See you in Manila, old buddy …”

  “What do you want me to do with all this cash?” Wydanski asked when Syl returned to the wardroom.

  “Put it in the box back in Mr. Buller’s stateroom. I’ll take care of the rest of it.”

  As Syl gathered up the winnings and put them in his bottom desk drawer he wondered why Buller had so much Australian money. Was it what was left of the “welfare fund”
he had set up after selling the contaminated gas in Australia? Buller had said the repairs for the house took the last of it, but he had also said that those who do a lot for others can take a little for themselves … This pile didn’t seem like such a little, but if Buller was crooked, that shouldn’t come as such a big surprise—after all, his idol Huey Long didn’t have exactly the reputation of being a stickler about his finances. Syl locked the drawer, put the key in his pocket and took a last walk around the ship before turning in. He found Willis on the bridge, sitting on the stool, nodding, chin on chest. A lot of men found it hard to stay alert on anchor watch. A still night like this sometimes made drowsiness inevitable, but there would be hell to pay if Cramer caught Willis with his eyes closed on his first duty.

  “Good evening,” Syl said loudly.

  “I wasn’t asleep, sir,” Willis said, straightening up. “I was concentrating on memorizing Morse code.”

  “I’m glad. If you ever find that you just can’t keep your eyes open on anchor watch, yell for a replacement. It’s important to have someone alert up here at all times.”

  “Aye, aye, sir, but I was alert. I’m just going to keep that code going in my head until I can get it fast. Do you think I could strike for signalman?”

  “Why not? See Sorrel about it.”

  Simpson, who had been standing on the bow keeping a lookout for native canoes, walked aft as he heard the voices.

  “Good evening, skipper,” he said. “Nice night, ain’t it?”

  “Sure is. Has the liberty party returned?”

  “All aboard, safe and sound. We’re ready to sail at dawn.”

  “Have me called at five-thirty. You better get some rest yourself.”

  “You never have to worry about me, sir. I’ve been to sea so long that all I need is a few catnaps.”

  At least he didn’t say with the help of God …

  Syl returned to his cabin. Wydanski turned off the generator in the engine room, and suddenly the ship was quiet as a grave. Syl wished he’d thought of a more cheerful figure of speech.

  The next morning at dawn the convoy for the relief of the beleagured city of Manila steamed out of Leyte Gulf. It consisted of three small tankers, including the navy AOG that had run around trying to get out of Guiuan, seven big merchant tankers and five Liberty ships that carried food. Only the tankers flew the red Baker flag. They were escorted by the destroyer Bradley, which zigzagged up ahead of them, and three navy minesweepers which were to lead them up Manila Bay but which now patrolled the flanks and the rear. None of these ships boasted more than a five-inch gun and the small ones had only machine guns. Still, in the early morning sunlight they were a brave sight as they took station in three lines with brightly colored signal flags flying for identification and their big American flags standing out stiffly in the wind.

  As they rounded the island of Samar and passed through San Bernardino Strait the great mountainous islands that Syl had admired so much on the way to Mindoro dropped their veils of morning mist and stood with their foliage still sparkling in dew. Perhaps because on their last voyage the glory of that sight had proved to be a prelude to disaster, Syl was not so lost in admiration of it now. Their very beauty struck him as somehow sinister, an elaborately conceived spectacle that could serve as bait for the great trap that the Philippine islands had become for the thousands of men who were now dying there. Perhaps the sailors swabbing the decks and oiling the guns sensed something too. They rarely glanced up to look at the fantastic scenery they were passing through … Syl was surprised when Willis came up to him and asked the names of the islands they’d passed.

  “Can I go up the mast?” Willis said. “I’d like to look around up there.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Willis scrambled up and stayed aloft almost all morning swinging on a boatswain’s chair he had hauled almost to the top. He did not look comfortable and Syl wondered if he stayed because the mast top was an escape for him.

  Whatever, the men on the bridge soon began to crack jokes about Willis’s long stay aloft.

  “He’s scared to come down,” Murphy said.

  “He’s been singing, ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ too much,” Thompson put in.

  There was laughter when Cramer yelled from the deck, “Hey, Lucky. What you doing up there?”

  Willis ignored him.

  “Damn it,” Syl said to Simpson, “tell Cramer not to call him that.”

  “There’s no regulation against calling a man ‘Lucky’—”

  “You know damn well why he’s doing it—”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think Willis knows.”

  “He’ll find out about the monkey soon enough. Did you warn Cramer about this sort of crap?”

  “I did. I told him he’d hang if he got out of line with Willis.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he knows all about how to handle niggers. Legally too because he used to be the law himself.”

  “I see. Big deal.”

  “He said they had a lot of regulations in prison too, but the guards still managed to get obeyed most of the time.”

  “You better remind Cramer that this ship isn’t a prison.”

  “Who says?” Buller asked, appearing on the bridge for the first time that day.

  He was blinking out sleep and looked bleary-eyed.

  “You ready to take the deck, Mr. Buller?” Simpson asked.

  “I am ready to relieve you, sir,” Buller said with a burlesque of a salute. “Where the hell are we? This sure don’t look like New Orleans.”

  “The course is three four eight, speed eight knots, steaming in convoy,” Simpson replied stiffly. “I’ll show you our position. Have you read the convoy instructions?”

  “Sure.”

  After a brief glance at the chart Buller said, “I got her. Maybe I’ll wake up and find myself back in New Orleans—”

  “Mr. Buller, the bridge of a ship is a bad place for jokes.” Simpson shook his head and stalked off below.

  Buller took up the binoculars and studied Schuman’s ship, which was steaming along about a thousand yards on their port beam.

  “Have you known that Schuman from way back?” he asked Syl.

  “Since our days on the Greenland Patrol.”

  “Does he always win at cards?”

  “Usually. He’s an expert.”

  “Nobody is good enough to win all the time without cheating.”

  “Do you really think he cheated you last night?”

  “Cards just don’t fall on their own the way they did for him. He always had a pair or at least an ace in the hole.”

  “Paul Schuman is no cheat—”

  “I hear his friend talking, but I’m not exactly a beginner myself—”

  “He refused to take your money last night. He wanted me to give it back to you but was afraid you’d be insulted.”

  “You’re damn right I’m insulted, unless it’s an admission he was cheating.”

  “It’s not. He said he didn’t like taking money from an officer on my ship and felt guilty because you were drinking—”

  “The son of a bitch … I can take care of myself—”

  “You weren’t exactly doing it last night.”

  “That was just money. Easy come, easy go …” He paused, then added, “What the hell happened to all that dough?”

  “I asked Mr. Wydanski to put what you had left in that box back in your stateroom.”

  “I found that. Did ’ol Paul take the rest with him, overcome his bad conscience?”

  “He asked me to save it for a ship’s welfare fund. I’ve got it locked up. You want it back?”

  Buller laughed. “Skipper, use it to buy all the ass you can find in Manila. You’ll never find a better welfare case than that.” And a moment later called to Murphy on the tank deck, “Hey, Murph, bring me a cup of coffee, will you? I want it hot, sweet and black as a nigger’s ass …”

  Syl was almost sure that Buller wasn’t aware
of Willis at the mast top and doubted whether his voice even carried that far, but there was a tense moment as others glanced up, their nervous laughter ringing.

  “Get me a sandwich too,” Buller said, still unaware of what he might be stirring up. “I don’t want no horsecock. See if the cook has any ham.”

  “Okay, Mr. Buller,” Murphy said, and walked to the galley.

  Willis was staring up, apparently studying the gulls wheeling over his head. Buller, Syl told himself, was so hung over he hadn’t known what he was doing or saying.

  Or so he hoped, but didn’t really believe …

  CHAPTER 26

  AS THE CONVOY steamed through island-sheltered seas calm as a mountain lake, they passed dugouts and native fishing boats. Some of the canoes had outboard motors, and a few of the launches and old lifeboats piled high with nets had Diesel engines that drove them faster than the tankers and freighters. Crowded with men, women and children they paralleled the course of the ships. Hoping to go close enough alongside to beg canned goods or to conduct trade by catch, which they sometimes began by trying to toss coconuts and bananas to the decks, they veered in close, but the ships had been warned that the Japs had made suicide boats out of some native craft by concealing bombs in the bows, and what looked like coconuts tossed aboard might easily turn out to be hand grenades. Syl and the other captains gave short blasts to their whistles when the small boats came too close, and the officers on the bridge shouted over loud hailers and through cupped hands, “Keep clear. Veer off.”

  Perhaps the natives did not understand English, or their engines made so much noise that they couldn’t hear. A few of them kept on coming in with children standing in the bow waving stalks of bananas. The orders in the convoy instructions were clear: “Shoot across the bow of any native craft that disregards warnings. If it keeps on coming, sink it.”

  A machine gun on the stern of one of the minesweepers stuttered as this command was carried out. The fifty-caliber slugs raised a curtain of spray across the bow of a boat loaded with people whose straw hats obscured their faces. It quickly turned, but some farther ahead did not get the message. Seeing a whole flotilla of canoes stretched across the bows of the convoys, the escort commander revved up the huge engines of his destroyer and speeded in a circle around them, his curling wake almost swamping them. They turned and scattered, the men in canoes without outboards paddling frantically. One small dugout capsized. It lay in the water with natives clinging to its bottom as the rows of ships slightly altered course to pass on both sides of it.