Pacific Interlude

by Sloan Wilson

  Syl had almost talked himself into believing that he could best help the ship by leaving her when Simpson appeared in his cabin just after they had taken on a new load of gasoline.

  “Skipper, this gas is bad.” He showed Syl a jar of muddy colored liquid. “It looks about half high octane, half low.”

  “Have you asked the skipper of the tanker about it?”

  “Sorrel’s trying to raise him on the signal light now.”

  The captain of the merchant tanker said he had simply given them part of a new cargo he had just brought from California—the different kinds of fuel could have been mixed anywhere along the long supply line.

  “Take it out to sea and dump it,” the major in charge of the tanks at San Fernando said.

  “Hell, you can use it in cars and trucks, can’t you?” Syl said.

  “I got no place to store it. Dump it. We’ll need you to bring in a load from another tanker. I’ve got whole flights of planes waiting to take off.”

  Syl headed the Y-18 out to sea. Remembering Simpson’s story about the tanker that had discharged her cargo too close to shore and had burned out a whole base when the wind changed, he steamed ten miles before slowing down, heading into what little wind there was, and ordering the gas to be pumped over the side. The stench was overpowering.

  “What a waste,” Buller said as they stood on the flying bridge watching the torrent of gasoline pour into the sea. “They’re rationing that stuff ashore.”

  “The least of my worries,” Syl said, watching the glassy wake stretch out astern. Seagulls wheeled away from the fumes that hazed the air above it. Sweeping the horizon with his binoculars Syl said, “All we need now is some native in a dugout with a cigar …”

  “We’re too far out for dugouts,” Buller said. “If I had only known this was going to happen I could have arranged to sell this stuff. Some of the natives in Manila have little tankers. They’d come down for this. It’d be better than wasting the stuff. Jeeze … two hundred and twenty thousand gallons … you have any idea what gas is selling for on the black market ashore—?”

  “No,” Syl said, “and I’m not interested.”

  “Just for the hell of it, I checked up by the railroad station. Something like fifty cents a gallon, over a hundred thousand bucks for this load …”

  Syl shook his head, coughed painfully.

  “A hundred thousand bucks gone to kill the fishes,” Buller said disgustedly, and went below.

  After getting rid of this cargo they took a new load from a merchantman that had just arrived and discharged it at the base before anchoring for the night.

  During the early part of dinner in the wardroom Buller was markedly quiet as Wydanski and Simpson talked about the latest radio reports of the fighting at Iwo Jima.

  “God knows how many men are dying on those beaches,” Wydanski said. “We’re damn lucky to be here.”

  “More waste,” Buller said, tossing his napkin on the table.

  “We still got to take Japan,” Simpson said.

  “We can starve the bastards out!”

  Syl had heard this argument too many times. It sounded like wishful thinking … The Japs had hardly showed a passive disposition so far. Suicide planes, last-ditch fighting in the streets of Manila, on the miserable coral islands … no, the only way they’d be beaten was to beat them on their home ground … millions would die …

  He went to his cabin. As he lay down in his bunk a chill hit him. Huddling down in his damp, musty sleeping bag, he coughed so hard that nausea hit him. He ran to the head.

  Soon after he returned to his bunk, there was a knock at his door. “Skipper, can I come in?” Buller.

  “Come,” Syl said between more coughs.

  “You okay?” Buller sat in the desk chair.

  “I’m great.”

  “You better get something for that cough … Look, I’m sorry to bust in but I got something serious to talk to you about …”

  “Like how to take Japan by waiting for the little Yellow Bellies to surrender?”

  “Hey, skipper … this is serious … Did you notice that the base didn’t even check our report that that gas was bad?”

  “No, I didn’t … so they trust us, so what?”

  “They didn’t check back to the big tanker or anything as far as I can figure out. I asked the major about it and he said that merchantmen are none of his business. It’s up to them to figure out how they got the bad gas. So if we picked up a load of gas and reported it bad, we would just be told to head out to sea and dump it. If we met some little gook tanker out there and sold it, nobody would know the difference.”

  “Except our own crew,” Syl said between coughs. God, the man never gave up.

  “Think about this, skipper. We could divide maybe a hundred thousand bucks among the men, maybe five grand apiece. Do you think they’d hate that?”

  “Look, Buller, stow it, godamn it. I want no part of such shit—”

  “What about when we did it in Brisbane—”

  “That was contaminated gas, was going to be dumped anyway. What you’re talking about is stealing. This ship will not breach cargo.” He coughed again, hard.

  Buller ignored the coughing. “A matter of principle? How about the guys in the defense plants? Everybody at home is getting rich on this war. Why can’t the poor suckers fighting it take home our share? Look what happened to my daddy after he lost half his ass in the first war … If old Deugout Doug lives long enough he’ll come out on his white horse and drive the poor hungry bastards away from Washington again—”

  “I’m telling you … you’re not going to talk me into—”

  “Skipper, you don’t understand this situation. We’re in a free-for-all. The army guys in Manila are stealing the government blind. They’ve had murders that nobody has time to investigate, nevermind some piss-ant racket aboard a little bucket like this …”

  Syl was having more chills, his head began to ache fiercely.

  “No,” he managed to get out between more fits of coughing.

  “But the stakes are bigger than I let on. Have you noticed that they never check to see that we’ve emptied our tanks every time we unload? We could short ’em twenty thousand gallons each trip, ten grand to be divvied up at least once a day. I could get a little native bumboat to come alongside at night with a twenty-thousand gallon tank. If we anchored far out, no one would think a thing of it.”

  “If we get a medal for our rescue operation, you going to wear some kind of a thieves’ cross with it?”

  “Skipper, even if I was caught selling gas and giving the money to the men I wouldn’t be ashamed to tell the voters about it. Down in bayou country—”

  “I don’t come from bayou country. Get out of here, damn it.”

  Syl’s coughing started again, a real paroxysm this time. Buller got to his feet but stood looking down at him. “Skipper, you sure don’t sound too good …”

  A regular Florence Nightingale.

  “Why don’t you take the train to Manila and get that cough taken care of?”

  “Maybe I will, but I’ll be back …”

  “Unless you got too sick and had to be relocated.”

  “I’m not that sick—”

  “If you checked into a hospital with that cough right now, they’d put you to bed and—”

  “Just get out of here, will you? What I need is sleep.”

  And never to have to see or listen to the Buller of the Bayou.

  CHAPTER 30

  AFTER BULLER LEFT Syl lay staring up into the darkness, exhausted but unable to stop his mind from racing. Sweat drenched his clothes as he turned over and coughed more painfully than ever. He’d never voluntarily leave his command … he was no hero but he was no damn malingerer either … God, his forehead felt hot. He wondered how much truth there was in the theory that said the subconscious mind ruled a man. If he wanted to get sick bad enough, would his body oblige …?

  He felt ashamed of himself without h
aving committed any crime. He was still sweating and tossing fitfully when Simpson came in.

  “That’s a bad cough you have, skipper,” Simpson said. “You should do something about it. We don’t want you sick at sea—”

  “Mr. Simpson,” he said suddenly, “has Mr. Buller by any chance talked to you about his crazy scheme for selling gas?”

  There was a moment of silence while Simpson put his Bible down.

  “Not straight out … just about what he calls theoretical possibilities …”

  “If I do get so sick I have to check into a hospital, what would you do about his theoretical possibilities?”

  “I’d give him enough rope and then I’d hang him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You can’t court-martial a man for talking about possibilities. I’d just keep quiet till I could catch him actually stealing gas. Then I’d come down on him with the whole book.”

  “He’d have to have some of the men working with him.”

  “I’d hang the bunch of ’em.”

  “I guess that would be one way to handle it.” Syl tried to think what would happen. If Buller had the support of most of the men and Simpson tried to hang the whole bunch, the tensions aboard ship would boil over. Maybe Simpson would call the army in to arrest Buller and the men working with him. But did the crew of the Y-18, his crew, deserve to go home in disgrace and maybe do time for following a man like Buller?

  Syl’s head throbbed so hard that none of his thoughts came straight anymore. He felt he was needed to keep the lid on the Y-18, but he couldn’t help the fantasies that came … He imagined himself getting aboard the toy train that had taken Willis to Manila … no reason to assume it would have to be a one-way trip for him … the doctors in Manila would give him a few pills and send him back to duty. Fine, but there was only one train a day to San Fernando and he would have to spend the night in Manila and what more natural than dropping in to visit that girl … Mary O’Brian … what a name for an Oriental … He’d thought about her more than once since leaving Manila. Her quick smile, delicate figure like a Dresden figurine, her hand holding the jade bracelet he’d bought for Sally … when he took the bracelet from his desk drawer now to examine it he thought about Mary O’Brian’s hand more than Sally’s … When he held the bracelet close to his nose he caught a slight fragrance of sandalwood, or maybe some exotic perfume Mary had worn with it. The bracelet was like her, slender and elegant …

  Buller … spoiler of dreams and damn near everything else … had said she was only a whore, or some Jap officer’s mistress. Maybe she’d been beaten up and her restaurant wrecked by her own countrymen—the Filipinos, he’d heard, had roamed Manila punishing people accused of collaborating with the Japs while the Americans were still fighting for the city. Maybe the jewelry she’d sold had been gifts from her Jap colonel, part of what the Japs had stolen when they ransacked Manila during their occupation. All right, that was the worse interpretation to put on her, but suppose it was true … she must have been very young when the Japs arrived three years ago. She looked less than twenty now, she might have been only fifteen or sixteen when the Jap tanks rolled into her city. What was it like for a young girl like that to see them arrive at her front door? Since she was half-American, she must have felt in special danger. The Japs had raped nuns, why would she be different? Maybe some officer who’d caught a glimpse of that chiseled ivorylike face and adolescent figure had decided to save her from his troops and set her up in an apartment … for himself, of course … all right, and maybe she’d been grateful to him for saving her life … even loved him a little, or thought she did. Her mother’s restaurant apparently had continued to operate until the Americans arrived, which would indicate some special influence, protection … Syl couldn’t hate her for it. Her only other choices would have been to get killed or join the guerrillas who went on fighting the Japs in the hills. But remember, she was only fifteen, maybe less …

  Having invented a past for Mary, Syl now began to consider her present and future. Although he remembered that she apparently had been worried about getting a license to reopen a restaurant that had served the Japanese, he was pretty sure the authorities would forgive her as soon as all the hysteria had died down and they found out her real story … Now she was probably trying to clear away the wreckage and fix the place up, using the money she’d gotten for the jewelry. She’d called him and the others her “good luck,” and if he dropped in to visit her, well, who knew what could happen? By now her arm and all her bruises must be healed. He could imagine her in a white silk dress with her long black hair shining …

  Maybe she’d like to get away from Manila, get away with him. He had the sudden image of her sitting at the wheel of a red-sailed ketch sailing with him for Europe, the land of the Vikings … Crazy … the fever must really be getting to him …

  For nearly a week his illness refused to get either better or worse. His cough and the chills continued, but his temperature hovered around a hundred degrees, hardly enough to send him off to a hospital. The atmosphere aboard the Y-18 grew increasingly intense during the oppressive routine of the shuttle run. Syl could not imagine it getting worse, but it did.

  Three new crises were precipitated by the arrival of a truckload of mail sacks, the first letters the crew had received since Tacloban and the first official mail in weeks. They were brought aboard by Wydanski, who prowled every post office ashore, hoping for missives from his Mildred back in Brisbane.

  The first official letter Syl opened looked like good news: he had been awarded the Navy Cross for his ship’s rescue of the crew of the Merchant Prince. But it was bad news that the other officers of the ship had received only letters of commendation and that the crew had received nothing.

  Buller was heard from.

  “I supported you about going alongside,” he howled, seeing future votes going down the drain.

  “I won’t argue that, you deserve the damn medal and so does every man and officer aboard this ship.”

  “But they’ve commended old Simp, who wanted to cut and run. They’ve even commended that crazy Polack who was down in the engine room and didn’t even know what was happening.

  “Listen Buller, it takes guts to stay down there.

  And the men get fuck all—”

  “I said, I agree with you. It’s stupid and snobbish, but they always give the medal to the CO.”

  Simpson entered the wardroom just then. Buller turned on him.

  “You argued against the rescue. How can you put a letter of commendation in your file?”

  “I was there,” Simpson said with a shrug, and walked out with his letter.

  Even the soon-discovered fact that he was the only officer of the Y-18 to receive a promotion in that mail did not appease Buller, but it increased some of the tensions.

  “Okay, now I’m a lieutenant junior grade,” he said to Syl. “Does that mean I could command this ship?”

  “A lot of JG’s go as skippers.”

  “Then if you go to the damn hospital where you belong, skipper, how about taking old Simp with you and giving the ship to someone who can handle it?”

  Buller the Subtle … “Do you really think I have that kind of authority?”

  “You could recommend me for the job and tell the truth about old Simp. The crew hates him. If you was to hold an election for captain I’d win hands down.”

  “If you took command you’d open a service station with a big sign reading Gas For Sale.”

  “That would be none of your business. At least I’d take care of my men, which, sir, is more than you can say—”

  “Mr. Buller, you make me sick,” and then he lapsed into a fit of coughing, a fitting if involuntary accompaniment to what he felt.

  He went off to his cabin. Simpson was at the desk reading his Bible.

  “I hear Mr. Buller made JG.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That would put him in line for skipper if I wasn’t here.”


  “In theory.”

  “You know what he’d do?”

  “I just told him.”

  “Skipper, I’ll never leave this ship without putting him up for theft. He’s been talking to the men about it. I know two who would testify to that under oath—”

  “Mr. Simpson, let’s try to finish this war without putting each other in jail.”

  “I don’t do it unless I have to, but if anything ever happens and I get transferred I won’t let him put this ship on an auction block.”

  “Mr. Buller is mostly talk,” Syl said, lying down. “He won’t do a damn thing if we keep the lid on.”

  An hour later Syl forced himself to return to the official mail. The next letter he opened was from the military police in Manila. Willis had been released from the hospital two weeks ago with orders to return to his ship. He had recently been picked up on the streets of Manila for being absent without leave and was being held in the brig. What action did the CO of the Y-18 recommend?

  Goddamn it … the man should be released and sent to a bigger ship, but he was sure the authorities would want the Y-18 to take back and punish her own. The idea of bringing Willis back aboard to Cramer and the others was a terrible one … both for Willis’s sake and the whole ship’s. He would have to go to Manila, try to straighten this out personally. And at the same time he could get some pills for his damned cough. Buller and Simpson would be at each other’s throats if anything happened to him. He’d better get himself healthy …