by Sloan Wilson
Simpson wouldn’t be able to cope with that, and Buller wouldn’t even try. But if he went back and sang his “song” once again he just might get them through the last crazy stages of this war …
Mary arrived just then, carrying a bottle of champagne to celebrate V-E Day.
“What’s the matter with you?” she said. “You look upset! You ought to be happy. You are winning!”
“I’m sorry, you’re right. Here’s to winning …”
“You are a strange man, Syl … Well, tell me, how soon will we be able to go to Baguio?”
Three days later, on May 10, Syl was released from the hospital. An army laundry had washed his uniform, which now hung loosely on his gaunt frame, but when he started toward Commander Patterson’s office he figured he at least had to look better than the last time he had been there.
Mary took him to the hospital in an old Model-A Ford truck that she said belonged to a cousin.
“I wish you didn’t have to see this commander,” she said. “He might give you orders right away. Why can’t we go to Baguio first?”
“He’ll probably have orders for me,” Syl said, “but I’m pretty sure he’ll tell me to take a couple of days leave before I go back …” If I go back … It was really up to Patterson.
He felt so tense when he walked into the Coast Guard office that he started to cough again.
Commander Patterson smiled when Syl entered his office. “Sit down, Captain Grant,” he growled in his deep voice. “I’ve been going over your record, trying to figure out what to do with you.”
“Where’s the Y-18?”
“She sailed for Okinawa four days ago. She was delayed by engine trouble.”
Or, Syl couldn’t help thinking, had Buller talked Wydanski and even Simpson into hanging around as long as possible to sell gas? Forget it … that engine had no doubt broken down all on its own …
“She should never have sailed,” Syl said. “She’s not fit for that voyage. I told you that.”
“Mr. Simpson said she was … If I send you back to her, are you going to declare her unseaworthy?”
“If she makes it to Okinawa, she’d be all right for a shuttle run in protected waters. But I’d declare her unfit for long voyages. Yes …”
“You declared another ship unseaworthy, didn’t you?”
“Unfit for carrying troops. There was a general order out—”
“I know about that. You were right, but the ship made it anyway.”
“That’s the way it turned out.”
“I think you’re a pretty good sailor, Mr. Grant, but we all have to learn to deal with the army. The army has a right to ask us to take unusual risks in time of war. And we are still at war. Japan hasn’t surrendered yet and I don’t think you have any secret intelligence that she’s about to. Headquarters wants me to send you back to the Y-18. They don’t have too much faith in Mr. Simpson.”
Syl shrugged. “I’m ready to go.” And he was … felt almost relieved the uncertainty seemed over.
“I still can’t make up my mind.”
“I thought you said headquarters wants you to send me back.”
“I did. But it’s up to me to make a recommendation. You have a good record. Navy Cross—not many of those in the old guard. You’ve just been promoted to lieutenant commander. Have you heard that?”
“No, sir.”
“How the hell old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Do you know how old I was before I made lieutenant commander?”
“No, sir.”
“Forget it … doesn’t make any difference. You’ve earned your stripes. But now you’ve got too much rank for a gas tanker, and besides, all you’re going to do is make trouble with the army if I send you back to her—”
“I think I should go back,” Syl heard himself say. “Mr. Simpson can’t handle the men. Mr. Buller …” He did not know how to finish that sentence.
“Mr. Buller was in here to ask for a new ensign. He looked very capable to me.”
“Yes, sir, that’s the way he looks …”
“Yes … well, look here, Mr. Grant … you’ve had three and a half years of sea duty and only twenty days leave. I think you need a rest.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I think that ship needs me—”
“All young skippers think that. No, all skippers. Period. I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you. Headquarters wants me to send you back and you want to go back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But the army is going to ask me to transfer you the minute you try to put that ship on limited duty.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The ship won’t even get to Okinawa for another three or four days—”
If she makes it, Syl thought, said nothing.
“Do you know what I’d really like to do?” the commander asked after a moment of silence. “I’d like to leave Simpson in command of the Y-18—at least he’s willing to run her. And I’d like to send you back to the States to take over one of the big new landing ships and bring her out here. How’d you like that?”
“Sir, in the end I have to do what I’m ordered to do, but if I don’t go back to my ship I’ll be copping out on my responsibility. I also happen to think I can contribute something to pulling it through intact … if that makes me some kind of egotistical nut … well, so be it.”
“I admire that attitude, but like I said I make a recommendation. Final decision comes from headquarters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Check back with me every day. We can’t do much until your ship gets in.”
“Yes, sir … meanwhile, sir, I’d like two days leave. Someone wants to show me Baguio.”
“Sure, go ahead. I hear it’s always cool in Baguio …”
For a moment after Syl left the commander’s office he wanted to kick himself. Hell, if he’d just shut up, the commander would have recommended he be sent back to the States to take over a new LST. His New England conscience or some self-destructive impulse must have pricked him into asking to go back to the Y-18. Maybe the miserable little ship would never make it to Okinawa and—cut it out—he wanted to go back because that’s where he belonged. Sink or swim, he belonged with that ship and her crew … his ship, his crew …
“What happened?” Mary asked after one look at his face when he climbed into the cab of her truck.
The sun was bright in his eyes and he blinked. “Damned if I know,” he said. “Nothing got decided. Not definitely.”
“Can we go to Baguio?”
How to explain to her he wasn’t in all that much of a celebratory mood. He had to digest the news that the Y-18 had not completed the voyage to Okinawa safely, as he’d assumed during his last days in the hospital, that right now she was at sea, heading into a part of the ocean where typhoons were common in this season and where, according to the radio, the sky was raining Jap suicide planes. In his heart he was convinced she would never make it. He wanted to get drunk.
“Can we go to Baguio?”
“I don’t feel much in the mood for a long drive right now. Can I get a drink first?”
She understood that he was upset but of course had no idea why.
“Do you want to go to my room?”
“Yes.”
Her room over the restaurant had not changed much since she had sold her jewelry there, but the walls had been painted white and it was clean, he noticed dully as he sat on the edge of her cot. The small window was open, but it was very hot.
“I will get you some Scotch,” she said, and a few minutes later reappeared with a bottle on a tray, a glass and ice.
She watched him closely as he poured a drink and tossed it down. His face poured sweat and his shirt clung to his chest.
“What is bothering you so much?”
“My ship sailed. I think she’s a goner. Maybe that’s crazy, but I’m convinced of it. All those men are going to die—”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“It must be hard on you.”
“Harder on them. They’re where they are … I’m safe here. He looked at her, smiled. “Hey, I’m sorry, I’ve no right to put all this on you … but just give me a little time. Maybe tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, and fluffed a pillow on the cot. “Lie down and I will take off your shoes.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to lie down right now …” He poured himself another drink, imagining the explosion of the Y-18, the whole rusty hull suddenly blossoming into flame.
“Be careful,” she said. “Too much is not good for you.”
He saw Buller’s big face burned to the skull, the bones in Simpson’s hands sticking through blackened flesh … He shook his head to clear it. More likely, the Y-18 would make it into port safely one more time and lie waiting for him to join her. Then the bitch would explode …
He quickly poured another glass of Scotch, finished it off, lay down on the cot. Mary took off his shoes.
“Thank you …”
“Would you like a cold cloth on your head?”
“Please …”
She went away and came back with a basin. He watched her dip a cloth in it and wring it out, the water squirting between those delicate fingers and dripping off her oval, polished pink nails. He caught hold of her fragile wrist as she brought the cloth toward him and pressed the back of her hand to his lips. Dropping the damp cloth, she knelt on the floor beside him, allowing him to keep her hand there. The sweat on her skin tasted of salt, like blood, and he was suddenly aware of the blood going through this hand, of the life and strength in it. He kissed each finger before his lips moved to her wrist and felt her pulse beating there.
“You’re life,” he said, without embarrassment. It was true for him.
Leaning over him with her hair brushing his eyes, she withdrew her hand and kissed him on the mouth, driving away, for the moment at least, all thoughts of the Y-18. His arms went around her. He pulled her down on top of him, burying his face in her throat, feeling her whole neck pulse with the steady beat of her heart. Lifting her, he let her down, her breasts pressing against his cheeks, his lips tasting the taut cotton of her dress. Now he could hear her heart like a quickening drumbeat.
“Wait,” she said, and when he let her go she stood up and quickly took off her dress. He watched the unveiling with a kind of awe.
“Take off your clothes,” she said, smiling at him. And then she proceeded to do it for him.
She met him with an urgency that matched his own. He felt those hands, those incredible fingers, caressing his groin, a touch like butterflies at first, and he pressed her hand harder there.
He was ashamed when his body suddenly convulsed and he erupted first in her hands, but then she began kissing him there and it was not long before she mounted him on that narrow bed and gave even more pleasure, and satisfied herself as well. The sunlight from the window shone on her glistening breasts as she leaned over him, and he thought he would never forget this moment. This was worth everything … anything …
Afterward she took the cloth she had dropped on the bed, dipped it in the water again and, kneeling beside the bed, sponged off his sweating body.
“I’m too damn thin,” he said, glancing down at the clear outline of his ribs.
“You are a man. That is all that matters. I have some alcohol and mineral oil. I will give you a good rub.”
And she proceeded to give him a massage, expertly kneading every muscle, at once bringing him alive and relaxing him. God, she knew what she was doing … “You do have the most wonderful hands,” he said drowsily.
“Thank you … would you like me to touch you, help you …?”
“I’m damn near ready, believe it or not.”
“It must have been a very long time for you,” she said, pouring mineral oil into her hand before she purposefully stroked him.
“Very long …”
This time she exhausted him completely and he fell asleep, but dreamed of the Y-18, seeing her with blood flowing from her scuppers and hawsepipes.
“No, no…” He said up abruptly.
She was kneeling with her head resting on the foot of the cot, and now she sat beside him, pulling his head against her breasts.
“I have known many men with bad dreams,” she said, and that was the only thing she told him that day about her past.
CHAPTER 33
HE HAD ANOTHER drink and lay down again and this time fell into only a twilight sleep. It occurred to him that he might turn out to be the only survivor of the Y-18, and then he remembered Willis. Where the hell was Willis now, in some jail cell? He still had to try to help Willis, at least talk to him.
“I’ve got to find Willis,” he said.
“Willis?”
“A guy on my ship. They drove him off—”
“You can find him later. Rest now.”
“He went over the hill.” And he quickly told her the story.
“I don’t blame him,” she said.
“The MP’s do. God knows what they’ll do with him.”
He felt weak as he struggled into his clothes and downed another Scotch.
“You shouldn’t go to the MP’s now—”
“I’m all right. Will you drive me?”
Leaving Mary in the truck, he walked stiffly as he entered the shell-pocked office building that was the headquarters of the military police. A master sergeant at a desk just inside the door barked, “Sir?”
“I’m Sylvester G. Grant, commanding officer of the U.S. Army Y-18. I think you’re holding one of my men here.”
“You were notified?”
“Yes, more than a month ago. He’s a Negro, the name is Willis, I can’t remember his first name. The men drove him off the ship, wasn’t his fault …”
“Sir, you better see Major Harkness. First door on your right.”
The major listened patiently to Syl’s story. “I’ll check our records,” he said. “I’ll need the man’s full name and serial number.”
“I don’t have them.”
“Can’t you check your records?”
“My ship has sailed. She went to Okinawa without me. I’ve been in the hospital …”
“I see. Well, I’ll check the records. Willis isn’t too common a name.”
“He’s a Negro.”
“So I understand. Wait here and I’ll check our files.”
The major went into a back room. Syl sat on a hard chair, and damn near fell asleep. He was still weak. Partly from his recent illness, partly from Mary. He wasn’t complaining …
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything on Willis,” the major said when he returned. “Have you checked the navy shore patrol?”
“The notice I got was from you people. We’re an army ship.”
“But the Coast Guard is navy personnel. We could have transferred him, but we should have a record of it. Let me give the navy a call.”
He picked up a telephone and seemed to talk endlessly into it before he put it down. “The navy has no record of anyone named Willis except a white commander. Are you sure you have this thing straight?”
“I got notification. He’d been picked up …”
“Do you remember who signed it?”
“No.”
“How long had this man been AWOL when he was picked up?”
“I don’t remember.”
“More than a month?”
“Less …”
“In that case the charge wouldn’t be too serious. If they couldn’t get in touch with his ship they might have held him a few days and let him go. They probably told him to report back to the Coast Guard.”
“Wouldn’t they have a record of that?”
“Look, things get pretty complicated around here. We had a bad riot about a month ago. The cells get overcrowded. Sometimes they just let the minor offenders go. We should keep records on everyone, but sometimes the papers get lo
st in the shuffle.”
“Could you call the Coast Guard?”
Syl could have gone to the commander himself, but he was suddenly aware that he was quite drunk.
The major looked at him sharply. “I’ll give it a try,” he said, and picked up the telephone again.
There was another long wait. “The Coast Guard has no record of any enlisted man named Willis after a seaman named Samuel Willis was assigned to your ship in Tacloban.”
“That’s the one …”
“He never reported back there.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Maybe he got in trouble and we transferred him to some stockade and lost his papers. But it’s more likely we just turned him loose and he went over the hill again.”
“So he’s just missing?”
“That’s the way it looks. We’ll probably pick him up again before long. There aren’t many niggers in Manila.”
Syl wasn’t about to correct his usage. He was in no shape to give lectures on race relations … “But he’s missing now,” Syl said dully. “The ship has gone and now Willis is missing and I’m the only one left …”