Ice Brothers

by Sloan Wilson

  Commander Sanders was even more cordial to Paul than he had been to Nathan. After shaking hands he offered him coffee and a cigarette.

  “I understand that you’ve been doing a fine job aboard the Arluk,” he began. “It’s only recently that I’ve understood that for some time, Captain Mowrey has not, let us say, been at his best.”

  “What have you heard, sir?”

  “I’ve got a medical report from the base hospital, and the captain of that destroyer you were trying to rescue reported that Captain Mowrey was in bad shape when he came aboard. That complaint went through Washington and has just come back to me.”

  “The old guy was having a bad time, but as he said to me, he never put a ship on the rocks.”

  “He knew his business. But right now he’s in bad shape. They’re going to patch him up here as best they can before flying him back to a hospital in the States.”

  Paul experienced the same conflict of emotions which Mowrey always had caused, both relief and a curious sense of loss. “I hope they can fix him up,” he said.

  “I’m sure they will. But now the Arluk needs a new commanding officer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Green said that Mr. Mowrey has made fitness reports.”

  “Yes, sir.” Paul took the reports on both Nathan and himself from his pocket and handed them over. He had dated them a week ago.

  “Captain Mowrey must have known he was too ill to keep on before he fell. It was good of him to make these out in advance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quickly Sanders scanned the reports. “He certainly thinks highly of you two. Captain Mowrey is not always such a great admirer of junior officers.”

  “We all got along together pretty well, sir.”

  “Do you want command of the Arluk? Do you think you can handle it?”

  “Under certain circumstances, sir,” Paul heard himself say.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Sir, if we’re supposed to go to the east coast, I think we should get radar, a radar detection device at least. I know Mr. Green has talked to you about that. I also think we should get more guns. I think that losing one trawler there should be enough.”

  “I agree, but are you aware of the technical difficulties involved in installing more guns? Those trawlers have too much top weight as it is, and their decks can’t take bigger guns.”

  “I understand that, sir. But we could at least mount machine guns and some mortars. I want hand grenades and automatic rifles for all the men.”

  “Are you planning on fighting an infantry war out there in the ice floe?”

  “Sir, there’s at least a small chance that we could fight at close quarters.”

  “Why would the Germans allow that? Some of their icebreakers have six-inch guns, maybe a few eight-inchers.”

  “Sir, it’s possible that we could just blunder on top of each other in poor visibility.”

  “We think that some of those German icebreakers may have radar.”

  “Yes, sir, but the Nanmak’s radar was always on the fritz. Should we assume that theirs always works? And beyond that, radar is hard to read in the ice floe if the target doesn’t move. We might jump from behind a berg, it’s at least a one-percent chance. Hell, I might even surrender to her. Since they sank the Nanmak, they’re probably overconfident. If they came right up alongside, we could keep them away from their guns with machine-gun fire, ram them or even board them. We might take them by surprise—”

  “I wouldn’t count on that too much.”

  “No, sir. But if we’re supposed to follow in the wake of the Nanmak, sir, I’ve got to be able to give my men some hope, some strategy that could at least give us one chance out of a thousand.”

  “I understand that. You understand our over-all strategy on this, don’t you? It was just bad luck that the Nanmak never got a chance to radio for planes the way the Northern Light did.”

  “Bad luck and bad visibility, sir. I guess we can expect plenty of both.”

  “You understand that all ships have a list of authorized armament that has been worked out by naval architects. It’s hard to get permission to change that. And the Coast Guard of course doesn’t have the kind of arms you mention here.”

  “We could draw them from the army. They must be prepared for ground attack.”

  “I dare say,” Sanders replied with a sigh. “All I can do is forward your request to Headquarters. I’ll recommend it and mark it urgent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, do you want command of the Arluk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You think that with only about six months of active duty, you can handle it?”

  “Captain Mowrey was a great teacher.”

  “I bet that’s the first time he’s ever been called that,” Sanders said drily. “At any rate, he certainly gave you high marks and I trust his judgment. So I’ll make you temporary commanding officer of the Arluk, and we’ll see how it works out. I’ll have a yeoman type up your orders immediately.” Sanders stood up with unselfconscious formality and put out his hand. “Congratulations, Captain Schuman. You are very young for a command, even in wartime.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Paul had the errant notion that he should add, “Thanks a million.” Instead he smiled and said, “If you’re asking me to play David against Goliath, I hope you’ll at least give me a slingshot.”

  “You’ve made your point, Captain. Now if you’ll wait in the outer office, I’ll have your orders ready in a few minutes. I suggest you take command formally as soon as possible. It’s never wise to leave a ship long without a captain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paul had turned to go when Sanders said, “Just a minute. Do you want Mr. Green as your executive officer, or do you want me to try to get someone more experienced?”

  “I want Mr. Green.”

  “I’ll have his orders made out. You can deliver them to him. I have a new ensign I can send you for communications and supply. It will be his first sea duty, but you know how things are.”

  “Yes, sir,” Paul said, and added with a smile, “There aren’t many of us old ice pilots around.”

  CHAPTER 27

  With the orders making him a ship’s captain (temporary) in his pocket, Paul went to the officers’ club. He wanted one ceremonial drink, a silent, sentimental toast to Mowrey, perhaps. Beyond that, he hoped to make some money at poker. Probably Headquarters would not grant him guns, but even in Greenland money could buy almost anything.

  While Paul was sipping his celebratory scotch, a young navy lieutenant glanced at him closely. “How’s the Hooligan navy?” he asked with a smile.

  “Tired from trying to get you guys off the rocks.”

  “You didn’t accomplish much. They’re giving up on that tin can.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Paul said, wondering whether Mowrey’s wild plan might have worked if it had been tried.

  “And I’m sorry as hell to hear about the Nanmak,” the lieutenant said. “I always thought that all that talk about the Krauts’ machine-gunning lifeboats was propaganda, but this time it happened. I talked to a guy from the ship that found the boat.”

  “How many men were in it?”

  “About fifteen bodies, I think. He said about half the crew. Some were decapitated and some damn near cut in half by heavy machine guns. They must have caught them in a cross fire.”

  “The executive officer?”

  “Yeah. Look, I wouldn’t make a joke about a thing like this, but he didn’t have any face left. Do you know how they identified his body? He’d had a medical problem …”

  “I heard about it.”

  “Yeah, I guess the whole fleet did. It seemed funny in a horrible kind of way. The poor bastard.”

  For a moment they sipped their whiskey silently.

  “They say gulls were eating out the eyes of some,” the lieutenant continued morosely. “And one guy had a .45 in his hand. The bul
lets in it hadn’t been fired. He never even got a chance to shoot back. When the ship came near, they probably thought they were going to be picked up.”

  Paul visualized the men standing in the boat while a big German icebreaker approached. Probably they were telling each other that the Krauts wouldn’t treat them too bad. Then the sudden flicker of flame at the mouths of the machine guns.…

  “I suppose the Germans might have had a reason for not letting them go,” the lieutenant said. “Christ, they might have one of their pocket battleships up there, something they really don’t want us to know about. Is there any reason why a pocket battleship couldn’t operate in the ice, or at least on the fringes of it, with all that armor they have?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If a pocket battleship were sinking a lot of ships on a long cruise, they might not have room to take more prisoners aboard. I keep thinking they must have had a reason for gunning down that boat. The Krauts are white men, after all—”

  Paul had to get out. “Nice talking to you, lieutenant.”

  Paul walked to the back of the room, where several poker games were in session. The players were baby-faced army air force captains and majors, not canny old construction men. They played with glasses of liquor on the table before them. Paul picked the table where the biggest stacks of greenbacks were in evidence. He watched quietly until an officer threw down his cards in disgust and left. Putting his hand on the back of the vacant chair, he gave his blandest smile and said, “Do you gentlemen mind if I sit in?”

  Luck was with Paul that night. Not only did he win almost two thousand dollars in a few hours, but while celebrating at the bar afterward he met a colonel who, as executive officer of the base, knew a lot about the infantry weapons which the army had available. This colonel was a short fat man about fifty years old who looked more like the president of a Rotary Club—which he had been in Akron, Ohio—than an army officer. He kept wanting to sing “My Gal Sal” while Paul tried to tell him about his need for arms. When Paul said, “Nobody seems to know what they’re doing when they send us up there practically defenseless,” however, the man’s rather piggish face sobered, and he said bluntly, “Just what the hell do you want?”

  “Six fifty-caliber machine guns, six of the biggest mortars you’ve got, forty automatic rifles and ammo for them all. About a hundred hand grenades. I don’t expect something for nothing, colonel.…”

  “Are you offering me money?”

  “Cash or anything we’ve got that you want. We need that stuff.”

  “Look, we’ve got warehouses full of hardware we’re never going to use. I’ll steal whatever you need. But I don’t steal for personal profit. I’m a goddamn patriotic thief.”

  “Well, am I glad I met you! I was beginning to think—”

  “Where do you want the stuff delivered? I can have an LCVP bring it right to your ship.”

  “Aren’t you afraid word will get out?”

  “My C.O. wouldn’t question this, and nobody questions anything around here anyway. Some guys stole a B-24 last month and flew it home. Nobody here questioned it.”

  Paul told him where the Arluk was anchored.

  “The stuff will be there before noon tomorrow.” Finishing his drink, the colonel ordered more. Putting his head back, he sang plaintively of his wild but wonderful gal Sal.

  Paul sang the chorus with him.

  It was a little after one in the morning when Paul got back to the Arluk. The days of August were shortening and it was dark. Seeing the dark silhouette of the vessel outlined against the starry sky as the whaleboat approached, the phrase, “my ship” occurred to Paul. He had often used it, but now it was true in a new sense. Just a fishboat, a lot of people called her, but the powerful bow which had broken through so much ice, the low well deck, which was so handy for loading supplies, and the blunt stern which had risen so saucily to huge following seas looked beautiful to Paul. As he grew near, his eye caught a flicker of motion on the signal mast. The third repeater was flying, still in honor of Mowrey. Paul was surprised when the moment his foot hit the deck, Flags hauled the pennant down.

  “Good evening, captain,” Flags said with a grin.

  Paul was going to say that the change of command wasn’t official until he read his orders, but there was no point in making Flags’s face fall. Rumors travel faster than orders, and undoubtedly everyone aboard had the word.

  “Thank you, Flags,” Paul said. “It is a nice evening at that.”

  The door to the forecastle was open, revealing a yellow rectangle of dim light. Too keyed up to sleep, Paul decided to see if there was any hot coffee on the stove. Glad to see that a big pot was steaming in the galley, he started to pour himself a cup. Suddenly Cookie appeared. He was wearing only his long underwear. Apparently he had just bounded from his bunk.

  “Let me get you that, skipper,” he said. “And how about a nice chicken liver omelette?”

  “Hell, get some sleep, Cookie.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  Cookie opened the ice chest. “I’ll bring it up to your cabin, captain. Mr. Green got us some beer today. Would you like a can?”

  “That’s good of you, Cookie, but I’m not going to drink aboard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paul walked toward the captain’s cabin. The idea of privacy for the first time in months was appealing, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t start to enjoy it.

  Someone had cleaned up the cabin and put fresh linen and blankets on the bunk. All the drawers were empty—apparently Nathan had had Mowrey’s personal effects sent ashore. The only sign of the old ice pilot was his sealskin cap, which was wedged into the bookshelf over the chart table between the nautical almanac and the tide tables. Paul carefully examined it. The skin was beautifully hand-stitched with waxed sail twine—probably Mowrey had made it himself. Going to the head, Paul stared into the shaving mirror above the sink and put the cap on, adjusting it to Mowrey’s rakish angle. It did not become him. He looked like a little boy dressing up. Only a real old ice pilot could wear a cap like that and get away with it. Paul put the cap back on the bookshelf. Someday, if they both lived long enough, he would try to visit Mowrey and give it back to him.

  Although he was tired Paul carried all his gear from the wardroom. Before unpacking his clothes he hung his sword over his bunk. Finally he lay down. In the engine room a generator purred smoothly and he could hear the quartermaster on the bridge telling Guns about a girl he had met in New Orleans. Nathan had set only an anchor watch. Mowrey would have demanded a sea watch at anchor here in this open fjord, but the men were tired, there was little wind and the sky was clear.

  “Quartermaster,” Paul called. “Keep an eye on the glass and on the thermometers. Call me if there’s any change or if the wind pipes up.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Paul turned over in the unfamiliar bunk. He had hung his sword temporarily from a bookshelf, and the slight rocking of the ship caused it to sway. In the morning he would have Boats and Chief Banes put up some brackets. Mowrey apparently had never owned a sword, but Hansen had displayed his. The sword meant something, after all. Before he could figure out just what, he went to sleep.

  Paul had no idea how long he slept before Nathan awoke him.

  “Skipper, I’m sorry, but there’s a soldier here from the army hospital. He says Mowrey sent him. The old man wants to see you right away.”

  Automatically Paul jumped up to his feet, hastily straightened his uniform and went to the well deck. A short, stout man in a khaki parka with a sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeve was waiting for him, and a strange green plywood boat with a big outboard motor on the stern was moored alongside.

  “Captain Mowrey told me to bring you in,” he said, sounding as though he were taking Paul prisoner.

  “All right.”

  Paul followed the sergeant into the green boat and soon they were skimming with surprising speed toward the base. The sergeant led Paul to a bi
g Quonset hut with a red cross painted over the door. Inside it looked much like a civilian hospital and there was the same depressing mixture of smells. They walked through several wards before stopping in front of a room which held only four beds, three of which were empty. A stout, middle-aged army nurse stopped them at the door.

  “Are you bringing him liquor?” she asked.

  “No,” Paul and the sergeant said simultaneously.

  “You better not. We’ve got him on drugs. Liquor could kill him.”

  “I couldn’t find none for him anyway,” the sergeant said.

  The nurse stepped away from the open door. Mowrey was lying half propped up in the first bed. His eyes were closed and at first glance Paul thought he was dead; his usually red face was gray. With a stubble of gray beard and no teeth, he looked shockingly old.

  “I brung him,” the sergeant said. “Now do I get my ten bucks?”

  “Did you bring me any booze?” Mowrey did not open his eyes.

  “I couldn’t find none. They won’t let any in here anyway.”

  “You bastard. I bet you didn’t even try.”

  “I brung the officer. Now I want my ten bucks.”

  “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the nurse.”

  “You said—”

  Taking his wallet from his hip pocket, Paul gave the sergeant ten dollars and the man walked out. For what seemed a long while Mowrey lay silently with his eyes closed. He did not even seem to be breathing.

  “How are you feeling, skipper?”

  “Like shit.”

  “You’ll be better soon.”

  Mowrey opened his eyes. They were the only part of him which did not look dead. They were full of an incredibly malevolent glare.

  “I ain’t going to die. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Remember you’re temporary. Temporary commanding officer. That’s what your orders read.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be out of here. Maybe not before you sail, but soon. I’ve dried out before. They’ll fly me to the ship, wherever you are. I’ll be back.”

  “That won’t be my decision.”