One cold day Holman put steam for the first time on the brass radiators in the compartment. They banged and thumped and the acrid smell of metal polish baking off filled the space and a furious argument about Maily grew up while the men were eating dinner.
“I bet she ain’t even cherry,” Crosley said. “I bet she’s just a trick Victor Shu thought up to keep all the guys horny.”
Perna agreed. A dozen men howled down the idea. They all wanted to believe that Maily was a virgin.
“Ask Doc. He inspected her. Ain’t it so, Doc?” they all appealed.
“She’s a virgin,” Jennings said. “I’m sorry I insisted on examining her.”
“How could you tell? What’s one like?” Crosley challenged.
“One what?”
“A maidenhead. What’s it look like?”
“Oh,” Jennings said. “It’s just a membrane. You probably wouldn’t recognize it, unless you knew what to look for.”
“Well, I don’t see where she’s worth two hundred gold, or even ten,” Crosley said. “One of them things is one of them things, if it’s hung on a cow. I ain’t gonna let her get me bothered.”
Laughter swept the tables. They knew Crosley was the most bothered one of all. He could not forget that one time he had had his hands all over Maily.
“It ain’t just popping the cherry that you pay for,” Farren said. “It’s a special feeling that goes with it.”
“Yeah!” Bronson slewed his chair around. “It’s like you had to wear second-hand clothes all your life and here you got something new. You’re making it second-hand for all the bastards that are going to come after you.”
“That’s it,” two or three agreed.
“Bilgewater, Bronson!” Harris snorted. “You never popped one, that’s plain to see!”
“I suppose you did, huh? You know all about it, don’t you?”
“Damn right, and it’s worth the price, and I’ll tell you guys how it is,” Harris said. “They’re scared. They watch you and their face and eyes ain’t going to look quite like that again in their whole lives. It makes you God for them few minutes. And afterward their hand comes up and touches your cheek to see if you’re real.”
He glared at Bronson. No one spoke. It was very quiet.
“You guys keep talking, I’m going to start raising me two hundred dollars,” Harris said.
“You’re shacked up. You’re out of it,” Crosley said.
“I’m hell out of it!”
“You got to be able to raise something else besides money, Sam,” Wilsey said.
“I can raise that, too!”
Burgoyne was frowning. “I swear, I wish someday I could eat one meal on this ship when all Harris talks about is chow,” he said.
“Harris thinks he’s talking about chow,” Wilsey said.
“Wong!” Farren yelled. “Bring Harris a plate of bearded clams on the half shell!”
“And a bottle of red lead!” Stawski shouted.
They all chimed in. Harris bristled his white hair and howled curses at them. The compartment rang with laughter. It was always a lot of fun to bait Harris.
An hour later, alone with Holman on deck, Burgoyne seemed embarrassed. “Jake, I got to tell you I’m saving my money to buy Maily,” he said. “But I won’t take her topside. I’ll just let her go on down to Shanghai.”
“What the hell, Frenchy?”
“Something Harris said. But don’t tell nobody. They’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I won’t tell. But I mean, why tell me?”
Burgoyne dug out his can of Copenhagen. “Because she favors you, Jake. If you’re studying to buy her, I’ll stand aside. I’ll even loan you money.”
Holman felt very uncomfortable. “Hell, I ain’t talked half as much to her as the rest of you,” he said. “I think she likes you best, Frenchy. You’re the only one ain’t been going topside. I’ll loan you money.”
“You’re wrong, Jake.” Burgoyne worked his lips and spat over the side. “But if that’s how you feel about it, then thank you kindly.”
The Sand Pebbles changed into blue uniforms for winter. Misty rains drove the Saturday personnel inspections to the shelter of the boat deck awnings. After the inspections, Ensign Bordelles always read aloud a portion of “Rocks and Shoals.” That was navy regulation, dating back to a time when most sailors could not read the posted copy. Duckbutt Randall was the only Sand Pebble who could not read and write, but it still had to be read. “Rocks and Shoals” listed twenty-two different offenses for which you could suffer death or such other penalty as a court-martial might direct. The Sand Pebbles liked best the one about pusillanimously crying for quarter. Bordelles always stumbled over that word.
The Friday lower-deck inspections were the only times that Holman talked to Lt. Collins. He would meet the inspection party inside the engine room hatch, salute and report ready for inspection. Then he would stay at Lt. Collins’ elbow, to answer questions, as they walked around the gratings and then around the engine on the lower level. Everything was always very clean, with the engine shined and oiled and complexly gleaming down the center of the engine room. Lt. Collins looked and nodded and felt for dust on ledges and he did not ask any questions. Somewhere at random he would stop and point to one of the slick, worn old floorplates and Holman would pry it up. It was always clean and dry in the bilges underneath. Just before the party went on into the fireroom, where Burgoyne would be standing by, Lt. Collins would nod firmly and say, “Your station looks very well today, Holman.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Holman would say, saluting. “I’ll pass the word on to the men, sir.”
He would boil up a pot of coffee and drink it with relief, after the inspection was secured. He hated inspections. Ping-wen and his coolies cleaned the engine room, and Holman hated to pretend to take the credit for it. But it was that way all over the San Pablo, for inspection. Tullio stood by in the crew’s compartment, Stawski in the head, and Duckbutt Randall in the galley. Only Restorff honestly stood by his own work for inspection.
The commercial steamers stopped running. Changsha was cut off, except for the railroad that ran one train a day to Hankow. The San Pablo was wintered in. If there was trouble somewhere, she could not go. Everyone relaxed even more. They did not expect any trouble in Changsha. The warlord, General Chao, had been there several years and he was all settled in. He held an occasional head chopping on the bund and here and there in the city you might see his soldiers “protecting” a shop while the Chinese sat inside idle and looking unhappy. But by and large the squeeze on the merchants was fixed and regular and General Chao kept the students firmly in line. He would let them parade along the bund to blow off steam, but only against the Japs. They were trying to promote a boycott of the Japs. They would come chanting down the bund, straggling lines of boys and girls in white robes and dresses and even little bare-kneed kids in blue-and-white school uniforms. Their signs were always anti-Jap, but they would stop and shake them at the San Pablo anyway. One sign read: Imitation Devils, Go Back to Japan! The Sand Pebbles laughed at that one. They thought it was a good name for the Japs. One or two squads of soldiers always shadowed the parades. Everyone said General Chao was a good warlord.
Holman went to talk to Lynch in the CPO quarters. Franks was there, and he had a coffee royal with them. Holman asked permission to disable the engine and take the knock out of the L.P. He explained very carefully what he had discovered.
“It’s in line,” Lynch said. “I seen ’em point the rods in Hankow.”
“Sure, each cylinder’s in line with its own crank,” Holman agreed. “What I mean is, the cranks ain’t in line with each other.”
“They got to be. That’s built in.”
“But they ain’t.” Holman explained again about the grounding. It wouldn’t happen to a steel ship, with some spring to the hull, but the San Pablo was wrought iron, he reminded Lynch. “If you want to come down in the bilges with me, I can show you what I mean, b
etter’n talking,” Holman said.
Lynch looked hostile. “I ain’t going in them bilges,” he said. “For Pete’s sake, Jake, what you talking about? That’s hull, boy, Title A! You can’t fool with stuff like that!” He waved his hand impatiently.
“You guys are over my head,” Franks said. He finished his coffee and went out.
“Even supposing you’re right, what could you do?” Lynch said. “You got a drydock in your pocket, or something?”
“I figure the H.P. soleplate and the thrust foundation are still in original line with each other,” Holman said. “I want to center a wire between ’em and then take out the L.P. chocks and file ’em to bring the L.P. soleplate back down true again. Then I’ll bolt the whole thing up rigid and true, and she’ll be all right.”
Lynch pondered. “We ain’t got the lifting gear. We ain’t got the tools,” he objected. “Nor the men, neither. It’s a dockyard job, even the way you figure.”
They wrangled about gear. Lynch did not have a very clear idea of what was on hand, or what would be needed.
“It’s dangerous,” he said. “You’ll kill somebody. Like …”
“Like what?”
Lynch didn’t answer. He had his hands flat on the table and he was pooching his lips in and out and squinting at Holman.
“I know I can do it, Chief. Like I know I can walk across the room.” Holman stood up and walked up and down the room and sat down again. “Like that,” he said.
Lynch shook his head slowly. “That kind of work ain’t for ship’s force,” he said. “I’m scared you might just make it worse. What if we couldn’t even get underway when the floods come?” His face darkened. “Who’d have to answer to Comyang for that, hey? Me and the skipper, that’s who! Not you and your slopeheads!” His voice rose and he pounded the table. “No, by God! You leave that engine alone! It’s all right the way it is!”
“It ain’t all right the way it is. You seen it kill a man,” Holman said. “Okay, you’re the boss. But I wish you’d let me do it.”
Lynch stopped glaring. “I just got an Irish feeling all up and down my back that it’d be bad luck,” he said. “Let sleeping dogs lie. She steams, don’t she? Hell, they’ll scrap her in another year or two. Why bother?” He wanted to smooth things over.
“Yeah, I guess. Well …” Holman stood up.
“Have another cup.” Lynch reached for the bottle.
“No thanks. I have to get ready for patrol.”
Holman went out. He was very disappointed. He was wondering if he dared to go to Lt. Collins, over Lynch’s head.
Since talking to Burgoyne, Holman had not been making every liberty at the Red Candle. When he went there, he talked to Scharf, if there was no other German at that table. Several times he talked with Banger Knox of the Woodcock, who sometimes came in. He avoided Maily. He did not believe she favored him, but Burgoyne’s saying that had made him feel dimly responsible for her, and he did not like it.
On his shore patrol, forbidden to drink, he watched her with the others. She had a few shared jokes with them by now, but she never once put aside her forced smile and her false hostess manner. It was her armor. Late in the evening Holman ordered a supper of shrimp and rice and pork bits and asked Maily to share it. It would save her owing Shu that much more, he thought.
“I’ll be delighted, Jake,” she said.
They ate at the German table, because no one was using it. She wore a warm-looking brown dress with a white lace collar and she kept up her bright, false screen of chatter. She wanted to know all about the Nevada desert.
“I don’t want to talk about Nevada,” Holman said. “I hate Nevada.”
“I hate Hunan,” she said. “I hate China.” “I like Hunan. What do you hate about it?”
“Oh … many things. Because it’s where I am, I suppose. And I can’t get away.”
Her screen was breaking down. Her voice was different, sad and tired, and she looked very soft and helpless with the new look on her face. He thought she wanted to tell him something, but when he drew her to the point she recoiled.
“I did something very bad. Don’t ask me where or what,” she said. She was looking down and pushing shrimps around in her bowl. “I believe this is my punishment. This is hell.”
“Punishment! I think you’re good,” he said. “Good people ain’t supposed to go to hell.”
“I’m bad. But you’re good.” She raised her eyes. “You’re strong and good. Why are you in hell?”
“I’m bad.” He could hardly meet her eyes. “I belong in hell. I like it in hell.”
She dropped her eyes. “If you could have anything you wanted, Jake, what would it be? Do you know?”
He thought about that. “I guess to know everything there is to know. Or fly to Mars, like John Carter,” he said. “But if you mean what’s possible, I’d like to do a certain repair job on the main engine, out on the ship.”
She smiled faintly. Before he knew it, he was pouring it out to her, all about Po-han and Chien and the engine and what he had to do and how they wouldn’t let him do it. She did not understand the technical part, but she was very sympathetic. It made Holman feel better. He scowled when he saw Perna coming toward their table, carrying a drink. Instantly, Maily put on her hostess face.
“What do the camels eat, in the Nevada desert?” she asked.
“Let me tell you about the grizzly bears on Boston Common,” Perna said.
It was a standing joke to kid Maily about America, because she asked so many questions. Holman did not speak to her again that night until he was rounding up the liberty party at midnight. Then, fleetingly, she gave him her natural smile.
“I’ll pray that you get your chance, Jake,” she said softly. “Goodnight. And thank you for the dinner.”
His chance came a few days later. Lynch got another letter and he could not stand it any longer. He applied for twenty days’ leave to go up to Hankow and see about that teashop and decide one way or the other. His going left Holman senior engineer aboard. Holman thought about it for a few hours, long enough for Lynch to get safely out of Changsha, and then he went to see Lt. Collins. He stood stiffly just inside the door, holding his hat, and asked permission to disable the main engine. He explained the job and Lt. Collins understood without trouble. But he bit his lip and would not give permission.
“Isn’t that a pretty big job for ship’s force?” he asked.
“It’s a lot of work. It’ll mess the place up for a while,” Holman said. “But it’s all work we’re able to do, sir.”
“I wonder Chief Lynch didn’t mention it.”
“He knows about it, sir,” Holman said hastily. “Him and me talked it over, what gear we had, how to do it. But Lynch has sort of had his mind all took up lately, sir….”
Lt. Collins half smiled. He knew about Lynch’s troubles.
“It’ll cut repair work next summer almost in half, lining up that soleplate,” Holman said. “I’ll guarantee a smooth-running engine and two extra knots all next summer, sir.”
Lt. Collins hesitated. He still had a slight frown.
“It’s the last and biggest repair job left to do down there, sir,” Holman said. “When it’s done, the plant will be in perfect shape and Po-han and the rest of ’em will be plenty ready to keep it steaming. They won’t need me any more. I’ll be ready to come back on deck.”
Lt. Collins nodded. Holman knew they were both thinking the same thing. He had said he was going to transfer Holman when that time came.
“Permission granted,” Lt. Collins said.
14
Holman started the job next morning. He felt filled with power and joy and it spread to his men. He told them they were going to drive out the devil that made the engine sick, and winked at Po-han. The engine seemed to cooperate. The big nuts broke easily and the pistons broke free of the rods with one smashing sledge blow on the pullers. Holman and Po-han did the sledge and wrench work. Pai and Lung and Chiu-pa did the rigging. T
hey were good at it. They could walk a ton of metal to wherever they wanted it without banging anything and with almost no halting to shift purchases. All day their chain hoists rattled. They worked at a dead run, Holman whistling cheerfully, Po-han wailing snatches of song, and all of them shouting happy insults at each other. It was as good as being drunk. By five o’clock all the crank bearings and crossheads and conn rods were out and littering the floorplates. Above on the gratings the valves and their spindles, pistons and cylinder covers lay heaped in a jungle of metal. The wash-wash coolies going to hang clothes to dry above the boilers had to pick their way between the heaped metal on one side and the deep, empty cylinders on the other. Pai and Chiu-pa and Lung sat sweating and tired in the L.P. cylinder, like three men in a barrel, and grinned up at the laundry coolies and called them turtles. They did not know what they were doing, but they had caught Holman’s feeling of power and accomplishment. Holman came and looked down at them, dirty and sweating himself, and made the double thumbs-up sign.
“Ding hao!” he said. “Knock off now. Today make finish. Tomorrow take out crankshaft.”
Oddly, it seemed to dampen their cheer. They looked at each other and climbed stiffly out of the cylinder.
After supper, Holman and Po-han worked on. The others had gone ashore, but men who felt about machinery as Po-han did never worried about working hours. He and Holman took out the link bars and drag rods and eccentric straps and rods and piled them on the heavier pieces. They finished near midnight, both very tired. Heaped engine parts filled both sides and the only clear space in the engine room was inside the gutted engine. The twenty-foot, flatiron-shaped cylinder block still ran overhead and from it three paired, square columns came down like open archways to rest each on its own section of the soleplate. The heavy crankshaft ran nakedly along at floorplate level with the metal guards off the big coupling flanges between each crank and only main bearing caps left in place. Holman and Po-han stood at the forward end and looked through the empty archways to the white bulk of the main condenser. Po-han had lost his cheer.
The Sand Pebbles Page 20