by Andre Dubus
“Jesus—all I’ve seen is Marines today. What do you want?”
Dan smiled at him.
“Sir, if we go to general quarters during this exercise, does the Commander want me to man the gun mount or take Captain Schneider’s place on the signal bridge?”
“Goddammit, what commander are you talking about?”
“Commander Craig, sir—the Gunnery Officer of the USS Vanguard.”
Commander Craig’s lips spread to one side, the grin of a man who is about to explain how badly someone has cheated you.
“Well, Danny Boy, that poor son of a bitch is sitting right here and he wants the Acting CO of the Marine Detachment to man that worthless gun mount.”
“Very good, sir. Lieutenant Tierney will gladly comply with the Commander’s wishes, and man that gun mount which couldn’t hit a broadside cruiser.”
He was starting to leave when Commander Craig leaned back in the swivel chair and said:
“We pull into Iwakuni, Danny, you transfer that kid Freeman. You get him off the ship.”
“Transfer him, sir?”
“That’s what I said. You know how to write orders, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I can transfer him to a barracks ashore.”
“Okay. You do that.”
“Does that mean he’s been cleared, sir?”
Commander Craig sighed and scratched his head.
“Someday I’m going back to destroyers. No airdales, no Marines. Sonny Boy, in all the time you’ve been in this room, have I said one word about that board?”
“No, sir. Not a one.”
“That’s what I thought. Now go protect this Goddamn bird farm from air attack or whatever the hell you’re dressed up for.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
He walked to the barracks with long fast strides, enjoying the sound of his boots hitting the steel deck, their tightness on his shins; he had owned these boots since entering the Marine Corps, so they were well broken-in, although he had never oiled or saddle-soaped them, a precaution which allowed him to spit-shine them now as quickly as he could shine his cordovans. The distinctly Marine boots and utilities seemed a proper uniform tonight, when he was becoming certain that he and Alex had won; and, approaching the barracks, he was recalling cool mornings at Camp Pendleton when he had led his platoon to the field, setting a brisk pace over the blacktop roads and hard dirt trails.
It was Freeman who called the scattered troops in the classroom to attention. When Dan told them to carry on, Freeman relaxed but did not sit down again; he had been reading a magazine, alone at a table. Tolleson came out of his stateroom. Dan nodded toward the office, then stopped close to Freeman.
“Be tough,” he said quietly, and followed Tolleson into the office.
“No word yet,” he said. “But we’ve got some signs and wonders. The Captain reamed Mr. Price for doing a good job, and Commander Craig told me to transfer Freeman as soon as we pull into Iwakuni.”
“Sir, these Goddamn swabbies can’t tell us to transfer a Marine. We’re under the administrative control of the Commandant and last time I checked there wasn’t no sailors in that chain of command.”
“I know that. But if they want him transferred, they must have cleared him—right?”
Tolleson’s face showed the defeat of compromising victory and Dan wanted to comfort him for being the only real Marine aboard, the only man who saw one goal and one course to follow stubbornly.
“It’s not a big thing,” he said. “If they clear Freeman, it’s worth giving up administrative control over one man.”
“Sir, wouldn’t the Lieutenant like to start a mutiny and take over this ship?”
“Okay: after the midwatch tonight. I wouldn’t tell Freeman about this yet—and I’d also watch him: I’ve seen even him look happier.”
“No sweat, sir. He’s got that little redheaded piece Stateside. It’s the other three that’s walking around here like lost sheep.”
“Think we ought to lock ’em up?”
“No, sir. I had a talk with all four of ’em, one at a time. Nobody’s going off the fantail.”
“Good man. I’m going to the wardroom now, then I have the midwatch at Sky Two.”
“Aye sir.”
In the wardroom Alex was sitting at a long table, watching four ensigns playing Monopoly. When he saw Dan he waved and moved to an empty table. Dan got coffee from the percolator and sat beside him.
“Gun Boss told me to transfer Freeman.”
“Good. He was just in here, then he got a phone call and took off. I guess it’s his turn in front of the Captain.”
“Captain won’t get to that old salt,” Dan said.
“ ‘Shove it up your airdale ass,’ the Commander said.”
“That was to the XO.”
“So they say,” Alex said.
“Gun Boss will just sit there scratching his bald spot and thinking about destroyers. That’s all he’ll hear: destroyer engines. Won’t hear a Goddamn thing the Captain says.”
Alex raised his cup.
“To justice,” he said.
“Save the toasts. We pull into Iwakuni, we’ll first off get roaring-ass drunk. Then we’ll get a hotsi bath to sober up. Then we’ll eat some sukiyaki and hot sake and get some nice clean soft pretty Jo-sans and we won’t come back to this bucket till sunrise.”
“What about the girl friend? Semper Fidelis, Dan.”
“The girl friend has detached herself and become a separate command.”
“Aw no.”
“I’ll tell you about it when we’re good and drunk, just before the hotsi bath.”
“You’ve had a great tour.”
“Haven’t I?”
They stayed in the wardroom until eleven-thirty, when Dan started climbing ladders, keeping track of his progress by reading numerals on the bulkheads: past the hangar deck, the flight deck, up into the island: passing the bridge, then the admiral’s bridge, finally with burning thighs and short breath reaching the top, pushing open a hatch, and walking onto a narrow deck. A soft breeze cooled his face. He turned to it and breathed deeply, then looked down at the outlines of planes on the dark flight deck, and the shining black sea with a silver strip of reflected moonlight perpendicular to the portside of the ship; behind the Vanguard was a slow wake. The night was perfectly clear, more stars than he had ever seen in his life, and there was a bright pale full moon. He felt drawn into the immensity of the sky, lost in it, and he gazed straight up until he was dizzy; then he found the Big Dipper and North Star and looked out at the horizon, thinking of directions now, of the ocean as it appeared on maps, of islands and countries and continents. Holding the white guardrail he moved forward to the portside turret, opened its hatch, and said:
“Okay.”
A lieutenant junior grade hurriedly climbed out.
“Nothing happening,” he said, and was gone into the shadows.
The turret was small, shaped like half an egg. He sat behind a pair of binoculars attached to a port, adjusted their lenses to his eyes, then started his sweeps: focusing directly aft, then slowly rotating the turret a hundred and eighty degrees, studying the sky on the portside. At the end of his sweep he raised the binoculars ten degrees and started aft again. Through his earphones he could hear men in the radar rooms and port gun mounts far below him; two sailors were trying to count stars. After a while they stopped.
By the time he had finished half a dozen sweeps, Dan was simply looking through the binoculars at the sky; he was not searching for planes, which was an anachronistic part of his function anyway. His real job was to take bearings from the radar man if he made a contact, then to lock on the plane and direct the gun mounts. But that, too, was useless. If the Marines came tonight, they would strike at five hundred or so knots, and at most the guns would swing toward their general direction while the radar tried in vain to lock them on target.
Finally he opened a ventilation port beside him and, still rotating the turret, looked out at
the sea. Semper Fidelis, he thought. Well, he had been always faithful to Khristy, had not been with a woman since making love to her last May, had decided next morning as he drove north that he had slept with enough women: as a farewell, he had recalled each of them with moods ranging from bitterness to nostalgia. There in the car, he had sung “Time After Time”:
So lucky to be
The one you run to see
In the evening
When the day is through . . .
So on the cruise he had felt no need to collect Japanese pelts, or ever again to love a woman because of loneliness. But he had kept faith with a lie. Immediately, he regretted that word. Not a lie, but an evasive tactic which he should have recognized. Then, looking out at the ocean, he knew that he had known all the time and had successfully repudiated that knowledge so it could not interfere with his purposes and dreams.
At ten past four he was relieved by an ensign, whom he asked bitterly if there wasn’t still an order that reliefs of the watch should report fifteen minutes early. The ensign apologized with shame that Dan knew was caused not by his tardiness but his inability to reply with any sort of nerve. He descended the ladders and went through red- lighted passageways to his room, where he took off his boots and shirt but left his trousers on, so he would be prepared if general quarters was sounded while he slept. Months ago, during a four-day readiness inspection before the cruise, Burns had heard from a sailor that general quarters would be sounded at three next morning; he had slept in full uniform that night, including boots, but there was no alarm. It was finally sounded after reveille, while Burns stood lathered in the shower. Remembering that, Dan was able to feel like smiling, though he did not. He went to sleep.
Four hours later, when his phone shocked him awake, he was certain he had not slept at all but had spent the night involved in dreams that were too real. A Marine, the Captain’s orderly, was on the phone. He said that Captain Howard wanted to see the Lieutenant.
This time Doc Butler was not there. Captain Howard was sitting at his desk, calm again, his voice detached.
“Night watch last night, Mister Tierney?”
“Yes, sir.”
He was angry with himself for not hiding his weariness.
“Things will be normal again soon. I have the results of the board here.” He nodded toward the papers on his desk. “The recommendation is that all four men receive Undesirable Discharges.”
Dan was standing at ease in front of the desk; his hands came out from behind his back, gestured as if to wrestle with air, then dropped to his sides.
“Freeman too?”
“Yes. I will endorse their recommendation and forward it to the Commandant of the Marine Corps for final disposition. As Acting CO, you may also add an endorsement—”
“—I sure will—”
The Captain lifted his hand, then lowered it, picked up a pen, and continued:
“In the meantime, you will transfer those men to the Commanding General at Iwakuni for further orders and transportation to a transient barracks in the States. They can wait there for the Commandant’s disposition.”
Dan was shaking his head, sensing the impotence yet commitment of that gesture.
“Mister Tierney, there’s a plane leaving at fifteen hundred. I want them on it.”
“No, sir—not Freeman. I’m not transferring him out of my sight until I get word from the Commandant. I’m going to write—”
“You are very close to being placed under arrest. Now before that happens get out of here and write those orders.”
Dan shook his head.
“Not Freeman—sir, the Captain knows that kid—he’s been your orderly, for crying out loud. Why don’t you talk to him? Would you do that? Just call him in and talk?”
“You’re being foolish as well as insubordinate. I have no desire to talk with Private Freeman.”
“Foolish. Jesus Christ—foolish. How can you? How in the world can you turn your back and just railroad him out with a UD like a—”
“—That will be all, Mister—”
“—He’s not a Goddamn pervert! He’s a kid! Nothing but a good fouled-up little kid! Jesus Christ—you’ll make admiral anyway, the fuckin’ ship’s not going to sink if he stays on it—”
The Captain was on his feet, circling the desk, stopping just in front of him, and Dan was ready to dodge a fist.
“Mister Tierney, you’re under arrest. You are hereby confined to quarters. You are relieved of all duties except air defense and general quarters. Until Captain Schneider comes aboard at Iwakuni the First Sergeant will run that Detachment under the direct supervision of the Gunnery Officer.”
Then he stopped.
“On what charge, sir?”
“Conduct unbecoming an officer.”
“I’ll instruct my First Sergeant not to write orders for Freeman.”
“I’ll write them. Now go to your stateroom.”
“You can’t. The Detachment is under operational control of the ship’s captain; Headquarters Marine Corps has administrative control. And since I’m—”
Captain Howard turned to his desk and picked up the phone.
“If you don’t leave right now, and go to your room, I’ll call the Master-at-Arms and have you taken there by force.”
After a moment in which Dan saw himself being led away by two sailors with brassards and nightsticks, he walked out of the cabin.
In his stateroom he phoned Alex; as he spoke he was aware that his voice, compared with Alex’s incredulous anger, sounded tired and beaten. He cursed a little but it did not help. Alex said he was going to poke around the ship, and hung up. Then Dan called Tolleson to his room, and told him what had happened; by now his voice was so dull that he began to dislike it, and he thought of taking the phone off the hook, locking his door, and sleeping until tomorrow. When Dan finished, Tolleson said as long as the Lieutenant was writing a letter for Freeman he might as well write another endorsement because he was going back to the office to submit a retirement letter.
“Nineteen years and six months is enough shit for anybody,” he said.
Dan nodded, picking up the phone again, having Freeman, Hahn, Jensen, and McKittrick sent to his room. They came in as he knew they would: expectant but without hope. He admired their reaction. As he faced them and spoke with the little intensity he could muster, Tolleson standing somewhere behind him, he could see in their shifting eyes revisions, plans—by the time he was finished, parts of them were already off the Vanguard. Even Freeman looked as if somehow he would survive. When the other three left, Dan told him to stay for a moment. Tolleson stayed too.
“I don’t have to tell you you’ve been screwed,” he said to Freeman. “Those other three didn’t have a chance to begin with. I’m going to write the Commandant today and ask that he retain you on active duty. I’ll write as good a letter as I can. But you can do something too. I’ve never told a Marine to write a senator before, but that’s exactly what you ought to do. You’ve got that Senator Magnuson and if he starts asking questions, he’ll shift the sand under some people’s cages. The least you could do is make a few people wish they’d acted like men. I’d say you also have a damned good chance of being cleared. So you write it tonight at Iwakuni. Send it airmail—” He took a piece of his stationery and wrote the name and address. “Here. The copy of the investigation won’t leave the ship till tomorrow, because it’ll take me that long to write a letter. And don’t be afraid to write this letter. They can’t touch you. Course you could never stay in as a career Marine, because you wouldn’t get past a promotion board after bitching to a senator. But as it stands, you can’t stay in anyway. You write to him.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
Freeman was looking at the stationery; then he put it in his billfold.
“Mention my name. I don’t think they can get me for being a witness.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”
“Another thing. If this doesn’t work, do you have any p
lans? Making a living, I mean?”
While Freeman answered that he had no plans except getting married, Dan felt something which, because he took pride in honesty, was rare for him: that whisper of guilt preceding a lie, though he was about to say what he suspected was the truth.
“Well—try to look at it this way. It’s not the end of the world. We tell troops a bad discharge will ruin their lives: they won’t get jobs, they won’t get into college. I tend to doubt that. A hell of a lot of people on the outside don’t care about the service, one way or the other. And I’d be willing to bet that very few people doing the hiring and firing ever ask to see your discharge papers.”
He paused. He had not kept Freeman here for this, had meant only to suggest the letter to Magnuson—or perhaps simply to tell of his own letter to the Commandant—but now he was like someone desperately giving toys to an ill, suffering child. Aware of his disloyalty to the Marine Corps and himself, he wished Tolleson were not there.
“So I have an idea you can make out even if you get the UD. But I don’t think you’ll get it anyway. When a senator farts, generals inhale deeply. You write to Magnuson.”
“Yes, sir. Tonight, sir.”
When Freeman was gone and Tolleson was about to leave, Dan asked if he were actually retiring and Tolleson said no, sir, he couldn’t retire until his overseas tour was up anyway: he’d stick out this Goddamn tour and go back to the infantry where the Marine Corps was. Dan said he was ready for some of that good duty himself.
Then he started working on the letter. By eleven o’clock, time for watch-standers’ lunch, he had finished a draft. But he was not satisfied; trying to foresee the reaction of some colonel at Headquarters Marine Corps, he went through it, crossing out adjectives, phrases, sentences—everything which implied righteousness. He knew better than that. With one bar on your collar, you did not even suggest that the ship’s Captain was wrong: you pretended to be merely relating facts about an enlisted man whom the Captain had not had the opportunity to observe. You wrote as if you were objectively performing one of the duties of the profession: not defending a man so much as informing your superior officers of certain circumstances which you were aware of because you worked closely with him. A reader at Headquarters Marine Corps must conclude that Captain Howard, because of the size of his command, quite understandably could not share these insights.