Ice Brothers (39 page)

“Aye, aye, sir.” Nathan did not leave. Instead he fumbled in his pocket and took out a small cardboard box. “When I went ashore this morning, I was able to pick up these.”

He handed it to Paul and Paul opened it. Inside were the silver bars of a lieutenant junior grade and two sets of shoulder bars with the appropriate one-and-a-half stripe.

“God, thanks for getting me these. How much do I owe you for them?”

“Nothing, sir. The crew took up a collection. We've got the gold braid for your blue uniform too. Boats will sew it on. Can I take your coats to him?”

“Sure. Who put them all up to that?”

“I don't know who got the idea first. I don't even know how they found out about the promotion. Boats brought me a hat full of money just before I went ashore.”

“The bastards are just trying to butter me up,” Paul said with a grin. “Tell them it won't work. No, I'll thank them when I read my orders.”

Nathan smiled, took Paul's coats from his locker and left.

Cookie served Paul croissants that morning with eggs Benedict. He also asked if he could go ashore.

“What for, Cookie?”

“I got to get supplies.”

“Doesn't Mr. Green see to that?”

“Private supplies, sir.”

“If you mean booze, we're turning over a new book on this ship. I think we've seen enough of booze. I'm not going to search your flour bin, but I don't want to hear about booze again. Request denied.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Cookie said, looking crestfallen.

“And if you crap in my soup, I'll do it in your hat.”

“Oh no, sir,” Cookie said. “Thanks for warning me.”

A few minutes after Paul had finished his breakfast, Nathan brought up his blue coat with a new half-stripe on each sleeve. Since the old stripe had been worn to silver, the new gold stood out.

“Thank you,” Paul said. “I guess you can call the men to quarters now.”

A moment later the shrill wail of the boatswain's pipe sounded. When Paul came down to the well deck a few minutes later, four rows of men stiffened to attention. In the front row with Seth and Nathan was the new ensign. He looked about fourteen years old, a short, thin chap who still had acne. Contrasted to his boyish, eager face, the other men looked bone tired, but anxious to please as they stood with their pea jackets buttoned against a chill wind.

“At ease,” Paul began. “I am here to read my orders.” He took them from his pocket, remembering how Mowrey had snapped his papers open only about five months ago when he had taken command. It seemed at least five years in the past. Paul was capable of no such gesture and he unfolded his orders with deliberation.

“To: Paul R. Schuman, Ensign U.S. Coast Guard Reserve—now lieutenant junior grade, as you can see. From Commandant, U.S. Coast Guard, Washington, D.C. Subject: Assignment as temporary commanding officer, U.S. Coast Guard cutter
Arluk
. Paragraph one: You will assume temporary command of the U.S. Coast Guard cutter
Arluk
without delay, pending further orders.”

He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. It had taken courage to read the word “temporary” twice instead of leaving it out. He hated that word, but tried to forget it.

“Well, men, we've come a long way together, thousands of cold miles,” he began. “Captain Mowrey has taught us a lot, I think, and I'm sure we all can carry on without him.”

He paused and cleared his throat. The men stared at him impassively. He could not guess what they were thinking.

“I want to thank you all for the insignia of my new rank. These insignia you have given me will be my most treasured souvenir of this war, perhaps the only one, because there's not much of it I want to remember.”

This got a dutiful laugh.

“Now I'm not going to give you a speech the way Captain Mowrey did when he assumed command because you're already shaped up into a great crew and I can't tell you anything about Greenland that you haven't seen for yourself. I just have two things to say to you. First, I don't plan to offer to buy your insignia when you get promotions because I hope you all get a lot of them. I believe that anybody on the Greenland Patrol deserves all the promotions he can get just for being here. I am asking Mr. Green today to write all letters necessary for recommending every man for the next rate. I'm not sure that Headquarters will give us everything we ask, but you can be sure that Mr. Green and I will keep trying.”

A cheer greeted this.

“Now one more thing. You saw some big crates loaded aboard a little while ago. They contain six heavy machine guns, six mortars, automatic rifles for all hands, ammo and hand grenades. In a sea battle that stuff might not be much good, but there are all kinds of possibilities if we meet the Germans in the ice or on the ice. A close encounter is not impossible. At any rate, I want you to know that I am doing everything I can to make this ship a fighting unit, and by that I mean a ship that can
fight
. I want this crew trained like a company of marines. I may have another few notions to help us survive whatever circumstances sank the
Nanmak
. We'll use every ounce of our ingenuity to make this little ship as dangerous to the enemy as we possibly can. For this reason I am asking Mr. Green to have a new insignia painted over the Coast Guard motto on our stack. I am taking off Captain Mowrey's personal motto, because we've all learned enough not to foul up here, and in its place I am putting a motto for the Germans to read if they ever come close enough to us. This motto used to fly on one of our country's oldest flags, way back at the beginning of the American Revolution. Mr. Green, I want a rattlesnake painted on that smokestack. And in a circle around it, I want the words,
DON
'
T TREAD ON ME
.”

Another cheer.

“Dis-
missed!
” Paul said, spun on his heel and walked to his cabin. For some reason he was shaking. In his private head he splashed cold water on his face and combed his hair. After calming down, he sat on the stool in the bridge and watched Guns assemble one of the new 50-caliber machine guns. It was a snub-snouted lethal-looking instrument, but against a German pocket battleship, if such there actually was on the east coast of Greenland, it would be little better than a water pistol. Even so, Paul reminded himself, there was always a chance of evading the enemy until the planes could be called in. A German pocket battleship would not want to betray her presence just to sink a trawler, and her captain would not fire unless he knew he had been seen. In a dark jungle a dog can run from a tiger and yap alarms to the whole animal kingdom. The rattlesnake can kill a grizzly bear, especially if he strikes before being seen. There was no need for Paul to assume he had no chance at all against the Germans. After all, they were only men, just like him, except a lot crazier.

CHAPTER 28

The next day Paul called the chief machinist's mate into his cabin. The chief was a stout old Coast Guard regular named John Banes who had been on the point of retirement when the war broke out. Banes knew his business, knew it so well that neither Mowrey nor Paul ever worried much about engine breakdown. Despite his great bulk and knowledge, he was a curiously self-effacing man who hardly ever said anything, no matter what hardships he had to endure. His usual response to any question was a grunt, a mellow grunt for “yes,” a gruff grunt for “no.” He had another grunt of sheer disgust for comment on the weather, the ice, Greenland in general, trawlers and inexperienced sailors. Since he appeared to have the most limited vocabulary Paul had ever heard, he'd assumed that Banes was stupid, but with his big blunt hands he could take apart the most intricate machinery and make it work, even when the ship was rolling and pitching in a full gale. He also never got into disputes with other men. More than twenty years at sea in small ships had taught Chief Banes a thing or two.

Now the chief took his cap off as he entered the captain's cabin, looked impassively at this man half his age who had just become his commanding officer and said, “Mr. Green says you want to see me, sir.”

“Yes, chief. We ought to have a talk. You run those engines so well that I tend to forget they're there.”

Banes gave a pleased grunt.

“I guess you know I know next to nothing about engines,” Paul continued. “You're in complete charge of the engineroom. I'll hardly ever go there except when I want to get warm.”

Another pleased grunt.

“Now I guess you've heard we're going to the east coast. I suppose we could be sent home after a short voyage, but I think we would be wise to assume that we'll be up there all winter. Of course we'll be anchored or stuck in the ice a lot of the time, so fuel shouldn't be too much of a problem. Have you got all the spare parts you need?”

Banes gave his yes grunt and added, “I drew all I could in Boston and Argentia. We're pretty well fixed. I just got some spare parts Mr. Green told me to order for the gyrocompass. That's his baby now.”

“Are there any repairs you want to make that would put the ship temporarily out of commission? Here's the place to do them.”

“That Fairbanks-Morse will go forever. It's a good, slow-turning engine.”

“That's fine. But chief, I have reason to want to delay our departure about ten days. Mr. Green is hoping to get some electronic supplies that could be important. Frankly, he hopes to build a device that can detect enemy radar. I don't want to sail until he gets everything he needs.”

Banes gave his mellow grunt. “I could get a scored cylinder,” he said. “We'd have to put in a new liner. That will take about as much time as you need.”

“Thank you, chief.”

The chief put on his cap and went to the engineroom. Paul buttoned up his parka and went directly to the Commander GreenPat office. Sanders saw him without delay.

“What can I do for you, skipper?”

“I just want to talk over our sailing date. I had hoped to be ready to go within twenty-four hours, but now my chief tells me he has to put in a new cylinder liner. We may need a week or ten days on availability.”

Sanders frowned. “There's something about these trawlers. If I head their bows back to Boston, they never have engine trouble, but when I head them north—”

“Sir, the
Arluk
has a good record on that. We've never asked for availability. I'd rather take that engine apart here than in the ice.”

“Of course I can't argue with that. I suppose you want a secure mooring.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring her alongside the
Redbird
at Pier Three. The navy is having a hell of a time with her. She's always on availability.”

The crew of the
Redbird
, the gray navy trawler alongside of which they had lain in Argentia, greeted the crew of the
Arluk
like old friends. Upon finding that the
Redbird
had been broken down ever since reaching Greenland, the men of the
Arluk
had a fine time describing their voyage up the west coast.

“Did you see any Eskies?” the
Redbird
's chief boatswain's mate asked.

“Sure,” Boats replied with a grin. “Now I ain't going to tell you about them except they're the most
hospitable
people in the world.”

To Paul's surprise, a truck soon brought another load of mail for the
Arluk
. There were a few more sacks of letters and many packages, most of which turned out to contain cookies and cakes which now consisted mostly of dry crumbs. Paul received another eight letters from Sylvia and, to his surprise, one from his brother Bill and two from his mother. He opened the letters from his wife first, quickly searching for photographs of her, but her snapshots still showed nothing but the house. Finding that her letters continued to be concerned largely with the details of interior decoration, Paul opened the envelope from his brother. Bill had enclosed a photograph of himself, a dashing young army air force lieutenant.

Dear Paul,

I finally made it through training. Boy, I tell you, it was rough! A third of my class washed out, and two crashed. You don't walk away from the wreckage of one of those advanced trainers. The Air Force saves on funeral costs—there's never much left to bury.

I thought I was off to the Battle of Britain and was all geared up to get me some Krauts, but I made the mistake of doing pretty well in my advanced training, and now, damn it, I'm a flight instructor. I still get flight pay and they say that the promotions come so fast that some guys make chicken colonel almost before they can vote, but I'd give my right arm to go where the action is. I'm doing what I can to pull strings, and maybe they'll turn me loose here after a few months.

Meantime it seems that I have danger without medals. The guys the Force is recruiting these days are so unpredictable that the death rate of instructors is worse than for combat pilots. It must be cold where you are, but at least you don't have some young cowboy trying to fly you into a tree. Sometimes I wish I had been smart enough to join the Coast Guard: Why didn't anyone tell me that flying is dangerous?

When I think of you just lolling around with the Eskimos, I get mad as hell. The Coast Guard must get boring at times, but I could sure do with a little boredom. Bring me home an Eskimo girl if you can. The girls in South Carolina have lost their magic. Man, you don't have to tackle them when you're in the air force—they tackle you, and some of them make a loop-the-loop at 400 miles an hour seem restful. I hope to get home soon and will say hello to Sylvia.

Take care—

Bill

Good old Bill, Paul thought sourly. Now there's a real operator! He gets flight pay, fast promotion, a glamor-boy uniform, stays stateside, and still gets to play the hero in mortal danger. I bet he arranges enough fast flights to combat areas to pick up a chestful of campaign ribbons without being overseas more than a month. Why didn't I have the sense to follow in my dear older brother's footsteps?