Ice Brothers (8 page)

“At least you know you're green and that's a good way to start. My exec is an Academy j.g. He's never seen more ice than you'd find in a highball glass. I'm supposed to make him an ice pilot, but for some reason he thinks he already knows ten times what I do.”

“Do you mind if I ask how you got to be an ice pilot?”

“I'm a Dane and I was brought up in Greenland—my father was in charge of the cryolite mines there. We owned fishing boats and I brought a small trawler with me when I came over here. I've been more or less reared in the ice pack.”

“They ought to get you to give a course at the Academy.”

“There's not much anyone can teach about ice—you just have to work in it. You'll catch on fast enough.”

Paul was suddenly overwhelmed by the amount of knowledge he was supposed to catch on to so fast. Ice was only the beginning of his ignorance. He actually knew almost exactly nothing except how to pass written examinations. He was essentially a fraud and should be arrested for impersonating an officer. Suddenly he felt dizzy and finished his Aquavit in a gulp, hoping it would steady him.

“Want another?”

“I'd like one, but I have an awful lot to do.”

Hurrying back to the
Arluk
, he stood near a huge mechanical winch which he knew nothing about and tried to think how he should begin the vast learning process which was required of him. How does one begin to conquer almost total ignorance? With determination he began examining the winch simply because he was leaning against it. The anchor winch on the
Valkyrie
had been about the size of his head and had been on the bow. This machine was a mass of cogwheels the size of a small automobile and it was located in the waist of the ship, far away from the anchors. The chain aboard the old yawl had been about the size of his thumb; this chain was as big around as his arm. It led over a racheted drum which was connected to several big cogwheels. There were three long, heavy levers and a panel with buttons and dials like the instrument board of a motorcycle. No matter how closely he studied it, Paul had no more idea how to run it than if it were a locomotive.

“That's a trawl winch,” Farmer said with his nasal twang, walking up behind him. “Practically nobody in the Coast Gad or navy ever seen one like it. This here winch will practically lift up a sunken battleship. Want me to show you how she works?”

“Please.”

An hour later Paul knew how to operate a trawl winch. It was the only part of the ship he did understand, but it was a start.

After teaching him the mechanism of the winch, Farmer said, “Do you want to make up some kind of list about who spends what nights aboard here and who goes ashore? I got the crew divided into three watches, but this is the first time we've had three officers.”

“I guess we can just take turns.”

“That's okay with me. I don't mean to put myself forward, but I've been stuck here for five nights running and I got a wife in Gloucester.”

“Then take off. Mr. Green and I will take tonight and tomorrow.”

“I already talked to Mr. Green about that. Maybe you ought to have a few words with him. He seems kind of worked up about it.”

Paul found Green in the wardroom, as the cabin where the officers slept was called. He was sitting at the table with his head in his hands and his long face looked more morose than ever.

“Mr. Schuman,” Green said, jumping to his feet. “I have to talk to you. Mr. Farmer asked me to take the deck—to be in charge here tonight. I have to explain to you that I don't know a thing in the world about ships. There's been some terrible mistake. It would be immoral of me to take responsibility for something I don't know anything at all about.” There was a pause before he wearily added, “Now I know you're going to ask me how in the world I got a Coast Guard commission and why I wear a gold stripe.”

“You took a twelve-hour examination,” Paul said.

“No. I didn't even have to take an examination. I am an electronics specialist. I graduated from Brooklyn Tech, R.P.I., and I was working for General Electric. We were doing a lot of work for the navy. When we got in the war I wanted to do my bit, and I tried to get a commission in the navy. They didn't want me, but told me to try the Coast Guard. They took me as soon as they saw my record. I assumed they were going to put me in charge of installing radar or big communications systems, but suddenly I'm communication officer on a fishing boat bound for Greenland. There's no more equipment here than a third-class radioman can handle, but they told me at Headquarters that now I'm commissioned, I'm supposed to be a regular deck officer, not just a specialist. I'm not trying to rat out, but how can I take responsibility for a whole ship and a
crew
yet, when all I know about a ship is that the sharp end is supposed to be called the bow? I know we're just lying at the dock, but what if they wanted us to move? What if there was a fire? I could be court-martialed for gross incompetence, so I'm
telling
you I'm incompetent now!”

“You shouldn't feel too bad about that,” Paul said. “We're all beginners. We're all in the same boat.”

“Very funny. How the hell are we going to get this thing to Greenland or even across the harbor?”

“Our skipper will be an expert. Mr. Farmer knows a lot and so do some of the petty officers. The real reason they commissioned men like us is that they figure we're smart enough to learn fast.”

“I don't even know how to start learning. The most boat I've ever been in was a rowboat in Central Park.”

“I can give you some books to start you off. Or maybe you could get your orders changed if you want. I know a guy up at the district office …”

“No!” Green said fiercely, bringing his fist down on the table. “They sent me here and I'm not going to beg off. I'm not going to pretend I know something I don't know, either. If they want to keep me here
knowing
I don't know a damn thing about anything except electronics, that's up to them. I won't go begging off.”

“That's good,” Paul said. “Tomorrow I'll give you some books and show you what to do if a fire starts. Have you got a wife ashore?”

A look of pain crossed Green's face, but was quickly controlled.

“My parents have come to see me,” he said. “They're waiting for me up at a hotel. I haven't even called them because I don't know what to say.”

“You can go ashore now and you'll probably have every third night for a couple of weeks at least. Be back at eight in the morning.”

“Yes, sir. Or am I supposed to say, ‘Aye, aye, sir'?”

“Just have a good time.”

Nathan walked slowly from the shipyard and waited on the street, hoping to get a taxi. He dreaded going to see his parents because he knew they would talk about their latest attempts to get news of his wife, and after more than two years of trying, Nathan knew that there was very little chance of that, and if they did get news, it was almost certain to be more than he could stand to hear. On August 14, 1939, his wife, Rebecca, had gone back to Poland to try to get her parents out. She had arrived in Warsaw only a few days before the Nazis had invaded Poland, and had not been heard from since. No member of her family had been heard from since.

For two years Nathan had tried to persuade the United States government and the Red Cross to try harder to trace his wife, and he had even tried to go to Poland himself, giving up only when the British authorities convinced him that the last thing his wife would want would be for him to follow her into prison or death. For the past six months Nathan had forced himself to accept her probable fate, and the only emotion left to him was a need to fight the Nazis, which this very unmilitary man was now trying to do as best he could. Nathan never talked about this. Somehow talking about it with people who couldn't share his depth of feeling would seem to him to be a kind of desecration of his wife. What had happened was too terrible to be discussed. Even his mother and father did not understand this. If they had understood, they could not have kept giving him assurances that Rebecca “must be” all right, and hiring more and more lawyers who promised they had ways to get news of her.…

When Nathan could not find a taxi on that waterfront street, he was almost glad for the excuse to delay seeing his parents. Slowly he walked the many blocks to the Plaza Hotel. When his mother embraced him and his father gave him the quick, affectionate hug he remembered so well, he was genuinely glad to see them, but then they started talking about a Free French lawyer they had found who had real connections with the Underground all over Europe, and even with people who had access to people who had access to Nazi authorities who for a price could find who was in the concentration camps.

Nathan listened quietly, aware that his parents were too old or too vulnerable themselves to give up hope. They still lived on the pretense that everything was going to turn out all right, and perhaps conditions in Poland were not as bad as they had been painted, one never knew what was propaganda and what was truth. Rebecca was a very resourceful person with great inner strength, and they were sure that she'd find a way to pull through.

Perhaps they did not really believe this but were afraid that
he
needed the reassurance to go on. After making it seem almost certain that good news about Rebecca would soon be forthcoming, they asked Nathan about his new assignment aboard the
Arluk
.

“Do you like it?”

“I like it fine.”

“What kind of a ship is it?”

“I'm afraid that's a military secret,” he said with a smile.

“And the captain, do you like him?” his mother asked.

“We don't have a captain yet. The executive officer is a nice guy.”

As soon as possible Nathan left his parents, saying he had to report for duty before ten that evening. His feet were sore from the many blocks he had walked that day, but he was far too restless to remain still. After walking around the Boston Common, he rented a room in a small hotel and fell into a deep sleep with dreams he did not remember when he awoke, but which had caused him to twist his sheets into ropes.

After telling Green to go ashore for the night, Paul had stood watching the tall, stooped figure walk away from the ship. Nathan was a strange one, Paul thought—a man who obviously had great troubles, great weaknesses as an officer, but a kind of depth that made Paul feel curiously shallow. In a way this made Paul resentful, but there was a quality of rueful honesty about Nathan that he also respected. He seemed to be an intelligent man only a little older than himself, the only one on the ship Paul could think of as a potential friend in any meaningful sense of the word. And he obviously knew even less about running a ship than Paul did. In this respect, he and Nathan were certainly in the same boat, but now was not the time to worry about that. Seth Farmer walked ashore with a wave and for the first time Paul found himself the only officer aboard a Coast Guard cutter.

Briskly he walked around the deck. It was getting dark. Bright lights and cutting torches were reflected on the murky waters of the harbor. The din of ship construction continued ashore, but there was no sound aboard the
Arluk
. Locating several coils of fire hose on the sides of the deck house, Paul wondered how he would get pressure on them in case of an emergency. After trying three watertight doors, he found the way to the engineroom and descended a steep flight of shiny metal steps. The size of the diesel engine astonished him—it looked as though they had parked a locomotive in the bowels of the ship. In the dim light he saw a young machinist's mate sitting in a chair reading a comic book. The boy put it down guiltily and stood up when he saw Paul.

“I'm just looking around,” Paul said. “If there were an emergency and I called for pressure on the fire hoses, would I get it?”

“Sure, sir.”

“Thanks.” Big deal, he thought, feeling pompous.

Next Paul walked to the bridge, where he found a quartermaster sitting on a stool, studying a girlie magazine.

“In case of an emergency, how would I sound a fire alarm aboard here?” he asked.

“This switch is for the general alarm,” the man said, pointing to the bulkhead near the wheel. “We're just supposed to sound that and shout fire.”

“Thank you.”

Well,
that
procedure at least had not turned out to be very complicated. What should he do next? On a shelf in the bridge he saw an ordinary telephone. He had, he remembered, promised to call Sylvia as soon as he knew what was going on.

“Is that a shore phone?” he asked the quartermaster.

“Yeah, but it goes through the district switchboard, and they won't put through private calls.”

“Where's the nearest phone ashore?”

“There's a little bar across the street.…”

“I'll be back in a ten minutes.”

As he walked across the shipyard he was sure that by leaving the ship, he was committing a heinous breach of regulations. If the ship blew up while he was gone, he would achieve the unique distinction of being the first officer in the long history of the Coast Guard to be court-martialed on his first day of active duty. On the other hand, he had promised his wife that he would call her as soon as possible. It would be cruel to delay much longer and the idea of regulations which defied common sense made him angry.

The nearest bar was a big smoky room crowded with shipyard workers, sailors and their girls, all of whom were talking so loudly that even the jukebox could hardly be heard. There was only one telephone booth, which stood in a dimly lit corner at the back of the saloon. As Paul approached it, he saw that it was occupied by a burly gunner's mate and a buxom blonde who certainly were not telephoning anyone. The dawning realization that they were actually making love standing up in a telephone booth filled Paul with an odd mixture of disgust and admiration. It didn't seem right to stand there staring at them, and he certainly did not think it would be wise to tap the gunner's mate on the shoulder and ask if he could use the telephone. Turning to the bar, Paul ordered scotch. Before he finished it, the couple came out of the booth, looking happy if rumpled, and he hurried into it. Sylvia answered at the first ring.