Pacific Interlude (4 page)

“Captain, the men are mustered on the tank deck,” Simpson said at the door.

“Very well.”

Putting his cap firm on his head, Syl squared his shoulders and walked briskly after his executive officer. The crew was lined up in a double row on the deck. Cramer and Wydanski stood a little to one side, but Buller was not in sight. The men stood at ease, looking dejected as they stared at their feet or the rusty decks. Their caps were on straight and their cuffs were buttoned, but their uniforms were already streaked with rust and soot.

“Attention!” Simpson barked, and as the men stiffened up he did a smart about-face and stood facing Syl in front of them.

“At ease,” Syl said after waiting a fraction of a second. “My name is Syl Grant. I shall read you my orders.”

Taking a piece of mimeographed paper from his inside coat pocket, he unfolded it and read, “To Sylvester G. Grant, Lieutenant, U.S. Coast Guard Reserve, from U.S. Coast Guard Army Manning Detachment, Milne Bay, New Guinea. You shall proceed immediately to Brisbane, Australia, where you will report aboard the tanker, U.S. Army
Y-18
and assume command as soon as possible …”

He paused, put the paper back in his pocket and cleared his throat.

“If you expect a pep talk from me, you're going to be disappointed,” he said. “I don't like this ship any more than you do, but we got her and we better make the most of her.

“First let me do a little bragging. As you can all see, I'm not exactly the old man of the sea. If I was in the army, they'd probably call me a shave-tail lieutenant, but I've been at sea about three years and this is my third command. I'm proud, even cocky about one thing: no man was ever killed or seriously injured aboard my subchaser in the North Atlantic or on the freighter I brought out here from California. Most of that safety record was luck and the grace of God, of course, but some of it was my hard work. My main ambition is to finish this war with the same record: I want no man aboard this ship ever to be killed or injured and I'll do anything in my power to prevent that, even if I have to be a son of a bitch.”

He paused and the men stared at him seriously, their faces tense.

“One reason I intend to enforce safety regulations strictly aboard this ship is that if she goes, we all go, including me,” he said. “I got a pretty wife waiting for me at home and I want to get back to her. So don't mess me up just because you want a cigarette. I'm fighting for my life and so are you.”

He paused and took a deep breath before adding, “Don't get too discouraged. Gasoline has been transported all over the world for years and years in war and peace, usually without disaster. That's because most tanker men learn their business and those who don't learn don't last long. They lose their jobs and any man who's careless can lose his job here. Don't think you can't be transferred to a worse job than this one. I don't know what the hell it would be, maybe a trawler in Greenland or some damn radio station lost in the tundra of Alaska, but the personnel officer told me he plans to make an example of anyone who fouls up on a gas tanker. He'll find something rotten for any guy who's transferred off of here. You can take my word for it.

“On the other hand we can make this ship a bearable place to live. We won't be bored to death—I imagine we'll see a good deal of the South Pacific. Like I said, I'm going to bear down hard on safety procedures, but I'll try to use common sense about enforcing most regulations on a small ship like this. We won't try to make her spit and polish, but we'll try to make her clean and efficient.

“Now there's no need to worry too much about enemy action. It's the job of the army and navy to keep gas tankers out of combat. The plane that hit this one was crashing anyway and picked this target instead of the sea. One protection this ship has is that she looks so small, so insignificant that I doubt she'll ever be a primary target for any Jap.

“But don't think we really are unimportant. The war in the Pacific is largely an air war. Planes can't fly without gas, and that's where we come in. Humble this ship may look, but no one in this war is more important than the sailors who bring the gas to the planes. You can't have a party without booze, you can't have a war without gas.”

The men seemed to like that.

“Our importance is increased by the fact that the army is short of these tankers,” Syl continued. “They need us soon and they need us bad. I'll kid you not: one reason there's a shortage of tankers is because so many have blown up. The enemy did not sink them—so far as I know, this is the only army tanker which ever has been hit by a plane. Those tankers were blown up by their own crews. After a few months, those men got used to carrying gasoline. They forgot how dangerous it is and after a while somebody struck a match in the wrong place …”

Syl was suddenly aware that he was losing the attention of the men. Turning, he saw Buller amble out from the deckhouse. The big man was wearing fresh khakis, but he had topped them with a huge white cowboy hat.

“Sorry to be late, skipper,” he said, “but I got caught in the head. Some things just can't wait.”

“That's all right, Mr. Buller. I was explaining the need to observe safety regulations. You're an oil man. I take it that you know that gasoline can explode.”

“It sure can if you don't treat it right.”

“There you have it. Thanks for your attention, men. We can make this a good ship if we all work together. I have asked Mr. Simpson to grant liberty to all but a duty section. Dis
missed!”

Turning on his heel, Syl strode to his cabin. His performance had left him feeling curiously exhausted and he wanted a few minutes to be alone, but Simpson followed him.

“Captain,” Simpson said, “do I have your permission to talk to Mr. Buller about his hat? I told all hands, including him, that they had to be in uniform for muster.”

“Now now, Mr. Simpson.”

“If I may say so, sir, we have to nip this kind of thing in the bud. Mr. Buller's whole manner is insubordinate—”

“Your timing isn't good, Mr. Simpson. Let me work things out with Mr. Buller in my own way. Right now I want to be alone.”

“Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this is my cabin too. I was going to lie down.”

“Do as you please, Mr. Simpson,” Syl said, turned and strode to the bridge. Living in that cabin with Simpson would be hard enough in the years ahead without starting the torture any sooner than necessary. Right now he craved a few minutes of solitude, even if it could be found only in the nearest bar. The men who had arrived with him were already rushing ashore to explore the city. This was a time for him to be a follower.

CHAPTER 3

T
HERE WAS NO
bar in that section of Brisbane except a saloon that was crowded with workmen from the shipyard, hardly a place for a Yank lieutenant. Syl kept on walking rapidly uptown. It was dusk and the air felt so cool that he shivered a little, an almost forgotten sensation. His first hours aboard the
Y-18
had left him feeling very peculiar. She was certainly the worst ship he had ever seen, but the very danger that was inherent in her job gave her a grotesque appeal. As the captain of a gas tanker, he perhaps deserved to be as cocky and devil-may-care as a fighter pilot or a marine sergeant. In a way, his job was more hazardous than theirs. They returned from combat to safe bases, where they spent most of their days, but the men of a tanker had to live on top of thousands of gallons of gasoline almost all the time for a year or more. The fighter pilots and the marines feared only the enemy, but the tanker men also had to fear themselves and each other … one moment of carelessness or a suicidal impulse could blow them all up. Most people would never understand that, but other sailors treated the crews of gas tankers with sympathy and respect. The poor devils who ran the gas tankers had a right to swagger a little when they went on liberty.

So Syl's walk was more bouncy than it usually was and he pulled the visor of his cap to a rakish angle. He rather wished that instead of his ordinary Coast Guard lieutenant's uniform, he had a suit of lights like a matador. What the hell, if he was going to dance with death, he should be honored for it.

Fortunately or unfortunately, this mood did not last long. He felt suddenly tired and was glad when he came to the St. George Hotel, which had a sign advertising a cocktail lounge. That too was crowded, but since he was not wearing a suit of lights, Syl was ignored by the other officers and their girls when he sat down at the end of a long bar. He had not seen a dry martini since leaving Honolulu more than a year ago. This one tasted oddly antiseptic but good. At a nearby table a pretty girl in a low-cut black cocktail dress threw back her head and laughed, causing her ample breasts to quiver. Syl was shocked by the intensity of his sudden desire for her. He had a quick mental image of himself going over to her, bowing and saying, “I am the captain of a gas tanker. How about giving me a few good nights before I sail to my doom?”

The young American major with her would not be pleased and her reaction probably would not be sympathetic. There were roles that had to be played by everyone, not just a captain aboard his ship. If he wanted a girl here in Brisbane, he would have to act out the part of a romantic young Yank lieutenant gracefully on the make and he was not quite sure he knew how. In Greenland and New Guinea, where he had spent most of the war, there had not been much opportunity for that sort of thing, and anyway, he had been playing a different role, that of the faithful, idealistic young husband dreaming of his bride and home. Since there now seemed to be considerable doubt that he would ever get home, and it was becoming sort of hard to remember Sally clearly, maybe he should look for a new script. The girl in the black dress laughed again, parting full red lips. Syl had to crowd close to the bar to hide his growing erection. This was ridiculous. He forced himself to look away from the girl and tried to imagine himself swimming in cold water surrounded by icebergs and sharks, but even that did not help much. A year in New Guinea was enough to make any man horny, but there was an edge to his desire now which was sharper than anything he had felt, even after months at sea. In an officers' club he had heard a friend of his, Paul Schuman, who commanded a tanker, joke with his officers about the alleged aphrodisiac powers of gasoline. The tanker crews were even hornier than most sailors, they said, and attributed it to hydrocarbon fumes, which could make a man feel drunk. More likely it was the consciousness of death that stirred up desire, Syl thought. In plagues during the Middle Ages, when everyone had felt about to die, even nuns and priests had fornicated among the corpses on the street, or at least so he had read. The trouble was that now in Brisbane it would be hard to find a woman who shared his awareness that life probably would be short. During the days when a Japanese invasion had appeared imminent, he had heard, the Aussie girls had been more passionate with the Yanks than they were now when the enemy had been driven back to the Philippines. He wished that women were assigned to duty aboard gasoline tankers. That would solve everything.

But now he was snuggling up to the bar alone in a room and city full of attractive women and there was no doubt at all that he would have to do something about it, his whole body demanded action, even though he was bound to feel bad about Sally when he was finally able to get his mind back to his sweet, confused, shadowy memories of her. There were times in life when a man only imagined that he had a choice. Right now he felt impelled to go looking for a bar or some other place where all the attractive women were not accompanied by men.

He walked until he was exhausted through the streets of Brisbane and visited many bars, but the beautiful, well-dressed young girls he sought were never alone and the solitary women whose eyes met his glance were not what he wanted. If a married man was going to suffer the guilt of being unfaithful, he should find a girl at least halfway as attractive as his wife, and in appearance, at least, Sally was a hard act to equal. Besides, a man in an imaginary suit of lights deserved a regular princess of some kind, not a drab trollop, but Brisbane princesses were hard to find in the bars that night.

Exhausted and a little drunk, since he had felt compelled to have a drink in each place he inspected, Syl finally found his way back to the St. George Hotel, where he decided to rent a room for the night. While registering he realized for the first time in hours that he was hungry—he had eaten very little all day, but the excitement of the search for women had made him forget his stomach. After finding an all-night coffee shop nearby which the hotel clerk recommended, he feasted on foods he had been unable to get in New Guinea—fresh chicken and fresh vegetables washed down by cold milk, all topped by a large bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce. Then he staggered to his room and was sick, sicker than he had been as a boot ensign in Greenland seas. Thus ended his first night of shore leave. His last thought was that only a complete idiot could do that on his first night in a civilized port, especially a fleshpot, or so they said, like Brisbane …

He slept soundly but after only about four hours woke up, his mouth burning for another drink. It was only a quarter to five in the morning and all bars would of course be closed. That was fortunate, he told himself—now was no time to turn into a lush. He was the man who had fancied himself in a suit of lights, doing a graceful dance with death, and the least he could do was to go aboard his ship sober in the morning.

She would be waiting for him, the good old
Y-18
. Staring up at a cracked plaster ceiling he confronted reality: he had now been handed just about the most hazardous job he could imagine, and, not to be melodramatic, might well die before he was twenty-five years old. All gas tankers were dangerous, but this one combined some unusual hazards of her own. With her hull strained by fire and beaching, her engine of uncertain history, and a crew made up mostly of men who had never been aboard a tanker before, she might not survive even a long peacetime voyage. It was all well and good to tell the men that such ships were kept out of combat as much as possible and were too insignificant to be primary targets, but the Japanese were not stupid. Paul Schuman had said they were catching onto the fact that these little tankers, which shuttled gasoline from the big merchant vessels to the advance air strips, were the weak link in American air power. Defended only by two fifty-caliber machine guns, they were easy victims for patrol planes, which now went out looking for them.