Pacific Interlude (7 page)

“Here are the papers,” Simpson said, handing him a stack an inch thick.

“Give me an hour. I'll need to go over them.”

“I have another problem, sir. When Mr. Buller went ashore last night I told him to be back before eight this morning. He's not here yet and it's almost nine-thirty.”

“I'll speak to him.”

“His manner to me is insubordinate, sir, and he continues to wear that cowboy hat. I never thought I'd serve aboard a Coast Guard ship with an officer who wears a cowboy hat on duty.”

“He's new to the service, Mr. Simpson, and it's possible that he will be an asset to the ship. Let me handle him.”

“I cannot serve as executive officer if a junior officer flouts my authority.”

“It takes time to settle a ship down, Mr. Simpson. Don't press me. It's not your job to do that.”

“Aye, aye, sir. I also had trouble with Chief Cramer, sir.”

“One thing at a time. Please let me read these reports.”

Simpson got to his feet and stiffly walked out of the cabin. Syl read the damage reports, which were horrendous—hull strained by beaching, leaking gas out and water in. New bottom plates needed, a bulkhead to be reinforced, on and on the list went, adding up to a description of a wreck. Simpson had said, “I drew it up,” and Syl suddenly realized that though the ship was in rough shape, these reports were exaggerated. If Simpson was ambitious to get a command on his record, maybe he had composed all this to scare Captain Munger off, apparently with success.

Syl next read the work orders, which called for some new plates but not a whole bottom job, and in general looked as though they were the result of a more optimistic inspection of the vessel. He was no engineer and decided that he would have to wait until the yard completed its work before deciding whether the ship was ready for sea. In effect his orders had been to take command of the ship as is, where is, and to get her back into operation as soon as possible. He signed the papers with a flourish. What the hell …

He put the stack of papers on the desk and went to the wardroom, where he found Simpson talking to the engineer, Wydanski.

“Mr. Wydanski has more bad news for us,” Simpson said. “You should put it in the damage reports: he says our wiring is bad.”

“Not all of it, skipper, just some of it's a little worn and frayed. We can replace it easily enough if we can get the materials.”

“If some has gone, the rest will go before long,” Simpson said. “One thing we don't need on a gas tanker is a lot of short circuits.”

“Mr. Simpson, I appreciate your caution, but don't let's get in the habit of exaggerating the ship's weaknesses,” Syl said. “Things are bad enough without making them sound worse.”

“Yes sir. Now may I talk to you about Chief Cramer?”

“What's the problem?”

“There was a fight in the forecastle last night. He went in to break it up and ended up by knocking heads worse than any of them.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I'd restrict all hands who were fighting, including the chief, to thirty days aboard the ship.”

“While we're on the ways? In Australia?”

“We can't allow fighting aboard, sir. You have to nip that kind of thing in the bud—”

“Mr. Simpson, we have to keep our crew sane. How many men were involved?”

“Five.”

“If you lock up five men, including our chief boatswain's mate, during the whole time we're in Brisbane, what kind of cooperation do you think we'll get from them when we sail?”

“I don't ask for cooperation, captain. All I need is discipline.”

“Mr. Simpson, have you ever commanded a ship?”

“No.”

“Do you ever want a command of your own?”

Simpson's thin face flushed. “In God's own time I hope that will come to me, sir. After more than twenty years of sea duty I think I am qualified—”

“Whether you ever get a command will depend a lot on the fitness report I give you. Now I'm half your age and have had a hell of a lot less sea duty than you, but this is my third command and
maybe
you can learn a little something from me.”

“Excuse me,” Wydanski said, “I have some work to do in the engine room,” and he quickly left.

“Sir, you shouldn't dress me down in front of another officer,” Simpson said, his face still red.

“You're right about that, but I didn't start out to dress you down. If I ever do that, you'll know it.”

Simpson said nothing. He swallowed hard, making his Adam's apple wobble in his thin neck. Suddenly Syl felt sorry for him and ashamed of himself.

“Mr. Simpson, you're a damn good officer and I am glad to have you aboard this ship. I think you're something of a damn hero to stay here after she was hit. But all the men on a gas tanker, especially this one, are under a lot of strain. They must be touchy, just the way we are. Discipline is important, of course, but the end result is what counts. You and I can't run this ship alone.”

“No sir. What do you want to do about Cramer and the others?”

“I'll talk to them. Sometimes just talking helps a lot.”

“If I may say so, sir, in my experience that has not been true. Action is all most men understand.”

“How did Captain Carlson handle this sort of thing?”

“I don't want to speak ill about the dead sir. If he let this ship get too lax, he paid the price.”

“I see. Look, I don't want a lax ship any more than you do, but I have my own way of doing things. The two ships I had survived a lot of voyages without the loss of one man. You and I can work together. Let's try. Okay?”

Feeling more than a little artificial, Syl held out his hand. Simpson shook it briefly. This is a bad scene, Syl thought, but the play must go on.

Suddenly there was a loud roaring noise. Syl's muscles tensed.

“I guess they've started to steam out the tanks,” Simpson said. “I better go make sure they do it right.”

Syl went to his cabin. The sound of the steam hoses would make a conversation with Cramer and the other men who had fought difficult, and if tempers were running high in the forecastle, delay might be all to the good. Syl lay down and closed his eyes. A lot of the time, he'd discovered, the best thing a commanding officer could do was nothing. He wished he had a book to read. If he didn't get a bunch of books he'd go bonkers in the months ahead. There must be some place in Brisbane where a vessel could draw books—some kind of a ship's library would have to be built even if he had to buy it. Somehow his mind went from that to the need for making sure a good medical chest was aboard and of course an adequate supply of charts and navigational books. Sitting down at his desk, he began to write a checklist.

An hour later he was interrupted by Buller, who walked into his cabin without removing his white cowboy hat.

“Skipper, things are going great!” he began, his enthusiasm sounding a new note aboard the
Y-18
.

“Thanks for getting rid of the gas.”

“I got a lot of Aussie cabbage cash which amounts to almost ten grand. I put it in a bank first thing this morning, before I could get into a poker game.”

“Congratulations.”

“Now there's a hell of a lot we can do for the benefit of the crew with all that bread.”

“Renting them a house is a good idea. Living conditions are almost impossible here now.”

To punctuate that statement the steam hoses gave a louder roar. Syl closed the forward porthole, but Buller's normal speaking voice was so loud that this was hardly necessary.

“I've already found a house,” Buller said. “Hell, it's only two hundred a month and we won't be here much longer than that. Even after we stock it with food and booze, our bank account won't hardly be scratched.”

“What else do you have in mind?”

“A washing machine.”

“That won't cost much.”

“I got something more in mind. Have you seen the forecastle?”

“Sure.”

“Come look at it with me anyway. I want to show you something.”

Buller led the way across the deck which was now crisscrossed with steam hoses running down the open hatches to the six tanks. As they were surrounded by clouds of escaping steam, Syl was reminded of an illustration in an old copy of Dante's
Inferno
. Opening the door to the forecastle, the two officers went in and closed it behind them to deaden the noise.

The forecastle was a V-shaped compartment with three tiers of bunks on each side, a table in the middle. It was dirty and paint was flaking from the bulkheads. Although the weather was comfortable outside, it was much too hot here. Six men who were off watch were sweating as they slept in their undershorts.

“When eighteen men get in here, they're not going to be much better off than niggers on a slave ship,” Buller said.

Syl shrugged.

“Can you imagine what this is going to be like when we get to New Guinea? You'll be able to bake bread in here.”

“A lot of the men will sleep on deck.”

“Why aren't there more vents here? They can hardly get a breath of air.”

“When we run into a heavy head sea we'll be shoving this whole bow under green water. I suppose we could put in some kind of watertight hatch or air funnels—”

“How about air conditioning?”

“I never heard of it aboard ship. I doubt if even the big carriers have much of it.”

“That's no reason our men have to roast. There are plenty of big refrigerator components around here. If I can get the parts I can figure out something that will work.”

“I'm not sure we have the juice for that sort of thing.”

“So maybe we'll have to put in a new generator. There's plenty of space in the engine room.”

“Have you talked to Mr. Wydanski about this?”

“He said it's all up to you.”

“How much would the equipment cost?”

“I don't know yet, but I'm a great scrounger. I bet I can steal most of it.”

“Let's go back to my cabin.”

They walked through the clouds of steam. They found Simpson lying in his bunk reading his Bible. He made no move to leave when they came in.

“Mr. Simpson, this business of sharing a cabin is going to present difficulties,” Syl said. “This place has to be my office. Sometimes I'm going to have to ask for privacy.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Simpson said, snapped his Bible shut and went out, closing the door behind him with exaggerated quietness.

“Can't we get rid of that little son of a bitch?” Buller said.

“He's a good officer in many ways and he knows this ship. Look, your air-conditioning idea is good, but we can't put it high on our priority list. I hereby appoint you supply officer of this ship. Here's a checklist I made out with a number by each item to give its priority. You'll note that spare parts for the engine and a medical chest head the list.”

“I'll get all this stuff—don't worry about that. Do you mind if we buy a secondhand truck? We can sell it just before we leave.”

“Okay—go ahead. And work with Mr. Wydanski on the air conditioning—as the ship's engineer, he has to be in charge of it.”

“That crazy old Polack wouldn't know an air-conditioner from an Airedale—”

“He's a hell of a lot smarter than you think. He
also
outranks you. You'll have to work with him.”

“I'll try, but the only thing more stupid than a regular Coast Guard officer is the Polack reserve—”

Syl was saved from having to reply to this one by a knock on the door. Cramer stood there, his cap in his hand.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, skipper,” he said. “When you have time, I'd like to talk to you.”

“Come on in. Mr. Buller and I have finished.”

“One more thing, skipper,” Buller said. “The men are moving into the house as soon as they get off of here tonight. Can they leave about four o'clock?”

“There's nothing much for most of them to do aboard here right now. Tell Mr. Simpson that I said anyone not needed for some reason can go anytime. Just make sure a proper watch is kept.”

“That's great,” Buller said. “The boys want to throw a big party tonight and lots needs to be done. Will you go?”

“I will.”

“I'll pick you up here at about six o'clock. By that time I'll have some kind of an old truck. I've got one of the machinist's mates out looking for one now.”

He left and Cramer came in. Syl asked him to sit down on the edge of one of the bunks but he preferred to remain standing. When he was near Buller he did not look big, but he was about six feet tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, tough despite his gray hair.

“Captain, I guess you heard there was some trouble in the forecastle last night …”

“What happened?”

“Some of the guys came in drunk. That's not so surprising when you figure it was their first night in Australia.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“They began fighting about who would get the lower bunks, or at least that's how it started. They tangled it up pretty good. I was afraid somebody would get really hurt so I put a stop to it.”

“How?”

“First I ordered them to stop. They didn't. Now what do you think I should have done?”

“How many men were involved?”

“Four, sir, and then a fifth joined in to help me. That was Grinelli.”

“How many other men were aboard?”

“About ten, sir.”

“Next time you have to stop a fight, round up a gang of at least twice as many men as are involved and jump 'em. That way you can smother a fight, not just add to it.”

“Most of the others were dead drunk, sir.”

“I can see you had a problem.”

“Not really. I knocked a few heads together and got everything quieted down in jig time. My only problem is Mr. Simpson. He wants to court-martial me or something.”