WILLIWAW
_A Novel_
WILLIWAW
A NOVEL
By
GORE VIDAL
1946
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY, INC.
NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1946, by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc._
_All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A._
[Illustration]
FIRST EDITION
_NO PART of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission
in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote
brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in
magazine or newspaper or radio broadcast_.
_American Book--Stratford Press, Inc., New York_
_For Nina_
NOTE: _Williwaw is the Indian word for a big wind peculiar to the
Aleutian islands and the Alaskan coast. It is a strong wind that sweeps
suddenly down from the mountains toward the sea. The word williwaw,
however, is now generally used to describe any big and sudden wind. It
is in this last and more colloquial sense that I have used the term._
G.V.
All of the characters, all of the events and most of the places in this
book are fictitious.
WILLIWAW
_A Novel_
_Chapter One_
i
Someone turned on the radio in the wheelhouse. A loud and sentimental
song awakened him. He lay there for a moment in his bunk and stared
at the square window in the wall opposite him. A sea gull flew lazily
by the window. He watched it glide back and forth until it was out of
sight.
He yawned and became conscious of an ache behind his eyes. There had
been a party, he remembered. He felt sick. The radio became louder as
the door to his cabin opened. A brown Indian face looked in at him.
“Hey, Skipper, chow’s ready below.” The face vanished.
Slowly he got out of his bunk and onto the deck. He stood in front
of the mirror. Cautiously he pressed his fingers against his eyelids
and morbidly enjoyed the pain it gave him. He noticed his eyes were
bloodshot and his face was grimy. He scowled at himself in the mirror.
From the wheelhouse the sound of Negro music thudded painfully in his
ears.
“Turn that damn thing off!” he shouted.
“O.K., Skipper,” his second mate’s voice answered. The music faded away
and he began to dress. The second mate came into the cabin. “Quite a
party, wasn’t it, Mr Evans?”
Evans grunted. “Some party. What time is it?”
The mate looked at his watch. “Six-twenty.”
Evans closed his eyes and began to count to himself: one, two--he had
had four hours and thirty minutes of sleep. That was too little sleep.
The mate was watching him. “You don’t look so good,” he said finally.
“I know it.” He picked up his tie. “Anything new? Weather look all
right?”
The mate sat down on the bunk and ran his hands through his hair. It
was an irritating habit. His hair was long and the color of mouldering
straw; when he relaxed he fingered it. On board a ship one noticed such
things.
“Weather looks fine. A little wind from the south but not enough to
hurt. We scraped some paint off the bow last night. I guess we were too
close to that piling.” He pushed back his hair and left it alone. Evans
was glad of that.
“We’ll have to paint the whole ship this month anyway.” Evans buttoned
the pockets of his olive-drab shirt. High-ranking officers were apt
to criticize, even in the Aleutians. He pinned the Warrant Officer
insignia on his collar. His hands shook.
Bervick watched him. “You really had some party, I guess.”
“That’s right. Joe’s going back to the States on rotation. We were
celebrating. It was some party all right.” Evans rubbed his eyes. “Have
you had chow yet, Bervick?”
The mate, Bervick, nodded. “I had it with the cooks. I’ve been around
since five.” He stood up. He was shorter than Evans and Evans was not
tall. Bervick was lightly built; he had large gray Norwegian eyes, and
there were many fine lines about his eyes. He was an old seaman at
thirty.
“I think I’ll go below now,” said Evans. He stepped out of his cabin
and into the wheelhouse, glancing automatically at the barometer. The
needle pointed between Fair and Change; this was usual. He went below.
At the end of the companionway, the doors to the engine room were open
and the generator was going. The twin Diesel engines were silent. He
went into the galley.
John Smith, the Indian cook, was kneading dough. He was a bad cook from
southeastern Alaska. Cooks of any kind were scarce, though, and Evans
was glad to have even this bad one.
“What’s new?” asked Evans, preparing to listen to Smitty’s many
troubles.
“The new cook.” Smitty pointed to a fat man in a white apron gathering
dishes in the dining salon.
“What’s wrong now?”
“I ask him to wash dishes last night. It was his turn, but he won’t do
nothing like that. So I tell him what I think. I tell him off good, but
he no listen. I seen everything now....” Smitty’s black eyes glittered
as he talked. Evans stopped him.
“O.K. I’ll talk to him.” He went into the dining salon. Here two tables
ran parallel to the bulkheads. One table was for the crew; the other
for the ship’s officers and the engineers. The crew’s table was empty;
only the Chief Engineer, Duval, sat at the other table.
“Morning, Skipper,” he said. He was an older man. His hair was gray
and black in streaks. It was clipped very short. His nose was long
and hooked and his mouth was wide but not pleasant. Duval was a New
Orleans Frenchman.
“Good morning, Chief. Looks like everybody’s up early today.”
“Yeah, I guess they are at that.” The Chief cleared his throat. He
waited for a comment. There was none. Then he remarked casually, “I
guess it’s because they all heard we was going to Arunga. I guess
that’s just a rumor.” He looked at his fork. Evans could see that he
was anxious to know if they were leaving. The Chief would never ask a
direct question, though.
The fat cook put a plate of eggs in front of Evans and poured him some
black coffee. The cook’s hand was unsteady and the coffee spilled on
the table. The cook ignored the puddle of coffee, and went back into
the galley.
Evans watched the brown liquid drip slowly off onto the deck. Dreamily
he made patterns with his forefinger. He thought of Arunga island.
Finally he said, “I wonder where they pick up rumors like that?”
“Just about anywhere,” said the Chief. “They probably figured we was
going there because that’s our port’s headquarters and the General’s
Adjutant is here and they say he’s breaking his back to get back fast
and that there aren’t no planes flying out for a week. We’re the only
ship in the harbor that could take him to Arunga.”
“That sounds pretty interesting,” said Evans and he began to eat.
Duval scowled and pushed back his chair from the table. He stood up
and stretched himself. “Arunga’s a nice trip anyway.” He waited for a
remark. Again there was none. “Think I’ll go look at the engines.”
Evans smiled as he left. Duval did not think highly of him. Evans was
easily half the Chief Engineer’s age and that meant trouble. The Chief
thought that age was a substitute for both brains and experience; Evans
could not like that idea. He knew, however, that he would eventually
have to tell the Chief that they were leaving for Arunga.
Evans ate quickly. He noticed that the first mate’s place was
untouched. He would have to speak to him again about getting up earlier.
Breakfast over, he left the salon by the after door. He stood on the
stern and breathed deeply. The sky was gray. A filmy haze hung over the
harbor and there was no wind. The water of the harbor was like a dark
glass. Overhead the sea gulls darted about, looking for scraps on the
water. A quiet day for winter in these islands.
Evans climbed over the starboard side and stepped down on the dock.
There were two large warehouses on the dock. They were military and
impermanent. Several power barges were moored near his ship and he
would have to let his bow swing far out when they left; mechanically,
he figured time and distance.
Longshoremen in soiled blue coveralls were loading the barges, and the
various crews, civilians and soldiers mixed, were preparing to cast off
for their day’s work in the harbor.
A large wooden-faced Indian skipper shouted at Evans from the
wheelhouse of one of the barges. Evans shouted back a jovial curse;
then he turned and walked across the dock to the shore.
Andrefski Bay was the main harbor for this Aleutian island. The bay
was well protected, and, though not large, there were no reefs or
shallow places in the main part of the harbor. No trees grew on the
island. The only vegetation was a coarse brown turf which furred the
low hills that edged the bay. Beyond these low hills were high, sharp
and pyramidal mountains, blotched with snow.
Evans looked at the mountains but did not see them. He had seen them
many times before and they were of no interest to him now. He never
noticed them. He thought of the trip to Arunga. A good trip to make, a
long one, three days, that was the best thing about going. He had found
that when they were too much in port everyone got a little bored and
irritable. A change would be good now.
Someone called his name. He looked behind him. The second mate,
Bervick, was hurrying toward him.
“Going over to the office, Skipper?” he asked, when he had caught up.
“That’s right. Going to pick up our orders.”
“Arunga?”
“Yes.” They walked on together.
The second mate was not wearing his Technical Sergeant’s stripes. Evans
hoped the Adjutant would not mind. One could never tell about these
Headquarters people. He would warn Bervick later.
They walked slowly along the black volcanic ash roadway. At various
intervals there were wooden huts and warehouses. Between many of the
buildings equipment was piled, waiting to be shipped out.
“It’s been almost a year since we was to Arunga,” remarked Bervick.
“That’s right.”
“Have we got some new charts?”
“We got them last fall, remember?”
“I guess I forgot.” A large truck went by them and they stood in the
shallow gutter until it had passed.
“You seen the sheep woman lately?” asked Evans.
The sheep woman was the only woman on the island. She was a Canadian
who helped run the sheep ranch in the interior. She had been on
the island for several years, and, though middle-aged, stout, and
reasonably virtuous, the rumors about her were damning. It was said
that she charged fifty dollars for her services and everyone thought
that that was too much.
Bervick shook his head. “I don’t know how she’s doing. O.K., I suppose.
I’m saving up for when we hit the Big Harbor next. I don’t want nothing
to do with her.”
Evans was interested. “Who’ve you got in mind at Big Harbor?”
“Olga.”
“I thought she was the Chief’s property.”
Bervick shrugged. “That’s what he says. She’s a good girl.”
“I suppose so.”
“I like her. The Chief’s just blowing.”
“None of them are worth much trouble.”
A light rain began to fall. The office was still a half a mile ahead of
them. All the buildings of the port were, for the sake of protection,
far apart.
“Damn it,” muttered Evans, as the rain splattered in his face. A truck
came up behind them. It stopped and they climbed into the back. Evans
told the driver where they were going, then he turned to Bervick. “You
better pick up the weather forecast today.”
“I will. I think it’ll be pretty good.”
“Hard to say. This is funny weather.”
The truck let them off at the Army Transport Service Office. The office
was housed in a long, one-storied, gray building.
The outer room was large, and here four or five enlisted men were doing
clerical work beneath fluorescent lights. The walls were decorated with
posters warning against poison gas, faulty camouflage, and venereal
disease.
One of the clerks spoke to Evans. “The Captain’s waiting for you,” he
said.
“I think I’ll go check with Weather,” said Bervick. “I’ll see you back
to the boat.”
“Fine.” Evans walked down a corridor to the Captain’s office.
A desk and three neat uncomfortable chairs furnished the room. On the
walls were pictures of the President, several Generals, and several
nudes. The nudes usually came down during inspections.
The Captain was sitting hunched over his desk. He was a heavy man with
large features. He was smoking a pipe and talking at the same time to a
Major who sat in one of the three uncomfortable chairs. They looked up
as Evans entered.
“Hello there, Skipper,” said the Captain and he took his pipe out of
his mouth. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Major Barkison.”
The Major stood up and shook hands with Evans. “Glad to know you,
Mister....”
“Evans.”
“Mister Evans. It looks as if you’ll be pressed into service.”
“Yes it does ... sir.” He added the “sir” just in case.
“I hope the trip will be a calm one,” remarked the Major with a smile.
“It should be.” Evans relaxed. The Major seemed to be human.
Major Barkison was a West Pointer and quietly proud of the fact.
Though not much over thirty he was already bald. He had a Roman nose,
pale blue eyes, and a firm but small chin. He looked like the Duke of
Wellington. Knowing this, he hoped that someone might someday mention
the resemblance; no one ever did, though.
“Sit down here, Evans,” said the Captain, pointing to one of the
chairs. The Major and Evans both sat down. “We’re sending you out on a
little trip to Arunga. Out west where the deer and submarines play.” He
laughed heartily at his joke. Evans also laughed. The Major did not.
The Major said, “How long will the trip take you?”
“That’s hard to say.” Evans figured for a moment in his head. “Seventy
hours is about average. We can’t tell until we know the weather.”
Barkison nodded and said nothing.
The Captain blew a smoke ring and watched it float ceilingward, his
little eyes almost shut. “The weather reports are liable to be pretty
lousy,” he said at last.
Barkison nodded again. “Yes, that’s right. That’s why I can’t fly out
of here for at least a week. Everything’s grounded. That’s why I can’t
get out of here. It is imperative that I get back to Headquarters.”
“The war would stop if you didn’t get back, wouldn’t it, Major?” The
Captain said this jovially but Evans thought there was malice in what
he said.
“What do you mean, Captain?” said the Major stiffly.
“Nothing at all, sir. I was just joking. A bad habit of ours here.”
Evans smiled to himself. He knew that the Captain did not like regular
army men. The Captain had been in the grain business and he was proud
that he made more money than the men in the regular army. They did not
understand business and the Captain did. This made a difference. The
Major frowned.
“I have to get my reports in, you know. You understand that, of course.
You know I would never have a boat sent out in weather like this
unless it were important. This weather precludes air travel,” he added
somewhat pompously, enjoying the word “preclude.” It had an official
sound.
“Certainly, Major.” The Captain turned to Evans. “From what I gather
the trip shouldn’t be too bad, a little rough perhaps, but then it
usually is. You had better put into the Big Harbor tomorrow and get a
weather briefing there. I got some cargo for them, too. I told the boys
to load you up today.” He paused to chew on his pipe. “By the way,” he
said in a different voice, “how do you feel after our little party last
night?”
Evans grimaced. “Not very good. The stuff tasted like raisin jack.”
“You should know.” The Captain laughed loudly and winked. Barkison
looked pained. He cleared his throat.
“I guess you people have a hard time getting liquor up here.” He tried
to sound like one of the boys and failed.
“We manage.” The Captain chuckled.
The door opened. A young and pink-faced Lieutenant looked doubtfully
about the room until he saw the Major.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” said the Major.
“Lieutenant Hodges, this is Mr Evans.” The two shook hands and sat
down. The young Lieutenant was very solemn.
“Is there anything new on our leaving, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Barkison. “Weather permitting, we’ll leave tomorrow
morning. We should be back ... how long did you say?”
“Maybe three days, maybe less,” Evans answered.
“Isn’t that awfully long, sir? I mean we have to be back day after
tomorrow.”
The Major shrugged. “Nothing we can do about it. There are no planes
going out for an indefinite period.”
“Well,” the Captain stood up and Evans did the same, “you had better
check on the weather and take water and do whatever else you have to
do. You’ll definitely leave tomorrow morning and you’ll stop off at the
Big Harbor. See you later today.” He turned to the Major. “If you’d
like to move aboard tonight....”
“Oh no, never mind. We’ll move on tomorrow.”
“O.K., be seeing you, Evans.”
Evans muttered that he had been pleased to meet them and left the room.
As he walked down the corridor he wondered if Bervick would be able to
understand the weather chart. He decided not.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The wind was cooler and more brisk.
Evans walked toward a half-barrel-shaped hut: the weather office.
Ravens glided heavily around him, their black feathers glistening
bluely in the pale light. High above him he could make out an eagle
flying northward.
Inside the weather office a Master Sergeant was handling the maps and
charts. The weather officer had not come in yet.
“Hello, Mr Evans.”
“Hello, has Bervick been here?”
“Yes, he just now left. I think he’s gone to get some paint over to
Supply.”
“I see. What’s the deal on the weather?”
The Sergeant shuffled his papers. “It’s hard to say. If the wind shifts
around to the north, and it looks like it will, you’ll be fine.”
“Is there much wind outside the harbor?”
“There’s some.”
“Much wind? Thirty mile an hour? Is it more?”
“Damned if I can tell. You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’ll check with the Navy boys and get in touch with you later.
This isn’t a good month for travelling the Chain.”
“I know. Is that the weather chart you got there?”
“Yes.” The Sergeant pushed the chart at him. Evans pretended to study
it. Actually he knew very little about reading these charts. He knew
from practical experience, though, that they were often wrong.
“It’ll probably be rough, Mr Evans.”
“That’s nothing new. You say Bervick’s at Supply?”
“I think so.”
“O.K., and thanks a lot. I’ll see you when you have some more dope.”
Evans went out. He stood for a while watching the power barges,
blunt-nosed and slab-like, move back and forth across the harbor. There
were rumors that the port of Andrefski was to be closed soon and only
the inland air base would be kept going. Many men had already been
moved out, only a few hundred were left now. On the rocky, moonstone
and agate littered beach, lumber was piled, waiting to be loaded on the
Liberty ship, edged grayly against the main dock. This ship was the
largest in the harbor and it made the other boats look like toys in a
bathtub.
A jeep, with an awkward plywood body tacked onto it, rode by and
splashed him with mud from the side of the road. Evans swore at the
driver. Then he walked along the road, keeping close to the pebbled
embankment. There was quite a lot of traffic at this time of day.
The Supply warehouse was large and gloomy and empty-looking. He walked
around to the side of the building and went inside. He could hear
Bervick’s voice. “Come on, you can give us six gallons. Christ, you
have the stuff piled up all around.”
Another voice answered, “Sorry, three’s all you get.”
“Why that’s....” Evans walked up to them. Bervick was holding three
gallon cans of paint.
Evans grinned, “That’ll do us fine, Bervick. Are you through here?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, let’s get on back to the ship.” Bervick picked up two of the
cans and Evans took the other.
A thin drizzle was beginning to cloud the air.
“Nice day,” said Bervick.
“Yes, nice day. All days are nice here. We go to the Big Harbor
tomorrow.”
“And from there to Arunga?”
“That’s right. We got some rank to carry.”
“Who? I heard the Chaplain might come.”
“That’s a new one. I hadn’t heard about him. We’ve got a Major who is
the Adjutant at Arunga, and a Lieutenant.”
“Any cargo?”
“Some for the Big Harbor. That’s all.”
They walked along the road, their feet grinding the wet cinder-like
surface. Sea gulls circled high above them, a sign of bad weather
according to the Indians. Among the sharp rocks the ravens croaked
drearily. Silently they walked back to the ship.
Two of the men were hosing down the deck. The sea water from their
hoses made a drumming sound as it shot across the decks.
Evans was surprised. “The first time they’ve ever done this without
being told.”
Bervick laughed, “The crew knew we were going before you did.”
“They usually do.”
They climbed aboard. Bervick went aft with the paint. Evans opened the
door to the dining salon and stepped inside.
The Chief, sitting on one of the tables, was smoking a cigar. Down the
companionway, Evans could see the two assistant engineers working on
the auxiliary.
“What’s new, Skipper?” asked Duval.
“Hello, Chief. Your boys pretty busy?”
“Yeah, getting ready for the big trip. Lucky we took fuel last week.”
“It was.”
“When we leaving?” The Chief asked one of his few direct questions.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Straight to Arunga, I suppose.”
“No, we’re going to the Big Harbor first. We go on from there.”
“I guess I’ll be able to see Olga then.” The Chief grinned.
Evans looked at him. “What about Bervick?”
“What about him?” The Chief was not interested and they said nothing
for a few moments. Then he said, “I hear the Chaplain’ll be with us.”
“So I’ve heard. I guess the Captain will tell me about it later.”
“Probably. I got to get to work.” The Chief slid off the table and
walked toward the engine room. Evans could hear the sound of his voice
as he talked with his assistants. Evans knew he was telling them that
they were going west to Arunga as he had said they would. Evans walked
into the galley. The cook, John Smith, was scrubbing pans. He was alone
in the galley.
“How’s it going, Smitty? Where’s your helper?”
Smitty put down the kettle he was scrubbing. “Gone,” he said with
suppressed drama. “I seen everything now. What does this guy do? Does
this guy help in here? No. He go down and lay on his fat butt. I’m
going to get off this boat. I seen everything. He won’t work, won’t do
nothing....”
“I’ll talk to him, Smitty.” That was always a good promise to make.
Smitty would be mad at something else the next day anyway. “By the
way,” he added, “have you got enough rations to get us to Arunga? We’re
going to have three passengers.”
Smitty gasped. His lean ugly brown face was contorted with grief. “I
seen _everything_ now.” He spoke softly as if he were praying. “I got
no bread. I got no meat. I got no nothing now. How,” his voice rose to
a wail, “how am I going to feed the crew? I make no bread on the water.
They eat out of cans, that’s all.”
“Well, you work it out and get what you need. We’ll leave tomorrow at
eight.”
Smitty muttered to himself. Evans went up to the wheelhouse.
Bervick was standing over the chart table: a chart of all the islands
in the Aleutian Chain before him. He was squinting thoughtfully and
carefully measuring out a course.
“Think you can get us there?” asked Evans.
“What? Oh sure, I was just checking the old course. Last time we ran
too close to shore off Kulak.”
“I remember. We’ll work out a course over at the Big Harbor.” The salt
spray from the hoses splattered the wheelhouse windows. “That reminds
me, you better get some water. We’re pretty low.”
“O.K.” Bervick put the chart in a drawer under the table and left the
wheelhouse.
Evans looked out the window. He could think of nothing very important
to be done before they sailed. They had fuel. Smitty would get rations.
The charts were up to date. He rubbed his face to see if he needed a
shave. He did.
Evans went into his cabin and turned on the water in his basin. He
noticed that his eyes looked a little better, though they still hurt
him. He sighed and tried to look at his profile in the glass. This he
knew would exercise his eyes, also in the back of his mind he wondered
if he might not be able to see his profile. He had seen it once in a
tailor’s three-way mirror. He had been greatly interested, and he hoped
vaguely that he might see it again sometime. Strange things like that
obsessed people who had been to sea for a long time.
Someone turned on the radio. A deep sterile radio voice staccatoed in
the air for a moment and was gone. The air was filled with static,
and then the voice came back again. Evans could not make out what the
voice was saying but he could guess from the tone that our “forces were
smashing ahead on all fronts”: the usual thing. He was bored by the war.
Methodically he shaved himself. He wondered who had turned on the
radio. Probably Martin, his first mate.
A light wisp of fog came into the room through the half-open window;
quickly Evans shut it. He shivered. The cold was penetrating.
“I’m cold as gold is old,” he muttered to himself. It was a jingle that
went occasionally through his mind. For several years he had known it.
Queer phrases and jingles often came to him when he had been too much
alone. Sometimes they worried him. Evans often wondered if he might not
be a little crazy. They say, though, that when you are crazy you never
know it, he thought. There was consolation in that and he murmured
again to himself, “I’m cold as gold is old.” Then he finished shaving.
He looked much older than twenty-five, he noticed, looking at himself
intently in the mirror. When he was eighteen he had worked alone in a
lighthouse. He used often to look at himself in the mirror then. He
felt less alone when he did that and the habit had stayed with him.
He yawned and turned away from the mirror. Neatly he put his shaving
equipment away, then he sat down at his desk and looked at the papers
on it. Most of the papers were memorandums from the Headquarters. He
pushed them to one side.
In his desk drawer was a quart of bourbon. He wondered if he should
take a swallow, a small one, enough to take away the ache behind his
eyes. Evans reached for the drawer. Before he could open it, Martin
walked into the cabin. Martin never knocked.
“Good morning,” said Evans and he tried to sound sarcastic.
“Hail to the Chief,” said Martin, eying Evans’ hand on the liquor
drawer. “Starting in early, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean? Oh, this,” Evans withdrew his hand quickly. “I was
just looking for something.”
“So I see.” The first mate smiled, showing all his teeth. He was a
year younger than Evans, but looked even younger than he was. He had
a carefully studied collegiate manner though he had never been to a
college. John Martin had been one of the numerous unpromising young
actors in a New England stock company. He was dark and nearly handsome.
His voice was deep, interesting and mocking. He knew nothing about
being a mate.
“Did you just get up?” Evans asked, knowing that he had.
“Why yes--the party, you know. I felt I should sleep. The ravell’d
sleave, you know.” He spoke with a pseudo-British accent which he knew
irritated Evans.
“Well, go get on down below and make sure they take water,” Evans
snapped.
“Right you are, sir.”
“Can the funny stuff. We’re going to the Big Harbor tomorrow.”
“Any passengers?”
“Yes, the Adjutant at Arunga, a Lieutenant and the Chaplain.”
“That sounds gay. When’re we going to haul another group of USO girls?”
Martin winked in what he would have called a roguish manner. Evans had
once become too interested in a USO girl on tour.
Evans murmured, “Not for a while.” He turned away and played with
the papers on his desk. He tried to think of something for Martin to
do. “You might,” he finally said, “go see the Chaplain and find out
when he’s coming aboard. Also, you’d better get hold of a copy of the
special orders with his name on them. The Captain forgot to tell me he
was going.”
“Fine.” Martin started to go. “By the way,” he said, and Evans knew and
dreaded what he was going to say, “how do you feel after the party
last night? You don’t look so good.”
“I feel awful. Now go get to work.”
Martin left and Evans rested his head on his arm. He felt tired. The
ship was unusually still. Far away he could hear the rasping croak of a
raven. He opened the desk drawer.
ii
John Martin walked into the galley.
“What’s on your mind, Smitty?” he asked. Martin was always polite with
the men and Evans was not. The men liked Martin better and that was the
main reason why Evans did not like him, or so Martin thought.
“Nothing on my mind. You want to eat something?”
“No thanks. I’ll just take a little of this.” He poured himself some
pineapple juice from a large can. Smitty watched him drink it.
“What’s on for chow tonight?”
The Indian’s eyes gleamed. “Vienna sausage and that’s all I got. I have
to go get rations for a whole week now. I haven’t got no time to make
bread or nothing. That guy,” he pointed upward, “he tell me just today
to get this stuff.”
“Well, that’s O.K., Smitty,” Martin murmured soothingly, as he left,
“it’ll be all right.”
On deck he found two of the crew coiling the long black water hose.
“Pretty empty, wasn’t she?”
One of them nodded. He was a heavy blond fellow, a professional
seaman. “Are we going out west?” he asked.
“That’s right. Leaving tomorrow.”
“That’s what Bervick said. We didn’t know what he was bulling or not.
Weather don’t look bad.”
Martin looked at the pale sky. “You can’t ever tell,” he said.
“No, you can’t.” They went on coiling the hose.
Martin walked across the dock. He watched lumber being loaded onto
the Liberty ship by sailors with heavy fantastic beards. The port was
slowly closing down and he, for one, was not sorry. For a year now he
had been at Andrefski as a first mate. He had fought constantly with
Evans and he had known all the time that Evans was right: that he
was no seaman. Martin had drifted into boat work in the army. After
two years he had been made a Warrant Officer and assigned to this
Freight-Passenger ship. The whole thing was unreal to him, the Bering
Sea, these boats, the desolate stone islands. He wished he were in New
England and the thought that he would be at least another year in these
islands was maddening.
Thinking of these things, he walked to the warehouse where the mail
was delivered. A door in the warehouse opened and Bervick came out. He
carried a bundle of letters in his hand. “Hello, Johnny,” he said. “You
up so soon?”
Martin smiled. There was no formality between them. Living together in
the same small stateroom they understood each other well. “I thought a
run in the fog would be just what I needed. Got something for me?”
Bervick thumbed through the bundle and handed Martin a letter. “How
does it smell?” he asked.
Martin inhaled the perfume that had been sprinkled on the envelope.
“Like magnolias,” he said.
Bervick sniffed. “Smells like a Ketchikan whore to me.”
“Careful,” said Martin, “speak softly when you speak of love. Which
reminds me, when are they going to load cargo?”
“Right after lunch, I suppose. That’s if the longshoremen can get
together long enough to do some work.”
“Then you’d better move the boom over.”
“O.K.” Bervick walked away.
Martin stepped inside the warehouse. Standing close to the door--there
was almost no light in the building--he read the perfumed letter. She
thought a lot about him. She wondered how he was. She did not go out
much. She wished he were back. She did not go out much, she repeated
that. She wondered if he remembered when.... Martin folded the letter
and put it in his pocket. Her letters were always the same but she was
a nice girl and he would probably marry her and be bored. He felt sorry
for himself. He looked at the bleak sky and saw that it suited his mood.
A blast of damp air came through the door and he buttoned his parka at
the throat. Then, remembering his errand with the Chaplain, he walked
out into the gray light.
A mile away on a slight mound was the post chapel. It was like all
other army chapels: box-shaped, with a short square tower and spire.
The building was brown and looked dingy from camouflage. He walked
toward it.
The wind blew at his back. The wind was rising and there were
whitecaps in the bay. Gulls flew worriedly in the bedrizzled air.
A jeep went by him on the road. It stopped and he climbed in. The
Captain was sitting at the wheel, his pipe firmly between his teeth.
“How’s the boat business, Martin?” he asked cheerfully.
“Fine as ever.”
“Good.” He started the jeep. “Where are you headed?”
“Over to see the Chaplain. I hear he’s coming with us.”
“Damn! I knew I forgot to tell Evans something. The Chaplain’s going
with you people. They’re having a meeting at Arunga and he’s already on
orders. Does Evans know?”
“Yes, he heard about it.”
“Grapevine,” the Captain muttered. “I’m going as far as the Post
Exchange. You want out there?”
“That’ll be fine.”
The Captain drove deliberately and in silence over the road. After a
few minutes he stopped in front of a long low building and they both
got out. They walked into the Post Exchange.
“You getting on all right with Evans?” the Captain asked.
“Sure, we’re coming along fine,” Martin said, trying to sound sincere
and succeeding.
“That’s the way things should be. I’m glad to hear it.”
The Post Exchange was not yet crowded. A long counter ran the length
of the building and behind the counter there were shelves of candy,
stationery, toilet articles, magazines.... At one end of the building
was a barber’s chair and a soldier barber, and at the other end was a
Coca-Cola machine. Everything was neatly arranged beneath hard bare
electric lights.
Martin bought a lurid Love magazine. Nothing else caught his eye and he
left.
He was out of breath when he reached the top of the mound where the
chapel was. A few enlisted men were wandering about near by, getting
up enough nerve to go in and see the Chaplain and ask for help. This
Chaplain had a reputation for being able to get things done for the
men. The religious aura, however, was unmanning to most of them.
The inside of the chapel was quiet and dim and warm. There was little
ornament here, only an altar and plain, large-windowed walls without
color or design. In a small office to the right of the door, Martin
found O’Mahoney, the Chaplain.
He was a short squat Irishman with a red-veined nose, plump cheeks and
nearsighted blue eyes. His hair was thick and dark and looked like a
neat wig. His manner was awkward and friendly. He had been a monk in
a Maryland monastery, and now, in the army, he acted as if he were
playing a part in a bad dream, which perhaps he was.
“Hello, Father,” said Martin respectfully.
“How do you do....” O’Mahoney paused with embarrassment. Martin was not
a churchgoer and he did not recognize him.
“John Martin, sir,” he said quickly. “I’m the first mate on the boat
that’s taking you to Arunga.”
O’Mahoney smiled. “Do sit down, Mr Martin,” he invited. Martin
arranged himself with a sigh in a large arm-chair. He was tired from
his walk. For a moment he breathed the musty leather smell which all
churches seemed to have. O’Mahoney offered him a cigarette. He refused
and said that he did not smoke.
“A good habit not to have,” said the Chaplain in his light Irish voice.
There was a pause.
“I wanted to know,” began Martin in a loud voice which he quickly
lowered. He was always conscious of wrong tones. A loud voice was wrong
in a church. “I was wondering,” he said softly, “when you were planning
to move aboard, tonight or in the morning.”
“Tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”
“It will be.” Martin smiled. “You’ll be ready for bad weather, won’t
you?”
“Bad weather? Is that the report?”
“Well, yes, but it’s also a joke of ours that whenever we haul a
Chaplain we have bad weather.”
O’Mahoney chuckled uneasily. “Well, that’s the way those things go, I
suppose.”
“Yes, it’s probably just an invitation for you to walk on the water.”
“What? Oh, yes.” O’Mahoney was not quite sure if this was blasphemy or
not. He decided it was not. “Are you Catholic, Mr Martin?” he asked. He
usually asked that question.
Martin shook his head. “I’m not much of anything,” he said. He could
see that the Chaplain was tempted to inquire further. He did not,
though. Instead he changed the subject.
“The Captain at the Transport Office did tell me that the weather
might be unreliable at this time of year.”
“That’s right, but it shouldn’t be bad.” Martin spoke as if the sea
and the weather had no secrets from him. Often he marveled at how
professional he sounded.
“I’m certainly glad to hear that. I suffer terribly from _mal de mer_.”
He spoke the French self-consciously and Martin wondered if he was
going to translate it or not. He decided to save him the trouble.
“I’m sure you won’t be sick, Father.” Martin got to his feet. “If you
want to send any stuff down tonight, we’ll stow it for you.”
“Thank you, but I’ll bring my gear down with me in the morning.”
Martin turned to go, then he remembered the orders he had come to get.
“Do you think I could have an extra copy of your orders? We have to
have one, you know.”
“Certainly.” O’Mahoney handed him a paper from his desk.
“Thank you. See you tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you going to the Captain’s party tonight, Mr Martin? He’s
giving one in his quarters for the Major.”
“Why, yes, I suppose I will.”
“See you then.” The Chaplain walked with him to the door.
iii
Bervick and Duval were arguing again. Supper had been finished and
Evans had gone to the wheelhouse. Martin sat quietly in a corner while
the Chief and Bervick insulted each other. Their arguments were thought
very funny by the rest of the crew. No one took them seriously except
Martin, and he was not sure if they were serious or not.
Olga, a Norwegian girl at the Big Harbor, was the cause of their
trouble. The year before she had come to work in a restaurant. Because
she had let Bervick sleep with her for nothing, he had decided that it
must be love and he had almost decided to marry her. Then one day he
discovered that she was also seeing Duval and accepting his money and a
great many other people’s money, too. He had asked her to stop but she
was a thrifty girl, supporting her mother in Canada. She had told him
that it was none of his business. Duval had laughed at him because of
this and he had come to hate Duval and feel that it was his fault that
Olga had changed.
Somewhat drowsily Martin listened to them talk. This time they were
arguing whether the knife should be set on the table edge of blade
toward the plate or away from it. Duval claimed the edge should be away
from the plate and Bervick claimed it was toward the plate.
“I don’t suppose you’d know where it went anyway,” said Duval bitingly.
“You probably always ate with your hands.”
This was a hard blow and Bervick countered, “I don’t guess you ever
used anything but a knife to eat with. I’ve seen _cajuns_ like you
before.”
Duval was proud of his pure French ancestry. He came from a
long-settled New Orleans family and he was sensitive about being
thought a _cajun_.
“_Cajun_, hell,” he said, trying not to sound irritated. “You wouldn’t
know one if you saw one.”
“I guess I’m talking to one.”
This was too much. The Chief Engineer remembered his rank. He stood up.
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” he said with dignity.
Bervick stood up also. Martin could see he was pleased. It was always
a victory when the Chief fell back on his rank. “Yes, Warrant Officer
Junior Grade Duval,” he said.
“Better not get so fresh, Sergeant.” The Chief turned to Martin and
said, “Just a little squabble.” Bervick left the salon, laughing.
“Fresh bastard,” muttered the Chief.
“Oh, he’s all right,” said Martin smoothly. “Just a little hot-tempered
at times.”
“Maybe that’s it.” Duval sat down on the bench beside Martin. They
looked out the window at the pale gray of evening. The day was over and
the wind had died down.
“Probably be a strong southwest wind tomorrow,” remarked Duval.
“Can’t tell, really.”
“Thank God we’ve only a few passengers. Every time it’s rough we have
at least forty.”
“That’s the way it goes.”
At the other table five deckhands were playing Hearts. Martin watched
them. His thoughts drifted and he saw stages and heard speeches and
listened to the sea. The sea was becoming a part of himself, and
whenever he relaxed, his mind seemed to be caught up in the restless
tempo of the water and he would become uneasy: at sea he was always
uneasy. He yawned abruptly and cleared his mind.
Evans came into the salon. “Say, Mate,” he said, “the Captain’s giving
a party over at his quarters. You and the Chief want to come?”
Martin nodded. “I always like free beer.”
“So do I.” The Chief got to his feet. “I hope he’s got some bourbon. I
haven’t had any good stuff for quite a while. It gets used up so fast
because I always share it.” The Chief knew of Evans’ liquor and he also
knew that Evans never shared it. Evans looked away.
“We’d better get started then. The dispatcher’s waiting outside. He’s
going to take us over in his jeep.”
The Captain’s quarters consisted of two huts knocked together. Normally
three officers lived there, but at the moment he was alone and had the
whole place to himself.
Several men were already in the room when they entered. The Captain was
fixing drinks behind a bar made out of a packing case. He grunted at
them, his pipe moving slightly as he greeted them.
Evans and Duval were jovial in their greetings. Martin merely smiled.
The Chief was on particularly good terms with the Captain. They were of
the same age and had had many parties together.
“How does it go, Old Chief?” inquired the Captain, speaking out of the
side of his mouth.
“Great. We keep the army on the waves.”
“That’s something. What’ll it be, gentlemen?” While the others told
what they wanted, Martin looked about him. He had not been in the
Captain’s quarters for a long time. He never liked to seem too close to
higher ranking officers. He was always afraid someone would think he
wanted something.
The walls were decorated with large paintings of nudes. They had been
done for the Captain by a soldier. A lamp, several chairs, and a
bookcase with a few books and a great many rocks in it furnished this
end of the room.
A Major and a Lieutenant were standing before one of the paintings.
Martin, who did not recognize them, decided that they must be the
passengers for Arunga. In one corner beside a radio the Chaplain sat,
a pale bourbon and water beside him. He was turning the dial of the
radio. Three officers from the Harbor Craft Detachment made up the rest
of the party.
“What’ll it be, Martin?” asked the Captain.
“Beer, if you have it.”
“Beer! O.K., suit yourself. I’m always glad to save the real stuff.” He
handed Martin a bottle of beer.
Loud music startled them. The Chaplain looked about him apologetically
and quickly lowered the volume. “Finally got some music,” he announced.
“The static isn’t so bad tonight.”
The Major agreed, “Yes, the static’s not bad at all tonight.”
The Lieutenant remarked that the static had been bad the night before.
That, thought Martin, takes care of the static. He often wondered why
people spoke so inanely.
“These are very interesting works of ... of art, you have here,”
remarked the Major somewhat archly. Martin could see that he was trying
to be a good fellow.
“Like them?” The Captain came out from behind the bar. “Had a soldier
do them for me. Very talented fellow he was, too. Quite lifelike,
aren’t they?” He winked at the young Lieutenant, who blushed and looked
away. Martin chuckled and noticed that the Major was smiling, too.
The Major said, “Lieutenant Hodges doesn’t care for modern art.”
The Captain laughed, “Oh, to be young! Wouldn’t it be nice, Major, if
we were young again.”
The Major winced slightly. He was not old and did not like to be
thought old, but because he was bald and his face was lined, people
took him to be older than he was. He did not like that.
“Youth is very important,” he murmured, paying no attention to what he
was saying.
“Most important for the future,” agreed the Chaplain.
Martin was bored by this. He took his beer and sat down in an easy
chair. He drank the beer slowly. It was green and tasted bitter.
He watched Evans and Duval draw near to the Major. Both were good
politicians.
“It looks as if the war will be over soon,” remarked Evans, a
half-question in his voice.
“Yes,” said the Major. He always said “yes” first, even when he meant
“no.”
“Yes, it should be over soon, but of course we have no effective way of
gauging the enemy’s rate of attrition. The attrition rate is important.
Attrition can decide wars.” Martin wondered if he would repeat this
last: it sounded like a maxim. He did not. He continued. “There are
only a few good strategists in the enemy’s army. They could be named on
the fingers of one hand. Most of them know nothing but frontal attacks.”
“I guess bombings are messing them up,” suggested Evans.
“Wars,” said the Major, “cannot be won by aviation. No matter what the
Air Corps says.” He sounded bitter. Martin wondered if the Major might
not be jealous of the quick promotions in the Air Corps.
“I guess that’s right,” Evans agreed.
Everyone began to talk at once. Evans and the Major discussed the
latest movies. The Chief, who was Catholic, discussed moral issues with
the Chaplain. One always seemed to discuss such things with Chaplains.
The Captain talked about women and the Lieutenant listened to him
gravely.
Cigarette smoke was becoming thick in the room. Blue veils of it
floated upward from each smoker. Martin’s eyes watered. He finished his
beer. The radio played on. Music of every sort swelled in the room.
The room was too hot. The oil-stove in the center was giving off heavy
waves of heat. Martin felt a little drowsy. He wondered if they would
notice it if he shut his eyes for a moment.
Lieutenant Hodges was standing beside his chair, when he opened his
eyes again.
“Must have been asleep,” Martin mumbled. His eyes felt heavy. He looked
around and saw that the others obviously had not noticed he had gone to
sleep. They were talking and singing and drinking. There was a strong
barroom odor in the hut. The Chaplain, he noticed, had gone.
“Sorry to bother you,” said the Lieutenant. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“That’s all right. I don’t know what happened to me. I was just tired,
I guess. I’ve had a pretty hard day,” he lied.
“You’re on the boat that’s taking us west, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m the mate. Martin’s the name.”
“My name is Hodges. I’m the Major’s assistant.” They shook hands in
the self-conscious manner of people who have already met.
There was not much to say. They stood there watching the others move
about. Almost everyone was drunk. Martin got slowly to his feet. “What
time you got?” he asked.
Hodges looked at his watch carefully. “Eleven fifty-seven.”
“That’s pretty late for me to be up. I guess I better get a move on.
See you in the morning.”
“Sure thing. Good night.”
Martin went over to the corner where Evans, the Major, and the Captain
were singing.
“I think we’d better head back,” he said, catching Evans between songs.
Evans shook his head. He was drunk.
“Hell no,” he said. “You go back if you want to. You go back.”
Martin shrugged and turned away. The Chief was in a crap game with an
Indian skipper.
“Can’t leave now,” the Chief said, his eyes on the dice.
Martin picked up his parka and put it on.
“I think I’ll walk back,” he announced. Hodges was the only one who
heard and he nodded as Martin turned to go.
The Major was talking of strategy when he left.
“Wellington, of course, was the perfect general. Wellington understood
attrition. Attrition....” The Major talked on.
Outside Martin breathed the deep night air gratefully. It was good
after the heat and smoke. There were no stars out yet and that was not
good. With a shiver he turned and walked quickly toward the docks.
_Chapter Two_
i
“It’s seven o’clock, Mr Evans.” The man on watch looked into his room.
“O.K., be right down,” Evans mumbled. The door was slammed shut and
he opened his eyes. It was another morning. His bed was warm and the
room, lit grayly by the morning sun, was cold. He closed his eyes and
imagined that he was out of bed and already dressed. He imagined this
clearly; so clearly that he began to fall asleep again. The sound of
dishes being dropped startled him awake. He sat up in bed and put on
his shirt. Then, quickly, so as not to feel the cold, he sprang out of
bed and finished dressing. He was brushing his teeth when Bervick came
in the room.
“Morning, Skipper, nice party? I heard you come in this morning.”
Evans wondered why his second mate always seemed pleased when he had a
hangover.
“It was pretty good. Is the Mate up yet?”
“He’s getting up. What time we sailing?”
“Eight o’clock if everyone’s aboard. They won’t be, of course.”
Bervick disappeared. Evans straightened his tie. Then he went below.
The Chief and his assistants were at the table when he came into the
salon. The Chief seemed cheerful.
“Looks like smooth sailing weather,” he observed. He pointed at the
window and at the still harbor beyond.