Pacific Interlude (31 page)

The colonel glared, his color deepening. “What do you say about the charge of stealing whiskey from the officers' club?”

“What whiskey, sir?”

“You know damn well what whiskey. Twelve cases of the stuff were stolen from the officers' club last night.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, sir.”

“You were seen helping to load that truck that backed up to the rear of the place, right after closing.”

“It must be a mistake sir. It must have been so dark at that hour that no one could see a face.”

“A goddamn big man was observed loading cases.”

Buller glanced at the huge MP's at each side of him.

“I'm not the only big man on the island, sir,” he said.

“Maybe you could fast-talk your way out of a civilian trial, Mr. Buller, but you'll find that a military tribunal is not so easily conned, especially when it's under my jurisdiction.”

“I'm sure no court is easily conned, sir. I have a lot of friends who are lawyers back home, some mighty distinguished men. I hope I don't have to bother them by asking them to help me out in this case, but they sure would get up on their hindlegs if they thought I was a victim of injustice. I'm up for a Navy Cross, and some folks have a lot of regard for me—”

“Just
who
the hell are you, anyway?”

“I wouldn't call myself a politician, sir, although I've always worked hard for good government. I was in the oil business.”

“And the truth of course is that he still is in a way,” Syl said, interrupting for the first time. “There's a big problem here that we haven't discussed. Our tanker is supplying your airstrip with gas. I'm told this is fairly important duty. If you're going to keep this key officer of mine and some of my key men locked up I'm going to have no choice but tie the ship up until I can get replacements. You're taking a big responsibility on your shoulders, colonel.”

“You want me just to turn these men loose?”

“Of course not, colonel. I just suggest that you release them in my custody. As their commanding officer I will of course take disciplinary measures and send you a full report.”

“You're just working this thing together. You'll laugh this off the minute you get out of here if I let this man go—”

“Sir, I don't think I've introduced myself. I'm Lieutenant Sylvester G. Grant, commanding officer of the U.S. army tanker,
Y-18
. I take my job seriously. Are you charging me, sir, with some sort of fraud?”

“I'm saying you don't give a damn about what he did. What do you damn sailors care about keeping discipline ashore, about the military procedures that hold an army together—?”

Syl, stifling a laugh, stiffened.

“Sir, my name is Grant,” he said softly. “Doesn't that name stand for something?”

“You're a kin of General Grant?” the colonel asked in astonishment.

“A distant relationship, sir, and I try not to trade on it, but please don't tell me that I don't care about discipline and military procedures and—”

“All
right
. Enough.”

“I respectfully request that Mr. Buller and all the
Y-18's
men be released into my custody immediately,” Syl said, quickly pressing his advantage, phony though it might be. “My ship is ready to sail. We don't want to keep planes waiting for fuel.”

“I suppose not,” the colonel said. “This is an efficient way to dispose of this damned mess. I'll have the papers drawn up.”

An army truck took them all back to the ship. No one talked while they were within hearing of the driver, but as soon as they returned aboard Buller let out a whoop and slapped Syl hard on the back.

“Boy, I thought I was the greatest bullshitter of all time,” he bellowed, “but I never thought I'd run into a kin of General Grant himself. Skipper, the pair of us could bullshit our way clean to Tokyo without firing a shot.”

“Could be,” Syl's tone was ice. “But remember, Mr. Buller, I still don't like my men getting into brawls ashore. You're all restricted to this ship until further notice.”

Before Buller could work up an answer Syl walked briskly to his cabin.

Damn well played, he thought.

CHAPTER 24

F
ORBIDDEN TO GO
back to the cantina, the men of the
Y-18
soon resumed their revels aboard. Even when Syl and Simpson took turns keeping watch over the decks they got bottles by passing fish lines through portholes in the forecastle to canoes below. Wydanski discovered two men drinking and smoking in the engine room and throwing cigarette butts into the oily bilge, apparently to tease the fates. Syl lectured and restricted them, but of course they had no good place to go ashore now.

On February 11 Syl realized that the next day would be his twenty-fifth birthday. Somehow that seemed to him to be an important milestone. He had lived a quarter century—no one could take that away from him. He found himself envying Wydanski, who had managed to tuck more than twice as many years into the safe of his past, and pitying poor Rhinehart, who had saved so little.

Nothing special happened on this birthday, but the next day, as a sort of delayed present, he got orders to load the ship with low-octane gas and prepare to join a convoy bound for Manila Bay. At a conference aboard the destroyer
James F. Bradley
, the escort commander was unusually informative.

“As you've probably heard, our troops are entering Manila but the Japs are making a last-ditch stand. This may be another Stalingrad, fighting from block to block. The army needs gas and the whole city needs food. Our job is to bring it to 'em as soon as we can.

“Our main problem is Corregidor, right in the mouth of Manila Bay. The Japs still hold that and have enough artillery to command the entrance, but we hope they won't have it long. We may get there before it's captured, but as soon as it's neutralized we're going in. Minesweepers will go ahead of us down the bay. We can expect suicide attacks from planes and torpedo boats from the time we leave Leyte Gulf. The Japs will have nowhere to go when we clean up Luzon, and we expect they'll throw in everything they have left. When you enter Manila harbor follow mooring instructions. The Japs still hold nearly half the city. We don't want you tying up in their half.”

The fifteen skippers who were crowded into the destroyer's wardroom stared at him silently.

“We'll sail at zero six hundred tomorrow. Pick up your detailed orders on the way out. Good luck.”

The fifteen captains filed out to their waiting boats. There was very little conversation.

“Buy you a drink?” Syl finally said to Schuman as they climbed into his skiff.

“I'd like to, but I have an idea. Maybe it's crazy but I've always wanted a couple of those inflatable rafts they give to the aircraft. We could leave them blown up on the fantail and get them overboard a lot quicker than we could lower boats.”

“Do you know where we could get any?”

“My supply officer located a sergeant who has some in a warehouse up by the airstrip. I get the idea that some booze will have to change hands. Do you know where we could get a couple of bottles?”

“I'll ask Mr. Buller. That's one problem he'll be able to handle …”

When they got aboard the
Y-18
Syl did not have to search for Buller—looking upset, the big man was at the gangway, about to go ashore, even though he was still restricted to the ship because of the trouble at the cantina.

“Where are you going, Mr. Buller?”

“Official business, for Christ's sake. We got a problem. We better go to your cabin.”

Leaving Schuman on deck, Syl led the way.

“They sent us a replacement for Rhinehart,” Buller said. “He's a nigger.”

There was a brief silence before Syl said, “Maybe you better start by not using that term—”

“I don't give a shit what you call him, he's going to be big trouble, and you know it.”

“That's what I love about the South,” Syl said. “You guys never worry about self-fulfilling prophecies—”

“Skipper, don't give me none of your bullshit now.” Buller threw out his big hands. “A lot of do-good talk ain't going to help us. We've got
trouble
.”

“What makes you so sure? No plantations or cotton around here—”

“Right or wrong, the men in the forecastle don't want a nigra jammed in there with them. They'll kill him—”

“I bet you're selling the men very short.”

“Captain, you don't know your own men. You never did—”

“I don't sit around bullshitting with them, but maybe I know them better than you do. I don't think every one is automatically going to go to pieces because we've got a Negro aboard, even if a lot of them are Southerners.”

“Captain, I don't need a lecture on race relations. I always got along fine with the nigras myself—when I ran for sheriff, I got their votes solid. But that makes no nevermind here. You might as well throw a stick of dynamite into that forecastle.”

“I repeat, what makes you so sure?”

“Because I know the men, skipper. Take Cramer, for starters. He used to be a prison guard …”

“We'll just have to keep Cramer in line.”

“You want me to move up there with him?”

“Just tell him I'll have his ass if he makes trouble.”

“Captain, you don't understand this situation. It ain't just Cramer. They got a regular pecking order up there. Where do you think this nigra is going to fit into it?”

“Any
newcomer would have to start at the bottom of it. This man will have to understand that. What's his name, goddamn it?”

“Willis, Sam Willis.”

“I'll have a talk with him.”

“Oh, he's waiting for that, skipper. He's a real pisser.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I'll send him in. You judge for yourself.”

Buller left. While Syl waited he found himself picturing in his mind a tall, impressive Negro who would quickly demonstrate the folly of intolerance. Now who was thinking in stereotypes …?

Good thing, he told himself, he'd managed at least this much self-correction as Willis walked in. Not much older or bigger than Rhinehart had been, Willis was very black, bouncy and cocky. His accent echoed the voice of Chicago more than the South. He drew himself up to attention. “Apprentice seaman Samuel F. Willis, sir, reporting aboard for duty.”

“Glad to have you aboard, Willis.” Syl moved from the chair to the edge of the bunk. “Sit down.”

“Thank you, sir. I don't like to make complaints right at the beginning like this, but there seems to be a misunderstanding—”

“What's that, Willis?”

“I'm an apprentice seaman, sir, not a steward's mate. A lot of the people here still seem to think that a Negro must be a steward's mate. It was that way a long time—”

“We know you're a seaman. This ship doesn't even rate a steward's mate.”

“Then why am I assigned to cleaning the heads and washing dishes?”

Syl sighed. “This is going to take some understanding,” he said. “Believe it or not, the man you are replacing did that. He just didn't seem to care—”

“Was he a Negro?”

“No, but he was the youngest man aboard and he didn't seem to mind—”

“I
do
mind, sir. I'll take my turn at dishes and anything else, but I was trained to be a seaman and I don't want to do a steward mate's job full-time.”

“That's understandable.”

“I know my rights, sir. We don't have just to be steward's mates no more.”

“No argument. Those duties will be rotated among the men.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You're the first new man to join this crew. There's a little lecture I should give you—”

“Mr. Simpson gave me one, sir. I know this is a gas tanker and safety regulations are important.”

“A matter of life and death. A cigarette can blow us as high as a bomb can.”

“I don't smoke, sir, and I don't drink. I'm a Pentecostal Baptist.”

“Good … now try to remember that this ship has seen a fair amount of action. Everybody's kind of geared up, on edge …”

“I won't make trouble, sir, but I know my rights, and I ain't just going to lay down.”

“Nobody
asks that. If you have any complaints, bring them to your petty officers, and if necessary to … Mr. Buller, Mr. Simpson or me. My door will always be open to you.”

“Thank you, sir. I'm sorry, but things haven't started out right. The minute I came aboard, Chief Cramer began giving me a lot of shit.”

“Such as?”

“Right off he said, ‘Nobody wants a nigger aboard here. If we have to have one, we sure as hell ain't going to take any lip, so do as you're told and shut up.'”

“I'll straighten him out, but no seaman can give the master of arms any lip either. Remember that.”

“What should I do when he calls me nigger?”

“Try to handle it. If you can't come straight to me. This is going to take patience and understanding—”

“Sir, I
understand
already. If there's trouble, I won't be the one to start it.”

He left. Buller and Simpson came in.

“Captain, Mr. Buller wants us to go up and see the personnel officer right now and try to get him to take Willis back,” Simpson said. “I've been trying to tell him that's crazy. There are directives out about this—”

“We don't have time to argue,” Buller interrupted. “That office won't be open much more than an hour and we're supposed to sail in the morning, aren't we?”

“That's right. There's no point in going up to the office.”

“Captain, it's never too late to try to make sense. I know a lot more about colored people than you do. The forecastle of a gas tanker in wartime is no damn place for experiments in race relations. In the first place, they never should send just one poor damn nigger alone—they should give us at least three, if any. How would you like to be the only white man on a black ship?”