Pacific Interlude (32 page)

“We're all going to have to learn to be color-blind—”

“Don't give me that liberal shit. I'm talking about a man's life, maybe all our lives. Some of the boys are going to give that poor little bastard a hard time up there. They all will take sides—”

“That's a danger, but it's not inevitable. Just because one Negro shows up—”

“Captain, it's not just one
Negro
, it's the kind of man he is. If he were a big tough buck, maybe he could take care of himself. If he was little and meek and just did what he was told, that could work out all right. But this kid is lippy and cocky without being tough. If you care about him, have him sent back ashore before he gets himself killed.”

“I appreciate your worry about him—”

“It's not just for him. Charges will be brought. Everybody will get in trouble.”

And there goes your precious political future, Syl thought …

“All that can be prevented,” Simpson said. “Willis seems like a good boy to me. He's God-fearing, a religious boy. All we got to do is go by the regulations. If Cramer gives him a hard time, throw the book at him. I hear that headquarters is looking for a chance to make an example. He'll go to Portsmouth for twenty years if he hurts that boy. The others will get the message soon enough—”

“You want that to happen to poor old Cramer after all he's been through here?” Buller said. “Doesn't anybody give a damn about these men?”

“I think poor old Cramer will be smart enough to learn before he gets into real trouble,” Syl said.

“Cramer's a tiger, you're not going to make a tiger change his stripes in two or three days. We're going into action. The men have already got the shakes. Isn't this ship explosive enough?”

“Oh, shit, calm down, everybody,” Syl said, leaning back and stretching to get the tension out of his arms. “Why are we making such a big deal of this?”

“Because there's a danger we can prevent by making them take that man back,” Buller said. “I can explain it to you and I can explain it to the personnel guy—”

“He wouldn't listen to you,” Simpson said. “He has to go by regulations just like the rest of us.”

“I'll make him listen,” Buller said, slamming the desk with his big fist.

“Skipper, if you just let me handle this whole situation I can do it,” Simpson said. “I'll have a talk with Cramer and the men—”

“Cramer and the rest will be sullen but quiet when you talk to them,” Buller said. “For a while they'll just give Willis the silent treatment, with a few little comments among themselves meant to be overheard. Sooner or later there will be direct insults. Willis will complain. We'll hand out punishments and that will add fuel to the fire. The next step will be shoving, then hitting, finally a free-for-all and then the courts. Is that what we want on a gas tanker going into combat?”

Syl hated it, but Buller probably was right. “Mr. Buller, there's a Grand Canyon between the way you and I think on the subject, but I think you're right about one thing … this is not too good a time and place to start bridging the gap … All right … go up and see the personnel officer. If you can convince him that we're not just a bunch of bigots, he might put Willis on a bigger ship.”

“You'll be wasting your time,” Simpson said. “He don't make policy.”

“I can try,” Buller said. “Skipper, will you come with me?”

“I got to go up and get some life rafts with Mr. Schuman. They could be important too … Mr. Buller, have you got a couple of bottles of booze I can trade for them?”

“I'm out of Jack Daniels but I can give you gin.”

“I'll pay you. How much?”

“Shit, if they're for life rafts I may want a ride too.”

He got two bottles in a paper bag from his cabin, gave them to Syl and went ashore.

Syl found Schuman waiting for him patiently in the pilothouse. “Sorry to be so long,” he said. “Just one of the usual crises …”

“Trouble's our business, or so they say,” Schuman said with an eye on the paper bag. “One bottle, plus what I got, ought to be enough for the rafts. Maybe, old buddy, we can save the other for ourselves …”

CHAPTER 25

W
HILE MAKING PREPARATIONS
for joining the convoy to Manila the next morning, the
Y-18
and Schuman's ship lay anchored a few hundred yards apart in San Pedro Bay while their boats ran back and forth with supplies and liberty parties. Before going for the life rafts, Syl lifted the restrictions and let everyone but the anchor watch go into Tacloban.

It was seven in the evening when Syl returned to the
Y-18
with the new life rafts in Schuman's boat. Buller met him at the rail.

“I saw everybody from the personnel officer up to the captain in charge of the whole detachment,” he said. “All I got was a lecture about learning to love the niggers—I mean the nigras or the
neegrows
. Nobody gives a damn what happens to us
or
to Willis …”

He sounded a little drunk but lifted up with ease the two heavy yellow bags containing the life rafts.

“I'm glad you got these damn things,” he added. “Why didn't you get some parachutes while you were at it?”

“The s-o-b took every drop of booze we had for these,” Schuman said.

“I got plenty more if you don't mind gin,” Buller said. “Come on aboard. I hear you're a hell of a poker player. Maybe we all need some action tonight.”

They gathered with the rest of the ship's officers in the wardroom. Perhaps because Buller was now obviously drunk, Schuman was a little reluctant to play, but the big man was insistent.

“I hear you're a regular shark,” Buller told Schuman as he spread the cards facedown on the table. “You don't have to worry about me. I play wildcatter's poker.”

Schuman looked at him.

“That means no wild cards but high stakes. Sky's the limit as far as I'm concerned.”

“That's no game for me,” Wydanski said, but he helped count out stacks of poker chips. “I'll be banker.”

“Too rich for my blood too,” Simpson said, and went to the bridge.

“It's good to get the chickens out,” Buller said. “Three's enough for stud poker, red dog or twenty-one. Dealer's choice. Cash money or personal checks accepted. Blue chips are hundreds, reds fifty and the whites ten. Ante a white and let's cut for first deal.”

Syl had never played for stakes this high but decided to ride along. At poker he never won or lost much because he usually folded unless he had a good hand. This time he won the deal with a king and called for seven-card stud. He was startled when Buller bet a hundred dollars on his first show card, which was only a jack. He dropped out of the game.

“And the chicken bites the dust,” Buller said. “Are you in, Paul?”

“I'll raise you a hundred,” Schuman said casually, his face stolid as he pushed two blue chips to the center of the table.

Buller looked surprised as he stared at Schuman's face card—only a seven of hearts. “I like your style,” he said, and added a blue chip. “You just ain't never played with a bayou boy, Paul. You should have been in the games we played down around the oil rigs.”

“Deal the cards, Syl.”

Syl dealt a ten to Schuman and another jack to Buller.

“Kick my ass if that ain't class,” Buller said. “Up two hundred.”

“Two hundred more it is,” Schuman said, adding his chips to the growing pile.

The pot reached seven hundred dollars before the betting on that hand was finished.

“Beat a pair of jacks,” Buller said, flipping his down cards over.

“I guess three sevens does that,” Schuman said, raking in the chips.

“You had a pair down from the start?” Buller said, sounding a little sore.

“Lucky,” was all Schuman said.

“As usual,” Syl said.

“Don't worry about me none,” Buller said. “I still got a few oil wells pumping away for me down in Louisiana. I call one of 'em Old Faithful. She's been pumping away about two years now. I get about a buck with each stroke …”

He moved his big arm and fist back and forth like a piston.

“Deal,” Schuman said. “What's your game?” …

Buller won a few hands, but by eleven o'clock he was down more than two thousand dollars. He was also drinking heavily—Schuman took only token sips from his glass—and his face got increasingly red. Syl kept in the game, but folded so often that he was losing money on the chips he had to ante.

After dropping five hundred on a full house he bet against Schuman's higher full house, Buller slammed down his cards. “Goddamn … you can't just be riding on luck …”

“Maybe it's just practice.”

“You sure that's your only secret?” Buller demanded.

“I think it's time we racked up,” Syl quickly said. “We've all got to be up early with clear heads.”

He was relieved when Buller said, “I guess I can't argue with that. At least you took my mind off this damned ship, Paul. I'll go get you your money—”

“Don't bother,” Paul said. “You can pay me any time—”

“Hey … I pay my debts on time. Is Australian cabbage okay?”

“Fine, or a check will do.”

“I got plenty of cash and I should get rid of it before this goddamn ship blows up,” Buller said, and went to his cabin.

Schuman sighed. “I'm beginning to feel sort of bad about this.”

“You won it fair and square. Apparently he can afford it,” Syl said.

Buller soon returned with a paper box, from which he scooped piles of ten-pound Australian notes still done up in bands of bank paper. He was drunk enough now so that he had trouble counting them and figuring out the exchange rate. Wydanski helped him and finally Buller pushed a pile of the money toward Schuman.

“I tell you what,” he said. “How about cutting for double or nothing?”

“I'm afraid not—”

“Don't be chicken.”

“Sorry. I just never do that.”

“So the hell with you,” Buller said and, leaving the box of money with its remaining bills as well as Schuman's winnings on the table, went off to his stateroom.

“Hell, I'm feeling worse and worse about this,” Schuman said. “Give this back to him in the morning.”

“He'd be insulted.”

“Tell him he won it back. He's so far gone he won't remember. I got no business playing with drunks, especially an officer on your ship—”

“He pushed you into it.”

“Forget it. Compared to him I'm a pro. I'll leave this money here.”

“What do you expect me to do with it?”

“Every ship needs a welfare fund.” Schuman finished his drink in three gulps and went back to his boat. As it pulled away he waved and said, “See you in Manila, old buddy …”

“What do you want me to do with all this cash?” Wydanski asked when Syl returned to the wardroom.

“Put it in the box back in Mr. Buller's stateroom. I'll take care of the rest of it.”

As Syl gathered up the winnings and put them in his bottom desk drawer he wondered why Buller had so much Australian money. Was it what was left of the “welfare fund” he had set up after selling the contaminated gas in Australia? Buller had said the repairs for the house took the last of it, but he had also said that those who do a lot for others can take a little for themselves … This pile didn't seem like such a little, but if Buller was crooked, that shouldn't come as such a big surprise—after all, his idol Huey Long didn't have exactly the reputation of being a stickler about his finances. Syl locked the drawer, put the key in his pocket and took a last walk around the ship before turning in. He found Willis on the bridge, sitting on the stool, nodding, chin on chest. A lot of men found it hard to stay alert on anchor watch. A still night like this sometimes made drowsiness inevitable, but there would be hell to pay if Cramer caught Willis with his eyes closed on his first duty.

“Good evening,” Syl said loudly.

“I wasn't asleep, sir,” Willis said, straightening up. “I was concentrating on memorizing Morse code.”

“I'm glad. If you ever find that you just can't keep your eyes open on anchor watch, yell for a replacement. It's important to have someone alert up here at all times.”

“Aye, aye, sir, but I was alert. I'm just going to keep that code going in my head until I can get it fast. Do you think I could strike for signalman?”

“Why not? See Sorrel about it.”

Simpson, who had been standing on the bow keeping a lookout for native canoes, walked aft as he heard the voices.

“Good evening, skipper,” he said. “Nice night, ain't it?”

“Sure is. Has the liberty party returned?”

“All aboard, safe and sound. We're ready to sail at dawn.”

“Have me called at five-thirty. You better get some rest yourself.”

“You never have to worry about me, sir. I've been to sea so long that all I need is a few catnaps.”

At least he didn't say with the help of God …

Syl returned to his cabin. Wydanski turned off the generator in the engine room, and suddenly the ship was quiet as a grave. Syl wished he'd thought of a more cheerful figure of speech.

The next morning at dawn the convoy for the relief of the beleagured city of Manila steamed out of Leyte Gulf. It consisted of three small tankers, including the navy AOG that had run around trying to get out of Guiuan, seven big merchant tankers and five Liberty ships that carried food. Only the tankers flew the red Baker flag. They were escorted by the destroyer
Bradley
, which zigzagged up ahead of them, and three navy minesweepers which were to lead them up Manila Bay but which now patrolled the flanks and the rear. None of these ships boasted more than a five-inch gun and the small ones had only machine guns. Still, in the early morning sunlight they were a brave sight as they took station in three lines with brightly colored signal flags flying for identification and their big American flags standing out stiffly in the wind.