Pacific Interlude (40 page)

He threw some overnight supplies into a ditty bag. If he hurried he could catch the morning train, which was always late anyway, and be back the next day. He wouldn't even check into a hospital where they might order him to bed. There had to be some navy sick bay or dispensary where he could just stop in and see a doctor who'd understand his responsibilities as the captain of a ship. Of course he'd get a chance to stop in and see Mary, but it was time to forget all those fantasies about her. A girl like that would have already hooked up with somebody, maybe an American officer who would protect her … he'd be lucky if she gave him a free drink. She sure as hell was not the reason he was taking this trip to Manila.

Simpson said nothing as Syl, between coughs, briefed him.

“Captain, what are you going to do if they do stick you into a hospital?”

“I won't let them, I don't have a fever—”

“Have you taken it lately? Your face is mighty flushed.”

“My fever's always the same, about a hundred degrees, big deal …”

“But what are we going to do
if
you have to be hospitalized? You can't go to sea with a high fever.”

“They'll make you acting CO until I get back.”

“What if we have to sail and you get transferred? … What kind of recommendation would you give me?”

“Mr. Simpson, you're a good officer, you know the job, but you better learn to get on better with the men.”

“That's been said about me before. They never give me a chance to run a ship my own way—”

“I'll recommend you if it comes to that, but it won't because—”

“Good. I ain't going to say thanks, because I know what I deserve. Nobody's worked harder for this ship.”

“I wouldn't deny that.”

“If you do go, try to get them to transfer Mr. Buller. I don't want him here. Tell them to send me a boot ensign. Anyone honest would be better than him—”

Buller himself knocked hard at the door, interrupting, to Syl's relief, the exchange with Simpson.

“What is it, Mr. Buller?”

“It's Wydanski. He got a Dear John letter from that broad in Brisbane. I'm worried about him.”

“What's he doing?”

“He's just lying in his bunk staring at the overhead. He looks like a damn corpse.”

“I'll go see him.”

Wydanski did indeed look dead as he lay stiff on his back, his atabrine-yellowed face incongruously pale, his eyes staring.

“I'm sorry about your bad news …”

“I guess it was in the cards.” Wydanski's voice sounded normal. “No fool like an old fool …”

“Look … I've got to go to Manila. Want to go with me? You can look for engine parts. A night on the town might do you good.”

“No, I guess I've had about all the nights on the town I want …”

His breathing seemed labored, and despite his controlled voice, his appearance alarmed Syl.

“I'm going to stop into a sick bay for some pills for my damn cough. You've been out here a long time. Why don't you come with me and have the doc check you over?”

“Hell, he might send me home”—Wydanski managed a weak laugh—“I've already asked my wife for a divorce.”

“If you're sick you could get thirty days leave and spend it anywhere you want—”

“No, forget it, skipper. I'm just right for this ship. We deserve each other.”

“I still think you ought to have a doctor check you over.”

“Do you think I'm nuts, skipper? Do you think I'm ready for a Section Eight?”

“No, hell no … never entered my mind, but you've had a shock and you've been through a hell of a lot. You're not as young as some of the rest of us—”

“Hell, I'm a tough old bird, and there's nothing ashore I want. You won't find anybody who'll keep your engines running better. I may be nothing but a crazy old Polack, but I'm still a country fair engineer. I still got that.”

Syl wanted to tell him he was a damned fine engineer, but before he could say anything he was overwhelmed by a racking paroxysm of coughing. It doubled him up as he sank into the desk chair. He felt so dizzy that he could hardly stagger to the head, where the vomiting started. Afterward he felt weak but strangely clear-headed. Hanging onto the sink, he suddenly saw himself in the mirror, haggard, hollow-eyed, a man who probably had no right to command a ship. Thinking of Wydanski, lying like a corpse on his bunk, of Buller, who wanted only to steal gas or sabotage the vessel, and of Simpson, who was willing to send half the crew to jail, he felt a rush of compassion for the men in the forecastle who had to depend on such officers for their survival. God help them …

He walked shakily to his own stateroom and stood looking out the porthole at the rusty tank deck. Even if she had good officers, what kind of a ship was this to send to Okinawa? With a hull so limber that it flexed like rubber in any kind of a seaway and a Diesel that had not had a major overhaul in God knew how many thousands of miles, such a vessel could never survive an ordinarily bad blow at sea, nevermind a typhoon or attacks by suicide planes. What right did the United States government have to send men to sea aboard such a wreck, especially when it looked like the war was coming to an end?

Simpson came in. He wouldn't give up. He wanted command, for God and country … and no doubt in that order.

“Skipper, you
really
look sick, you shouldn't mess around with whatever you've got anymore. You really should go to a hospital—”

“What I really should do is declare this ship unfit for sea.”

“She's
not
. She's seaworthy if she's handled right.”

“Not for any long voyages. If they don't have the brains to junk her they should keep her right here in Lingayen Gulf.”

“I can take her anywhere—”

“If you try to take her to Okinawa, you're a fool. God, they say, doesn't suffer fools too well.”

“Captain, when you check into a hospital, that decision will be up to me. And I think I know my God better than you do.”

“I'm sure you do,” Syl said with a weary shrug.

“And I will do my duty. God's will be done …”

“Maybe so, but I'm going to try to get them to condemn the ship anyway, Mr. Simpson. If they don't pay any attention to me, maybe you'll get your way …”

Picking up a small satchel he had packed clothes in for only an overnight absence, Syl walked to the rail and weakly climbed into the motorboat tied alongside. As Cramer took him ashore he sat staring at the
Y-18
, her rusty hull more red than green now, more battered-looking than some of the Japanese wrecks. Seized by another fit of coughing, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, the boat had carried him around a point of land to the wharf where he could no longer see the old tanker. For a moment he had the sinking feeling that he would never see her again but then told himself to snap out of it … He would be sent back to the ship the next day with a pocket full of pills and orders to sail the old tanker as long as she stayed afloat. Which was okay. It was, after all, his job.

The day Syl left the
Y-18
to go to Manila was April 1, 1945. He was aware that this was both Easter Sunday and April Fool's Day, a strange combination, but he did not know that the long-rumored American invasion of Okinawa had just started. He heard that news on the train about two hours later from some American soldiers who had just boarded.

“This is going to be a tough one,” a sergeant said. “Every mile we get closer to Japan those bastards are going to fight harder. The one advantage they got over us is that they don't mind dyin'.”

Syl coughed and felt dizzy. When he glanced down at his own hand, he thought of the dead, charred fingers hanging from the Japanese tank he had seen in Manila. He quickly doubled up his fists, stuck them in his pockets.

How long would it be before the
Y-18
got orders to move up?

As soon as the army took airfields there would be a pressing need for tankers and there never seemed to be enough of them. The
Y-18
was lucky to have missed the first convoys, but Syl was sure she would not be kept waiting long.

Well, at least he had one night in Manila ahead of him, maybe his last night on the town. He told himself not to expect an almost perfect stranger like Mary O'Brian to understand his need. His sense of urgency. When he saw her she'd probably just say she had a date, or maybe she wouldn't be there at all. On the other hand, if she remembered that she had called him her “good luck” and if his own luck was with him …

Coughing made him feel strangled. He felt so weak that he sat with his forehead resting on the back of the seat ahead of him, the way Sally had often prayed in church, an image that startled him. Suddenly he was overcome by a sense of his own absurdity. Now he was so weak that he could hardly sit straight, coughing so hard that he felt about to choke. And yet at the same time he was still actually hoping to play out some great romantic scene with Miss Mary O'Brian …

When the train made one of its unnumerable stops, an old woman with a big basket walked down the aisle, selling pints of “MacArthur whiskey.” He bought one, swigged it. The raw alcohol burned his sore throat but at least gave him an illusion of strength. The train was getting very crowded now. More soldiers, Philippine and American, kept getting on at every stop, filling every seat and standing in the aisle. When Syl found it necessary to go to the men's room a swarthy sergeant immediately took his seat and stared a drop-dead stare at him when he returned. In no mood for an argument Syl walked down the aisle, steadying himself on the backs of the seats as the train swayed around turns. His legs felt frighteningly limp. When he found an unoccupied corner he sat down on the floor and leaned forward with his head on his knees as the coughing started again. More whiskey seemed to help stop the coughing some, but the idea of arriving in Manila both sick and drunk scared him. Before he could drink any more he handed the bottle to an American corporal on the nearest seat and waved it away when the man tried to give it back after a few pulls. His brain was already numb. It was strange to find how comfortable the hard boards felt, how easy it was to sleep sitting with his chin supported by his hands, his elbows on his knees like that old statue of “The Thinker” while his head felt as empty as a balloon …

When the train finally reached Manila, the loud bustle woke him up. Trying to gather the strength to stand, he finally realized how sick he really was. He was so weak he knew he ought to go to a hospital but was not clear about where to find one. He worried that he'd miss getting to have the ship declared unseaworthy, and then she'd probably be ordered to Okinawa within a few days … And he should do something about Willis …

The first thing he'd better do was to find Coast Guard headquarters in Manila. The detachment commander ought to be able to help him … On the crowded street outside the railroad station he was grateful to find a taxi with an English-speaking driver who said he could find the Coast Guard office even though he did not know where it was. The soft back seat of the shabby car felt incredibly good as he sank into it …

The Coast Guard office looked oddly like those in the States, with crisply uniformed yeomen typing at metal desks. The trim chief petty officer Syl approached all but sniffed at this disreputable-appearing lieutenant.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I want to see the commander.”

“He's busy right now. Your name, sir?”

Syl's drooping figure straightened a little. “Lieutenant Sylvester G. Grant, commanding officer of the
Y-18
. I have some important business …”

“Sit down, sir,” the chief said, waving toward a folding metal chair. “I'll tell Commander Patterson.”

Waiting, Syl almost fell asleep again in the thinking man's position. When he finally was called and followed the chief yeoman to the commander's office, he felt like a schoolboy on the way to see the principal. He brushed at his soiled uniform and smoothed back his sweat-soaked hair.

In fact, Commander Patterson looked more like a schoolmaster than a military officer. He was a thin man old enough to be Syl's father, with a craggy face and steel-rimmed glasses under shaggy white eyebrows. His voice was so deep it reminded Syl of Mostell's.

“Sit down, captain,” he rumbled, gesturing toward a tin chair. “You look like you've been having a bad time.”

Sympathy was the last thing Syl had expected. Or wanted. It had the curious effect of making him choke up and he had a horrified image of himself breaking into tears as he sank onto the chair. He swallowed hard. “I'm afraid I'm coming down with some damn thing, commander …”

“I can see that. You better check right into the hospital.”

“There are a lot of problems that have to be handled first—”

“Do you have a good executive officer?”

“Sir, that's a long story. For now, I just want to declare the
Y-18
unfit for sea. The hull, the engine, the officers and the men are all unfit for sea …”

Syl wanted to explain this but he was overcome by coughing. Cramming a dirty handkerchief to his mouth he doubled up, his head almost hitting on his knees. Afterward he could not collect his thoughts and there was a long moment of silence while Commander Patterson sat staring out the window.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Syl finally gasped.

“Can I get you a drink of water?”

“No, sir, not now.”

“Our first problem is to replace you. What's wrong with your executive officer?”

“Sir, he's an old mustang and he's capable enough, but he can't handle the men—”

“Simpson, an old chief quartermaster? Is that the one?”

“Yes, sir. In many ways he's a good man—”

“I know him. He can probably take over for a few weeks until you get on your feet.”