Pacific Interlude (41 page)

“Sir, it's not just Mr. Simpson. It's Mr. Buller and—”

“What's the matter with Mr. Buller?”

If he told the commander that Buller wanted to sell gas or sabotage the ship, full court-martial proceedings would be started, and he didn't want to put even Buller in jail. Coughing saved him from an immediate reply. Then: “Mr. Buller is a good watch officer, sir, but I can't recommend him for more responsibility than that. And Mr. Wydanski, our engineer, is sick …”

“All these problems should be left to Mr. Simpson now. I'll make him temporary commanding officer until you get out of the hospital.”

“Sir, the hull of that ship is weak. She was hit by a suicide plane and beached. The whole damn hull has the bends in any kind of a seaway. She should be hauled and the plates should be tested—”

“We can recommend that to the army, but the ship is scheduled to sail to Okinawa next week.”

“The
engine
is shot.”

“Have you recommended an overhaul?”

“When I took over the ship I sent in a full report.”

Commander Patterson sighed. “The army is short of tankers. We have to do the best we can with what we've got.”

“Sir, the men on that ship have been through a lot. They had all been overseas more than a year before they came aboard. The whole bunch is suffering from combat fatigue. They shouldn't be told to take that ship to Okinawa.”

“In time of war—”

“Sir, I hear the damn war's almost over—”

“The Japs don't seem to know that yet. Captain Grant, I'm afraid it's first things first.”

“I know, but—”

“The
first
thing is to get you to a hospital. The next thing is to put Mr. Simpson in charge. All these other problems become his. If he says the ship is unfit for sea, the army will probably ask to have him replaced. Somebody will sail her unless she's really so bad she has to be hauled right away.”

“Commander, don't send that ship to Okinawa. If she hits a typhoon—”

“That decision will have to be made by the army and the man in command of the ship. Mr. Grant, do you realize that you just might be too sick to make such decisions? Illness can affect a man's judgment, you know. I'm not saying anything against you, but many young skippers get to thinking they're indispensable. Your Mr. Simpson may handle things a lot better than you think.”

“Sir, I am telling you the whole ship is a mess.
No one can change that.”

“This war is being won by a lot of messes.”

Syl felt another coughing fit coming on and gritted his teeth. “Sir, I also have a problem here in Manila that should be handled right away.”

“You're full of problems, Mr. Grant. What is it?”

“I have a man in the brig, I mean in some jail around here …”

“Let Mr. Simpson handle that.”

“Sir, this is
complicated
. He's a Negro. He was picked up absent without leave—”

“So hang him. Just like he was white.”

“Sir, the men really drove him off the ship—”

“So hang the ones responsible. We got to go by the regulations on this damned race thing.
Anyway
, like I said, leave it up to Mr. Simpson.”

Syl doubled over with a new paroxysm of coughing. He was embarrassed as he spat into a dirty handkerchief and finally straightened up.

“I'm sorry …”

“Nothing to be sorry about. You're sick. How much sea duty do you have?”

“I don't know, I started out on the Greenland Patrol. February, 1942 …”

“You've had a lot of rough duty. You know, young man, sometimes the best of us break down …”

Syl's throat hurt as he swallowed.

“You're going to the hospital. No argument. The decision to send you back to your ship can wait till you get on your feet. I'll have a jeep take you to the hospital. Go on now. That's an order.”

The commander stood up, smiled with surprising warmth and extended his hand. “Report back here when you're released. If, as I expect, Mr. Simpson works out, maybe I can find you a new assignment.”

“I should go back, all kinds of trouble …”

“Like I said, we'll make that decision when you get out of the hospital. Good luck, skipper.”

CHAPTER 31

T
HE YEOMAN WHO
drove the jeep wore a spotless white uniform and looked about sixteen years old. As they passed through the wharf section of Manila Syl suddenly realized that, despite his genuine protests, an enormous load had been lifted from his shoulders. It didn't do any good to worry about Simpson, Wydanski, Buller or Willis—he'd done the best he could for the
Y-18
, and now he had to try to forget her at least for a few days. As they turned into a crowded street some of the broken storefronts looked vaguely familiar …

“There's a little busted-up restaurant around here somewhere,” he said to the driver. “Before I turn myself in to the medics, do you suppose I could stop for one more drink?”

He was surprised by how much he wanted to see Mary before he collapsed, which was what he felt he was about to do. He wanted to see what she really looked like, to find how much she was the product of his imagination …

The driver shrugged, circled around several blocks before Syl recognized her restaurant. It had been cleaned up and partially repaired. A red neon sign in the window blinked, “O'Brian's Restaurant and Bar.”

He saw her immediately, a slender Eurasian girl in a black short-sleeved dress filling a glass with beer from a green bottle. Her arm had healed and so had the bruises on her face. She looked even younger than he remembered and pretty in that special, fragile way. She was concentrating on the brimming glass and did not see him enter.

“Hello, Mary … remember me?”

She put the bottle down, glanced up and gave him that flashing smile.

“My good luck!” she said. “You have come back!”

“I couldn't forget you,” he said, thinking how stupid the old phrase sounded, and yet how true it really was.

“None of us will ever forget you, Mary,” a heavy-set sergeant said.

“Go along with you!” She sounded more old-fashioned Irish than Oriental. “Syl, can I get you a drink? It's on the house!”

“I'm surprised that you remember my name.”

“Your friend Paul talked a lot about you. I have some good Scotch.”

He noticed again how beautiful her hands were as she picked up a shot glass and a bottle. At least his memory had been right about that.

“Here's to you,” he said, and his own hand trembled as he picked up the drink. Before he could get it down, he again started to cough.

“You're not well!” she said, her smile changing to concern.

“I've got some crazy bug …” He leaned against the bar.

“Come sit down,” she said, and led the way to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant.

He sat with his head bowed, coughing again.

“I'll get you cold water.” She darted away.

He was wiping his face with a paper napkin when she returned.

“You should see a doctor,” she said. “I can't have my good luck get sick!”

“I'm on my way now. I just wanted to stop in and see if you remember me.”

“How could I forget? You gave Paul the money. I never could have opened up this place without it.”

“It was his money.”

“He told me about it and he helped me get my license. He went to the colonel himself …”

“Paul's a good man.”

“You are both my good luck.”

He felt dizzy. In that dim light her face seemed to glow. She could not possibly be as beautiful as she looked to him right now … “I guess I better go to the hospital,” he said. “I have a driver waiting outside.”

“What hospital?”

“The army, I think …”

“I'll find it, I'll come to see you. I have to take care of my good luck!”

“You have the most beautiful hands I ever saw—” He was overcome by another fit of coughing. “Goddamn it, I wish the hell I weren't sick …”

“You'll get better, you'll see …” She helped him as he stood shakily and walked toward the door, keeping her hand on his arm as he left the restaurant and awkwardly climbed into the jeep.

“I'll come to see you,” she said as he drove away and blew him a kiss with that incredible hand he'd been too dizzy to see.

“That's some chick,” the young driver said. “I got to look her up.”

Syl was coughing too much to tell him that he'd better not or he'd kill him. Famous last unspoken words …

There was a bed in a ward with astonishingly clean sheets and a stout nurse with pills and a glass of tepid water. There was a doctor who tapped his chest as though trying to find rotten wood in a boat, a cold stethoscope and a thermometer he had to take out of his mouth everytime he coughed. When an orderly came with a wheelchair to take him to the X-ray machine, he realized how sick he must really be.

“Bronchial pneumonia and malaria,” the doctor said finally. “A lousy combination.”

“How long?”

“I'll bet you've had the malaria a long time. Sometimes the atabrine just hides it.”

“How long will I have to stay here?”

“Two weeks, maybe a month. We'll have to see how it goes.”

They wheeled him into a ward with beds in rows close to his own, but he was too tired to notice more than sleeping forms. There were more pills to be swallowed and then an injection that hurt enough to make him wince.

“Sailors are supposed to be brave,” the stout nurse said, and that stupid sentence kept echoing in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up it was dark and he had no idea how much time had gone by. Well, it didn't matter. He would be here two weeks, maybe a month, and, God help her, the
Y-18
would probably be in Okinawa by the time he got out, if she made it … think positive, for Christ's sake … Simpson had the experience. Even Buller could probably run the ship while she was at sea—he'd get into trouble only in port.

If all went well, he could go back to the ship when he got out of the hospital. A plane could fly him to Okinawa in a few hours. He pictured himself walking back aboard, returning to that musty cabin, that rusty bridge. Sure as hell, Simpson would not be glad to see him show up. Neither would Buller. Wydanski might but the old engineer had always lived in a world of his own, an especially miserable one right now. After all the boring talk about safety he'd given the enlisted men they'd probably greet his return with something less than unrestrained joy. Maybe the commander was willing to get him another assignment, he shouldn't force himself to go back … But, damn it, and maybe it was mostly his ego talking, he still felt that the ship would have a better chance of surviving if he went back to her, kept Simpson and Buller from each other's throats, tried to keep the men from blowing themselves up … Why in hell did he care so much about a bunch of men who didn't seem to care themselves if they lived or died? He was puzzled but also pleased to find that these people he didn't even like most of the time, and who didn't much like him, remained so important to him. Buller used to accuse him of not caring about the men—as opposed to Buller, the man of the people, especially if they had votes. Well, he sure as hell didn't love them, but he cared enough to want to see them get through the war alive. The battle of Okinawa would be long and tough, everyone said, and after that would come the long road to Tokyo …

His thoughts would not let him alone, and the sleeping pills they gave him did not stop them for long. His dreams were hard to remember when he opened his eyes, but they had him carrying on about smoking loud enough to have the nurses come running to give a shot …

He lay in a twilight sleep, thinking he felt strong until he tried to move his arms or legs. One night after he had been in the hospital about a week, he got to thinking about Willis. He could almost see the man come out of this hospital with his orders to return to the ship, see him hesitate at the train and decide to run. He had gone over the hill before learning that the ship was soon scheduled for Okinawa. Probably he was more afraid of Cramer and the others than of explosions or Jap suicide planes. Maybe he had decided to steal just a few days in Manila before heading back to the
Y-18
and was picked up by the military police before he could get up the courage to return. Now he was probably in some jail along with a lot of other deserters. He'd bet Simpson had not done a damn thing about him before sailing and certainly would not want to take him back. What would happen to Willis now?

Suddenly he had an urge to talk to Willis, to try to figure something out, but when he attempted to get out of the bed he could not even sit up.

“I've got to do
something
,” he said aloud, and once again the nurse came running, needle at the ready.

One day when he lay in his usual twilight sleep, a nurse touched him on the shoulder. “You have a visitor.”

Blinking, he saw Mary walking down the aisle of the ward toward him. She was wearing a dark blue dress and carrying a straw bag that she hugged against her breasts, maybe, he hoped, as a defense against the men who stared at her from the long rows of beds. There were a few whistles as she approached him, but most of the men in the ward were too weak to care. Her ivory face, framed by her long dark hair, had, in his imagination, a Madonna-like expression as she glanced from one sick face to another, but her smile lit up when she saw Syl.

“There you are,” she said. “You look much better …”

“Thanks for coming.”

“I tried to before but they wouldn't let me.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost two weeks.”

The
Y-18
must just about be getting into Okinawa … if she made, it … he thought. But now was not the time to worry about the ship. Enjoy this …