Voyage to Somewhere (2 page)

“Do you know how to navigate?” he asked. He said it so quietly that for a moment I mistrusted my ear.

“Yes,” I said in a normal voice, and then, a little nettled, “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered,” he said. “Nowadays you never can tell. You're a Reserve, aren't you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you know anything about engines?”

“I'm a Regular. Been in fifteen years.”

He sensed my resentment at his questions, and continued. “You mustn't mind if I ask you a few things. A man gets curious about his commanding officer—so much depends on him. It's a little like getting married, you know, only you can pick your own wife. How long have you been going to sea?”

“Something over two years in the service,” I said. “About five years before that.”

“Well, that's good,” he said. “My last skipper kept asking me questions like which was the bow, and which was the stem. He kept getting mixed up.”

I made no reply. It occured to me that I should be disapproving, but it was impossible.

“You mind your engines,” I said finally, “and I'll take care of the rest of it.”

The remark made me feel absurd. I cleared my throat. As we paced up and down, a troop of women in overalls marched down to the ship and went aboard. Three of them carried welding helmets, and the others carried the hoses and the tanks. Mr. Rudd watched them fascinatedly as they set up their gear on deck and began to weld.

“What an awful thing,” he said, and continued his pacing. I walked beside him. “A ship built by women,” he said, “and manned by Reserves.”

“Not entirely,” I said. “You'll be aboard.”

“That is not a comfort,” he said.

We continued our pacing. In spite of Mr Rudd's manner, there was something about him I found vastly reassuring. I was glad that I had met Mr Rudd before I had had time to become too discouraged about the ship.

“Do you have any idea of what we're in for?” he asked.

Before I had time to say I did know what we were in for, he said very quietly, “We have to go aboard that ship—that ship there. We will have to go over it from bow to stern to see what parts those women have forgotten to finish. Then we will get a crew of seventeen-year-old kids who think that going to sea is a great adventure and going to war an even greater adventure. We have to use those kids for a crew and sail that ship clear across the Pacifiic Ocean to New Guinea. There well haul ammunition and gasoline and every other infernal cargo, and if we're lucky we'll get to go on all the invasions that are coming up. Do you see what we have for armament?”

I looked and saw two fifty-calibre machine guns on the stern of the ship. No other gun emplacements were in evidence.

“Those,” Mr Rudd said, “are to shoot planes down with. If we meet a submarine maybe we can sink that, if we're good at this stuff they call psychological warfare.”

“You don't paint a very pretty picture,” I said.

“Well, don't worry about the Japs,” he replied. “We'll probably never be able to sail that ship far enough to get anywhere near them.”

“Oh, I wouldn't get discouraged,” I answered. “I've sailed much smaller ships than that.”

He stopped and looked at me, and I felt that I was being examined in about the same way that I had examined the ship.

“Look, Captain,” he said, “I'll tell you something. I asked for this job. I don't mind it. I think we will probably get through. But don't forget how ridiculous the whole project is, and don't try to cheer me up. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I figure the quicker we understand each other the better.”

“All right,” I said, “I won't try to cheer you up. But why in hell did you ask for this job?”

“Because I got bored and because I don't give a damn.” He turned and resumed his pacing. “And because I like to keep my convictions,” he added, “and if I got on a nice, big smooth-running ship I might think that some of the brass hats knew what they were doing.”

The women welders on the deck of the ship finished their job. One of them threw off her welder's helmet and revealed a thick mass of dirty blond hair. Reaching into her trouser pocket, she pulled out a lipstick and applied it without a mirror. Then, shouldering her mask, she marched off the ship.

Seeing Mr. Rudd, she waved at him. “Hello, dearie!” she called. “How's tricks?”

CHAPTER THREE

T
HREE DAYS LATER
I received word that we were to put the ship into commission. There was to be no ceremony: a truck would bring the ship's complement down to the shipyard, we would go aboard, and make everything ready to sail. I went down to the ship early, to be there when the crew arrived. The SV-126 lay deserted; not even a security watch had been left aboard her. I walked over the gangway and stood alone on her deck. Slowly I made my way aft and walked through a passageway past the galley to a door which had “Commanding Officer” in white letters over it. Inside this cabin I found a bunk and a desk. I sat down and looked around me. Not a sound was heard anywhere. “I hope it's always this quiet,” I thought, and caught myself envisaging all the different noises that can take place on a ship: the sustained shriek of a gale, the mechanical hysteria of the general quarters alarm, the jolt of gunfire, and the steady hum of men's voices that pervades a fully manned ship, voices which continue day and night and which by their tone express the corporate emotions of the crew. My reverie was disturbed by the sound of a truck stopping beside the ship and the first clamor of those very voices of which I had been thinking. I went on deck and saw a six-wheeled truck with about twenty-five men in the back of it. Already the men were jumping out of the truck and throwing their seabags on the dock. Mr. Rudd was lumbering out of the front seat of the truck, and two other officers, a j.g. and an ensign, were supervising the unloading of the truck. There was a constant babble of voices. “Right here now, make it lively,” the j.g. was shouting, and the men were saying, “Aye aye, sir,” “Hey, Bill, get off my bag,” and “Give me a hand here, Mac, will you? Won't anybody give me a hand with this thing?”

When all the seabags were piled on the dock the men formed a line and started swinging them aboard. One bag almost fell in the water, and there were loud cries of alarm.

“Lose that and I go naked for the rest of the war,” a tall, thin seaman said.

When all the bags were piled in a forward corner of the well deck, the men filed aboard over the gangway. The steel decks of the ship trembled under their feet and the air resounded with their voices. “It's like blood seeping into a dead body and giving it life,” I thought. “She'll never be quiet again—till she sinks or is left, after the war, to rot in some quiet creek. I wonder when she will be quiet again.”

Mr. Rudd came aboard last of all and we greeted each other like old friends. The j.g. came up and introduced himself as Mr. Crane, the executive officer. I told him to tell one of the chiefs to have the men stow their gear in the forecastle, then come with the other officers into my cabin for a conference.

Five minutes later we met in my cabin. I sat in my desk chair, Mr. Rudd and Mr. Crane sat on the bunk beside me, and Mr. Warren, the ensign, stood. I took a good look at all of them. Mr. Rudd was as grossly fat, yet as strong-looking as I remembered him. Mr. Crane was a medium sized, white-skinned man of about twenty-eight; he looked like an office worker. Mr. Warren, the ensign, was not older than twenty-one or two; he was tall and slender, and there was something about his face which made him look as though he were always thinking intensely about something. For a moment the four of us said nothing. This meeting was so obviously the beginning of something, it was so obviously a time of importance for all of us, that no one knew quite how to begin.

“It is a time-honored custom,” I said at length, “for commanding officers to say some choice words at a time like this, but we have so much to do and there are so many questions on my mind that I think we better start right in on business. The four of us have to get this ship and crew organized into a working unit as soon as possible. To do this properly I want to find out what each of us is best qualified to do. Mr. Crane, what sea experience have you had?”

“I've never been to sea,” he said. “I was stationed in the district office.”

“How about you, Mr. Warren?”

“I've never been to sea either, except for my cadet cruise. I was just commissioned.”

I glanced at Mr Rudd. His face was expressionless.

“Well,” I said, “Mr. Rudd here is a Regular, and has been to sea fifteen years, and I have had enough experience, I think, so we'll probably make out all right until you learn. To begin with, however, you, Mr. Crane, take care of all the administrative duties; make up a watch and quarter bill, make up watch lists, divide the crew into the proper departments—in short, get the whole thing figured out on paper and show it to me. Mr. Rudd, of course, will organize the whole black gang. We won't have to worry about that. Mr. Warren, you will be the supply officer. Get together a list of all the equipment that is actually aboard, show it to me, and I'll tell you what you'll have to get.”

I paused. I was thinking of all the things that had to be checked—sextants, charts, food supplies, spare parts. My mind became confused.

“How about the crew, Mr. Crane? Do you know anything about them?” I asked.

“I just rode down on the truck with them. Never saw them before.”

He spoke in a calm, capable-sounding voice. In spite of the fact that he had never been to sea, he did not seem flustered by his new job.

I said, “You better get them mustered on the well deck and we'll see what we have. Get them lined up and give me a call.”

A few moments later he came in and said the crew was mustered. I went on deck and saw two rows of men standing at attention. The first impression I had was of their extreme youth; the stem expression which at attention they endeavored to impart to their faces was incongruous: they looked like children who have been told they must not laugh. Unconsciously my eye searched for some faces which looked older and more experienced. The two chief petty officers were more than boys; they appeared about thirty years of age, but one of them bore no hash marks upon his arm and the other boasted only one. That meant that one of them had been in the service less than four years and the other less than eight. The men were in two rows, and in the back row I saw one man with grey hair. All the others looked as though they had been taken directly out of high school. As I walked down the ranks of the men I saw that they were scrutinizing me with as much interest as I was them. Again I had the feeling that this was a meeting so important that it was impossible to say or do anything that would really live up to it. I stood for a moment looking at the men and letting them look at me.

“At ease,” I said.

There was the small shuffling sound of mass relaxation that always come after that order.

“Starting at the left of the front line,” I said, “call out your faces.”

“Widen,” the first man called out. “White.” “Whysowitz.” “Wigly.” “Willis.”

It dawned on all of us at the same time that all the names began with “W.” The personnel officer had simply taken them all in one block from an alphabetical list! As the last men called out “Wenton,” “Wright,” and “Wortly,” they were all smiling. The situation did not, however, appear humorous to me. It meant that no effort had been made to fit together a harmonious crew, no effort had been made to make the proper blending of experienced and green hands, of men with exceptionally fine records and men with medium and bad records. We had just been given pot luck from the alphabetical list. I wondered about their picking Mr. Warren. Probably that was just coincidence, for the officers were kept on a separate list. Nevertheless I didn't like all the names beginning with “W.” It gave me a funny feeling.

When the last man had called out his name, I paused. “Well,” I said finally, “you can see there has been no favoritism in picking this crew.”

The men laughed dutifully.

“How many of you have had sea duty?” I asked. “Everyone who has had more than two years of sea duty, put up his hand.”

Out of the twenty-six men two put up their hands, the chief machinist's mate, who was a tall, thin man with a mustache, and the gray-haired first class boatswain's mate.

“Everyone who's had more than one year's sea duty, put up his hand.”

The chief boatswain's mate put his hand in the air. No one else moved.

“Anyone who has had
any
sea duty, put up his hand,” I said at length. One hand went up. It was that of a quartermaster, a dark young man of about twenty-three years. He left his hand in the air uncertainly a moment, then put it down. The men shifted uneasily on their feet. Only four of them had been to sea at all! Twenty-two absolutely green hands out of a crew of twenty-six! For a moment a wave of panic swept over me. I was trying to think of something to say when a truck arrived on the dock beside us.

“Stores for the SV-126,” the driver called.

“Well, men, let's hustle these stores aboard,” I said. “Chief, use all hands to get stores aboard.”

The men broke from the ranks and in a moment were rolling, lifting, and passing the contents of the truck aboard the ship.

There were coils of line half as high as a man, bundles of sweepers, bales of toilet paper, cartons of canned beans, an instrument box marked “fragile,” and cases of fifty-calibre ammunition. In less than half an hour the deck was such a mad clutter of miscellaneous gear that it was impossible to find standing room.

“Mr. Crane,” I called, “get the Chief to have this stuff stowed properly before more comes aboard.”

“Where shall I have it stowed?” Mr. Crane asked.