Voyage to Somewhere (11 page)

“Won't we ever do anything but run errands?” White asked. “Won't we ever get up to the Philippines?”

“Soon enough,” I said. “You better be thankful we don't have to go yet.”

Three days later with a cargo of motion picture films, canned luncheon meat, and cartons of cigars, we headed back to Milne Bay. Every point of land between there and Hollandia had become familiar and the navigation was no strain. Mr. Crane did all of it. When I congratulated him on learning so fast he said, “Hell, by now even the ship knows the way herself. The men don't even have to steer her.”

As the eventless days slipped by the men complained more and more. There was no place for them to go ashore and relax; when we were in port there was nothing for them to do but wander around in the mud and attend an occasional movie. Most of them gave up going ashore almost entirely. They did their work listlessly and listened to the news of the battles over the radio. A gradual torpor settled over all of us, a lethargy that was broken only by mild and irritating occurrences. I found myself sleeping later and later in the morning, then resorting to a nap in the afternoon. All of the men developed a remarkable capacity for sleep, and it was not unusual to spend sixteen hours of the day in bed.

One morning while I was thus passing the time, a loud and impatient knock at my cabin door brought me from my bunk. I got to my feet, called on the knocker to wait, and washed my face. After donning a pair of trousers, I sat down at my desk and called to him to come in. It was White, and he was very much excited.

“Mr. Crane and the Chief said I could speak to you,” he said, before he stepped into the cabin. While I lit a cigarette he stood there, and I noticed that his hands were actually shaking. Quickly he put his hands behind his back.

“What's the trouble?” I asked.

“It's Boats, sir,” White said. For a moment his voice faltered, then he suddenly blurted out, “It's Boats—he hit me!”

“Hit you!” I said.

“Yes, he hit me. Here on the face.”

He brushed his thin face with one hand. I looked hard and saw no mark.

“Did he hurt you?” I asked.

“No, he didn't hurt me,” White replied. He sounded disappointed. For a moment he seemed to lose courage, then he burst out talking in a voice that was slightly tinged with hysteria. “No, he didn't hurt me. But he can't hit me! It's against the regulations for a petty officer to hit a man. He hit me, right here on the face. He can't do that, can he?”

“Now, White,” I said, “I'll take what action I think is right. But I think we better conduct this matter in a formal way. You go out and call Wenton. Tell him to bring his pad. And ask Mr. Crane to come in.”

“What are you going to do, sir?” White asked.

“Conduct a redress of wrongs mast,” I said. “Go get the men I told you to get.”

A moment later Mr. Crane came in followed by Wenton and White. White looked somewhat sobered.

“Mr. Crane,” I said, “we're going to conduct a redress of wrongs mast. I'd like you to stand by. Wenton, you take down a record of the proceedings.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wenton. He licked the tip of his pencil.

“Now, White,” I continued, “you understand that everyone in the service has a right to complain to his commanding officer if he feels he is wronged. Those who enter false or vexatious complaints will be disciplined. I want you to relate exactly what happened. Wenton will write it all down, and when you are through Mr. Crane will investigate the case. He will ask Boats what happened. If it appears that Boats acted wrongly, he will be disciplined, but if it appears that you are acting wrongly, you will be disciplined.”

“Yes, sir,” replied White. He looked very serious.

“All right, White,” I said. “Now enter your complaint.”

“Well,” answered White, “I'm complaining about being hit. Boats hit me. I was in my bunk, and he told me to get up and go on watch. I didn't get out right away, and he hit me.”

White faltered a moment, then continued. “I guess I swore at him a little,” he finished lamely.

“Exactly what did you say to Boats?” I asked.

White looked embarrassed. “Do I have to tell you that, sir?” he asked.

“If you don't, Boats will. I have to know to decide what provocation Boats had for hitting you.”

White blushed. “Will he write it down, sir?” he asked, nodding at Wenton.

“Of course,” I replied. “It's part of the record.”

“Well,” White said, and bending forward he almost whispered, “I called him a—”

“Yes?”

“I called him a son of a whore.”

I suppressed a smile, and there was no sound in the cabin. “Now we're getting down to what happened,” I said. “Next I want to find out just how he hit you. Did he hit you hard?”

“Yes, sir,” said White.

“Did he leave any mark or ache of any kind?”

“No, sir.”

“How much do you think Boats weighs?”

“About a hundred and ninety pounds, sir.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“A hundred and thirty-two pounds.”

“Well, I said, “if Boats really hit you hard, don't you think he would leave some kind of a mark? Did he hit you with his fist or his open hand?”

“With his open hand, sir. He sore of cuffed me.”

“Mr. Crane,” I said, “what do you think?”

Mr. Crane took off his glasses and started polishing them with his handkerchief. “It's hard to tell,” he said. “In the service a man cannot be hit by his superiors. On the other hand, in civilian life, White, do you think you could get away with swearing at a man of Boats' size?”

“No, sir,” said White. “I guess I couldn't.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Crane,” I said, “White is in the service and he was hit by a superior petty officer. If you insist, White, I will have to discipline Boats for that. But also, you did refuse the order of a superior petty officer and you are guilty of the use of obscene language. If you wish, I will discipline you for that. Or we could just forget the whole thing.”

“I guess that would be better, sir,” said White.

“All right, White, we'll forget the whole thing. In the future you'd do well to obey Boats. He's an old hand. He knows what he's doing.”

“Yes, sir,” said White. “I guess I just got excited.”

He stood indecisively, and when I dismissed him appeared very glad to go. When he had gone I asked Wenton to tell Boats to come in. A moment later Boats appeared. He shut the door after him and stood calmly before Mr. Crane and me.

“White was just in here saying you had hit him, Boats,” I said. “Mr. Crane and I dismissed the case. I'd be careful not to use my hands on them any more, though. If you hit a sea lawyer there might be trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” said Boats. “But if you don't mind I'd rather persuade them than put them on report. When they do something and I can persuade them, no harm comes of it, but if I have to put them on report you have to restrict them or give them extra duty.”

“It's all right to persuade them,” I said. “It often is better than putting them on report.”

Boats turned to go, but just before he got to the door he stopped and looked around. “Sir,” he asked, “how long do I have to be master-at-arms?”

“Why, Boats?” I inquired. “Don't you like the job?”

“No, sir, I don't. I don't like to be giving the men hell all the time. I'm tired of being master-at-arms. You know all my life I've had to take jobs where I push people around. When I was a kid I was in the Navy and right away they made me master-at-arms. When I came out of the Navy the only job I could get was on the police force. I was a policeman for twelve years. Then I came back into the service, and right away you made me master-at-arms again.” He stopped and shifted uneasily on his feet. “I don't know why I always get the job,” he concluded, “unless it's because I'm so big. People just look at me and make me master-at-arms.”

“That's not the reason, Boats,” Mr. Crane said. “It's because you're experienced and because you're older than most of the crew. We need someone like that. Can you think of anyone else who could take the job?”

Boats thought for a long time. He appeared to be going over the entire crew one by one. “They all are pretty young, sir,” he said, “but I think any of them could do it under ordinary circumstances.”

“What do you mean by that, Boats?” I asked.

“Well,” replied Boats in a troubled voice, “things are going kind of bad. The boys are uneasy. They want to go up to the Philippines and fight, and seeing they can't do that they fight with each other. They're all getting kind of jumpy. They need someone to keep them calmed down.”

“I know,” I said. “That's why I want you to be master-at-arms.”

“All right, sir,” Boats said, “but I don't like it. I don't like to be always pushing people around.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

W
E HAD HAD SO
few disciplinary troubles and the ship had started out, relatively speaking, as such a happy ship, that I was surprised when on the very next day Mr. Crane came to me gravely and said that he had another man on report.

“What for?” I asked.

“Stealing,” he said.

“Stealing!” I replied. “Who is it?”

“Wrigly. Guns says he stole a silver cigarette lighter from him.”

“Get Wrigly in here,” I said. “This is the first real disciplinary case we've had, and we better take care of it right now.”

Five minutes later Mr. Crane arrived with Wrigly. Wrigly was a tall, dark boy of nineteen. He was not a tough-looking person, but his manner was tough. His service record said he came from Tennessee, but he spoke with more of a Brooklyn than a Southern accent. I remembered the obscene letters he had written and fought an impulse of dislike. When he stood before me in the cabin, he did not come to attention; instead he sat down on the bunk and lit a cigarette.

“Wrigly, get to your feet!” Mr. Crane thundered.

Deliberately Wrigly ground out his cigarette in the ash tray on my desk and came slowly to attention.

“Now, Wrigly,” I said, “you have been accused of stealing. This is not a formal court. I just want to find out about the circumstances first. Did you steal a silver cigarette lighter from Guns?”

Wrigly smiled. “Why, no, sir,” he said. “I found a lighter lying on deck—not much of a lighter, you could buy one like it in any cigar store for five bucks. I stuck it in my pocket until someone claimed it. That's all.”

He was very calm. For a moment I looked at him, and he stared steadily back at me.

“Well, Wrigly,” I said, “maybe we can't prove that you stole anything. But I want you to understand one thing: at sea stealing is the lowest of all crimes. Do you know how low thieves are considered aboard ship?”

I paused and Wrigly did not answer.

“I'll tell you a story,” I continued. “Two years ago in Iceland I was moored alongside a big tanker. They were holding a general muster and I watched. The men were all drawn up on the forecastle deck. As I watched, the commanding officer came out of his cabin with a prisoner. He stood before the men and he said, ‘This man beside me is a thief. I want every one of you to get a good look at him, and I'm going to walk him down the ranks so you can.' After he said that he slowly led the prisoner down every row of men standing there. When he had finished he said, ‘Now, men, I'm going to turn this man loose. If anybody wants to see him personally it's all right with me. I won't know what happens to this man during the next twenty-four hours. If he turns up with a black eye or is busted up around the nose a bit, I guess he will have fallen down a companionway.'”

I paused to see if my words were sinking in. Wrigly stood rigidly at attention.

“Now Wrigly,” I concluded. “That commanding officer could have been court-martialed himself, but that is a true story and it shows the way thieves are sometimes treated aboard ship. This time I won't be able to convict you. But if you ever are convicted of thieving aboard this ship, I won't have you up to mast, and I won't give you a summary court; I'll give you a general court-martial, and I guarantee it'll result in a term of prison.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wrigly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Can I have a transfer, sir? I want to get off this ship.”

“You can have a transfer,” I said, “when you've convinced me that you're a good seaman. And you better remember that out here it's liable to take me a long while to get a replacement and I won't let you go without one. You'll be aboard here another six months anyway, so you better make a good job of it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wrigly.

“All right now, Wrigly, you go back on deck. And we'll consider you innocent of this charge.”

Without speaking, Wrigly walked out of the cabin.

When he had gone I lit my pipe. “What did you think of that, Mr. Crane?” I asked.

“I'm not sure you handled it right,” he said.

“No,” I replied. “I got mad myself. That's a hell of a way to discipline a man.”

As the long, hot New Guinea days went by, each seemed to leave a burden upon us. The men grew tired of tapping coins and making square knot belts. Instead they began to read. The paper-bound Armed Services Editions were taken down from the shelves in which they had remained so long and were soon dog-eared and worn. The men read “Hamlet,” “Destry Rides Again,” “Candide,” “The Case of the Nude Blonde,” and the collected works of Shelley. From what I could hear they never commented upon the books; they just put them back on the shelves and took down another. I never heard a literary discussion.

As we plied up and down the New Guinea coast the men began to worry about their health. Sick call became as much looked forward to as mail call, and when we were in port so many people were ashore at the various dispensaries that it was difficult to get work done. The “New Guinea rot,” a form of skin disease, took possession of us all in varying degrees. Once contracted, it was almost impossible to cure. Some of the men had their entire feet and ankles covered with its ugly redness and broken skin. The rash itself was not so bad as the worry it brought with it; it seemed a living testimony to the rumors which said that men simply disintegrated in New Guinea. “Each month in New Guinea takes a year off your life,” one rumor said, and the men, looking at their rotting feet, almost believed it. Atabrin had to be constantly taken to ward off malaria. The small yellow pills gradually turned our skins almost as yellow as themselves. Even a heavy sun tan could not conceal the unhealthy tinge of the atabrin, and the men found it difficult even to joke about.