Voyage to Somewhere (14 page)

Several nights we did play cards with his, but he always tired of the game after a few hands.

“How about going ashore for a look around?” he asked. “Come on, it isn't late. How about going down to the officers' club for a drink? Or a movie. There's lots of Army shows around here, how about that?”

Sometimes we said we would go, but often at the last moment after we were all dressed and getting into the boat, he changed his mind.

“Oh, the hell with it,” he said. “You fellows go along. I'm going back and go to bed.”

While we were waiting in Hollandia, more and more ships came and anchored near us. These were the ships which were going to make up our convoy.

“It'll be a slow one, all right,” Mr. Rudd said one morning. He nodded toward a tugboat and string of barges that was just making her way toward us. On the other side of the harbor we saw two old freighters that were survivors of the First World War.

“What a fleet,” he said. “The cream of the nation!”

At last we heard that the convoy was going to sail the twenty-sixth of November. When we got the message telling us that, it was the twentieth. Six days seemed like a long while to wait. The quartermaster began to sort out and repair our signal flags. Because we had never sailed in the company of other ships, he was nervous about their use, and started displaying practice flag hoists. Mr. Warren was the communications officer, but because he was so distracted by his lack of mail, I told Mr. Crane to check up on our publications and memorize the emergency signals. Every day we held general quarters, fire and abandon ship drills.

Two days before we sailed we moved into the wharf, took on fuel and water, filled our freeze boxes and all available storage space with food. Guns found some ready boxes in which to keep ammunition near the guns. These Mr. Rudd welded on deck himself. I was watching him work on them when Boats came up to me.

“Sir,” he said. “Wrigly is gone. He ain't aboard.”

“Did anyone grant him special liberty?” I asked.

“Mr. Crane says not,” Boats replied. “I think he's gone over the hill.”

“Not much of a place to go,” I said, nodding toward the uninviting New Guinea mountains.

Mr. Rudd strightened up, pushed the goggles from his eyes. “Damn good riddance,” he said. “Well be better off without him.”

“Maybe he'll come back,” I replied. “Maybe he'll change his mind.”

All that day Wrigly did not return. The crew talked about his departure in awed tones.

“I guess he was scared,” they said incredulously. “I guess he was yellow after all.”

“I wonder what they'll do to him when they catch him?” White asked. “He won't be able to go far here.”

“Maybe he'll just get a couple of weeks in the brig, while we …”

“I don't now,” the quartermaster said. “I wouldn't like to be in his shoes. I wouldn't like to think back on it.”

We had Wrigly entered in the log as absent without leave. The next morning, I decided, we would report him to the authorities ashore. As it happened, however, that was unnecessary. That night at quarter to twelve I was awakened by a commotion on deck. I got up and went on the bridge. Below me on the well deck I saw Wrigly swaying in the glare of the cargo lights. He was standing by the edge of the hatch, and in his hand was a half-f bottle. Standing in front of him was Flags, the quartermaster.

“Throw it away!” said Flags.

Wrigly swayed unevenly on his feet and sat heavily down on the hatch.

“Why?” asked Wrigly. “Who you scared of? Have a drink?”

He shoved the bottle toward Flags, who sniffed and recoiled. “For Christ's sake, what you got in there, Wrigly?” Flags exclaimed. “You must be nuts to drink that!”

“It's Jungle Juice,” Wrigly replied with satisfaction. “A fellow up in the ordnance depot makes it. He takes raisins and coconut milk and …”

“Give it to me!” Flags interrupted.

Wrigly handed him the bottle. Flags quickly threw it overboard. Immediately Wrigly started cursing at him. For a moment I thought Flags would have to hold him to prevent a fight.

“I thought you were going to have a drink!” Wrigly said indignantly. “I paid twenty-five guilders for that, and you throw it overboard!”

“Sit down,” Flags said, “sit down. You ought to be glad I got rid of it for you.”

As Flags spoke he took Wrigly gently by the shoulders and sat him down on the edge of the hatch. Wrigly, suddenly overcome by weariness and nausea, put his face in his hands and leaned forward as though he were thinking profoundly. For a moment they were silent, then Wrigly looked up.

“Come on, Flags, and go ashore with me,” he said. “I know where I can get another bottle of that stuff. It ain't bad, honest it ain't. Why the hell are you staying around here?”

“I'm on watch!” Flags said inidgnantly. “You go below. You're in enough trouble as it is.”

“Trouble!” replied Wrigly scornfully. “Why the hell should I care? We're all in trouble. The worst they can do to me is kick me off this bucket. Why should I care, Flags? The brig would be safer. And I'd be doing just as much for the war, too. Carrying candy! That's what you're doing, Flags! You're carrying candy to the battle. You're risking your damn fool neck carrying candy!”

“Get below!” said Flags. “You're drunk.”

“Sure I'm drunk,” whined Wrigly. “Why shouldn't I be? I make more sense when I'm drunk than you do when you're sober. Candy! Don't worry, boys, we're coming! Through fire and storm, the SV-126 carries on! We'll bring you candy! Don't worry!”

“Shut up!” said Flags, but Wrigly didn't even pause.

“The candy man!” he shouted. “That's what we ought to name this bucket! The candy man! Look, Flags, do you know why you're staying away from home? Do you know why you're risking your fool neck? Do you know why we're all going nuts out here? Candy! To bring candy to the battle! Why do you do it, Flags?”

“I don't know,” said Flags. “But it ain't going to help getting drunk. I aim to keep my record clean, anyway.”

“Record clean!” said Wrigly. “Everybody wants to keep that record clean! What are you working for while you're keeping your record clean? Why are you out here? To carry candy?”

Reaching into his pocket, Wrigly drew out a half-melted chocolate bar. With sticky fingers he pushed it toward Flags.

“Eat it up, Flags,” he said. “Eat it up! You must like the stuff to work so hard carrying it!”

Flags pushed it away. Wrigly stooped and licked the melted chocolate from his hands. Suddenly he straightened up with chocolate all over his face and was sick on deck. Then he collapsed and lay on his stomach on the hatch holding his face in his hands. The door from the forecastle opened. Boats stepped out. He stood for a moment looking at the prostrate figure.

“So he's back,” he said to Flags. “Can he walk?”

“I don't think so,” Flags replied.

Boats walked over and picked Wrigly up by the seat of the pants and the collar. “Come on,” he said. “You're going to your bunk.”

Immediately Wrigly began to twist, and Boats set him down on deck. Slowly Wrigly climbed to his feet.

“Hello, Boats,” he said. “Glad to see you, Boats! Only keep your God damn hands off me!”

“Shut your mouth and if you can walk, go to bed!” Boats ordered.

Wrigly sat down on the hatch again, and with fumbling hands lit a cigarette. “No, Boats,” he said, “you and I are going to have a little talk. For a long while I've been watching you. You're quite a guy, aren't you, Boats? You haven't got much rank, but you've got authority, haven't you? You can push guys around. You're a real candy man, you are! Yes sir, that's what you are, a real candy man!”

“For Christ's sake!” said Boats disgustedly.

“Sure,” replied Wrigly, “for Christ's sake. You know, Boats, what are you working so God damn hard for? To keep your record clean? Or to carry candy to the battle?”

“If you don't shut up and go to bed now,” Boats said, “I'll put you on report. Now get!”

“No, Boats,” Wrigly said soothingly. “I won't get. I'm already in what you'd call trouble, and I want to get in more. I want to get off this bucket. I want to get off! I think this son of a bitch is going to sink. You and Flags here and the old man—the whole damn bunch of you are going to be swimming in chocolate bars and salt water!”

“All right,” said Boats. “You're on report.”

“Sure,” replied Wrigly. “I'm on report. Look, Boats, you're a son of a bitch. You know that? You're a bastard. You take that, don't you?”

Boats took a step forward. For a moment I thought he was going to hit him. He stopped, however, and Wrigly got to his feet.

“You'd take anything, wouldn't you, Boats, to keep your record clean?” he said. “Will you take this?”

Drunkenly he struck at Boats, but as he put his arm back Boats grabbed his wrist and with his other hand pinned his left arm behind his back. For a moment they stood there in the glare of the cargo lights, looking strangely like a couple dancing. Then suddenly Wrigly went limp. Boats laid him down carefully on the hatch.

“He's out,” Flags said. “He's passed out.”

In the morning I held a deck court on Wrigly and broke him from seaman first class to seaman second class. When the sentence had been passed I asked him if he had anything to say.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Can I get off here? I want to get off this ship.”

For a moment I thought, then called Wenton and told him to write up orders for Wrigly. “Transfer him to the pool,” I said. “Transfer him for further duty somewhere else.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A
T EIGHT O'CLOCK
on the morning of November 26, we weighed anchor and proceeded out of the harbor to take our position in the convoy. There were thirty-six ships in our convoy. As they took position they made a weird sight. Ahead of us was a crippled Liberty ship that was trying to deliver her cargo in the Philippines before returning to the States for repairs. Somewhere she had run aground; her bow was crushed into a concave curve that gave it the rakish air of a clipper ship. On our starboard beam was a Hog Islander, an ancient freighter from the last war. Her wall sides and tall stack made her look as out of date as an ancient locomotive. Astern of us was a tug with three barges. On our port beam there was nothing, for we were on the left flank of the convoy. A bright scattering of flags flew from the masts of all the ships. The quartermaster and Mr. Crane were busy identifying the signals and answering them.

“That top hoist identifies all the ships in this convoy,” Mr. Crane said. “Hill, we don't need that. I could tell them at a glance. If they're over twenty years old or under two hundred feet long, they're in!”

Ponderously the ships wheeled into formation and moved across the sea like an infantry platoon across a field. Ahead of us an old destroyer from the First World War patrolled back and forth with a fine show of ferocity, and on each beam there was another destroyer. The destroyers blinked back and forth with their signal lights as though they were trying to encourare one another. A new flag hoist went up from a Liberty at the head of the convoy.

“That's the commodore,” Mr. Crane said. “Speed eight knots.”

He called down to the engine room, then returned to the wing of the bridge.

“Well,” he said, “we're all set. Fifteen days and we ought to be there.”

The time spent in convoy was not a pleasant time. When we were sailing by ourselves the days were peaceful and almost soothing, but in convoy the officer of the deck had always to be juggling speeds to maintain position. Flag hoists were constantly fluttering up to be answered, and each change of course became a complicated maneuver. At night the other ships slowly faded out in the darkness. During rain squalls it was necessary to trust in the compass and the exactness of our speed setting to keep us out of the way of the other ships. The compasses of the thirty-six ships were never exactly the same. It was impossible for ships of such different design to attain exactly the same speed. Once when a particularly dark rain squall blew over we found ourselves only a few hundred feet from the bow of the old Hog Islander beside us. She towered above us like a mountain. We put our rudder over quickly. The whole convoy had become distorted during the period of no visibility, and there was a flurry of signals by colored lights from the commodore.

As the days went by and we came closer and closer to Leyte, the tenseness of the crew increased. At that time Mindanao was still in the hands of the Japs, and we were to pass within plane range of that island.

“The last few convoys that came this way weren't attacked,” said Mr. Crane. “They say we've knocked all the air strips out on Mindanao.”

Somehow after all the tenseness, his voice sounded disappointed. Something about the attitude of the crew made me think they were looking forward to an attack as a boy looks forward to a football game.

“Boy, I'd sure like a chance to knock some of those bastards down,” Guns said, and White echoed, “Yeah, it would really make me feel good.”

“The trouble is,” Boats replied, “it won't be us attacking them, it'll be them attacking us.”

“The same thing,” White said. “We'd still get a chance to see how that forty works. I'd hate to go home and not be able to say I'd seen some action.”

At other times the mood of the men changed.

“They say almost nobody is scared when the fighting's really going on,” Flags said once. “They say it isn't bad till it's over.”

“I don't think I'd be scared,” White replied. “I wasn't scared much when that drum of cable was loose.”

Most of the time they did not talk of impending action at all. Their conversation was still centered largely about jazz orchestras, movies, and home.