Voyage to Somewhere (17 page)

“Wait a minute,” the Scandinavian said. “How many of you have painted up flags?”

There was an embarrassed silence followed by laughter. It developed that every commanding officer in line had claimed credit for at least one plane. Although only seven planes had been even sighted, over twenty flags had been painted on the bridges of the various ships in the convoy.

When I finally got to the port director's desk, I was surprised to recognize the same man who had been port director in Milne Bay. He remembered me.

“You're the man who had such a hell of a time getting his mail!” he said. “Well, how's your mail coming in now?”

“I don't know,” I replied. “I haven't had time to call for it yet.”

“The mail's all fouled up,” the port director answered. “You better just forget the whole thing. Your men will get used to not getting any mail after a while.”

“They're used to it now,” I said.

When I handed him the manifest for our cargo he examined it carefully.

“What the hell kind of a cargo is this?” he asked.

“Candy,” I said. “Read it for yourself.”

He examined the list carefully. “Well, I'll be damned,” he said at last. “Baby Ruth, chocolate-covered almond bars, and something called Sky Tops!”

“I know,” I said. “When can I get into the docks to unload it?”

The port director folded the manifest neatly and handed it back to me. “No hurry,” he replied. “You just swing to the hook and wait. We've got ammunition to unload, and gasoline, and canned stuffs. It'll take a while, but we'll fit you in. somewhere. You just wait.”

I turned and walked back to the boat dock. Mr. Warren was there waiting for me. A quick inspection of the boat showed me that there were no mailbags there, but I was surprised to see that Mr. Warren did not, superficially at least, look depressed.

“No mail,” he said almost gaily. “What the hell. I'm not surprised that they have trouble getting it here.”

I looked at him. It suddenly came to me that he was relieved not to be faced with the necessity of finding his wife had still not written to him.

We lay anchored in Tacloban, and the days there passed almost as slowly as had the days in New Guinea. There were differences, however. In Leyte air attack could be expected at any moment. The anchor watch was doubled. A strict blackout was maintained all through the night. Portholes and doors were curtained, with the result that not even a small breeze could relieve the smothering warmth. It rained even more often than it had in Milne Bay; the sight of a blue sky seemed a rarity. We all waited to go into the docks to unload. Somehow I thought we would all feel better when the candy was taken out of the holds and the ship could get to work again. Nothing happened, however, and the ship drifted in circles around her anchor with the changing tides.

The men painted the inside of the ship, but the dampness had penetrated everywhere; soon after they had finished the paint rose in bubbles on the bulkheads and peeled off. Except on the few sunny days, we gave up painting and the men lived in enforced idleness. During the clammy heat of the afternoon they lay in their bunks, naked and sweating, and read. In the evenings if it were not raining they came on deck, fidgeted, leaned on the rail, and musingly stared at the sky. Sometimes three warning red flares shot into the sky from the air raid warning station ashore. Then the men ran to their guns with an air of satisfaction and anticipation. In December, however, the air raids in Leyte were largely over. A few shots were sometimes heard, a few searchlights swept the sky and a white rocket sailed up to announce that all was clear. Then the men dejectedly walked from their guns and returned to their basic occupation of just sitting.

“Aw, hell,” I heard White say after one all-clear, “I thought we were going to see something.”

“What's the matter with you?” Guns returned crossly. “Haven't you seen enough damn shooting? Do you
want
an attack?”

“I don't know,” White answered. “I'd like something to happen. It seems like we've been here for years. I'd like something …”

One night when we had been lying in Tacloban for ten days the three warning flares shot up from the shore and were immediately passed by a shower of yellow tracer bullets. I waited for the pause and immediate all-clear, but instead an increased roar of gunfire followed. I ran on deck. The men had gone to their guns without general quarters having been rung. Looking at the sky, I was staggered. Instead of blackness my eye met almost a solid crisscross of orange tracer fire. The whole sky looked like the western horizon at the time of the setting sun. All around us shore batteries were firing, and every ship in the ship-jammed harbor was hammering out shells. Searchlights fingered the clouds, and the smoke of the big guns drifted low over the water. Everywhere there was such a din that no individual gun could be heard. Suddenly I felt the deck beneath me tremble; looking forward, I saw our own twenty-millimeters firing. Frantically I looked around us for a sight of a plane. There was nothing. Following the path of the tracers from the many guns, I tried to find a focal point where a plane might be. There was none. Each ship appeared to be firing in a different direction. I rushed to the bridge to find from Mr. Crane what the target was. Before I got there the shooting stopped as suddenly as though a masterful orchestra leader had cut it at its crescendo. Complete silence reigned over the harbor.

“What was it?” I asked Mr. Crane.

“I don't know,” he said. “The men up forward just started firing.”

“What were you shooting at?” I asked them.

“Right over there, sir,” they answered. “We thought we saw a plane.”

“Right over where?”

“There, sir.” They all pointed in different directions.

The next morning a bulletin was issued to all ships. It stated that no plane at all had flown over the harbor and that no one had seen anything. “In the future,” the bulletin ordered, “commanding officers will exercise judgement before opening fire.”

Christmas approached. A week before it came the men started to become aware of it and bemoaned the fact that they had not sent gifts home early enough. Nevertheless they began pounding coins into rings again, and they bought shell necklaces from the Filipinos. Mr. Warren was busy every morning censoring packages. Wenton, who had been acting as yeoman, began work on a large paper Christmas tree for the ship. Traditionally Christmas trees are made from brooms aboard ship, and he started with this basic idea. On the handle of a broom he painstakingly pasted long shreds of paper which he cut to curve outward. When the broom was properly foliaged with paper he took it out on deck and sprayed it with green paint. Disappointingly, the only green paint available was that which we used to paint the outside of the hull. The Christmas tree turned out to be so exactly the color of the ship that it did not stand out much as a decoration. It looked better, however, when blobs of red paint were added to represent ornaments.

For some time I had been trying to think of a way in which we could celebrate Christmas. Of course we would knock off work on Christmas, but the men had had nothing to do for so long because of the weather that idleness would hardly bring distinction to the day. Ashore Mr. Warren was able to draw a double ration of beer for the men, but that amounted to only two cans apiece and could not be expected to provide many hours of conviviality. The day before Christmas I had no plans at all. Christmas Eve turned out to be a surprisingly cloudless evening, however, and on an impulse I decided it would be fun to gather on the fantail and sing carols. Calling Boats into my cabin, I told him to tell everyone there would be carol singing on the stern at eight o'clock. A few moments later I heard the shrill call of his boatswain's pipe followed by his hoarse voice calling, “All hands will report on the fantail at twenty hundred for singing!”

Hurriedly I got Boats into my cabin. “It's not an order, Boats,” I said. “Don't make it sound like an order.”

He looked a little bewildered. “You want 'em back there to sing, don't you?” he asked.

“Yes, Boats,” I replied. “But ask them. I just want those who want to sing.”

“All right, sir,” answered Boats resignedly, and a moment later I heard his boatswain's pipe again, followed by his deep voice calling, “All hands will report on the fantail at twenty hundred for singing, all hands will report on the fantail at twenty hundred for singing.” Then there was a pause, and Boats finished, “This is not an order, this is not an order.”

Mr. Warren had the cooks make up a large pot of orangeade and some doughnuts to place on the stern for the singers. The cooks grumbled a good deal about the extra work. They had just cleaned up their galley after supper and did not relish the idea of lighting off the big oil range again.

“But it's Christmas, damn it,” I heard Mr. Warren say defensively. The stovelid banged in reply.

As eight o'clock drew near I began feeling as nervous as a schoolgirl giving her first party. What if nobody came to sing carols? I went aft to the fantail early and saw that the doughnuts and orangeade were set on a table with white dish towels spread over it for a table cloth. At quarter to eight Mr. Crane and Mr. Warren and Mr. Rudd came loyally aft and waited with me. At five minutes to eight Boats came aft and stood shifting from one foot to the other.

“Well,” I said at length, “I guess we have enough to start. What will we sing?”

There was a silence, and Mr. Rudd finally replied, “How about ‘The First Noel'?”

I looked at him with grateful surprise. I had expected him to sit by with his usual sardonic grin, but instead he was serious and somehow dignified.

“All right,” I said, “let's sing ‘The First Noel.'”

No one started to sing. I glanced around looking for help, and suddenly Mr. Rudd began to sing in a soft, strangely pleasant voice.

“The first Noel the angels did say

Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay …”

I joined him as quickly as possible, and Boats rumbled along a word or two behind us. Mr. Crane hummed and Mr. Warren piped up with a rather brittle tenor.

“In fields as they

Lay keeping their sheep

On a cold winter's night that was so deep …”

I heard footsteps, and looking up I saw White, Guns, and the quartermaster coming rather hesitantly toward us. Something about the way they walked made me think that I should not notice their coming and I looked quickly away. They stood a little apart and scarcely audibly began to sing with us.

“Noel, Noel,

Noel, Noel.

Born is the King of Israel …”

The verse ended raggedly, and there was a long pause.

“Anybody know the second verse?” Mr. Rudd asked.

There was no answer.

“How about ‘Silent Night'?” I suggested.

“All right,” said Mr. Rudd. “‘Silent Night.'”

Again he led off and the others fell in behind him. Glancing at White, I saw him standing with a very solemn expresion. Just behind him was Wortly, the coxswain, who was for some reason grinning. Farther forward, standing by the rail, were almost the whole crew. The cook stood outside the galley, still in his apron, and Whysowitz was sitting on the deck fingering his pipe.

The men joined in surprising harmony.

“Silent night, Holy night,

All is calm, all is bright,

Round yon virgin Mother and Child,

Holy Infant so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace …”

The song ended, and there was a deep pause in which everybody drew in his breath. Suddenly Wortly snickered. Boats glared at him and he was still.

“How about some doughnuts and orangeade?” I asked.

The men started talking together in low voices and advanced toward the table. For a few minutes everyone ate and drank the insipid artificial orangeade.

“Let's sing again,” I said at last. “How about ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear'?”

The sound of eating died, and several men set their cups down on the table. I started to sing as best I could.

“It came upon a midnight clear,

That wonderous tale of old …”

Suddenly I realized that I knew no more of the words, and fell to humming. No one else knew the words either, and the song was not a success.

“We should have gotten a book of songs from a chaplain ashore,” said Mr. Crane. “I should have thought of that.”

“Oh, well,” replied Mr. Rudd. “Let's sing, ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful.'”

He began in his strong voice and waved his hand in time to the music.

“Oh come all ye faithful,

Joyful and triumphant,

Oh come ye, oh come ye

To Bethlehem …”

This song went better than any of the others, and the men sang it all the way through. Suddenly above the other voices we heard White's voice, cool and clear as a boy soprano's.

“Oh come let us adore Him,

Oh come let us adore Him,

Oh come let us adore Him,

Christ the Lord.”

The song ended well, and the men glanced respectfully at White. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a package of cigarettes. “Anybody got a light?” he asked.

“Wait a minute now,” rasped Boats. “No smoking out here. Remember the blackout!”

White embarrassedly put his cigarettes back in his pocket. “I forgot,” he said. “I'm sorry, I forgot.”

Christmas Day it rained, and except for the fact that we had canned turkey for dinner, I expected it to be no different from any other day. All morning the men lay in their bunks or wandered aimlessly from galley to forecastle and back again. Dinner was eaten in silence. At three in the afternoon, however, a Filipino in a dugout canoe came alongside.

“Hey, Joe!” he called. “Want to buy a monkey?”

The men came out and stood along the rail in the rain looking down into the dugout canoe. The Filipino was a little yellow man with a wizened face. Sitting on his knee was a bedraggled, sopping wet monkey.