Voyage to Somewhere (21 page)

“Hello,” I heard Livingston say.

“Hello,” the other Negro replied.

There was a long silence while the two looked each other over. The other Negro was much bigger than Livingston, and looked like an athlete. He was very black.

“Any more colored boys on your ship?” the big Negro asked.

“No,” said Livingston, “I'm the only one.”

They stood there indecisively a moment. I got up and went below. I walked out on the stern and stood idly smoking. Guns came aft, holding the monkey on a string. The monkey jumped up on the rail and sat there fingering his fur.

“Come here, Horrid,” Guns said. “Stop doing that!”

“What do you call him?” I asked.

Guns grinned. “Little Horrid,” he said. “That's his name. I've had a hell of a time catching him to tie him up. The minute we came alongside here he tried to go over the hill.”

I stood watching the monkey scratch himself. Up forward I saw Livingston climb over the rail and walk with the big Negro into the galley of the other ship. At the same time I saw Mr. Warren climb up on the dock on his way to see if there were any mail. Reasonlessly I had a desire to curse, not just the way I usually did, but much worse; I wanted to invent words so horrible they would blot out everything else. Suddenly the monkey let a stream of urine fall from the rail to the deck. Guns started to laugh.

“Look at that,” he said. “The little bastard pissed.”

I laughed too. A few minutes later when Mr. Rudd walked aft he found Guns and me laughing as though we had just heard the best joke in the world.

The next morning after breakfast I went over to the SV-131 and called on Mr. Stuart.

“I see you've got a Negro seaman,” I said. “How does it seem to be working out?”

“Working out?” said Mr. Stuart. “Why, he's one of the best men I've got.”

“Did you ever stop to think how lonely those fellows must be?” I said. “They never should put just one on a ship.”

“I don't think Clay is lonely on here,” Mr. Stuart replied. “He gets along fine with all the men.”

“He does?” I said. Unwillingly, I found this news made me feel uncomfortable.

“Well, Livingston doesn't get along fine on my ship,” I added. “Maybe the trouble is with me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

E
VERY MORNING
at breakfast in the wardroom we listened to short wave broadcasts on the radio. There was one in particular that fascinated us all. It came on at eight o'clock, and we always waited and watched Mr. Rudd expectantly. After the station identification came a girl's voice which with a cloyingly seductive intonation said, “Hello, fellas.”

At this Mr. Rudd always put down his knife and fork.

The voice continued. “This is GI Jane with her GI Jive. Remember, when I sing I sing for you.”

At this Mr. Rudd always exploded. He had different patterns of explosion. Sometimes he made a sound as though he were vomiting convulsively. Sometimes he banged the table with his fist and said, “Turn it off, God damn it! Turn it off!” Always he described the unprintable things he wanted to do to the songstress. His explosions always lasted through the first song. After Mr. Rudd was through we always turned the radio off.

As the long weeks of running between Tacloban and Guian dragged on, however, his ferocious outbursts died down. It actually worried me when one morning in April he let GI Jane get halfway through her little talk without profanity. When she got through telling us about how she was singing for us, he merely looked up and said, “I hope she sings that one about mares eat oats,” and went back to his coffee. The next morning he let GI Jane finish her talk without interruption. When he put down his knife and fork it was only to remark that he was God damn sick of powdered eggs. After that morning we never turned the radio on at all.

I began to spend most of my time alone in my cabin. It seemed that whenever the three officers and I got together in the wardroom we ended up in some kind of an absurd argument. We all began to keep away from each other. Because I slept so much in the daytime I had insomnia at night. The nights seemed longer than they ever had before. Lying restlessly on the hot linen of my bunk, I listened to the countless small noises about the ship. There was the striking of the clocks in the wardroom, the galley, and the bridge. There was the rattling of dishes in the galley as the watch got coffee and sandwiches, and the subdued mumble of conversation. These restrained noises were reassuring. Often they lulled me to sleep.

One night just after the midwatch had gone to the bridge, I was lying awake in my cabin and heard two men walking up and down the deck. They stopped near the porthole of my cabin. One was Wortly, the coxswain, and the other was Widen, the machinist's mate. Their voices were quiet and matter-of-fact. I rolled over and tried to make my mind blank enough to receive sleep. The voices did not bother me very much, and I was just on the point of going to sleep when my ear unconsciously picked up the thread of their conversation.

“Today I finally got laid,” Wortly said.

“Did you?” Widen asked. “How the hell did you manage to do that?”

“I made a deal with a Filipino dogface,” Wortly replied. “I asked him where I could get a woman. He said that if I would give him five cartons of cigarettes I could have his wife. I came back to the ship, got the cigarettes, and went to this Flip's shack. His wife came out and when he talked to her she started to cry. He yelled at her and finally hit her. Then she got down on the floor and I had her. The whole time I was with her she cried. When I was through she got down on her knees and prayed.”

There was a long pause during which I sat up in horror. Then Widen said in a perfectly normal conversational voice, “How was she? Was she good-looking?”

“For a Flip she was swell,” Wortly replied.

I got to my feet and reached for my clothes. As I dressed I could still hear the men talking.

“I'll take you up there tomorrow if you want to go,” Wortly said. “That Flip will do anything for a carton of cigarettes.”

“No,” Widen replied. “I don't think I'd want to go.”

I heard Wortly laugh and say something obscene. Just at that moment I opened the door.

“Wortly, come here at once!” I roared.

Wortly and Widen appeared and blinked at the light in the door. They looked astonished, and I realized I had just spoken in a tone I had tried never to use. I felt angrier than I had ever felt before. I did not know what to do. All I could think of was that I had to say something to them. I did not know what. The men walked into my cabin and stood there glancing at each other.

“What do you want, sir?” Wortly asked innocently.

Suddenly it came to me that I could say nothing at all. I was too angry to say what I wanted to say, and it was not my job to lecture anyway. A wave of horror swept over me. It was followed by weariness. I sat down on the edge of my bunk.

“Go back to the forecastle and quit talking right outside my cabin,” I said. “Just get out of here. I'll see you in the morning.”

Still looking surprised, they walked out. As soon as they were out of sight I heard them whispering. I went back and lay down. Sleep came much sooner than I thought it would.

In the morning when I awoke I thought at first that I had dreamed the whole episode. I still could hear as clearly as when it had been spoken the terrible story: “His wife came out and when he talked to her she started to cry. He yelled at her and finally hit her. Then she got down on the floor and I had her. The whole time I was with her she cried. When I was through she got down on her knees and prayed.” Every time I thought about it I got angrier. I finally resolved to have a talk with the other officers about it and decide what to do. After breakfast I closed the wardroom door and told Mr. Crane, Mr. Rudd, and Mr. Warren the whole thing. I took care to use Wortly's exact words. When I had finished I asked Mr. Rudd what he thought we should do.

“Forget it,” he said. “You can't really court-martial him for a story you happened to hear him tell. It's just one of those awful things that happen. Chalk it up to love—romance in the Philippines.”

“I'd figure out some way to court-martial him,” Mr. Crane said. “God damn it, for once you're in a position to really fix a bastard like that. For just one time the whole military system of giving one man power over another could be justified. I'd get him in here and throw the book at him.”

“After all,” Mr. Warren interrupted, “the men are under one hell of a strain out here. You can't expect them to be plaster saints.”

Mr. Crane and Mr. Rudd looked at him in amazement.

“That doesn't sound like you,” Mr. Rudd said. “I thought you'd be all for hanging the guy up by the thumbs.”

Mr. Warren shifted uneasily in his chair. He spoke very rapidly. “I don't know,” he said. “I've been thinking a lot lately, and I've decided you can't expect too much from people. After all, these men are out here without women. I think we'd be foolish to make a fuss over a thing like this. There's nothing wrong with Wortly. He's always talking and joking around the ship. I think he's a pretty good kid.”

“That's it,” said Mr. Rudd. “Wortly is a swell kid. What an awful thing!”

There was a heavy silence. I got up. “We'll give him a warning,” I said. “I think that's about all we can do. Mr. Crane, you go up and tell him if we hear any more of his exploits we'll give him a general court-martial for obscenity or some damn thing. Read the regulations and figure something out. Tell him he committed rape.”

“It'll be a pleasure,” Mr. Crane said grimly. “Just leave him to me.”

He left the wardroom, and was shortly followed by Mr. Warren. Mr. Rudd and I sat smoking.

“What an awful thing!” Mr. Rudd said suddenly. “What a dirty, rotten, awful thing!”

“I can't figure Mr. Warren out,” I replied. “After all his damn idealism he seemed to think this was perfectly all right.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Mr. Rudd said. “The poor bastard's going crazy anyway. He hasn't gotten any mail for over a month again. I guess he's reached the point where he doesn't give a damn about anything. We're all going to hell aboard here. You know it as well as I do.”

“I'm afraid I haven't enforced enough discipline,” I said.

Mr. Rudd laughed. “There you go playing God again,” he said. “Can't you ever learn to just sit back and see what happens?”

“I don't want to see,” I said. “I've seen enough.”

“Cheer up,” replied Mr. Rudd. “We won't be around here long. Pretty soon you'll be sailing to battle. You'll see Lucky Tojo and his Death Defying Japs. Do you realize how much it would cost to produce a show like the one we saw coming up here? Millions and millions of dollars. There's been nothing as good since the Romans had fun with Christians. And you, my boy, you have been chosen to witness all this!”

He paused and grinned at me. Just then we saw Mr. Crane and Wortly walk by the open door of the wardroom and heard them go into Mr. Crane's stateroom. Through the bulkhead came muffled voices.

“Mr. Crane's giving him hell,” I said.

Mr. Rudd did not answer for a long while. He sat with his elbows on the table, resting his head in his hands. When he spoke there was nothing jocular about his voice, and he sounded very tired.

“Sure,” he said. “Mr. Crane's giving him hell. Now everything will go along fine.”

For many days after Mr. Crane talked to Wortly everything did go rather well, which is another way of saying that nothing whatsoever happened. We maintained our-shuttle schedule. I began to think that if the whole crew walked off the SV-126 the ship would from sheer habit continue to make her regular runs from Tacloban to Guian and back. When I mentioned this to Mr. Rudd he immediately suggested that we try it.

Livingston was the only member of the crew who caused me any concern. He changed from silence to garrulousness. While he worked we always heard him talking. He talked about politics, motion pictures, books, anything at all. The men hardly ever answered him, and he just kept on talking. For a while I thought it might be a good thing for him to blow off steam, but the men resented him. Usually when the men painted or worked together splicing line they were relatively silent. They resented Livingston's running commentaries.

“Now God damn it, shut up!” I heard Flags say to him one day. Three minutes later Livingston's high pitched voice resumed its monologue. “Now you take Chicago,” he was saying. “That's a pretty good town. Was anybody here ever in Chicago? Well, I'll tell you, it's pretty near as big as New York …”

I heard no more complaints from Livingston about the way he was treated. In the middle of April, however, Mr. Warren came into my cabin and told me he wanted to put Livingston on report for repeatedly returning late from liberty. Not only had he been late, but he had refused to give any explanation for his conduct. I called Livingston into my cabin and asked him about it.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said. “I was late, and I just couldn't help it.”

“If you've really got a good reason,” I said, “tell it to me, and maybe I can just drop the whole thing.”

Livingston looked up. For a moment his eyes met mine.

“No, sir,” he said. “You wouldn't drop it.”

“Now God damn it, Livingston, you don't give me a chance!” I said. “Tell me, why were you late? I order you to answer that question!”

For a moment he just stood there shifting from one foot to another.

“Well, sir,” he said finally, “I've got some friends in a colored battalion that's stuck way off in the woods here ashore. I have to hitchhike out to see them. It's about fifteen miles each way. Sometimes I can't get a ride, and then I'm late.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “I'll tell you what—we'll forget these times you've been late, but you do your best not to be late any more.”