Voyage to Somewhere (29 page)

“Do any God damn thing you want!” I replied. For some reason I was furious at Mr. Rudd. I called down through the voice tube to the pilothouse and told the quartermaster to ring up flank speed. The engines answered, and we turned toward the burning mass of the
Rocky Point
.

“Blink them!” I told Flags. “Tell them to get by the starboard rail and jump as I come alongside!”

He started sending the message. From the smoke around the bridge of the
Rocky Point
a light blinked in answer.

Slowly the fire-lit water between us and the burning ship narrowed. The heat against our faces became hotter. The Rocky Point had turned off the wind, and the flames swept over her bow. We cut across her bow. A dense cloud of black smoke enveloped us. For a moment we could see nothing. All over the ship I heard men coughing. I clutched my own throat. Suddenly we emerged from the smoke and circled astern of the burning ship. I told the helmsman to steer for her bridge. I could see a huddle of men there. They were rigging a cargo net over the side to climb down. On our deck the men were playing hoses all over our ship. A stream of salt water hit me in the face. I cursed. Suddenly I looked forward to jamming our ship alongside the
Rocky Point
at full speed. I was not thinking of saving lives. I was thinking of the pleasure of deliberate destruction. As we drew near the burning ship I could see that she was rolling badly. “She'll crush us!” I thought. “We'll bang the hell out of this bucket even if we don't burn!”

I leaped down to the pilothouse to be near the helmsman. Suddenly the
Rocky Point
seemed to be right on top of us.

“Left full rudder!” I shouted. “Bring her over, damn it!”

Our bow turned and headed for the stern of the burning ship. “Right full rudder!” I screamed. The helmsman sweated and spun the wheel. Our bow came out again. Suddenly there was a tremendous crash as we slid sideways into the
Rocky Point
. The men on the well deck threw the mattresses over, but I could see that the whole port side of the SV-126 had been banged in like the side of a beer can. I grabbed the engine-room telegraph and rang up full astern. The men on our well deck played their hoses on the sides of the
Rocky Point
. A cloud of hot steam enveloped us. Suddenly I heard a thump on the flying bridge, followed by more. The men from the
Rocky Point
were climbing, sliding, and jumping aboard. The paint on the port side of our bridge was blistering. The SV-126 was still creeping ahead toward the blazing tank decks of the
Rocky Point
. Gradually the screws churning in reverse took effect, and we paused, then started to slide backwards. The gap between us and the
Rocky Point
widened.

Suddenly on the bridge of the burning ship a man appeared. He paused there a moment, silhouetted against the flames, then leaped for our flying bridge. He missed and fell into the water. A line snaked through the air from our well deck. He caught it. Boats pulled him in.

The heat became a little less intense. A cloud of smoke blew across us. Abruptly we emerged from it and saw the
Rocky Point
lying two hundred yards ahead of us. As we watched she suddenly exploded into a blinding flash of light. I was knocked on my back. Picking myself up, I ran to the bridge and saw the helmsman lying on his back. Grabbing the wheel, I twisted it amidships.

Livingston arrived on the bridge. He was stark naked and his black body gleamed in the firelight. A trickle of blood fell from his forehead.

“Can you stand up?” I asked.

Without answering me, he took the wheel. I dashed up to the flying bridge. There I found bodies piled like fallen trees. The men from the tanker had jumped, fallen, and been jumped upon. Mr. Rudd, stripped to the waist and covered with soot, was dragging men from the pile and laying them out on deck. I noticed that burned flesh hung in tatters from one of his shoulders. There was the conglomerate moan of the wounded men, and a seared stench. A new flash of light attracted my attention. I whirled around to see our own forecastle deck burst into flame. The men on the well deck were already playing hoses upon it, but still the flame, running along the paint on the decks, crept aft. The men retreated before it. I heard a noise, looked up, and saw a destroyer loom right above us. There was a shock, and I was knocked to my knees. Somewhere I could hear a loud voice calling. It was the public address system of the destroyer. Someone with a pronounced Southern accent was speaking.

“Take our lines over theah!” he was saying. “Make fast! Make fast!”

I got to my feet. On deck I could hear Boats shouting to the men. Lines shot from the destroyer and fell across our deck. Our seamen grabbed them. Suddenly a dozen streams of water arched from the destroyer to our bow. There was a hiss of flame, and the fire on our forecastle deck became less orange and more red. Black smoke billowed upward. Still I could hear the man with the Southern accent talking over the public address system of the destroyer.

“Get some fendahs ovah theah!” he shouted. “Bring your fog nozzles to beah!”

Winches groaned on the destroyer as she came tight alongside. Two crews of men dragging four inch hoses stepped onto our deck, and a cloud of spray covered our forecastle. Hot steam swirled before my eyes. A man in spotlessly clean khakis brushed past me and kneeled by the row of wounded men. The destroyer's doctor. Suddenly I remembered that our engines were still going full astern. Dashing down to the pilothouse, I found that someone had stopped them. Up on the forecastle deck the cloud of steam gradually subsided. The men from the destroyer played their hoses on the charred decks. One by one they turned off the hoses. The forecastle deck was black and dripping. On our well deck a man lay on his back with his arms outstretched. I looked back a moment later and he was gone. Widen appeared before me. His face was covered with soot and he looked like a man badly made up for a minstrel show.

“We've got lines caught in the screws!” he shouted to me. “We can't turn the engines over!”

I glanced at the destroyer. She was still moored tight alongside.

“Are we taking much water in the bilges?” I asked Widen.

“The pumps can take care of it,” he said, “but don't try to turn the main engines over. The screws are jammed fast!”

I reached up and snapped on our public address system. A terrible fear came over me that the destroyer would go away and leave us drifting helplessly.

“Our engines are out of commission!” I shouted into the microphone. “We've got lines fouled in the screws!”

From the destroyer the man with the Southern accent answered. “We'll take you in tow,” he replied. “Rest easy theah. We'll take you in tow!”

There was a jolt. The seas were grinding the two vessels together.

“Boats!” I called over the public address system. “Boats!”

“I'm right here, sir!” I heard, and turned to find him standing right beside me.

“Unshackle one of the anchors and roust out some of the chain for towing!” I said, still shouting.

He disappeared. A moment later I saw him on the charred forecastle deck working with some of the seamen. The men on the destroyer led a cable from their stern to our bow, and Boats shackled our chain to it. There was another shock as the seas threw the two ships together.

“Cast off theah!” the man with the Southern accent yelled. “Cast off!”

Suddenly the destroyer started to move forward. A line snapped. The SV-126 rolled and her bow hit the destroyer's stem. Then the vessels were clear of each other. The cable dragged from the destroyer's stern. Boats payed chain through the blackened anchor windlass. We fell farther and farther astern of the destroyer. Suddenly the chain snarled in the anchor windlass and I saw Boats hammer on it with an iron capstan bar. Ahead of us the chain rose out of the water and stretched in a dripping straight line between our bow and the stern of the destroyer. The SV-126 heeled over and was jerked around to follow the destroyer. Suddenly I heard the roar of chain and the milling of the anchor windlass. Boats had freed the gears and was paying out more chain. I saw him pull back the brake. There was a shock as the chain picked up the strain again. The SV-126 followed obediently in the wake of the destroyer.

As soon as I realized that we were safely in tow, a great load slipped from my shoulders. There were no more decisions I would have to make, no more going alongside other ships, no more urgent orders to give—not even any more navigation. Our role was completely passive. I felt like a lost child taken by the arm and led home.

I turned and went up to the flying bridge. When I got to the ladder I stepped aside as two pharmacist's mates the destroyer had left aboard handed down a wire basket-stretcher to White and Guns. The man in the stretcher almost fell out, but they got him down safely. When they had passed I climbed up to the flying bridge. The doctor was there, his khakis torn and blackened.

“I'm having the wounded taken to your officers' quarters,” he said.

“All right,” I replied.

I watched him while he bandaged a burned and naked man. The man whimpered. The doctor gestured toward another corner of the deck.

“Those are dead,” he said.

I looked and saw five bodies lying by the binnacle. Suddenly I stared. One of the bodies was turned on its stomach. It was Mr. Rudd.

“Doctor!” I shouted. “This man is not dead. It's Mr. Rudd!”

“He's dead,” the doctor said over his shoulder.

“But he can't be!” I shouted. “I saw him just a minute ago. After the
Rocky Point
had exploded! He was all right then!”

“He died just a minute ago,” the doctor replied. “Heart attack, I think.”

“Oh, no!” I gasped.

Wearily I made my way below. Opening the door to my cabin, I stepped back. A bandaged man was in my bunk and two more lay on blankets on the deck. A pharmacist's mate kneeled by one of them. Involuntarily I almost said, “Get these men out of here! This is my cabin!” I stopped myself just in time and walked back to the wardroom. That too had been made into a hospital. Wearily I started forward to the forecastle. On the way I passed Mr. Crane. His face was dirty, but he looked all right.

“Can you stay up for a while to look after things?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Mr. Crane. “You turn in.”

I entered the forecastle and lay down in a bunk that had no mattress. Beside me the paint on the bulkhead was blistered. A puddle of water lay on deck and washed back and forth with the motion of the ship. I fell unconscious.

When I awoke it was daylight. The first thing I noticed was that I was not lying in my own bunk. Opening my eyes, I saw Guns lying across from me on a bunk without a mattress. For a few minutes I stared at him stupidly. His beard was half burned off. My eyes shifted to the blistered paint on the bulkheads. The water on the deck sloshed back and forth. Slowly the past came back to me. I leaped from my bunk and ran on deck. Bright sunlight blinded me. Squinting, I looked around. The deck was deserted. The port side was bent inward and the ship looked crooked. The forecastle deck was burned black. Ahead of us arched the anchor chain to the stern of the destroyer. Glancing down at the water foaming by us, I realized that we were being towed faster than we had ever been able to go under our own power. That struck me as funny and I almost laughed. Walking aft, I met Mr. Crane in the passageway. He wore only a pair of khaki trousers, and he looked haggard.

“Oh, you're up!” he said.

“Where's Mr. Rudd?” I asked.

“He's dead.”

It was true then. I stared stupidly at Mr. Crane.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“On the fantail,” Mr. Crane replied. “All the dead ones are on the fantail.”

“Who else was killed?” I asked.

“Whysowitz is missing—must have been blown overboard. Wenton's dead. Livingston is pretty badly wounded, but the doctor says he will live.”

“Oh,” I said.

“The ship's going along pretty well now,” Mr. Crane continued. “The doctor's really taken charge of everything. Pretty near the whole crew from the tanker is burned. Four of them have died already. Now that you're up, I'm going to turn in. You better see about burying the dead pretty soon.”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

Mr. Crane went up to the forecastle. When I passed the engine room I heard the generators going. Opening the door, I called down to the Chief to come up. He came and stood at the bottom of the companionway. He looked completely exhausted.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Are we taking much water?”

“The pumps are still holding it.”

“Thanks,” I said, and wandered into the wardroom. The doctor was sitting on the deck asleep. He had his head back, and his mouth was open. On the wardroom table was a bandaged man. A pharmaist's mate was sitting on the bench. He got up when I came in.

“The doc wanted to see you,” he said. “Hey, Doc! Wake up!”

The doctor stirred and opened his eyes. He yawned and got to his feet.

“Stanley is my name,” he said, and stuck out his hand. I saw his arm had been burned. The sight of the seared flesh reminded me of Mr. Rudd's burned shoulder. For a moment I stared at his arm.

“It's funny your name's Stanley,” I said. “We have a man aboard called Livingston. A nigger.”

Suddenly I started to laugh. “Mr. Livingston, I presume,” I said. “Get it, Doc? Mr. Livingston, I presume. Why didn't you say that when you came aboard?”

The doctor said something to the pharmacist's mate. He went out of the room. A moment later he came back and handed me a glass of water and a pill. I swallowed the pill and drank the water.

“Sit down,” the doctor said.

I sat down on the bench.

“How do you feel now?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said soberly.

“You better start holding burial services,” the doctor said. “It'll be at least five days before we get in.”