Secret sea; (26 page)

Weber nodded. "Yes, an idea of our allies. I saw men with their hands paralyzed. Some were

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even cut off by the little ropes. The Japanese are very clever people."

"What's left of 'em," Pete said. *'And I saw Nazis down on their knees begging for mercy, Weber."

"Did you?" Weber asked. Then he slapped Pete, slowly, five times.

When Pete was sure he could talk, he turned to Mike. "Remember those two simple things, Mike," he said.

"Brother, that's all I'm doing," Mike said.

Pete grinned and nodded.

Pete's mind swam out of a haze which seemed to be the color of a thin mixture of yellow mustard and red catsup. Like a man drowning, he fought to keep his mind from sinking back into the haze.

Two simple things. No, for him there were three simple things. What were they? Two simple things. What? He had forgotten them.

The haze came rolling in like a fog, and he fought harder and harder. The pain coming up from the thin, wet rope was constant, and it had been going on so long now that it had killed every other feeling in his body and had pushed everything away until he was full of pain everywhere. The smashing blows which came occasionally seemed, for a moment, to relieve the pain of the

SECRET SEA

rope but after them the haze would darken, the pink color growing steadily deeper.

How many things did he have to remember? Two? Three? Pete fought against a new feeling— nausea. Suddenly he remembered one of the things. "I do not know where the ship is." He did not know whether he said it out loud or not.

That was one of the things. **I do not know where the ship is." But there were some more things. Mike had only two things to remember but he, Pete Martin, had three things.

Oh. He must not let his mind go adrift. He must keep this haze away. There was a feeling in him of sleepiness. Not a good feeling. It was a heavy, drugged feeling. He must go to sleep. That was the second thing. He must not go to sleep.

What was the other thing? The third thing? There was a voice somewhere saying over and over again, "Where is it?" Each time the voice said that something would hit him and there would be an explosion inside the haze. It was sort of like lightning flashing behind high, dark clouds. He kept waiting to hear the voice say, "Where is it?" and that made it a lot harder to think about that third thing.

Then he remembered. He had to know what

time it was. That was all. Just what time it was.

Pete raised his head a little and opened his eyes.

He was surprised to find that he was lying down

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on the floor, his knees drawn up, his manacled hands up around his head.

Ail he could see were two vague white blotches which must be Weber's legs, and then shadowy things.

When had he last heard the clock?

It had been a long time ago, he remembered. Five bells. Five bells in the afternoon watch. The navigator would be getting ready to take the 1600 line; the engineering officer would be pulling burners for the evening watch. On deck the gunnery officer would be squaring away after GQ. It was time for Java on the bridge. But it was a long time before the boatswain would begin the shrill piping and the loudspeaker would grumble, "Reee-lieeeeve the watch."

But what time was it now? How long had this pain lasted? Had six bells struck?

Pete could not remember. He could not hold back the haze any longer. It was sliding in over him so fast, so fast. He was disappearing into it, drowning in it. He couldn't think any more— one thing, two things, three . . .

After what seemed an eternity of slow time Pete struggled up again from the haze. The explosions of pain had stopped, and there was only the stufiF coming up from the rope. The voice had stopped saying, "Where is it?"

What had happened? Pete wondered. Was Weber gone? Had he told him? In the haze, while

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he was down under it, had he told him? Pete struggled to lift his head, to open his eyes.

Then he heard a voice. A very clear, familiar voice close to him.

"Hey, you, you punk," the voice said.

It was Mike. Pete slumped back, listening.

Then Mike said, "Yeah, you, Weber. You're not getting anywhere with him. Why don't you pick on somebody your size? Why don't you see if you can make me tell you? Because I know where she is. I know all about it. I memorized the position of it."

Then Weber said, "Oh, did you?"

The haze was slowly drifting away. It seemed to Pete that it wasn't so thick, so dark and red.

"Sure," Mike said.

"Then where is it?"

Pete heard the familiar words and waited for the explosion to burst dirtily inside the haze. But nothing happened.

"Yak, yak," Mike said.

Something white moved past Pete's face, and then Weber said, "Do you want some of what he had?"

"Yeh, try some on—just for size," Mike said.

Pete heard the blow, heard Mike grunt. He tried to move and got his arms down a little. But when he pressed them against the floor, the pain almost crushed him. He tried then to say some-

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thing, but his tongue was swollen and clotted inside his mouth.

"That was all right," Mike said. "You don't mind if I spit teeth on the deck, do you, jug-head?"

"You're wasting time, hurting yourself," Weber said. "Tell me where it is."

"I could remember better without this rope," Mike said. "You know, there're a lot of numbers and stuff."

Weber said something in German and then asked, "Feel better?"

"Much. You ought to try that sometime."

''Where is it?"

"In the itty bitty poo, with three little fishes," Mike said.

The haze was dim now and far away. Pete could see all the way across the cabin floor. He could see the spread-apart leg& of the man with the burp gun, see the gear locker, the galley door. His mind was clearing fast.

He had been so close to going under—until Mike had drawn Weber away.

Mike was taking the beating now. Pete could hear it. Then something heavy and dead limp fell down on him and rolled slowly off. Pete forced his eyes open again and saw one arm, brown and lined with muscles, and then a grotesquely swollen hand. The whole hand was a deep purple color.

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Then the clock in the companionway struck. Pete counted the tinkUng bell. .. . Three-four . .. five-six. Pete stopped at six but the bell rang once more.

Seven bells? Pete forced himself to hear them again like an echo. Three-four . . . five-six . . . seven.

I must have missed six bells, Pete thought. They must have come when the haze was down on me.

Pete felt the thing crush against his ribs, felt the new pain. He saw the haze moving slowly toward him again. Then, lying there, he fought against it with all his strength.

He knew only that he must not go under again. No matter what Weber did, he must not let the haze roll over him, drown him.

Pete turned slowly over on his back. Straining, the back of his tongue pushing, he at last got the word out of his mashed mouth.

^Tnough."

Then something came down on his face, across his mouth. Pete turned his head slowly. Mike was half sitting up, his hand down on Pete's mouth.

**Keep your yap shut, Mac," Mike said.

Pete shook his head from side to side, Mike's helpless hand grinding back and forth across his mouth. At last Pete raised his arms and pushed Mike's arm away.

"Topside," he said to Weber. "Chart."

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"Pete," Mike said. "Be quiet. You can take some more, Skipper."

Pete doggedly shook his head.

"Sure you can. He can't hurt you any more, Cap'n. All the rest is just coasting."

Then something white swooped down, and Pete saw Mike reel backward and fall against the drawer faces built under the bunk.

Gentle hands helped Pete up, guided him toward the companionway. They stopped there, and the two men got Mike and brought him, kicking and fighting, up beside Pete.

Mike looked at Pete with his eyes hard and glittery. "Are you going to tell him?"

Pete nodded.

"You lousy punk," Mike said between his teeth.

Pushing Mike up the ladder first, Weber followed with Pete. Halfway up, Pete stopped and wordlessly held out his bound wrists.

"Sorry, my friend," Weber said, and got a gold penknife to cut the rope.

Pete's helpless hands dropped to his sides, and he went on up the ladder, stumbling at each step. At the top, as he stepped down into the cockpit, he swayed sideways. His shoulder swung against the downhaul of the flag hoist and he let his body fall against it until Weber grabbed him and held him upright again.

Faintly, coming down through the taut rope,

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Pete had felt small loops of twine snapping under the strain of his weight against them.

Pete licked the blood on his lips. "Water," he said.

Weber snapped an order. One man went below and came up with a pitcher of water. Pete drank it in gulps and then held it out toward Mike, holding the pitcher between his forearms, his swollen and purple hands useless.

"Go drown yourself," Mike said.

Pete lifted the pitcher, trying to pour the water on his head, but the pitcher slipped and fell.

"Are you stalling?" Weber asked.

Pete shook his head. "Sick," he said. "Wait."

"I will wait only one minute," Weber said, glancing at a wrist watch.

Pete nodded. He leaned back against the companion door, his back against the downhaul. A wind was blowing, rippling the blue Gulf, and he could feel the rope fluttering in it.

"Talk," Weber said.

"Bearings," Pete said. "Two islands." He fumbled with his hands at the knob of the chart case. Weber pushed his hands away and pulled out the chart.

"Which ones?" Weber asked. His voice was excited now and trembling and his eyes were bright. They looked like the eyes of that sea gull, Pete thought. Mean and hard.

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Pete put his swollen finger down on the first island.

Then Mike suddenly wrenched himself away from the two men and began hitting Pete on the back with his purple hands. Weber shouted in German; the men clubbed Mike to the deck.

"What is the bearing?" Weber asked.

Then Pete heard it. Faint and far away. But he had heard it so many times before. He had heard it at midnight and at dawn and at high noon. The pulsing of it, the imperative beating of it. So he heard it now.

And no one else did.

D Day,

H Hour

ete had to hold himself up by his arms on the chart board and, like the rolling of the sea, waves of darkness kept sweeping over him. He fought them off and kept listening, afraid that he had not heard it after all. Afraid that he had wanted so much to hear it that his mind had tricked him.

Weber prodded him, saying,

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D DAY, H HOUR

"What is the bearing?" but Pete didn't feel the prodding or hear the voice as he stood, swaying, and Hstened.

He heard it again.

Pete slowly drew himself up straight. His arms slid off the chart board, leaving two bloody trails across the white, stiff paper. He turned very slowly so that he would not fall and faced Weber.

"That's all," Pete said, his voice so low that Mike hardly heard him.

"What do you mean?" Weber came close to him, the gray eyes narrowing.

"Look aloft, Weber," Pete said.

Weber's flat eyes held Pete's for a second, and then he slowly lifted them and looked upward.

Gaily fluttering in the breeze and held in a taut arc by the flag hoist were pennants and flags. They were brand new, the colors vivid in the sunshine. At the top was the United States ensign. The Stars and Stripes were upside down—the signal of distress. Below it were the other code flags which Pete had wrapped into a bundle, tied with light twine, and hoisted aloft.

Weber's eyes came back to his. "Very pretty," he said. Then he started snapping orders in German to the two men.

In the middle of a sentence qne of the men stiffened and cried out, ''Achtimgl Achtiingl" Then he pointed.