Voyage to Somewhere (13 page)

“I don't know,” I said. “It sounds like a fine way for me to get court-martialed.”

“Oh, that wouldn't happen, sir,” Guns replied. “We've been thinking. If anything went wrong it would be the sergeant and I who would get court-martialed. You could say you didn't know anything about it.”

“Yes, I could say I just hadn't noticed that the ship I commanded had suddenly blossomed out with new guns. What kind of guns are they?”

“A forty-millimeter, sir, and three twenties. We figured we could put the three twenties on the bow and the forty on the fantail. That would give us pretty good protection against aircraft. The forty could even give a sub a bad time.”

“How about this sergeant's commanding officer?” I asked. “Won't he find out the guns are gone?”

“Well, we've explained the situation to him,” Guns said, “and he says he won't. He says he was going to cross some guns off the books anyway.”

“I don't know,” I said. “It sounds like a fine way for us all to get court-martialed.”

“I've been thinking,” Guns replied. “I figured I'd rather take a chance on getting court-martialed than on going into action without anything to defend ourselves with.”

“And your friend the sergeant is willing to take a chance too?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, and a whole crew of welders. They've put guns on ships before.”

“All right, Guns,” I said finally. “Go ahead. You'll have to reinforce the fantail if we're going to put a forty on it.”

Guns grinned. “Mr. Rudd has already figured that out,” he said. “We're going to weld a steel plate clear across it. Then, down below, we're going to put two crossbeams. Look, he drew up a plan.”

That very afternoon a barge full of welding equipment came alongside. There were plenty of sergeants and corporals, but no officers were in sight. In an incredibly short time guns were loaded aboard and the scorched smell of welding filled the air. Three days later the guns were in place and a fresh coat of green paint covered the scars of welding. The SV-126 looked as though she had been designed to carry three twenty-millimeter guns on her bow and a forty-millimeter on her stern. Mr. Crane drew up a new watch and quarter bill and assigned men to the new guns. Every day at one o'clock we held general quarters drills. The men worked with a will.

“Now we're in it,” I heard White say. “Now we've got a chance!”

The morale of the crew went up immeasurably.

While we were at Milne Bay we received mail every three or four days. Mr. Warren still failed to hear from his wife, but as the weeks went by he wrote to her more and more often. “It's the mails,” he said sometimes. “They've just fouled up the mails. I don't doubt she's writing.”

Other times he worried about fantastic things. “She must be sick,” he said. “Something must have happened to her.”

At still other times he said nothing, slammed the door to his stateroom, and stayed there alone hours at a time.

In the official mail one morning I received a letter telling me that officers were needed to command ships like the SV-126 and directing me to recommend any officers aboard my ship whom I thought capable. After a good deal of consideration I decided to recommend Mr. Crane. I deliberated not because I doubted his capability, but because I hated to lose him; during the last two months he had taken from my shoulders almost the complete burden of the ship. When I had made my decision I asked Mr. Crane to come into my cabin in the evening. Recalling the first time I had been given a command, I decided to make a little ceremony of it. I still remembered the old emotions of pride, worry, and disbelief with which I had celebrated. I looked forward to seeing Mr. Crane.

After dinner he came into my cabin. He sat down on my bunk and I offered him a cigarette.

“I have some big news for you,” I said. “I thought I'd tell it to you, and then we'd go ashore to the officers' club and have a celebration.”

Mr. Crane lit his cigarette, and looked up expectantly.

“I'm going to recommend you for a command,” I said. “You've been doing an excellent job on this ship, and I think it's time for you to have one of your own.”

“Oh, you mustn't do that,” Mr. Crane broke in. “I don't want to command a ship!”

“You don't want to!”

“No, sir, I don't want to!” Mr. Crane repeated.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I can't see any possible reason why I should want to command a ship,” replied Mr. Crane.

His reaction was so unexpected that I could think of no answer.

“Well,” I said at length, “I thought everybody wanted to have his own command.”

“Why should they?” asked Mr. Crane.

I was becoming annoyed. “Damn it, I don't know why they should,” I said. “I just thought they did. Anyone ought to want to have his own ship.”

Mr. Crane grinned at me. He sat back on my bunk, and smoked his cigarette with an amused air. “Let's consider this proposition of command,” he said. “If I accepted the command of a ship I would have a vastly increased amount of responsibility, wouldn't I?”

“Yes,” I said shortly. “Of course you would.”

“Would I get any more pay?” asked Mr. Crane.

“No,” I said, “you know you wouldn't.”

“The chance of getting court-martialed, held up in promotions, and in general getting into trouble would be greatly increased, wouldn't it?” asked Mr. Crane.

I saw that he was talking about something of which he had thought a great deal, and I made no attempt to answer.

“The list of officers court-martialed includes more commanding officers of small units than anything else,” Mr. Crane continued, “and what advantage does a command bring with it? I ask you, what advantages do you find in a command?”

“I'm my own boss,” I said. “I have better quarters than anyone else, and there's a …” I faltered, finally concluded, “a sense of achievement, damn it. A feeling of pride!” Mr. Crane was smiling at me. I felt foolish when I said it.

“You see,” said Mr. Crane quietly, “the only possible advantage a command brings is a satisfaction of the ego. My ego doesn't need any satisfaction. You are your own boss, but I am too in any way that matters—it doesn't bother me to have someone to tell me what to do. You do have better quarters, but not much better. Perhaps there are eight more square feet in your cabin, and you have a shower to yourself while I have to share one with Mr. Warren. But these conveniences would never compensate anyone for the increased chance of getting into trouble. A man who does not need to have his ego satisfied would never want a command.”

“Does it occur to you,” I asked, “that you're being rather insulting?” He waved his hand in a deprecatory gesture and brushed the smoke away from his eyes.

“Oh, there's another reason a man could want a command,” he said. “A person with a romantic conception of life would like it. Captain, my captain, and all that. Pacing the quarterdeck and watching the third repeater flutter to the yardarm when you go ashore. A man wih a cavalier attitude would love it.”

“I do not have a cavalier attitude!” I said. “And my damn ego doesn't need satisfying, either.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Crane, “we're not talking about you. We're just talking about commanding officers in general, and, specifically, why I don't want you to recommend me for a command. I, you see, am a realist. Can you name one reason why a realist who did not need ego satisfaction would want to command a ship when he could get the same money and much more security for not commanding it?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Because commanding officers are needed. Somebody has to command the ships!”

“Ah,” said Mr. Crane, “I've been waiting for you to say that. Luckily, you see, there are so many people who want their pride bolstered and so many romantics in the world that people like me are not needed for commands. There are plenty of others.”

“Very neat,” I said, “but I'll tell you right now that I think you've got a hell of an attitude. If everyone thought as you do we'd have a hell of a time winning this war!”

“But everyone doesn't think as I do,” Mr. Crane replied. “There are plenty of romantics to win the war for us and to take pleasure in doing it.”

Something about his smug grin infuriated me, and I got to my feet. “Well, I won't recommend you for a command,” I said. “You're obviously not fit for it. Now get out of here and leave me alone. I'm going to get some sleep.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S
TILL THE
cylinder head did not arrive. Our bedding became damp from the constant rain. Many of us developed colds and sore throats. Dark rust stained the sides of the ship. Rope had constantly to be renewed. When between rain squalls the sun came out the temperature almost immediately soared above ninety, and the whole ship steamed.

When we had been lying in Milne Bay over a month, the SV-131 sailed in and anchored right ahead of us. Their boat hit the water almost as soon as their anchor. Mr. Stuart, their commanding officer, came hurrying over.

“Where did you get the guns?” he asked.

“Why, they were authorized,” I said.

“When?” he said. “I didn't hear about it!”

“Well,” I explained, “this was rather a special case. As a matter of fact I authorized them myself—I and a gunner's mate and a sergeant and some Army lieutenant ashore and a welding crew.”

“A midnight requisition!” said Mr. Stuart. “By God, I'll have to do that myself!”

We asked Mr. Stuart to stay to dinner. He told us of his travels. He had been to the Ellice Islands and to the Marianas. On the way to the Marianas a submarine had surfaced and steamed in a circle around him, but had not fired a shot.

“We didn't shoot either,” Mr. Stuart said. “We didn't want to start anything with those damn fifty-calibres. We just sailed along as friendly as you please. If they'd come closer, I think my boys would have waved at them.”

“Why do you suppose the sub didn't sink you?” I asked. “Have the Japs gone merciful?”

“It might have been one of our own subs,” Mr. Stuart replied. “I don't know. I didn't even dare blink recognition signals at it. The way I felt, I wasn't going to start nothing.”

It was nice to have a stranger in the wardroom. Mr. Warren and Mr. Crane and I had pretty well talked ourselves out.

“What are you here at Milne Bay for?” I asked Mr. Stuart. “How long are you going to stay?”

“I have no idea,” he replied. “Our starboard generator is completely gone and our port generator is about to go any moment. I'm not leaving till I get repairs.”

“We're here waiting for a new cylinder head,” I said. “How about trading some parts?”

It finally developed that Mr. Stuart gave us a cylinder head from his engine, thus enabling us to sail. He figured he had to wait to get his generators fixed anyway. While he was waiting the new cylinder head would arrive.

“Even if it doesn't,” he said, “there are worse places to spend the war than safely anchored in Milne Bay.”

“You haven't been here as long as we have,” we replied.

We loaded a cargo of large paper cartons full of candy bars for Hollandia.

“You'll probably go to the Philippines from there,” the port director said. “They're sending convoys up all the time. I don't think they'd let you go up there alone just yet. This base here is being pretty well cleaned out. I think you better have your mail sent to Hollandia from now on.”

I thanked him and returned to the ship. When the men heard the news that we would probably continue from Hollandia to the Philippines, they were much excited.

“We'll get some Jap flags painted on the bridge of this ship yet!” White said.

Boats somberly replied, “Maybe some Jap will paint an American flag on his bridge after he meets us.”

“That's a hell of a way to talk,” said Guns. “Why do you have to talk like that?”

As soon as we had left Milne Bay we fired our new guns for the first time. The decks showed no sign of strain. I was glad we had taken a chance and had the guns placed there. Every time I glanced at them I thought back to the time when we had only two machine guns and I shuddered. The men with constant practice became pretty proficient at the guns. They were able to have them manned within forty seconds of the time general quarters was rung, and they shot down the kite we had flown as a target with only a few shots.

“They'll be all right,” Mr. Rudd said sourly, “as long as we meet nothing that shoots back.”

“Why are you so pessimistic?” I asked. “Why is everybody so pessimistic?”

“How do you feel?” asked Mr. Rudd.

“Not so hot,” I said. He laughed.

It was the nineteenth of November when we arrived in Hollandia. The port director told us not to unload there at all, for we would be leaving for the Philippines in the next convoy.

“How fast do you go?” he asked.

“Eight knots,” I answered.

“You'll have to wait for a slow convoy. It may be quite a few days.”

We anchored in the inner harbor and waited. The mail started coming after we had been there only three days. I watched Mr. Warren carefully to see if he finally got a letter from his wife. He did not. Gradually his attitude was changing. At first he had been merely worried, then his mood had changed to a sort of morbid habitual silence. Now he became increasingly restless.

“I sure am glad that we're going to the Philippines,” he said. “I'd like to see some action. I'm damn tired of lying around all the time doing nothing. For all we've done so far, we might as well have been at home growing a victory garden.”

He spent less and less time in his stateroom.

“How about some poker?” he asked after dinner each night. When Mr. Rudd, Mr. Crane and I shook our heads, “How about some bridge, then? For Christ's sake what's the matter with you guys? The way you sit around doing nothing is enough to drive anybody nuts!”