Voyage to Somewhere (19 page)

“Oh, cut it, Mr. Rudd,” Mr. Crane exploded. “I get God damn tired of your joking.”

There was an embarrassed silence in which I made the mistake of taking another mouthful of cake. I swallowed it and reached for a glass of water.

“There are so many things I want!” Mr. Crane said suddenly. “A house, a car, good clothes for my wife, schools for the kid. I don't want to be a damn drudge all my life. I want to be a success!”

“All I want,” said Mr. Warren, “is a two-room apartment where Rachel and I can live when I go back to college. Hell, that's all anybody needs—just a place to keep warm and enough to eat. With that anybody can be happy.”

“I couldn't,” replied Mr. Crane. “If that's all you need you ought to be happy here.”

Mr. Warren flushed. “I need my wife,” he said. “If she were here I'd be happy.”

“I wouldn't,” interrupted Mr. Rudd. “All we need aboard here is just one woman.”

“Oh, shut up,” Mr. Crane said more intensely than necessary.

“Seriously,” Mr. Warren continued, “why do you need so much money to be happy, Mr. Crane?”

Mr. Crane pushed his plate away from him and lit a cigarette. In the stuffy wardroom the smoke hung low on the table for a moment, and almost obscured his face. “I hate to have people get ahead of me,” he said at last. “I went to the University of Chicago, class of '37. Many of my class are draft deferred for one reason or another. I hear from some of them pretty regularly. Others I read about in the alumni bulletin. One of them is mayor of a small town in the Middle West. Five or six of them are successful doctors and more are successful lawyers. One of them I know is making twenty-five thousand a year in some war plant in Chicago. Another is making almost that in the same brokerage firm where I worked. And here I sit doing nothing that will help me in the least when I go back to civilian life.”

“You ought not to worry so about what others are making,” Mr. Warren replied. “We're not running a race, you know.”

“The hell we aren't,” answered Mr. Crane. “Tell me, Mr. Warren, what college did you go to?”

“Amherst.”

“Did you have your way paid for you?” Mr. Crane asked.

Mr. Warren looked embarrassed. “Yes,” he said, “I did.”

“Well, then, you don't know it's a race, but it is,” Mr. Crane growled. “My family didn't have a damn cent. I worked my way through college. I did just as well there as all of them! There was a guy at college named Howard—that was his last name—who used to run around with my wife before I married her. He had money and plenty of it, but I did better in college than he did. Before the war I did just as well in business as he did, but now he's making almost twenty-five thousand a year in the same office where I used to work. We started out there together. When I go back I'll probably have to ask him for a job.”

Mr. Crane stopped as though he had been startled by the vehemence of his own voice.

“There'll be plenty of jobs,” Mr. Warren said. “I read where they expect a boom after the war.”

“And he'll be right on top of it!” Mr. Crane exclaimed. “And I'll be copying figures for somebody! I wouldn't blame my wife for wishing she had married him! I'll never be able to make this time up.”

He stopped, and I knew he had said more than he had wished to say. Mr. Rudd pushed his chair back from the table and ponderously got to his feet. “You better stay in the regular service,” he said to Mr. Crane, “then you won't see enough of your wife for it to matter what she wishes.”

Mr. Crane sprang to his feet and brought his fist down on the table. “I'm God damn sick of your humor, Mr. Rudd!” he roared. “It's bad enough to have to lie cooped up with an illiterate in an officer's uniform without having to stand for wisecracks!”

There was a deathly silence. Suddenly I realized that Mr. Crane knew nothing of Mr. Rudd's past. I wondered what Mr. Rudd would say to him. To my surprise Mr. Rudd merely smiled and stuck out his hand. “I'm sorry, Mr. Crane,” he said. “I didn't mean to make you angry.”

Mr. Crane took his hand and for a moment they stood there absurdly as though they were just being introduced.

“It's all right,” Mr. Crane said at length. “Blame it on the weather.”

He turned and walked down the passageway away from the wardroom. We heard his stateroom door slam behind him. We sat down, and a few moments later Mr. Warren excused himself and went to his stateroom, we knew to write a letter to his wife.

“How about a game of rummy, Mr. Rudd?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Get out the cards.”

After we had lain at anchor almost two months we finally were signaled to come into the wharf and unload. The whole ship seemed to wake up when we weighed anchor and nosed into the dock. The hatches were broken open with alacrity and the cartons of candy were swung into the waiting trucks by Army stevedores. One of the cargo nets burst open and candy showered the dock. Immediately everyone dropped his work and rushed to pick up as many stray bars as possible. When every crevice of the dock had been searched and both pockets and mouths were full, the work of unloading was resumed. Gradually the SV-126 was relieved of her burden.

While we were lying at the dock unloading, the mail came and Mr. Warren heard from his wife, Rachel. Mr. Crane was sorting the mail. He handed Mr. Warren the letter in as matter-of-fact a way as possible. Mr. Warren glanced at it, hurriedly stuck it in his pocket, and went to his stateroom. Mr. Crane and I glanced at each other.

“I hope it's good news,” Mr. Crane said.

“I do too,” I replied worriedly, but the fact that after so long a time there was only one letter for Mr. Warren bothered me. The next time we saw him I knew we could tell at a glance what news the letter contained. I waited anxiously. All morning he stayed in his stateroom, however. This I took as a bad sign. Just before lunch I knocked at his door. He told me to come in. I noticed that his voice was very cheerful.

“Lunch is about ready,” I said. “How about coming along?”

“Sure,” said Mr. Warren. “I'll be right there.”

I noticed his letter lying open on the desk. It was a short letter, only a page long. It was written on pink paper, and the scent of it permeated the stateroom. I glanced from the letter to the photograph of Rachel which was on the desk above it. The beauty of the girl in the picture still struck me; she still seemed to have been photographed when she was just about to ask a question. I wondered if that were a trick of the photographer. Something about the scent of the letter and the pink paper upon which it was written made me take a second glance at the photograph. I noticed that the girl had eyebrows which were plucked just a little too thin and fingernails which looked a trifle too long. Still, the girl did not look cheap. Only her evident youth, I decided, saved her from that. Mr. Warren noticed me looking at the photograph, and smiled.

“I got a letter from her today,” he said. “Everything's all right.”

“Fine,” I replied. “I'm glad to hear it.”

Mr. Warren picked up the letter that was lying on the desk. “I guess I was worried about nothing,” he said. “She was just busy. That's the reason she hadn't written me. She says here that the reason she didn't go back to Philadelphia was that she got a job in San Francisco. In a dress shop, she says, as some sort of model. The work keeps her busy all the time. She doesn't have much time to write.”

Something about the studied lightness in Mr. Warren's voice made me look at him closely, but he appeared sincere.

“That's understandable,” I said at last. “A girl with a job would find herself pretty busy.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Warren with enthusiasm, “that's what I think. And remember that Army fellow a friend of mine wrote me about? Well, Rachel wasn't at all angry at my asking her about him. She says here he was just an old friend she happened to meet.”

“Sure,” I said, and could think of nothing else to say. I stood there a moment indecisively, finally added, “Well, let's go have lunch.”

“Be right with you,” Mr. Warren replied. He folded his letter and carefully put it in his desk drawer. Then he turned and nervously brushed the hair back from his forehead.

“This afternoon,” he said, “I'm going ashore to try and draw some fresh stores. I heard from a fellow I know that a new reefer barge just came in. I figure if I get there first I might get some steaks, maybe some fresh potatoes. There's a storekeeper up in the supply depot who's pretty good about letting me get first crack at things. I sure could use a steak and some French fries, couldn't you?”

“Yes,” I said, “I sure could.”

“One thing about those dehydrated potatoes,” Mr. Warren continued quickly, “you can't French fry them. Maybe if you mixed them with paste you could glue them together into pieces you could fry, eh?”

He laughed, and when we went into the wardroom he was laughing at the joke he had made. I laughed as best I could.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I
N THE
mail came confirmation of several advancements in rate. Wenton was promoted to the rate of yeoman third class, Guns made gunner's mate first class, and Flags made quartermaster second class. It annoyed me a great deal to find that my application for the rate of chief boatswain's mate for Boats was refused. Our chief boatswain's mate had been doing very little but stand a deck watch and talk about his wife and baby at home. Boats had really been managing the whole deck force. It had been my intention to advance Boats and transfer the Chief, but the letter said that the quota of chief boatswain's mates had been filled. Boats shrugged his shoulders and did not seem to mind the news as much as I did.

The mail brought lots of good news to Guns. Not only did he hear of his advancement in rate, but he received a whole bundle of letters from his wife in which she told him of the success of the last season's crops on his farm.

“Doris is a real farmer,” he said to me. “She made more money than I ever did. How she does it I'll never know, for I guess it's impossible to get any help. She says she had high school kids working at the harvesting in the afternoon. With the money she's made she's paid off the mortgage on the place, and now we own five acres, free and clear!”

White also had good news. He told me that his wife, Betsy, wrote him that the hardware store was going well in spite of shortages. “She doesn't say much herself,” he told me, “but my mother writes that Betsy is really running the whole store!”

Mr. Rudd, as usual, got no mail at all. He always went to his stateroom while the mail was being sorted and stayed there until the excitement had died down. It always puzzled me just how much he minded not getting mail. After I had read my own letters I went to his stateroom. As usual, he was lying sprawled on his bunk reading.

“Everything all right at home?” he asked me.

“Sure,” I replied. “Everything's going fine.”

He put down his book. “You're lucky,” he said. “The only person luckier is me. I have nothing to worry about at all. No one writes me and I write no one. I'm out of the whole damn mess.”

I sat down at his desk and lit my pipe.

“I hate to watch the men get mail,” Mr. Rudd continued. “There's so damn much sweaty emotion. Everybody worrying about who's sick and who's dead. If they're not worrying about that they're worrying about who's sleeping with who. God damn it, what does it matter who's sleeping with who? There are more important things to worry about! When a man's alone the world becomes clear. It's possible to think and to read and become intelligent. But just as soon as a man becomes involved with a woman he gets all tied up with himself. He gets jealous and worried and he forgets everything but what he's feeling and what some damn woman is feeling.”

“There is a lot of fuss about it,” I replied, “but if everybody lived alone the human race wouldn't last long.”

“There ought to be some more efficient method of reproduction,” said Mr. Rudd. “The present method is a disgrace.”

“Sometimes it has its pleasant aspects,” I replied.

“They're overestimated,” retorted Mr. Rudd. “The two most overestimated things in the world are home cooking and home love-making.”

We laughed. “Nevertheless,” I said, “I wouldn't mind having either one right now.”

Mr. Rudd lit a cigar and puffed on it thoughtfully. “I haven't had either one in a good deal longer while than you,” he replied, “and the funny thing about it is that I don't miss them any more, home cooking or home love-making.”

We lay at anchor awaiting orders. Everyone speculated where our next orders would take us. There were new invasions all through the Philippine Islands. Mindoro had been taken, and Manila. The islands had been divided into a checkerboard where we held the red and the Japs held the black. Mindanao, as well as some of the smaller Philippine islands, had yet to be taken. Some of the men still wanted action and hoped openly to go in with the invasions of Jap-held islands, but most of the crew wanted to go to Manila. Some said Manila was a pile of rubble no better than the jungles of New Guinea. Others said it was a paradise where beautiful Spanish girls freely expressed their gratitude to their liberators. These rumors finally convinced even those members of our crew who wanted action, and I could hear nothing but talk of Manila. The men discussed it so much that they came to believe we were going there. When the orders finally arrived, however, we were assigned to a shuttle run to Guian, a little town on the island of Samar, only fifty miles away.

“Another milk run!” the men groaned. “They ought to use a horse and wagon!”

They were so despondent I thought it might help to give them a general picture of what was in store for us. I had asked the port director about this the night before, and had been myself half seared, half encouraged by his answer.