Part 2

Evans went into his cabin and turned on the water in his basin. He noticed that his eyes looked a little better, though they still hurt him. He sighed and tried to look at his profile in the glass. This he knew would exercise his eyes, also in the back of his mind he wondered if he might not be able to see his profile. He had seen it once in a tailor’s three-way mirror. He had been greatly interested, and he hoped vaguely that he might see it again sometime. Strange things like that obsessed people who had been to sea for a long time.

Someone turned on the radio. A deep sterile radio voice staccatoed in the air for a moment and was gone. The air was filled with static, and then the voice came back again. Evans could not make out what the voice was saying but he could guess from the tone that our “forces were smashing ahead on all fronts”: the usual thing. He was bored by the war.

Methodically he shaved himself. He wondered who had turned on the radio. Probably Martin, his first mate.

A light wisp of fog came into the room through the half-open window; quickly Evans shut it. He shivered. The cold was penetrating.

“I’m cold as gold is old,” he muttered to himself. It was a jingle that went occasionally through his mind. For several years he had known it. Queer phrases and jingles often came to him when he had been too much alone. Sometimes they worried him. Evans often wondered if he might not be a little crazy. They say, though, that when you are crazy you never know it, he thought. There was consolation in that and he murmured again to himself, “I’m cold as gold is old.” Then he finished shaving.

He looked much older than twenty-five, he noticed, looking at himself intently in the mirror. When he was eighteen he had worked alone in a lighthouse. He used often to look at himself in the mirror then. He felt less alone when he did that and the habit had stayed with him. He yawned and turned away from the mirror. Neatly he put his shaving equipment away, then he sat down at his desk and looked at the papers on it. Most of the papers were memorandums from the Headquarters. He pushed them to one side.

In his desk drawer was a quart of bourbon. He wondered if he should take a swallow, a small one, enough to take away the ache behind his eyes. Evans reached for the drawer. Before he could open it, Martin walked into the cabin. Martin never knocked.

“Good morning,” said Evans and he tried to sound sarcastic.

“Hail to the Chief,” said Martin, eying Evans’ hand on the liquor drawer. “Starting in early, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean? Oh, this,” Evans withdrew his hand quickly. “I was just looking for something.”

“So I see.” The first mate smiled, showing all his teeth. He was a year younger than Evans, but looked even younger than he was. He had a carefully studied collegiate manner though he had never been to a college. John Martin had been one of the numerous unpromising young actors in a New England stock company. He was dark and nearly handsome. His voice was deep, interesting and mocking. He knew nothing about being a mate.

“Did you just get up?” Evans asked, knowing that he had.

“Why yes--the party, you know. I felt I should sleep. The ravell’d sleave, you know.” He spoke with a pseudo-British accent which he knew irritated Evans.

“Well, go get on down below and make sure they take water,” Evans snapped.

“Right you are, sir.”

“Can the funny stuff. We’re going to the Big Harbor tomorrow.”

“Any passengers?”

“Yes, the Adjutant at Arunga, a Lieutenant and the Chaplain.”

“That sounds gay. When’re we going to haul another group of USO girls?” Martin winked in what he would have called a roguish manner. Evans had once become too interested in a USO girl on tour.

Evans murmured, “Not for a while.” He turned away and played with the papers on his desk. He tried to think of something for Martin to do. “You might,” he finally said, “go see the Chaplain and find out when he’s coming aboard. Also, you’d better get hold of a copy of the special orders with his name on them. The Captain forgot to tell me he was going.”

“Fine.” Martin started to go. “By the way,” he said, and Evans knew and dreaded what he was going to say, “how do you feel after the party last night? You don’t look so good.”

“I feel awful. Now go get to work.”

Martin left and Evans rested his head on his arm. He felt tired. The ship was unusually still. Far away he could hear the rasping croak of a raven. He opened the desk drawer.

ii

John Martin walked into the galley.

“What’s on your mind, Smitty?” he asked. Martin was always polite with the men and Evans was not. The men liked Martin better and that was the main reason why Evans did not like him, or so Martin thought.

“Nothing on my mind. You want to eat something?”

“No thanks. I’ll just take a little of this.” He poured himself some pineapple juice from a large can. Smitty watched him drink it.

“What’s on for chow tonight?”

The Indian’s eyes gleamed. “Vienna sausage and that’s all I got. I have to go get rations for a whole week now. I haven’t got no time to make bread or nothing. That guy,” he pointed upward, “he tell me just today to get this stuff.”

“Well, that’s O.K., Smitty,” Martin murmured soothingly, as he left, “it’ll be all right.”

On deck he found two of the crew coiling the long black water hose.

“Pretty empty, wasn’t she?”

One of them nodded. He was a heavy blond fellow, a professional seaman. “Are we going out west?” he asked.

“That’s right. Leaving tomorrow.”

“That’s what Bervick said. We didn’t know what he was bulling or not. Weather don’t look bad.”

Martin looked at the pale sky. “You can’t ever tell,” he said.

“No, you can’t.” They went on coiling the hose.

Martin walked across the dock. He watched lumber being loaded onto the Liberty ship by sailors with heavy fantastic beards. The port was slowly closing down and he, for one, was not sorry. For a year now he had been at Andrefski as a first mate. He had fought constantly with Evans and he had known all the time that Evans was right: that he was no seaman. Martin had drifted into boat work in the army. After two years he had been made a Warrant Officer and assigned to this Freight-Passenger ship. The whole thing was unreal to him, the Bering Sea, these boats, the desolate stone islands. He wished he were in New England and the thought that he would be at least another year in these islands was maddening.

Thinking of these things, he walked to the warehouse where the mail was delivered. A door in the warehouse opened and Bervick came out. He carried a bundle of letters in his hand. “Hello, Johnny,” he said. “You up so soon?”

Martin smiled. There was no formality between them. Living together in the same small stateroom they understood each other well. “I thought a run in the fog would be just what I needed. Got something for me?”

Bervick thumbed through the bundle and handed Martin a letter. “How does it smell?” he asked.

Martin inhaled the perfume that had been sprinkled on the envelope. “Like magnolias,” he said.

Bervick sniffed. “Smells like a Ketchikan whore to me.”

“Careful,” said Martin, “speak softly when you speak of love. Which reminds me, when are they going to load cargo?”

“Right after lunch, I suppose. That’s if the longshoremen can get together long enough to do some work.”

“Then you’d better move the boom over.”

“O.K.” Bervick walked away.

Martin stepped inside the warehouse. Standing close to the door--there was almost no light in the building--he read the perfumed letter. She thought a lot about him. She wondered how he was. She did not go out much. She wished he were back. She did not go out much, she repeated that. She wondered if he remembered when.... Martin folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Her letters were always the same but she was a nice girl and he would probably marry her and be bored. He felt sorry for himself. He looked at the bleak sky and saw that it suited his mood.

A blast of damp air came through the door and he buttoned his parka at the throat. Then, remembering his errand with the Chaplain, he walked out into the gray light.

A mile away on a slight mound was the post chapel. It was like all other army chapels: box-shaped, with a short square tower and spire. The building was brown and looked dingy from camouflage. He walked toward it.

The wind blew at his back. The wind was rising and there were whitecaps in the bay. Gulls flew worriedly in the bedrizzled air.

A jeep went by him on the road. It stopped and he climbed in. The Captain was sitting at the wheel, his pipe firmly between his teeth.

“How’s the boat business, Martin?” he asked cheerfully.

“Fine as ever.”

“Good.” He started the jeep. “Where are you headed?”

“Over to see the Chaplain. I hear he’s coming with us.”

“Damn! I knew I forgot to tell Evans something. The Chaplain’s going with you people. They’re having a meeting at Arunga and he’s already on orders. Does Evans know?”

“Yes, he heard about it.”

“Grapevine,” the Captain muttered. “I’m going as far as the Post Exchange. You want out there?”

“That’ll be fine.”

The Captain drove deliberately and in silence over the road. After a few minutes he stopped in front of a long low building and they both got out. They walked into the Post Exchange.

“You getting on all right with Evans?” the Captain asked.

“Sure, we’re coming along fine,” Martin said, trying to sound sincere and succeeding.

“That’s the way things should be. I’m glad to hear it.”

The Post Exchange was not yet crowded. A long counter ran the length of the building and behind the counter there were shelves of candy, stationery, toilet articles, magazines.... At one end of the building was a barber’s chair and a soldier barber, and at the other end was a Coca-Cola machine. Everything was neatly arranged beneath hard bare electric lights.

Martin bought a lurid Love magazine. Nothing else caught his eye and he left.

He was out of breath when he reached the top of the mound where the chapel was. A few enlisted men were wandering about near by, getting up enough nerve to go in and see the Chaplain and ask for help. This Chaplain had a reputation for being able to get things done for the men. The religious aura, however, was unmanning to most of them.

The inside of the chapel was quiet and dim and warm. There was little ornament here, only an altar and plain, large-windowed walls without color or design. In a small office to the right of the door, Martin found O’Mahoney, the Chaplain.

He was a short squat Irishman with a red-veined nose, plump cheeks and nearsighted blue eyes. His hair was thick and dark and looked like a neat wig. His manner was awkward and friendly. He had been a monk in a Maryland monastery, and now, in the army, he acted as if he were playing a part in a bad dream, which perhaps he was.

“Hello, Father,” said Martin respectfully.

“How do you do....” O’Mahoney paused with embarrassment. Martin was not a churchgoer and he did not recognize him.

“John Martin, sir,” he said quickly. “I’m the first mate on the boat that’s taking you to Arunga.”

O’Mahoney smiled. “Do sit down, Mr Martin,” he invited. Martin arranged himself with a sigh in a large arm-chair. He was tired from his walk. For a moment he breathed the musty leather smell which all churches seemed to have. O’Mahoney offered him a cigarette. He refused and said that he did not smoke.

“A good habit not to have,” said the Chaplain in his light Irish voice. There was a pause.

“I wanted to know,” began Martin in a loud voice which he quickly lowered. He was always conscious of wrong tones. A loud voice was wrong in a church. “I was wondering,” he said softly, “when you were planning to move aboard, tonight or in the morning.”

“Tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”

“It will be.” Martin smiled. “You’ll be ready for bad weather, won’t you?”

“Bad weather? Is that the report?”

“Well, yes, but it’s also a joke of ours that whenever we haul a Chaplain we have bad weather.”

O’Mahoney chuckled uneasily. “Well, that’s the way those things go, I suppose.”

“Yes, it’s probably just an invitation for you to walk on the water.”

“What? Oh, yes.” O’Mahoney was not quite sure if this was blasphemy or not. He decided it was not. “Are you Catholic, Mr Martin?” he asked. He usually asked that question.

Martin shook his head. “I’m not much of anything,” he said. He could see that the Chaplain was tempted to inquire further. He did not, though. Instead he changed the subject.

“The Captain at the Transport Office did tell me that the weather might be unreliable at this time of year.”

“That’s right, but it shouldn’t be bad.” Martin spoke as if the sea and the weather had no secrets from him. Often he marveled at how professional he sounded.

“I’m certainly glad to hear that. I suffer terribly from _mal de mer_.” He spoke the French self-consciously and Martin wondered if he was going to translate it or not. He decided to save him the trouble.

“I’m sure you won’t be sick, Father.” Martin got to his feet. “If you want to send any stuff down tonight, we’ll stow it for you.”

“Thank you, but I’ll bring my gear down with me in the morning.”

Martin turned to go, then he remembered the orders he had come to get. “Do you think I could have an extra copy of your orders? We have to have one, you know.”

“Certainly.” O’Mahoney handed him a paper from his desk.

“Thank you. See you tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you going to the Captain’s party tonight, Mr Martin? He’s giving one in his quarters for the Major.”

“Why, yes, I suppose I will.”

“See you then.” The Chaplain walked with him to the door.

iii

Bervick and Duval were arguing again. Supper had been finished and Evans had gone to the wheelhouse. Martin sat quietly in a corner while the Chief and Bervick insulted each other. Their arguments were thought very funny by the rest of the crew. No one took them seriously except Martin, and he was not sure if they were serious or not.

Olga, a Norwegian girl at the Big Harbor, was the cause of their trouble. The year before she had come to work in a restaurant. Because she had let Bervick sleep with her for nothing, he had decided that it must be love and he had almost decided to marry her. Then one day he discovered that she was also seeing Duval and accepting his money and a great many other people’s money, too. He had asked her to stop but she was a thrifty girl, supporting her mother in Canada. She had told him that it was none of his business. Duval had laughed at him because of this and he had come to hate Duval and feel that it was his fault that Olga had changed.

Somewhat drowsily Martin listened to them talk. This time they were arguing whether the knife should be set on the table edge of blade toward the plate or away from it. Duval claimed the edge should be away from the plate and Bervick claimed it was toward the plate.

“I don’t suppose you’d know where it went anyway,” said Duval bitingly. “You probably always ate with your hands.”

This was a hard blow and Bervick countered, “I don’t guess you ever used anything but a knife to eat with. I’ve seen _cajuns_ like you before.”

Duval was proud of his pure French ancestry. He came from a long-settled New Orleans family and he was sensitive about being thought a _cajun_.

“_Cajun_, hell,” he said, trying not to sound irritated. “You wouldn’t know one if you saw one.”

“I guess I’m talking to one.”

This was too much. The Chief Engineer remembered his rank. He stood up. “That’s enough, Sergeant,” he said with dignity.

Bervick stood up also. Martin could see he was pleased. It was always a victory when the Chief fell back on his rank. “Yes, Warrant Officer Junior Grade Duval,” he said.

“Better not get so fresh, Sergeant.” The Chief turned to Martin and said, “Just a little squabble.” Bervick left the salon, laughing. “Fresh bastard,” muttered the Chief.

“Oh, he’s all right,” said Martin smoothly. “Just a little hot-tempered at times.”

“Maybe that’s it.” Duval sat down on the bench beside Martin. They looked out the window at the pale gray of evening. The day was over and the wind had died down.

“Probably be a strong southwest wind tomorrow,” remarked Duval.

“Can’t tell, really.”

“Thank God we’ve only a few passengers. Every time it’s rough we have at least forty.”

“That’s the way it goes.”

At the other table five deckhands were playing Hearts. Martin watched them. His thoughts drifted and he saw stages and heard speeches and listened to the sea. The sea was becoming a part of himself, and whenever he relaxed, his mind seemed to be caught up in the restless tempo of the water and he would become uneasy: at sea he was always uneasy. He yawned abruptly and cleared his mind.

Evans came into the salon. “Say, Mate,” he said, “the Captain’s giving a party over at his quarters. You and the Chief want to come?”

Martin nodded. “I always like free beer.”

“So do I.” The Chief got to his feet. “I hope he’s got some bourbon. I haven’t had any good stuff for quite a while. It gets used up so fast because I always share it.” The Chief knew of Evans’ liquor and he also knew that Evans never shared it. Evans looked away.

“We’d better get started then. The dispatcher’s waiting outside. He’s going to take us over in his jeep.”

The Captain’s quarters consisted of two huts knocked together. Normally three officers lived there, but at the moment he was alone and had the whole place to himself.

Several men were already in the room when they entered. The Captain was fixing drinks behind a bar made out of a packing case. He grunted at them, his pipe moving slightly as he greeted them.

Evans and Duval were jovial in their greetings. Martin merely smiled. The Chief was on particularly good terms with the Captain. They were of the same age and had had many parties together.

“How does it go, Old Chief?” inquired the Captain, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

“Great. We keep the army on the waves.”

“That’s something. What’ll it be, gentlemen?” While the others told what they wanted, Martin looked about him. He had not been in the Captain’s quarters for a long time. He never liked to seem too close to higher ranking officers. He was always afraid someone would think he wanted something.

The walls were decorated with large paintings of nudes. They had been done for the Captain by a soldier. A lamp, several chairs, and a bookcase with a few books and a great many rocks in it furnished this end of the room.

A Major and a Lieutenant were standing before one of the paintings. Martin, who did not recognize them, decided that they must be the passengers for Arunga. In one corner beside a radio the Chaplain sat, a pale bourbon and water beside him. He was turning the dial of the radio. Three officers from the Harbor Craft Detachment made up the rest of the party.

“What’ll it be, Martin?” asked the Captain.

“Beer, if you have it.”

“Beer! O.K., suit yourself. I’m always glad to save the real stuff.” He handed Martin a bottle of beer.

Loud music startled them. The Chaplain looked about him apologetically and quickly lowered the volume. “Finally got some music,” he announced. “The static isn’t so bad tonight.”

The Major agreed, “Yes, the static’s not bad at all tonight.”

The Lieutenant remarked that the static had been bad the night before.

That, thought Martin, takes care of the static. He often wondered why people spoke so inanely.

“These are very interesting works of ... of art, you have here,” remarked the Major somewhat archly. Martin could see that he was trying to be a good fellow.

“Like them?” The Captain came out from behind the bar. “Had a soldier do them for me. Very talented fellow he was, too. Quite lifelike, aren’t they?” He winked at the young Lieutenant, who blushed and looked away. Martin chuckled and noticed that the Major was smiling, too.

The Major said, “Lieutenant Hodges doesn’t care for modern art.”

The Captain laughed, “Oh, to be young! Wouldn’t it be nice, Major, if we were young again.”

The Major winced slightly. He was not old and did not like to be thought old, but because he was bald and his face was lined, people took him to be older than he was. He did not like that.

“Youth is very important,” he murmured, paying no attention to what he was saying.

“Most important for the future,” agreed the Chaplain.

Martin was bored by this. He took his beer and sat down in an easy chair. He drank the beer slowly. It was green and tasted bitter. He watched Evans and Duval draw near to the Major. Both were good politicians.

“It looks as if the war will be over soon,” remarked Evans, a half-question in his voice.

“Yes,” said the Major. He always said “yes” first, even when he meant “no.”

“Yes, it should be over soon, but of course we have no effective way of gauging the enemy’s rate of attrition. The attrition rate is important. Attrition can decide wars.” Martin wondered if he would repeat this last: it sounded like a maxim. He did not. He continued. “There are only a few good strategists in the enemy’s army. They could be named on the fingers of one hand. Most of them know nothing but frontal attacks.”

“I guess bombings are messing them up,” suggested Evans.

“Wars,” said the Major, “cannot be won by aviation. No matter what the Air Corps says.” He sounded bitter. Martin wondered if the Major might not be jealous of the quick promotions in the Air Corps.

“I guess that’s right,” Evans agreed.

Everyone began to talk at once. Evans and the Major discussed the latest movies. The Chief, who was Catholic, discussed moral issues with the Chaplain. One always seemed to discuss such things with Chaplains. The Captain talked about women and the Lieutenant listened to him gravely.

Cigarette smoke was becoming thick in the room. Blue veils of it floated upward from each smoker. Martin’s eyes watered. He finished his beer. The radio played on. Music of every sort swelled in the room. The room was too hot. The oil-stove in the center was giving off heavy waves of heat. Martin felt a little drowsy. He wondered if they would notice it if he shut his eyes for a moment.

Lieutenant Hodges was standing beside his chair, when he opened his eyes again.

“Must have been asleep,” Martin mumbled. His eyes felt heavy. He looked around and saw that the others obviously had not noticed he had gone to sleep. They were talking and singing and drinking. There was a strong barroom odor in the hut. The Chaplain, he noticed, had gone.

“Sorry to bother you,” said the Lieutenant. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s all right. I don’t know what happened to me. I was just tired, I guess. I’ve had a pretty hard day,” he lied.

“You’re on the boat that’s taking us west, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m the mate. Martin’s the name.”

“My name is Hodges. I’m the Major’s assistant.” They shook hands in the self-conscious manner of people who have already met.

There was not much to say. They stood there watching the others move about. Almost everyone was drunk. Martin got slowly to his feet. “What time you got?” he asked.

Hodges looked at his watch carefully. “Eleven fifty-seven.”

“That’s pretty late for me to be up. I guess I better get a move on. See you in the morning.”

“Sure thing. Good night.”

Martin went over to the corner where Evans, the Major, and the Captain were singing.

“I think we’d better head back,” he said, catching Evans between songs. Evans shook his head. He was drunk.

“Hell no,” he said. “You go back if you want to. You go back.”

Martin shrugged and turned away. The Chief was in a crap game with an Indian skipper.

“Can’t leave now,” the Chief said, his eyes on the dice.

Martin picked up his parka and put it on.

“I think I’ll walk back,” he announced. Hodges was the only one who heard and he nodded as Martin turned to go.

The Major was talking of strategy when he left.

“Wellington, of course, was the perfect general. Wellington understood attrition. Attrition....” The Major talked on.