Part Eleven
Sam, 1918-1919
Chapter 27

The voyage across the Atlantic was like boot camp, days filled with exercises and housekeeping, but in living quarters so cramped that the ensigns bumped into one another getting dressed. No one dared complain, though. They’d heard that other ships were so crowded, sailors were forced to sleep on deck. At least when Sam and his shipmates were off duty, they could crawl into racks stacked three across and four high, in a space the size of a laundry chute. Mikovski had assigned Sam a middle rack, knowing that when the sea turned rough, he’d have no wall to wedge his back against for support. His choices were to tie himself down or be thrown to the floor.

Alarms woke the men at 0600 hours for morning drill. After push-ups and weight-lifting, they stood for first inspection, then raced to the mess hall for breakfast, where the pocked insides of the water tanks tinged their coffee red and flavoured it with rust. Mikovski supervised every exercise, his voice bellowing with sadistic glee while the men, blindfolded, practiced sealing pipe leaks. “You gotta be able to feel your way around a ship when the enemy shoots out the lights,” he warned them. Eyes covered, the stumbling ensigns practiced extinguishing random fires too, but Mikovski let another officer lead the fire exercise, just as he had during training.

Twice a week, the equipment was dismantled, repaired, and reassembled, then repainted to prevent corrosion. This routine was Mikovski’s favourite because he alone determined whether the work passed inspection. If not, he dictated the punishment. He often assigned Sam to clean the lockers where matches and ammunition were stored, then got on his knees to shine a flashlight underneath. “Tsk, tsk, Lord. I see mould and mildew. Wet ammo is ruined ammo.” He made Sam scrub the lockers again with a toothbrush until the bristles were worn down, then apply two coats of paint. Massaging his raw knuckles at night, Sam wished the Navy had an appeals court. As a boy, it had irked him that Jews rarely agreed on a point of law. Now he craved a second opinion.

The area below deck was also checked regularly for leaks, bad wiring, and peeling paint. Mikovski claimed the floor should be clean enough to eat off. During one inspection, he asked Sam if it was suitable for serving the admiral a meal. When Sam said yes, Mikovski demanded proof. He spilled a stream of hot rusty water from the mess hall onto the floor, where it puddled around a pile of oily rags. When Tomasio bent to wipe a spot with his knee, Mikovski shoved him away and held Sam’s face down. Sam gagged, but swallowed, refusing to lose his breakfast.

Mikovski grinned. “Next time, Tomasio, it’ll be your turn to lap up the admiral’s tea.” He told the men to put away the paint cans and oily rags, but a minute after he’d left, they dumped everything back on the floor and climbed into their racks. Then they marched off to a dinner of the same mystery meat, limp vegetables, and gummy pudding they’d eaten since shipping out.

After this unsavoury meal, they had two hours to play cards and re-read magazines whose every word they’d memorized. To lift their spirits, Tomasio usually strummed his guitar and beat jungle rhythms on empty paint cans, but that night the men were too morose to join in. Frustrated, he turned his back, crouched down to scrounge in his locker, shoved his hand down the front of his pants, then stood and faced forward with what looked like an enormous erection.

Hamble made as if to grab Tomasio’s crotch. “Mate’s been holding out on us. He’s got a bunch of girlie pictures rolled inside his gear.”

Dancing out of Hamble’s reach, Tomasio pulled out a huge cigar. He stroked and sniffed it. “Finest Cuban blend,” he said. “I was saving it for after we tin fished our first sub, but what the hell. Might as well stoke up now.” Tomasio continued waltzing around, pretending to smoke with one hand and swill liquor with the other. He grabbed a lit kerosene lamp used to illuminate the lower bunks and held it close, like a dance partner. “I’m a hoochie coochie man,” he sang, twirling and stumbling as though inebriated. Everyone clapped, egging him on. High on laughter, Tomasio didn’t pay attention to where his feet were going until he tripped over the paint cans and oily rags. His “dance partner” flew out of his arms and landed on the pile.

Tomasio barely had time to say, “Oops, sorry sweetie,” to the lamp before the rags burst into flames. Mikovski rushed in just as a paint can exploded, as though he’d been lying in wait outside the doorway. The flames were dense but confined to the area where the men had shoved the supplies earlier. Even so, Mikovski blanched and fled to the stairwell, where he could be heard retching until the noise was muffled by the thump of blankets beating out the fire. Tomasio dumped wet sand bags over the smouldering mess and stomped on it, just to be sure.

Several men were trembling. Tomasio looked miserable, but no one said anything. Sam guessed they didn’t want to make him feel worse. Sam took charge of the clean-up. When it was finished, there was only half an hour of break time left to shower and dress before the late afternoon drill. Navy showers were limited to thirty seconds—ten to soap and twenty to rinse off—so Sam, covered in soot and grease, washed quickly. When he emerged, Mikovski stood brandishing a stopwatch.

“Thirty-two seconds.” Mikovski smirked at the circle of men in various degrees of undress. “Someone else will have to decrease his time accordingly. I’ll let your majesty choose who.”

Tomasio stepped forward. “I started the fire, sir. I’ll take the shorter shower.”

“I was the one who didn’t put away the paint cans,” another sailor said. “It should be me.”

One by one, each man stepped forward to accuse himself of failing to clean up, saying he alone deserved to have his shower time docked. Sam pretended to dry his face to hide his grateful smile, but Mikovski threw the stopwatch at him, where the glass shattered around his bare feet. “No one else showers,” the lieutenant ordered. “Get dressed and report on deck in two minutes.”

This period before supper each day was reserved for competitive games of strength and speed, organized by the commanding officer who believed they kept sailors ready to fight. Hamble called them “Shit hot elitist nonsense,” a holdover from the wealthy C.O.’s prep school days, but men of inferior rank were powerless to protest. Besides, Mikovski, born as poor as those he supervised, shared the officer’s enthusiasm. The ensigns didn’t give in to their superiors completely, however. Each night, they secretly decided who would win the next day and by how much. Sam took notes to make sure the victories were evenly distributed among them and wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

Clouds began rolling in during weight lifting, and the seas were so choppy for the target shooting that Tomasio, whose turn it was to win, had trouble steadying his arm to aim accurately. The final contest was running laps on deck. It required agility as well as speed to navigate the narrow space around the equipment and weapons. If you forgot to duck under the guns, you’d be knocked out cold, a common event when you were sleep-deprived. With high waves rocking the ship, it would be even harder to move forward, duck, and maintain balance, all at the same time.

Sam was the last to run. Tomasio had raced early in the pack and the worsening weather made the lead he’d established plausible as well as real. Sam was relaxed, knowing he could finish his lap leisurely and then everyone could retreat below deck. Mikovski stood next to him, cradling a new stopwatch, and yelled over the roar of the wind. “Win this race, Lord, and I’ll cancel the punishment. All the men can shower, for a full minute, after supper.”

Mental and physical agility came easily to Sam, but speed had never been his forte. Starting down the port side, he knew halfway that winning was impossible. It was hard enough just to keep his balance. The gun turrets were on the starboard side. All he had to do was turn and make it back safely. Heavy rain pelted him. The men didn’t need showers anymore, just the dry, warm air below.

Sam was puzzled to see Mikovski midway down the deck, instead of at the bow where the others waited. Behind him, out of Mikovski’s view, Tomasio was frantically slapping his forehead. If Sam weren’t so winded, he’d have smiled at his friend’s antics. Not until he drew closer did Sam understand it was a warning. Mikovski had lowered the gun turret so Sam couldn’t duck to avoid it. It would hit him in the groin unless he detoured or slithered underneath. Since Mikovski was blocking him from circumventing the gun, Sam had to stop running and crawl below it.

Mikovski hauled him up. “No one showers tonight,” he cackled. “And for failure to finish the lap, Lord, twenty-second washes the rest of the month.” He asked the C.O. what game was next, but with twenty-foot waves now crashing over their heads, the officer ordered the men below.

“Permission, sir, to keep them on deck.” Mikovski, balancing easily on the shuddering planks, suggested it was an ideal time for them to practice refuelling the destroyer from the tanker while they were underway. Their only experience until now had been refuelling a stationery ship.

The C.O. looked sceptical. “Perhaps tomorrow after we’ve ridden out the storm.”

“War is fought in all conditions, sir. Why waste this opportunity to prepare the men?”

Hamble, who’d been watching from the railing, pointed at the roiling black clouds to the north. “I reckon the winds are moderate gale force, or will be within the hour.” There was no definitive reading from the ship’s instruments yet, but Hamble had spent enough time at sea to judge accurately without them. “In my opinion, you’d be taking an unnecessary risk.”

The officer wavered. Only when Mikovski added what a great morale builder the exercise would be, did he agree to let the refuelling go ahead. He put Mikovski in charge, requested a report by 1900 hours, and hurried down the hatch. The wind slammed the door shut behind him.

Tomasio mimicked the tanker crew’s reaction at being radioed to pull up alongside the destroyer. “Read you, USS Leviathan. Order crazy as shit. Throw lieutenant overboard. Over and out.” Mikovski was out of earshot, but the men were too scared by what lay ahead to laugh. Sam felt he’d survived one ordeal only to be thrust into a worse one. Maybe that’s what war was like.

The tanker pitched from side to side as it ploughed toward them, prompting a new worry that the raging sea would smash the fuel-filled vessel into their ship, igniting both. Recalling Mikovski’s ashen face when Hamble described the men on the Lutzow getting burned alive, Sam wondered if he’d considered that possibility, but the look on the man’s face now was pure glee.

Playing it safe, the tanker’s navigator left a wide channel between the ships. This lessened the chance of a collision, but it meant the fuel hose had to be thrown farther to reach the destroyer. The pitch was further complicated by erratic winds, which shifted direction every few seconds. Mikovski could barely be heard above the howling and crashing, but his sparkling eyes directed the action. “Lord, get your soaking ass into position to catch the hose.”

Sam staggered to the railing. The first two throws fell short. The third cleared it, but the hose writhed on deck like an angry serpent. Sam fell on his knees and grasped it just as the wind pulled it back overboard. Blood welled and spilled from his abraded palms. Mikovski signalled the tanker crew to try again. Once more, Sam grabbed hold of the smooth, heavy rubber. At first he held on, but the wind changed direction and hauled the hose back. If he hadn’t let go, his head would have smashed into the railing with ten times the force of running into the gun turret.

The lieutenant kicked Sam aside and raised his arm for the hose. The instant it landed on deck, his calloused hands trapped it and his powerful arms hauled it to the fuel cap. Securing the line with one hand, he unscrewed the lid with the other, inserted the nozzle, and signalled the tanker to let the gas flow. It didn’t take long to top off the Leviathan, already half full.

For the second time in an hour, Mikovski yanked Sam to his feet, but instead of gripping his arm, he hauled him up by the hands. The salt water penetrated Sam’s lesions and stung. For good measure, Mikovski’s thick fingers squeezed and rubbed them. “Pampered rich boys’ hands,” he spat and turned Sam toward the others on deck. “If this had been a battle, we’d never have survived.” Sam found no sympathy in their faces. They, and he, knew the lieutenant was right.

Hamble stepped forward. “Wind’s over fifty knots an hour. Past time to go below.” The C.O. had left Mikovski in charge, but he was relishing his victory enough to let the Brit call the shots. Hamble led the way to the hatch. Mikovski held Sam back until they were the only two left on deck. Sam didn’t mind going last. It meant the others couldn’t talk about him behind his back.

Then, just as Sam grabbed the hatch cover, the gale shifted direction again, hurling him back against Mikovski’s chest. Coming from the port side, the wind blew Sam’s hair up over his right ear, exposing his strawberry mark. He instinctively reached to cover it, losing his grip on the door. It clanged shut. Mikovski yanked it open and pushed Sam through, tumbling down the stairs after him. Sam picked himself up first and limped to his quarters. Mikovski followed.

The men, half-stripped, stopped drying themselves when they entered. Mikovski went into the lavatory and emerged with a rusty razor that Tomasio had dangled from a rope with a sign that read, “In case of emergency, slit enemy’s throat.” He lathered Sam’s scalp and shaved his head, removing every trace of hair around his right ear and leaving coarse patches elsewhere. “Write a report of the refuelling, Lord, and have it in my hands by 1900 hours.” That was in seventy-five minutes, during which time the others would be eating supper. Sam didn’t care. He wasn’t hungry.

His report meticulously reported Mikovski’s justification for holding the drill, Hamble’s reservations, the disbelief of the tanker crew, and Sam’s own unsatisfactory performance. In the instrument room, he documented that the winds had reached whole gale force, averaging over 60 mph, while they were on deck. He saved this fact for last, hoping it would show Mikovski for the fool he was, but he doubted the lieutenant would actually file the report. His real intention was to isolate Sam from the talking and camaraderie at supper. The tactic worked. For the first time since his earliest days at boot camp, Sam felt like an outsider, a man who wasn’t like the others, a Jew.

That night, the men themselves were still too shaky to talk. Tomasio strummed his guitar, but no one made requests or sang along. He played for himself, while they dealt hands of solitaire or lay on their backs, smoking. After lights out, their breathing was as ragged as the storm winds howling outside, perhaps considering the irony of being killed by Mother Nature, not the enemy.

At 0200 hours, Tomasio whispered from the rack next to Sam’s. “The guys wanted to sneak food back to you, but Mikovski was watching us like a hawk.”

Gratitude and relief flooded Sam. “Just as well you didn’t. It would have attracted rats.”

Tomasio made barfing noises. “Rats run away from the crap they feed us, not toward it.” A comfortable silence settled for a while until he said, “I’d kill for a plate of my nonna’s ziti right now. My mom’s a good cook, but after nonna came over, true greatness came out of our kitchen.”

“I was named for my dad’s father, but I never knew my grandparents. They stayed behind.”

“There were lots of Jewish families in the neighbourhood where I grew up,” Tomasio said. “Good smells came out of their apartments too.”

“There were lots of Italian Catholics at my school,” Sam remarked, but didn’t say how mean they were to him. “They’re the only people I know who use more garlic than Jews.”

Tomasio chuckled. “Jews and Catholics, both experts at dishing out food and guilt.”

After his humiliation at the hands of Mikovski, Sam wasn’t ready to laugh.

“I’ve been thinking.” Tomasio’s voice was hesitant. “Suppose you wore your birthmark as a badge of pride, kind of like Christ’s stigmata. A reminder of who and what you are.”

It was a kind thought, but Sam would never see it as anything other than a badge of shame. Before he grew too old to let Rivka to touch him, he’d allowed her to kiss it when she tucked him in at night. She wasn’t superstitious, but retained a primitive belief that it protected him from the evil eye. Ancient priests sacrificed only unblemished animals; the mark meant Sam would be spared.

Avram ignored it, just as he refused to acknowledge any other imperfection in his son. Sam wondered whether, if his father had kissed the birthmark too, he’d still be at home tonight.

***

The storm worsened toward dawn, its 80-knot winds rolling the ship like tenement kids pitching marbles. Most sailors grew nauseated; even Hamble succumbed. Tomasio, assigned a middle rack like Sam, had no wall to brace against, so Sam lashed his fart sack to an overhead beam, which cut the swaying in half. Seeing how well it worked, he lashed the other hammocks with whatever spare line he could find. Finally, he put empty paint cans on the floor in lieu of barf buckets. Mikovski walked in as Sam emptied a can and scoffed that he was playing nanny to a bunch of babies. Sam looked toward Hamble to defend the crew, but the poor Brit was in no condition to speak.

Suddenly, Mikovski, looking green himself, lurched and grabbed one of the ropes Sam had tied overhead. “Seasickness can strike anyone, sir,” Sam said, knowing he’d be punished for his smart tongue later. He didn’t care, especially when Tomasio guffawed before throwing up again.

Mikovski glared. “It’s not seasickness. The doctor thinks it’s a virus.” The men stopped retching as if paralyzed by fear. They, like Sam, had heard of a deadly flu that was killing sailors in Spain. Sam wondered if a crew member had brought it aboard the Leviathan. Mikovski continued. “The sickest men need to be quarantined to stop the virus from spreading.”

Sam surveyed the tiers of racks. Several men looked too limp to stand, let alone walk. “I don’t think they can make it to the infirmary, sir.”

“That’s why you’re going to carry them, Lord. I want to see just how strong you are.”

Now Hamble raised his head. “He’s the lone healthy man among us. It’s insane to expose him to the worst of whatever this bug is.”

Mikovski drowned him out. “And after your lordship transports them, you’ll be the chief nursemaid.” He removed a piece of paper from his pocket which Sam recognized as the front page of the report he’d written. Mikovski folded the paper into a nurse’s cap and placed it on Sam’s head, tilting it above his ear to expose the strawberry mark.

“Are you trying to get Sam killed?” Tomasio’s voice was unexpectedly strong. Without answering, Mikovski grabbed a can and raced out. Sam heard him filling it just outside the door.

By afternoon, the gale had passed but sickbay couldn’t hold everyone who was ill. The doctor concluded they were suffering from neither seasickness nor the flu, but food poisoning. Everyone who’d eaten last night’s pudding was afflicted. Sam, who’d been forced to skip dinner, was spared. Those who had seconds, like Tomasio, were worst off. He lamented being sickened by something that tasted so bad. “At least when you get the clap, you get to enjoy yourself first.”

Twenty-four hours after the illness began, a dehydrated Mikovski, known for his hearty appetite, came to the infirmary too. Sam donned his nurse’s cap and took extra good care of him, holding his forehead and murmuring soothing words the way Rivka had comforted him as a boy. Reducing the lieutenant to a sick child returned an iota of power to Sam. He refrained, however, from thanking Mikovski for preventing him from eating dinner so that he could write the report whose cover he now wore on his head. The lieutenant would punish himself enough.