CHAPTER 2

ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES later Simpson climbed the ladder to the flying bridge, drew himself up and saluted Syl.

“The men are making themselves as comfortable as possible, sir,” he said. “Would you like to inspect the ship?”

There was something farcical about all this military formality in the midst of the wreckage of this old harbor tanker, and the fact that Simpson was almost twice the age of his commanding officer accentuated the absurdity. What Simpson looked like was a prissy teacher dressed up to play the part of an old officer in a high school play. Syl wished he could get over this feeling that the whole damn war was nothing but a bad drama in which they had all been given ridiculous parts.

“Very well,” he said, and the inspection tour began.

The ship was in such bad shape that Syl could hardly believe it. Somehow the script had gone wrong. In his imagination he had been destined to command a sleek destroyer and in fact he had already served as skipper of a trim subchaser in the North Atlantic, and later, a brand new army freighter in the Pacific. He was only twenty-four years old, but had served almost three years at sea in this war and this was his third command. He thought he had a good record, despite a recent dispute with the army, and had expected assignment to a much larger ship, but here he was crawling from one rusty compartment to another aboard a ship which resembled a worn-out garbage barge. After being hit by the Jap plane, she had been beached before being towed here to Brisbane, Simpson said, and the hull had been badly strained. The engine had not had a major overhaul since leaving the States two years ago and her only armament was two fifty-caliber machineguns. A minor but discomfiting detail was the fact that this ship could not even offer her captain a private cabin. For officers there were only two double cabins, one for the engineer and ensign, the other for the executive officer and captain. Both were Spartan little cubicles which contained two bunks separated by a desk and a chair.

“Well, it’s not much but it’s home,” Syl said, sitting down at his desk when the tour was finally over. Simpson sat perched on the edge of his bunk.

“When would you like me to call the crew to quarters so you can read your orders taking command?” he asked.

“Let’s wait until the other officers come back aboard.”

“All right, sir, but there are some very pressing problems I must tell you about. There are a lot of big decisions to be made.”

“Oh?”

“The army is giving us a lot of pressure to get this ship into operation as soon as possible, but they can’t begin cutting and welding until we empty and steam the tanks.”

“Why didn’t you pump her out at sea before she was hauled?”

“The cargo pump is broken down and we’re waiting for spare parts. They hauled her quick because she was leaking so bad.”

“We could get deck pumps or syphon the stuff out here in the yard.”

“Yes sir, but nobody knows what to do with it. We have about fifty thousand gallons of av gas aboard, all that was left when the cargo pump broke down. It’s been contaminated by water and sand. They plan to put it into tank trucks and dump it somewhere out in the desert, but so far they haven’t been able to round up any tank trucks.”

“It looks like we’ll have to do some yelling and ass-kicking.”

“I’ve tried, but nobody pays much attention to me, and there’s a more immediate problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The skeleton crew they left with me, five men, have been selling the gas, sir, on the black market. The stuff is floating above the water and sand and when they dip it out from the top with buckets, it drives cars all right. It’s dangerous, the way they slop the stuff around, and of course it’s illegal, but we haven’t been able to draw pay here, and there’s no way to stop them, short of staying on watch myself around the clock.”

“Don’t the new ensign and the engineer help?”

“I think you ought to talk to them yourself, sir. I can’t get any cooperation out of them on this.”

“I’ll see them as soon as they come aboard. I understand that you were here when this ship was hit, Mr. Simpson. Haven’t you been given survivors’ leave?”

“Yes sir, but I refused it. I think my place is here.”

“Why?”

“I know the ship. She’s a cranky little thing and it’s hard to replace a whole crew at once.”

“Not many men would feel that much responsibility. I’m grateful to you.”

“I just figure that God must have put me here for a reason, sir.”

“I guess …”

There was nothing wrong with piety of course, but Simpson’s sanctimonious air irritated Syl. There was already much about this man that he did not like. From his age and modest rank Syl guessed that he was a mustang, probably a chief petty officer who never would have been given a commission in time of peace. Such men knew a lot, but they often resented young reserve officers and caused trouble. During his days as an ensign, Syl had been intimidated by the righteous indignation of mustangs, but he had learned that many of them knew little but the parts of the ship in which they had specialized when they were petty officers and could be dangerously overconfident. Beyond that, any man who refused to take a transfer from this nightmare of a ship must be some kind of a nut. While he was reflecting on this, a loud deep voice called from the deck, “Hey, Simp! Are you aboard?”

“That’s Mr. Buller, sir,” Simpson said, his face a study of disapproval. “Do you want to see him here?”

“Send him in.”

Simpson left and a few moments later Buller appeared at the cabin door. Syl was startled by his sheer size. A former college and professional football player now thirty-six years old, Buller was six feet three inches tall and weighed close to 250 pounds. He had to stoop when he squeezed through the cabin door.

At five feet eleven and 175 pounds when rail thin, as he was now, Syl had felt himself to be more physically powerful than most men, but he was dwarfed as he stood to greet this astonishing ensign, and his hand felt like a child’s as Buller took it in his huge fingers.

“So you’re our new skipper!” Buller said in the bellow which was his normal conversational voice. “Thank God you’re here!”

He squeezed Syl’s hand hard enough to cause a twinge of pain, an accident, perhaps, or a none-too-subtle attempt to establish dominance the moment he met anyone.

“Take it easy,” Syl said with a smile. “I might need that hand.”

“Sorry about that but sometimes I get carried away. That bastard Simp is about to drive me crazy.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“We have a very simple problem: we have to get rid of about fifty thousand gallons of gas which the government don’t want but which is perfectly good. Simp wants to sit on it like a mother hen on her eggs until the damn government can find trucks to dump it in the desert. Have you ever heard of such waste?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to sell it—that’s the best way to get rid of it quick. The men have been doing that ever since they got here in a half-ass way, dipping it up in buckets and pouring it into jerry cans. Simp’s right about one thing—that’s dangerous. I’ve got a guy with a tank truck and decent pumps who’ll come and take the whole mess away tomorrow night if Simp will let me.”

“You’ve found a black market operator?”

“You could call him that. He’ll pay us ten thousand bucks for the stuff in Aussie money. Do you know what we can do with that?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We can rent a house ashore for the crew and enough food and booze to last us as long as we’re here, which might be as long as a month or even more. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live aboard this wreck while they’re working on her? We can’t even use the heads and showers. When they start cutting and welding, it will be worse.”

“I’ve been in yards before.”

“The men haven’t even been able to draw pay here—everything’s all fouled up. Don’t you figure they deserve a few weeks of good living before we all head into what’s waiting for us?”

“And what do you figure that is?”

“Hell, it’s no secret that these tankers are used for supplying advance air bases and everybody knows the invasion of the Philippines is coming up. Why do you suppose there’s such a shortage of these little tankers? They’ve been blowing up like firecrackers all over the lot. All it takes is one damn rifle bullet in the tanks. It’s a damn miracle that this ship survived a hit by a plane.”

“That doesn’t give us license to sell gas on the black market. We could all be court-martialed—”

“Are you a damned regular officer?”

“No, reserve.”

“I thought so—you don’t have that blank look. These regular military men have been slopping it up at the public trough for so long that they can’t use their heads for anything but eating. All they know is a thousand reasons why nothing can be done. Those bastards are fighting the war so they can get a damn pension and all they think about is staying out of trouble. The letter of the law I don’t give a damn about. I would like to win this war and go home.”

“So would I.”

“All right. If we follow the letter of the law, we’ll screw around here for God knows how many days or weeks, trying to get rid of that gas so work can begin and in the end it will all be dumped in the desert, even though gas is rationed around here stricter than booze. If we use some brains and initiative, we can get rid of that gas right now. It may be called the black market, but it will put that gas into the tanks of cars, not into sand. Beyond that, we’ll get money that will help our guys to live in a way they damn well deserve. These could easily turn out to be our last damn days on earth—”

“You make a case, Mr. Buller. What are the odds of our being caught?”

“No chance! The Aussies in this yard understand the situation—maybe that’s why no truck ever comes from the government. No one really likes waste and everybody likes money. For a few pounds the kangaroos won’t report anything. Hell, the boys will probably help us load the truck.”

“Okay, go ahead with this plan, but I want the money strictly accounted for and put in a ship’s welfare fund. We’ll keep the whole thing as legal as possible in case we get caught.”

“There’s only one catch. That bastard Simpson will write headquarters. He told me he would.”

“Please ask him to come in.”

Buller left and a few moments later Simpson appeared.

“Sit down, Mr. Simpson,” Syl began. “It looks like we’ve got a real dilemma here.”

“Yes sir. I’m sorry to hit you with it the minute you get aboard.”

“It can’t be delayed. The way I see the situation, we can follow the letter of the law, which will result in delay and incredible waste, or we can follow the spirit of the law and get quick action with considerable side benefits for the men.”

“Sir, I’m a simple man,” Simpson said. “I didn’t go to college, like Mr. Buller and I’m sure you did. All I got to go by is the Bible and the book of regulations. I’ve gone by one of those books or the other all my life. I can’t stop now.”

“If I looked through the Bible long enough, Mr. Simpson, I’m sure I could find a passage which would justify our attempt to live by the spirit, not the letter of the law. I also don’t know of any regulation which deals with a situation quite like this.”

“Thou shalt not steal,” Simpson said.

“Also, thou shalt not kill, but we still have to fight a war.”

“I interpret that to mean that we can defend our country, we can act as the good right arm of the Lord and smite our enemies with righteous wrath. I’ve thought about that a lot.”

“I’m sure. Mr. Simpson, I believe that the regulations permit the sale of surplus government property which has been declared unfit for use and they also permit money to be raised in various ways for a ship’s welfare fund. I will make sure that no officer aboard this ship makes personal profit from selling gas. Every penny will be accounted for. Ultimately the decision of what to do about our cargo is mine. I am doing what I think is right, and also what’s best for the war effort, which you care about. After thinking it over, I’ve decided to let Mr. Buller go ahead with his plan. I ask your cooperation and I at least expect no opposition.”

“I can’t give you an answer on that right now, sir. I’ll have to see what the Lord wants me to do.”

Jesus, Syl thought. This guy means it. “I have great confidence that the Lord will steer you right,” Syl said. “Now, do they have any hot coffee in the wardroom?”

“Just cold food, sir. With the gas leaking into the bilges, I’ve ordered the galley range secured until we’re steamed out.”

“The men have just been eating cold food? How long have you been here?”

“About two weeks, sir. The skeleton crew rented an apartment ashore with the money they got selling gas. They eat there.”

“I think I’ll go ashore for a bite myself. Will you make sure that some officer stays aboard?”

“I’ll be here myself, sir. I hardly ever go ashore. Things are kind of wild out there. Brisbane is not exactly a God-fearing city.”

“So I hear,” Syl said with a straight face. “Pray for me, Mr. Simpson.”

Simpson left. While Syl was washing his hands in the cramped head adjoining his cabin, he heard a gentle rap at his door. A dapper white-haired man stood there. His sleeves bore the two gold stripes of a full lieutenant, but he looked dignified enough to be an admiral.

“Hope I’m not bothering you, sir,” he said. “I’m Charlie Wydanski, the engineer. Mr. Simpson said you might like to see me.”

“Come in, Mr. Wydanski. Sit down.”

Syl tried to tell himself that first impressions did not always mean too much, but he had begun by disliking Simpson and feeling in danger of being overpowered by Buller. It was a relief to meet an officer he instinctively liked on sight.

“I’m glad to see you’ve come aboard, sir,” Wydanski said. “I wish we could have had the ship cleaned up better.”

“The crew can’t do much until the yard gets to work.”

“I wish I could report to you that the engine is in good shape, but to tell the truth, I don’t know how many hours we’ve got left in it. Either the old crew didn’t keep an engine room log or it’s been lost. We don’t have hardly any spare parts or tools.”

“It’s the old story, I guess. We’ll have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.”

“A gas tanker should have bronze wrenches—there are lots of times when you don’t want to make sparks. I think somebody must have taken ours ashore and hocked them. We have to work with taped wrenches and that ain’t easy or safe.”

“Tell Mr. Buller to try to get some bronze wrenches. He’s the supply officer.”

“There’s not much chance out here, but we may trade some off the merchant tankers when we get going. I can say that we’ve got some good machinist’s mates. The boys are better than I expected.”

“That’s good news.”

“I can’t complain anyway,” Wydanski said. “I volunteered for this duty.”

“Did you know what you were getting in for?”

“You mean all that scuttlebutt about our job being to supply advance air bases?”

“I’m not sure it’s all scuttlebutt.”

“Sir, I figure that the army and navy both know that a gas tanker has to be kept out of combat. It was just an accident that this one got hit. They say that lightning never strikes in the same place twice.”

“So they do.”

“Frankly, it ain’t combat that scares me. They’ve lost a lot of these little tankers but it wasn’t the Japs which blew them up—it was their own crews.”

“Oh?”

“All it takes is a cigarette in the wrong place, a spark from the galley range or a spark from a tool. I guess you know that when we’re loading or unloading, we displace a lot of gas fumes and they can settle all around us. Sometimes a nail in a man’s shoe on a steel deck can make a spark and that can be enough.”

“I guess we’ll have to have shoe inspection.”

“The main danger on a gas tanker, sir, is smoking. Also drinking, because men who drink smoke, and they don’t care much where. When the men first come aboard, they’re usually careful, but after a while they get used to the danger and start forgetting about it. On a ship like this, discipline is always the main problem.”

“You’ve served on tankers before?”

“Big ones way back in the First World War. I’ve been on the beach ever since, but I remember the need for safety regulations.”

“We’ll enforce them here.”

There was another knock on the door.

“Captain, would you like me to muster the men for reading your orders?” Simpson said. “All hands are now aboard.”

“I was going to go ashore for a bite to eat.”

“It’s just that the old hands might not be sure now who’s in charge, you or me,” Simpson continued. “Especially since you’re having to make decisions right away, they should know who their captain is.”

“All right, Mr. Simpson, muster the men.”

“They should be given a chance to get dressed proper, sir. Can you give them half an hour?”

Worries about dress aboard this rusty wreck seemed surrealistic to Syl, but he said, “All right. While the men are getting ready, I’d like to talk to all the officers in the wardroom.”

“Right away, sir.”

The four officers of the Y-18 crowded the little wardroom. Buller sat with his elbows on the table, his massive body filling one bench. Syl felt more the actor than ever as he sat down at the head of the table and began.

“Gentlemen, it looks like we’ve got quite a job to do,” he said with a smile. “I think we should start by learning a little about each other. My name’s Syl Grant. I got my training in the ROTC course at Columbia College just before the war. All my life I’ve fooled around small boats and I transferred from the navy to the Coast Guard because I figured the Coast Guard would give me a better chance to serve aboard small ships. I didn’t want to wind up a bellboy aboard an aircraft carrier, and it looks now as though there’s not much danger of that.”

He paused, and the others grinned.

“My first duty was aboard the cutter Modoc on the Greenland Patrol. I went from there to exec and then skipper of a subchaser on North Atlantic Patrol. Next they gave me an FS, an army freighter about the size of this vessel. I took her from California to New Guinea and there you might say I fouled up.”

“How?” Buller said, sounding surprised.

“I got in a little argument with an army colonel and that’s a no-no, no matter who’s right. In brief, he loaded my holds with ammo and put two hundred troops on my decks—that’s not exactly regulation procedure right there. I didn’t even have tarps to cover the troops and no boats for them in case of trouble. Our clutches were bad—we had just limped into port. So when the colonel ordered me to take those troops up to Puna, I refused to sail on the grounds that the ship was not ready for sea. I was right, even legally, but the colonel had me transferred ashore and told my exec to sail.”

“What happened?” Buller asked.

“He got there all right, although he had to limp along on one engine and those troops had to spend a bad week. To tell the truth, the whole thing made me look kind of silly, even though Commander Benson took my side. I don’t know whether I got sent to this tanker for punishment or just because I happened to be available, but in any case I’m glad to be aboard a ship again and I think we can make this into a good little vessel.”

“It will take work, but it’s possible,” Wydanski said.

“Before we got hit, she wasn’t bad,” Simpson said.

“All right, Mr. Simpson, maybe you can now tell us a little about yourself.”

“I’ve put in my twenty years and would have retired if it hadn’t been for the Japs,” Simpson said. “I was a chief quartermaster. Just about all my time was spent at sea on everything from picket boats to buoy tenders and the big cutters. I go back to Prohibition days. In them years we really had a war on our hands.”

“How long have you served on this vessel?” Syl asked.

“About two years, since we left ’Frisco.”

“I know you were aboard when this ship was hit. Could you tell us a little about that?”

“It was off Biak—no one expected any trouble. This Jap Betty plane was after a carrier that just happened to pass near us. He dropped his bombs on the flattop. He only got one hit and that didn’t do a lot of damage. The gunners on the flattop hit him and he was trailing smoke when he saw us and decided to crash dive. We were lucky he wasn’t carrying any more bombs and that he hit the pilothouse, not the tanks.”

“Why didn’t the fire spread to the tanks?” Syl asked.

“We were lucky there too. One of the tin cans that had been escorting the carrier came right alongside and smothered us in foam. Our own hoses never could have handled it.”

“You were lucky, all right,” Syl said.

“Yeah, except for the skipper, the ensign and the whole bridge gang. They never got out of the pilothouse. I would have been there too, but I’d just come off watch and I was down in the cabin, asleep. I guess God figured it just wasn’t my time to die.”

“Apparently,” Syl said. “Now, Mr. Wydanski, how about you?”

“I was Merchant Marine in the First World War and served as engineer on big tankers,” Wydanski said. “Later I went to work running generator plants ashore. When the war began, my feet started getting itchy. I was overage and my blood pressure acts up sometimes, so I had to get waivers, but the Coast Guard finally took me and here I am. This is the first time I’ve been to sea in about twenty-five years, but I know diesels and think I can do my share.”

“I’m sure you can,” Syl said. “Now Mr. Buller …”

“Hell, I’m an oil man, not a sailor,” Buller began. “Oil is an essential industry and I was making so much money that I had no damn desire at all to be a hero, but then the chairman of my draft board got a wild hair and they was about to draft my ass into the army. I figured the Coast Guard would be better than that, so I finagled around and got myself a commission on the grounds that since I’m a damn good oil surveyor, I must know navigation. I know diesels and pumps too—there’s not much about an oil rig I can’t fix, but I didn’t want to get stuck in no engine room, so I’m a deck officer.”

“Have you had any sea duty at all?” Syl asked.

“Three months on the damn buoy tender that brought me out here. She was run by a bunch of meathead Academy boys and I didn’t get on with them too well. I asked to get off and I was in the transient officers’ camp in Milne Bay until they sent me here.”

“How did you get to be an oil man?” Syl asked.

“Hell, I’m from Louisiana bayou country, where the oil squeezes up between your toes when you walk. I’d still be barefoot if I hadn’t played football in high school. That got me a scholarship to Tulane where I had the smarts to learn everything I could about oil. Later I played pro ball till I got me a stake and dug my first well. I’m a wildcatter. I was making fifty grand a year before Uncle Sam put his arm on me.”

“Impressive, Mr. Buller. Now, I’m not going to give any of you any sage wisdom or advice. I am very much aware that I’m only twenty-four years old, by far the youngest officer here, but I’ve spent the last three years at sea, most of that time in command of small ships. Commanding a ship is a job no one can do exactly right. You all know what has to be done in your areas and I’ll try to stay off your backs as much as I can. I’m under no illusion that I know more than I do know and God knows I’ll welcome all the help you can give me. Thanks for your attention.”

“I’ll go see if the men are ready for muster now,” Simpson said.

“Give me about five minutes,” Syl told him. “I’ll be in my cabin.”

An actor needs to catch a few minutes between acts, he reflected as he sponged off his face with a towel dipped in lukewarm water from the tap. He wished he did not have this feeling that he was acting so much of the time. “Just be yourself,” his mother had often told him, but the last true self he remembered had been a college boy. He could not come aboard this ship in gray flannel slacks and a tweed sports jacket to be himself when he took command.

Sometimes he liked to imagine it was his college boy self that had been a role circumstances had forced him to play and that he really had been born to be the captain of a ship. His mother’s brother and father had been regular naval officers and his father had commanded a subchaser in World War One before starting his career as a history professor. His mother had said that the ghosts of many sailors roosted in his family tree, maybe dating from way back in the Viking days. Sometimes it helped him to believe that the sea was in his blood. In his heart he felt that all this family tradition was mostly bullshit, but on the days when he could take it seriously, it probably improved his skipper act. Now what in the hell was he supposed to tell the poor damned enlisted men who found themselves aboard this desperate rust bucket?

“Captain, the men are mustered on the tank deck,” Simpson said at the door.

“Very well.”

Putting his cap firm on his head, Syl squared his shoulders and walked briskly after his executive officer. The crew was lined up in a double row on the deck. Cramer and Wydanski stood a little to one side, but Buller was not in sight. The men stood at ease, looking dejected as they stared at their feet or the rusty decks. Their caps were on straight and their cuffs were buttoned, but their uniforms were already streaked with rust and soot.

“Attention!” Simpson barked, and as the men stiffened up he did a smart about-face and stood facing Syl in front of them.

“At ease,” Syl said after waiting a fraction of a second. “My name is Syl Grant. I shall read you my orders.”

Taking a piece of mimeographed paper from his inside coat pocket, he unfolded it and read, “To Sylvester G. Grant, Lieutenant, U.S. Coast Guard Reserve, from U.S. Coast Guard Army Manning Detachment, Milne Bay, New Guinea. You shall proceed immediately to Brisbane, Australia, where you will report aboard the tanker, U.S. Army Y-18 and assume command as soon as possible …”

He paused, put the paper back in his pocket and cleared his throat.

“If you expect a pep talk from me, you’re going to be disappointed,” he said. “I don’t like this ship any more than you do, but we got her and we better make the most of her.

“First let me do a little bragging. As you can all see, I’m not exactly the old man of the sea. If I was in the army, they’d probably call me a shave-tail lieutenant, but I’ve been at sea about three years and this is my third command. I’m proud, even cocky about one thing: no man was ever killed or seriously injured aboard my subchaser in the North Atlantic or on the freighter I brought out here from California. Most of that safety record was luck and the grace of God, of course, but some of it was my hard work. My main ambition is to finish this war with the same record: I want no man aboard this ship ever to be killed or injured and I’ll do anything in my power to prevent that, even if I have to be a son of a bitch.”

He paused and the men stared at him seriously, their faces tense.

“One reason I intend to enforce safety regulations strictly aboard this ship is that if she goes, we all go, including me,” he said. “I got a pretty wife waiting for me at home and I want to get back to her. So don’t mess me up just because you want a cigarette. I’m fighting for my life and so are you.”

He paused and took a deep breath before adding, “Don’t get too discouraged. Gasoline has been transported all over the world for years and years in war and peace, usually without disaster. That’s because most tanker men learn their business and those who don’t learn don’t last long. They lose their jobs and any man who’s careless can lose his job here. Don’t think you can’t be transferred to a worse job than this one. I don’t know what the hell it would be, maybe a trawler in Greenland or some damn radio station lost in the tundra of Alaska, but the personnel officer told me he plans to make an example of anyone who fouls up on a gas tanker. He’ll find something rotten for any guy who’s transferred off of here. You can take my word for it.

“On the other hand we can make this ship a bearable place to live. We won’t be bored to death—I imagine we’ll see a good deal of the South Pacific. Like I said, I’m going to bear down hard on safety procedures, but I’ll try to use common sense about enforcing most regulations on a small ship like this. We won’t try to make her spit and polish, but we’ll try to make her clean and efficient.

“Now there’s no need to worry too much about enemy action. It’s the job of the army and navy to keep gas tankers out of combat. The plane that hit this one was crashing anyway and picked this target instead of the sea. One protection this ship has is that she looks so small, so insignificant that I doubt she’ll ever be a primary target for any Jap.

“But don’t think we really are unimportant. The war in the Pacific is largely an air war. Planes can’t fly without gas, and that’s where we come in. Humble this ship may look, but no one in this war is more important than the sailors who bring the gas to the planes. You can’t have a party without booze, you can’t have a war without gas.”

The men seemed to like that.

“Our importance is increased by the fact that the army is short of these tankers,” Syl continued. “They need us soon and they need us bad. I’ll kid you not: one reason there’s a shortage of tankers is because so many have blown up. The enemy did not sink them—so far as I know, this is the only army tanker which ever has been hit by a plane. Those tankers were blown up by their own crews. After a few months, those men got used to carrying gasoline. They forgot how dangerous it is and after a while somebody struck a match in the wrong place …”

Syl was suddenly aware that he was losing the attention of the men. Turning, he saw Buller amble out from the deckhouse. The big man was wearing fresh khakis, but he had topped them with a huge white cowboy hat.

“Sorry to be late, skipper,” he said, “but I got caught in the head. Some things just can’t wait.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Buller. I was explaining the need to observe safety regulations. You’re an oil man. I take it that you know that gasoline can explode.”

“It sure can if you don’t treat it right.”

“There you have it. Thanks for your attention, men. We can make this a good ship if we all work together. I have asked Mr. Simpson to grant liberty to all but a duty section. Dismissed!”

Turning on his heel, Syl strode to his cabin. His performance had left him feeling curiously exhausted and he wanted a few minutes to be alone, but Simpson followed him.

“Captain,” Simpson said, “do I have your permission to talk to Mr. Buller about his hat? I told all hands, including him, that they had to be in uniform for muster.”

“Now now, Mr. Simpson.”

“If I may say so, sir, we have to nip this kind of thing in the bud. Mr. Buller’s whole manner is insubordinate—”

“Your timing isn’t good, Mr. Simpson. Let me work things out with Mr. Buller in my own way. Right now I want to be alone.”

“Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this is my cabin too. I was going to lie down.”

“Do as you please, Mr. Simpson,” Syl said, turned and strode to the bridge. Living in that cabin with Simpson would be hard enough in the years ahead without starting the torture any sooner than necessary. Right now he craved a few minutes of solitude, even if it could be found only in the nearest bar. The men who had arrived with him were already rushing ashore to explore the city. This was a time for him to be a follower.