CHAPTER 30

AFTER BULLER LEFT Syl lay staring up into the darkness, exhausted but unable to stop his mind from racing. Sweat drenched his clothes as he turned over and coughed more painfully than ever. He’d never voluntarily leave his command … he was no hero but he was no damn malingerer either … God, his forehead felt hot. He wondered how much truth there was in the theory that said the subconscious mind ruled a man. If he wanted to get sick bad enough, would his body oblige …?

He felt ashamed of himself without having committed any crime. He was still sweating and tossing fitfully when Simpson came in.

“That’s a bad cough you have, skipper,” Simpson said. “You should do something about it. We don’t want you sick at sea—”

“Mr. Simpson,” he said suddenly, “has Mr. Buller by any chance talked to you about his crazy scheme for selling gas?”

There was a moment of silence while Simpson put his Bible down.

“Not straight out … just about what he calls theoretical possibilities …”

“If I do get so sick I have to check into a hospital, what would you do about his theoretical possibilities?”

“I’d give him enough rope and then I’d hang him.”

“How do you mean?”

“You can’t court-martial a man for talking about possibilities. I’d just keep quiet till I could catch him actually stealing gas. Then I’d come down on him with the whole book.”

“He’d have to have some of the men working with him.”

“I’d hang the bunch of ’em.”

“I guess that would be one way to handle it.” Syl tried to think what would happen. If Buller had the support of most of the men and Simpson tried to hang the whole bunch, the tensions aboard ship would boil over. Maybe Simpson would call the army in to arrest Buller and the men working with him. But did the crew of the Y-18, his crew, deserve to go home in disgrace and maybe do time for following a man like Buller?

Syl’s head throbbed so hard that none of his thoughts came straight anymore. He felt he was needed to keep the lid on the Y-18, but he couldn’t help the fantasies that came … He imagined himself getting aboard the toy train that had taken Willis to Manila … no reason to assume it would have to be a one-way trip for him … the doctors in Manila would give him a few pills and send him back to duty. Fine, but there was only one train a day to San Fernando and he would have to spend the night in Manila and what more natural than dropping in to visit that girl … Mary O’Brian … what a name for an Oriental … He’d thought about her more than once since leaving Manila. Her quick smile, delicate figure like a Dresden figurine, her hand holding the jade bracelet he’d bought for Sally … when he took the bracelet from his desk drawer now to examine it he thought about Mary O’Brian’s hand more than Sally’s … When he held the bracelet close to his nose he caught a slight fragrance of sandalwood, or maybe some exotic perfume Mary had worn with it. The bracelet was like her, slender and elegant …

Buller … spoiler of dreams and damn near everything else … had said she was only a whore, or some Jap officer’s mistress. Maybe she’d been beaten up and her restaurant wrecked by her own countrymen—the Filipinos, he’d heard, had roamed Manila punishing people accused of collaborating with the Japs while the Americans were still fighting for the city. Maybe the jewelry she’d sold had been gifts from her Jap colonel, part of what the Japs had stolen when they ransacked Manila during their occupation. All right, that was the worse interpretation to put on her, but suppose it was true … she must have been very young when the Japs arrived three years ago. She looked less than twenty now, she might have been only fifteen or sixteen when the Jap tanks rolled into her city. What was it like for a young girl like that to see them arrive at her front door? Since she was half-American, she must have felt in special danger. The Japs had raped nuns, why would she be different? Maybe some officer who’d caught a glimpse of that chiseled ivorylike face and adolescent figure had decided to save her from his troops and set her up in an apartment … for himself, of course … all right, and maybe she’d been grateful to him for saving her life … even loved him a little, or thought she did. Her mother’s restaurant apparently had continued to operate until the Americans arrived, which would indicate some special influence, protection … Syl couldn’t hate her for it. Her only other choices would have been to get killed or join the guerrillas who went on fighting the Japs in the hills. But remember, she was only fifteen, maybe less …

Having invented a past for Mary, Syl now began to consider her present and future. Although he remembered that she apparently had been worried about getting a license to reopen a restaurant that had served the Japanese, he was pretty sure the authorities would forgive her as soon as all the hysteria had died down and they found out her real story … Now she was probably trying to clear away the wreckage and fix the place up, using the money she’d gotten for the jewelry. She’d called him and the others her “good luck,” and if he dropped in to visit her, well, who knew what could happen? By now her arm and all her bruises must be healed. He could imagine her in a white silk dress with her long black hair shining …

Maybe she’d like to get away from Manila, get away with him. He had the sudden image of her sitting at the wheel of a red-sailed ketch sailing with him for Europe, the land of the Vikings … Crazy … the fever must really be getting to him …

For nearly a week his illness refused to get either better or worse. His cough and the chills continued, but his temperature hovered around a hundred degrees, hardly enough to send him off to a hospital. The atmosphere aboard the Y-18 grew increasingly intense during the oppressive routine of the shuttle run. Syl could not imagine it getting worse, but it did.

Three new crises were precipitated by the arrival of a truckload of mail sacks, the first letters the crew had received since Tacloban and the first official mail in weeks. They were brought aboard by Wydanski, who prowled every post office ashore, hoping for missives from his Mildred back in Brisbane.

The first official letter Syl opened looked like good news: he had been awarded the Navy Cross for his ship’s rescue of the crew of the Merchant Prince. But it was bad news that the other officers of the ship had received only letters of commendation and that the crew had received nothing.

Buller was heard from.

“I supported you about going alongside,” he howled, seeing future votes going down the drain.

“I won’t argue that, you deserve the damn medal and so does every man and officer aboard this ship.”

“But they’ve commended old Simp, who wanted to cut and run. They’ve even commended that crazy Polack who was down in the engine room and didn’t even know what was happening.

“Listen Buller, it takes guts to stay down there.

And the men get fuck all—”

“I said, I agree with you. It’s stupid and snobbish, but they always give the medal to the CO.”

Simpson entered the wardroom just then. Buller turned on him.

“You argued against the rescue. How can you put a letter of commendation in your file?”

“I was there,” Simpson said with a shrug, and walked out with his letter.

Even the soon-discovered fact that he was the only officer of the Y-18 to receive a promotion in that mail did not appease Buller, but it increased some of the tensions.

“Okay, now I’m a lieutenant junior grade,” he said to Syl. “Does that mean I could command this ship?”

“A lot of JG’s go as skippers.”

“Then if you go to the damn hospital where you belong, skipper, how about taking old Simp with you and giving the ship to someone who can handle it?”

Buller the Subtle … “Do you really think I have that kind of authority?”

“You could recommend me for the job and tell the truth about old Simp. The crew hates him. If you was to hold an election for captain I’d win hands down.”

“If you took command you’d open a service station with a big sign reading Gas For Sale.”

“That would be none of your business. At least I’d take care of my men, which, sir, is more than you can say—”

“Mr. Buller, you make me sick,” and then he lapsed into a fit of coughing, a fitting if involuntary accompaniment to what he felt.

He went off to his cabin. Simpson was at the desk reading his Bible.

“I hear Mr. Buller made JG.”

“That’s right.”

“That would put him in line for skipper if I wasn’t here.”

“In theory.”

“You know what he’d do?”

“I just told him.”

“Skipper, I’ll never leave this ship without putting him up for theft. He’s been talking to the men about it. I know two who would testify to that under oath—”

“Mr. Simpson, let’s try to finish this war without putting each other in jail.”

“I don’t do it unless I have to, but if anything ever happens and I get transferred I won’t let him put this ship on an auction block.”

“Mr. Buller is mostly talk,” Syl said, lying down. “He won’t do a damn thing if we keep the lid on.”

An hour later Syl forced himself to return to the official mail. The next letter he opened was from the military police in Manila. Willis had been released from the hospital two weeks ago with orders to return to his ship. He had recently been picked up on the streets of Manila for being absent without leave and was being held in the brig. What action did the CO of the Y-18 recommend?

Goddamn it … the man should be released and sent to a bigger ship, but he was sure the authorities would want the Y-18 to take back and punish her own. The idea of bringing Willis back aboard to Cramer and the others was a terrible one … both for Willis’s sake and the whole ship’s. He would have to go to Manila, try to straighten this out personally. And at the same time he could get some pills for his damned cough. Buller and Simpson would be at each other’s throats if anything happened to him. He’d better get himself healthy …

He threw some overnight supplies into a ditty bag. If he hurried he could catch the morning train, which was always late anyway, and be back the next day. He wouldn’t even check into a hospital where they might order him to bed. There had to be some navy sick bay or dispensary where he could just stop in and see a doctor who’d understand his responsibilities as the captain of a ship. Of course he’d get a chance to stop in and see Mary, but it was time to forget all those fantasies about her. A girl like that would have already hooked up with somebody, maybe an American officer who would protect her … he’d be lucky if she gave him a free drink. She sure as hell was not the reason he was taking this trip to Manila.

Simpson said nothing as Syl, between coughs, briefed him.

“Captain, what are you going to do if they do stick you into a hospital?”

“I won’t let them, I don’t have a fever—”

“Have you taken it lately? Your face is mighty flushed.”

“My fever’s always the same, about a hundred degrees, big deal …”

“But what are we going to do if you have to be hospitalized? You can’t go to sea with a high fever.”

“They’ll make you acting CO until I get back.”

“What if we have to sail and you get transferred? … What kind of recommendation would you give me?”

“Mr. Simpson, you’re a good officer, you know the job, but you better learn to get on better with the men.”

“That’s been said about me before. They never give me a chance to run a ship my own way—”

“I’ll recommend you if it comes to that, but it won’t because—”

“Good. I ain’t going to say thanks, because I know what I deserve. Nobody’s worked harder for this ship.”

“I wouldn’t deny that.”

“If you do go, try to get them to transfer Mr. Buller. I don’t want him here. Tell them to send me a boot ensign. Anyone honest would be better than him—”

Buller himself knocked hard at the door, interrupting, to Syl’s relief, the exchange with Simpson.

“What is it, Mr. Buller?”

“It’s Wydanski. He got a Dear John letter from that broad in Brisbane. I’m worried about him.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s just lying in his bunk staring at the overhead. He looks like a damn corpse.”

“I’ll go see him.”

Wydanski did indeed look dead as he lay stiff on his back, his atabrine-yellowed face incongruously pale, his eyes staring.

“I’m sorry about your bad news …”

“I guess it was in the cards.” Wydanski’s voice sounded normal. “No fool like an old fool …”

“Look … I’ve got to go to Manila. Want to go with me? You can look for engine parts. A night on the town might do you good.”

“No, I guess I’ve had about all the nights on the town I want …”

His breathing seemed labored, and despite his controlled voice, his appearance alarmed Syl.

“I’m going to stop into a sick bay for some pills for my damn cough. You’ve been out here a long time. Why don’t you come with me and have the doc check you over?”

“Hell, he might send me home”—Wydanski managed a weak laugh—“I’ve already asked my wife for a divorce.”

“If you’re sick you could get thirty days leave and spend it anywhere you want—”

“No, forget it, skipper. I’m just right for this ship. We deserve each other.”

“I still think you ought to have a doctor check you over.”

“Do you think I’m nuts, skipper? Do you think I’m ready for a Section Eight?”

“No, hell no … never entered my mind, but you’ve had a shock and you’ve been through a hell of a lot. You’re not as young as some of the rest of us—”

“Hell, I’m a tough old bird, and there’s nothing ashore I want. You won’t find anybody who’ll keep your engines running better. I may be nothing but a crazy old Polack, but I’m still a country fair engineer. I still got that.”

Syl wanted to tell him he was a damned fine engineer, but before he could say anything he was overwhelmed by a racking paroxysm of coughing. It doubled him up as he sank into the desk chair. He felt so dizzy that he could hardly stagger to the head, where the vomiting started. Afterward he felt weak but strangely clear-headed. Hanging onto the sink, he suddenly saw himself in the mirror, haggard, hollow-eyed, a man who probably had no right to command a ship. Thinking of Wydanski, lying like a corpse on his bunk, of Buller, who wanted only to steal gas or sabotage the vessel, and of Simpson, who was willing to send half the crew to jail, he felt a rush of compassion for the men in the forecastle who had to depend on such officers for their survival. God help them …

He walked shakily to his own stateroom and stood looking out the porthole at the rusty tank deck. Even if she had good officers, what kind of a ship was this to send to Okinawa? With a hull so limber that it flexed like rubber in any kind of a seaway and a Diesel that had not had a major overhaul in God knew how many thousands of miles, such a vessel could never survive an ordinarily bad blow at sea, nevermind a typhoon or attacks by suicide planes. What right did the United States government have to send men to sea aboard such a wreck, especially when it looked like the war was coming to an end?

Simpson came in. He wouldn’t give up. He wanted command, for God and country … and no doubt in that order.

“Skipper, you really look sick, you shouldn’t mess around with whatever you’ve got anymore. You really should go to a hospital—”

“What I really should do is declare this ship unfit for sea.”

“She’s not. She’s seaworthy if she’s handled right.”

“Not for any long voyages. If they don’t have the brains to junk her they should keep her right here in Lingayen Gulf.”

“I can take her anywhere—”

“If you try to take her to Okinawa, you’re a fool. God, they say, doesn’t suffer fools too well.”

“Captain, when you check into a hospital, that decision will be up to me. And I think I know my God better than you do.”

“I’m sure you do,” Syl said with a weary shrug.

“And I will do my duty. God’s will be done …”

“Maybe so, but I’m going to try to get them to condemn the ship anyway, Mr. Simpson. If they don’t pay any attention to me, maybe you’ll get your way …”

Picking up a small satchel he had packed clothes in for only an overnight absence, Syl walked to the rail and weakly climbed into the motorboat tied alongside. As Cramer took him ashore he sat staring at the Y-18, her rusty hull more red than green now, more battered-looking than some of the Japanese wrecks. Seized by another fit of coughing, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, the boat had carried him around a point of land to the wharf where he could no longer see the old tanker. For a moment he had the sinking feeling that he would never see her again but then told himself to snap out of it … He would be sent back to the ship the next day with a pocket full of pills and orders to sail the old tanker as long as she stayed afloat. Which was okay. It was, after all, his job.

The day Syl left the Y-18 to go to Manila was April 1, 1945. He was aware that this was both Easter Sunday and April Fool’s Day, a strange combination, but he did not know that the long-rumored American invasion of Okinawa had just started. He heard that news on the train about two hours later from some American soldiers who had just boarded.

“This is going to be a tough one,” a sergeant said. “Every mile we get closer to Japan those bastards are going to fight harder. The one advantage they got over us is that they don’t mind dyin’.”

Syl coughed and felt dizzy. When he glanced down at his own hand, he thought of the dead, charred fingers hanging from the Japanese tank he had seen in Manila. He quickly doubled up his fists, stuck them in his pockets.

How long would it be before the Y-18 got orders to move up?

As soon as the army took airfields there would be a pressing need for tankers and there never seemed to be enough of them. The Y-18 was lucky to have missed the first convoys, but Syl was sure she would not be kept waiting long.

Well, at least he had one night in Manila ahead of him, maybe his last night on the town. He told himself not to expect an almost perfect stranger like Mary O’Brian to understand his need. His sense of urgency. When he saw her she’d probably just say she had a date, or maybe she wouldn’t be there at all. On the other hand, if she remembered that she had called him her “good luck” and if his own luck was with him …

Coughing made him feel strangled. He felt so weak that he sat with his forehead resting on the back of the seat ahead of him, the way Sally had often prayed in church, an image that startled him. Suddenly he was overcome by a sense of his own absurdity. Now he was so weak that he could hardly sit straight, coughing so hard that he felt about to choke. And yet at the same time he was still actually hoping to play out some great romantic scene with Miss Mary O’Brian …

When the train made one of its unnumerable stops, an old woman with a big basket walked down the aisle, selling pints of “MacArthur whiskey.” He bought one, swigged it. The raw alcohol burned his sore throat but at least gave him an illusion of strength. The train was getting very crowded now. More soldiers, Philippine and American, kept getting on at every stop, filling every seat and standing in the aisle. When Syl found it necessary to go to the men’s room a swarthy sergeant immediately took his seat and stared a drop-dead stare at him when he returned. In no mood for an argument Syl walked down the aisle, steadying himself on the backs of the seats as the train swayed around turns. His legs felt frighteningly limp. When he found an unoccupied corner he sat down on the floor and leaned forward with his head on his knees as the coughing started again. More whiskey seemed to help stop the coughing some, but the idea of arriving in Manila both sick and drunk scared him. Before he could drink any more he handed the bottle to an American corporal on the nearest seat and waved it away when the man tried to give it back after a few pulls. His brain was already numb. It was strange to find how comfortable the hard boards felt, how easy it was to sleep sitting with his chin supported by his hands, his elbows on his knees like that old statue of “The Thinker” while his head felt as empty as a balloon …

When the train finally reached Manila, the loud bustle woke him up. Trying to gather the strength to stand, he finally realized how sick he really was. He was so weak he knew he ought to go to a hospital but was not clear about where to find one. He worried that he’d miss getting to have the ship declared unseaworthy, and then she’d probably be ordered to Okinawa within a few days … And he should do something about Willis …

The first thing he’d better do was to find Coast Guard headquarters in Manila. The detachment commander ought to be able to help him … On the crowded street outside the railroad station he was grateful to find a taxi with an English-speaking driver who said he could find the Coast Guard office even though he did not know where it was. The soft back seat of the shabby car felt incredibly good as he sank into it …

The Coast Guard office looked oddly like those in the States, with crisply uniformed yeomen typing at metal desks. The trim chief petty officer Syl approached all but sniffed at this disreputable-appearing lieutenant.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I want to see the commander.”

“He’s busy right now. Your name, sir?”

Syl’s drooping figure straightened a little. “Lieutenant Sylvester G. Grant, commanding officer of the Y-18. I have some important business …”

“Sit down, sir,” the chief said, waving toward a folding metal chair. “I’ll tell Commander Patterson.”

Waiting, Syl almost fell asleep again in the thinking man’s position. When he finally was called and followed the chief yeoman to the commander’s office, he felt like a schoolboy on the way to see the principal. He brushed at his soiled uniform and smoothed back his sweat-soaked hair.

In fact, Commander Patterson looked more like a schoolmaster than a military officer. He was a thin man old enough to be Syl’s father, with a craggy face and steel-rimmed glasses under shaggy white eyebrows. His voice was so deep it reminded Syl of Mostell’s.

“Sit down, captain,” he rumbled, gesturing toward a tin chair. “You look like you’ve been having a bad time.”

Sympathy was the last thing Syl had expected. Or wanted. It had the curious effect of making him choke up and he had a horrified image of himself breaking into tears as he sank onto the chair. He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid I’m coming down with some damn thing, commander …”

“I can see that. You better check right into the hospital.”

“There are a lot of problems that have to be handled first—”

“Do you have a good executive officer?”

“Sir, that’s a long story. For now, I just want to declare the Y-18 unfit for sea. The hull, the engine, the officers and the men are all unfit for sea …”

Syl wanted to explain this but he was overcome by coughing. Cramming a dirty handkerchief to his mouth he doubled up, his head almost hitting on his knees. Afterward he could not collect his thoughts and there was a long moment of silence while Commander Patterson sat staring out the window.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Syl finally gasped.

“Can I get you a drink of water?”

“No, sir, not now.”

“Our first problem is to replace you. What’s wrong with your executive officer?”

“Sir, he’s an old mustang and he’s capable enough, but he can’t handle the men—”

“Simpson, an old chief quartermaster? Is that the one?”

“Yes, sir. In many ways he’s a good man—”

“I know him. He can probably take over for a few weeks until you get on your feet.”

“Sir, it’s not just Mr. Simpson. It’s Mr. Buller and—”

“What’s the matter with Mr. Buller?”

If he told the commander that Buller wanted to sell gas or sabotage the ship, full court-martial proceedings would be started, and he didn’t want to put even Buller in jail. Coughing saved him from an immediate reply. Then: “Mr. Buller is a good watch officer, sir, but I can’t recommend him for more responsibility than that. And Mr. Wydanski, our engineer, is sick …”

“All these problems should be left to Mr. Simpson now. I’ll make him temporary commanding officer until you get out of the hospital.”

“Sir, the hull of that ship is weak. She was hit by a suicide plane and beached. The whole damn hull has the bends in any kind of a seaway. She should be hauled and the plates should be tested—”

“We can recommend that to the army, but the ship is scheduled to sail to Okinawa next week.”

“The engine is shot.”

“Have you recommended an overhaul?”

“When I took over the ship I sent in a full report.”

Commander Patterson sighed. “The army is short of tankers. We have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.”

“Sir, the men on that ship have been through a lot. They had all been overseas more than a year before they came aboard. The whole bunch is suffering from combat fatigue. They shouldn’t be told to take that ship to Okinawa.”

“In time of war—”

“Sir, I hear the damn war’s almost over—”

“The Japs don’t seem to know that yet. Captain Grant, I’m afraid it’s first things first.”

“I know, but—”

“The first thing is to get you to a hospital. The next thing is to put Mr. Simpson in charge. All these other problems become his. If he says the ship is unfit for sea, the army will probably ask to have him replaced. Somebody will sail her unless she’s really so bad she has to be hauled right away.”

“Commander, don’t send that ship to Okinawa. If she hits a typhoon—”

“That decision will have to be made by the army and the man in command of the ship. Mr. Grant, do you realize that you just might be too sick to make such decisions? Illness can affect a man’s judgment, you know. I’m not saying anything against you, but many young skippers get to thinking they’re indispensable. Your Mr. Simpson may handle things a lot better than you think.”

“Sir, I am telling you the whole ship is a mess. No one can change that.”

“This war is being won by a lot of messes.”

Syl felt another coughing fit coming on and gritted his teeth. “Sir, I also have a problem here in Manila that should be handled right away.”

“You’re full of problems, Mr. Grant. What is it?”

“I have a man in the brig, I mean in some jail around here …”

“Let Mr. Simpson handle that.”

“Sir, this is complicated. He’s a Negro. He was picked up absent without leave—”

“So hang him. Just like he was white.”

“Sir, the men really drove him off the ship—”

“So hang the ones responsible. We got to go by the regulations on this damned race thing. Anyway, like I said, leave it up to Mr. Simpson.”

Syl doubled over with a new paroxysm of coughing. He was embarrassed as he spat into a dirty handkerchief and finally straightened up.

“I’m sorry …”

“Nothing to be sorry about. You’re sick. How much sea duty do you have?”

“I don’t know, I started out on the Greenland Patrol. February, 1942 …”

“You’ve had a lot of rough duty. You know, young man, sometimes the best of us break down …”

Syl’s throat hurt as he swallowed.

“You’re going to the hospital. No argument. The decision to send you back to your ship can wait till you get on your feet. I’ll have a jeep take you to the hospital. Go on now. That’s an order.”

The commander stood up, smiled with surprising warmth and extended his hand. “Report back here when you’re released. If, as I expect, Mr. Simpson works out, maybe I can find you a new assignment.”

“I should go back, all kinds of trouble …”

“Like I said, we’ll make that decision when you get out of the hospital. Good luck, skipper.”