Pacific Interlude Page 10

  Moody, Angel would surely call him. Maybe so. Was some laughter and high living really so bad for men about to sail on a gas tanker into the invasion of the Philippine Islands?

  Old Wydanski was not feeling so moody. His face was near beatific as he brought two full plates to a table in an uncrowded corner of the living room where his girl sat waiting for him. She was a thin little item in her mid-twenties with long lank brown hair, not the sort who attracted the young sailors, and she looked grateful for the attention of this courtly, rather handsome white-haired lieutenant. Buller had said she was a nurse. Probably Wydanski had escaped from a wife as old as he was. If these two had a few good days and nights together, only the most puritanical could object, but the sight of them leaning toward each other over the table made Syl miss Angel more than ever.

  As more girls arrived, a few bringing Aussie soldiers who accepted drinks but looked as though they wanted to fight the whole American army and navy, the party became more raucous. Wydanski and his girl left, holding hands as they walked across the front porch toward her car. When Buller began to tell a bristling little Aussie sergeant that all the kangaroos ought to be grateful to the Americans for saving them from the Japs, Syl walked out. The house seemed to be getting more explosive than the Y-18 at her worst, and there was no way to steam it out.

  There are going to be brawls, he thought as he walked down a road that felt as familiar as a Connecticut suburb, looking for a place where he could call a taxi. Sooner or later, some of those Aussie soldiers would go out and come back with their mates to clean house. Which was what Buller, Cramer and a few of the others would want when they got tired of the girls. Recruit men to fight and you tended to get a fight. While doing shore patrol duty in Halifax and Sydney in Nova Scotia he had seen the crews of ships waiting to cross the Atlantic attack each other with a ferocity to match what they displayed fighting the Germans.

  So what, Syl thought, should he, the intrepid captain, do about it? Not a damn thing tonight. But sooner or later the combination of booze, women, Americans of different rank and Australian soldiers in that house would be as dangerous as the mix of gas and air aboard a tanker. Someone was sure to strike a spark, MP’s or Navy Shore Police or Aussie cops would arrive by the truckload, and a lot of the men would wind up in the hospital. And he would have let it happen.

  The night was not hot but he began to sweat. Maybe he was just jealous—thinking of spoiling the men’s fun because his own was over. Syl hated his own indecision. A bad choice was better than none—a ship’s captain had to play many parts. More damn roles than most actors—but Hamlet better not be one of them. Tomorrow he would decide to let them party until they sailed or order them into barracks no matter how much they bitched.

  He strode along, the heels of his black jackboots clicking on the pavement. He was Syl Grant the captain of the Y-18, nobody to fuck around with. A role. And the curtain hadn’t even gone up yet—

  “Hey, Yank, do you want a ride?”

  He was surprised by the friendliness of the Australian truck driver who rolled to a stop a few yards ahead of him. He jumped into the cab.

  “Where you headed?”

  “I was looking for a place to call a taxi.”

  “Where to then?”

  He had no idea. His cabin with Simpson aboard ship was out of the question and he could not go back to Angel’s room. What should he do? Knock on her door while she was entertaining her regular chap?

  “The St. George Hotel, I guess,” he said finally.

  Surrounded by laughing couples at the bar of the hotel, Syl still felt like an outsider. After downing two martinis he rented a room and went upstairs for another bath and solitary bed. No question, war was hell was his thought as he looked at the empty room.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE NEXT MORNING Syl arrived aboard ship at a quarter to eight. It was almost nine before Buller and Cramer appeared with the rest of the men in the truck. Syl’s premonitions had been justified. Cramer had a black eye and Buller’s big hands were both puffed. Most of the men looked hung over and sheepish.

  Syl met them at the rail.

  “Mr. Buller, I’d like to see you in my cabin,” he said.

  “Look, skipper, I know we’re a little late, but we had trouble getting the truck started.”

  “Please come to my cabin. Cramer, you too.”

  The chief boatswain’s mate followed the two officers. Simpson, who had kept silent but was steaming about their late arrival, got up from his desk without a word and left.

  “What happened to your eye, chief?” Syl began.

  “I … I don’t remember,” Cramer said. “I guess I took a bad fall—”

  “What happened to your hands, Mr. Buller?”

  “I’m with the chief.”

  “All right, I was a damn fool to let you rent that house and fill it with booze and women. It’s my job now to stop things before this gets worse. Close the place down. I’ll find a barracks for the men until the ship is launched—”

  “You can’t do that,” Buller said, his big face suddenly red.

  “I will, Mr. Buller.”

  “I paid good money for that house. You’ve no right to tell us what to do when we’re on shore leave—”

  “All leave is canceled as of now.”

  “Sir, could I say something?” Cramer asked.

  Syl nodded.

  “I can see your point, sir. It got bad last night and if more Aussies come back it could get worse.”

  “We can keep the Aussies out,” Buller said. “Hell, we can keep the door locked and station a guard there. If we have to, we can call the cops.”

  “It’s not just the Aussies,” Syl said. “You guys can stir up trouble without any help.”

  “Sir, I think we could keep order,” Cramer said. “All of us are kind of belly-up with trouble. If you put me in charge of the shore party, I will guarantee that there will be no trouble, not from the enlisted men, at least.”

  “The chief’s right,” Buller put in. “The boys had to blow off steam and now they’ve done it. Look, I admit last night was mostly my fault. Well, even I’ve had enough booze for at least a month. I’m going to stay on the wagon—”

  “Mr. Buller and I can sure as hell keep order,” Cramer said.

  “And it would be wrong to penalize all the men because a few of us got out of hand,” Buller added. “This may be their last liberty in a long time. Don’t make them spend it in barracks.”

  It took Syl off the hook. If he could have order and not be a damn martinet to the men, it was a good if uneasy solution. He’d risk it. “All right,” he said finally. “One more chance. That’s it.”

  For the next two weeks an uneasy peace prevailed aboard the Y-18. The yard finished its structural work in spite of Simpson’s criticisms and began to paint the hull. The superintendent told Syl that she probably could be launched a week ahead of schedule and sail three days later.

  In the party house there were no more outbursts of trouble. When he stopped in occasionally Syl found the men and their girls eating, drinking only beer, lounging on the floor and dancing together like it was an endless fraternity party. He did not stay more than a few minutes. He still had not found a woman and sometimes the temptation to pick up one of these girls was strong, but he found nobody waiting out on the porch for him, like Angel, and was embarrassed or had better sense than to compete with his own men for the prettiest ones in the house.

  The evening before the ship was launched he couldn’t stand it anymore. At least he’d treat himself to a fancy meal. He took a taxi to the Queen’s Taste restaurant. It was part of a big, expensive-looking hotel, and apparently some sort of convention of Australian sheep farmers or ranchers was being held. A lot of big men in white cowboy hats crowded the street outside. The sensation of escaping the ship only to be surrounded by a hundred Bullers was damned unsettling.

  He was glad to find that the elegant old dining room at this late hour was almost deserted.
He had told himself that he had come here because the food was good, not to get sentimental about Angel, but the formal atmosphere which contrasted so strongly with her exuberance brought her back to him. As the stuffy headwaiter led him to a table, he could almost see her preceding him, her beautiful back in that wonderfully outrageous dress rippling as she moved. The same three old musicians in dinnercoats were sawing away at their instruments. To Syl’s surprise, he even saw the same two ladies, the old duchess type and the handsome younger one who had watched him and Angel with a mixture of envy and disdain. This time he was seated even nearer them, only one table away. The duchess was staring at her plate as usual, but the younger one noticed and seemed to recognize him. She smiled, her angular face lighting up. He smiled back, a little stiffly. While he studied the menu he was aware that she was still directing glances at him.

  The martinis and the rack of lamb, which he’d also ordered with Angel, were not as good as he remembered, and he had never much liked eating alone. The gaze of the stylish woman with the old duchess made him self-conscious. Was she looking at him so much because she found him attractive, or somehow absurd or pitiful? Maybe she lived here at this hotel and ate here every night with that old woman who was certainly her mother. It must be a lonely, boring existence for her. Maybe her husband was overseas. She was good-looking in her overbred way. Though she wore no makeup and her dark curly hair had been cut surprisingly short, there was certainly nothing masculine about her. The silk blouse which she wore under a gray velvet jacket had a nice lift to it, and her blue eyes flashed with vitality. When he met her glance she looked down, demurely, then soon looked up again. She seemed aware that they were playing a fencing game. She parried him when she looked away, pierced him when she looked back. He had never made love to a woman like this one. Of course he was coming close to his last night ashore now and almost any woman at all was capable of making him cross his legs, but this one did seem different. How could he start up a conversation without being too damn obvious? Well, she was inviting him to try, wasn’t she?

  Try the direct approach? Go over to her table, say they’d met in New York, or Paris or London? Cut it out. Play Ronald Coleman? He’d never pull it off. And not Bogart or Gable either. Her face had high natural coloring. A woman with such translucent skin must be beautiful naked. Enough of this torture. Do something. You’re captain of a gas tanker, for God’s sake. So she might just look at him and tell him to get lost. Risk it. But he would pay his bill before talking to her. Then if she turned him away he could just march out of the dining room and forget her. Some warrior, already planning a line of retreat before he got underway.

  He put up his hand and snapped his fingers. A waiter soon brought the check. He paid it with Australian money and left a big tip, absurdly hoping that she would be impressed by the stack of bills. He wished his heart would stop beating so damn hard. The important thing was the first words. Self-confidence or the appearance of it was crucial in any kind of battle. He was on his feet now, holding himself stiffly—in more ways than one—erect as he walked toward her. She saw him coming, picked up a wine list and looked down.

  “Please excuse me,” he said. “I have a feeling that we’ve met somewhere. New York, Paris …?

  Her face reddened and she smothered a laugh with a broad smile. The old woman just stared at him.

  “I suspect you saw me two weeks ago, right here,” the younger woman said.

  At least she was still smiling when she said it.

  “Well, if we have never met, that is my profound misfortune,” he said, still not believing those stiff, ridiculous words were coming from his mouth. “May I try to rectify it now?”

  “What? Rectify?” She almost told him to talk English.

  “I hate eating alone. I’d like to meet you. May I sit down?” Well, he thought, at least that was better.

  “That’s better,” she said, echoing his own thought. “Sure, sit down.” She wiped her lips with the napkin.

  “My name is Syl Grant,” he said. “I’m on a ship here.”

  “I’m Teddy Thornton and this is my mother. She’s deaf as a post and can’t see well enough to read lips, but nod at her and say hello.”

  Her accent sounded to him more Oxford than Australian.

  “Hello,” he said, nodding and smiling at the duchess.

  “What do you want, young man?” the duchess asked.

  Teddy leaned over to put her lips near her mother’s ear.

  “He’s a FRIEND,” she shouted.

  “How nice,” the duchess said, and took a sip of her coffee. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  He took a chair from a nearby table and sat down.

  “Whatever happened to the delicious little lady you were drooling all over here a couple of weeks ago?” Teddy’s eyes were sparkling.

  “She had to go back to her regular chap.”

  “You two did seem to be having a lovely time together.” She still smiled but her eyes looked as though she were measuring him. “What kind of a ship are you on, lieutenant?”

  “A tanker.”

  “One of the big fleet tankers?”

  “A small gas tanker. Do you know about these things?”

  “My husband is in the navy. So is my father.”

  “My husband is an admiral,” the duchess said as though she had been following this conversation perfectly. “What navy are you in, young man?”

  “The American Coast Guard. It’s part of our navy in time of war and runs army ships.”

  “Ah, you inscrutable Americans,” Teddy said.

  “Is your husband on a ship?” he asked.

  “He was the navigator of a destroyer for a while but now he’s got a liaison job in London. What do you do aboard your tanker?”

  “I’m the skipper.” At least he said that straight out. And he saw respect dawn in her eyes, or imagined that he did, which was almost as good. His rock-bottom self-confidence was moving up some.

  “You’re a bit young for that even in wartime, I should think,” she said. “You must be good.”

  He shrugged, with what he hoped was quiet dignity.

  “Please don’t let me interrupt your dinner,” he said.

  “We weren’t planning on dessert. Do you want to order Cherries Jubilee again? Your friend seemed to enjoy them so much.”

  “You noticed quite a lot.”

  “It seemed to me at the time that she and Cherries Jubilee were made for each other. It’s nice to see a good mating, no matter what it is.”

  “Yes … well, she said she was going to learn to make them and I think she will. I envy her regular chap.”

  “Will you have a brandy with us? Maybe that will cheer you up.”

  They ordered brandies. The waiters seemed to pay special attention to this table and the drinks arrived almost immediately in big snifters.

  “Why aren’t you out looking for another pretty friend?” Teddy asked. “There’s no shortage of them here in Brisbane, is there?”

  “To me she was something more than just a pretty friend,” Syl said. “She was special as far as I was concerned.” He felt better for saying that.

  “I like you for that,” Teddy said, and impulsively touched his hand, drawing back her fingers quickly. She was wearing a gold band and a big solitaire. “How long are you going to be in Brisbane?”

  “Only a few more days, I’m afraid.”

  “And you at least want somebody to talk to? I certainly should understand that. Have another brandy. I’ll take mother up to our rooms and be back in about fifteen minutes.”

  As they got up to leave the table Teddy handed the canes to her mother and walked ahead of her, holding open the doors.

  Teddy was back sooner than he had expected. She sat down next to him, lit a cigarette and looked directly at him. Silence did not seem to bother her but even a few seconds of it embarrassed him. He had created this situation, after all, and now it was his move, but he felt ridiculously tongue-tied. He was grateful whe
n she said, “Are you a regular officer or reserve?”

  “Reserve. I was going to be a history professor, like my father, but now I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.”

  He had not talked about this sort of thing with anyone for years and did not know why it popped out now. Or maybe he did …

  “That’s interesting. You ought to write a good history of Australia. No one has ever done it.”

  “How come?”

  “Never dared.”

  “I’ve read about the penal colonies—”

  “That’s not the disgraceful part. The descendants of all those criminals they sent out here grew up to be such racial bigots that they kept everybody out who didn’t have blue eyes and light hair. We’ve been trying to preserve a population vacuum in the middle of Asia. England’s answer to the problem was to send all our young men to Africa and Greece. If you Yanks hadn’t come in here with all your mixed breeds, we’d be eating with chopsticks now if we were eating at all.”

  “I’m glad somebody appreciates us.”

  “Of course what men we have left think the Yank invasion is almost as bad as the Japs, but can you blame them? All the pretty dollies like you Yanks so much.”

  “Unless they happen to have regular chaps …”

  She laughed.

  “She was smart. You Yanks leave a lot of broken hearts when you ship out.”

  “I guess … Why don’t you write a history of Australia?”

  “I’m no scholar, I just wait for my husband to come home, take care of my mother and dabble.”

  “At what?”

  “Volunteer work at the library, taking books to the wounded men in the hospitals, even though damn few of them want to read very much. As a matter of fact, I’m on a committee that collects books for ships. Need any good books, sailor?”