Pacific Interlude Page 2

  “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.�
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  “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 r
ight, 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.”