Pacific Interlude Page 7

  Maybe that thought was paranoid, but men aboard small ships on long voyages often did some pretty damn strange things, even without the stresses of an explosive cargo. More than one captain had gone missing without explanation. If Simpson really felt that the Y-18 belonged to him because he knew her better than anyone else and had been through more with her, Syl had better, he decided, start looking over his shoulder a lot and stay away from the rail on dark nights. It sounded weird, but Simpson might even love this ship, ugly and dangerous as she was. After all, he apparently never went ashore, and in Australia that was proof enough of madness. He might feel for Syl the kind of hatred a husband might have for a man who was taking his wife or woman.

  Okay, so maybe I’ve got a crazy ship with a crazy executive officer, Syl thought. Which sounded too melodramatic to be true, but war was melodrama too, and it wouldn’t be too surprising to discover that an officer who had refused to go home after surviving a hit by a Jap plane aboard a gas tanker was not exactly right in the head. Call it combat fatigue. Maybe it would be smart to recommend him for psychiatric examination right away. At least that would take him off the ship.… But then what? Some college boy in uniform would probably be sent as a replacement. Simpson at least knew his job, except that he would drive the men crazy if given a free hand, but that could be compensated for by the other officers. If Simpson could control his ambition to be completely in charge, his incredible devotion to duty and capacity for work could make Syl’s work a whole lot easier than if he had an exec who knew less about the ship, the handling of gasoline and such. No, he probably should be grateful for Simpson’s strengths, try to make up for his problems and quit looking at the dark side of everything himself.

  He went to the showers provided by the yard for men aboard the ships on the ways, shaved and returned to rummage through his foot locker and find fresh clothes. There was going to be a party tonight of a very odd kind, a celebration staged by the new crew of a tanker in a house they had rented with money they had gotten by selling contaminated gas on the black market. Since Buller had been in charge of the arrangements, there would probably be plenty of fancy food and booze. Girls were almost sure to arrive. Syl had once believed that there were some pretty good reasons for the tradition that forbids commissioned officers from fraternizing with enlisted men, especially those from one’s own ship, but not now. This was no night to be a snob.

  Promptly at six o’clock that evening Buller drove a dilapidated Ford pickup truck into the yard and stopped alongside the Y-18, blowing his horn.

  “All aboard the party special,” he shouted.

  Syl was surprised to see Wydanski eagerly climb down the ladder. At fifty-six, the white-haired engineer looked incredibly old to everyone else aboard the ship, though he was dapper in a freshly pressed blue uniform. Still, he was stout enough to make it hard for him to climb into the back of the truck with the others.

  “You sit in front,” Syl said.

  “No, that’s your prerogative, skipper,” Wydanski said with a grin as two machinist’s mates boosted him up. “In the service, rank, not age, has its privileges.”

  So Syl sat in front as Buller drove the truck up into the hills of the city of Brisbane. The men riding in back whistled and called to the many pretty girls they saw waiting at bus stops.

  “Hey, baby, you want to ride with us? We’re going to have a party.”

  The girls shook their heads but they also smiled, and a few looked as though they might accept the invitation if Buller had stopped the truck for more conversation, but the big man drove on. When the men complained he said, “We got plenty of girls coming tonight. We don’t need them dogs.”

  “How did you order up girls?” Syl asked with genuine interest.

  “Some of the guys from the skeleton crew have connections. They got the word passed around that this is going to be the party of the century and it’s damn well liable to be. Of the war, anyway.”

  Buller soon parked before a stately if dilapidated Victorian mansion on a shabby side street already surrounded by cars, most of them very small and old. As Syl followed the others up a gravel front walk he saw that someone had hung a large hand-painted sign on the porch over the front door. In green letters it said HOME OF THE LUCKY EIGHTEEN.

  Sounds of music and laughter came through the open door. About half the tanker’s men and the skeleton crew which had stuck with Simpson until the new bunch came had already arrived, as had several girls, as advertised. The party was in full swing. As Syl came in he heard a young signalman, Sorrel, say, “Hey, the old man’s here,” and some of the men who had gathered around a bar set up on a table in the big living room glanced at him a little uneasily, and with some annoyance. At twenty-four, Syl sensed he was not really welcome. The conversation and laughter fell off. He’d try to stick it out.

  “Can I get you a drink, skipper?” Cramer asked a little too heartily.

  “Sure.”

  “What will it be, Scotch or champagne? We’ve got the lot here.”

  “Scotch, thanks.”

  Cramer handed him a tumbler full of Scotch, ice and very little water. After the first sip, Syl walked to an armchair in a deserted corner of the room and sat down. He hoped that everybody would forget he was there and soon they apparently did. The laughter and excited hum of conversation picked up.

  Perhaps because of his age, Wydanski also looked lost and soon moved a chair to sit near Syl. Buller obviously did not suffer any of this sense of being out of place. Opening a big bottle of champagne which popped and gushed foam all over his hands, he disdained a glass and tipped it up to his laughing mouth. After drinking enough to stop it from spilling, he put it down on a table and grabbed a pretty girl in a red dress whose blonde head came only to his chest and began dancing a sort of jig that turned into jitterbugging, a dance he did with surprising grace, considering his bulk. The old-fashioned phonograph blared “Stompin’ At the Savoy” too slowly, but increased its tempo when a girl in a green dress turned its big handle to wind it up. Buller pushed his partner out at arm’s length, pulled her in and contrived to let her slide between his legs before straightening her up. A cheering crowd gathered around and clapped.

  Sitting like a wallflower in a corner with the ancient Wydanski, Syl was damned envious. Pretty girls in pastel dresses were everywhere in this room, but they were all looking at Buller. Even when the big man stopped dancing and grabbed his champagne bottle again he was the center of an admiring crowd. He did everything, especially drink, in a gargantuan way. Holding a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other, he took swigs first from one, then the other, and talked all the nearby girls into helping him finish both bottles, which he then threw into a nearby fireplace with a triumphant shout. Catching Syl’s eyes, he strode over to him, put his mammoth arm around his shoulders. “Come on, Skippy, I’m going to introduce you to some fair dinkum broads.”

  Syl had never before been called “Skippy” and did not much like it … it reminded him of peanut butter … Towering above Syl, Buller propelled him into the crowd, shoved him against a stocky brunette in a yellow dress. “This here is our skipper. Skippy, all you gotta do is say how-do-you-do and ask the little lady to dance.”

  “I know when to follow orders,” Syl said, forcing a smile. “How do you do? Would you like to dance?”

  “Sho enough,” she said, trying despite her Cockneylike Australian accent to mimic the southern drawl of Buller and so many of the other Yanks. She was quite a heavy girl and she wore a pungent perfume. Syl had never been a good dancer and was hopeless at the Lindy Hop, which people were doing all around them. He pushed her into a clumsy foxtrot and circled the edge of the space cleared for dancing, trying hard to think of something to say.

  “How long have you been in Australia?” she asked, pronouncing it “Austrylia.”

  “Just a couple of days.”

  “Have you got a regular girl yet?”

  The question embarrassed him. He sure
wanted a girl, regular or irregular, but not this one. She was too fat and he wanted to choose his own.

  “As a matter of fact I do,” he said. “She just couldn’t come tonight.”

  “Too bad.”

  Obviously she had lost interest in him. Her stout, heavily corseted body seemed to go slack in his arms.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact I have to go to the little girl’s room.”

  Grateful, he let her go and retreated to his corner armchair again. A procession of seamen now came from the kitchen carrying platters which held a big baked ham, roast chickens and a roast of lamb.

  “Before we fall to, boys,” Cramer said, raising a glass of champagne over his head, “I think we ought to drink a toast to Mr. Buller, who set all this up.”

  There were cheers before everyone drank.

  “Tain’t nothing at all,” Buller said. “Eat, drink and be merry because there’s plenty more where this all came from.”

  More cheers. Syl was surprised by the intensity of a flash of resentment he felt for Buller. The bastard shouldn’t have called him “Skippy,” shouldn’t have shoved him against the fat girl, and could have told the men that he had made the decision that made this house and party possible. All right, he was being a little sensitive, but from where he sat it looked like Buller was on a campaign to be king of the ship as far as the enlisted men were concerned. Great … an exec that wanted his job and a damned supply genius who was taking over the men.

  On the other hand, Buller would probably be … already was … good for morale. Obviously he was not the stereotype of a big dumb overaged football player—he was smart and he’d been around, even if he was new to the service. As soon as he learned the ropes he’d be really valuable. In a way he and Simpson were counterweights. With Simpson carrying on the ship’s business and Buller managing the crew, Syl could retire to his cabin and read for the duration of the war. Hell, a really good captain always ended up doing nothing, didn’t he?

  All very fine, except the sight and sound of Buller dominating this whole room full of people and having them love him for it bothered Syl in spite of himself.

  The authors of navy textbooks he had read liked to try to define “a natural leader of men.” Whatever, Buller was obviously that. Not just because of his size but because of his air of competence mixed with exuberance. Buller did not need the navy traditions that told officers to stay away from enlisted men largely on the grounds that familiarity would breed contempt. Familiarity with Buller probably would lead to more admiration. He could afford to be himself, sometimes a buffoon but always shrewd, always a powerhouse, always better than his subordinates, and then some …

  Abruptly Syl found himself wondering what he would do if he had to fight Buller. It was a pretty strange question. His rank and the law it represented would make that impossible, and besides Buller appeared to be amiable. Still, Syl did not like to think that in any confrontation he couldn’t handle Buller. If he had to … in a boxing ring, where he’d done pretty well at college, it might be possible to stay away from a much bigger man and pepper him with left jabs until he got tired enough to lower his guard. That Syl was more than ten years younger than Buller and thin instead of paunchy could make up for the differences in their weight, height and reach if the match lasted long enough, but in a real fight Buller would make his bulk and strength tell … Goddamn it, enough of this crap … get yourself out of here …

  He went over to Buller, who was now sitting on the floor surrounded by concentric rings of admirers while he told tall stories about wildcatting for oil down in bayou country and drank from his two bottles. Syl tapped him on the shoulder. “Helluva bash, Mr. Buller. I have to go.”

  “Where to, Skippy?”

  Syl went out of the house without answering.

  He got to the front porch before he realized he did not have a car. Maybe he could go back and requisition the keys of the ship’s truck, but now he wanted to keep himself removed from that whole deal. He could go back to telephone a taxi but didn’t want to make a second appearance. Pausing on the front porch, he heard an old-fashioned swing at the left side of it squeak. Turning, he saw a very pretty girl in a pink dress sitting in the swing.

  “Are you bloody well tired of the party too?” she asked in that Cockneylike Australian accent.

  “I guess I am,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE SWING SLOWED to a stop as she quit pushing it with her foot. In the glow of a porchlight overhead swarming with insects he could see she had light brown hair, an open, sunny face and a slender figure with breasts substantial enough to lend excitement to the white buttons that fastened the front of her pink dress.

  “There’s plenty of room,” she said when he asked her if he could sit down. She pulled her skirt over her knees.

  There was a moment of silence. She wore a gentle perfume, lilac maybe.

  “Are you the one they call the old man?” she asked with a giggle.

  “You’d know why if you saw me in a better light.”

  She laughed, throwing her chin back, exposing a lovely white throat.

  “You’re captain of that tanker? You seem awfully young for a job like that.”

  “I guess I am … what do you do?”

  “I try to get by.”

  “That’s about what I do. It’s not always so easy, is it?”

  She looked amused. “What kind of problems does an old man like you have?”

  He wondered what she would say if he told her the truth. A ship that seemed about to explode, an executive officer he suspected of wanting to kill him, and an animal of an ensign he wanted to kill. A more immediate problem was that just sitting beside her was giving him a hard-on. He crossed his knees.

  “I’m a lonely sailor in a strange city,” he said, at once feeling ridiculous at the sound of those words.

  “There’s nothing so strange about Brisbane,” she said with a smile that seemed dazzling to him, “except that the war took away all our own men and sent you Yanks here instead. How long are you going to be here?”

  “I don’t know. A few weeks, I guess.”

  “Would you like to meet some people?”

  “I feel kind of good just being with you.”

  “I’m afraid that Yank officers scare me a little.”

  “Why?”

  “They tend to want to get terribly serious. They all have wives at home but they say they’re going to get divorced and come back. Of course they never do. The whole thing can get rather moody.”

  Syl was abruptly aware that he was wearing a gold wedding band which glinted in the dim light. He felt like putting that hand in his pocket, but it was too late now.

  “The ratings are more fun,” she said. “They just want to have a good time.”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  “I’m being unkind, aren’t I? I’m sorry … Would you like to go back in and dance?”

  “I’m afraid I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “What would you like to do?” she looked more amused than ever.

  He suspected that she had noticed his need to keep his legs crossed in a damned awkward position. He again made himself imagine diving into an Arctic ocean full of icebergs and sharks. That and his own sense of ridiculousness helped. He stretched out his legs with a fine air of casualness. Why did a man who had been in New Guinea and at sea so long have to act nonchalant when meeting a pretty girl anyway? Why did life always seem to require him to act out some difficult part … now he had to try to be Humphrey Bogart or Clark Gable. He wished he could cock a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I’m afraid I only know things I don’t want to do,” he said. “I don’t want to go back into that house with all that crowd. I don’t want to go back to the ship and I don’t want to spend another night alone in a hotel.”

  “Would you like to take a drive around the city?”

  “That’s exactly what I�
��d like to do. Well, at least for starters.”

  She led the way toward a boxy little Austin parked on the edge of the lawn. “I shouldn’t have come here anyway,” she said. “My roommate, Joanie, talked me into it. My regular chap had to go to Sydney and I was feeling rather moody.”

  That seemed to be her favorite word, which was fine with him.

  “I’ve been feeling too moody myself lately,” he said after they had climbed into the car.

  “Everybody has to have a laugh or two sometimes,” she said as she started the engine and jerkily pulled into the road. He thought she was driving crazy until he realized that here they were supposed to stay on the left side of the street.

  In the cramped little car she smelled so good. Just the slight scent of lilac, probably a soap. When he crossed his legs again he hit his knee against the dashboard.

  “I guess you’re used to bigger cars,” she said. “It’s funny. I bought this one because it uses so little gas, and then some of your chaps gave Joanie about ten cans full of the stuff. It takes up so much room in the garage that we can’t get the car in.”

  “You better get rid of it,” he said. “It’s dangerous stuff. Sell it.”

  “Why does everybody keep saying gas is so dangerous? Your chaps seem to talk about nothing else.”

  “In the open air it isn’t so bad, but in an enclosed space it can be a problem.”

  “I hope you don’t get shot at,” she said abruptly.

  “So do I.”

  “Are you scared, or shouldn’t I ask that?”

  “That’s the first sensible question anyone has asked me in a long time. No, not scared, just plain terrified.”

  “You’re the first one I’ve heard admit it. Joanie’s guy says he’s not scared at all … Do you believe in God?” she asked suddenly.