Voyage to Somewhere, page 23
“Cast off theah!” the man with the Southern accent yelled. “Cast off!”
Suddenly the destroyer started to move forward. A line snapped. The SV-126 rolled and her bow hit the destroyer’s stem. Then the vessels were clear of each other. The cable dragged from the destroyer’s stern. Boats payed chain through the blackened anchor windlass. We fell farther and farther astern of the destroyer. Suddenly the chain snarled in the anchor windlass and I saw Boats hammer on it with an iron capstan bar. Ahead of us the chain rose out of the water and stretched in a dripping straight line between our bow and the stern of the destroyer. The SV-126 heeled over and was jerked around to follow the destroyer. Suddenly I heard the roar of chain and the milling of the anchor windlass. Boats had freed the gears and was paying out more chain. I saw him pull back the brake. There was a shock as the chain picked up the strain again. The SV-126 followed obediently in the wake of the destroyer.
As soon as I realized that we were safely in tow, a great load slipped from my shoulders. There were no more decisions I would have to make, no more going alongside other ships, no more urgent orders to give—not even any more navigation. Our role was completely passive. I felt like a lost child taken by the arm and led home.
I turned and went up to the flying bridge. When I got to the ladder I stepped aside as two pharmacist’s mates the destroyer had left aboard handed down a wire basket-stretcher to White and Guns. The man in the stretcher almost fell out, but they got him down safely. When they had passed I climbed up to the flying bridge. The doctor was there, his khakis torn and blackened.
“I’m having the wounded taken to your officers’ quarters,” he said.
“All right,” I replied.
I watched him while he bandaged a burned and naked man. The man whimpered. The doctor gestured toward another corner of the deck.
“Those are dead,” he said.
I looked and saw five bodies lying by the binnacle. Suddenly I stared. One of the bodies was turned on its stomach. It was Mr. Rudd.
“Doctor!” I shouted. “This man is not dead. It’s Mr. Rudd!”
“He’s dead,” the doctor said over his shoulder.
“But he can’t be!” I shouted. “I saw him just a minute ago. After the Rocky Point had exploded! He was all right then!”
“He died just a minute ago,” the doctor replied. “Heart attack, I think.”
“Oh, no!” I gasped.
Wearily I made my way below. Opening the door to my cabin, I stepped back. A bandaged man was in my bunk and two more lay on blankets on the deck. A pharmacist’s mate kneeled by one of them. Involuntarily I almost said, “Get these men out of here! This is my cabin!” I stopped myself just in time and walked back to the wardroom. That too had been made into a hospital. Wearily I started forward to the forecastle. On the way I passed Mr. Crane. His face was dirty, but he looked all right.
“Can you stay up for a while to look after things?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Mr. Crane. “You turn in.”
I entered the forecastle and lay down in a bunk that had no mattress. Beside me the paint on the bulkhead was blistered. A puddle of water lay on deck and washed back and forth with the motion of the ship. I fell unconscious.
When I awoke it was daylight. The first thing I noticed was that I was not lying in my own bunk. Opening my eyes, I saw Guns lying across from me on a bunk without a mattress. For a few minutes I stared at him stupidly. His beard was half burned off. My eyes shifted to the blistered paint on the bulkheads. The water on the deck sloshed back and forth. Slowly the past came back to me. I leaped from my bunk and ran on deck. Bright sunlight blinded me. Squinting, I looked around. The deck was deserted. The port side was bent inward and the ship looked crooked. The forecastle deck was burned black. Ahead of us arched the anchor chain to the stern of the destroyer. Glancing down at the water foaming by us, I realized that we were being towed faster than we had ever been able to go under our own power. That struck me as funny and I almost laughed. Walking aft, I met Mr. Crane in the passageway. He wore only a pair of khaki trousers, and he looked haggard.
“Oh, you’re up!” he said.
“Where’s Mr. Rudd?” I asked.
“He’s dead.”
It was true then. I stared stupidly at Mr. Crane.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“On the fantail,” Mr. Crane replied. “All the dead ones are on the fantail.”
“Who else was killed?” I asked.
“Whysowitz is missing—must have been blown overboard. Wenton’s dead. Livingston is pretty badly wounded, but the doctor says he will live.”
“Oh,” I said.
“The ship’s going along pretty well now,” Mr. Crane continued. “The doctor’s really taken charge of everything. Pretty near the whole crew from the tanker is burned. Four of them have died already. Now that you’re up, I’m going to turn in. You better see about burying the dead pretty soon.”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
Mr. Crane went up to the forecastle. When I passed the engine room I heard the generators going. Opening the door, I called down to the Chief to come up. He came and stood at the bottom of the companionway. He looked completely exhausted.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Are we taking much water?”
“The pumps are still holding it.”
“Thanks,” I said, and wandered into the wardroom. The doctor was sitting on the deck asleep. He had his head back, and his mouth was open. On the wardroom table was a bandaged man. A pharmaist’s mate was sitting on the bench. He got up when I came in.
“The doc wanted to see you,” he said. “Hey, Doc! Wake up!”
The doctor stirred and opened his eyes. He yawned and got to his feet.
“Stanley is my name,” he said, and stuck out his hand. I saw his arm had been burned. The sight of the seared flesh reminded me of Mr. Rudd’s burned shoulder. For a moment I stared at his arm.
“It’s funny your name’s Stanley,” I said. “We have a man aboard called Livingston. A nigger.”
Suddenly I started to laugh. “Mr. Livingston, I presume,” I said. “Get it, Doc? Mr. Livingston, I presume. Why didn’t you say that when you came aboard?”
The doctor said something to the pharmacist’s mate. He went out of the room. A moment later he came back and handed me a glass of water and a pill. I swallowed the pill and drank the water.
“Sit down,” the doctor said.
I sat down on the bench.
“How do you feel now?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said soberly.
“You better start holding burial services,” the doctor said. “It’ll be at least five days before we get in.”
“It’s too bad this didn’t happen on the way up,” I started to say. “We had a whole cargo of burial supplies.” Instead, I said nothing.
“Do you hear me?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Do you know how to hold a burial service at sea? I never held one before.”
“I don’t know,” the doctor said. “You put the body on a platform and slide it over. I guess you read a burial service.”
“Sure,” I said. I got up and went out on the fantail. Six bodies lay wrapped in blankets there. Boats was already rigging a slide over the rail.
“Call me when you get it done, Boats,” I said. “Line up all hands back here and we’ll hold a service.”
“It’ll be just a minute, sir,” Boats replied.
I walked back toward my cabin, then realized that my cabin had become a hospital. I paused, bewildered. Suddenly I began to worry about what I would say at the burial service. I couldn’t think of anything I had heard about burials at sea. Remembering that Mr. Rudd had had a Bible, I went to his stateroom. The Bible was in the desk drawer. A wounded man was in Mr. Rudd’s bunk. I didn’t notice him when I came in. Just when I opened the Bible the wounded man gave a low groan. I started. Sitting down on the desk chair, I leafed through the Bible. I thought there would be some sort of a formal burial service there, but I could find nothing under that name. Only the Old and New Testaments. I stared at them stupidly. There was a knock at the door. It was Boats.
“Everything is ready, sir,” he said.
Carrying the Bible, I went aft to the fantail. The whole crew was there. The men stood rigidly at attention. Their caps were off. I noticed that Wortly had a burn across his cheek and White’s face was either bruised or still stained with soot. Boats had placed a body on the slide and covered it with a large American flag. I wondered who it was we were going to bury first, but with all the men standing there it seemed silly to ask. Boats stood by the slide, and I noticed that he was holding a lanyard in his hand—some sort of a releasing mechanism. I walked over and stood before the men. Opening the Bible I stood for a moment turning the pages. Still I did not know what I should read. Suddenly a marked passage met my eye. Automatically I started to read, but my eyes went ahead of my voice and I saw, “An altar of earth thou shalt make unto me, and shall sacrifice thereon thy burnt offerings, and thy peace offerings …”
I shuddered and snapped the Bible shut. Looking up, I saw the men standing before me expectantly.
“I have no burial service aboard,” I said lamely. Suddenly an idea came to me. “Let us repeat the Lord’s Prayer,” I continued. “Our Father Who art in Heaven …”
The men repeated the prayer with me, and when we were through I looked up and said, “Commit the body to the deep.”
Boats pulled the lanyard and the body slid off. White stepped forward and he and Boats lifted another body to the slide. My knees felt weak under me. All the men were waiting for something. There was something I should say. Suddenly a wave of dizziness enveloped me. I knew I was falling. Hands gripped me around the shoulders. I heard Boats say, “Easy now! Carry him up to the forecastle!” After that I remembered no more for a long time. When I awoke a day later, Mr. Crane had finished the burials.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE destroyer dropped us in Manila harbor, and we anchored inside the breakwater. The SV-126 was strained, burned, beaten, spent. The authorities ashore said we would have to wait at least two months to go in dry dock. We lived abroard the dead hull and waited. I spent most of my time in my cabin. I didn’t think much. Even when the atom bomb was dropped and Russia came into the war, it didn’t mean much to me. I listened to the news come over the radio and returned to my bunk. On August 15 somebody said the war was over.
“Probably a rumor,” I said.
Suddenly a blended cacophony of ships’ whistles burst the air. Rushing on deck, I looked across Manila harbor and saw what looked like an air raid. From every ship red and orange tracer bullets shot into the air. Red smoke bombs spilled ruddy clouds over the water. Distress rockets shot up from the ships. And everywhere there was the all encompassing scream of the ships’ whistles. The big Liberty ships gave a deep-throated roar. A destroyer beside us emitted a shrill screech and her sirens coasted up and down the scale. Some of the ships jerked their whistle cords every ten or twenty seconds; others lashed their whistle cords down until the ship sounded as though she were running out of breath. Through the din we could hear church bells ringing ashore.
“It’s over!” someone beside me yelled. I turned and saw our whole crew standing by the rail. Flags ran to the bridge, and a moment later our whistle joined the others.
Still suspicious, I ran to the radio shack. Sparks was sitting there with his earphones on. The whole radio shack was vibrating from the noise of our whistle. I hit Sparks on the shoulder.
“What’s the story?” I asked.
“Can’t hear a damn thing!” he shouted.
Going to the bridge, I told Flags to let up on the whistle until we heard the news. Then I went back to the radio shack. The noise from the other ships in the harbor still made reception difficult. Sparks kept his earphones on. I sat beside him. Looking up, I saw the whole crew gathered outside the door to the radio shack. They stood there seriously, without excitement. Finally Sparks put the earphones down.
“It’s not official yet,” he said, “but the Japs have asked for peace. It sounds like the real thing.”
As soon as he spoke Flags ran up and lashed our whistle cord down again.
“How about liberty?” White asked. “How about setting a security watch and letting the rest of us go ashore?”
“If you want to stay aboard,” I said, “I have a few bottles of gin. I’ll give them to the cook and he’ll make up a punch for all hands. You’d have a pretty tough time getting any decent liquor ashore.”
“All right,” White said. “That will be swell.”
I went down to my cabin and took from a drawer five bottles of gin. I had found them in Mr. Rudd’s stateroom while packing his personal effects. I gave the bottles of gin to the cook. He poured them into a tremendous mixing bowl and added some cans of orange juice. The full bowl he put out on the well deck and surrounded it with cups. The crew gathered around and began to drink. Mr. Crane and I joined them. At first we drank seriously, almost as a duty. Gradually the liquor began to warm us up.
“How about a song?” White asked.
The men gathered and sang.
“San Francisco here I come,
Right back where I started from …”
For a few moments I sang with them, then wandered off by myself to the flying bridge. I had a full cup with me and sat up there sipping it.
“Well, it’s all over,” I thought. “This is the date. My children will memorize this date …”
Already I could see the brown bound book, the History of World War II, with dates and summaries for cramming. Probably in the schools it would be known as a pretty hard course. Lots of dates to memorize. On what day did Germany invade Poland? When was Midway? When was Stalingrad?
I would fail the history examination.
Down on the well deck the men had changed their song to “Bless ’em All.” I listened to them.
“Now when finally the war is all over,
The bastards who stayed home through all,
Will be kissed on the street by each girl that they meet,
I still say, my lads, bless ’em all!”.
They sang on and began to substitute an obscene word for the word “bless.”
Yes, this is the date, I thought. My children will study all the causes of the war. They’ll read about it with sad, questioning eyes. They’ll see monuments and drive past them wondering where they can buy a Coca Cola. I hope they won’t be cynical about the war.
On deck the men had stopped singing, and I heard someone arguing. Looking down, I saw Wortly step up to Boats.
“I never have liked you, Boats!” Wortly said. “You’ve been throwing your weight around here too God damn much. Now the war’s over, I’m going to tell you what a bastard I think you are!”
Boats put a huge hand on Wortly’s chest and sent him spinning backward. Wortly landed sitting on deck. Everybody laughed.
“Cut it out, fellows, let’s sing!” White said. By himself in his beautiful clear voice, he began to sing.
“Oh, I once knew a girl from Rhode Island,
She was the belle of the ball;
She asked me to be hers only,
But I said that I must bless them all.”
The others joined him and their voices rose in harmony. I relaxed in my chair on the flying bridge. Maybe when my children were taking the history course they would ask me what the war had been like. After all, I’d been through the war—I ought to be able to tell them all about it. For a long while I sat there trying to think exactly what I would say. I couldn’t make up my mind. I had been through the war, but I felt as though I had been on a night train, and on waking in the morning had been told that I had been through Arizona.
About the Author
Sloan Wilson (1920–2003) was born in Norwalk, Connecticut, and graduated from Harvard University. An avid sailor, he joined the US Coast Guard shortly after Pearl Harbor, and during World War II commanded a naval trawler on the Greenland Patrol and an army supply ship in the South Pacific. Wilson earned a battle star for his role in an attack by Japanese aircraft, and based his first novel, Voyage to Somewhere, and two of his later books, Ice Brothers and Pacific Interlude, on his wartime experiences. In 1955 Wilson published The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, a classic portrait of suburban ennui heralded by the Atlantic as “one of the great artifacts of popular culture in the 50’s.” It was adapted into a successful film, as was its bestselling follow-up, A Summer Place.
An author of fifteen books, Wilson was living with his wife of forty years, Betty, on a boat in Colonial Beach, Virginia, at the time of his death.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1946 by Sloan Wilson
Cover design by Jamie Keenan
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8960-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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