Ice Brothers (17 page)

“They were going to give us a smaller one, but the navy grabbed it. The guys in Norfolk said they didn't know how long this thing would work, but we were lucky to get anything at all. The subs and the aircraft carriers have top priority on this stuff.”

“Can your radioman give me some tools?” Nathan asked. “I'll have a look at it.”

Paul watched him while he unscrewed metal plates. Aboard the
Arluk
, Nathan had always struck him as nice, intelligent in some abstract way, but completely incompetent and bumbling when it came to anything nautical. With tools in his long, slender fingers Nathan's whole manner changed. He moved briskly and with apparent enjoyment as he began examining the complex mechanism inside the box with a flashlight.

“It's nothing but a damn radio,” Mowrey said and went back to the
Arluk
.

“Your basic problem is that this set has no real protection against vibration and dampness,” Nathan said. “It was never designed for marine use. Probably there are one or more shorts. I hoped nothing is burned out. Did they give you any spare parts?”

“Not a one,” Hansen said grimly. “We wouldn't know how to use them anyway.”

Nathan reached for a voltameter and began the tedious job of testing scores of connections.

“You obviously know what you're doing,” Hansen said. “God, I wish I could get you assigned to this ship!”

Nathan straightened up and for the first time Paul saw a smile erase that look of profound sorrow on his long, narrow face.

“Captain Hansen, if you could arrange that, you would be saving
my
life,” he said. “I can't tell you what it's like to be on a ship where there is no way for me to be useful.”

“I was going to talk to Cliff about Paul here,” Hansen said. “There's just some small chance that I might be able to make some sort of a deal for both of you.”

The two officers stood watching for perhaps half an hour while Nathan worked on the radar set. Finally he twisted some knobs and the little porthole in the box suddenly glowed with an odd green light around which a pencil line of brighter light turned like a big second hand on a watch.

“You've fixed it!” Hansen said.

“Temporarily, I'm afraid.”

Nathan adjusted more knobs. The moving line of bright light began to trace a strangely glowing outline of the surrounding harbor on the glass.

“God, imagine what that thing would mean in a fog or at night if you were chasing someone or being chased,” Hansen said fervently.

“I wish I could promise you that you'd have it for long,” Nathan replied. “I'm afraid this set will be constantly going out and will always need tinkering. I can at least give you a list of spare parts you can order.”

“What the hell good will they do us if we have no one who has any idea what the hell is going on inside that box?” Hansen said. “It's ridiculous to leave you on a ship which has no radar. I'm going over to see Cliff.”

Hansen found Mowrey in his bunk aboard the
Arluk
, half sitting with his shoulders against two pillows. He had a glass in his hand and spoke thickly, a fact which did not surprise Hansen at all.

“Do you mind if I come in to talk over some problems of state?” Hansen began.

“Take a load off your ass, Wally,” Mowrey replied, pulling up his legs to make room at the foot of his bunk. “I'll get you a drink.”

From a drawer under his bunk within reach of his arm he took a bottle and a glass.

“If you want water, you can get it at the head,” he said.

Hansen accepted the glass, went to get water and sat down on the stool near the chart table.

“I want to talk to you about the possibility of trading some officers,” he said. “You've got a radar specialist but no radar. My communications officer is a guy who just made ensign after ten years as a quartermaster. Want to swap?”

“So you want my Sheenie,” Mowrey said with his sweet grin. “What else do you want?”

“Well, my exec graduated from the Coast Guard Academy last year. He's never seen ice, but except for that he could easily run a ship like this himself. To sweeten the deal, I'll trade him for the guy you call Yale, and you can get some sleep at night.”

“So you want my Sheenie
and
my Yale. Do you want my cook too?”

“I'd like him, of course, but I know you'll never let him go. How about it, Cliff? I'm sure we could clear it with Headquarters if we both approved and we'd both be a hell of a lot better off.”

“What happens when I get radar? You're not the only one who can kiss ass for a thing like that.”

“I think you know, Cliff, why they gave me radar. You better hope you don't get it.”

“You mean they have more fog on the east coast than on the west coast?”

“I think you know it's not fog that has me worried.”

“You guess there's no chance of us getting Germans on the west coast? Everybody thinks they're on the east coast, so why wouldn't they come to the west?”

“I think you understand the logistics of the situation. You're too big a man to be a dog in the manger, Cliff.”

“Now don't call me no dog. Mad I might be, but the last man who called me a dog still can't bite apples.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe, but I always say you can't get a better supply officer than a Sheenie. My Yale ain't much good, but at least he's not a smart-ass like all them Academies.”

“I'll trade you one for one or two for two, any way you want. The guy with the radar should have the radar specialist. Even Headquarters could see that.”

“Headquarters ain't going to do a damn thing with my officers without my approval. You know that.”

“I think I know you too, Cliff. Crazy like a fox is what I always said. What else do you want to sweeten the deal?”

“Maybe some of your lead ballast if I'm interested at all. We was rolling thirty-five degrees in no sea hardly at all. You got a diesel engine in your motorboat?”

“Yes.”

“They gave me gas. We might do some swapping around. Let me think about it.”

“When will you make up your mind? They're liable to shove us out of here tomorrow.”

“The first stop for both of us will be Narsarssuak, I'm sure. We'll see each other there before you go your way and I go mine.”

“The paperwork will take time. Look, Cliff, if they're going to send me after a German weather ship, I don't want to go without radar. The Krauts are sure to have it. How else do they have such good fire control?”

“They got other kinds of range finders. Now don't get your ass in a swivet, Wally. You can't come on here and buy me out like this was a candy shop.”

“We all will await your pleasure,” Hansen said wryly. “It's quite conceivable that a good many lives and the success of a whole mission could depend on it.”

“Wally, don't try to hurry me just because you're afraid to sail without all the newest gadgets going for you. I told you I'll let you know. I just want to think on it!”

With a sigh Hansen put the glass of whiskey, which he had hardly touched, on the chart table and left. Mowrey tossed off the scotch, put the unwashed glass back in his drawer and settled down for a nap.

Hansen immediately asked both Paul and Nathan to his cabin. After explaining the situation, he said, “Cliff has always enjoyed the sensation of having power over other men. I think he will toy with us for a few weeks.”

“Do you think he'll finally let us go?” Nathan asked.

Hansen shrugged. “Ordinarily he gets a kick out of just being contrary,” he said. “This time I may have a trump card. Before I sail I'm going to try to arrange to pick up about a dozen cases of scotch. That ought to sweeten the deal.”

“This all makes me feel that I'm a little like a slave on the block,” Nathan said with a smile, “but it's the first time that anyone in the service has ever wanted me. I feel like a wallflower who's being asked to dance.”

“Do you understand that my mission is probably going to be a lot more dangerous than Cliff's?” Hansen asked.

“I've heard a lot of scuttlebut, but I think I get the general trend. To tell the truth, I don't think anything could be more dangerous for me than the feeling that I'm simply of no use in this war at all, no damned good.”

“Christ, it's not your fault that they put a radar specialist on a ship without radar. Paul, how do you feel about all this, now that you've had a chance to think it over?”

“All I'm ever going to get out of Mowrey is a bad fitness report and the worst assignment he can find for me, no matter how hard I try,” Paul replied. “I'll be glad to take my chances with you.”

“I hope that Cliff lets us work it out and that you both won't be sorry.”

Paul still was not sure how he really felt about requesting a transfer. Sure, the idea of an endless tour of duty with Mad Mowrey seemed unbearable, but the thought of chasing some huge German icebreaker with six- or even eight-inch guns wasn't too attractive either.

And there was also the nagging feeling that there was something wrong in this maneuvering. Mowrey was a tyrant, but that was the luck of the draw. Shouldn't he shut up and stick it out and get
on
with it …?

CHAPTER 14

The next afternoon the two trawlers got orders to sail to Greenland, there to wait at the edge of the icepack for the troopship
Dorchester
, which they were to escort through the ice to Narsarssuak Fjord.

The two sister ships took on fuel and cleared Argentia harbor at a little before ten on a sunny northern night. Mowrey was in a rage, for Hansen, presumably because his ship had radar, had been put in charge of the operation, despite the fact that Mowrey outranked him.

“Follow me at a distance of one thousand yards,” Hansen blinked with his signal light as they steamed abreast out of the bay.

“Follow me!” Mowrey growled to Paul. “Follow me! The bastard always did think he was Jesus Christ!”

Defiantly Mowrey stayed abreast of the
Nanmak
for several miles before falling, almost by accident, into her wake.

As they approached the broad Atlantic they could see the fog banks lying across the mouth of the bay like an endless range of snow-covered mountains. Soon the
Nanmak
appeared to dissolve in the mist ahead and once more they could hardly see their own bow. Since whole convoys might be expected to be heading toward Argentia, Mowrey told the quartermaster to sound a blast on their air horn every two minutes, and reduced his speed. Only a few minutes later they could see Hansen's signal light blinking from his invisible ship only a few hundred yards ahead in the fog.

“No danger of collision or of navigational error now because my radar is working fine,” Hansen signaled. “Resume speed of eight knots. Cease whistle signals.”

“He's like a kid with a new toy,” Mowrey grumbled. “If he thinks I'm going to trust my ship to him and his goddamn magic box, he's crazy.” Nevertheless, he soon told the quartermaster that they might as well save compressed air on the whistle and gradually build up to eight knots, the top cruising speed of those trawlers.

As they emerged from the bay, Paul, Nathan and many other men aboard waited with a kind of horror for the vicious rolling to begin again, but the North Atlantic fooled them by remaining curiously quiet, leaden in the fog. Enlivened by the hope that they might actually be getting their sea legs, Paul and Nathan took sights with a bubble sextant whenever they could see the dim outline of the sun in the fog and worked them out in the wardroom. Nathan, Paul discovered, quickly learned how to use the logarithmic tables which had been devised to make any knowledge of spherical trigonometry unnecessary for navigators, but he was a highly trained mathematician and embarrassed Paul by asking questions about theory, then answering them himself.

After they had been at sea only about twenty-four hours, the ships received a radio message which gave the positions of enemy submarines that had been detected by radio direction finders or aircraft. After Nathan decoded the message, Paul plotted them on a small-scale chart. Two of the submarines were near the Straits of Belle Isle, near which they were to pass.

“Hell, no submarine is going to waste a torpedo on no goddamn little trawler,” Mowrey said. “They're waiting for troop ships and tankers.”

Still both Nathan and Paul imagined German submarines lying, perhaps only a few thousand yards away, whenever they stared into the veils of fog. Were the men playing chess, reading girlie magazines, writing letters home and listening to music on the radio, the way the crew was in their own forecastle? Despite the name of the
Arluk
, the submarines were really the hunters in this war and almost everyone else the quarry. It was the captains of the submarines who could decide whether to attack, to hide or to run, and whatever they did, the odds were always in their favor at that stage of the war. If Paul's distant forefathers had not emigrated to America, might he now be a professional in command of a really lethal weapons system, instead of a novice on a fishboat? His moment of envying the Germans did not last long, for he remembered a history professor at Boston University saying, “When all is said and done, Germany is a nation of only about eighty million people which has chosen to fight England, all the rest of Europe and Russia, a total of something like a half billion people. Their initial successes have been remarkable, but of course they are mad and will eventually die the death of a mad dog.”

Still the question remained, Paul mused as he stared into the fog, of whether the mad dog would kill him before it was killed. The moan of a rising wind in the rigging and the mournful disembodied cries of seagulls hidden by shrouds of fog, all seemed to be whispering premonitions of death, and the breath of the north was getting colder.