Ice Brothers (36 page)

Commander GreenPat and his staff occupied a Quonset hut not far from the officers' club. A stout but immaculately uniformed lieutenant junior grade who had served twenty years as a chief yeoman looked at Nathan's rumpled uniform and said, “You must be from one of the trawlers.”

“The
Arluk
, sir. We just got in.”

“Are you Paul Schuman?”

“Nathan Green, sir. I'm the communications officer. Mr. Schuman will be here later. He's been on the bridge night and day for a long while.”

“I understand you've had a hard time. The commander will be glad to see you.”

Commander Sanders was not an old Irishman. A thin, middle-aged but careworn Yankee, he looked more like a scholar than a ship's officer, and had in fact retired from the Coast Guard five years before the war to write a doctor's thesis on polar ice and to teach at the University of Maine. He stood up behind his desk when Nathan entered his office and shook hands warmly.

“I have great admiration for you people on the trawlers,” he said. “In Maine they have an expression: small ships and big men.”

Since so many military people appeared to hold the trawlers in contempt, Nathan was surprised and pleased. He stopped worrying about his rumpled uniform and tarnished gold stripe.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Sometimes we don't feel so big.”

The commander laughed, then quickly sobered. “I'm sorry to hear about Captain Mowrey. I just got an initial report from the base hospital. It's not so good.”

“Captain Mowrey is a sick man, sir.”

“Yes, but he's a real loss. I never felt I really had to worry about a ship when Mowrey was aboard. I know he gave his men plenty to worry about, but I didn't have to worry about him the way I do lots of skippers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don't know who we're going to give the
Arluk
to. She has an important assignment and a difficult one. Mr. Schuman has only had about five months of sea duty.”

“But he's very good, sir. I'm sure he can handle it.”

Commander Sanders smiled. “I'm glad to see he has the confidence of his communications officer.”

“Captain Mowrey gave him a very good fitness report, sir. The captain told me about it.”

“Mr. Schuman hasn't even been in the service long enough to get a fitness report.”

“No, sir, but I think that Captain Mowrey may have known that his health wasn't good. He made out fitness reports recently. They'll be mailed to you—”

“That doesn't sound like Mowrey, but then, he's always full of surprises. Where is your friend Schuman?”

“In his bunk, sir. He's been on the bridge practically nonstop for weeks, and when Captain Mowrey fell overboard a few hours ago, Mr. Schuman jumped in to save him. He's kind of beat.”

“Well, I was going to have a man flown from the States to replace Mowrey, but I'd be delighted if Mr. Schuman can take over. It's not easy to find ice pilots.”

“No, sir.”

“We could make you exec and find you a new ensign. There'd be less delay that way. How would that strike you?”

“That would be fine, sir. But I have a request.”

“What's that?”

“Is there any chance we could get radar?”

“Not a one. Every ship in the fleet wants it. It's a brand new development and production isn't geared up yet.”

“How about a radar detection device?”

“The same goes for that. Our supply guys don't even know what that is.”

“Sir, if you'll look at my record, you'll see that I was in radar research and development at G.E. I could make a radar detection device if I could get the right materials and tools.”

“That's very enterprising of you, but you know how the service works. If a ship doesn't rate a certain kind of equipment, there's no way you can draw it.”

“I know, but if we're going up to the east coast to look for Germans, a radar detection device could make all the difference. If the
Nanmak
had had that …”

“The
Nanmak
had radar, but it wasn't working.”

“I know, sir. I fixed it in Argentia. It was a very primitive set, not made for marine installation. I knew it wouldn't work long. And as far as I know, she didn't have anything for radar detection.”

“All this stuff is so new, we did the best we could for her—”

“I understand, sir.”

There was a moment of silence before Commander Sanders said, “I guess you should know that the
Northern Light
found the
Nanmak
's boat in the ice pack a couple of days ago. Only about a dozen men, not including Captain Hansen, were in it. The boat had been machine-gunned. No one was alive.”

“Do you think that Captain Hansen and the others might be alive somewhere on the ice?”

“It's possible, but the odds are they went down with the ship, or were killed before she sank. The
Northern Light
found a little wreckage, part of the pilothouse and some splintered deck planks. They'd been hit by shell fire.”

“I see …”

“They never even had time to get off a radio message,” Sanders said bitterly. “There was heavy fog. It all must have happened fast.”

“If they had been able to detect radar—”

“Yes, I understand. Look, I'll forward your request to Headquarters, mark it urgent and recommend it. Give me a detailed list of the equipment you need and I'll include it. That's all I can do.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And tell Mr. Schuman to come up here when he gets some rest. I want to talk to him.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Start taking on fuel and supplies. We have to get you to the east coast as soon as possible. The Germans are still sending weather signals, and I suppose there's still some very slight hope that Hansen and a few men are surviving in the ice. The Eskimos can survive indefinitely in the ice floe, and Hansen is practically an Eskimo himself.”

“Yes, sir. We'll hurry as much as we can. If Headquarters approves of our request for equipment, how long will it take for us to get it?”

“They could put it on a plane and have it here in a few hours if they wanted to, but that's not the way it usually goes. Don't count on anything, but I assure you I'll do everything I can.”

Nathan, who had not got much more sleep than Paul in the last few nights, felt a little weak as he left Commander Sanders's office. Asking the stout lieutenant junior grade if he could use a typewriter, he sat down and wrote a list of the equipment and tools he wanted. It came to two pages. After submitting the original to the commander, he pocketed two carbon copies and tried to think of next steps. He had done everything he could legally do to get the electronic supplies which he now felt were literally a matter of life and death. In his bones he also felt sure that nothing whatsoever would result, not, at least, in time to help them before they were rushed out of port. Now what were the illegal sources of such equipment? Most supply officers wouldn't even know what he was talking about. The officers in charge of the base radar and the base communications system would understand, would know how to lay their hands on the necessary stuff, and might be sympathetic to the needs of a trawler. If not, they might be bought, but who were they, and where?

“How would I find the guys in charge of base radio and radar?” he asked the lieutenant j.g. “I'm a ham operator, and I'm just curious about their equipment.”

“All that stuff is army air force. We deal with a Captain Cantor at base communications. He's not a bad guy.”

Well, at least he sounds Jewish, Nathan thought wryly. I better introduce myself as Greenberg. “How would I get in touch with him?”

“You can phone from here. I'll get him on the phone if you want.”

Nathan tried to think what he would say. “Hey, us Jews ought to stick together up here at the North Pole. Will you help me steal a few hundred dollars worth of equipment?” That didn't sound like too promising a start. Would a base officer have any interest in a trawler resting between voyages to the ice pack? Except for most navy and Coast Guard officers, there was a romantic aura around the trawlers. Small ships and big men. Wooden ships and iron men—why hadn't the commander added that old one?

“He's on the phone,” the lieutenant j.g. said.

“Hello? Captain Cantor here.”

My God, he sounds like Errol Flynn, Nathan thought. “My name is Greenberg, Nathan Greenberg,” he began, rather satisfied with the sound of his real family name. “I'm the communications officer of the
Arluk
, a Coast Guard trawler.”

“Oh? What can we do for you?”

“I guess it's not much of a secret that we're headed up to the east coast to look for German weatherships and for one of our trawlers that went missing.”

“I know about that. You won't find the ship.”

“There could be survivors, so we're in a hurry. Listen, since you're with base communications and I'm the trawler's communications officer, shouldn't we meet? There's a lot I'd like to go over with you. Professionally and nonprofessionally—I'm a radio ham. Is there any chance you could have dinner with me aboard the ship?”

“I'm not sure I can be of much help to you. I'm in the administrative end, but I'd like to see one of those little ships.”

“How about dinner tonight? We have a great cook. Cordon Bleu polar bear steak.”

“What time?”

They met at the officers' club for a drink before boarding the whaleboat for the ship that evening. Captain Cantor turned out to be a very dashing young military man with a thin moustache and a clipped British accent with the faintest echoes of the Bronx. Nathan forced himself to keep a straight face.

“I've heard a lot about these trawlers,” he said. “I wish I had your chance to get away from this base and see what Greenland really is like.”

“Boy, how I envy you,” he added as they rode in the whaleboat toward the
Arluk
. “Now, that's a real ship!”

The bear meat which Nathan had asked Cookie to prepare was stringy and tough, but Captain Cantor ate it with relish. Sitting at the table in the forecastle, his eyes lit up when he saw the narwhale tusks, the Eskimo paddles and harpoons which the crew had traded for canned goods and hung over their bunks.

“Now that stuff is really authentic Greenland,” he said. “Boy, how I'd love to get my hands on some of it.”

Nathan somehow had a vision of Captain Cantor fixing up his den in the Bronx like an Eskimo igloo. For the rest of his life he would probably pose as an old Greenland hand.

“I can get you all kinds of Eskimo artifacts,” Nathan said. “Walrus tusks, a few soapstone carvings, even a polar bear skin. We have it all. I'm sure the boys would like to do some trading.”

“What do they want?”

“Radio parts and equipment. I just happen to have a list.”

Nathan took the papers from his pocket and handed them over.

“Most of this stuff is Greek to me. Like I say, I'm just an administrator. But I'll take it back to the base and see what my boys can do. They all want souvenirs. You can't come back from Greenland with nothing but beer cans to show.”

CHAPTER 26

At Nathan's prodding, the authorities at the base post office discovered a whole truckload of mail sacks for the
Arluk
. When the whaleboat brought Captain Cantor ashore, it returned with the canvas bags piled high from bow to stern. As it was joyfully tossed on deck Boats said, “Can I be in charge of sorting it out, sir?”

Nathan remembered that all these months Boats had been waiting to see whether he was the father of a boy or a girl. “You sure can help,” he said. “I'm afraid that mail sorting is my job. They always mix a lot of official stuff in with the letters.”

Like overeager children the day before Christmas, some of the men began to tear off the wire and lead seals at the necks of the bags. The chief machinist's mate opened one sack with a pair of pliers, and as the men tugged at it, a cascade of letters fell to the deck.

“Chief, pick those up and put them back in the bag,” Nathan said. “Don't open any more bags. Pile them all in the wardroom. Mr. Farmer, Boats and I will distribute it. The fastest way we can get you your letters is to keep some kind of order.”

Nathan's voice rang with new authority.

Paul, who had decided not to sleep in the captain's cabin until or unless he had received orders to be commanding officer, was awakened by the thump of mail sacks tumbling down the companionway into the wardroom. He was astonished by their number and sizes—the whole compartment was soon filled to the point where it was impossible for more than a few men to crowd into it. This did not discourage the members of the crew who wanted to watch the sacks being opened. The crowd at the companionway exerted such pressure that the first men down found themselves shoved against the mountain of mail.

“Damn it, get out of here!” Nathan roared. “Everybody but Boats and Mr. Farmer, get out! If you want your mail fast, give us a chance to work.”

The chief machinist passed his pair of pliers down to Nathan. Grabbing the first sack that met his hand, he dumped a multicolored pile of envelopes on the wardroom table. Seth and Boats took a handful of letters, glanced at the address and read the names aloud.

“Blake,” Boats called.

“Snyder,” Farmer added.

There was pandemonium as these two men tried to bull their way down the crowded steps of the companionway.

“Damn it, form a bucket brigade and pass the letters up,” Nathan said. “If we can't get order, we'll never get this stuff distributed.”

He won order. A hush fell on deck as the names were read out and the letters went from hand to hand up the steps.

Lying in his bunk because there was no room for him anywhere else, Paul waited for his name to be read out. Thinking of Sylvia, he felt guilty that she had not been more in his mind of late. What had she been doing back in Wellesley? He had, he realized, never received a letter from her. She had often said that she hated writing letters and in all the years they had known each other, they had never been apart for long. He hoped she would send photographs of herself. The snapshot of her which he carried in his wallet had crinkled with wear, and he had stared at it so often that like a word endlessly repeated, it had begun to lose meaning. He was shocked to realize that he ached to know what his wife looked like.