Ice Brothers (38 page)

“I heard about it.”

“Yeah, I guess the whole fleet did. It seemed funny in a horrible kind of way. The poor bastard.”

For a moment they sipped their whiskey silently.

“They say gulls were eating out the eyes of some,” the lieutenant continued morosely. “And one guy had a .45 in his hand. The bullets in it hadn't been fired. He never even got a chance to shoot back. When the ship came near, they probably thought they were going to be picked up.”

Paul visualized the men standing in the boat while a big German icebreaker approached. Probably they were telling each other that the Krauts wouldn't treat them too bad. Then the sudden flicker of flame at the mouths of the machine guns.…

“I suppose the Germans might have had a reason for not letting them go,” the lieutenant said. “Christ, they might have one of their pocket battleships up there, something they really don't want us to know about. Is there any reason why a pocket battleship couldn't operate in the ice, or at least on the fringes of it, with all that armor they have?”

“I don't know.”

“If a pocket battleship were sinking a lot of ships on a long cruise, they might not have room to take more prisoners aboard. I keep thinking they must have had a reason for gunning down that boat. The Krauts are white men, after all—”

Paul had to get out. “Nice talking to you, lieutenant.”

Paul walked to the back of the room, where several poker games were in session. The players were baby-faced army air force captains and majors, not canny old construction men. They played with glasses of liquor on the table before them. Paul picked the table where the biggest stacks of greenbacks were in evidence. He watched quietly until an officer threw down his cards in disgust and left. Putting his hand on the back of the vacant chair, he gave his blandest smile and said, “Do you gentlemen mind if I sit in?”

Luck was with Paul that night. Not only did he win almost two thousand dollars in a few hours, but while celebrating at the bar afterward he met a colonel who, as executive officer of the base, knew a lot about the infantry weapons which the army had available. This colonel was a short fat man about fifty years old who looked more like the president of a Rotary Club—which he had been in Akron, Ohio—than an army officer. He kept wanting to sing “My Gal Sal” while Paul tried to tell him about his need for arms. When Paul said, “Nobody seems to know what they're doing when they send us up there practically defenseless,” however, the man's rather piggish face sobered, and he said bluntly, “Just what the hell do you want?”

“Six fifty-caliber machine guns, six of the biggest mortars you've got, forty automatic rifles and ammo for them all. About a hundred hand grenades. I don't expect something for nothing, colonel.…”

“Are you offering me money?”

“Cash or anything we've got that you want. We need that stuff.”

“Look, we've got warehouses full of hardware we're never going to use. I'll steal whatever you need. But I don't steal for personal profit. I'm a goddamn patriotic thief.”

“Well, am I glad I met you! I was beginning to think—”

“Where do you want the stuff delivered? I can have an LCVP bring it right to your ship.”

“Aren't you afraid word will get out?”

“My C.O. wouldn't question this, and nobody questions anything around here anyway. Some guys stole a B-24 last month and flew it home. Nobody here questioned it.”

Paul told him where the
Arluk
was anchored.

“The stuff will be there before noon tomorrow.” Finishing his drink, the colonel ordered more. Putting his head back, he sang plaintively of his wild but wonderful gal Sal.

Paul sang the chorus with him.

It was a little after one in the morning when Paul got back to the
Arluk
. The days of August were shortening and it was dark. Seeing the dark silhouette of the vessel outlined against the starry sky as the whaleboat approached, the phrase, “my ship” occurred to Paul. He had often used it, but now it was true in a new sense. Just a fishboat, a lot of people called her, but the powerful bow which had broken through so much ice, the low well deck, which was so handy for loading supplies, and the blunt stern which had risen so saucily to huge following seas looked beautiful to Paul. As he grew near, his eye caught a flicker of motion on the signal mast. The third repeater was flying, still in honor of Mowrey. Paul was surprised when the moment his foot hit the deck, Flags hauled the pennant down.

“Good evening, captain,” Flags said with a grin.

Paul was going to say that the change of command wasn't official until he read his orders, but there was no point in making Flags's face fall. Rumors travel faster than orders, and undoubtedly everyone aboard had the word.

“Thank you, Flags,” Paul said. “It is a nice evening at that.”

The door to the forecastle was open, revealing a yellow rectangle of dim light. Too keyed up to sleep, Paul decided to see if there was any hot coffee on the stove. Glad to see that a big pot was steaming in the galley, he started to pour himself a cup. Suddenly Cookie appeared. He was wearing only his long underwear. Apparently he had just bounded from his bunk.

“Let me get you that, skipper,” he said. “And how about a nice chicken liver omelette?”

“Hell, get some sleep, Cookie.”

“No trouble at all.”

Cookie opened the ice chest. “I'll bring it up to your cabin, captain. Mr. Green got us some beer today. Would you like a can?”

“That's good of you, Cookie, but I'm not going to drink aboard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul walked toward the captain's cabin. The idea of privacy for the first time in months was appealing, and there was no reason why he shouldn't start to enjoy it.

Someone had cleaned up the cabin and put fresh linen and blankets on the bunk. All the drawers were empty—apparently Nathan had had Mowrey's personal effects sent ashore. The only sign of the old ice pilot was his sealskin cap, which was wedged into the bookshelf over the chart table between the nautical almanac and the tide tables. Paul carefully examined it. The skin was beautifully hand-stitched with waxed sail twine—probably Mowrey had made it himself. Going to the head, Paul stared into the shaving mirror above the sink and put the cap on, adjusting it to Mowrey's rakish angle. It did not become him. He looked like a little boy dressing up. Only a real old ice pilot could wear a cap like that and get away with it. Paul put the cap back on the bookshelf. Someday, if they both lived long enough, he would try to visit Mowrey and give it back to him.

Although he was tired Paul carried all his gear from the wardroom. Before unpacking his clothes he hung his sword over his bunk. Finally he lay down. In the engine room a generator purred smoothly and he could hear the quartermaster on the bridge telling Guns about a girl he had met in New Orleans. Nathan had set only an anchor watch. Mowrey would have demanded a sea watch at anchor here in this open fjord, but the men were tired, there was little wind and the sky was clear.

“Quartermaster,” Paul called. “Keep an eye on the glass and on the thermometers. Call me if there's any change or if the wind pipes up.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Paul turned over in the unfamiliar bunk. He had hung his sword temporarily from a bookshelf, and the slight rocking of the ship caused it to sway. In the morning he would have Boats and Chief Banes put up some brackets. Mowrey apparently had never owned a sword, but Hansen had displayed his. The sword meant something, after all. Before he could figure out just what, he went to sleep.

Paul had no idea how long he slept before Nathan awoke him.

“Skipper, I'm sorry, but there's a soldier here from the army hospital. He says Mowrey sent him. The old man wants to see you right away.”

Automatically Paul jumped up to his feet, hastily straightened his uniform and went to the well deck. A short, stout man in a khaki parka with a sergeant's chevrons on the sleeve was waiting for him, and a strange green plywood boat with a big outboard motor on the stern was moored alongside.

“Captain Mowrey told me to bring you in,” he said, sounding as though he were taking Paul prisoner.

“All right.”

Paul followed the sergeant into the green boat and soon they were skimming with surprising speed toward the base. The sergeant led Paul to a big Quonset hut with a red cross painted over the door. Inside it looked much like a civilian hospital and there was the same depressing mixture of smells. They walked through several wards before stopping in front of a room which held only four beds, three of which were empty. A stout, middle-aged army nurse stopped them at the door.

“Are you bringing him liquor?” she asked.

“No,” Paul and the sergeant said simultaneously.

“You better not. We've got him on drugs. Liquor could kill him.”

“I couldn't find none for him anyway,” the sergeant said.

The nurse stepped away from the open door. Mowrey was lying half propped up in the first bed. His eyes were closed and at first glance Paul thought he was dead; his usually red face was gray. With a stubble of gray beard and no teeth, he looked shockingly old.

“I brung him,” the sergeant said. “Now do I get my ten bucks?”

“Did you bring me any booze?” Mowrey did not open his eyes.

“I couldn't find none. They won't let any in here anyway.”

“You bastard. I bet you didn't even try.”

“I brung the officer. Now I want my ten bucks.”

“Get the hell out of here or I'll call the nurse.”

“You said—”

Taking his wallet from his hip pocket, Paul gave the sergeant ten dollars and the man walked out. For what seemed a long while Mowrey lay silently with his eyes closed. He did not even seem to be breathing.

“How are you feeling, skipper?”

“Like shit.”

“You'll be better soon.”

Mowrey opened his eyes. They were the only part of him which did not look dead. They were full of an incredibly malevolent glare.

“I ain't going to die. That's what you want, isn't it?”

“No, sir.”

“Remember you're temporary. Temporary commanding officer. That's what your orders read.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll be out of here. Maybe not before you sail, but soon. I've dried out before. They'll fly me to the ship, wherever you are. I'll be back.”

“That won't be my decision.”

“There ain't nothing wrong with me that can't heal in a few weeks. The doc said that himself.”

“I'm glad.”

“I'll bet. Did you tell GreenPat I'm a fucking drunk?”

“No.”

“You better not! If I find you put that on my record, I'll tell them you're a thief. You stole the boat.”

Paul said nothing.

“I'll be back. You know why?”

“No, sir.”

“Because you'll fuck up. I just hope to hell you don't sink the ship.”

Paul said nothing. Taking one of his huge gray hands from beneath the blanket, Mowrey pointed an unsteady finger at him, and attempted to sit up.

“You ain't an ice pilot. You ain't a skipper. You ain't a sailor. You don't have the balls for it. You ain't even a man. You're just a fucking Yale and that's why you won't last. That's why I'll be back, sooner than you think!”

Mowrey let his head fall back on the pillow and his hand dropped on his chest. He closed his eyes. Paul stared at him for a moment before getting up and walking out of the hospital.

At the bar of the officers' club he tried to tell himself that Mowrey's words had been only the ravings of a dying old man, but in his mind there was an ineradicable picture of the
Arluk
hopelessly grounded on some Arctic shore, and a big seaplane swooping down to put Mowrey aboard. It was a fantasy which soon began to plague him even more than the one about the big German icebreaker looming out of the fog …

After he had had a half dozen drinks, Paul found a man with a boat, who ran him out to his ship. He made sure that he walked very steadily as he went to his cabin because he did not want the men to think that he had acquired Mowrey's weaknesses, if not his strengths. The whiskey did its job. He had no trouble going to sleep.

He did not awaken for almost ten hours, by far the longest unbroken rest he had had since coming aboard the
Arluk
. And he might have slept longer if Nathan had not awakened him. Nathan, he noted, had stopped calling him by his first name.

“Skipper,” Nathan said, “sorry to bother you, but there's a landing craft alongside with a big load of guns in crates. What do you want done with them?”

“Have Seth and Guns stow them in the hold.”

“God, you sure got them quick!”

“I got lucky. How you coming with your stuff?”

“I'm going to meet my man tonight at the officers' club. I have two more things to report, sir. An ensign by the name of Robert Williams just reported for duty. He hitched a ride on the landing craft.”

“What's he look like?”

“Nothing but a college boy, sir,” Nathan said with his wry grin. “Looks like he might come from Yale.”

Paul laughed. “Well, it won't take us long to straighten him out.”

“And there was a BuPers message in the official mail. You and I are now both lieutenants, junior grade.”

“Congratulations.”

“I'd feel better about it if I had earned it. It's just a block, automatic promotion. You at least have it coming.”

“Nathan, will you cut that out? Anybody who has vomited as much as you have for the sake of his country deserves everything he can get.”

“Damned if that doesn't sound right.”

“Ask Cookie to bring some breakfast up for me, will you? Then give me about half an hour. When you get those crates off the deck, pass the word that we're going to hold quarters. I have to read my orders.”