Ice Brothers (78 page)

“Where is he?”

“Up in the forecastle drinking coffee.”

Paul struggled to a sitting position in his bunk. Nathan had shaved and either because he had no clean clothes left or because of pride had put on his Eskimo outfit.

“You go talk to him,” Paul said. “Talk Eskimo to him. Tell him you forgot all your English.”

“He wants to talk to you. He's been waiting about a half hour.”

“He probably wants to send us right back to Angmagssalik. Tell him we need availability for engine repairs. Banes will think of something.”

“He's sent a brand new icebreaker up there. She's already left.”

Paul climbed from his bunk. “I wish to hell I had an Eskie outfit. This uniform looks like I slept in it for about six months.”

“Keep your parka on,” Nathan said. “Come on, I think the commander might have orders for us. Maybe he'll send us home.”

Commander Sanders, the curiously scholarly personification of GreenPat, was drinking coffee and talking to Boats when Paul entered the forecastle. He stood up and held out his hand.

“Good to see you, captain,” he said with his Maine twang. “You must have had quite a time of it. Well done.”

“I think the Germans still established weather stations all up and down the coast.”

“A few maybe, but without their base, their ship and their planes, they won't be able to supply them. They won't last too long.”

Paul's body felt stiff and he was terrifyingly weak. He sat down and Krater brought him a mug of hot coffee.

“Thanks,” he said. “Commander, did you ever hear what happened to Captain Mowrey?”

“They sent him back to the States and retired him. Apparently there was a lot of trouble before he left the hospital here. Somehow he got hold of some booze, and I understand that he decked the nurse who tried to take it away from him.”

Krater, who was pouring more coffee, laughed, but Paul said, “I'm sorry,” and meant it.

“The veterans' hospitals will take care of him … Now let's talk about you two and this ship. How long before you'll be able to sail?”

“Where to?” Paul said, his voice dull.

“Back to Boston for a refit. You better get her in shape because that can be a rough voyage this time of the year. To be frank we just lost a trawler in Davis Strait. We think she just iced up and rolled over. We're going to send you on a more southerly route, away from the Labrador coast. You should give the crew a rest, but the weather's going to get worse, not better. Do you think you could sail in about a week?”

“If we're going to Boston, the men will take her out tomorrow,” Paul said.

“Make it a week. In Boston they'll need about a month for the refit, and then they'll be wanting to send her back here. We're still mighty short of ships that can work in the ice.”

“Yes,” Paul said, his mind too tired to think that far ahead.

The commander looked around. Krater had withdrawn to the galley and they were alone in the forecastle.

“Captain, you'll probably be getting orders,” the commander said to Paul. “I'd like to make you permanent skipper of the
Arluk
, but as soon as a man turns out to be a good skipper of a trawler they move him up to a bigger ship.”

“Right now, all I can think about is getting home,” Paul said. “Will we get leave?”

“Thirty days. I'll make sure of that.”

“Who'll take over the
Arluk
if I leave?”

“Do you have any recommendations?”

“Do you want her, Nathan?” Paul asked.

“Do you think I can handle it?”

“What do you think?”

“If I'm lucky …”

“He can handle it,” Paul said to the commander.

“I'll recommend him. I don't make the final decisions, but I raise such hell when they send incompetent skippers up here that they don't entirely ignore me.”

The commander stood up and shook hands with the two officers. “You both deserve medals of some kind, but I can't even make Headquarters understand we're fighting a war in Greenland,” he said.

“Just make sure we get leave,” Paul said. “And if I get orders, how about giving me a ship in the South Pacific? I'm damned tired of ice.”

As the commander was going, Chief Banes came in. “A whole truckload of mail just arrived,” he said. “The men are crazy to have it sorted.”

“I'll take care of it,” Nathan said.

Paul went to his cabin. He felt nervous, and almost didn't want more letters from his brother and Sylvia. Sylvia's letters were always hell on his fantasies of her. He was still exhausted and lay down in his bunk but couldn't sleep. For a long time he had tried not to worry about Sylvia, just to remember his best times with her. Probably he would now get only some cheerful letters about her beloved house … he should understand her need for a home of her own. It was absurd of him to worry about that business of serving as a hostess at the U.S.O. A lot of very respectable women did it, didn't they? Brit and the Eskimos were right—jealousy was a crazy disease.…

A half hour later he heard a knock at his door and Nathan's deep voice saying, “Letters for you, Paul.”

This time there were only three letters from Sylvia and one from his brother. He opened the letter from his brother first because he knew that if there was bad news, Bill would give it to him straight.

Dear Paul:

There's no way around it—I can't make this nice. They say we shouldn't send bad news to you guys overseas, but this is a situation that you have to do something about.

The simple fact is that Sylvia ran your car into the back of a truck around three o'clock in the morning on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston on New Year's Eve. She was going fast. She was hurt but not killed—she's in the hospital with broken legs and maybe her back is hurt but the doctor says she'll eventually get well. Now brace yourself because that's not the worst. A guy was with her, an air force captain, and he was hurt worse, although they say he'll get better too. I'm afraid that lawsuits may come from this. Sylvia was driving and the cops say she was drunk. The truck driver was pretty badly shook up, although he's out of the hospital. Some shyster lawyer got hold of him and the air force guy, and I've hired a lawyer for you—the car is in your name. Fundamentally, you have nothing to worry about—they're not going to hang you for being overseas while all this happened.

I don't know what's going to happen to Sylvia and frankly I don't give a damn. She of course claims she only had a couple of beers and she has all kinds of explanations of why she was driving around Boston at three o'clock in the morning with an air force captain. You can believe her if you want, but I have to tell you that she's been running wild practically ever since you left. You have to face the fact that she's a tramp. I didn't want to spell it all out, but this accident can't be kept a secret. Among other things, I think you should cut off her allotment. I have a lawyer who may represent you for free, but I hate to think of you sending most of your pay for her to spend on other guys. She keeps a party going practically all the time in that new house her father bought for her, and it's always full of free loaders.

I know this must be very tough on you but …

There were two pages more, but Paul did not read them. He started opening the letters from Sylvia. The first had been written before the accident and was all about decorating the house. The third was written in a wavering scrawl:

Paul dearest,

I hate to bother you with this but I had a stupid acident. I'm not badly hurt and the doctor says I'll get completely better. I wouldn't bother you at all with it, except the thing was in the papers. Bill saw it, and you know he's always had it in for me. I'm sure he'll tell you terrible things and I just want to explain that they're not true at all.

I was driving a guy to a hospitle. It was an emergency. He's an air force captain I met at the U.S.O. strickly in the line of duty. He'd just come back from flying fifty missions overseas and he got terribly drunk. He and some other guys got in a fight and he fell and hit his head. I was terribly scared and tried to get him to the hospitle as soon as possible. This stupid truck driver jammed on his brakes right in front of me and there wasn't a thing I could do. The air force guy was carrying a bottle in his pocket and the stuff went all over me, so the cops thought I was drunk, but I'd hardly been drinking at all.

Bill won't believe me—he's really being horid about this. That forces me to give you the real reason, although I never wanted to. The truth is that Bill has always been after me and when you sailed off he got to be a real problem. I slaped his face hard and he's never forgiven me. Now he's trying to get even by making you hate me. Paul, darling, I know you won't believe him. What we have together …

Paul couldn't read any more. He didn't trust her and he didn't trust his brother. The only thing he was sure of at that moment was that he wanted to get drunk, drunker than old Mowrey had ever been. Cramming his letters into his pocket, he walked out of his cabin. Nathan, who was trying to bring order to the arrival of more mail sacks, saw him run across the well deck and jump ashore. After one glimpse of his face, Nathan followed him. He caught up with him on the road that led from the wharf to the officers' club, where Paul was slowing to a fast walk.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a drink.”

“Mind if I come with you?”

“Christ, let me alone!”

There was such a look on Paul's face that Nathan fell back, but he still followed him to the club at a discreet distance, then stood at the other end of the crowded bar. He saw Paul order a scotch, toss it off and order another. After Paul had downed four drinks as fast as he could get them he sat bent over his glass. Nathan walked over and sat next to him. Paul gave no sign of noticing him. At the other end of the bar a group of men started to sing, “You are my Sunshine, my only Sunshine …”

“Give me another scotch,” Paul suddenly called to the bartender, his voice oddly shrill.

After eyeing him coldly for a moment, the bartender poured him another drink.

“I'll have one too,” Nathan said, going to his side.

Paul turned and stared at him for a moment, almost as though Nathan were a stranger.

“So something bad happened,” Nathan said. “Whatever it is, believe it or not, it's really not the end of the world.”

Paul stared at him. He mumbled, “Not the end of the world.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Paul thought about that for a few seconds before putting his hand in his pocket and handing him the crumpled letters. “Letters from home …”

Nathan read the letters. The lines in his mournful face seemed to deepen.

“Ah, shit,” he said, finally. “You don't deserve this.”

“I don't know,” he said. “Maybe I do. It's crazy. I guess she hasn't done anything I haven't done, but I still want to kill somebody. I want to take my damn pistol and go home and wipe them both out.”

“You won't feel that way long.”

“What
will
I do?”

“You'll try to understand whatever happened and eventually you will—”

“I already understand this … I never want to see those people again. I want to begin over with somebody else—”

“That would be one solution—”

“What do
you
think I should do? Go home and try to patch everything up with the little wife?”

“I don't know if that would be possible. I just know that anger like yours doesn't do much good …”

“You're lucky, you can be angry at the Germans and you've already helped to kill a few—”

“I was angry at my wife too. I didn't want her to go back to Poland to get her parents. I thought it was crazy and I told her so. We had a fight, we had lots of fights. Maybe that's the real reason she went off.”

“But what happened wasn't your fault.”

“Which doesn't help much. Guilt or innocence—sometimes in the long run they don't much count.”

“What does?”

Nathan shrugged. “Survival for one thing, and I guess kindness when possible … you're too good a man to let this sour you for long …”

Paul felt embarrassed. “I don't know, for the first time in my life I've no idea what to do.”

“For a while, how about nothing? Let the days go by.”

“I don't know what I'll say when I see her. I don't know what I should write.”

“Write nothing, say nothing. Just let the days go by.”

“I don't want to go home. Do you think I could get transferred to a ship that's going to stay here?”

“Probably GreenPat would arrange that for you, but this isn't a time to make decisions …”

“Yeah, I'm tired of making decisions, I've never been more tired in my goddamn life.”

They had more drinks. Then Nathan called the motor pool and was able to get a jeep to take them back to the ship. Paul staggered up the steps to his cabin, grabbing at the rails the way Mowrey used to do. Nathan helped him into his bunk and took off his shoes.

“The truth is,” Paul said with startling clarity, “the truth is, I loved her for no damn good reason I could understand. And now I don't love her, not anymore, even though she's probably no worse than I am. That isn't reasonable, is it? There's nothing about it that makes sense.”

“Who always makes sense?”

“I never want to see her again. I don't want to hurt her, I just never want to see her again.”

“Just let the days go by,” Nathan said. “Do nothing as long as you can. It's what you need.”

The next day Paul felt calmer, in spite of his hangover, but he still hated the thought of going back to Boston to see his wife and brother. He seriously considered asking GreenPat to transfer him to a ship that was going anywhere else in the world, but Nathan talked him out of it.