ii
John Martin walked into the galley.
“What’s on your mind, Smitty?” he asked. Martin was always polite with the men and Evans was not. The men liked Martin better and that was the main reason why Evans did not like him, or so Martin thought.
“Nothing on my mind. You want to eat something?”
“No thanks. I’ll just take a little of this.” He poured himself some pineapple juice from a large can. Smitty watched him drink it.
“What’s on for chow tonight?”
The Indian’s eyes gleamed. “Vienna sausage and that’s all I got. I have to go get rations for a whole week now. I haven’t got no time to make bread or nothing. That guy,” he pointed upward, “he tell me just today to get this stuff.”
“Well, that’s O.K., Smitty,” Martin murmured soothingly, as he left, “it’ll be all right.”
On deck he found two of the crew coiling the long black water hose.
“Pretty empty, wasn’t she?”
One of them nodded. He was a heavy blond fellow, a professional seaman. “Are we going out west?” he asked.
“That’s right. Leaving tomorrow.”
“That’s what Bervick said. We didn’t know what he was bulling or not. Weather don’t look bad.”
Martin looked at the pale sky. “You can’t ever tell,” he said.
“No, you can’t.” They went on coiling the hose.
Martin walked across the dock. He watched lumber being loaded onto the Liberty ship by sailors with heavy fantastic beards. The port was slowly closing down and he, for one, was not sorry. For a year now he had been at Andrefski as a first mate. He had fought constantly with Evans and he had known all the time that Evans was right: that he was no seaman. Martin had drifted into boat work in the army. After two years he had been made a Warrant Officer and assigned to this Freight-Passenger ship. The whole thing was unreal to him, the Bering Sea, these boats, the desolate stone islands. He wished he were in New England and the thought that he would be at least another year in these islands was maddening.
Thinking of these things, he walked to the warehouse where the mail was delivered. A door in the warehouse opened and Bervick came out. He carried a bundle of letters in his hand. “Hello, Johnny,” he said. “You up so soon?”
Martin smiled. There was no formality between them. Living together in the same small stateroom they understood each other well. “I thought a run in the fog would be just what I needed. Got something for me?”
Bervick thumbed through the bundle and handed Martin a letter. “How does it smell?” he asked.
Martin inhaled the perfume that had been sprinkled on the envelope. “Like magnolias,” he said.
Bervick sniffed. “Smells like a Ketchikan whore to me.”
“Careful,” said Martin, “speak softly when you speak of love. Which reminds me, when are they going to load cargo?”
“Right after lunch, I suppose. That’s if the longshoremen can get together long enough to do some work.”
“Then you’d better move the boom over.”
“O.K.” Bervick walked away.
Martin stepped inside the warehouse. Standing close to the door—there was almost no light in the building—he read the perfumed letter. She thought a lot about him. She wondered how he was. She did not go out much. She wished he were back. She did not go out much, she repeated that. She wondered if he remembered when.... Martin folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Her letters were always the same but she was a nice girl and he would probably marry her and be bored. He felt sorry for himself. He looked at the bleak sky and saw that it suited his mood.
A blast of damp air came through the door and he buttoned his parka at the throat. Then, remembering his errand with the Chaplain, he walked out into the gray light.
A mile away on a slight mound was the post chapel. It was like all other army chapels: box-shaped, with a short square tower and spire. The building was brown and looked dingy from camouflage. He walked toward it.
The wind blew at his back. The wind was rising and there were whitecaps in the bay. Gulls flew worriedly in the bedrizzled air.
A jeep went by him on the road. It stopped and he climbed in. The Captain was sitting at the wheel, his pipe firmly between his teeth.
“How’s the boat business, Martin?” he asked cheerfully.
“Fine as ever.”
“Good.” He started the jeep. “Where are you headed?”
“Over to see the Chaplain. I hear he’s coming with us.”
“Damn! I knew I forgot to tell Evans something. The Chaplain’s going with you people. They’re having a meeting at Arunga and he’s already on orders. Does Evans know?”
“Yes, he heard about it.”
“Grapevine,” the Captain muttered. “I’m going as far as the Post Exchange. You want out there?”
“That’ll be fine.”
The Captain drove deliberately and in silence over the road. After a few minutes he stopped in front of a long low building and they both got out. They walked into the Post Exchange.
“You getting on all right with Evans?” the Captain asked.
“Sure, we’re coming along fine,” Martin said, trying to sound sincere and succeeding.
“That’s the way things should be. I’m glad to hear it.”
The Post Exchange was not yet crowded. A long counter ran the length of the building and behind the counter there were shelves of candy, stationery, toilet articles, magazines.... At one end of the building was a barber’s chair and a soldier barber, and at the other end was a Coca-Cola machine. Everything was neatly arranged beneath hard bare electric lights.
Martin bought a lurid Love magazine. Nothing else caught his eye and he left.
He was out of breath when he reached the top of the mound where the chapel was. A few enlisted men were wandering about near by, getting up enough nerve to go in and see the Chaplain and ask for help. This Chaplain had a reputation for being able to get things done for the men. The religious aura, however, was unmanning to most of them.
The inside of the chapel was quiet and dim and warm. There was little ornament here, only an altar and plain, large-windowed walls without color or design. In a small office to the right of the door, Martin found O’Mahoney, the Chaplain.
He was a short squat Irishman with a red-veined nose, plump cheeks and nearsighted blue eyes. His hair was thick and dark and looked like a neat wig. His manner was awkward and friendly. He had been a monk in a Maryland monastery, and now, in the army, he acted as if he were playing a part in a bad dream, which perhaps he was.
“Hello, Father,” said Martin respectfully.
“How do you do....” O’Mahoney paused with embarrassment. Martin was not a churchgoer and he did not recognize him.
“John Martin, sir,” he said quickly. “I’m the first mate on the boat that’s taking you to Arunga.”
O’Mahoney smiled. “Do sit down, Mr Martin,” he invited. Martin arranged himself with a sigh in a large arm-chair. He was tired from his walk. For a moment he breathed the musty leather smell which all churches seemed to have. O’Mahoney offered him a cigarette. He refused and said that he did not smoke.
“A good habit not to have,” said the Chaplain in his light Irish voice. There was a pause.
“I wanted to know,” began Martin in a loud voice which he quickly lowered. He was always conscious of wrong tones. A loud voice was wrong in a church. “I was wondering,” he said softly, “when you were planning to move aboard, tonight or in the morning.”
“Tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”
“It will be.” Martin smiled. “You’ll be ready for bad weather, won’t you?”
“Bad weather? Is that the report?”
“Well, yes, but it’s also a joke of ours that whenever we haul a Chaplain we have bad weather.”
O’Mahoney chuckled uneasily. “Well, that’s the way those things go, I suppose.”
“Yes, it’s probably just an invitation for you to walk on the water.”
“What? Oh, yes.” O’Mahoney was not quite sure if this was blasphemy or not. He decided it was not. “Are you Catholic, Mr Martin?” he asked. He usually asked that question.
Martin shook his head. “I’m not much of anything,” he said. He could see that the Chaplain was tempted to inquire further. He did not, though. Instead he changed the subject.
“The Captain at the Transport Office did tell me that the weather might be unreliable at this time of year.”
“That’s right, but it shouldn’t be bad.” Martin spoke as if the sea and the weather had no secrets from him. Often he marveled at how professional he sounded.
“I’m certainly glad to hear that. I suffer terribly from mal de mer.” He spoke the French self-consciously and Martin wondered if he was going to translate it or not. He decided to save him the trouble.
“I’m sure you won’t be sick, Father.” Martin got to his feet. “If you want to send any stuff down tonight, we’ll stow it for you.”
“Thank you, but I’ll bring my gear down with me in the morning.”
Martin turned to go, then he remembered the orders he had come to get. “Do you think I could have an extra copy of your orders? We have to have one, you know.”
“Certainly.” O’Mahoney handed him a paper from his desk.
“Thank you. See you tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you going to the Captain’s party tonight, Mr Martin? He’s giving one in his quarters for the Major.”
“Why, yes, I suppose I will.”
“See you then.” The Chaplain walked with him to the door.