iii
Bervick and Duval were arguing again. Supper had been finished and Evans had gone to the wheelhouse. Martin sat quietly in a corner while the Chief and Bervick insulted each other. Their arguments were thought very funny by the rest of the crew. No one took them seriously except Martin, and he was not sure if they were serious or not.
Olga, a Norwegian girl at the Big Harbor, was the cause of their trouble. The year before she had come to work in a restaurant. Because she had let Bervick sleep with her for nothing, he had decided that it must be love and he had almost decided to marry her. Then one day he discovered that she was also seeing Duval and accepting his money and a great many other people’s money, too. He had asked her to stop but she was a thrifty girl, supporting her mother in Canada. She had told him that it was none of his business. Duval had laughed at him because of this and he had come to hate Duval and feel that it was his fault that Olga had changed.
Somewhat drowsily Martin listened to them talk. This time they were arguing whether the knife should be set on the table edge of blade toward the plate or away from it. Duval claimed the edge should be away from the plate and Bervick claimed it was toward the plate.
“I don’t suppose you’d know where it went anyway,” said Duval bitingly. “You probably always ate with your hands.”
This was a hard blow and Bervick countered, “I don’t guess you ever used anything but a knife to eat with. I’ve seen cajuns like you before.”
Duval was proud of his pure French ancestry. He came from a long-settled New Orleans family and he was sensitive about being thought a cajun.
“Cajun, hell,” he said, trying not to sound irritated. “You wouldn’t know one if you saw one.”
“I guess I’m talking to one.”
This was too much. The Chief Engineer remembered his rank. He stood up. “That’s enough, Sergeant,” he said with dignity.
Bervick stood up also. Martin could see he was pleased. It was always a victory when the Chief fell back on his rank. “Yes, Warrant Officer Junior Grade Duval,” he said.
“Better not get so fresh, Sergeant.” The Chief turned to Martin and said, “Just a little squabble.” Bervick left the salon, laughing. “Fresh bastard,” muttered the Chief.
“Oh, he’s all right,” said Martin smoothly. “Just a little hot-tempered at times.”
“Maybe that’s it.” Duval sat down on the bench beside Martin. They looked out the window at the pale gray of evening. The day was over and the wind had died down.
“Probably be a strong southwest wind tomorrow,” remarked Duval.
“Can’t tell, really.”
“Thank God we’ve only a few passengers. Every time it’s rough we have at least forty.”
“That’s the way it goes.”
At the other table five deckhands were playing Hearts. Martin watched them. His thoughts drifted and he saw stages and heard speeches and listened to the sea. The sea was becoming a part of himself, and whenever he relaxed, his mind seemed to be caught up in the restless tempo of the water and he would become uneasy: at sea he was always uneasy. He yawned abruptly and cleared his mind.
Evans came into the salon. “Say, Mate,” he said, “the Captain’s giving a party over at his quarters. You and the Chief want to come?”
Martin nodded. “I always like free beer.”
“So do I.” The Chief got to his feet. “I hope he’s got some bourbon. I haven’t had any good stuff for quite a while. It gets used up so fast because I always share it.” The Chief knew of Evans’ liquor and he also knew that Evans never shared it. Evans looked away.
“We’d better get started then. The dispatcher’s waiting outside. He’s going to take us over in his jeep.”
The Captain’s quarters consisted of two huts knocked together. Normally three officers lived there, but at the moment he was alone and had the whole place to himself.
Several men were already in the room when they entered. The Captain was fixing drinks behind a bar made out of a packing case. He grunted at them, his pipe moving slightly as he greeted them.
Evans and Duval were jovial in their greetings. Martin merely smiled. The Chief was on particularly good terms with the Captain. They were of the same age and had had many parties together.
“How does it go, Old Chief?” inquired the Captain, speaking out of the side of his mouth.
“Great. We keep the army on the waves.”
“That’s something. What’ll it be, gentlemen?” While the others told what they wanted, Martin looked about him. He had not been in the Captain’s quarters for a long time. He never liked to seem too close to higher ranking officers. He was always afraid someone would think he wanted something.
The walls were decorated with large paintings of nudes. They had been done for the Captain by a soldier. A lamp, several chairs, and a bookcase with a few books and a great many rocks in it furnished this end of the room.
A Major and a Lieutenant were standing before one of the paintings. Martin, who did not recognize them, decided that they must be the passengers for Arunga. In one corner beside a radio the Chaplain sat, a pale bourbon and water beside him. He was turning the dial of the radio. Three officers from the Harbor Craft Detachment made up the rest of the party.
“What’ll it be, Martin?” asked the Captain.
“Beer, if you have it.”
“Beer! O.K., suit yourself. I’m always glad to save the real stuff.” He handed Martin a bottle of beer.
Loud music startled them. The Chaplain looked about him apologetically and quickly lowered the volume. “Finally got some music,” he announced. “The static isn’t so bad tonight.”
The Major agreed, “Yes, the static’s not bad at all tonight.”
The Lieutenant remarked that the static had been bad the night before.
That, thought Martin, takes care of the static. He often wondered why people spoke so inanely.
“These are very interesting works of ... of art, you have here,” remarked the Major somewhat archly. Martin could see that he was trying to be a good fellow.
“Like them?” The Captain came out from behind the bar. “Had a soldier do them for me. Very talented fellow he was, too. Quite lifelike, aren’t they?” He winked at the young Lieutenant, who blushed and looked away. Martin chuckled and noticed that the Major was smiling, too.
The Major said, “Lieutenant Hodges doesn’t care for modern art.”
The Captain laughed, “Oh, to be young! Wouldn’t it be nice, Major, if we were young again.”
The Major winced slightly. He was not old and did not like to be thought old, but because he was bald and his face was lined, people took him to be older than he was. He did not like that.
“Youth is very important,” he murmured, paying no attention to what he was saying.
“Most important for the future,” agreed the Chaplain.
Martin was bored by this. He took his beer and sat down in an easy chair. He drank the beer slowly. It was green and tasted bitter. He watched Evans and Duval draw near to the Major. Both were good politicians.
“It looks as if the war will be over soon,” remarked Evans, a half-question in his voice.
“Yes,” said the Major. He always said “yes” first, even when he meant “no.”
“Yes, it should be over soon, but of course we have no effective way of gauging the enemy’s rate of attrition. The attrition rate is important. Attrition can decide wars.” Martin wondered if he would repeat this last: it sounded like a maxim. He did not. He continued. “There are only a few good strategists in the enemy’s army. They could be named on the fingers of one hand. Most of them know nothing but frontal attacks.”
“I guess bombings are messing them up,” suggested Evans.
“Wars,” said the Major, “cannot be won by aviation. No matter what the Air Corps says.” He sounded bitter. Martin wondered if the Major might not be jealous of the quick promotions in the Air Corps.
“I guess that’s right,” Evans agreed.
Everyone began to talk at once. Evans and the Major discussed the latest movies. The Chief, who was Catholic, discussed moral issues with the Chaplain. One always seemed to discuss such things with Chaplains. The Captain talked about women and the Lieutenant listened to him gravely.
Cigarette smoke was becoming thick in the room. Blue veils of it floated upward from each smoker. Martin’s eyes watered. He finished his beer. The radio played on. Music of every sort swelled in the room. The room was too hot. The oil-stove in the center was giving off heavy waves of heat. Martin felt a little drowsy. He wondered if they would notice it if he shut his eyes for a moment.
Lieutenant Hodges was standing beside his chair, when he opened his eyes again.
“Must have been asleep,” Martin mumbled. His eyes felt heavy. He looked around and saw that the others obviously had not noticed he had gone to sleep. They were talking and singing and drinking. There was a strong barroom odor in the hut. The Chaplain, he noticed, had gone.
“Sorry to bother you,” said the Lieutenant. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“That’s all right. I don’t know what happened to me. I was just tired, I guess. I’ve had a pretty hard day,” he lied.
“You’re on the boat that’s taking us west, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m the mate. Martin’s the name.”
“My name is Hodges. I’m the Major’s assistant.” They shook hands in the self-conscious manner of people who have already met.
There was not much to say. They stood there watching the others move about. Almost everyone was drunk. Martin got slowly to his feet. “What time you got?” he asked.
Hodges looked at his watch carefully. “Eleven fifty-seven.”
“That’s pretty late for me to be up. I guess I better get a move on. See you in the morning.”
“Sure thing. Good night.”
Martin went over to the corner where Evans, the Major, and the Captain were singing.
“I think we’d better head back,” he said, catching Evans between songs. Evans shook his head. He was drunk.
“Hell no,” he said. “You go back if you want to. You go back.”
Martin shrugged and turned away. The Chief was in a crap game with an Indian skipper.
“Can’t leave now,” the Chief said, his eyes on the dice.
Martin picked up his parka and put it on.
“I think I’ll walk back,” he announced. Hodges was the only one who heard and he nodded as Martin turned to go.
The Major was talking of strategy when he left.
“Wellington, of course, was the perfect general. Wellington understood attrition. Attrition....” The Major talked on.
Outside Martin breathed the deep night air gratefully. It was good after the heat and smoke. There were no stars out yet and that was not good. With a shiver he turned and walked quickly toward the docks.