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.”