The World War II Novels: Voyage to Somewhere, Pacific Interlude, and Ice Brothers

By Sloan Wilson

Three novels of life at sea during World War II from the bestselling author of The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit and A Summer Place.

Drawing on his own experiences as a US Coast Guard officer, Sloan Wilson sheds a unique light on World War II in these three unforgettable novels.
 
Voyage to Somewhere: Hoping to draw a nice, lengthy shore duty after two years at sea, Lieutenant Barton is instead told that he’s being sent right back out, this time as captain of a supply ship sailing from California to New Guinea and stopping at every small island in between. Despite being homesick for his wife, he has no choice but to accept the assignment and a cargo of pineapples destined for Hawaii. When Barton isn’t battling gale-force winds and monstrous waves, he’s coping with seasick sailors and budding rivalries that threaten to turn mutinous. Hanging over the ship like a storm cloud is the knowledge that the world is at war and the enemy is never far away. “One of the few honest and straightforward sea books that have come out of the war” (New York Herald Tribune).

Pacific Interlude: Twenty-five-year-old Coast Guard lieutenant Sylvester Grant, a veteran of the Greenland Patrol, has just been given command of a small gas tanker carrying extremely flammable cargo across dangerous stretches of the Pacific Ocean. As the Allies prepare to retake the Philippines, Grant and his crew must bring two hundred thousand gallons of high-octane aviation fuel to shore. From below-deck personality clashes to the terrifying possibility of an enemy attack, from combating illness and boredom to the constant stress of preventing a deadly explosion, the crew of Y-18 must learn to work together and trust their captain—otherwise, they might never make it home. “Powerful, passionate and authentic . . . Unforgettable” (James Dickey, author of Deliverance).
 
Ice Brothers: After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Paul Schuman, a college senior and summer sailor, enlists in the Coast Guard and is assigned to be the executive officer aboard the Arluk, a converted fishing trawler patrolling the coast of Greenland for secret German weather bases. Led by Lt. Cdr. “Mad” Mowry, the finest ice pilot and meanest drunk in the Coast Guard, Schuman and communications officer Nathan Greenberg battle deadly icebergs, dangerous blizzards, and menacing Nazi gunboats. Surviving the war will require every ounce of courage and intelligence they possess—and that’s before Mowry breaks, forcing the young officers to take command at the worst possible moment. “The best since The Caine Mutiny” (San Francisco Chronicle).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Sep 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504048613

Sloan Wilson

Sloan Wilson (1920–2003) was born in Norwalk, Connecticut, and graduated from Harvard University. An avid sailor, he joined the US Coast Guard shortly after Pearl Harbor and, during World War II, commanded a naval trawler on the Greenland Patrol and an army supply ship in the South Pacific. Wilson earned a battle star for his role in an attack by Japanese aircraft and based his first novel, Voyage to Somewhere, and two of his later books, Ice Brothers and Pacific Interlude, on his wartime experiences. In 1955 he published The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, a classic portrait of suburban ennui heralded by the Atlantic as “one of the great artifacts of popular culture in the 50’s.” It was adapted into a successful film, as was its bestselling follow-up, A Summer Place. The author of fifteen books, Wilson was living with his wife of forty years, Betty, on a boat in Colonial Beach, Virginia, at the time of his death.

Book preview

The World War II Novels

Voyage to Somewhere, Pacific Interlude, and Ice Brothers

Sloan Wilson

CONTENTS

Voyage to Somewhere

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Pacific Interlude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Ice Brothers

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part II

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Part III

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Epilogue

About the Author

Voyage to Somewhere

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

BY MY WIFE AND ME

TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER,

Albert Frederick Wilson

CHAPTER ONE

DO YOU want command of a ship?" the personnel officer asked.

Well, I said, I hadn’t thought of it.

The personnel officer leaned forward and flicked through the pages of a small card index in a green metal box.

Let me see, Lieutenant, he said. Barton is your name. I think I have you down for command of a ship.

If you don’t mind, I interjected, there are other things I’d rather do. I just came back from two years’ sea duty, you know. I’d been hoping for a job somewhere in the States.

If I could only find your name here. I had it somewhere.

I stood uneasily before the personnel officer’s desk and watched him look through one card index after the other. He was red-faced and fat. I envied him his job. It must be fun to rifle through card indexes to see whom you were going to send out.

I’d been hoping, I said again, that for a while I could be stationed in the States. Some kind of a teaching job, perhaps, or captain of the port.

Well, he said, I don’t know where your name is. What were you saying?

I was saying that I wanted a job here in the States. I’ve just come back from two years overseas.

He sat back in his chair and placed one of his fat little hands over the other in a gesture of childish dismay.

Oh, he said, that is impossible. We have to man over a hundred ships going out to New Guinea, and we need men of experience. You have had two years’ sea duty, but that’s just what makes you so valuable.

How about letting someone else get valuable? I asked.

He grinned at me as though I had made a wonderful joke and suddenly leaned forward and produced a notebook from a drawer. I know where your name is, he said. That reminds me!

I watched while he carefully turned the pages.

Barton, he said. Let me see. I know it’s here somewhere.

The pages made a dry sound.

Barton, he said again. Begins with a B. That would be toward the beginning of the alphabet. Here it is! I knew I had you down somewhere!

What, I asked, have you got me down for?

A wonderful assignment!

What assignment?

You’re to be commanding officer of a ship.

I know, I said, and the ship is going to New Guinea. Not just there and back, but there and on. Don’t tell me about it.

He flipped his notebook shut. It’s a wonderful assignment, he said. I thought I was doing you a favor. It’s a brand-new ship.

How long?

What?

How long is the ship? How big is she?

A hundred and eighty feet.

No, thanks.

What?

I don’t want that assignment. Do I have to take it? Tell me now and it will save talk.

The personnel officer took his glasses off and polished them with his handkerchief. I’m afraid the Commander is already having your orders written up. If you don’t want the job you might see him, but I’m afraid it won’t do much good. We don’t have many men with enough experience to be commanding officers. You know, to tell you the truth, I can’t understand your attitude.

I felt tired and pulled up a chair from another desk. Before speaking I lit my pipe. My attitude, I said finally, is easily understood. For the past two years I have been bobbing around in small ships. I’d like a rest. I’ve never been able to understand why it’s necessary to be shoved out the moment I get in. You and I are both lieutenants; why don’t you go to sea for a while and let me have your desk? Let’s divide these honors equally.

The personnel officer put his glasses on carefully. There’s nothing I’d like better, he said, but I haven’t had the experience. To tell you the truth I’ve never been to sea since my cadet cruise. I couldn’t command a ship now any more than you could really do my job. As a matter of fact, I have twice asked the Commander for a ship, but you know how it is.

Yes, I said, I know how it is.

He looked up at me and for a moment I almost felt sorry for him. He looked so small, and so fat, and so sedentary. Perhaps he really did want to go to sea.

Let me tell you about this assignment, he said. The ship is a supply vessel. You’ll run out of convoy to all the small bases. In the Pacific you will call at every small island—the Hawaiians, the Ellice Islands, the Solomons, and maybe more. Once you get to New Guinea you’ll stay away from the big bases almost entirely. It’ll be more an exploring expedition than a war. As captain of the ship you’ll be your own boss; there’ll be no detachment commanders anywhere within miles. It’s a damn rare assignment.

What kind of a crew will you give me?

Not much, I’m afraid. You know how few experienced hands there are around these days, and the destroyer escorts are getting most of them. I’ll do the best I can for you, though; don’t worry about that.

Tell me more about the ship, I said. How fast is she? What does she look like?

Well, I don’t really know. These are new ships, and I haven’t seen any of them. I understand they’re pretty good, though.

He opened his notebook again and ran his finger down the line. Your ship is the SV-126.

Thanks, I said. That helps a lot. Now I know all about her.

I got up and started buttoning my coat. How long have I got in the States? I asked. How long before I’ll get my orders?

It’s hard to tell. It might be tomorrow, it might be next month.

Look, I said, I’d like to know. I have to decide whether or not to wire my wife to come out. There’s no use her coming across the continent if I’m only going to be here a few days.

You better not have her come out. Your ship will probably be ready sometime this week.

Well, I said, thanks.

I turned and walked off. When I had almost reached the door he called after me. I wouldn’t get too downhearted, he said. I hear a rumor that we’re going into the Marianas pretty soon. They say the war’s almost over.

CHAPTER TWO

NOT HAVING anything else to do, I decided to go down to the shipyard to inspect the SV-126. A yeoman in the office told me that she was building at the Pacific Ship Works. I took a taxi there, and soon stood before the watchman’s gate. Over the fence I could see the towering decks of a battleship on the ways, and moored in a slip was an aircraft carrier. The watchman came out of his box and looked at me as though he wanted to place his hand over my eyes.

I want to go aboard a ship that’s building here, I said. The SV-126.

The watchman went to a notebook which, by coincidence, had a similar binding to the one in which the personnel officer had found my name.

SV-126, he said. I don’t have no such number here.

Look again, I said. It must be here. I’m sure the ship is being built in this yard.

What kind of a ship is it? he asked.

A supply ship. A very small one.

He looked again. Nope, he said, it’s not here. Must be at some other yard.

Will you let me go in and look? I asked.

The watchman looked at me suspiciously a moment, then bade me go in.

The shipyard was a big place. On the ways along the water more than a dozen big ships were being built or repaired. Men on scaffolds by the sides of a battleship were welding, and the bright sparks of their torches sprayed out like a Fourth of July celebration. Beside the battleship was a destroyer with her bow removed. As I passed her I could look into her hull and see that the bunks in her forecastle had been twisted by fire. Past this row of ships I saw an office building. I stopped there and asked for the SV-126.

Never heard of it, a bespectacled civilian told me.

Are you building any small ships here at all? I asked.

He thought a moment and consulted a framed map of the yard on the wall.

Over here, he said, pointing with his finger, they’re building some small hulls. I thought they were tugboats, but you can look and see.

He showed me how I could get to the point designated, and I set out. I walked past the half-completed hull of a Liberty ship and the knifelike bow of a cruiser. Over the top of a building I could see the upper deck of the carrier I had seen from without the wall. When I had passed the building I could see a group of tin workshops by the water, but no more ships. Discouraged, I turned to go back, and saw a workman carrying a welder’s mask behind me.

I said, You don’t know where they’re building a small ship around here, do you? The SV-126?

He said, They’ve got something down by the blacksmith shop. Just threw it in the water yesterday.

He pointed to the blacksmith shop, the farthest of the tin sheds I had seen before, and I walked toward it.

When I rounded the corner of the blacksmith shop I saw the SV-126. I had not seen her before because the top of her mast did not come above the roof of the building. She was indeed a small ship—so small that she might best have been called a boat. The white numbers on her plumb bow seemed disproportionately large. The bow, almost before it got started, broke away into a well deck that was not more than a foot and a half above the water. Abaft the well deck the stern was built up like the stern of a Spanish galleon. The ship’s lines, taken together with the fact that she was painted a bright green, made her appear ridiculous. Fascinated, I walked down to the dock and stood beside her. Even in the imperceptible swell of the slip she was bobbing lightly against the dock. Frantically, as a man tries to find good points in a person he feels he should love, I tried to find something consoling about the ship. The high bow was good—she would not take much water forward, or aft, for that matter, with that high stem. But amidships she would be awash half the time! And the looks of the thing! A man would be ashamed to be seen aboard her. I stepped backward to see the full sweep of her lines better. As I did so I noticed an officer seated on a pile of lumber a few feet away. He was a very fat man about forty years of age, a lieutenant. He was looking at me with an air of amusement.

Well, he said, what do you think of her?

Not much, I admitted.

He got up and walked over toward me. Going to be stationed aboard her? he asked.

I’m afraid so.

So am I.

I looked at him with new interest. He was fat, but he neither talked nor walked like a fat man. Something in his manner suggested that his corpulence was merely a disguise that could be dropped at a moment’s notice. I realized that I had been staring at him, and quickly shoved out my hand.

My name’s Barton, I said. I understand I’m supposed to command the thing.

Rudd’s my name, he said. I’m the engineering officer.

We stood together and silently surveyed the ship. She was such a remarkable-looking vessel, so like a huge green wooden shoe, that she was hard to get used to.

What an awful thing, Mr. Rudd said. Who do you supposed designed her?

Walt Disney, I replied."

He laughed, and I saw he was looking at me.

Do you know where we’re going? he asked.

New Guinea, I said. I believe it’s supposed to be a secret.

I know, he said. What an awful thing.

He took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. Without a word we began pacing up and down on the dock beside the ship.

Do you know how to navigate? he asked. He said it so quietly that for a moment I mistrusted my ear.

Yes, I said in a normal voice, and then, a little nettled, Why do you ask?

I just wondered, he said. Nowadays you never can tell. You’re a Reserve, aren’t you?

Yes, I said. Do you know anything about engines?

I’m a Regular. Been in fifteen years.

He sensed my resentment at his questions, and continued. You mustn’t mind if I ask you a few things. A man gets curious about his commanding officer—so much depends on him. It’s a little like getting married, you know, only you can pick your own wife. How long have you been going to sea?

Something over two years in the service, I said. About five years before that.

Well, that’s good, he said. My last skipper kept asking me questions like which was the bow, and which was the stem. He kept getting mixed up.

I made no reply. It occured to me that I should be disapproving, but it was impossible.

You mind your engines, I said finally, and I’ll take care of the rest of it.

The remark made me feel absurd. I cleared my throat. As we paced up and down, a troop of women in overalls marched down to the ship and went aboard. Three of them carried welding helmets, and the others carried the hoses and the tanks. Mr. Rudd watched them fascinatedly as they set up their gear on deck and began to weld.

What an awful thing, he said, and continued his pacing. I walked beside him. A ship built by women, he said, and manned by Reserves.

Not entirely, I said. You’ll be aboard.

That is not a comfort, he said.

We continued our pacing. In spite of Mr Rudd’s manner, there was something about him I found vastly reassuring. I was glad that I had met Mr Rudd before I had had time to become too discouraged about the ship.

Do you have any idea of what we’re in for? he asked.

Before I had time to say I did know what we were in for, he said very quietly, We have to go aboard that ship—that ship there. We will have to go over it from bow to stern to see what parts those women have forgotten to finish. Then we will get a crew of seventeen-year-old kids who think that going to sea is a great adventure and going to war an even greater adventure. We have to use those kids for a crew and sail that ship clear across the Pacifiic Ocean to New Guinea. There we’ll haul ammunition and gasoline and every other infernal cargo, and if we’re lucky we’ll get to go on all the invasions that are coming up. Do you see what we have for armament?

I looked and saw two fifty-calibre machine guns on the stern of the ship. No other gun emplacements were in evidence.

Those, Mr Rudd said, are to shoot planes down with. If we meet a submarine maybe we can sink that, if we’re good at this stuff they call psychological warfare.

You don’t paint a very pretty picture, I said.

Well, don’t worry about the Japs, he replied. We’ll probably never be able to sail that ship far enough to get anywhere near them.

Oh, I wouldn’t get discouraged, I answered. I’ve sailed much smaller ships than that.

He stopped and looked at me, and I felt that I was being examined in about the same way that I had examined the ship.

Look, Captain, he said, I’ll tell you something. I asked for this job. I don’t mind it. I think we will probably get through. But don’t forget how ridiculous the whole project is, and don’t try to cheer me up. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I figure the quicker we understand each other the better.

All right, I said, I won’t try to cheer you up. But why in hell did you ask for this job?

Because I got bored and because I don’t give a damn. He turned and resumed his pacing. And because I like to keep my convictions, he added, and if I got on a nice, big smooth-running ship I might think that some of the brass hats knew what they were doing.

The women welders on the deck of the ship finished their job. One of them threw off her welder’s helmet and revealed a thick mass of dirty blond hair. Reaching into her trouser pocket, she pulled out a lipstick and applied it without a mirror. Then, shouldering her mask, she marched off the ship.

Seeing Mr. Rudd, she waved at him. Hello, dearie! she called. How’s tricks?

CHAPTER THREE

THREE DAYS LATER I received word that we were to put the ship into commission. There was to be no ceremony: a truck would bring the ship’s complement down to the shipyard, we would go aboard, and make everything ready to sail. I went down to the ship early, to be there when the crew arrived. The SV-126 lay deserted; not even a security watch had been left aboard her. I walked over the gangway and stood alone on her deck. Slowly I made my way aft and walked through a passageway past the galley to a door which had Commanding Officer in white letters over it. Inside this cabin I found a bunk and a desk. I sat down and looked around me. Not a sound was heard anywhere. I hope it’s always this quiet, I thought, and caught myself envisaging all the different noises that can take place on a ship: the sustained shriek of a gale, the mechanical hysteria of the general quarters alarm, the jolt of gunfire, and the steady hum of men’s voices that pervades a fully manned ship, voices which continue day and night and which by their tone express the corporate emotions of the crew. My reverie was disturbed by the sound of a truck stopping beside the ship and the first clamor of those very voices of which I had been thinking. I went on deck and saw a six-wheeled truck with about twenty-five men in the back of it. Already the men were jumping out of the truck and throwing their seabags on the dock. Mr. Rudd was lumbering out of the front seat of the truck, and two other officers, a j.g. and an ensign, were supervising the unloading of the truck. There was a constant babble of voices. Right here now, make it lively, the j.g. was shouting, and the men were saying, Aye aye, sir, Hey, Bill, get off my bag, and Give me a hand here, Mac, will you? Won’t anybody give me a hand with this thing?

When all the seabags were piled on the dock the men formed a line and started swinging them aboard. One bag almost fell in the water, and there were loud cries of alarm.

Lose that and I go naked for the rest of the war, a tall, thin seaman said.

When all the bags were piled in a forward corner of the well deck, the men filed aboard over the gangway. The steel decks of the ship trembled under their feet and the air resounded with their voices. It’s like blood seeping into a dead body and giving it life, I thought. She’ll never be quiet again—till she sinks or is left, after the war, to rot in some quiet creek. I wonder when she will be quiet again.

Mr. Rudd came aboard last of all and we greeted each other like old friends. The j.g. came up and introduced himself as Mr. Crane, the executive officer. I told him to tell one of the chiefs to have the men stow their gear in the forecastle, then come with the other officers into my cabin for a conference.

Five minutes later we met in my cabin. I sat in my desk chair, Mr. Rudd and Mr. Crane sat on the bunk beside me, and Mr. Warren, the ensign, stood. I took a good look at all of them. Mr. Rudd was as grossly fat, yet as strong-looking as I remembered him. Mr. Crane was a medium sized, white-skinned man of about twenty-eight; he looked like an office worker. Mr. Warren, the ensign, was not older than twenty-one or two; he was tall and slender, and there was something about his face which made him look as though he were always thinking intensely about something. For a moment the four of us said nothing. This meeting was so obviously the beginning of something, it was so obviously a time of importance for all of us, that no one knew quite how to begin.

It is a time-honored custom, I said at length, for commanding officers to say some choice words at a time like this, but we have so much to do and there are so many questions on my mind that I think we better start right in on business. The four of us have to get this ship and crew organized into a working unit as soon as possible. To do this properly I want to find out what each of us is best qualified to do. Mr. Crane, what sea experience have you had?

I’ve never been to sea, he said. I was stationed in the district office.

How about you, Mr. Warren?

I’ve never been to sea either, except for my cadet cruise. I was just commissioned.

I glanced at Mr Rudd. His face was expressionless.

Well, I said, Mr. Rudd here is a Regular, and has been to sea fifteen years, and I have had enough experience, I think, so we’ll probably make out all right until you learn. To begin with, however, you, Mr. Crane, take care of all the administrative duties; make up a watch and quarter bill, make up watch lists, divide the crew into the proper departments—in short, get the whole thing figured out on paper and show it to me. Mr. Rudd, of course, will organize the whole black gang. We won’t have to worry about that. Mr. Warren, you will be the supply officer. Get together a list of all the equipment that is actually aboard, show it to me, and I’ll tell you what you’ll have to get.

I paused. I was thinking of all the things that had to be checked—sextants, charts, food supplies, spare parts. My mind became confused.

How about the crew, Mr. Crane? Do you know anything about them? I asked.

I just rode down on the truck with them. Never saw them before.

He spoke in a calm, capable-sounding voice. In spite of the fact that he had never been to sea, he did not seem flustered by his new job.

I said, You better get them mustered on the well deck and we’ll see what we have. Get them lined up and give me a call.

A few moments later he came in and said the crew was mustered. I went on deck and saw two rows of men standing at attention. The first impression I had was of their extreme youth; the stem expression which at attention they endeavored to impart to their faces was incongruous: they looked like children who have been told they must not laugh. Unconsciously my eye searched for some faces which looked older and more experienced. The two chief petty officers were more than boys; they appeared about thirty years of age, but one of them bore no hash marks upon his arm and the other boasted only one. That meant that one of them had been in the service less than four years and the other less than eight. The men were in two rows, and in the back row I saw one man with grey hair. All the others looked as though they had been taken directly out of high school. As I walked down the ranks of the men I saw that they were scrutinizing me with as much interest as I was them. Again I had the feeling that this was a meeting so important that it was impossible to say or do anything that would really live up to it. I stood for a moment looking at the men and letting them look at me.

At ease, I said.

There was the small shuffling sound of mass relaxation that always come after that order.

Starting at the left of the front line, I said, call out your faces.

Widen, the first man called out. White. Whysowitz. Wigly. Willis.

It dawned on all of us at the same time that all the names began with W. The personnel officer had simply taken them all in one block from an alphabetical list! As the last men called out Wenton, Wright, and Wortly, they were all smiling. The situation did not, however, appear humorous to me. It meant that no effort had been made to fit together a harmonious crew, no effort had been made to make the proper blending of experienced and green hands, of men with exceptionally fine records and men with medium and bad records. We had just been given pot luck from the alphabetical list. I wondered about their picking Mr. Warren. Probably that was just coincidence, for the officers were kept on a separate list. Nevertheless I didn’t like all the names beginning with W. It gave me a funny feeling.

When the last man had called out his name, I paused. Well, I said finally, you can see there has been no favoritism in picking this crew.

The men laughed dutifully.

How many of you have had sea duty? I asked. Everyone who has had more than two years of sea duty, put up his hand.

Out of the twenty-six men two put up their hands, the chief machinist’s mate, who was a tall, thin man with a mustache, and the gray-haired first class boatswain’s mate.

Everyone who’s had more than one year’s sea duty, put up his hand.

The chief boatswain’s mate put his hand in the air. No one else moved.

"Anyone who has had any sea duty, put up his hand," I said at length. One hand went up. It was that of a quartermaster, a dark young man of about twenty-three years. He left his hand in the air uncertainly a moment, then put it down. The men shifted uneasily on their feet. Only four of them had been to sea at all! Twenty-two absolutely green hands out of a crew of twenty-six! For a moment a wave of panic swept over me. I was trying to think of something to say when a truck arrived on the dock beside us.

Stores for the SV-126, the driver called.

Well, men, let’s hustle these stores aboard, I said. Chief, use all hands to get stores aboard.

The men broke from the ranks and in a moment were rolling, lifting, and passing the contents of the truck aboard the ship.

There were coils of line half as high as a man, bundles of sweepers, bales of toilet paper, cartons of canned beans, an instrument box marked fragile, and cases of fifty-calibre ammunition. In less than half an hour the deck was such a mad clutter of miscellaneous gear that it was impossible to find standing room.

Mr. Crane, I called, get the Chief to have this stuff stowed properly before more comes aboard.

Where shall I have it stowed? Mr. Crane asked.

Oh, the ammunition goes in the magazines, the toilet paper goes in the lazarette … I paused and wiped my brow. As I did that a seaman wearing a pistol came up to me with a message. I signed his receipt book and opened the envelope he handed me. It was an order from the district office.

Make ready for sea and sail before 1500 of May twenty-four for Milne Bay, New Guinea. Routing Instructions will be supplied.

I didn’t read any farther. That gave us just three days, seventy-two hours, to get ready. I glanced up and saw Mr. Rudd standing near me. Without a word I handed him the dispatch. He read it and handed it back. I glanced around the cluttered deck and at the seamen who were increasing rather than diminishing its disorder.

Well, Mr. Rudd, I said, what do you think?

He gave me a sardonic grin, and walked away.

CHAPTER FOUR

I MADE AN appointment to speak to the Commander and ask him for a delay on our sailing time. After waiting three-quarters of an hour in an anteroom I was led into the Commander’s office. The Commander was a thin, very small man whose three heavy gold stripes seemed to weigh down his arms.

I’ve come to speak to you, sir, about the SV-126. We’re supposed to sail in forty-eight hours. The engineering officer and I and four of the crew are the only ones who have ever been to sea at all. We have been aboard only twenty-four hours, the ship has had no shakedown cruise, and half the equipment isn’t aboard. I feel I need at least a week to make her ready for sea.

If we all waited until we were really ready, the Commander said, not a battle would be fought.

This is not a fighting ship, sir, I replied. The main thing we have to fight for the time being is just lack of knowledge and lack of preparedness.

The Commander cleared his throat. Those little supply ships are needed right away, he said. I’ve got orders to get them out as soon as possible. I know your crew is inexperienced, but they’re not going to get experience lying at the wharf.

No, I said, but at least I can get the equipment I need. Not only is much of the authorized equipment undelivered, but I want to try to get authorization for lots of other equipment. We have no gyro compass, no azimuth circles, no radar, and only two fifty-calibre machine guns. The guns fire only over the stern. If anything attacked us over the bow we couldn’t fire a shot.

The Commander held up his hand. You’ve got to realize that these small supply ships are being mass produced, he said, and we don’t have enough fancy stuff to go around. These ships are made to carry small amounts of cargo, and, if necessary, to be sacrificed. Don’t try to get more equipment authorized. And meet your sailing date if you possibly can. That’s important. There’s nothing you can gain waiting around here, and I get dispatches every day asking for more supply ships.

Somehow the Commander made me feel guilty about asking for either time or equipment. At the same time I felt angry. It was so obviously absurd to sail such an ill-equipped, ill-manned ship anywhere, yet I was begging and feeling badly about it.

I got up. We’ll sail her if we can, I said, and went out. I hurried back to the ship.

That night all hands worked until midnight. The more we worked the more work was uncovered. Every inventory we made disclosed more gear lacking. In the navigational department there was no nautical almanac, and the chronometer was discovered to have no steady rate. The cooks found that there were not enough plates and cups to go around, and in the engine room Mr. Rudd found that the testing blanks in the pipelines had not been extracted. When everyone was so tired that further work was impossible and when the men had finally turned the floodlights off on deck and retired to their quarters, I knocked on the door of Mr. Rudd’s stateroom to have a talk with him. I found him at his desk poring over the ship’s blueprints. I sat down on his bunk.

I asked for another week, I said, and the Commander talked me out of it. I asked for equipment and he talked me out of that.

Well, said Mr. Rudd, let’s bundle the whole damn mess together and take it to sea.

You don’t seem very disturbed, I said.

I’m not. It amuses me.

Your amusement doesn’t help much, I said.

He grinned. You make sure you have everything you need to navigate, he said. Tell Warren to make sure we have food and water. Tell Crane to fix up some kind of a paper organization that will at least look good, and I’ll guarantee the engines will run. It won’t be so bad.

Stop being funny, I said. It’ll be like taking a tenement house to sea. Everybody running around, everybody sceaming, complete disorder …

He grinned again. All the closer to nature, he said.

And we don’t have a damn thing to work with, I groaned. We’ve got to sail this bucket with just about the same equipment Columbus had. No fathometer, no gyro, no radar—just a magnetic compass, one sextant, and one crazy chronometer. What’ll we do if anything breaks?

Trust in God, said Mr. Rudd piously.

Just what Columbus had, I said again, and I bet we don’t get half the credit.

I got up to go. Mr. Rudd sat at his desk grinning at me. It’s a hell of a mess, he said. It couldn’t be worse. You’re a citizen of the richest nation in the world and you’re sailing a ship the Swiss Navy would be ashamed of. We’re a great seafaring nation, and you’ve got just six men, including yourself, that have been to sea. You’ve got eight thousand miles to sail and forty-eight hours to start. Before you’re through you’ll get shot at and go through typhoons. You’ve got to be ready for all that, you know. You’ve got thirty men aboard this split watermelon, and if she sinks thirty Western Union boys will deliver thirty telegrams telling how the Navy Department regrets. All the telegrams will be addressed with a, name that begins with W, except Mr. Crane’s, yours, and mine, and those will probably be misspelled. Yours will go to ‘Warton’ and mine will go to ‘Wudd.’ But don’t worry about it—it all is just at is should be. Everybody has everything all figured out. It’s all written down somewhere. Don’t worry about it. When the time comes to sail just take the lines off the dock and sail. It will be fun to see what happens!

Thanks. I said. Thanks for cheering me up.

I was about to go out the door when he stopped me.

Seriously, he said, I wouldn’t worry. This ship is no different from any other. At bottom they’re all that way. After a few weeks she’ll be clean and all the boxes will be in all the right places and everyone will talk as though they knew exactly where they were going. She’ll be a good ship, a taut ship but a happy one, as they say. Small ships and big men. We don’t have to worry in the engine room—all American youths have innate mechanical ability. You can read that anywhere. You don’t have to worry. We’re all brave, courageous, loyal and true. The boys in blue will pull us through—shall I make a poem of it?

No, damn it, things aren’t as bad as that. We will be all right, I said defiantly.

Sure we will, he said. Sure we will. That’s the funny part about it. That’s the part I’ve never been able to understand.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE DAY BEFORE we were to sail a string of trucks came down and loaded our holds with a cargo of canned pineapple. As our first stop was Hawaii and because the labels on the cans clearly read Grown and canned in the Hawaiian Islands, it was a little discouraging. I took it upon myself to telephone the cargo officer and ask him about it. He explained that the pineapples were grown in Hawaii and shipped to the United States for distribution to the armed services all over the world. Our shipment was consigned for New Guinea; the fact that we were to pass through Hawaii on the way was insignificant. Yes, the pineapples would make a useless voyage from Hawaii to the States and back to Hawaii, but that couldn’t be helped.

I said all right, and went back to the ship.

If we sink, Mr. Crane said, just write on my tombstone, ‘He died in a vain attempt to bring pineapples to Hawaii.’

It’s not that I mind so much, Mr. Warren contributed. It’s just that I’ve always loathed pineapples. They’ve always made me ill.

By the night of May 23 the ship was loaded, the hatches were battened down, and I saw it was possible to sail the next day as planned. An order came down from the district that no liberty could be granted the men on the last night in the States. This was a common practice I knew. Last nights in the States had too often resulted in frantic telephone messages home, breaks in security, wild parties, and AWOL. Nevertheless it was difficult to tell all hands that their last night must be spent aboard ship. Some of them had their wives in town and nearly all of them had girls. To tell them they had to spend their last hours sitting on a ship alongside a wharf was a lot to ask. When the word was passed, however, there were no audible complaints. The men went about their work, and, if anything, the ship was quieter than usual. For the first time I saw a very serious look on the faces of the younger seamen.

At supper that night there was little conversation in the wardroom. After the soup had been eaten in silence and the main course had been brought in and carried away almost untouched, Mr. Crane and Mr. Warren excused themselves and went into their staterooms. I stirred uneasily in my chair. It seemed to me that we were already at sea; the tie with the shore had already been broken. The streets of the city of Wilmington were not far distant from the wharf alongside which we were moored, and the sounds of traffic were clear, but the honking horns and occasional sounds of voices seemed removed from us.

On the bulkhead outside the wardroom we had hung a mailbox, and from time to time I could see through the open door a seaman or a petty officer come and drop a letter in it. As the evening wore on this occurred more and more frequently, and the performance carried with it always the same little pattern of sound. First I heard footsteps coming down the passageway; then the seaman appeared, reached up to the mailbox, and I heard the gentle sound of the letter dropping inside. Next, more than usually, the seaman knocked with his knuckles a little against the side of the box to make sure the letter had fallen all the way in. After that there was a pause, and I heard footsteps walking up the corridor again toward the forecastle. These repeated sounds and the distant clatter of traffic were the only noises to be heard.

I became restless myself and went into my cabin and wrote a letter to my wife. When I had finished it I dropped it in the mailbox, caught myself knocking against the side of it just the way the others had, and went back into the wardroom. Mr. Rudd had gone to his stateroom, and I was alone there. The clock on the bulkhead read eight o’clock. Nineteen hours before we sail, I found myself thinking.

Another seaman came and dropped his letter in the mailbox, and I found myself waiting for his retreating footsteps. Instead I heard a knock at the wardroom door and saw White, a seaman of about eighteen, standing there with his cap off.

Will the mail go off in the morning, sir?

Yes, White.

I put in my letter that they might not hear from me for quite a while. Will that be censored?

No, White. I think we can let that go through.

Thank you, sir.

He turned and I heard his footsteps going away. I waited undeterminedly in the wardroom a few more minutes, then got up and knocked at the door of Mr. Warren’s stateroom. I found him seated at his desk writing a letter. Tacked to the bulkhead above his desk was an enlarged photograph of a very beautiful girl of about eighteen. The shape of the girl’s face, with high cheekbones and large, intense-looking eyes, made the picture arresting, and I found difficulty in keeping my eyes away from it; my glance kept straying toward the photograph. Mr. Warren bade me sit down on his bunk, and paused in his writing.

It’s kind of a tough way to spend the last night, I said.

Yes, sir, it is.

When you censor the mail in the morning I think it’ll be all right to let the men say that they won’t be able to write for quite a while.

Yes, sir.

I caught myself glancing at the photograph again and looked away. I wondered what it was about it that made it so different from the usual pictures of pretty girls. I decided it was because the girl in the picture looked as though she were just about to say something. Mr. Warren saw me looking at the photograph.

That’s Rachel. She’s my wife, he said.

She’s very lovely.

There was a moment’s pause and then Mr. Warren started talking very fast.

She’s in a hotel uptown, he said. We’ve just been married a week. I guess she’ll be surprised when I don’t come tonight, but I told her it might happen any time. She won’t worry, I don’t think. She’s pretty independent.

She won’t worry, I said.

I glanced at his desk and saw that the letter he was writing was already many pages long. It struck me that I knew by heart every word that he had written.

Well, I said, she’ll probably get your letter tomorrow afternoon.

Yes, he said, that’s what I figure.

I got up and went out. As I walked back to the wardroom I could hear his pen resume its scratching.

I sat in the wardroom and tried to read. Somewhere up in the city a siren threaded its way through the distant streets. A fire, I thought, or maybe an ambulance. Somebody ashore had his problems too.

It was nine o’ clock. The men were still shuffling in to the mailbox. On an impulse I got up and walked forward to the forecastle. When I opened the heavy iron door the quiet babble of voices stopped. The forecastle was a large compartment that followed the shape of the bow. Along both sides were triple tiers of bunks. In the dim light I could see the half-naked bodies of the men in their bunks. Most of them were propped up on one elbow writing on tablets. In the middle of the forecastle squatting on deck were four seamen, and it had been these whom I had heard murmuring. One of them had a cheap map of the Pacific unfolded. It looked like a Standard Oil road map, and the seaman who had been holding it, a dark-haired boy of about twenty, still had his finger pointing somewhere in the middle of it. All the seamen, those on the deck and those in their bunks, were looking at me.

I just thought I’d look in, I said. How’s it going?

There was a rustle of movement, and I heard a sort of anonymous, Very well, sir. Everything’s fine, sir.

I stood there uncertainly. My eyes became used to the dim light and penetrated the dark corners of the compartment. Over every bunk some kind of photograph had been pasted up. There were snapshots and enlargements, and a few pictures of movie stars. The forecastle had lost its bare newness.

In the morning, sir …

A mild little voice came from a far corner. I looked and saw a very slight seaman with a shock of straw-colored hair. He looks like someone, I thought, and in a flash it came to me that the face looked like some juvenile actor I had seen.

In the morning, sir, would it be all right if we sent telegrams?

I’m afraid not. Only if there is an emergency.

Oh, there’s no emergency, sir.

Another pause.

I don’t really have to send a telegram, sir.

All the men seemed to be waiting expectantly.

I took out my pipe and lit it. It’s pretty hard to have to stay aboard like this, I said. But you see there is a reason. If everybody got ashore it would be easy to find out just when the ship was sailing. It would make it lots easier for the enemy.

There was a respectful silence.

And you know, I went on, this isn’t going to be a bad trip. We’re going to see lots of places. You’ll have lots to remember. And if we all learn our jobs there won’t be anything particularly dangerous about it.

There was another rustle of movement that somehow signified assent.

Well, I said, good night. If you’re worried about anything, let me know.

There was a muffled chorus this time. Yes, sir. Good night, sir.

I turned and walked out. When I had reached the deck I heard someone behind me. I turned and saw the huge, gray-haired first class boatswain’s mate I had noticed before.

Good evening, Boats, I said.

Good evening, sir. I just though I’d tell you—they’re all right. They’re green as grass, but they’re all right.

Yes, Boats, I think they are all right.

He hitched up his shirt and took out a package of cigarettes. Carefully he lit one.

Well, he said, good night, sir.

Good night, Boats.

He went back into the forecastle and shut the heavy iron door behind him. I stood by the rail looking down into the narrow strip of water that divided the ship from the land.

CHAPTER SIX

THE MORNING of the day we sailed we spent snugging everything down. I prepared a last list of gear we did not have and telephoned it to the Commander.

That’s all right, he said. You can get everything you need in Hawaii.

At two in the afternoon, an hour before we were to cast off our lines, a truck came down on the dock with a huge drum of steel cable. This we were to carry to New Guinea as deck cargo. I was busy making a last minute check of the charts and told the chief boatswain’s mate to get it aboard. He was a thin little man with a very loud voice, and he seemed pleased at the prospect of using the booms for the first time. All the time I was working on the charts I heard him shouting. The booms squeaked, and when they picked up their load I felt the ship heel over perceptibly as she bowed under her burden. The drum of cable weighed over two tons and was over eight feet in diameter. As the booms brought it amidships the ship straightened up again. Looking down on deck, I could see the men struggling to set the drum down just forward of number one hatch where it would be most out of the way. There was a jolt as the deck felt the impact of the weight, and the tackle swung free. The seamen stood in a circle around the drum looking pleased with themselves.

At three o’clock sharp the harbor pilot came aboard. He was a big man by the name of Mr. King.

Let’s get going, he said. I’ve got five more ships to take out this afternoon. I haven’t been home on time for supper for a week, and tonight’s my wedding anniversary.

Over the ship’s public address system we called mooring stations. Mr. Rudd hurried down into the engine room. Boats took the wheel, and the quartermaster stood by the engine-room telegraph. On deck the chief boatswain’s mate rallied the men around the mooring lines. On the wharf yard workmen waited to cast off the lines.

I’ll take her away from the dock, I said to the pilot. Then you take over.

The engine-room telegraph jingled as we rang up Stand by. I paused for an instant.

Cast off number one, I said finally.

There was a splash as the line fell from the wharf into the water, and the seamen on the bow heaved it in.

"Together, now! I heard the chief boatswain’s mate say. Damn it, heave together!"

Cast off number four.

There was a strain on number four, and the workmen on the wharf could not get the line off the cleat. The chief boatswain’s mate ran aft.

Give her slack there, boys, give her slack, he said, and the line slumped into the water. I watched the end of the line as it snaked through the water toward the ship and came dripping up on deck.

Cast off number three.

There was a flurry of activity on the after part of the well deck and a cheery voice called up, Number three is all free, sir!

Right full rudder.

Boats swept his huge arm around and spun the wheel.

The rudder is right full, sir, he said. His voice sounded very sure and matter of fact.

Port engine ahead slow.

The engine-room telegraph jingled, and almost immediately I felt the heavy throb of the engines and the deep-throated hollow coughing of the exhaust.

The port engine is ahead slow, sir, the quartermaster said. He sounded nervous.

I leaned over the wing of the bridge and watched the bow nudge into the dock. Number two line creaked at the strain. The stern slowly swung out.

Port engine stop, I said.

The engine-room telegraph jingled almost before I had finished the sentence and the quartermaster said, The port engine is stopped, sir.

All engines back slow.

Again the engine-room telegraph. The quartermaster looked up, smiling. All engines are backing slow, sir.

The ship moved backwards through the water slowly, and number two line, the last to hold us to the wharf, lost its strain.

Cast off number two, I said.

The workmen on the dock cast it off, and without waiting to see it hauled aboard, hurried off. The line trailed for a moment in the water, then the seamen hauled it in and coiled it on deck.

All lines are aboard, sir, the chief boatswain’s mate called. Shall I secure the deck for sea?

Yes, Chief. Secure the deck for sea.

The narrow strip of water that separated the ship from the land was widening. Already it was as wide as a river.

Slowly we threaded our way out of San Pedro harbor. Mr. King stood in the port wing conning the ship, and I sat on a stool in the starboard wing full of the luxury of for a little while letting someone else do the worrying. The pilot boat, a small launch with an enormous Prep flag flying from the bow, followed us. We wound our way down the crowded channel and passed through the mouth of the harbor. Mr. King stopped the ship and blew a long blast on the whistle. As the pilot boat came alongside we stood chatting by the rail.

Good luck, he said. He stood looking out to sea. The horizon was misty and indeterminate, and because it made no sharp line to limit space, the extent of the ocean seemed infinite.

You go that way, he said, waved in the general direction of the Hawaiian Islands, grinned, and climbed over the side into his boat. The coxswain of the boat raced his engine, and the boat veered away. We were alone.

We set the four to eight watch. Mr. Warren was officer of the deck, and I sat on my stool on the starboard side of the bridge. White, the seaman who had asked me about sending the telegram, came up and relieved Boats on the wheel. Immediately the ship began weaving back and forth across her course. Each time she swung she swung wider, until finally we were tacking like a sailing vessel. Mr. Warren went over and gave what instructions he could to White. The boy stood there with the sweat pouring from his face and worked the wheel from one side to the other. I walked over and looked at the chart. Catalina Island lay on our port bow, and we were to pass by St. Nicholas Island too. In a few hours it would be dark, and with the men steering the way poor White was, I would have no idea where we were.

You better get Boats again, I said to Mr. Warren, and the quartermaster. Have them stand your wheel watches until we get clear of the land.

Boats was called, and appeared grinning upon the bridge. White gave him the wheel and walked disconsolately to the companionway.

Don’t you worry, I heard Mr. Warren say to him. You’ll learn. It’ll just take a little time.

As the ship passed Catalina Island she began to feel the motion of the sea. Almost imperceptibly at first she began to roll. It was getting dark, and a fresh wind was just beginning to whisper in the rigging. After we had rounded Catalina Island and were on our new course, I went down to my cabin to lie down. I had been on my feet so long that my bunk felt good to me. Drowsily I lay there and listened to the creaking of the ship, the still restrained sound of the wind, and the steady caressing of the water against the hull. Without wishing to, I slept.

I awoke in the dark. The first thing of which I was conscious was that the ship was rolling heavily. We must be about abeam of St. Nicholas Island, I thought, and hurried to the bridge. A glance at the clock showed me that it was five minutes after ten, just fifteen minutes before it was time to change course. In the dull light of the binnacle I could see Boats towering above the wheel.

Tired, Boats? I said. You’ve been at it quite a while. We’re clear of the land now, and we’ll have you relieved.

Everything’s going fine, sir, he said, but nodded at the starboard wing of the bridge. You better have a look at Mr. Crane.

I walked out on the wing of the bridge. The wind was blowing hard, and for a moment I stood in the darkness a little confused. Then I saw a form huddled on the stool in the corner and heard the sound of someone retching. It was Mr. Crane and he was seasick. I waited till he straightened up.

About time to change course? I asked.

Yes. I was just about to call you.

Well, I think you can have Boats relieved now. Unless they double back on the course there’s not much they can hit.

Yes, sir. The messenger and the quartermaster were sick and I sent them below. I’ll call up the forecastle for them.

I hesitated, and then said, Better let them stand their watches. They’ve got to get used to it sometime.

Mr. Crane gave me a glance that I saw held little sympathy for my convictions, but he telephoned the forecastle and told two of the seamen and the gunner’s mate who was to be the quartermaster of the watch to come up. Then he went out to the wing of the bridge and was sick again.

A moment later two very pale seamen appeared on the bridge, followed by the gunner’s mate. Guns was a fine-looking man, about twenty-six years old, tall and powerful looking. He came armed with a bucket. Arriving on the bridge, he set the bucket down, and was immediately sick into it. One of the seamen relieved Boats at the wheel. He hung onto the wheel as though to support himself upon it. In the baleful light of the binnacle I could see him swallowing hard. Guns sympathetically shoved the bucket toward him and he gratefully leaned toward it.

Can you lash it near here? he asked.

Boats took a piece of marline from his pocket and lashed the bucket to the base of the engine-room telegraph. The seaman seemed relieved. The ship swung wildly from her course. I peered into the binnacle and shuddered, but, I reflected, it didn’t really matter. In the morning we could find our position.

At ten-twenty we, nominally at least, changed course and headed directly for Honolulu. I stood on the wing of the bridge and stared ahead into the blackness of the night. The ship was rolling about twenty-five degrees, and the wind, though it was blowing a good thirty knots, was steady and did not appear to be making up into a storm. Overhead a few