The Gulf (32 page)

“The chief turns to the second missionary, who's watched all this, and says, ‘What is your choice? Death—or cheech?'

“And the second missionary, he's a real he-man, and he thinks, Well, no way these guys are going to do that to me. And he says, real proud, ‘I choose—death.' And the chief nods and says, ‘Huh. Death. Good! But first—cheech!'”

The enlisted men laughed. Hayes didn't. He looked out at the blurry horizon, the half-shapes of land melting into and out of their sight.

*   *   *

Near noon they set back down for refuel, crew swap, and some minor maintenance. The deck gang unreeled hoses and unlatched cowlings as the crew climbed out, stretched, and stared around the rolling tennis court of hot metal. Mattocks had Frescas packed in ice for them. Schweinberg grabbed his greedily, sucked it down. Hayes held out for water.

Woolton and Bonner were suiting up in the hangar. The OIC looked up as they came in. “You guys look beat,” he said.

“We love it, Woolie. Sure you don't want us to take your six?”

“See anything interesting out there?”

“Not a thing.”

“No mines?” said Bonner.

“Four or five, but we left 'em for you, Smiley.”

Woolton asked, “How's the bird? Tits up?”

“Got a fire light in the engine compartment about an hour after launch. No smoke, no power loss, and after a minute, it went out. Figure it was a sun trigger; it comes through the seam there and hits the IR detector. The troops are reconnecting some fasteners on the tail-rotor gearbox. Four of 'em popped off. Otherwise, she's sweet, hot, and ready to go.”

“Okay, I got her.”

“What's for lunch?” said Hayes.

“Donkey dicks an' fries.”

“Gut bombs and grease sticks, send 'em through the garden and hold the dirt,” said Schweinberg.

They ditched their helmets and vests and strolled forward. Hayes felt light without the body armor. He stamped his feet. “Them cramps still bothering you?” asked Schweinberg.

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to eat you some bananas; I heard that helps.”

Hayes didn't answer. He was still angry over the warning burst. In part, it was anger at himself. Strictly speaking, he should report it. But he knew he wasn't going to.

When they got to the wardroom, the ship's officers were just sitting down. He caught Lenson's eye as he found a chair, and was suddenly conscious of his wringing-wet underwear, his not often enough washed flight suit, covered with red dust, his sweaty hair, unshaven face—they'd launched at 0600 and he just hadn't bothered.

But the XO was rising, folding his napkin. “Mr. Hayes, Mr. Schweinberg. Can I see you outside?”

Schweinberg muttered under his breath as he got up. They followed the exec out into the passageway. Once the door was closed, he said, “You men just landed, is that right?”

“Yessir.”

“I see. Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd take a minute to clean up before you come into the wardroom.”

Schweinberg muttered something. Lenson said, “What's that?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“I have something to say,” said Hayes. “We missed breakfast because we launched early. We've been flying for six hours. And it seems like whenever we need a shower, it's water hours. We just aren't on the same schedule as the rest of the ship. Now you're saying we can't even eat?”

“I understand that, and I'm not hammering you,” said Lenson. “The stewards will save you a sandwich if you're going to be late.”

“Well, we don't know if we're going to or not, that's the point, we go where you people tell us to.”

“Lieutenant Hayes.” Lenson took a deep breath. “I understand all that. But I assure you, everybody on this ship works as hard as you do. All the ship's officers stand watch. They don't get eight hours of sleep a day. They don't get special trips ashore for ‘charts.' But they show up for meals in clean uniforms. The rules go for everybody, black shoes or brown.”

“Come on, Buck, let's get some khakis on,” said Schweinberg in an undertone.

Hayes turned away abruptly. But he couldn't resist saying, still in earshot, “Come on, Chunky, to hell with this happy horsesoap. Let's eat on the mess decks with our crewmen.”

And it came through his angry mind that this, too, he would be leaving behind. In private industry, there'd be none of this about the right thing to wear and the right place to eat. The Navy hadn't been bad to him. He'd miss it. But all in all, he'd be happy, becoming a civilian again. There'd be flying in the ATI job, testing the displays. And he could pick up a private pilot's license, go in with somebody on a Cessna or Piper.

“Take it easy.” Schweinberg glanced at him. “What's eating you, anyway, Montana? You've had your panties in a wad ever since this cruise started.”

Hayes was on the brink of telling his roommate about it. But then his lips clamped shut.

It was hard enough living with Schweinberg as it was. Till he told them he was resigning, he'd be one of the gang. Afterward, he would be something subtly else.

Like that of the Arabs, the Navy view of the world was tribal and concentric. Squadron mates came before strange fliers, brown shoes before black, and the pure and dedicated military before the corrupt and money-hungry world outside the ranks. There were strange animals out in that night—reporters, lawyers, gays, peace activists. The moment a man announced he was leaving, he went from One of Us to One of Them, with the assumption unspoken but omnipresent that he
hadn't hacked it.

Did bailing out make him unmanly? Did it mean he'd sold out? He didn't think so. He just thought he'd make a better engineer than a pilot, that was all. And a better husband and father than he could be at sea.

Crockery and silverware crashed from the scullery. They smelled the hot breath of the mess decks, the amalgam of fried foods, cabbage, spiced meat, and disinfectant, heard the babble of talk and clatter of forks against plastic trays.

Ahead of him in line, Claude Schweinberg had forgotten the scene outside the wardroom. He was reliving again the moment when the sea turned white under his bullets. He wished the men on the dhow had resisted. His hands crimped on the tray. He imagined it the neck of a swarthy man in a burnoose.

A foot behind him in the serving line, Virgil Hayes was nodding. He felt the rightness of his decision more with every passing second.

Then, unexpectedly, a chill fell across his mind, stalling him in front of the salad bowl. He stared into it. It was something about the flight just ended … something they'd known, but dismissed, or not understood.

It didn't come, and after a minute or two someone behind him, a little guy with glassy eyes, jostled him. He stopped thinking about it. Filling his tray, he followed Schweinberg's thick neck out into the mass of chattering, eating men.

17

U.S.S.
Turner Van Zandt

PHELAN slid his tray along, smiling with vague delight at the good things. Meat and fish, vegetables, salads, Jell-O, red and shimmering like a sunset. He had to admit that about the Navy. They fed well. When you grew up hungry you appreciated that.

He thought, You done okay with your life, Bernard Newekwe. You done damn good.

Smiling benignly on the sweating schmuck on the serving line, he loaded Salisbury steak, potatoes, salmon patty, shortcake, ice cream, till the battered plastic could hold no more. There were officers in front of him, pilots, but when he wanted to move on, he jostled the black one just like he would anybody else. Hell with 'em. They weren't supposed to eat here, anyway.

He floated out into the mess decks. Satisfaction burned in him like a mesquite fire on a foggy night. A good day, today. Busy, training the damage-control parties on first aid and CPR, but good.

A little yellow pill was the key to it all. It took care of him. Whispered encouragement whenever he felt inadequate or afraid. Took away all anxiety and fear. He wished everyone could feel this peace. Then there'd be no more wars. No more gray ships carrying death. They could be ships of life, bringing medicine to people who needed it.

It was a pleasant thought and he stayed with it, nodding and smiling to himself as the other sailors pushed by him. Not warships. Peace ships. He'd treat the kids. He liked kids.

Someone jostled him and he came back to the mess decks. His eyes drifted over the throng. For a hundred men packed together, it was almost quiet. He wondered why, then remembered the damage controlmen talking about some kind of channel, some place the ship had to get through. His lips twisted. It was like on the
Long Beach,
like in the Army, too. The brass was always pumping you up for something—inspections, parades, some kind of crap. You learned quick there was no point taking it serious.

As he sauntered forward, he mused on how the crew segregated themselves. Blacks had their own tables along the port side. The first-class took the booths, to starboard. The rest sat in an elbow-to-elbow mass. It looked mixed, but it, too, was sorted by work center and division and friendship, the men who drank and pulled libs together.

Phelan saw Fitch. The senior corpsman was alone at a four-man table. He thought, I got to work for him. Why eat with the prick, too? He veered away toward another seat. The dungarees around it were paint-stained and torn, but one of the faces … he clattered his tray down and sat, smiling around. They looked back blankly. Yeah, he knew one guy. “How's that thumb doing?” Phelan asked him.

“Huh?”

“Dontcha remember, I took that splinter out for you, couple days ago?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah! Thanks. It's all healed up.”

“That's the job, man, you come to us, we fix you up.” He was glad he was a corpsman. He was glad he was HN Bernard Phelan, USN. He started eating.

One of the men was telling a story. “So he rubs the bottle, there on the beach, and a genie comes out. The genie says, ‘you got one wish.' So the guy makes it, but nothing happens. The genie says, ‘Hey, I'm a slow genie. It'll probably take two, three days at the most. But you'll get your wish.'

“So the guy goes home. Next morning, he gets up and looks in the mirror and there's nothing. No change. Second day, he gets up and looks in the mirror. Nothing. So he goes to bed that night real up, thinking it's got to happen tomorrow, and when he gets up, he looks in the mirror.

“Nothing! Squat! So he's starting to get mad, when there's a knock at the door. And he opens it, and there's four guys with sheets over their heads carrying ropes. And the biggest one says, ‘You the guy that wanted to be hung like a nigger?'”

The table laughed. The guy next to him, a big fat third-class with BB eyes, took a minute to get it. Then he guffawed and slapped the table, grinning around. Suddenly he looked startled. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Name's Phelan. I'm a corpsman.”

“The new chancre mechanic? I'm Lester Orr. From Chicago.” Phelan nodded condescendingly as Orr told him the names of the others. The men in first division were peons. Still, a man needed friends.

Orr asked where he was from. He told them about the reservation, about New Mexico. They asked him the usual questions, whether Indians had to register for the draft, if they paid taxes. After that, it petered out again, each man withdrawing into a worried silence.

He wondered whether it was this channel thing. Then he wondered if he ought to be scared. Shit, let them worry. Why should he give a fuck?

When they were getting up, Orr said. “Say, Phelan, we generally play some poker in the evenings. Up in the bo's'n's locker.”

“I'm broke-dick, man.”

“Well, sit in, anyway.”

He said okay. He had a couple of hours till his watch started in sick bay. When he shoved his tray through the scullery window, a dragon's breath of hot steam struck his face. Framed by it was the crowded hell of garbage and dirty trays and beyond that the cooks, stripped to soaked T-shirts and rushing about, shouting, scrubbing furiously at huge stainless pots.

He smiled sadly. Some people, that was all they were smart enough to do.

Orr hung back as they passed sick bay. “You know, I been trying to get some help from your first-class,” he said.

“Fitch ain't much help to anybody.”

“See, couple days ago I strained my back. I could feel it go. I was on the outhaul. It was just like a string snapped. Back here, around the shoulder blades, y'see? He give me some pills. Said it'd go away, but I can't hardly sleep.”

“What'd he give you?”

“I don't know. White pills with squared-off edges. Whatever it is, it ain't for shit.”

“Fitch don't care if a guy's hurting,” said Phelan. The ship's store was open and he stopped for a minute for cigarettes. His last dollar disappeared across the counter. He lowered his voice. “It wasn't like that on
Long Beach.
Tell you what, come by tonight, I'll give you something that'll work.”

The BM gaped at him. “Can you give them things out?”

“Sure. Tell the other guys, too. You deck apes work harder'n anybody. I'll take care of you. Just tell them, come by when I'm on duty.”

Orr slapped his back, his squint brightening. “That's great. That'd really help. Tell you what, just for that, I'll stake you tonight. Ten bucks?”

“Can you make it twenty?”

“Well, okay. Twenty. I really appreciate this.”

“Shipmates got to help each other,” Phelan said smiling.

*   *   *

“Letter for you,” said Golden that night, as he let himself into sick bay. In the corner, the CPR dummy lay on its back, its mouth gaping at the overhead. Sometimes it looked foolish, sometimes ominous, sometimes flirtatious. Which it was depended on where his head was at, and also how horny he was. It was pretty in a way, and it had small breasts. Unfortunately, it ended at the waist.