The Last Ship (36 page)

“Would the captain object if we ran a missile drill?”

As if reading my thoughts. This was a routine exercise, running through the complex procedure, identical in every detail to the real thing save only for the actual launching, the final instant, which we normally conducted about once a week; suspended by myself due to circumstances: other pressing matters, high unlikelihood of any imminent real application. The suggestion for renewal of the exercise might itself be taken as alerting the mind to something. It was almost as though Chatham, in riposte to my order concerning the small arms—an order about which he could do nothing—were reasserting, specifically to remind me of it, his other legal joint control of the missiles as something about which, in the exact same manner, I could do nothing. To remind me that he had most considerable power already, and of a nature untouchable by myself. He now added, almost in educatory tones:

“Otherwise the missile crew is certain to get rusty.” His voice curiously tilted then, in it the faintest touch of condescension. “And we don’t want that, do we, Captain?”

I looked at him steadily. “I hardly think we’ll be sending anything off in the way of missiles in the immediate future, Mr. Chatham.”

“With all respect, Captain. Is that the point?”

I did not even think of the impertinence. I was too occupied with a horrible unaccustomed feeling of being trapped, pushed into a corner by a subordinate reminding his captain of Navy doctrine, in this case that no one could predict in these matters what might happen even tomorrow, even today; hence, eternal state of readiness, indispensable to this condition what he was now suggesting.

“Very well, Mr. Chatham.” I could feel a tightness in my voice; feel he was out-maneuvering me; felt helpless, decidedly not in the habit of feeling so, not at all liking it. I spoke crisply.

“Presently all hands are going to be too busy for drills of any kind for a while. With extensive lookout and other duties down this African coast. So make it tomorrow. So we can have done with it.”

After all, my key canceled his. He could do nothing without it. I knew this was not a solace I would forever be content with; meantime feeling myself, by way of the keys each worthless without the other, locked inside a single, no-exit cage with Lieutenant Commander Chatham, with no visible or imagined means of either of us ever escaping this life’s sentence of confinement with each other.

At least from this encounter I was about to acquire that other key, to the small-arms armory. Even that achievement was diluted by the clear sense I had that the very asking for it had alerted that exceptionally cunning mind of his to what was going on in my own; this in turn seeming to give him some unspecified advantage he had not had when this session began.

“As you say, sir.”

There was one other thing I had been meaning to attend to. Now seemed suddenly an excellent time to do it. My voice had a captain’s tone.

“By the way, Mr. Chatham. You and Lieutenant Girard. Whatever problem it is the two of you have, it’s beginning to show, if you understand my meaning. It would be best all around if you worked it out. In fact, I shall expect you to do so, by which I mean sooner rather than later. I don’t have to know what the problem is unless you wish to talk about it.”

He smiled that smile of his that I sometimes thought was the worst part about him.

“Well, sir. As a general comment I’d say she figures everything out too closely for my taste. A calculating, uppity bitch I always had her in my book—if I may say so only to yourself, sir. I never liked uppity bitches, in uniform or out. Otherwise, in brief: It has to do with her keeping her nose out of other divisions’ business. Specifically that of combat systems. I would have thought supply and morale should keep her quite busy. Beyond that I’d prefer you ask her.”

“As you say, Mr. Chatham. I shall do so.”

Foraging

N
othing. The destroyer creeping in toward shore, a lookout having fancied he may have noticed a suggestion of a movement through the Big Eyes, the 20-powered binoculars—a human being, an animal perhaps, a bird—where the white strand ends and the vegetation line begins; a stirring of the branches and leaves of trees by the wind it must have been. We return to the parallel course, generally staying close inshore. The ship ringed with lookouts; on the starboard side, the shore, for signs of life; on the port, the sea, for other ships. Steaming as we have been for days now at a bare six knots, a crawl for this destroyer, the better to pick up life to starboard; the ship’s propulsion system muted like all else as she parts the stilled waters. The speed also fuel-saving, our reserves a matter on which my consciousness increasingly dwells with every turn of the twin screws. Slow ahead for another unrevealed reason: to give me all time possible to reach the decision that has laid siege to me, never truly ceasing to torment me out of that pool of anguish which has taken up a permanent abode in my soul. The continent passes by, voiceless both as to human sound and to any of that immense repertoire of sounds made by animals, by birds, in this land more blessed by their varieties than any on earth; a silent land, even the winds and the mirroring sea hushed in a sympathetic quiescence; one listens for a heartbeat from it, as one might from a patient hovering between life and death.

Our interest, however, extends beyond animal life. We have begun to think in terms of objects useful to our future. The drill is, if a lookout spots anything appropriate, we stop the ship, lower a boat, a small party goes in, accompanied always by Lieutenant (jg) Selmon, who must first vet the object with his counter as not having an unacceptable level since above all we must not introduce contamination into the ship—Selmon, without whom we now go nowhere, anymore than a blind man would leave behind his seeing-eye dog; if approved, the bluejackets loading the item into the boat and returning, the boat hoisted back aboard, the ship getting underway again. The first acquisition a wheelbarrow near Temoushant. Since then, among other objects, near Tetouan a bicycle, Mostaganem a windlass and some rubber tires, El Asnam a canvas umbrella, Mers-el-Kebir beach chairs and table. And most important of all our foragings, these: Chief Gunner’s Mate Delaney, having started his shipboard garden, whenever we stop, for whatever purpose, goes ashore and spends the time scouring the near countryside. Plants, when found promising and provided they have passed Selmon’s counter, he meticulously uproots and places in cut-down cans from the galley, carefully loads into the whaleboat, sees them aboard, and installs them in his growing racks.

Our full attention now turned to Africa’s north shores. Any hopes we had as to these being hospitable to us are being rapidly dispelled on Selmon’s counters, forays in the boat continuing to show prohibitive readings for any stay. I suppose I should have known. It is only that hope—and without that we cannot continue—so often gets in the way of confronting the probabilities. I should have known—perhaps I simply blocked the fact out—that the great oilfields would be near the top of somebody’s list, deserving of the most massive treatment: Whose list is now hardly an object even of curiosity. The only thing of importance is that the further easterly the ship moves, the higher the readings.

Still, generally Selmon’s readings have been no higher than were those on the European side of the Mediterranean. Why then have we seen no human beings, even standing on the beaches?

Amelioration

It was about 1700 hours, the sun moving steadily down a blue sky decorated prettily here and there with long streaks of cirrostratus, about to present us with twilight. We were proceeding on our parallel course, four thousand yards offshore, somewhat beyond Sidi Lakdar in Algerian waters. Barker had the Big Eyes watch on the starboard bridge wing. I had stepped out there from the pilot house to study the shore, idly almost by now, as I nevertheless continued to do, seeming to spend more of my time than anywhere on the starboard wing simply tracking it as the ship moved slowly by. I saw Barker raise his head.

“Captain, would you take a look here?”

I bent and looked through. I raised up.

“Keep an eye on him, Billy.”

His tall lean frame bent slightly to the glasses. I stepped to the pilot house door and spoke to the OOD.

“Mr. Sedgwick, we have a leopard ashore. Hard right rudder; bring the ship on a course dead-on to the beach. Reduce speed to minimum necessary to keep steerageway. Sharp watch on the Fathometer.” I spoke to the entire bridge watch. “All hands keep quiet.”

I stepped back to the wing, picked up the hand speaker attached to the bulwark shield.

“Mr. Selmon, this is the captain. Report immediately to the bridge.” I waited a moment. “All hands not occupied on ship’s duties report topside. Quiet ship.”

The ship swinging with a graceful quickness in the water, we headed stealthily at rpm’s at which she seemed barely to move, virtually wakeless, directly for shore and for him. The leopard had been simply standing there, all alone, looking out to sea. Now he appeared to look directly at the approaching ship, aware one felt that this object had made some sort of change of movement that was bringing it immediately toward him, however slowly. One felt he did not so much as blink an eye, but only watched. Barker still had the Big Eyes on him, myself 7x50 binoculars, but he was soon visible enough with the naked eye. I could hear the Fathometer watch sounding out depths to the OOD. Fifty fathoms, forty-five, thirty, twenty . . . We must have been no more than three hundred yards off when he next spoke.

“Fifteen fathoms showing, sir. Repeating, fifteen fathoms.”

“Now,” I said to Sedgwick.

“Stop all engines,” he said.

I heard the clank of the engine-order telegraph by the lee helm: presently, “All engines stopped, sir.”

We stood dead in the water, the ship seeming planted, swinging not at all in the stilled sea. Ship and leopard looking point-blank at each other. He stood there on the sand in absolute stillness; of a remarkable size; fawn colored with his black spots, his stately head, his powerful body; all grace, all beauty; motionless; waiting, fearless. I thought I had never seen a more magnificent creature. Below me, crowded along the lifelines, I could see the large numbers of ship’s company come topside; watching with fascination and a quietness equaling that of the leopard’s. We talked in hushed tones without lowering our binoculars.

“He looks a very healthy animal to me, Mr. Selmon.”

“So he does, Captain.”

“What’s the reading here?”

He let the binoculars come to his chest, stepped into the pilot house and looked at the repeater, stepped back and gave me the figures.

“Allowing us?”

“Two hours ashore, sir. Without harm.”

“If longer?”

“A man could live pretty well for anywhere from two to four weeks there. Downhill rather rapidly after that.”

“He looks too healthy for that.”

“He’s a leopard, sir.”

“I’ve already figured that out, Mr. Selmon.”

“Sorry, sir. I simply meant that different animals have different tolerances.”

“And that of a full-grown extremely healthy adult leopard?”

“I’m not certain anyone ever found out as to that particular animal, sir. I know I never did.”

Suddenly as we were discussing him, he turned and walked slowly, soundlessly, majestically, across the sand and into the trees until the bush had swallowed him up. We returned to our parallel course four thousand yards off. Somehow the hearts of all ship’s company lifted.

A Nice Outing

The schedule of our Jesuit chaplain, who must minister to Catholics, Jews, and Protestants, and in their own discrete rituals, had grown quite busy, as I have indicated, there having been an increased interest in religion aboard ship. Quite a number of the men have taken to reading the Bible. Fortunately we brought out more Bibles than anything, for use in regular Sunday church services. The Navy has always had a regard for the religious desires of its men; indeed that pennant bearing the Cross, as mentioned, is the only flag ever to fly atop the national ensign, during those services. The other day a delegation of the men came to me and asked if they could hold a short daily service and I granted the request. It takes place at 0600 on the fantail just about the time we are sailing toward the morning star and the sun is lifting from the sea. The number of sailors attending it slowly grows. It is a simple service. A reading of a few verses of Scripture, sometimes by the Jesuit, sometimes by a bluejacket or officer, standing on the vertical missile launcher, which makes a convenient pulpit. This is followed by a hymn or two . . .

A mighty fortress is our God,

A bulwark never failing;

Our helper He, amid the flood

Of mortal ills prevailing. . 
. .

To the voices of the sailors, accompanied by Delaney’s fiddle, Porter-field’s guitar, rising softly over the weather decks from aft, sometimes rather vigorously, as in this old Luther hymn, a favorite of mine, we have now become accustomed as heralding a new day of our search. It seems somehow not a bad way to start it, there being something reassuring, speaking of hope, in the music and lyrics of the old hymns. You can hear the service quite clearly from the bridge wing if you step out there to scan the waters. The Jesuit also quite often calls on Porterfield to give the homily, the helmsman having been a ministerial student before he turned mysteriously to the Navy.

Recently the chaplain came to me with the word that some of the men had asked for a baptismal service. Might we stop the ship somewhere in order to accomplish this purpose? I looked at him in astonishment.

“Did I hear you say baptismal service? And did I hear you say stop the ship?”

“Yes, Captain. You heard both precisely.”

“Good Lord, why can’t it be done aboard? Fantail, where you have services.”

“They want to be immersed,” he said.

“I didn’t know Jesuits did immersions.”

“A Navy Jesuit does. These particular sailors want it done like it was first done. To Jesus, by John the Baptist, in the River Jordan.”

“Yes, I know, Chaplain.”

He laughed. “I never doubted it, sir.”

“Too bad it doesn’t empty into the Mediterranean. We could take the ship there and make the thing complete.”

“Any place the water’s not over my head would do,” he said.

I waited. “Do you really think that’ll do any good?” I said then.

“Yes, I think it will, and I’m not thinking of the baptism.”

I gave a sigh. “Very well,” I said, “we’ll do it.”

Today we found a likely place. A strip of sandy beach, near a place called on the charts Zuwarah, not far into Libya. Selmon went in first and did his readings, which allowed us two hours ashore. A score of candidates had offered themselves for baptism. We went in in two boats, carrying them and some of their shipmates who wanted to witness the event.

We stood, all of us, in the stillness of the scene, meditative and attentive, on the white strand, the sea touching it with the barest of murmurs, while the Jesuit conducted a short service before the actual proceedings, commencing with a reading from the Gospel according to Saint Mark . . .

And it came to pass in those days, that Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee, and was baptized of John in Jordan.

And straightaway coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him:

And there came a voice from heaven, saying, Thou art my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.

The words drifted out over the water, reaching up toward a windless sky. Porterfield played on his guitar and the men who knew the words joined in the singing of the baptismal hymn . . .

Shall we gather at the river,

Where bright angel feet have trod,

With its crystal tide forever

Flowing by the throne of God . . 
.

Then the Jesuit and the candidates, all wearing their best sailor-whites, walked down into the transparent water and one by one he immersed them. First saying in a firm clear voice:

“I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

Said as a Baptist preacher would say it. Then with handkerchief held over the sailor’s nose and mouth, bringing him (or her) backward until he was fully submerged, then raising him back up in the symbol of the Resurrection, the one-word pronouncement, spoken with a clear-sounding and unmistakable authority into the silence of the watching sailors.

“Amen.”

Then the next sailor stepped forward for his turn. I was surprised at the Jesuit’s skills in a ritual to which he was unaccustomed—it somehow seemed neither inconsonant nor heterodox to see one in reverse-collar priestly garb performing it—and not an undifficult one physically; but then he was a man strong in physique, once, as noted, a Georgetown varsity boxer in the light-heavyweight division and still in excellent shape, recently had taken to giving boxing lessons to the men, to help, I think, soothe them. It was a pretty day, the bounty of an unclouded heaven looking down in seeming blessing on our band of sailors gathered on the shore, a gleaming catena of sunlight stretching across the water to our ship standing off, the only remission to the far horizon in the vast blue solitude of the Mediterranean. We stood enveloped in a radiant silence, a certain strange and indecipherable serenity seeming to touch all around, to lay upon the waters, the beach, upon all of us present. A distinct tang of chillness hung in the air. If any of the immersed minded the cold, it was not apparent; there was no shivering of the dripping figures. Twenty of ship’s company the Jesuit baptized, three of them women sailors: Radioman Parkland, Seaman Salinas, Yeoman Kramer. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, all were baptized. It was a benignant and somehow particularly satisfying undertaking and one curiously of a shipmate character, drawing the men together. When it was over, the drenched score, their dry shipmates, and the Jesuit wet to his waist stood on the beach while Porterfield played one last chorus of the hymn, of which all the twenty and the previously baptized who knew the words joined in . . .