The Med (27 page)

“So it pays us to keep them happy.

“The first thing is cleanliness. Not personal cleanliness—I know you all are doing the best you can considering the shortage of fresh water—but cleanliness of the ship. This is our home, and we've got to keep it clean. There've been too many butts found around, in the passageways, in the urinals, even up on the signal bridge. The Navy says they don't throw butts on the deck, it must be the marines.”

The troops groaned. He said quickly, “Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But I want you all to know that cleanliness has got to be a habit, a way of life, here aboard the
Spiegel Grove.
That begins in the troop spaces, and goes wherever you go in the ship.…”

The lieutenant droned on, and the men listened, lolling around the deck, most of them somewhere else inside their heads. The older troops had heard it all on floats before, knew that no matter how often they policed up, every piece of crap the squids found would be blamed on them. To the sailors the embarked marines were cargo, not unlike carrying a herd of cattle battened down in their pens below deck, and the marines returned their contempt with interest. They insulted each other and stole from each other, fought when they were ashore, and only the officers, who had to eat in the wardroom, repeated the fiction that they were all in the same service. The marines knew they were not in the Navy. Bunch of damned pussies in candyassed sailor suits. Behind their hands the corporals yawned, winking sarcastically at one another.

“… That said, I'm going to turn you over to the Top for the afternoon lecture. Sergeant Bayerholt.”

“Small-unit tactics,” bawled the Top, and the men relaxed again. Book drill. This they had all, even the boots, heard dozens of times before through long dozing afternoons. They could have predicted each of the sergeant's sentences as he talked in a steady hoarse shout, going through it all, line by line, as if he had memorized it somewhere back in the years and it had never changed a syllable. Fire-team formations, skirmishing lines, hand signals and how to pass them along. Digging entrenchments. Camouflage. Movements, contact, conduct of battle, consolidation and reorganization. Givens, his head tilted back against a reel of hose, stared up at the maze of pipes and sprinklers and lights that lined the overhead like stenciled filigree.

He was thinking about his guitar.

The skill was coming back. His fingers remembered it like the scars in his dark-lined palms remembered the timber hooks. He had never thought much about music before. It was the books that had fascinated him with their abstruseness, their logic, the hints they held of a wider, fuller life. But now that had changed. It was not that he no longer cared about engineering. He did, he wanted to be an educated man. But music was different. He couldn't tell what fascinated him about it, but there it was.

His fingers moved against the rough fabric of his blouse, strumming out an inaudible chord, and he blinked sightlessly at the overhead.

“… And last, remember your gas mask. Take care of it like you take care of your piece. You men carry rubbers? Think of your mask that way. If you need it, you'll need it quick, and you won't be able to borrow your buddy's, 'cause he'll be using his.”

They laughed dutifully, then quieted as Bayerholt turned the lecture back to the officer. His first words made them sit up.

“As you may have heard,” said the lieutenant, “there's been some trouble recently in Cyprus.”

Ha, Will thought. The scuttlebutt was right.

“I won't go into the politics. It's pretty confused, like it is in most countries around the Med. There've been outbreaks of violence for a lot of years.

“Normally, the U.S. tries not to get involved. We deal with it by diplomacy, try to influence the winners and keep them off whoever lost. But two factors complicate the situation here.

“The first thing is, with the Soviet Fleet as strong in the Eastern Med now as ours, it's even more important that we, with our allies, keep things calm. The Russians like nothing more than trouble. Then they have an excuse to step in, either directly or, more likely, by means of the internal political organizations they maintain in all the littoral countries. Terrorism and destabilization is in their interest, and against ours.

“The second problem is that there are something like two thousand dependents and civilians there. Both Americans and British. There's a big tourist trade, and commercial interests, as well as the diplomatic personnel. In case of unrest, we become responsible for guaranteeing that those people are in a safe location, or for getting them out safely if the local authorities lose control or turn against us.

“There's not a lot more to say at this point.” The lieutenant looked around at them. “Reports coming out are confused, as I said. Things like this happen all the time in the Med, that's why we maintain a presence here. Most of the time they straighten themselves out and we aren't needed. We don't want to show force unless the time comes—that's just as bad as no force at all—and that's why we cleared out of Italy and are well out to sea. We want to stand by, stay at the ready. There are no plans to do anything for now; but if those people ashore need help they'll need it fast, and that means us.

“That's all. Take charge and dismiss the men, Sergeant.”

“Comp'ny. Ten-SHUT! Dismissed.”

As they crowded out Givens saw Cutford for the first time. The black corporal, just ahead of him, looked pensive. For a moment he was tempted to catch up with him, say something, but then he remembered the freezer; his terror at being locked up, abandoned. What do I have to say to him? he thought. Nothing. And him to me? He'd just tell me to shut up. He'd just call me Oreo.

Oreo.

He did not care, did not think, about faraway conflicts. His conflicts was here, every day.

He hungered for the touch of strings, and went below.

14

Nicosia, Cyprus

She struggled in the grip of the sea. Above her glimmered light, but so faint and far she knew she would never reach it. Not burdened as she was. But still she grasped Nan tighter, and with her free hand clawed upward.

The sea, crushing, invading … she tried to cry out. But it poured into her open mouth, choking her scream, strangling them both.…

Susan woke. Her free arm was tangled in the blanket someone had thrown over her in the night. A dream. But the pain was real; she was sore as she came up from sleep. The marble floor had impressed itself into her bones. Then she realized that it was not discomfort that had awakened her, nor the dream. It was a hand on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes.

“I'm sorry, it's not much,” muttered the young woman apologetically, holding out the tray as she bent over her. “We're not equipped for so many people. There're blankets, water, but not much in the way of supplies.”

“Thank you, this will be fine, Miss Freed,” she said, looking from cookies and toast to the official's tired smile. She had probably been up all night, checking in refugees. Susan wasn't hungry, but thinking of Nan she took a few of the wafers. “It was good of you to think of breakfast.”

“We'll have something hot soon, tea or coffee. How's your little girl?”

She glanced at her daughter. Nan lay curled into her mother's coat, face shadowed against the morning light by a sleeve. “She's still resting. She looks better, I think … maybe the fever will break today.”

“Do you think she'll want to eat? We have a limited amount of cereal back in the staff kitchen. Bring her back when she wakes up and we'll fix that and some powdered milk.”

“Thanks very much, we will,” said Susan. She looked after the woman as she picked her way between the blankets and luggage and the people who dozed or chatted in low voices, holding her tray awkwardly aloft. It had been nice of her. But what she really wanted was to go back to the hotel, poach herself under scalding water, then crawl onto a mattress for about twelve hours.

Unfortunately, Susan, that doesn't seem to be possible just yet, she thought. But maybe tonight it will be. Maybe it was a mistake, minor rioting … perhaps the local police would have it straightened out.

She sat up carefully to avoid disturbing Nan. Rubbing her eyes, she saw that the refugee group had grown during the night. The stone floor was covered with blankets and clothing, leaving not a square inch more of space, and those who had come late sat against the walls, watching those who slept with thinly concealed envy.

“Coffee!” yelped someone, and she saw that near the counter one of the marines was easing down a pot. Steam rose from it as he broke open a roll of paper cups. Susan gave Nan a last glance—she was still, breathing in the shallow rhythm of sleep—and got up to join the line that formed. People stood silent, cups in their hands, waiting. An old lady smiled at her. “Good morning,” she said.

“Oh … good morning, Mrs. Stanweis.”

And “Good morning,” someone else said, and then, standing there, the smell of coffee getting stronger as the line shuffled forward, they began chatting. It made the whole morning different; all at once it was almost like Monday at the office, as if they bumped into one another in the American Embassy in Nicosia, Cyprus, every day.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Some. That floor's pretty hard.”

“Are they still shooting?” asked a man.

“I heard some a little while ago … the marines won't let us go out. They locked the gates.”

“Who is it? What have you heard?” Dr. Stanweis asked the guard, who was standing by the coffeemaker, arms behind his back.

“Uh, I'm not sure, sir. But things are pretty tense out there. There were crowds in the streets when I came in from watch, a little while ago.”

“Cookies and toast! You'd think they'd have more than that in an embassy … don't you have any cream to go with this, Sergeant?”

“I'll see what I can do, sir.”

Susan half-listened to the chatter, saying little. Some of the people, she saw, were frightened; others cool. Mrs. Stanweis approached her as she stepped away, balancing two cups, one of them, Nan's, syrupy with sugar. She supposed the caffeine would be all right, considering the circumstances.

“Mrs. Lendman, how nice you look this morning. I don't see how you do it. How are you? How is your little girl?”

The old woman was bright-faced despite the hour, despite the circumstances. Ferdy, cradled in her arms, looked sullen, and snarled when Susan tried to pet him. She jerked her hand back. “It's Lenson, Mrs. Stanweis. Susan Lenson. She's sleeping, thank you.”

“Did the aspirin help?”

“Yes, thank you! I think they're helping her fever.”

“I'm just glad I had a few in my bag. Leon always says there's nothing better. And he's been practicing for forty years. The young doctors, they all say there's no one left like him in all of southern New Jersey—”

When she got back to their place Nan was awake, sitting up and looking around. She looked hot and confused, and coughed as her mother set the cup beside her.

“Mommy, where are we? I had such
funny
dreams—”

“I know, Bunny. Everybody has those when they're sick. Don't wipe your nose with your sleeve, use this tissue. Look, cookies for breakfast! And you can drink coffee this morning, just like Daddy does.”

“Don't
like
coffee.”

“There's sugar in it, baby, try it. And this nice lady is Mrs. Stanweis; she gave us the aspirin for you last night.”

“Hullo,” Nan said unwillingly.

“Hello, Nancy. Do you remember Ferdy Dog? Ferdy, this is Nancy, she's a pretty little girl, say hello.”

The dog growled. Nan glanced at her mother, then buried her face in her T-shirt top. “She's shy around animals,” Susan was saying, embarrassed, when a jovial voice caught their attention.

“Good morning, all! I'm Fred Persinger, the American ambassador here. If you'll give me your attention for a few minutes—”

The ambassador was not a short man, but his shape gave one that impression; he was almost round, with a round head, a round chin. He was wearing blue slacks and a white golf shirt, so casual looking that Susan felt concerned. Did he understand how serious this could be? He smiled as he stood by the desk, waiting for the murmur to quiet, but his eyes gave the impression that he had been required to smile so long at so many people that a smile was all there was left; that he would crack a joke and slap a back on the way over the brink. He raised a hand, smiling, and then one of the marines stood up behind him, looking grim, and the crowd quieted.

“I know this isn't a political rally back in Philadelphia, but it sure looks like one!” He paused for his laugh, and drew a few nervous chuckles.

“Well, folks, I hate to say welcome, considering the circumstances, but welcome. There does seem to be some confusion out there about who owns this island, but right here you'll be safe. So we'll just sit tight for a day or so, till they sort it out, and then we'll head for the airport and all go on about our business.” He pronounced it “bidness.” “As you can see, we're not known for our hotel accommodations—but that just makes us try harder! If there's anything we can do for your comfort, please ask Ms. Freed—she's my assistant, this attractive young lady—or one of my aides.”

“Mr. Persinger?” Mrs. Stanweis fluttered her hand.

“Yes, ma'am,” said the ambassador, bending forward at the waist.

“Will we be able to send telegrams? I'd like my family to know where I am.”

“You sure can. We have facilities for that, we're in touch with Washington right now. I'm sure Ms. Freed can take you down there in the basement and get a little message out. Yes. In back—?”

It was a short man with a grizzled brush-cut. “Ambassador, Joe Bunch, here. I'm a veteran, Korea. If that crowd turns ugly—can we hold them off? I noticed our gate guards aren't armed.”