Torpedo Run (22 page)

And then he noticed Jason in the sling of the Bofors, the long, mean barrel pointing flat-out at the little boat. "Hey, what are you doing, Jason?" Peter asked.

Jason looked from him to Archer and back but didn't say anything.

"They haven't seen us," Archer said.

"Hope they don't." Peter kept watching as the boat slid along smoothly in the bright blue water.

Then one of the boys suddenly stood up in the outrigger and pointed directly toward them. The other boy and the man turned to look and then, very fast, they sailed the boat around and got it on the other tack and started going in the opposite direction.

"You'd better stop them," Archer said.

Peter turned and stared at him. "Stop them?" he asked.

"If you don't, we'll have a tribe of those savages swarming over us."

"I can't shoot kids, Archer," Peter told him. "Jason, secure that gun."

Archer looked at him with a curious, remote expression and then turned away, saying, "I think you're going to regret this, Mr. Brent."

Peter stayed on the stern and watched the outrigger until it sailed out of sight around the island. And as he watched he remembered the words in the book—dangerous, cannibalism, treacherous—all of them.

Why was it, he wondered, that a year or so ago he was a college boy, and now he was a mutinous naval officer forced to decide whether to shoot, in cold blood, a man and a couple of kids he had never seen in his life in order to protect the lives of a dozen men in this strange part of the world.

Perhaps Archer is right, he thought. I'll regret not having shot them. And he knew that he would have shot them if they had been directly threatening
Slewfoot
and her men. But not like this. Not in cold blood.

He went past the chart house, got the carbine, and told Willie he was going to take a little look around. He got the binoculars from the bridge and climbed down off the beached boat.

Goldberg and Mitch were out on the beach barbecuing a pig Goldberg had trapped. "Bring back an apple and we'll stuff it in this critter's mouth," Goldberg told him as he went by.

Beyond the deep fringe of coconut palms there was thicker jungle covering a low rise in the ground. Peter made his way through the dim, wet greenness to the highest point. After climbing up on a rock from where he could see over the low underbrush, he got out the binoculars and began to examine the long coastline.

In every little lagoon were the huts of the natives, perched above the water on long poles. Around each hut were canoes and outriggers of all sizes, some of them being paddled, others out in the large bay being used for fishing.

The outrigger he had seen was now sailing fast toward the far shore. He could see the excited wavings of the man and the boys in it, and soon a stream of half naked, dark people came running down to the beach as the boat reached it.

Peter put the binoculars back in the case and climbed down off the rock. In his mind, as he made his way back through the jungle, he was planning the defense of
Slewfoot
for he was sure that sooner or later the savages would attack her.

They would have to stop everything they were doing on the boat and get out into the jungle and cut away a clear field of fire so that any attack would have to come out in the open. The Bofors could take care of anything coming from seaward, which left the 20-millimeters and .50s and .30s for an attack from land.

They would have to get all the food and coconuts they could gather, too, for it might be a long siege.

But as he hurried toward
Slewfoot,
Peter felt the bitterness of eventual defeat. When the last round of ammunition had been fired, what defense would they have against those hordes of natives he had seen in the lagoons all along the coast?

Goldberg and Mitch had cut up their barbecued pig and were wrapping it in banana leaves when Peter came out of the grove. "I think we're going to have a visit from the friendly natives," he told them. "Except they're not friendly. Mitch, get all hands and clear a field of fire around the boat. Make it as deep as you can."

"That's the trouble with paradise," Goldberg said, "the natives."

Peter ran across the beach to the boat. As he climbed aboard he saw Archer sitting on deck in the canvas chair. "I think they're coming," Peter told him.

"I'm sure they are."

"Okay, so I didn't kill a couple of kids and an old man," Peter said, going below to find Jason.

"Get all the ammo on deck and ready to go," he told him, going on to the engine room.

"Drain the gas, Sko. We're going to have trouble with the natives, and the easiest way for them to get us is to burn us out."

Peter yanked himself up the ladder to the radar shack. "Any chance of making
any
noise with that thing, Willie?"

"None."

"Okay, go help Mitch, will you?" Then, as Willie started down the ladder, Peter called after him. "Hey, Willie, tell all hands to come back to the boat and get carbines. And tell 'em to keep 'em close-by all the time."

Willie nodded and went on down the ladder.

Peter went forward to Archer comfortably sprawled in the chair. He was surprised to see Archer studying the ship's log.

"The book says these people are pretty mean," Peter told him.

"I read that too," Archer said. "You can only hold them off for a little while. You know that, don't you?"

"Maybe," Peter said. "Depends on what they're shooting."

"Also there are the Japanese," Archer reminded him, taking a little gold penknife out of his pocket. He opened the log, flipped through the pages, stopped, and then very carefully began to cut a page out of the book.

"You're not supposed to do that," Peter reminded him.

"I know." Archer finished cutting the page and handed it to him. "Now there is no record of your mutinous conduct, Mr. Brent."

Peter took the page and glanced at the handwriting. Then he laughed. "You think of some pretty funny things at funny times."

"I know." Then Archer looked at him, and Peter was surprised to see how weary and drawn he looked. "I don't think they will attack you before morning," Archer said. "They'll take all night to get themselves worked up to it, and then they'll come."

"I think so," Peter agreed.

"So you've got one more night."

"There's not much I can do with it. We can't even get the boat off the beach now."

Archer slumped down in the chair. "I wanted to be a doctor," he said, almost as though talking to himself. "My father and my grandfather were doctors." He suddenly looked at Peter. "I wanted to save lives, Peter, not take them. I'm in the wrong place, and I don't know what to do."

Peter looked down at him, wondering if at last he was beginning to understand Archer.

"I thought they knew what they were talking about in that school in Rhode Island," Archer went on, "and that if you knew the book of regulations you could command a ship. I was wrong, wasn't I?"

"You didn't give yourself a chance," Peter said. "You'd better get a gun, Adrian." Peter went to the rail and jumped down into the shallow water. As he ran toward the men working in the jungle he looked back and saw Archer still sprawled in the chair.

By nightfall they had cleared a fairly deep area around the boat and had cleared away the camouflage so that the guns could swing in covering arcs in any direction from which an attack could come.

The men trooped back to the boat, each carrying as many coconuts as he could, and as soon as all were on board, Peter set a watch, with instructions to shoot anything that moved.

In the galley, Britches was making chow when Peter came down. "We'd better save that, Britches," he told. "This may take a long time."

He went on to Archer's cabin and knocked-on the door. "Archer," he called and when there was no answer,
"Archer!"

Peter opened the door. The cabin light was out so he turned it on. Archer wasn't there.

Peter went on to the engine room, which was dark and empty and smelled heavily of gasoline.

On deck he asked the watch if they'd seen Archer and they had not.

It didn't take him long to find that Archer was not on board, and then to find that Archer had taken Jonesy's liberated .38 as well as one of the carbines and six clips of ammo.

What a way to do things, Peter thought, and then hoped that his searching for Archer hadn't been noticed by the crew. They had enough to worry about without that.

Murph went forward through the dark to where Mitch, at one of the twin .30s, was peering at the dark line of jungle. "Hey, you know something?" Murph whispered. "The Skipper's run away. Taken a couple of guns and deserted."

"Brent?"
Mitch said, surprised.

"No, the Skipper."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not surprised. That guy never was
with
us. And most of the time he was against us. So let him see how he makes out by himself."

"He could hide someplace and when it's all over he can come sneaking back."

"To what?" Mitch asked. "Murph, there're
thousands
of those cannibals. Thousands. And they get hopped-up on that betel juice and
don't care.
Man, they just keep coming. I talked to the Marines about 'em. You shoot one down and another one just steps over him and keeps on coming. You better save your last round for yourself, buddy."

Murph didn't like the idea of it at all. "Peter says he thinks we can beat 'em back."

"Just trying to make us feel good."

"I wish I'd thought of it," Murph said.

"Thought of what?"

"Like Archer. Take a gun and run. He can hide in a tree or something until it's all over and then he can live here until the war's over or something. They wouldn't find him because they wouldn't be looking for him. I tell you what, Mitch, I think I'll go see if I can find Archer."

"Listen, you cockeyed little Irishman, you get off this boat and I'll do what Peter Brent said."

"What'd he say?"

"He said to shoot anything that moves on shore."

Murph laughed, a little nervously, "I was just kidding, Mitch. You wouldn't shoot
me,
would you?"

"I'd enjoy it," Mitch told him.

"Maybe they'll find Archer anyway and stew him up in a big pot and eat him."

"He's not fit to eat," Mitch decided.

In the dayroom Peter and Britches were getting things ready. As Britches spread a clean sheet over the mess table, Peter got the first-aid kit out of Archer's cabin and started taking the things out of it, lining them up in the galley—bandages in a line, then the sulfa powder, then the kit with the scalpels and needles. "If anybody gets hit I don't know what we can do for him," Peter decided, looking at the bright, sharp scalpels.

"Where's Archer?" Britches asked.

"Asleep."

"Really? I heard he'd deserted."

"No, he's asleep," Peter said.

Britches just looked at him and went on getting things ready.

Peter was looking for the morphine Syrettes. These he knew he could use and had seen how much pain they could stop when a man was hurt.

They weren't there. Nowhere. He went into Archer's cabin and searched it completely. The Syrettes weren't there. Coming back to the day-room he asked Britches, "Did Archer give you any more of those morphine shots?"

"Naw. I asked him once but he said he didn't want to make a dope addict out of me."

In his mind Peter went from man to man, wondering who had stolen the Syrettes. He couldn't imagine any man on board wanting to use the drugs; couldn't remember any man at any time behaving the way addicts do.

Unless, he suddenly thought, it was Archer.

Now he remembered so many times when Archer had had that vacant look, the times he had moved so wearily and yet had done nothing to make him tired, the hours Archer had spent asleep in his cabin.

In silence, Peter finished with the first-aid kit and went topside.

The moon was up, almost full, in a clear and starlit sky; and, for once, Peter welcomed it. On that white, moonlit beach nothing could move toward
Slewfoot
without being seen, and no fleet of outriggers could approach her across the bright sea. For a little while longer they were safe.

"You'd better break it up into watch sections," he told Goldberg. "Half of you sleep and the other half stay on deck."

"You'd better get some sleep yourself, Peter, you look like you'd been pulled through a little hole."

"I guess so."

"Has Archer deserted?" Goldberg asked quietly.

Peter looked at him, remembering what Britches had said about it. "What makes you think so?"

"He's not on board."

"How do you know?"

"Slewfoot's
not that big."

"Well, I don't think it makes much difference," Peter told him.

"We could use another man on a gun."

"We can take 'em, Gerry," Peter said. "The thing is to get one with every shot. Don't spray it around the way the Army does."

He went below then and stretched out on his bunk. He had not realized how beat he was until he put his head down. Then he wondered if he had strength enough to get up again.

It seemed to Peter that he had not been in the rack five minutes when Goldberg woke him up. "They're coming, Peter," Goldberg said.

Peter lay there, suddenly not caring. Now, at last, he felt weak and defeated with nothing more to call on. Let them come, he thought, come and get it over with. He had fought too long and could fight no longer.

Peter lay there, looking up at the hulk of Goldberg.

And then Goldberg said, "We can take 'em, Peter."

Peter got his feet down on the deck, pushed himself up out of the bunk, and with his ruined hands pulled himself up the ladder to the deck.

He walked aft with Goldberg to find Murph and Jason on the stern. Murph had his glasses and was studying a long outrigger sailing across the moonlit sea. When he saw Peter, he handed over the glasses.

It was the longest outrigger he had ever seen—the main hull was a single hollowed-out log at least thirty feet long. A much-patched lateen-rigged sail drove the boat smoothly on a westerly course and not more than two hundred yards off the beach.