Pacific Interlude: A Novel

By Sloan Wilson

During the last days of World War II, a young officer braves enemy fire and a maverick crew on the open waters and in the steamy ports of the South Pacific

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, running shuttle and convoy duties for the US Army. Sally, his wife of three years, is eager for him to get back to Massachusetts and live a conventional suburban life selling insurance—but Syl longs for adventure and is bound to find it as the captain of a beat-up, unseaworthy vessel carrying extremely flammable cargo across dangerous stretches of the Pacific Ocean.

As the Allies prepare to retake the Philippines, the only thing the sailors aboard the Y-18 want is for the war to be over. First, however, they must survive their mission to 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 an explosion that could blow their ship sky high, the crew of the Y-18 must learn to work together and trust their captain—otherwise, they might never make it home.

Based on Sloan Wilson’s own experiences, Pacific Interlude is a thrilling and realistic story of World War II and a moving portrait of a man looking toward the future while trying to survive a precarious present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Dec 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497689664

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

CHAPTER 1

THE GIRLS IN Australia were just as beautiful as American women, but much more loving, or so the young sailors told each other. In New Guinea during that year, 1944, the Americans thought much more about the golden Australian girls than about the grim Japanese warriors whom they were supposed to fight, and they prayed for a chance to get to Australia with the fervor of monks who have a literal belief in heaven.

When a small gas tanker was hit by a Japanese suicide plane and towed to Brisbane for repairs, several of the sailors in New Guinea requested duty aboard her, despite the fact that those little ships were probably the most dangerous afloat. The knowledge that this one would return to her duty of supplying advance air bases as soon as she was fixed up did not deter the eager volunteers. After a year or more of confinement to freighters which never left the fetid jungle harbors and army bases of New Guinea, they would have signed up for anything, if only they could have a few weeks, days or even hours in Australia first.

Syl Grant, the young Coast Guard lieutenant who was ordered to head the crew bound to take over the tanker, marveled at the bravery which dreams of simple lechery can inspire, and wryly admitted to himself that he shared this weakness or strength. He had not volunteered for the job of commanding the tanker and hated everything he knew about her, from the stink of gasoline to the fact that she was an army ship, but the sting of receiving these orders had been eased by the thought that repairs might keep him in Australia a month or more. He had thought of trying to get his orders to such a miserable little vessel changed, but the more he had dreamed about Brisbane, the more his devotion to duty had grown. In the service a man has to learn to accept his fate without question. What will be will be.

As they rode the plane from Milne Bay to Brisbane, only Cramer, a chief boatswain’s mate, talked of anything but the girls they expected to meet.

I guess I can get used to the idea of riding gasoline tanks, this former prison guard said, but I just can’t stand the idea of working for the army. Damn it, I joined the Coast Guard! Why do we have to man these damn army ships?

That is because the Coast Guard is part of the navy in time of war, Syl replied solemnly.

Cramer thought about this a moment, his craggy face wooden before he broke into a grin.

Jesus! he finally bellowed. That makes as much sense as anything else in this damn war, don’t it?

They arrived in Brisbane on the afternoon of September 4, a day when Tokyo Rose predicted the imminent American invasion of the Philippine Islands, but rumors about that had been circulating for a long time and no one paid much attention to them. Great battles did not appear to occupy the minds of these men as they piled out of the airplane. They complained only because a U.S. Army truck picked them up to take them to a shipyard before they even had a chance to admire the girls they glimpsed at the airport. Tossing their seabags into the back of the weapons carrier, they stood there laughing, whistling and calling to every woman they passed on the streets of Brisbane, a few of whom looked just as beautiful as they had hoped. These young sailors who were bound for duty aboard a battered army gas tanker looked and sounded like a bunch of high school boys on their way to a football game. There are many brands of courage, Syl thought, and the unthinking kind may be the best of all.

Skipper, is there any chance we could get a few hours of liberty before we go aboard? Sorrel, a young signalman who looked like a California beachboy, asked.

I’m afraid my orders are to take over the ship as soon as we get here, Syl said. I’ll sure grant liberty as soon as we all get settled.

After the stifling heat of New Guinea, the very air of Brisbane was heady. There was the fragrance of newly mown grass and flowers in many backyard gardens behind the rows of little houses they passed. The dresses of the women pushing baby carriages on these sidewalks were so brightly colored and their smiles were friendly as they waved to acknowledge the cheers of the passing truckload of sailors. In the windows of grocery stores, they saw piles of fresh oranges, apples, and melons, fresh food they had not tasted in many months. A high school girl on a bicycle was so graceful as she pedaled along with her hair flying that the men’s laughter subsided in awe as they watched her out of sight.

Their truck stopped before a gate in a wire fence which surrounded a small shipyard. After showing his credentials to an elderly watchman who barely glanced at them, Syl led his white-clad men, who had hand-scrubbed their uniforms the day before in Milne Bay, down a narrow road between two sheds, at the end of which they could see an Australian destroyer on the ways and several smaller ships. Even the seabags which the sailors balanced on their shoulders were so clean that they were hard to look at in the bright afternoon sun, and their newly polished black shoes glistened.

"We are looking for the U.S. Army Y-18," Syl said to a stout, red-faced guard who hurried toward them.

A little gas tanker? The one that was hit?

The guard’s Australian accent sounded to Syl like Cockney, but this man had none of the jaunty cheerfulness which he somehow associated with that kind of diction. This was a somber sounding individual and his continuing stare was as mournful as that of a Basset hound.

That’s right, Syl said.

She’s on the other side of that destroyer, about as far away as we could move her.

When Syl and his men walked around the stern of the destroyer, they could not believe that the rusty hulk which they saw was to be their ship. Syl at first hoped that she was only a derelict waiting to be broken up, and that the vessel he was to command lay somewhere on the other side of her, but he could see nothing beyond except the wire fence. As they came nearer to that unlovely hull, which was shaped a little like a five-hundred-ton hog, they could smell gasoline as strongly as though it dripped from her. Obviously this vessel had not even been emptied and steamed out before being hauled. She lay there like a huge bomb, waiting for any spark to touch her off. Cramer nervously dropped a cigarette and stamped it out in the mud, glancing around to make sure that none of the other men were smoking.

They walked closer, their faces tense. Although she was only 180 feet long, this little harbor tanker looked enormous as she towered above them, her rusty green hull black against the sky. The starboard side of her pilothouse, where the Jap suicide plane had hit it, looked as though it had been clobbered by a giant wrecker’s ball, and the entire superstructure had been blackened by fire. Syl’s last hope that there must be some mistake evaporated when he saw the letters and numbers which had been welded to her battered bow: "U.S. Army Y-18." Turning to his men, he forced a smile and said, "Well, I guess we always knew she wasn’t going to turn out to be the Pacific Queen."

The crew gave him a nervous laugh. They walked toward a rickety, much patched and splinted ladder about thirty feet long which led from the mud on her port side to her deck amidships. Near the foot of it a dozen Australian workmen sat on a pile of rusty steel plates while they drank their afternoon tea from heavy mugs.

The foreman of these workers, a burly red-haired man in dirty overalls, watched the newcomers with a sardonic grin. To him Syl seemed to be a typically cocky young Yank lieutenant. His newly pressed blue uniform with the two broad gold stripes on each sleeve looked pretentious under that thin still boyish face, as did the visored, goldemblemed cap above it. The spotless white uniforms of the sailors who followed him made the foreman laugh. One minute after those poor swabbies climbed aboard this rusty, sooty vessel, they would not look so proud.

The workmen stared as Syl walked to the foot of the decrepit ladder and shoved it a few inches to test its steadiness. Turning to them, he said in a flat American voice which still managed to sound almost as snooty to them as a British accent, Good afternoon. Who’s in charge here?

I guess me as much as anybody, the red-haired foreman said and they all grinned.

This ladder doesn’t look very safe to me. Do you think we could find a better one?

That ladder has held bigger men than you, the foreman said, and his friends laughed.

Syl had heard that Australian men tended to be as hostile toward Americans as their women were friendly, and though that was understandable, he was taken aback by this greeting.

That may be, he said, trying to keep his voice even, but I have a whole crew to bring aboard and they have lots of gear.

He gestured toward the procession of men standing behind him, all of whom balanced their heavy seabags on their shoulders to keep them from the mud.

I don’t want to ask anybody to climb a busted-up ladder, he added almost apologetically.

We don’t have no more ladders, the foreman said. Every time a ship leaves here, they steal at least one.

Maybe the yard could buy or even build some new ones, Syl said, trying to keep that a dry observation.

If you boys are afraid of heights, you better not go aboard a gas tanker, the foreman said. If she blows, you’ll all go high enough.

The other workmen laughed. Syl stood silent, his face starting to burn. His crew looked both angry and embarrassed.

Skipper, we can make it up that ladder, Cramer said.

It’s dumb to expect men to use a ladder like that, Syl said and to the foreman added, Where can I find the manager of this yard?

He’s up on deck there, the foreman said. He ain’t afraid of the ladder.

Hearing the laughter, the manager, a tall bald man in a black business suit, walked to the rail of the Y-18 and looked down.

What’s going on down there? he asked.

Sir, are you the manager of this yard? Syl said.

I’m the superintendent.

Sir, I am coming aboard to take command of this ship. I request another ladder. In my opinion this one is not safe enough for my crew.

We have no more ladders to spare and that one is safe enough for every man in this yard, the superintendent said. You can trust it, lieutenant. What will hold an Aussie will hold a Yank. Unless, of course, you’re not up to it.

The workmen guffawed.

Sir, Syl said with a final attempt, it’s my business to ask men to take chances, but not unnecessary ones. I just can’t ask them to climb this ladder with those seabags.

Then you all can bloody well fly up! the superintendent said.

When the chips were down, even such small chips as these, instinct took over, Syl found, and he was as surprised as anyone when he said back, "You can bloody well fly down," and gave the ladder a hard shove with the heel of his right hand.

The top of the ladder slid off the rail of the ship and fell on a pile of steel plates about twenty feet from the workmen, where it lay quivering.

What the hell are you doing? the superintendent bellowed.

It’s always wise to test a ladder before climbing it, Syl said, hoping his voice was not quavering. Walking to the ladder, he jumped on it, kicking out two rungs with the heels of his black jackboots. This one isn’t passing the test too well, he added. Just as I thought, there’s a lot of rotten wood here.

He kicked out three more rungs. Actually the wood was not as rotten as it had appeared and he had to stamp with all his might. This made him feel ridiculous, but his point had been made. His crew was laughing with him. They liked him for wrecking this ladder and their admiration egged him on. He stamped out four more rungs.

I’ll put that ladder on your ship’s accounting! the superintendent said.

We won’t mind if you charge us what it’s worth, say two cents.

Damn it, Bob, bring another ladder, the superintendent called to the foreman. I have to get down from here.

Three workmen went to a shed and soon returned with a ladder of bright new wood.

I want to thank you guys, Syl said as they set it in place. I always knew that all this talk about you Aussies being kind of hostile to us Yanks was bullshit.

The superintendent came down and no one said anything as Syl led his crew up the new ladder to the deck of the Y-18. Their new home.

The decks were even rustier than the topsides. A short thin lieutenant junior grade about forty-five years old in a soot-streaked gray uniform met Syl as he climbed over the rail and saluted.

My name’s Simpson, sir, he said. I’m the executive officer. I take it that you’re our new skipper.

That’s what my orders say, Mr. Simpson, Syl said, returning the salute. I was told you’d be aboard. Do we have an ensign and an engineer yet?

They came in last week, sir. Right now they’re ashore.

Very well. Please show these men to the forecastle and help them to get settled.

Wanting to be alone for a few minutes, Syl climbed a steel ladder to the flying bridge, which remained intact above the demolished pilothouse. He was grateful for the nonsense about the ladder—it had given him a chance to let off steam and had made him look pretty good in the eyes of his new crew. All during that little incident he had been conscious of acting out a part, as he often had felt during the whole three years he had been in uniform. He even suspected that his moment of rage and instinctive reaction had been inspired by his sense of drama more than anything else, but being a good officer and playing that role well usually amounted to the same thing. Didn’t it?

CHAPTER 2

ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES later Simpson climbed the ladder to the flying bridge, drew himself up and saluted Syl.

The men are making themselves as comfortable as possible, sir, he said. Would you like to inspect the ship?

There was something farcical about all this military formality in the midst of the wreckage of this old harbor tanker, and the fact that Simpson was almost twice the age of his commanding officer accentuated the absurdity. What Simpson looked like was a prissy teacher dressed up to play the part of an old officer in a high school play. Syl wished he could get over this feeling that the whole damn war was nothing but a bad drama in which they had all been given ridiculous parts.

Very well, he said, and the inspection tour began.

The ship was in such bad shape that Syl could hardly believe it. Somehow the script had gone wrong. In his imagination he had been destined to command a sleek destroyer and in fact he had already served as skipper of a trim subchaser in the North Atlantic, and later, a brand new army freighter in the Pacific. He was only twenty-four years old, but had served almost three years at sea in this war and this was his third command. He thought he had a good record, despite a recent dispute with the army, and had expected assignment to a much larger ship, but here he was crawling from one rusty compartment to another aboard a ship which resembled a worn-out garbage barge. After being hit by the Jap plane, she had been beached before being towed here to Brisbane, Simpson said, and the hull had been badly strained. The engine had not had a major overhaul since leaving the States two years ago and her only armament was two fifty-caliber machineguns. A minor but discomfiting detail was the fact that this ship could not even offer her captain a private cabin. For officers there were only two double cabins, one for the engineer and ensign, the other for the executive officer and captain. Both were Spartan little cubicles which contained two bunks separated by a desk and a chair.

Well, it’s not much but it’s home, Syl said, sitting down at his desk when the tour was finally over. Simpson sat perched on the edge of his bunk.

When would you like me to call the crew to quarters so you can read your orders taking command? he asked.

Let’s wait until the other officers come back aboard.

All right, sir, but there are some very pressing problems I must tell you about. There are a lot of big decisions to be made.

Oh?

The army is giving us a lot of pressure to get this ship into operation as soon as possible, but they can’t begin cutting and welding until we empty and steam the tanks.

Why didn’t you pump her out at sea before she was hauled?

The cargo pump is broken down and we’re waiting for spare parts. They hauled her quick because she was leaking so bad.

We could get deck pumps or syphon the stuff out here in the yard.

Yes sir, but nobody knows what to do with it. We have about fifty thousand gallons of av gas aboard, all that was left when the cargo pump broke down. It’s been contaminated by water and sand. They plan to put it into tank trucks and dump it somewhere out in the desert, but so far they haven’t been able to round up any tank trucks.

It looks like we’ll have to do some yelling and ass-kicking.

I’ve tried, but nobody pays much attention to me, and there’s a more immediate problem.

What’s that?

The skeleton crew they left with me, five men, have been selling the gas, sir, on the black market. The stuff is floating above the water and sand and when they dip it out from the top with buckets, it drives cars all right. It’s dangerous, the way they slop the stuff around, and of course it’s illegal, but we haven’t been able to draw pay here, and there’s no way to stop them, short of staying on watch myself around the clock.

Don’t the new ensign and the engineer help?

I think you ought to talk to them yourself, sir. I can’t get any cooperation out of them on this.

I’ll see them as soon as they come aboard. I understand that you were here when this ship was hit, Mr. Simpson. Haven’t you been given survivors’ leave?

Yes sir, but I refused it. I think my place is here.

Why?

I know the ship. She’s a cranky little thing and it’s hard to replace a whole crew at once.

Not many men would feel that much responsibility. I’m grateful to you.

I just figure that God must have put me here for a reason, sir.

I guess …

There was nothing wrong with piety of course, but Simpson’s sanctimonious air irritated Syl. There was already much about this man that he did not like. From his age and modest rank Syl guessed that he was a mustang, probably a chief petty officer who never would have been given a commission in time of peace. Such men knew a lot, but they often resented young reserve officers and caused trouble. During his days as an ensign, Syl had been intimidated by the righteous indignation of mustangs, but he had learned that many of them knew little but the parts of the ship in which they had specialized when they were petty officers and could be dangerously overconfident. Beyond that, any man who refused to take a transfer from this nightmare of a ship must be some kind of a nut. While he was reflecting on this, a loud deep voice called from the deck, Hey, Simp! Are you aboard?

That’s Mr. Buller, sir, Simpson said, his face a study of disapproval. Do you want to see him here?

Send him in.

Simpson left and a few moments later Buller appeared at the cabin door. Syl was startled by his sheer size. A former college and professional football player now thirty-six years old, Buller was six feet three inches tall and weighed close to 250 pounds. He had to stoop when he squeezed through the cabin door.

At five feet eleven and 175 pounds when rail thin, as he was now, Syl had felt himself to be more physically powerful than most men, but he was dwarfed as he stood to greet this astonishing ensign, and his hand felt like a child’s as Buller took it in his huge fingers.

So you’re our new skipper! Buller said in the bellow which was his normal conversational voice. Thank God you’re here!

He squeezed Syl’s hand hard enough to cause a twinge of pain, an accident, perhaps, or a none-too-subtle attempt to establish dominance the moment he met anyone.

Take it easy, Syl said with a smile. I might need that hand.

Sorry about that but sometimes I get carried away. That bastard Simp is about to drive me crazy.

What’s the trouble?

We have a very simple problem: we have to get rid of about fifty thousand gallons of gas which the government don’t want but which is perfectly good. Simp wants to sit on it like a mother hen on her eggs until the damn government can find trucks to dump it in the desert. Have you ever heard of such waste?

What do you want to do?

I want to sell it—that’s the best way to get rid of it quick. The men have been doing that ever since they got here in a half-ass way, dipping it up in buckets and pouring it into jerry cans. Simp’s right about one thing—that’s dangerous. I’ve got a guy with a tank truck and decent pumps who’ll come and take the whole mess away tomorrow night if Simp will let me.

You’ve found a black market operator?

You could call him that. He’ll pay us ten thousand bucks for the stuff in Aussie money. Do you know what we can do with that?

What do you have in mind?

We can rent a house ashore for the crew and enough food and booze to last us as long as we’re here, which might be as long as a month or even more. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live aboard this wreck while they’re working on her? We can’t even use the heads and showers. When they start cutting and welding, it will be worse.

I’ve been in yards before.

The men haven’t even been able to draw pay here—everything’s all fouled up. Don’t you figure they deserve a few weeks of good living before we all head into what’s waiting for us?

And what do you figure that is?

Hell, it’s no secret that these tankers are used for supplying advance air bases and everybody knows the invasion of the Philippines is coming up. Why do you suppose there’s such a shortage of these little tankers? They’ve been blowing up like firecrackers all over the lot. All it takes is one damn rifle bullet in the tanks. It’s a damn miracle that this ship survived a hit by a plane.

That doesn’t give us license to sell gas on the black market. We could all be court-martialed—

Are you a damned regular officer?

No, reserve.

I thought so—you don’t have that blank look. These regular military men have been slopping it up at the public trough for so long that they can’t use their heads for anything but eating. All they know is a thousand reasons why nothing can be done. Those bastards are fighting the war so they can get a damn pension and all they think about is staying out of trouble. The letter of the law I don’t give a damn about. I would like to win this war and go home.

So would I.

"All right. If we follow the letter of the law, we’ll screw around here for God knows how many days or weeks, trying to get rid of that gas so work can begin and in the end it will all be dumped in the desert, even though gas is rationed around here stricter than booze. If we use some brains and initiative, we can get rid of that gas right now. It may be called the black market, but it will put that gas into the tanks of cars, not into sand. Beyond that, we’ll get money that will help our guys to live in a way they damn well deserve. These could easily turn out to be our last damn days on earth—"

You make a case, Mr. Buller. What are the odds of our being caught?

No chance! The Aussies in this yard understand the situation—maybe that’s why no truck ever comes from the government. No one really likes waste and everybody likes money. For a few pounds the kangaroos won’t report anything. Hell, the boys will probably help us load the truck.

Okay, go ahead with this plan, but I want the money strictly accounted for and put in a ship’s welfare fund. We’ll keep the whole thing as legal as possible in case we get caught.

There’s only one catch. That bastard Simpson will write headquarters. He told me he would.

Please ask him to come in.

Buller left and a few moments later Simpson appeared.

Sit down, Mr. Simpson, Syl began. It looks like we’ve got a real dilemma here.

Yes sir. I’m sorry to hit you with it the minute you get aboard.

It can’t be delayed. The way I see the situation, we can follow the letter of the law, which will result in delay and incredible waste, or we can follow the spirit of the law and get quick action with considerable side benefits for the men.

Sir, I’m a simple man, Simpson said. I didn’t go to college, like Mr. Buller and I’m sure you did. All I got to go by is the Bible and the book of regulations. I’ve gone by one of those books or the other all my life. I can’t stop now.

If I looked through the Bible long enough, Mr. Simpson, I’m sure I could find a passage which would justify our attempt to live by the spirit, not the letter of the law. I also don’t know of any regulation which deals with a situation quite like this.

Thou shalt not steal, Simpson said.

Also, thou shalt not kill, but we still have to fight a war.

I interpret that to mean that we can defend our country, we can act as the good right arm of the Lord and smite our enemies with righteous wrath. I’ve thought about that a lot.

I’m sure. Mr. Simpson, I believe that the regulations permit the sale of surplus government property which has been declared unfit for use and they also permit money to be raised in various ways for a ship’s welfare fund. I will make sure that no officer aboard this ship makes personal profit from selling gas. Every penny will be accounted for. Ultimately the decision of what to do about our cargo is mine. I am doing what I think is right, and also what’s best for the war effort, which you care about. After thinking it over, I’ve decided to let Mr. Buller go ahead with his plan. I ask your cooperation and I at least expect no opposition.

I can’t give you an answer on that right now, sir. I’ll have to see what the Lord wants me to do.

Jesus, Syl thought. This guy means it. I have great confidence that the Lord will steer you right, Syl said. Now, do they have any hot coffee in the wardroom?

Just cold food, sir. With the gas leaking into the bilges, I’ve ordered the galley range secured until we’re steamed out.

The men have just been eating cold food? How long have you been here?

About two weeks, sir. The skeleton crew rented an apartment ashore with the money they got selling gas. They eat there.

I think I’ll go ashore for a bite myself. Will you make sure that some officer stays aboard?

I’ll be here myself, sir. I hardly ever go ashore. Things are kind of wild out there. Brisbane is not exactly a God-fearing city.

So I hear, Syl said with a straight face. Pray for me, Mr. Simpson.

Simpson left. While Syl was washing his hands in the cramped head adjoining his cabin, he heard a gentle rap at his door. A dapper white-haired man stood there. His sleeves bore the two gold stripes of a full lieutenant, but he looked dignified enough to be an admiral.

Hope I’m not bothering you, sir, he said. I’m Charlie Wydanski, the engineer. Mr. Simpson said you might like to see me.

Come in, Mr. Wydanski. Sit down.

Syl tried to tell himself that first impressions did not always mean too much, but he had begun by disliking Simpson and feeling in danger of being overpowered by Buller. It was a relief to meet an officer he instinctively liked on sight.

I’m glad to see you’ve come aboard, sir, Wydanski said. I wish we could have had the ship cleaned up better.

The crew can’t do much until the yard gets to work.

I wish I could report to you that the engine is in good shape, but to tell the truth, I don’t know how many hours we’ve got left in it. Either the old crew didn’t keep an engine room log or it’s been lost. We don’t have hardly any spare parts or tools.

It’s the old story, I guess. We’ll have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.

A gas tanker should have bronze wrenches—there are lots of times when you don’t want to make sparks. I think somebody must have taken ours ashore and hocked them. We have to work with taped wrenches and that ain’t easy or safe.

Tell Mr. Buller to try to get some bronze wrenches. He’s the supply officer.

There’s not much chance out here, but we may trade some off the merchant tankers when we get going. I can say that we’ve got some good machinist’s mates. The boys are better than I expected.

That’s good news.

I can’t complain anyway, Wydanski said. I volunteered for this duty.

Did you know what you were getting in for?

You mean all that scuttlebutt about our job being to supply advance air bases?

I’m not sure it’s all scuttlebutt.

Sir, I figure that the army and navy both know that a gas tanker has to be kept out of combat. It was just an accident that this one got hit. They say that lightning never strikes in the same place twice.

So they do.

Frankly, it ain’t combat that scares me. They’ve lost a lot of these little tankers but it wasn’t the Japs which blew them up—it was their own crews.

Oh?

All it takes is a cigarette in the wrong place, a spark from the galley range or a spark from a tool. I guess you know that when we’re loading or unloading, we displace a lot of gas fumes and they can settle all around us. Sometimes a nail in a man’s shoe on a steel deck can make a spark and that can be enough.

I guess we’ll have to have shoe inspection.

The main danger on a gas tanker, sir, is smoking. Also drinking, because men who drink smoke, and they don’t care much where. When the men first come aboard, they’re usually careful, but after a while they get used to the danger and start forgetting about it. On a ship like this, discipline is always the main problem.

You’ve served on tankers before?

Big ones way back in the First World War. I’ve been on the beach ever since, but I remember the need for safety regulations.

We’ll enforce them here.

There was another knock on the door.

Captain, would you like me to muster the men for reading your orders? Simpson said. All hands are now aboard.

I was going to go ashore for a bite to eat.

It’s just that the old hands might not be sure now who’s in charge, you or me, Simpson continued. Especially since you’re having to make decisions right away, they should know who their captain is.

All right, Mr. Simpson, muster the men.

They should be given a chance to get dressed proper, sir. Can you give them half an hour?

Worries about dress aboard this rusty wreck seemed surrealistic to Syl, but he said, All right. While the men are getting ready, I’d like to talk to all the officers in the wardroom.

Right away, sir.

The four officers of the Y-18 crowded the little wardroom. Buller sat with his elbows on the table, his massive body filling one bench. Syl felt more the actor than ever as he sat down at the head of the table and began.

Gentlemen, it looks like we’ve got quite a job to do, he said with a smile. "I think we should start by learning a little about each other. My name’s Syl Grant. I got my training in the ROTC course at Columbia College just before the war. All my life I’ve fooled around small boats and I transferred from the navy to the Coast Guard because I figured the Coast Guard would give me a better chance to serve aboard small ships. I didn’t