The Exploration of Shades

By Johnn Sardt Choir

The setting is 1983 in the province of Dalampasigan Langit, Republic of the Philippines. Adrift in the world for more than twenty years, Parker has come to see himself as a Byronic "Childe Harold," a spiritual exile. After he is cashiered from the Navy because of a security incident, he stays on in the Philippines. He soon discovers that his adopted home is a country of cabals and secret societies; coup d’état, insurgents and terrorists; Christians, Muslims, and Shamans. It is a country controlled by oligarchies of wealthy families and the military. Maria's idealistic uncle, Colonel Fortunato de la Cruz, is sickened by the corruption he sees. The assassination of a populist political activist becomes a catalyst for action. When Fortunato joins the Maoist New People's Army, he is joined by his niece, Maria, and the Belgian Catholic Dominican priest Petrus Bleecker. Now they want Parker to steal weapons from the U. S. armory and deliver them to the Maoist rebels. Now it is Parker's choice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Johnn Sardt Choir
• Release date: Dec 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370652907

Johnn Sardt Choir

Johnn Sardt Choir was born in the United States. He served in the United States Navy and has held many different jobs in the private sector.

Book preview

1.

THE Convent

Somewhere in the Visayan Islands, high in the mountains, an unpaved road led to the convent of Our Most Blessed Lady Santa Teresa. An official constabulary armored personnel carrier ground its way through the dust and the heat in a slow ascent. Inside it were the driver, Sergeant Major Marciano Julian, and his passenger, Colonel Efren Ramirez. The two men had been driving for a couple of hours, for the most part in silence. Although it was still early, they were impatient to arrive at their destination. With an irritable frown the colonel turned to the sergeant major.

Sergeant Major, he said in Ilocano, How much further is the convent?

Thirty minutes, sir, the sergeant major said in a monotone and stared impassively at the road ahead.

The colonel sighed and in boredom returned his gaze to survey the passing scenery.

Up ahead near the top of the mountain in the convent, the prioress rose from a position of genuflection and prepared to exit her cell. On two ancient sticks of legs she crept slowly across her cell to the door. Passing out into the hall she walked quietly, the only sounds the slight rustle emanating from her habit and gown. Shafts of early morning sunlight shot through the windows lining the empty arched hallway and fell upon a highly polished tiled floor. She took great pleasure in the quietness, the stillness, and the light. It was the light of God that came through the windows and it made her blood run as if she were years younger. At the end the prioress turned into another hall intersecting from the left and halted at the third cell. She knocked at the door and held her ear close to listen; then, without waiting for a response, she entered the cell.

A nun sat at a table upon which a book lay opened before her. A very small, cast iron, single bed occupied one corner of the twelve by eight foot room. Above it a narrow window set deep into the wall opened into the room. Opposite the bed a crucifix hung over the door. There was a chest of drawers against one wall, too. Otherwise the cell was bare.

Sister Clarita, the prioress said.

A moment passed in silence, after which the nun responded in a hushed voice: Reverend Mother.

They spoke in English, and although her physical characteristics were clearly those of a Filipina, the voice in which Sister Clarita had answered bore the pure oxford accent of a native English woman.

Come to choir, with me, the prioress said and turned on the two sticks of her legs and shuffled slowly out. Sister Clarita rose and followed the prioress in silence. Outside the sister’s cell they continued slowly down the hall and at the end entered a small chapel. Here a number of genuflecting nuns prayed in silence. Soon after the Prioress and Sister Clarita entered the chapel and took their places the nuns stood. In unison, they began to chant the litany of the divine hour of Terce: God come to my assistance with the Glory to the father. As it was in the beginning... In choir, the nuns continued the liturgy. A hymn was sung, the psalmody, a reading from Paul, a verse. Finally, the hour of Terce concluded with a prayer and acclamation: Let us praise the Lord. And give him thanks.

The nuns rose together and filed out of the chapel. A murmur of many languages, hushed yet clearly audible, rose like a pent exhalation as the nuns filed out speaking among themselves in low voices. The Prioress turned to Maria.

You will come to the grill this morning, she said.

Yes, Reverend Mother.

I will come for you when it is time.

The suspiration of sound, exhausted, faded, then ceased as the nuns dispersed throughout the convent. At Sister Clarita’s cell, they stopped and the nun entered and turned around to face the Prioress, hesitating. The Prioress remained standing in the doorway and gazed at the young nun in silence. The ancient, wizened features of her face hung peacefully upon a fine bone structure, in which were set two brilliant, brown, windows of eyes, through which she looked upon this world as if she existed already beyond the stream of time, contemplating eternal bliss. Everything in her demeanor expressed the complete absence of haste.

They will be here soon, she said. Stay here until I call for you. There is no need to go to your work this morning. You would only suffer the aggravation of an interruption. And it would needlessly disturb the work of the others.

As you say, Reverend Mother, Sister Clarita answered. She hesitated for an instant, then added, —although I do not think it would be so great a disturbance as all that.

The Prioress paused in turning and looked back in bemusement at the young nun. Caught in that penetrating gaze, Sister Clarita raised her chin slightly and stared back. A moment passed. Then she lowered her head and averted her gaze, ashamed of her impertinence. The Prioress squinted a little, looking deeply into the smooth, youthful face, as if searching for something in a failing light. Her lips parted as if to speak, then, abruptly, as if she had found what she were looking for, she pressed them firmly together. Without speaking she turned and continued slowly out of the room. As the door closed, Sister Clarita bowed her head once again above the opened book on the table.

Stiffly, the Prioress made her way through the palpable silence in the corridors. The slightest noise upon that background of quiet became magnified a thousand fold. The hollow click of a door and then the swishing rustle of garments sounded clearly. The Prioress felt a hand upon her arm. She continued on without looking at the diminutive figure that stationed itself in attendance beside her.

Reverend Mother, this figure whispered in Tagalog and looked sternly at the Prioress. It is a long way for you to walk to chapel. You should save your energy.

Without turning to look at her attendant, the Prioress said, Sister Erita, it is not far. I am old and I walk slowly; yet, I do not need you to go beside me.

The figure sighed, but continued to walk slowly along beside the old woman.

As quickly as she had spoken, however, the ancient Prioress repented her words. After all, the way of perfection requires humility above all else. By responding so peremptorily to her attendant’s desire to help her, she may be standing in the way of the younger nun’s achieving for herself that humility before God which is the key to the holy life. Without that, all else is impossible. Yet, the Prioress continued in this vein of reasoning, had she offered her attendant, by the necessity of waiting upon her in the face of her ingratitude, the opportunity to achieve an even greater humbleness? To draw even closer yet to the Lord? The Prioress sidestepped this quandary with the expertise gained through many years of practice. Leaning her head to the side in a conciliatory, patronizing manner, she said to the nun, If it brings you closer to God, and makes you humble, you may follow in attendance. But do not let it interfere with your normal duties, and thereby halted the further pursuit of an endless thread of tortuous reasoning.

The mortification of all flesh is the exaltation of the spirit. The walls of the convent are like the tomb. Inside them the living strive to cohabit with the dead. Only someone—says the great Santa Teresa of Avila—who realizes that they hold some earnest of the joys of the next world will succeed in thoroughly abhorring and completely detaching themselves from the things of this one. In the dwindling numbers of the cloistered Carmelites the ancient rule of Saint Albert continues to this day to order the things of this world to the end of escaping it. Here the fervent strive not to hope to emulate the life of Teresa of Avila: that one who above all was favored in this world to cross over and achieve the sensate and—by her own account—sensual, experience of that other. Such special powers the Lord grants only to those he chooses for his divine purpose. The yearning to reach these higher levels of rapture is in vain. Each must strive to be satisfied to enter only that interior mansion to which the Lord has given them the keys. It is not necessary to one’s salvation to reach a certain level. The Lord has a special design for each living soul, and through the contemplative life, and continual prayer, he permits each to draw as near to him as it suits his divine plan. So to this day do the Discalced Carmelites strive to subsist.

Later that morning, in the antechamber to the convent, a colonel of the Philippine Constabulary spoke to the Prioress through a heavy iron grill.

Yes, Sister, he said in English, his head bowed. They have sent me once again to inquire of Maria de la Cruz concerning her uncle. It is official business. Otherwise, I would never approach the convent to speak of such things. We have not found him. He is still missing.

Father Dalaque informed me that the authorities would come today to question Sister Teresa Clarita of the Cross, the Prioress said calmly. I have no choice but to comply with your request. I will call her to come to the grill. You may pull up a chair, if you wish.

Thank you, Sister, the colonel said.

The Prioress turned away from the grill. The diminutive Sister Erita came forward from the back of the dimly lit room, where she had remained standing unnoticed beside the door when they had entered earlier. Now she took the frail arm of the Prioress in hers.

I will go myself, the Prioress said with a motion to brush off her attendant. When this failed she halted and turned to face Sister Erita. Please. I must go alone. I do not need your help. Please. Sister Erita, her forehead creased with hurt and worry, stopped and watched the Prioress as she disappeared through the opening,

Some time later, after a slow traversal of the corridors of the convent, the Prioress entered the cell of Sister Clarita.

He has come, she said. Looking up, Sister Clarita rose from the table from which she seemed not to have stirred since earlier that morning when the Prioress had left her. Colonel Ramirez is at the grill. He wishes to ask you questions about your uncle.

Yes, the nun said pensively, keeping her face averted from the Prioress. Of course, I know what it is that they wish to ask me, Reverend Mother. The same as before.

The Reverend Mother looked kindly at the young nun. They can do nothing.

Nothing matters to them, the nun said. If they want, they will even violate the sanctuary.

Impossible.

Sister Clarita glanced at the Prioress, and then looked again to the side. In her agitated state of mind she found it impossible to hold her gaze. Even here, she said with desperation in her voice, even here, I can not be free. Let us go, Reverend Mother.

The two nuns went together to the antechamber. Like a pair of inanimate crows they seemed to glide through the frozen silence on a cushion of air inches above the floor, the slight rustling of their gowns the only sound in the quiet corridors of the convent. They met not a single living soul along the way, and neither were there discernable any signs of human activity coming in from the outside through the opened windows. They passed the Prioress’s cell and turned down another corridor and then another before coming finally to a halt in a small, dimly lit room with no windows, the same from which the Prioress had just come. At the other end of this room was another doorway, the only opening other than that through which they had just passed. This other doorway was covered entirely by the heavy iron grill. A man was sitting on the other side of the grill. As they entered, he rose to his feet. The Prioress stepped aside, motioning for Sister Clarita to go to the grill, and then sat down in a chair placed against the back wall. Sister Erita, who had materialized suddenly from nowhere, or, perhaps, had been there all along following like a shadow through the empty corridors of the convent, moved quietly to her side. Sister Clarita approached the grill.

You want to see me, she said.

Sister— Colonel Ramirez said hesitantly. Sister, please. You are Maria Parker, formerly Maria de la Cruz?

‘Why do you keep up this preposterous charade? Sister Clarita said. Do not be ridiculous, Colonel Ramirez. " My answer is the same as when I spoke to you last. That was my name. It is no more.

Ah, yes, Sister, the colonel said, smiling apologetically. I have been ordered to ask you some questions. For the record. It is, to a great extent, only a formality. I must ask you even the obvious. For the record. Colonel Ramirez looked at her as if waiting for an answer. She nodded her head and sank into a chair placed there for that purpose. Colonel Ramirez sat down on his side of the grill and took out a small black notebook, which he opened and held on his knee.

The last time, he began resolutely, referring to the little notebook, under questioning, you refused to provide information concerning your uncle, Lieutenant Colonel Fortunato de la Cruz. In the light of the new information, he said, and paused, looking into her eyes for an instant before lowering them again to the little book and continuing, which I am certain that you have now in your possession, I must ask you if you wish to recant, or change in any way, your previous statement. The colonel looked up and studied the face of the nun.

This new information of which you speak—it is not in my possession, Colonel.

Then, Sister, you know nothing of the circumstances surrounding the shipwreck?

Sister Clarita shook her head. No. I know nothing more than what I told you before.

For a moment Colonel Ramirez stared impassively at the nun. Then he looked at the notebook. You have not heard, then, he said, still looking at the notebook, of the circumstances and events surrounding your husband’s death? The colonel looked at the nun and in his eyes there was disbelief. Maria, it has been in all of the papers, he pleaded dispassionately.

Colonel, other than our savior Jesus Christ, I have no husband.

Sister, please. You have been only a short time in the convent, the colonel said. A matter of months only. In so short a time you can not have relinquished the memory of your husband.

Sister Clarita made a vague gesture, as if to indicate that in either case, to her the question could be of no consequence.

We have the statements of survivors that an American was on the barge at the time of its sinking. He fits the description. And the events related by other witnesses match the known actions and locality of your husband. We are certain that it must be him.

I know nothing of which you speak, Sister Clarita said firmly. We read no newspapers here. We serve only the Lord.

The colonel sighed and stared at the floor. A moment of silence passed.

Then you will not cooperate, he said without looking up. He closed the little notebook with finality. He looked up at the nun.

Colonel, I have cooperated fully with the authorities. This is not news that you have told me. What is this new information that you have found? His body? It could be of no consequence to me now, since I am dead to that world. Even if he were to appear before me today, alive, I am espoused eternally to another. You should not be surprised that one in the cloister has not read the latest news report. You have come a long way to inform me of the contents of the latest newspaper, Colonel Baby Ramirez. You have come for nothing.

Colonel Ramirez stood. Unfortunately, Sister, he said with regretful firmness and looked directly into her eyes, I may have occasion to make the trip again. When we confirm the death of Fortunato de la Cruz. When the results of our interrogations of suspects have revealed additional, pertinent information. There may be further questions to ask of you at that time. He paused for an instant and averted his eyes to the ceiling, as if to consider the likelihood of this occurrence. No, he said slowly, examining the ceiling, No, I am certain that there will be. He looked back at the nun with a countenance expressive of disappointment. I will see you again, Maria de la Cruz. But the next time, perhaps, we will send the sergeant major to bring you to see me. With an officious nod of the head to the nun, and then another to the Prioress behind, he said shortly, Goodbye Sisters, and turning abruptly on his heel, he strode from the room.

Outside, Sergeant Major Julian leaned against the personnel carrier, smoking. When he saw the colonel come out, he quickly extinguished his cigarette and drew himself erect. Without speaking the colonel strode past and climbed inside the vehicle. The sergeant major followed. Inside, the sergeant major paused, his hand on the keys hanging from the ignition. He turned to the colonel.

She is still very beautiful? he said seriously.

The colonel, to whose military mind the events which had just transpired represented the frustration of yet another unsuccessful, if impossible, mission, pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, giving the sergeant major’s question his full critical attention. Yes, he said, gazing thoughtfully out the windshield. Yes, yes. She is very beautiful. Then, the vision of her before him stirred his blood and his face assumed a look of predatory sensuality. Beneath that habit, he said, seething with slow contempt. He laughed harshly. Ha! More beautiful than before. I would like to get beneath that habit. We could do much with these nuns!

Pleased to see that he had raised the colonel’s spirits, Sergeant Major Julian laughed, restrainedly, and cranked the engine. The personnel carrier started back down the mountain.

2.

Shipwreck

The flagship U.S.S. Lookout Mountain nosed slowly along a dark thread in the Mindanao Sea. At the starboard railing members of the crew gazed down into the water. Somehow, the string still clung together after surviving the violence of the typhoon, as if the broken pieces of wood and other flotsam had been strung on a long cord like a necklace and then flung out to sea to stretch its full wavering length in the channel. Amid the debris were scattered the wooden slats of crates, some of them impressed with a trademark red horse’s head. Upon the rolling seas the horse heads tossed about as if animate.

Clustered at the bow, a group of officers and chiefs studied the water intently. From time to time one or the other of them pointed below to something in the water, or raised his head to look further away, ahead or astern of the ship, where the debris stretched out into the distance. One of the officers, his foot resting on the lower rung of the side railing, pointed to a bright orange object several hundred yards away and spoke to the others. All looked up at once and shuffled briefly about as they strained to get a better view, shading their eyes and talking back and forth amongst themselves.

To this group a short, thickset officer with coarse brown hair and a carefully trimmed mustache now approached. He was, perhaps, thirty-five years of age. Having ascertained the object of the group’s interest, he stopped short of the railing and addressed them generally:

Another life preserver. We’ve seen a lot of those. He paused for a moment before adding in a sort of mutter, No more survivors.

How many we picked up so far, Bob? a tall, thin commander with long angular arms asked. He had turned around and was standing with folded arms. He leaned a long, curvilinear spine against the railing.

Five living, three deceased, so far. Captain’s deceased. They say there were nineteen of them.

A young ensign, standing to the side and watching intently the faces of the others, spoke up: I heard the sharks were after some of them, he said eagerly.

The others looked curiously at Lieutenant Commander Bob Pettigrew for validation of this remark.

Yeah. He’s right. Sharks got to one of them, he said, scanning the sea. He paused here for a moment, as if distracted, then, turning away, he muttered: Been up for two days now...had to identify the corpses...hate that.

The others turned back to the sea, resuming their posts with the vigilance of a group of watch standers pulling duty on the bow.

Pettigrew headed aft gazing absently over the expanse of primary blue water. It was sunny in the early morning, and the atmosphere perfectly translucent in the aftermath of the storm. He went on back aft, towards the conning tower amidships. On the after deck he approached a dozen or so enlisted men, the helicopter recovery crew, lounging about as they awaited the return of the aircraft. In the bright sunlight the men sat, stood, and lay casually about the deck in various attitudes of repose. Two of them wore metallic silver, fireproof suits, suggesting that they were aliens from another world. They had removed their hoods, which lay on the deck near at hand. As Pettigrew approached the control tower, three or four of them, smoking cigarettes, laughed and cursed as a puffy eyed youth concluded a scurrilous narrative of some sort. A few lowered their voices a little and nodded as the officer approached and passed among them. One of them, an aviation bosun’s mate second class, observed this submissive reaction with disdainful contempt. He raised his head and thrust it forth, snake-like, at the end of a scrawny neck, and with a sneer talked all the louder. Oblivious to his bold effrontery, Pettigrew went on through the hatch at the foot of the tower. The second class watched the hatch close behind him and then turned to his shipmates.

He ain't gonna do nothing, he said, preening with a scornful laugh. I ain't skeered. What're you worried about?

Inside the tower Pettigrew climbed down a ladder immediately inside to the second deck berthing area. At the foot of the ladder he went through another hatch and stepped out into the steady yellow light of a deserted passageway. The berthing area was empty. Here, despite the warm waters at the equator, the ship’s air conditioning still worked well, and it was cool after the fierce heat that radiated from the steel deck above. He moved along the short transverse passageway to the port side and turned left into another, this one long and running the length of the berthing area. Doors to the staterooms of the officers punctuated either side. At the far end of the passageway the final door opened and an officer came out. At right angles and adjacent to the opened door, a hatch formed the end of the passageway. He punched a cipher lock beside the hatch and disappeared inside. Pettigrew continued on, his brain having registered neither the click of the opening cipher lock nor the receding khaki image as it vanished through the hatch. The passageway was again deserted. He hurried now, taking short, quick steps between the white bulkheads. The small taps the heels of his shoes made upon the blue-tiled deck were barely audible above the background rumble of the ventilation system. He turned to starboard into another transverse passageway and a few steps later down another running along the ship’s centerline. Midway down it he stopped. At the end, through the opened hatch and door off the passageway beyond, he could see the legal journeyman hunched over his desk, working. For a moment he paused, then inserted his key and entered.

Inside the stateroom uniforms, laundry, several pairs of shoes, and other personal items lay scattered about in disarray. There were upper and lower bunks against the bulkhead opposite the door. In the lower a heavy blanket and other bedclothes lay crumpled. The upper held only a bare mattress. They had kept him awake, up and on his feet, for about 48 hours now. Not so bad. He'd done worse. He took off the clothes he had been wearing for two days now and stood beneath the ventilation outlet in the overhead. Closing his eyes, he let the cold air fall over him. After a while, he began to move about in the small compartment. He picked up the dirty uniforms and put them in a mesh laundry bag, which hung in a locker against the bulkhead. He continued moving about, picking up and straightening the stateroom, squaring things away. In one corner was a desk. A small safe bordered one side of the desktop and several drawers rose above it towards the ceiling, leaving a recessed hole beneath. Scattered papers and other debris littered the writing surface, in the middle of which three books lay on their sides. He sat down and switched on the overhead lamp inside the recess. Absent-mindedly he began to organize the various items. He took the papers and placed them carefully in a drawer. Then he took the three books and inserted them beside three others held by a brass bookend at the back of the recessed hole.

Then he stopped. He put his hands on his knees and sat there for a moment, his mind drained of all thought. Impulsively, he took one of the books and opened it to the table of contents. He read at the top of the page. ‘A Critique of Pure Reason.’ He returned the book to its place and wearily rubbed his eyes. Finally, he switched off the desk lamp and overhead light, lay back in the bunk, and closed his eyes.

They continued their search for survivors throughout the day. To the south the coastline of Mindanao erupted skyward in an unbroken ribbon of mountains, sheer, massive, green and lovely in the sunlight beside the blue water. The lumbering flagship nosed clumsily up and down the tenuous black thread of debris and weaved back and forth in the Mindanao Sea.

On the bridge Captain Grant leaned over a chart upon which the islands were depicted like so many pieces of a broken plate scattered before him. The Officer of the Deck Underway stood a few feet away barking orders into the intercom. Commander Brackwater, the ship’s executive officer, came onto the bridge and approached the captain. He was fair and of medium height, medium build, average in every way, yet exuding an air of confident, conscientious competency. Even though it had been many years since he had graduated from the Naval Academy, he maintained a youthful demeanor, punctuated by a face the skin of which was pink and fresh. He went about his business with an air of optimism and officer-like striving for perfection in all things.

Bob Pettigrew made the identification, Skipper.

Pettigrew? the captain looked up from the chart, incredulous.

Looks like they’re from a whole bunch of different ones of these little bitty islands. May have been an American on board too.

Pettigrew, you say? the captain exclaimed, stamping the deck nervously with a tremendous black-shoed foot. Then, impatiently, How the hell can Pettigrew identify a bunch of Filipinos he’s neither seen nor heard of ever before in his life?

Personal effects, Sir. Looked through their pockets. Wallets and things, viewed the corpses, interrogated the survivors-

Grant snorted scornfully. I guess we have to find all of that information out and provide it to the local yahoos.

Yes Sir. Brackwater continued: Captain’s dead. Seems there were nineteen crew. Rest probably drowned. Or the sharks got ‘em.

So you’ve identified the corpses based on what they told you, and on what they had in their pockets?

No, Brackwater said, closing his eyes and shaking his head with calm patience That is not what I said. Not me. Bob.

Bob identified them. The captain looked at the Executive Officer, digesting this piece of information. After a moment, he frowned and turned back to the chart. And Bob interrogated the survivors, he continued, scrutinizing the chart and tracing with a single long forefinger an imaginary track across the area depicting the Bohol strait. He was silent for a moment, studying the chart, then the long finger halted, poised above a tiny speck of island. He tapped the speck decisively with the long finger and looked up.

What about the American? he asked staring directly into Brackwater’s eyes, the finger still on the speck of land.

Yes, Sir. The Executive Officer paused for a moment, looking to the side and gathering his thoughts before proceeding. Well, actually, several people were involved, but Pettigrew more so than the others. I let him kind of lead the thing you know. Don’t know about the American. Something one of them said, I think. I wouldn't call it an interrogation that Bob did.

Grant thoughtfully tapped the finger again on the chart, this time on the somewhat more substantial sliver of island that was Cebu, and turned around to face the bow of the ship, considering. He went over to the continuous bar of Plexiglas windows that stretched across the face of the bridge and around its sides and looked out over the sea. The weather was holding clear with great blotches of white clouds scattered sparsely about the sky, their shadows moving here and there about the ocean, now and again casting the ship in sudden shade, which then disappeared in a flood of sunlight as abruptly as it had come. On the deck below various officers and crew stood at the rails or walked about examining the seas. Apparently the group who earlier had stood on the bow had dissipated, returning to their work below, and a new group, whose mix of khaki and blue uniforms reflected a proportion of officer and enlisted nearly equal to that of the previous one, had replaced it as if through osmosis.

The captain stooped a little, and his spine curved slightly at the shoulders. He was tall, a good six feet five inches. This slight curvature of the spine he carried with him always, perhaps as a consequence of a subconscious desire on his part through continual stooping to accommodate this world of small people and structures into which he had been thrust with a seeming lack of foresight. Not a bookish man, he was possessed of that hard and practical engineering education, the purpose of which was the dealing of death and destruction to the enemy through the manipulation of technology. Notwithstanding his technical background, he was fascinated by the vagaries of history and the impetus given historical events by famous men and leaders. He had a love for the well-turned phrase, which he often misquoted. Thus, he sprinkled his conversation and addressed the crew over the ship’s intercom with quotes from the classics and historical examples. When he wished to drive home to the crew a particular point, he would cite routinely to them no less of an authority than Julius Caesar or Lord Nelson. At captain’s mast he was fair, but could be hard if he had to. He was a good captain, one who took to heart as if it were his own the welfare of his men. And the crew responded openly with admiration.

Given the choice, Captain Grant would have preferred command of a different ship, a more operational ship. He would go in harm’s way and attack the enemy, as every naval officer worthy of the appellation so ardently desired. His clumsy vessel, however, the U.S.S. Lookout Mountain, was a command and control ship whose function it was to carry fleet commanders—with their accompanying staffs—to the areas of action where she would be protected by the aircraft carrier battle groups. Her puny guns and other minimal armament served as little more than tokens of force, and her single helicopter was used to shuttle ingloriously admirals and generals about from place to place rather than to attack the enemy.

The planners and programmers in Washington had decided to build this class of ship to meet the landing force requirements for a platform from which to direct amphibious operations. Unless a war or other disturbance happened to be in effect, the Lookout Mountain would execute a little-varying routine which could be very boring. Several times a year the task force admiral and Marine Corps general, in company with multitudinous staffs, would embark the ship to direct exercises with the many small countries with which the United States had relations. During the remainder of the year, the ship sat idle. Her idleness, failing to escape the notice of the senior fleet commander, who was based on shore, elicited from that personage the exercise of the prerogative of his greater rank to move his staff aboard the roomy ship and raise his flag above it, claiming it permanently as his own. Thenceforth, for the exercises, the Lookout Mountain would embark its former owners as guests. After the exercise, normally no more than a couple of week's duration, the ship would drop them off on shore without ceremony. For the rest of the time her mission was to show the flag, to maintain a fleet presence in the far east; and she would cruise from port to port in the execution of this task—the Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia, Australia, and so on.

With so many stars on board his ship it was often difficult for Captain Grant to feel in command. True, any major command, battleship or otherwise, embarks flag officers for deployments, but the skipper of a battleship has armament and mission to keep him occupied. On the Lookout Mountain, however, no matter how he tried to avoid it, his primary concerns seemed to gravitate to providing for the comfort of his high-ranking passengers. While the occasional exercises at least gave him the opportunity to operate like a true navy ship, the necessity at the end to revert to a sort of pleasure cruise ship inevitably spoiled the incomparable feeling, the aura so to speak, of command at sea. Then, laundry and the conditions of the officers’ staterooms became matters of the utmost importance.

Commander Brackwater, Captain Grant said and turned to face his Executive Officer, who was standing loosely at his side. Tell Lieutenant Giotto I want a report on the conditions of the survivors. Immediately. And get Pettigrew up here too. I want to get the hell out of here as soon as we’ve done all we can. I’ll be in my stateroom.

Yes Sir, Brackwater responded crisply and turned to the Petty Officer of the Watch, who stood behind them.

Call the doc and Lieutenant Commander Pettigrew and have them report to the captain’s stateroom, immediately.

Grant departed the bridge and disappeared down the ladder to his stateroom, three decks below.

A quarter of an hour later he was at his desk when Pettigrew knocked on the cabin door. Pettigrew entered the cabin, his face pinched a bit yet around the eyes from being woken. The stark lighting lent to his whole appearance a cadaverous effect at once startling and theatrical. His khaki uniform was twisted and wrinkled, and the soft putty of his face had acquired a hint of a ghastly pale, greenish-yellow hue. He stood before the captain at his desk and clasped his hands behind his back as if for support.

You look like shit.

Yes Sir, Pettigrew smiled weakly. He shifted his weight uneasily on his feet, which he had intentionally placed wide apart on the carpet in front of the captain’s desk.

What’s your assessment of the situation? I want to get on and get out of here if we don’t think there’s any more survivors.

Nineteen of them in all, he said, and his voice seemed strangely detached from his person, confident and sane, as if it were another in the room who was briefing the captain and he only a spectator. All together in the water at first, he went on, but then they got separated and lost track of each other. Don’t expect there’ll be anymore. May find another corpse or two.

What about this American?

One of them was babbling—Barker or Parker—something like that. Had something to do with the barge. Others got all bent out of shape and went off at him in Tagalog when they heard him mention the American’s name—if he even was an American, that is. Did gather he wasn’t on board though. Wouldn’t worry about him, whoever he is.

Hm, Grant said, sitting back in his chair and leaning over on one elbow. He extended a large hand to support his face and lay a lengthy forefinger thoughtfully against a corner of the eye. Leaves twelve unaccounted for.

Yes Sir, Pettigrew took his hands from behind his back and scratched his elbow. It was unusual though—one thing was. Grant looked at him. Pettigrew scratched the elbow for a half a minute in silence, looking up quizzically at a corner of the room as he gathered his thoughts.

Well? Are you going to tell me what it is? Or should I just savor the suspense?

Just that— he faltered, then quickly recovered, dropped the arm, and went on. Why didn’t they just swim to shore? Maybe the water was so rough last night they were doing well enough just to keep air in their lungs and their body parts attached and out of some shark’s stomach. That is possible. But today they had plenty of opportunity to swim back to shore.

Maybe they couldn’t swim. Weren’t they hanging onto boards and stuff?

Pettigrew shrugged his shoulders. Maybe. But I’ll be damned if I would float around out there with sharks rubbing up against my legs and nuzzling my cheek, just to get a good suntan.

At that moment there sounded a knock on the door and, without waiting for an answer, the doc strode into the room. In deference, possibly, to medical standards of sanitation while underway, this individual had cut his hair so short that all that remained upon the top of his head was a coal black stubble. Below this, though clean-shaven, a thick, black beard cast in perpetual shadow a pair of fleshy jowls. Nodding at Pettigrew, his brow creased slightly above a pair of black eyes, and his visage assumed a more or less permanent, glowering scowl. He leaned his weight forward on his feet, slightly, and, arching interrogatively a pair of black eyebrows, looked at the captain.

Afternoon, Sir, he said, after a moment of silence that was held just long enough to cross that threshold of social comfort into awkwardness.

Grant’s blue eyes rolled up like two grapes on a slot machine to meet the other’s. He waited an instant, as if expecting the lieutenant to speak. A moment passed, and then he spoke in the routine voice of command.

Afternoon. I need to know the condition of the survivors; what kind of medical treatment will they require ashore. I’m getting the hell out of here tonight and will have to take into account what kind of facilities they have wherever it is that we finally drop them off at.

Not too bad, the doctor said officiously. Dehydrated, some hypothermia. Can’t just release them on their own, though. They will need professional medical care. Somebody at the drop off point with an ambulance, trained medical attendants. Don’t expect any serious effects. After something like this—maybe twenty per cent would require some minor follow-on treatment.

So, we do have to have an ambulance at the drop off point. Tell OPS to include that in the next outgoing message. Say that we need an ambulance at the drop-off and that the survivors will require some medical attention, though not extensive. Looks like now the best option is Leyte. Got an airstrip there of some sort. It’s on the map, anyway. Have to get the helo detachment up here too, I guess, to deal with that. That’s not your problem though. You talk to them much?

Not much, said the doctor. One seems to be riding herd over the rest. Every time they start to say something this one goes off in Tagalog.

Grant snorted. Well, we’ll finish out the day to see if there’s anymore of them out there, but I’m getting the hell out at dark. We’ll have to find some place to drop them off at. Maybe we can fly them off in the helo, I don’t know. We’ve asked the embassy what to do. Don’t suppose any of them would be much help with that would they?

The doctor looked at Pettigrew. A thin layer of oily sweat accentuated the pallor of the skin on Pettigrew’s pudgy face. The survivors you mean? Pettigrew asked, startled from a vacant reverie by the sudden attention of the other two men.

The captain sighed and shook his head.

No, we mean all of those hound dogs we got back aft in the hold. What the hell do you think we’re talking about? Pay attention, commander! I said, do you think the embassy could help us out with this?

Don’t know. Maybe. That barge came from Cebu city. We know that much. Making a run with twenty-eight thousand cases of Red Horse over to Mindanao—Cagayan de Oro.

The captain grunted, then said decisively: Find out. See where they want to go back to. And Doc, get that about the medical stuff in the message out. If one isn’t going out soon, draft one up to send. That’s all, thank you. Keep me posted, gentlemen.

3.

Survivors

They were in the sick bay, seven of them, sitting up on the edges of the beds, which had been let down and unfolded from where they were secured to the bulkhead. They were wearing brand new U. S. Navy dungarees and work shirts provided by the ship's store. Intravenous tubes ran out of the arms of three of them and connected to jars of clear fluid attached to the framework of their beds. Like a pack of captured, wild animals, they tensed when Pettigrew walked into the compartment. Seven pairs of glittering black opal beads darted furtively to examine the officer.

The barrios [1] out of which they had come, deep in the mountains of Cebu or Luzon or Mindanao or Sequijor, or lost among the vast reaches of sugarcane fields on Negros, lacked everyday appliances and modern medical technology or even doctors near enough to set a broken leg. Some of them had learned a little of such things from the television, which they watched religiously on those rare opportunities afforded to them. Most, however, had not even the doubtful advantage of exposure to that ubiquitous information source; and those who were exposed to it were even worse off, perhaps, than those who were not, since the bizarre police shows and mindless situation comedies about bourgeois American family life did nothing to allay their fears and suspicions now, but served rather even to increase their alarm.

Pettigrew came over and sat down in a chair against the bulkhead in front of a diminutive dark figure on one of the beds. The little man grimaced under his gaze, and the black beads ricocheted crazily about the room nine or ten times—from wall to ceiling to floor—returned to his face two or three times, and finally came to rest at a point on the wall a couple of feet to the right of the officer’s head, but keeping him within his peripheral vision. He was one of those who didn’t have an intravenous tube. Nervously, he took from the pocket of the work shirt a pack of American cigarettes, also from the ship's store paid for by Pettigrew. He pulled one out, attached it to his lower lip, and fumbled clumsily with the matches. After lighting the cigarette he returned his gaze to the point on the wall. Pettigrew sat quietly for a moment, then he spoke.

How are you doing, Corrie? he asked.

The dark little man’s eyes flicked for an instant to the officer’s face and he bobbed his head once.

Good, he said.

When he spoke one of the others stood up behind him. Dark and muscular and unlike the others, this one had eyes as hard, brittle and lifeless in his brown face as two pieces of coal inlaid in a worn piece of mahogany. The tube to the jar on the wall ran down his arm and hung in a loop over the floor. He wore it naturally, as if it were an article of fashionable clothing.

Sigarilyo, he said, speaking Hiligaynon, the language of Negros.

The little man shook another cigarette from the pack and leaned back and reached across the bed to hand it diffidently to the other behind him. The one standing up took the cigarette and the matches, rolling the cigarette to reform the tobacco. He remained standing, watching the other two, cautious, attentive, rolling the cigarette and smoothing its sides between three brown fingers and a thumb.

We’re going to fly you off. Maybe this evening, Pettigrew said, looking from one to the other as if to include the one standing in the conversation.

The effect of these words upon their recipient was no less violent than a slap across the face. His head snapped around and he riveted his eyes upon Pettigrew’s face. For an instant a look of astonishment transformed the weak visage into a semblance of shocked understanding. Then, just as suddenly, as if someone had lowered a shade behind the eyes, the face went blank. Pettigrew leaned forward a little, placing the palms of both hands on the tops of his knees. For a few seconds longer the face held there, blank and now not seeing Pettigrew even though the eyes still gazed emptily into his. From their beds the others looked on with mute interest. Then the little man cast a glance behind at the standing one, who had cocked his head attentively, a little to one side as if the better to hear. He exhaled, blowing across the room a cloud of blue smoke.

We’re looking for a place where they have a hospital or clinic, Pettigrew said. Somewhere they can take care of you for a while. You want to go back to Cebu, I guess.

Cebu city? Corrie said with a gasp as if returning to life. The intonation trailed off at the end, inaudible, like the final, gasping expiration of a collapsing balloon. He dropped his eyes to the deck, and the creases and whorls in his face twisted and swirled into waves of anxiety. Suddenly, a burst of Hiligaynon erupted from behind him. Corrie twisted around and made a brief, furtive reply, in Tagalog, then twisted back to Pettigrew.

Is that where you would like to go back to? Pettigrew asked.

No..

The answer, however, had come not from Corrie but the other. Pettigrew looked up. This one stared back, baleful, insouciant, fearless, the clear tube running out of his arm and over to the bottle on the white bulkhead. A mole, as it were, who had feigned a lack of English.

No. We will not return to Cebu city, this one repeated firmly.

Good. We don’t want to take you to Cebu anyway. The most likely place with an airstrip is Leyte. That appears to be best for us anyhow.

Corrie had twisted around now on the bed so as to keep at once both Pettigrew and the man behind him in his field of view. He exchanged several words in Tagalog with this one, who scowled and responded patiently. After this exchange was finished, the one standing looked at Pettigrew and with a condescending smile, spoke in English:

No. Not Cebu city. Leyte. We will go to Leyte.

The others, a silent chorus until now, grinned and became suddenly very animated. Many mutterings of that island’s name fluttered up into the air like a flushed covey of sparrows, and the men bobbed their several heads with approval, repeating it over and over again in cacophonous unison as if it were some primitive magical charm. After a moment the flurry settled, and this chorus fell silent once again.

Well, Pettigrew said. I guess that makes it pretty clear then why you didn’t want to swim back to shore. I guess anybody would rather wait it out in the strait with the sharks before they’d go back to Cebu.

He looked from one of the survivors to the other. Over in the corner, across the compartment and behind the beds, a second class medical corpsman was leaning back idly in his chair against the bulkhead and listening without interest to the conversation. Corrie flicked his eyes uneasily back and forth from the officer’s face to the side. The standing one looked on with suspicion, understanding the words, yet unsure of their exact meaning, since they were spoken in that third language of sarcasm and irony which was evident in Pettigrew’s tone. Everyone was silent.

After a moment Pettigrew spoke again: Must be a hell of a place. Take your chances with sharks rather than go back to it. The officer looked bluntly, expectantly, into the face of the one standing. The man looked back, calculating.

After enduring another interval of this silence Pettigrew finally gave up. He went on with an air of resignation. Well. I have to ask it then. Why didn’t you just swim back to shore?

The standing one shook his head and folded his arms across his chest, draping the tube across the front of his body. The water was too rough, he said emphatically. Waves came over us. Couldn't swim. Some do not know how. All that we could do was drift. We could not swim to shore. It was too rough, he repeated shaking his head with finality.

Pettigrew looked at them for a moment, his weary brain no longer engaged in the questions. Suddenly he wanted only to be finished with this and return to his stateroom and sleep.

I guess that settles it then, he said slowly, standing up. We’ll try and get you off to Leyte.

The men bobbed their grinning heads at each other again, echoing the name of the island. Pettigrew turned to go out, but then halted as the voice spoke up again behind him.

But the others? The standing one was watching him intently, his smooth, whorled, wooden face inanimate as a figure in a wax museum.

Like an automaton, Pettigrew pivoted slowly back around. Dumbly, he faced the other.

Sorry, he said after a moment. They’re lost. We can’t save them.

Oh, the other said with a nod of the head. He averted his eyes and bit his lip thoughtfully. Corrie twisted about on the bed and whispered something intense in Tagalog. The standing one looked down at him with detached interest, as if he were considering an unusual specimen of insect. Then, he spoke again: The American, he said hesitantly. You wish to find him?

Pettigrew stood just inside the hatch, stopped now from going out to his rest. As he looked on, the face, the head, the coarse black hair and glittering obsidian eyes all seemed to blend, swirl, and mix into the shape of a large question mark, drawn by an invisible hand and vibrating weirdly in the air. Pettigrew spoke:

What American? Was there an American on the barge?

Then, from somewhere behind that surrealistic interrogative, he thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of shadow materializing out of the atmosphere. To his perception the compartment assumed suddenly the qualities of some dim region from a primordial past, and the pack of men before him its primitive, grinning denizens. He blinked his eyes and attempted to concentrate his tired brain as if to catch a phantom, which, dream-like and infuriating, proved more difficult to grasp the greater was his effort to focus upon it. He shivered a bit and