Time Moving West

By Lonnie Coleman

“We measure time from Greenwich, and Greenwich is in England. England is east, so time moves west because the sun moves west, and we measure time by the suns movement.” With the insight of a real writer Lonnie Coleman has utilized his Navy experience to show how the insufferably slow passage of time feeds hates, warms friendships, and makes every mood a major crisis in human relationships.
Every officer and member aboard a ship is an individual within whom a private life smolders like a fire; only the outward calmness of the men and the simple, everyday needs of the ship keep this elemental force in check. But, as soon as the strain of danger or the boredom of inactivity disturbs the accepted equation, the smoldering fire breaks out into a momentary flame of human passion.
In the weird light of that flame human figures become distorted. The calm detachment of the Captain intended to protect the men under him at any cost assumes the specter of weakness and inefficiency. The self-realized inadequacies of the Executive Officer drive him into sadistic outbursts that endanger his own sanity. A young Lieutenant commits suicide. Then, just as suddenly, the flame is under control, passions subside and the immediacy of the ship's needs takes precedence above everything else.
This immediacy is a burden to the men and inwardly they revolt against it. When the ship docks in New York they try to escape it, only to discover that they have lost the capacity to function as individuals and have become a part of a living organism that is the ship.
Lonnie Coleman is a dramatic, creative storyteller who writes with great beauty and his Time Moving West is a fine sea story, a fine character story and a fine piece of writing which should live for a long time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Classica Libris
• Release date: Jun 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9788835840657

Book preview

WEST

Dedication

To Marian Ives

Foreword

From October 1942, until March 1946, I was on active duty in the United States Navy, first as a midshipman and then as a reserve officer. From March until June 1946, I taught English at North Carolina State College where most of my students were veterans. In talks with them I heard many stories of their experiences in the Army, the Navy, the Marine Corps; and I came to realize that whatever the difference in rate, rank, or branch of service, the basic experience was much the same for all of us. This book grew out of the desire to tell a part of that experience. The people in these pages are not copies of real people nor are the happenings, described or mentioned, real, except the obviously historical ones. The ship in this book is a ghost-sister to the one on which I had duty for almost three years. I have used it because it was a physical environment I knew well. But the story and the characters are of my own making and are certainly not intended to portray actual people or events.

BOOK I

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

—Ecclesiastes

Part One

The ship bit down sharply into the sea, and foam flew like arterial blood over the bow. Bits of phosphorus flashed in the water like drowning fireflies.

Someone was calling his name. Half asleep though he was, Wesley Mason knew that. He struggled briefly out of the fog of sleep and propped himself on one elbow. Turn off your flashlight; I’ve got the port open. The flashlight snapped off.

Mr. Mason… you have the next watch.

He recognized the voice. It was a quartermaster he did not like. Strange, he thought, the difference it makes in who wakes you. If it’s someone you dislike, you dislike him all the more for it, and feel that he has invaded some private part of you. What time is it?

Three-thirty, the quartermaster said.

Three-thirty! Wes snarled, glad at having something to be unpleasant about, at being able to take the initiative from the quartermaster. You know damn well I like to be called at three-fifteen.

The quartermaster did not answer, and the officer slid the sheet away. It was moist with sweat. He felt the sweat across his forehead, and his nose was greasy when he tugged at it and sniffed. He snorted and inhaled deeply to get rid of the sleep feeling, wanting to breathe more voluntarily, like a man with will instead of like a sleeping animal whose quivering flesh shows him to be at the mercy of every dream, every lighting fly.

What’s the weather like?

Cool. Seventy-two degrees for the last two hours.

Barometer?

Steady at 29.30.

Wind?

Fifteen knots.

True or relative?

Relative. A head wind.

Wes stood up and lurched across the deck of the cabin, thrown off balance by a sudden roll of the ship. To his sleepy mind this was somehow one more indignity that the quartermaster had inflicted.

Well, go on. Don’t stand there. Go make your other calls.

I’ve already made my other calls, the quartermaster said, and slipped out of the room.

Wes dressed in the dark, so as not to wake his roommate, Lieutenant Howard, who was the gunnery officer and would have to be up soon anyway for morning general quarters. Noise never bothered him, but light did.

On his way to the flying bridge Wes stopped at the wardroom door to tell the sleepily sullen steward’s mate to bring some coffee to the bridge, angry all over again at the quartermaster’s calling him late. He liked to be called at a quarter past the hour. This enabled him to dress unhurriedly, to have coffee and toast in the wardroom, and to wake up leisurely and more completely before assuming the watch.

In the chart room he glanced hurriedly at the Captain’s night orders:

14 July 1943

We are sailing in company with Transdiv 353 on course 272° true, 271° gyro, en route to Oran, Algeria, from Gela, Sicily. We are acting as guide. The Commodore is still in sick bay. Our position is 21. Distance between ships, 750 yards. Interval between columns, 1000 yards. Speed 13 knots, 72 turns. Listen for signals on TBS. Our call is Laughing Boy. Maintain condition two mike able. General quarters one hour before sunrise. See that the radar crew is alert. Call me in case of danger, doubt, or emergency. I will be in the emergency cabin.

K. A. Phillips

Wes initialed the night orders. When he opened the door, the light in the chart room snapped off automatically. Outside on the wing of the navigation bridge it was dark, so dark that at first he could not make out even the stars. He groped his way to the rail like a blind man groping his way down a street he does not know or has forgotten.

The navigation bridge was not used for conning the ship. The old captain had always used the flying bridge, and when he became Commodore of the transport division and Phillips, his executive officer, became Captain of the ship, Phillips did not change things. It was not Phillips’ nature to change things; he let them alone and hoped for the best.

The cold moist rail felt good to his touch. As he stood there letting his eyes get used to the dark (he never used night-adaptation glasses), he gradually began to see things, vague contours of booms and masts and gun tubs, and closer, only a few feet away, the sheeted and sleeping figure of Commander Grant, the executive officer.

The ship, or an aura of it, surrounded him, was a living thing breathing wakefulness into him. He thought of it again as he had thought of it many times before. He was comforted in thinking that ever since the ship had first slid into the water there had been men aboard her awake. It was a warm thought, to know there were always people awake, to know that they were there, a guard against loneliness, that at no time could you be awake and feel that all the world was sleeping.

He was able to make out some of the other ships in the convoy. There was a column on the starboard side and another column on the port side. Nine ships in all, three in each column, besides the screen of four destroyers.

Now that he could see, he turned from the rail and went briskly up the ladder to the flying bridge.

Hello, Fred.

About time.

I’m not late.

It’s almost four o’clock.

Ten till.

Nine till.

Well, why didn’t you have me called on time?

I sent the quartermaster down at three-fifteen.

He didn’t get to me till three-thirty.

He must have gone down to the mess hall. I’ll fix him.

Before you do, what’s going on?

We’re on course 272…

I know. I read the night orders. Anything besides what was there?

No, I don’t think so. We’re zigzagging now.

He didn’t have that in.

He has to forget something. Don’t be hard on the old boy.

What’s the plan?

Plan eleven.

What turn’s coming up?

Fred shaded the red flashlight over the course card and showed him.

Convoy’s keeping pretty good station. All the ships right now are pretty good. One of the destroyers dropped back about two o’clock nosing around, but he’s gone back ahead now.

Okay. I relieve you.

Good night.

Sleep well.

With GQ coming up? Go to hell.

The flying bridge was quiet. Wes raised the binoculars to his eyes and looked around. The columns looked good. He called through the tube to the radar shack: How we doing, kids?

One of the radarmen smirked at the other and answered, Screen looks good, Mr. Mason. Ship astern’s been crowding up a little all night. She hasn’t been no closer than six hundred though. She comes up to about six hundred and then slides back a little.

Wes said, What is she now?

Six-six-oh.

Let me know if she gets closer than six hundred.

Yes sir.

How are the ships on the beam?

One-one and three-one have stayed a steady nine hundred for the last two hours.

They’re hugging us too, eh?

Guess they’re scared, the radarman said.

Keep me checked, Wes said and walked over to the helmsman.

Morning, Mr. Mason.

Hello. How you feel?

Sleepy.

Me too. What are you heading?

Steady on 271, sir.

Good. Who’s the bosun tonight?

Steed, sir, the best there is, said a voice behind him.

Wes faced around. Christ, do I draw you again?

Got me the whole trip, Mr. Mason. You have all the luck. Wes could not see his face clearly, but he knew the smile that was on it.

Well, how would the-best-there-is like to take a turn around the ship and check on the watch.

On my way, sir.

And on your way back, stop in the wardroom and tell the steward’s mate to hurry up with that coffee and toast.

Yes sir. There was a brief pause. How many cups, sir?

Did you and your watch have anything before you came up?

Well, if you can call it that… coffee down in the mess hall’s worse’n vino. Rot out your guts.

Help him bring up enough cups for all of us then. And make lots of toast. I’m hungry.

What about the exec, sir?

What about him? Wes said evenly.

Nothing, sir. Only it got around with the crew that he told you officers you couldn’t give coffee and toast to your watch out of the wardroom.

Well, the exec’s asleep now.

Yes sir. Steed faded through the darkness and slid down the ladder rail on his palms.

Real salty, aren’t you? Wes called after him.

Got it caked in my ears and between my legs.

Wes turned the dim red flashlight on the zigzag clock. The time they lived by: Greenwich time and zone time and zigzag time and… what time is it in New York now, or Arkansas? The clock showed forty-four seconds to go. He snapped the light off and waited. When he snapped it on again, there were twenty seconds to go. He snapped it off. The next time he looked it was three seconds to go. He held the light until the second hand was on twelve. Right ten degrees rudder! he called to the helmsman.

Right ten degrees rudder, the helmsman echoed.

Your new course is…

When the ship was on her new zigzag leg and Wes had checked to see that the other columns had turned and were lining up all right, he went back to the front rail of the bridge and leaned over.

The ship was lifted high until it seemed that it must be leaving the water, and then fell like a depleted lover sinking into the giving softness of his mistress’ breast.

This was the way Wes liked it. These minutes at night alone on the flying bridge were worth all the grind and bother of the days on deck. It was these times that he knew that men who said romance had gone out of the sea must know the sea only from books. For the sea was the same and men were the same. Only the ships were changed. He would always remember it like this. He was he. The sea was there. The ship was an almost abstract bridge between them. He was not aware of his body, of his hands, of his legs or belly or back. There was only a himness in the darkness merging with the herness of the deep-heaving sea, the movement of them together like consummated love.

Well, what have we here, a tea party?

Wes and the signalmen, the bosun, the messenger of the watch, and the quartermaster were standing drinking coffee and eating the thick-buttered toast and talking comfortably when the voice came. They were suddenly quiet.

Wes spoke. We were just having coffee, Commander.

The enlisted men moved silently away and left the two officers facing one another.

So we are breaking the executive officer’s order then.

Well, no sir. I mean…

Were those men drinking coffee or were they not, Mr. Mason?

They were, of course…

What is the order, Mr. Mason?

Wes said nothing, only looked down angrily.

Grant spoke more sharply. The order was what, Mr. Mason?

But, Commander, the coffee in the mess hall was no good. It wasn’t fit to drink.

Since when do you drink coffee in the enlisted men’s mess hall?

I don’t.

Then how do you know what the coffee is like?

The men told me.

They told you?

Yes sir.

The men always complain about the food on a ship, Mr. Mason. Don’t you know that?

Certainly their complaints can be true, Commander.

The chief in charge of the enlisted mess tells me their food is good, Mr. Mason. I take his word for it. I trust my petty officers.

And I trust mine, sir. They don’t lie to me.

Are you saying that the chief commissary steward lied to me, Mr. Mason?

No sir.

You are not saying much of anything, Mr. Mason. And most of all you are not explaining why you broke my ruling. Grant paused. When he spoke again, his tone was mock-confidential. You are an officer, Mr. Mason, not a little boy playing war in a back yard under his mamma’s eye. You will obey the orders I put out, or I will have the Captain confine you to your quarters.

Wes still said nothing, but stood staring at the dark deck, the coffee cup in his hand.

Have you had your coffee, Mr. Mason?

Yes sir.

Grant faced the little knot of enlisted men who were watching from the other side of the bridge. You men, come here. They did not move at first, not until he screeched, You, I said! They moved over toward him. Give me your cups.

As they handed them to him, he took each cup and emptied it over the side of the ship. They stood watching him silently, until the crash of a cup behind him made him face sharply around. Mr. Mason, did you break that cup?

I dropped the cup, Commander, Wes said, his voice even.

There was a pause before Grant said, I hope you did. I wouldn’t like to think you broke it on purpose. He walked toward the ladder that led down to his cot. At the head of it he stopped. Send the cups down to the wardroom, Mr. Mason, before any more are broken through carelessness. You had on watch with you, let’s see… two, five, seven men. Is that right?

Yes sir.

I shall tell the mess treasurer then to charge you with seven extra guests on this month’s mess bill. Good night.

Damn the navy, Wes thought.

Damn the navy. He had been thinking that for an hour. He had been thinking it off and on for the year he had been in the navy. It started even in midshipman school.

He had been an English major in college, without any definite plans of what he would do when college was over, because of the war. So when he finished college in June 1942, he went almost immediately to the midshipman school at Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana, to begin the four months’ course designed presumably to make him an officer and a gentleman. Looking back at those days at Notre Dame when he had tried to cram his head with alien facts and alien ways of thinking, he still shuddered. Those days had been the worst of all.

Sitting in the pill-colored, prim little room studying: We measure time from Greenwich, and Greenwich is in England. England is east, so time moves west because the sun moves west, and we measure time by the sun’s movement…

Someone coming into the room:

Got a match? I want a match to light this cigarette I’ve got in my left hand which isn’t any good unless it’s lit.

Another coming in and another, until there could be no studying:

Take me, for instance. I was a sucker to get in this. There I was in Pensacola. Second-class seaman. Makin’ good money. Lotta loose women hangin’ around. Me on the ball team. Hell, I didn’t do a lick of work. No, sir! They wanted me on that ball team. When they write for men, just common seamen, to be transferred, they just say the number, not which men. Wanted to keep me there. I’d abeen safe for the duration. But no, some bunch of bastards talked this officer crap to me and here I am…

Me too. I was a state senator. Had two more years to run. Couldn’t have been drafted. Of course, if I hadn’t come, I’d abeen washed out politically back home, but what the hell…

Me too. Me too. More me too’s than you can listen to all at one time.

Hey, telephone for midshipman Loomis!

He’s in the can.

Well, somebody come take it.

Okay.

Running feet in the hallway which they called a passageway, down the stairs which they called a ladder, along the passage of the first floor which they called the main deck.

Hello.

Hello, Jim?

Naw, he’s busy. This is Ed.

Ed who?

Just Ed, Baby.

Oh.

Oh, what?

Just oh, Baby.

Wanta talk to me?

That’s what I’m doing, I guess.

What else are you doing?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing.

What did you do today? What do you do every day?

Nothing.

Oh.

I lie around and read magazines.

You don’t work?

No. No use to work if you’ve got plenty of money.

You rich?

Sure. I buy two war bonds every week.

Well, God bless America. You’re a sweet kid.

Maybe. But I’m sorta cold now.

Cold?

I just took a shower.

You dressed?

No.

Got anything on?

A towel. What you got on?

My uniform.

Get closer to the receiver.

Okay.

Are you close?

My chest right against it.

Open up your shirt.

Okay.

Hold up your undershirt.

Okay.

There. Is the towel rough?

God damn, woman, shut up before I kick this booth in!

Then at ten o’clock the bugle blows and the lights go out. Lying there in the darkness, feeling the night outside, no sun. No sun. No time then at night? Or does time still move there, silently west, even in the night?

The long week over and standing by the gate for a ride.

Goin’ to town, mate?

Town?

Yeah, town.

Why?

Today’s Saturday. You got half a day off.

Saturday?

Yeah. Yeah, look. I’ll try to explain it simply. Yesterday was Friday, so today is Saturday.

Why?

Well, you see, a day’s gone by. Time has passed.

Oh. That means the sun. But what about night? Does time keep on going even at night?

You feel all right, bud? Christ, you’re dumber than a bucket of owl dung.

How dumb is that?

That’s just a way of saying it we have in Carolina. You know, like this one: grinnin’ like a jackass eatin’ briars…

Yeah, I heard that one.

Well, what about this one… this guy says to me, ‘You got a big can, boy.’ So I come right back at him, ‘No use havin’ a nail if you ain’t got a hammer to drive it with’…

Very funny.

That’s the way we talk in Kentucky.

I thought it was Carolina.

Did I say Carolina?

Yeah.

Meant Kentucky. Never been east of Kentucky.

"You lose