“What’s that?”
“A guy who’s proud of not being one,” I said.
Regan propped himself up on one elbow. “Maybe we’ll get along,” he said. “Most people just get mad and call me a communist.”
“If you were a communist,” I said, “you’d be sleeping below decks with your men, regardless of what you rate.”
“That’s a fallacy, Mr. Wells,” Regan said. “Practical communism … ”
I interrupted him. “Look, chum, I’m just starting off for some place or other, probably to get my brains blown out, for practical democracy. We’re going to have lots of time for card indexing our social political views before we get to wherever we’re going. Could we adjourn the mass meeting till I find out where to hang my toothbrush?”
“You’re making a mistake,” he said, but he was laughing. “There’s so little time we shouldn’t waste a minute deciding what kind of a world we want for our children.”
“First we’ve got to save it,” I said “Do we have this bathroom all to ourselves?”
“Special privilege,” he said, grinning again.
I dug out my shaving kit and toothbrush and put them in the medicine cabinet. When I came back into the cabin Regan pointed to a pneumatic life preserver over my bunk. “You’re supposed to keep that with you at all times,” he said. “Even while you eat.”
“Bad as that, is it?”
“Brother,” he said, “this floating machine shop is just what the doctor ordered to keep a Jap submarine crew from getting homesick. Incidentally, if you can stand my politics, the name is Bill.”
“Mine’s Chris,” I said. “And your politics concern me much less than whether you snore.”
He snubbed out his cigarette on the floor. “Do you really expect to do much sleeping on this trip, Chris?” The bantering note had gone out of his voice.
VII
I had just gotten my duffel unpacked when a seaman knocked and told us we were wanted in the captain’s cabin. We took our life preservers and went on deck.
The cabin was crowded when we stumbled in. Bradley and Quartermayne were the only ones I had met, but I was to get to know the rest of that gathering. If I close my eyes I can see all their faces: Captain Jorgensen, the Ship’s skipper, a grim, weather-beaten Norwegian; Captain Richard Cleave, a gray-haired, hawk-faced naval officer in charge of our expedition; Dr. Alec Walker, medical officer on our team; and the leadermen of the various groups of workers — Tubby Garms, the shipwrights; Ed Winthrop, the machinists; Joe Adams, the sheetmetal workers; Lew Lewis, the riggers; Scotty Cameron, the electricians; Ernest McCoy, the pattern makers.
Bradley introduced me around. These were men with firm handshakes and steady, unafraid eyes.
Captain Cleave took over. You could tell he was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed.
“Owing to the methods used in coming aboard,” he said, “we’ve had no opportunity for a ship’s drill. Because of the necessity for a complete blackout, we can do nothing about it till morning, when you’ll be shown your stations in case of torpedoing or air attack. We’re being convoyed at the moment, and I think we can assume our chances of getting through the night are pretty good. But I want your men to keep in their life preservers. Each of you will be supplied with torches. You will acquaint yourselves with the nearest companionways to where your men are quartered and be prepared to get them on deck in, case of mishap tonight. Is that clear?”
It was.
“You’ve made certain your men are all properly quartered?”
They had.
“Anything to report?”
Dr. Walker saluted. He was a shy, studious, Henry-Fonda-looking guy in his middle thirties. “We’ve five men in the sick-bay, sir,” he said. “Food poisoning. With your permission, I’d like to check the canned stores in the galley.”
“You think it’s something they’ve eaten on the ship, doctor?”
“Yes, sir. These five men all came aboard last night. After lunch today they were almost immediately taken ill. There were canned string beans at that meal, and I put it down to them. I’d like to make sure there are no other tainted supplies.”
“Take all the necessary precautions, doctor,” Cleave said. “I leave that responsibility entirely to you.”
“Thank you, sir,”
“That’s all, gentlemen,” Cleave said. “Good night and good luck.”
We began shuffling out.
“Mr. Wells!”
I waited till the others except Bradley and Quartermayne had gone.
“Glad to have you with us, Mr. Wells,” Captain Cleave said. “Lieutenant Bradley’s explained you’ve had no real time to learn what your duties are.”
“Twelve hours ago I was struggling to find the happy ending for a love story,” I said.
He smiled, but not with his eyes. “We’re interested in happy endings too, Mr. Wells.”
“Amen,” said Quartermayne.
“Your job,” Cleave went on, “is to circulate.”
I didn’t quite get it, but I nodded.
“You know what our objective is. We’re to establish a base to repair battle damage to our submarines. That’s the job. But there are some three hundred of us, Mr. Wells. All types and kinds of men. We’ve got to live together and work together as a community. We can’t have discontent or ill-feeling or panic.”
“These men are all volunteers,” Quartermayne said, “so there shouldn’t be much friction.”
“But it’s high-tension stuff,” the captain said. “Rumors can start. Uneasiness. Suspicion that someone in a responsible position is incompetent. The ordinary friction of clashing personalities. You, Mr. Wells, must be ready to listen, to soothe, to mediate. These men are civilians. We can’t clamp down on them with the same kind of discipline we’d use with enlisted personnel. That’s why you’re here, because you’re one of them. You’re to be their spokesman, their contact with me.”
“That’ll be fine,” I said, “if they like me.”
“You’ve got to make them like you, Mr. Wells. Like you and trust you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You used to be a customer’s man,” Bradley said. “That’s really a matter of selling yourself, isn’t it, Chris?”
I admitted that it was.
“There’s one other point,” Cleave said. “These men have been checked as carefully as men can be. We know their records from A to Z. But the most careful checking sometimes fails. One disloyal man might find a way to destroy the usefulness of this entire expedition. Any suspicion along that line must be reported at once. Don’t wait to satisfy yourself with evidence; don’t depend on your own judgment. Report at once to Lieutenant Bradley.”
“I understand, sir.”
“You’re not expected to listen at keyholes or play detective,” Bradley said with a faint smile. “That, worse luck, is my job. Create confidence so that the men will come to you. It will give us a double check.”
“Everything clear, Mr. Wells?” Cleave asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then good night and good luck.”
I left. A seaman was waiting in the blackness outside the door.
“Guide you back to your cabin, sir?”
“Is there any law against staying up on deck for a while?” I asked. The smoke-filled cabin didn’t seem attractive at the moment.
“No sir. But no smoking, no matches, no flashlights.”
“I’ll be good,” I said.
I felt my way along the rail. The Pacific was making good on its name. It seemed to be as calm as a mill pond — calm, and oily-black. I finally stopped and leaned my elbows on the rail. I found my imagination playing games with me as I tried to get a glimpse of our alleged convoy. Once or twice I thought I saw dark shapes which I hoped were destroyers — our destroyers! I nearly fell overboard when a voice spoke behind me.
“I wonder if you could show me how this darned life preserver works — just in case.”
; What floored me was that it was the very pleasant, husky voice of a girl.
VIII
The whole effect was extraordinary, because when I turned around I couldn’t see anyone.
“I’ll never touch another drop of Quartermayne’s whisky as long as I live,” I said out loud.
The girl laughed. “I’m real enough,” she said. “I’m in a sort of strait jacket, though.” Then her hands touched me in the darkness. I took hold of one of them.
“I’m Chris Wells,” I said. “Liaison officer. What gives here? I thought I’d seen my last white woman for the duration.”
“You’re being an optimist about my coloring, aren’t you?” she said. “I’ve got myself twisted up in one of these spare tires and I don’t know how to make it work.”
It was weird. I located the shoulder straps and, incidentally, her shoulders. She was somewhere in the neighborhood of five feet two or three. I started trying to adjust the life belt.
She laughed again. “This is getting a little personal,” she said. “I trust you’re not a sex maniac.”
“Only in a nice way,” I said. I found the valve in the front of the preserver and got her to take hold of it. “You blow into this if you fall overboard.”
“I’m very grateful,” she said. “There was no one around to show me and I was just guessing.”
“What are you, a stowaway?” I asked.
“Much more prosaic,” she said. “I’m a nurse.”
“Name? I mean, nurses do have names.”
I could hear her sigh. “My name,” she said, “is Jessica James, and you’ll be doing me a great favor if you don’t make all the usual tracks about the girl bandit.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “How did it happen?”
“It was an honest-to-Pete accident,” she said. “My mother’s favorite sister’s name was Jessica, Jessica Blount. My father’s name was James. They didn’t realize what they’d done to me till it was too late to change it. My aunt would have been terribly hurt.”
“How come you’re on this excursion? It’s not healthy!”
“There’s a war on, Mr. Wells. Hadn’t you heard?”
“Chris.”
“All right, Chris.”
“What is it safe to call you?” I asked.
“Jess,” she said. “Arsenic in your soup if you let slip with one Jessie.”
“I promise. What do you look like, Jess?”
“Very ordinary,” she said.
“Not from the feel of you,” I said.
“Mister Wells!”
“Dark, shiny black hair,” I suggested.
“Is that your favorite color?”
“I go for it,” I said.
“Mine is a bright brick red,” she said, laughing.
“A Grecian nose,”
“Definitely snub.”
“Blue eyes. What we Hollywood writers call ‘corn-flower blue.’ They usually go with quote ‘hair like ripe wheat’ unquote.”
“Are you a writer?”
I admitted it.
“Have I read anything of yours?”
I told her of some of the pictures I’d worked on.
“You’re not bad at all,” she said. “I’ve seen most of them.”
“Was I right about the eyes?” I asked.
“They’re blue,” she said. “‘Cornflower’ sounds a little corny, if I may.”
“I think I’m going to forgive you almost anything on this trip,” I said. “Isn’t there some place inside we could go so I could look at you?”
“You’re going to see me until you’re quite thoroughly fed up,” she said. “I’ve got to stay put, right here. My cabin’s just behind us, and there’s a buzzer there from the sick-bay. I’ve got to be able to hear it if Dr. Walker needs me. I’m supposed to be on duty, but he was nice enough to let me come out for some air. We’ve had a rather trying eight hours.”
“The gang stomach ache?”
“You heard, then. We’ve got five very sick men on our hands.”
“I shall, as they say, eschew string beans for the rest of the trip.”
“It’s no joke,” she said. “Dr. Walker’s afraid it may be botulism.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
There was laughter in her voice. Poisoning caused by the action of the bacillus botulinus on canned foods,” she said.
“Can you answer it in English,” I said, “or do we send a fifty-dollar war bond to Mrs. Ginsberg in the Bronx?”
“Send the bond,” she said. “I don’t know much about it. It’s a germ in the soil where the vegetables are grown which ordinarily is destroyed by intense heat in canning. It could mean that there’s a whole batch of tainted food aboard.”
“Well, a few stomach aches won’t damage this crowd,” I said. “They’re a tough bunch.”
“It’s not just a matter of stomach aches.” She was, all at once, very serious. “If it is botulism, only the fact those beans were boiled kept the men from dying. It can be as deadly as strychnine.”
“It’s a cheerful idea,” I said, laughing. “Marooned on a coral reef in the Pacific with a shipload of poisoned food!”
“You know something, Chris?”
“What?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t say that even in fun. Everybody in this outfit is jumpy.”
Behind us the buzzer in Jess’s cabin sounded. Dr. Walker had put his finger on it and just held it there.
“Oh-oh,” Jess said. “Business. Be seeing you, Chris.”
She hurried away. I heard her bang against something and deliver herself of a nice round oath. I chuckled and leaned against the rail. I felt better about things. Of course, she’d been perfectly right about my wisecrack. I’d have to watch myself. In Hollywood you make your wisecrack and let the chips fall where they may.
One thing was certain. When Dr. Walker wanted someone he wanted them. The buzzer kept ringing steadily. Finally it stopped. Then, what seemed seconds later, I heard Jess’s voice.
“Chris! Chris, are you still there?”
“Right here,” I said.
Her voice was crisp and professional. “I need help. Will you come right away, please?”
I got across the deck to the companionway. With the door closed I got my first look at her. It was probably just seconds that our eyes met in the semi-darkness of the corridor.
“So you’re Chris,” she said.
I felt rocked back on my heels. All the best psychologists will tell you that it doesn’t happen. But it happened to me. I looked at this girl and I knew. I had the crazy impulse to say: “I’ve been waiting always for today, Jess. All my life for today.”
I didn’t. I said, “What’s up?”
She didn’t answer. She opened the door of the sick-bay and we went in. The outer room was Dr. Walker’s office. A student lamp burned on the desk. The green shade threw the light downward and onto Alec Walker, writhing and twisting on the floor.
“Help me get him to a cot,” Jess said.
I bent over Walker. His face was the color of the painted woodwork. His eyes were open and he was dripping with sweat, His lips were drawn back from his teeth.
“Tomato juice,” he said, in a gasping voice.
I looked up and saw a half-empty glass of it on his desk, along with several cans of vegetables.
“Please hurry,” Jess said.
I got him firmly under the arms, and she took his feet. We carried him into the next room, an improvised hospital, and put him down on a white iron cot.
“Stomach pump’s his only chance,” Jess said matter-of-factly.
“Is this the same as the others?” I asked.
She nodded. “You’d better get Captain Cleave and the intelligence officer. I don’t like this, Chris.”
“Can you manage alone?”
“For a few minutes. Please hurry.”
I went out through the office and into the corridor, where I ran head on into Bill Regan, my cabinmate.
“Well
, well, well,” he said, “I see you’re quick at locating the main points of interest.”
“Bill, get Cleave and Bradley, will you? The doctor’s been poisoned. Miss James needs help.”
“Sure,” he said. He started away and then turned back, the corners of his mouth curling in a whimsical smile. “But keep off the grass, Chris. I saw her first.”
PART TWO
I
IT WAS Jess who stood between Alec Walker and death that night. Long before Bradley and Cleave arrived, she had a stomach pump working, and had told me how to fix a hypodermic from materials in the glass medicine cabinet.
I had never seen a man fighting for his life before. It wasn’t pleasant to watch. Alec knew exactly what should be done for him, and he knew better than any of us just what his chances were; but the convulsions caused by the poison made it impossible for him to speak, let alone do anything to help himself. He did manage six strangled words as we first bent over him.
“Botulism … look out … all canned vegetables.”
Then Bradley was there, stripping off his coat. Jess repeated those words to him. All he said was, “Bunk!” and came and took the hypo from my clumsy fingers.
It was like a race. Bradley and Jess had never laid eyes on each other till that moment, but they operated like a team with years of experience behind them. I remember seeing Cleave and Quartermayne standing in the door from the office. I remember when Jess sent me for warm water, I found myself gasping, sweat running off my face. There were five other men lying on cots in that room. I had a fantastic notion they were all dead, because not one of them even stirred. Jess told me afterward they’d all been given Opiates.
I don’t know just how long it was. It seemed like hours, but it was nearer to being minutes. Alec lay limp and still, his eyelids fluttering. I remember Bradley straightening up. The back of his blue shirt was wringing wet.
“That’s all we can do, Miss James.” He turned to Cleave and Quartermayne in the doorway. “I think he’ll make it. If he does, we have the nurse to thank for acting so promptly.”
Suddenly Jess sat down on a chair near the head of Alec’s cot and covered her face with her hands.
“Perhaps we’d better get Miss Lucas to relieve you,” Bradley said to her. It was the first I’d heard of a second nurse.
The Brass Chills Page 3
