The Ninth Wave

by Eugene Burdick

  The table had been converted into an operating table. Three naked men were stretched out on it. Oil and blood ran off the green baize and covered the deck. Wounded men sat hunched up against the bulkheads, their legs under their chins, watching Dr. Martin and two corpsmen. In one corner there were some blankets with legs sticking out.

  Mike walked over to the table.

  "Can I help, Doc?" he asked.

  Dr. Martin had a cigar in his mouth. It was unlit and he held it so tightly that his lips drew back, showing the moist pink inner surface, and from the corner of his mouth a trickle of brown tobacco juice ran down his jaw. His white smock was streaked with blood, oily fingermarks, bits of hair, pieces of thread. He looked fiercely at Mike.

  "Sure you can help, get the hell out of here."

  "Tell me what to do and I'll do it," Mike said.

  "Get out," Martin said. He lifted his head and watched two seamen bring in another injured man. They held him by his legs and arms and the man's body sagged between them.

  "He just collapsed back in the crew's quarters, Doctor," one of them said. The man's eyes were open, but his face was chalk white and his lips were a bright blue.

  "Swell. And you're helping him out," the doctor said bitterly. "You lifted him up like he was a sack of potatoes so that if he has any internal injuries you will kill him for sure. That's swell. Thanks. We need more patients." He turned back to the man on the table and said between his teeth, "Put him on the deck. Mr. Freesmith here will give him a shot of morphine. The man is in shock. If the morphine works and you wrap him up he has a little chance of living. Not much, but a little."

  The two seamen gently placed the man on the deck and backed out of the room.

  "Where's the morphine?" Mike asked.

  Martin waved his hand at the table.

  "On the table. Everything in this god damn ship's medical locker is on that table. Just grab for what you want."

  Mike looked at the table. It was covered with a thick, hardening layer of blood and black oil. On top of the layer floated a debris: broken capsules, bits of black thread still attached to short curved needles, strips of white bandage, little bags of sulfa powder, empty bottles of plasma, shining surgical instruments, alcohol bottles, discarded rubber gloves, fragments of flesh with hair protruding from them, a few teeth with bloody roots still attached.

  The ship lurched and the three men on the table slid sideways. Martin and the two corpsmen stopped working and pulled the men back into position.

  "And the captain has to go fight some Japs in the midst of all this," Martin said through his cigar. "He's already killed two men by the crazy way he jerks this ship around. See that corpsman over there," he said and pointed at the youngest corpsman. "He's already done four operations tonight that should only be done by a doctor and a specialist and they all came off all right, but once the ship lurched and he put a scalpel through an aorta."

  Mike saw the morphine syrettes and picked one up. He picked off the plastic cap, pushed the plunger. A white liquid oozed from the needle. He walked over to the man the two seamen had brought in. He jabbed the needle into the man's arm and squeezed the tube of morphine empty. He picked up a blanket and wrapped it around the man. The man was stony cold and stiff, but his tongue worked in his mouth, sending saliva out between his lips, and his eyes followed Mike.

  Mike worked for a half hour and then, suddenly, they were through with the worst cases. Martin began to walk around the room and check over the patients.

  Mike walked over to the corner where the legs were sticking out from the blankets. He lifted up one edge. The boy with the burnt hand and the chief were there. The boy's hand, pink and delicate looking, was placed on his chest. Beside him the huge distended body of the chief was stiff.

  Mike looked up and caught Martin's eye.

  "Both dead?" he asked.

  "Dead as doornails," Martin said. "The boy of burns, the chief of shock and, maybe, heart failure. When they came walking in here I knew they didn't have a chance."

  Mike dropped the edge of the blanket.

  He left the wardroom and went out on deck. In a few minutes his eyes adjusted and he could see the long line of the island, the black shape of ships. He looked around and saw the big round slick from the transport, glittering on the water.

  How could the two of them die so easily, he thought? Could I have died so easily?

  He felt no fear because he might have died. But, suddenly, he felt a terrible anxiety. It ripped at him like a gnawing animal in his guts. It was so sudden, so intense, that he could not phrase the feeling. His fingers tightened on the railing.

  What if I died before I knew anything for sure? he thought. What if I died before I knew about me . . . and all of them? His hand moved and took in all the world outside himself. What if I died and never knew what it was all about? Never knew if I was right about a single thing?

  The words did not drive the anxiety down; it stayed there relentless and hard. He was sure that it did not come from a fear of his own death. But because he could not understand it, could not master it, he told himself that this was why he was afraid. It was a thin comfort, but a comfort But the gnaw was still there.

  They gave Mike a Silver Star in Nouméa. An admiral came out from COMSOPAC and pinned the medal on his chest. The crew was drawn up at attention, flags were flying and sea gulls whirled in the air. As the admiral read the citation Mike was astounded to see tears in the old man's eyes.

  "You did a very fine thing, young man," he said in a husky voice. "Staying in the water to recover bodies was especially outstanding. Sharks, burning oil, enemy submarine. Real courage, young man, and a high regard for your fellow man."

  Mike started to say something for he was startled by the words. But he realized it Was hopeless. He saluted.

  CHAPTER 14

  "No Rust of Superstition"

  The spire of the cathedral of Nouméa holds its black cross against the tropical sky with a stony arrogance. The cathedral is built of huge yellow sandstone blocks. The blocks are rough and uneven from the picks and chisels of the quarrymen. The soft stone absorbs water out of the ground and during the rainy season the moisture line creeps up, black and wet, as high as one's eye. But as one looks up the side of the cathedral, the surface seems to change. The gouges in the blocks become invisible, the cement disappears and the stone starts to flatten out and look machined, rubbed, almost polished. Finally the upper spire becomes a slippery golden spike of stone, thinning to a point and then suddenly breaking out into the sharp angles of the cross.

  The only break in the stone of the cathedral is the patinaed windows of colored glass, which are punched through the thick walls at irregular intervals. The windows of the cathedral look north toward the tree-covered hills of New Caledonia. To the south they face the deep blue water of the South Pacific where a long jagged reef is decorated with the hulks of ships, and a tall lighthouse, striped like a barbers pole, marks the entrance to the passage. The windows gaze out like dull medieval eyes, disapproving of the blue sea, the yellow hot sky, the piled up green richness of the jungle. For all but a few minutes of the day, the windows stare out with a calm flatness. However, in the early morning the rays of the sun are flat and cool and penetrate the stone sockets. For a few restless seconds the windows flash brilliant stabs of light. The sun pushes higher into the sky and the windows again become dull eyes, the cathedral is once more made of wet, bruised, cheap blocks of sandstone carelessly put together.

  Mike was leaning against the stone wall that surrounded the courtyard, his head bent back, trying to look up the side of the cathedral. When he threw his head back he brought his hand to his naval officer's cap; deliberate and unnecessary for the cap clung tightly to his head. He spread his legs out carefully and braced himself solidly against the stone wall.

  With his head bent back, the spire of the cathedral seemed to be expanding away into the sky, pushing the sharp angles of the cross into the thin blueness so that it became
smaller as he looked. His Adam's apple pressed tightly against the taut skin of his throat and he could feel the stone wall irritating his back. Reluctantly, he brought his head down and stared at the dark water line on the side of the church. The expanding spire tore the church out of proportion, drawing it thin and tall, and it was a pleasant sensation. It was as if he were standing still and very stable and the church was being distorted and changed in front of his eyes.

  Mike muttered, "I oughta go in and pay a visit. Even if I'm not a Catholic. But I'm scared."

  He looked at the black hole of the door and could smell a faint inviting odor made up of burnt candles, incense, old books, perfume, and sweat. He licked his lips and looked away.

  In a minute, he said to himself, in a minute I'll go in.

  He turned, and with his hands braced against the wall looked down at the town of Nouméa spread out below the cathedral. Far down to the right, almost alongside the harbor, he could see the Hotel Pacifique which had been turned into an officer's club. Even from here, almost a quarter of a mile, he could hear the voices singing, confused and tattered, and without identifying the tune he knew they were singing "Bless 'Em All." In some part of his mind he could see them clearly, standing in circles with sweat pouring from their bodies and making big circles of dark moisture underneath their arms and eating wetly into their caps. They would sing for hours, their voices getting hoarser until the song was a rasping caricature, each man singing whatever he wanted and the circle swaying dangerously as the officers got drunker. Then when it was dark and the bar closed, they would stagger out into the streets of Nouméa, looking for women. Still singing wisps of the song, but driven by something more urgent than alcohol or camaraderie, so that they finally gave up the pretense of singing and cursed and made fevered plans. The alcohol and the desire would run out at the same time and finally they would all end up at the Fleet Landing, waiting with red eyes and pounding headaches for their boats. They would stand silently, the whisky-smelling sweat drying on their backs, like sad bulls. Occasionally they would look at one another with shy embarrassed glances.

  Not me, not tonight, Mike said to himself. No more hunting around for those Javanese women in the villages outside of town. Not me.

  He turned around and looked at the cathedral, gazed for a moment at the black inviting maw of the entrance and then quickly turned away, thinking again of the last visit to the Javanese village. He looked almost straight into the sun and the blinding light burst against his eyeballs and somehow jogged his memory loose, so that the recollection was very strong and clear, a spinning black dot of memory in the midst of a sunburst of brilliance . . .

  . . . six of them had left the club drunk, and piled into a jeep.

  "The pussy is located in the Javanese villages," Jack Brannon said in his high, shrill southern voice. "I have researched and discovered that pussy is found there in fine and great quantities. Two miles out toward Anse Vata, turn left, stop by a clump of coconut trees. Gentlemen, let us proceed."

  The Javanese village was built of tiny wooden shacks made out of old K-ration cases that were roofed over with flattened tin cans. A stink, strong as acid, rose from the ground. Small ageless men sat on their heels in front of the houses, watching with almond eyes as the American officers came down the street, stumbling and laughing.

  Brannon knew where to go and he took them to the largest shack at the end of the street and swept them into the room with a gesture of southern gallantry.

  "Bring on the girls," he called and his voice was slightly hoarse, the shrill edge gone. "My friends want entertainment. Where is the pussy?" Brannon giggled.

  From behind a burlap curtain at the back of the shack an old woman peered out. She grinned at them with black teeth. In a few minutes she pushed a young girl out of the door.

  The girl was small, even for a Javanese, but she walked with oil-packed hips and wore a tightly wrapped skirt and a jacket. Doll-like she stared at them for a moment and then took off her jacket so that they could see her perfect small breasts with faintly pink nipples. She smiled and there was a look of idiot concupiscence on her face; a sort of infantile lust. She began to move her hands in an elaborate dance; the fingers spread far apart, the wrists twisting rigidly, the long arms slowly weaving back and forth in front of her body. Her knees bent sharply and she shuffled woodenly sideways. The stiff ritual movements of the dance seemed to emphasize the overripe richness of her body, the provocative roundness of her hips, the softness of her breasts. From behind her fingers she smiled at them.

  They stared at her, hardly watching the delicate unfolding of the dance, but only aware of the perfection of the tiny body, the strange impression of wantonness about the girl.

  "Old lady, where is the rest of the pussy?" Brannon roared. "We want more women."

  The other men did not take their eyes from the girl. The old woman stuck her head out the door and signaled that there was only one girl that night.

  Like a wave, the six men moved toward the girl, grabbing for her. She continued to dance until the first man reached her, a grin of delight on her soft full face. They all reached her at once and forgot they were friends, and began to fight and knee and kick at one another, struggling to get the girl first.

  "God damn," the old woman said. "One at a time. Just one at a time. All possible."

  They shivered and stopped fighting and stood still; breathing through their nostrils; their eyes red. And they waited their turn listening to the girl's rich throaty laugh roll out from the back room . . .

  . . . not tonight, Mike said aloud. Reluctantly he pushed himself around and looked again at the cathedral.

  "I oughta go in," he said aloud. "I'll feel better if I do. Later I'll feel much better about it."

  He licked his lips again, shuffled his feet. He stared again at the entrance, anxious about what was inside.

  He started to walk toward the cathedral door and suddenly a priest was standing in the door, looking out. Mike remembered in sudden confusion that there was something you had to do when you passed a Catholic priest. He did not know what it was and wondered desperately what his Catholic triends would do in such a situation.

  Mike was confused by the priest and turned away, afraid again to go in the cathedral. He wondered dully why he had ever come up the hill; what had led him on such a God-damned silly chase. Then he remembered that he had seen the spire of the cathedral from the officer's club in the Hotel Pacifique. He had been listening to a Marine major talk and he could see the glistening spire, thin, delicate, sharp against the sky. He had stared at it as the Marine talked and in his mind's eye had filled in the unseen shape of the cathedral

  Mike thought again of the major's story. The major's face slid across his mind, blurring his vision . . .

  . . . his face was incredibly young with a mustache of coarse blond hairs and eyes that were a little watery from whiskey. He talked in an eager, flat voice.

  "Jesus knows how long they'd been pushing through the jungle like that, but it must have been at least two days, ever since the fight around the Tenaru. My patrol turned them up and we followed the two of 'em for an hour just to see what would happen to them.

  "This little dinky Jap bastard was carrying the big one in his arms. I could see right away that the big one was wounded in the legs because his feet were hanging over the little guy's arms and one of his shoes pointed up in the air and the other pointed straight into the ground. Yeah, and I guess they were bleeding a little, just a few drops off the toe that was toward the ground. But we couldn't figure out what was wrong with the little Jappo. Every once in a while the little guy would stumble and the two Nips would fall down. The big guy would start to call directions to him in Japanese and the little runt would crawl around feeling with his hands for the big one."

  The major spread his hands apart and waved them in arcs over the table.

  "The big guy would scream and curse the little guy and finally the little runt would crawl over the big guy. Then he
'd pick the big guy up and they'd start off down the trail again. You see, the big Jap couldn't walk and the little Jap had been blinded. So between the two of them they were trying to get back to the Jap area."

  The young blond face looked around the table, making sure they understood. He grinned and for some reason the others grinned back at him.

  "Jesus, those birds have bowed legs naturally, but with that load this little bastard's legs were so bent he was almost walking on his knees. He'd stagger back and forth, bouncing off the trees and stumbling around in the bush. With the big guy all this time banging him on the head and cussing him out."

  The major made zigzagging motions with his finger through the scum of beer on the table.

  "We followed 'em for about an hour and then I finally told the boys to finish them off. One of the boys stepped out on the trail and yelled to them and, by God, they both just about pissed their pants right there. The big Jap looked back and then he started to shriek at the little Jap and you should have seen that Nip take off. He started running down the trail like a deer with the big Jap telling him when to jump over logs and vines and damned if he didn't get going so fast they almost got away. He was going so good at the last there that I began to think the little one wasn't blind after all. Our BAR man finally stopped them with one burst."