"Maybe that's why I can't quite swallow the notion that the business of America is business," the captain said.
For a moment the chaplain thought he was about to hear a searing personal confession. The captain loathed the capitalistic system, American greed, the exploitation of true believers such as his father.
Instead, he dropped the subject. "About that service this morning, Chaplain. It was all wrong."
"What do you mean? I thought—"
"The war isn't over, Chaplain. It's too damn soon to be celebrating God's blessing on our glorious victory. I've got a feeling it isn't going to be glorious. It's going to be a bitter, nasty, heartbreaking business just as it's been from the start. Think about solving that morale problem, Chaplain. Think about helping these men keep up their courage for a couple of more years."
The Return Of The Invisible Man
The thief was back. He slithered through the ship day and night, stealing with incredible effrontery. A man would take his wallet and watch to the head and leave them on the shelf above the sinks while he showered. During the ten or twenty seconds that he had soap in his eyes, they would disappear. Fire Controlman First Class Bourne, who wore a money belt, had $150 extracted from it while he slept. Even a tailor-made uniform, laid lovingly on a rack while its owner shined his shoes a few feet away, was not safe.
Boats Homewood was in despair. He no longer issued fiery pronunciations about stopping the thief. Instead he tried to be philosophic. He said there was one on every ship and they should not let him ruin their attitude toward the Navy. Flanagan could not understand his acquiescence.
Others were not so philosophic. Even the Bobbsey Twins, one of whom lost his second gold watch, swore they would put the thief over the side if they caught him. Flanagan, fascinated by the thief's on-again, off-again larceny, speculated on his state of mind or soul.
"He seems to run wild whenever we fuck up in a big way," he said. "Tarawa started him again, I'd bet on it."
"Bullshit. It's Pearl Harbor," the Radical fumed. He had lost his wallet, with a precious picture of Lenin in it, given to him by his father. "He's nothing but a fucking capitalist acting out his instincts. Stealing directly, instead of through the wage-price system."
"He ran wild after we got our asses blown off in the Solomons," Flanagan persisted. "And when we got exiled to the Siberia Patrol. When we do something right as a ship, he's okay. It's the Navy he hates, not the Jefferson City."
"I think he hates the whole fuckin' system," Jack Peterson said. "In the Navy and out of it. The system ain't no different outside. Big deals eatin' in expensive restaurants and the rest of us in hash houses."
"Why does he steal from his shipmates if he doesn't hate the Jefferson City?" Daley asked.
"We're the only game in town," Flanagan said. "I think he hates to do it. He hates himself for it. But he can't help it."
"You are really full of shit, you know that?" the Radical said.
"I agree," Jack said. "But it's good bullshit. He's gonna make money sellin' it some day."
"Shit. Nobody's gonna make any money after this war. The fucking capitalist bosses are gonna be in the saddle," the Radical said. "We're gonna have a depression twice as big as the last one. Our only hope is the Russians. After they beat the Germans, they may decide to use their army to liberate the workers of the whole world."
"Hey, I wanta be around for that scrap," Jack said. "What kind of a Navy do the Russians have?"
"They don't have one," the Radical admitted, looking glum.
"Ain't they gonna have some trouble gettin' an army across the Atlantic or the Pacific to liberate the workers of the U.S .A.?"
"With the military training we've gotten, we may be able to liberate ourselves."
"They got any thieves in Moscow?" Jack asked.
"None. Why should the people steal anything? They own everything already."
"You mean if we're Russians and you got a watch on your wrist, I own it?"
"No. But you can get a watch from the government free of charge. So why steal it?"
"Hey, that's some system. You mean there ain't no expensive restaurants, no high-priced cars? Everybody eats the same, wears the same, drives the same?"
"Absolutely. That's what Communism is all about."
"What about the officers in the Russian Army? Do they get paid the same as the privates?"
"Sure."
"Even the generals?"
"Sure."
"Flan," Jack said, "is any of that true?"
"Nope," Flanagan said. "It's all bullshit."
The Radical practically foamed at the mouth. "It isn't! It's the truth!"
Flanagan and everyone else knew by this time that it was a waste of breath to argue with Booth about his Russian fantasies.
"Even if you're right," Flanagan said, "I think the thief would steal in Moscow. He does it for kicks. I'm convinced of it."
"Me too," Jack said. "The guy's a psycho. You know, he's got kleptopatra or whatever the hell it is."
"Kleptomania?" Flanagan said. "I don't think so. They want to get caught. This guy's kick is not getting caught. He's smart as hell."
That night as the boatswain's mate of the watch piped Lights Out and they crawled into their racks for a few hours of sleep, a scream arose from the far corner of F Division's compartment. It was the Radical. He was standing in front of his locker wailing like a blues saxophone.
"It's all gone. Everything, He took everything!" he howled.
The thief had cleaned out his locker. Gone was his copy of The Communist Manifesto and Stalin's Life of Lenin. Also gone were all his clothes. He had nothing left to wear but what he was standing in. It would cost him a month's salary to refit himself.
"That settles it," the Radical cried. "The minute this war's over, I'm applying for Russian citizenship!"
Newspaper Days
The Dream Life of Lieutenant Flugel
Thanks to the codebreaking skills of U.S. Naval Intelligence, this first edition of your ship's paper is privileged to bring you a series of breathtaking reports on the problems of the German Navy. Chief among them is Leutnant Otto von Himmel Flugel, commander of the garbage scow SS Grossfart.
Irked that he was the oldest lieutenant in the German Navy (or in any other navy, for that matter) Flugel ceaselessly bombarded the Admiralty and occasionally the Fuhrer himself with plans for winning the war. He fancied himself an expert in fire control, for instance, and proposed converting the Grossfart into a secret weapon that would confound Allied radar by emanating odors so strong, antennas would warp at a single whiff.
The only trouble was the Grossfart's odors were already warping antennas throughout the Reich. The Fuhrer could not even get the Berlin Symphony on the radio at Berchtesgaden! The Admiralty ordered Flugel another fifty miles into the North Sea and hoped he would be captured by a neutral Irish fishing boat.
Any sane man would have committed suicide at this point, but Flugel was undiscouraged. His secret was his dream life. Each night, after spending another momentous day making sure that there was not a single wormy potato in the spud locker, Flugel retired to his cabin and had another glorious dream.
Last week Flugel dreamt he was in command of the battleship Scharnhorst, the pocket battleship Gneisenau and the watch pocket battleship Gesundheit. Destroyers and U-boats swarmed around them, firing salutes. Down the Rhine they steamed to do battle with the American Fleet. Flugel had a plan to annihilate it, which he radioed to the Fuhrer.
“Durribkopfl” screamed the Fuhrer. "It is the British Fleet you are fighting. The Americans are all in the Pacific. Which is where you will soon be heading, in a dinghy. What is your plan for winning the second battle of Jutland?"
"Inwisible ships, mein Fiihrer. We don't have enough ships to win, so we must convince the British we have many more which are inwisible."
"Brilliant, Flugel. You are hereby awarded the Iron Cross with three sauerkraut strands. How will we produce these inwisible ships?"
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"The problem is not inwisible ships, mein Fuhrer. It is inwisible sailors. How do you put wisible sailors aboard inwisible ships?"
"I have news for you, Flugel."
"Yes mein Mier."
"You have just been demoted to mess steward."
"But there are no mess stewards in the German Navy. We consider the term humiliating to a member of the master race. We call them Geheimnitzkartofflenmeisters."
"Then join the British Navy!"
Even in his dreams, Klugel was a jerk.
To improve the crew's morale, the chaplain started a ship's newspaper, The Hawthorn (named after the state flower of Missouri). Captain McKay gave it his reluctant approval, after Bushnell flourished an Alnav from Washington recommending the idea.
Flanagan was one of the first contributors. The chaplain was somewhat hesitant about accepting his story. But Flanagan convinced him the paper needed humor if it was going to be read. He also assured him his effusion contained no references whatsoever to anyone aboard ship.
The first edition had barely begun circulating on the way back from Truk when Lieutenant Kruger climbed the ladder to Flanagan's watch station beside his forty-millimeter gun director. He clutched a copy of the paper in his hand.
"Did you write that?" he said, pointing to the Flugel story. "Sure," Flanagan said.
"You son of a bitch, when I ask you a question, answer it with sir!"
"Sure, sir," Flanagan said.
"You want a war with me, you've got it," Kruger snarled. "You're going to be on every working party that's called out on this ship from now until the end of the war, got me? You're going to messcook every third month and you're going to need the cleanest uniform, the best-shined pair of shoes in the fucking fleet if you ever hope to make liberty. Do you read me, sailor?"
"Yes, sir. You're going to persecute me for a harmless bit of fun, sir."
"There's nothing harmless about it. You're trying to undermine my authority. You're a fucking subversive. If you do it to me, you'll do it to the executive officer and the captain and the admiral! You want to start a revolution on this ship!"
"No, sir. I just want a few laughs, sir. The men are pretty discouraged, sir. We thought this raid on Truk was going to end the war, sir. Now it looks like we'll be out here for the rest of our lives, sir. Anything wrong with trying to cheer people up, sir?"
"Plenty. When you do it this way!" Kruger yelled.
While Kruger was raging, Flanagan slipped the switch on the mouthpiece strapped to his chest. The lieutenant's threats and insults went out over the gunnery circuit to every lookout on the ship and to anyone else who was listening in main plot and sky plot, CIC and other nerve centers.
Mullenoe heard it in main forward and telephoned Montgomery West on the bridge. Captain McKay asked West why he was laughing so hard. When he explained, McKay looked grave.
"I knew something like this was going to happen," he said. "Newspapers and the Navy don't mix."
"As far as I'm concerned, Captain, Kruger's just getting what he deserves."
McKay shook his head. "Kruger's a good man. He knows more about fire control than the rest of that division put together. But he doesn't have a sense of humor. Especially about being an officer. You'd have to know the Old Navy, the tremendous gulf between officers and men, to understand it. Becoming a lieutenant is the most important thing that's ever happened to him."
West accepted the rebuke in silence. He simply did not believe the captain. That night at supper, the wardroom seemed to share his opinion. Everyone tormented Kruger.
"Say, West," Mullenoe said, "how come CIC didn't pick up on this hot scoop about that German lieutenant, Flugel? It's no worse than a lot of the other drivel you send us."
"I didn't have the right code."
"They ought to change your letters to LTK. Last to Know. Do you think anyone as dumb as Flugel could really exist?"
"Sure. I bet he graduated first in his class at Annapolis."
"What do you think, Lieutenant Kruger?"
"I have no opinion," Kruger snapped, slicing his steak as if he wished it was Mullenoe's throat "What do you make of it, MacComber?" Mullenoe said. "Is it literature? Is that why I don't understand it?"
"It's a satire, Mr. Mullenoe," MacComber said. "S-a-t-i-r-e. You may have come across the word in that course in basic English we took at the Academy. Satire pokes nasty fun at someone.”
"But who could that be?" Mullenoe said. "It couldn't be Kruger here, could it? I mean, I hear him walking up and down in his cabin singing 'Deutschland Uber Alles.' But I don't take it seriously. He said Heil Hitler to the captain the other day, but he didn't take it seriously either."
Kruger slammed down his knife and fork. "You son of a bitch," he screamed at Mullenoe. "That goes for all of you.” He flung down his napkin and stalked out of the wardroom.
Mullenoe looked thoughtful. "Maybe the war has lasted too long," he said.
After supper, West received a summons from the captain. In his cabin, he found McKay with the chaplain, who was wringing his hands. "Lieutenant Kruger has complained to me about that column in The Hawthorn. He says he wants me to ban Flanagan from writing for the paper. But he's the only decent writer I've got. I don't know what to do," Bushnell said.
"What do you think we should do, West?" McKay asked.
"I have no idea."
"You better get one fast. I'm putting you in charge of the paper. You'll have to deal with this kind of problem. Do you want a suggestion on Flanagan?"
"I sure do."
"Make him the editor. I've always found the best way to deal with a rebel is to give him some responsibility."
"I'll give that serious consideration, sir."
"In the meantime, I suggest you go see Lieutenant Kruger and tell him you'll make sure he won't be abused in the future."
"Yes, Captain."
West went below, wondering if he had been sandbagged. The answer was clearly yes, but he could not quite believe it.
He had begun to think of the captain as that rare human being, a genuine liberal. Instead he was closer to Machiavelli.
You are in the Navy, and you have received an order, West told himself. He rapped on the bulkhead outside Kruger's stateroom.
"Who is it?"
"West."
He pulled open the folding plastic curtain and found Kruger hunched over something on his bunk. The only light came from a tiny reading lamp. In its feeble glow, West made out a dark blue object on the blanket. He heard the click of metal on metal. "Is that a gun?" he asked.
"Yes," Kruger said, spinning around, his service .45 in his hand. "I'm going to blow his fucking head off"
"Whose head?"
"Flanagan's. Then I'll get Mullenoe and that asshole of a chaplain. They're all trying to destroy me. But I'm going to get them first."
West thought he saw Kruger's finger tighten on the trigger. What a hell of a way to die, he thought. "Wait a second," he said. "The captain sent me down here to apologize."
"Why didn't he come himself?"
"Maybe he will. Let me go ask him.”
"Too late. I'm going to kill that Irish wise guy and his friends Peterson and Homewood. They've been on my back for months. I can't take any more bullshit!"
"Sure, sure," West said. "But why don't you give the captain a chance first?"
"I'll wait five minutes."
West backed into the passageway and fled to Mullenoe's stateroom to tell him what was going on. "I'll go see him," Mullenoe said.
"No!" West said. "You're too high on his hit list. Call the Marines. Tell them to guard the passageways. I'll go get the captain." West scrambled up the ladders to the captain's cabin.
"God damn it," McKay said. "I had a feeling this might happen. Have you called out the Marines?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll go see him."
"It's too dangerous, Captain! I saw him loading that gun."
"He won't use it on me."
McKay said t
his with such certainty, West was awed into silence.
When they got down to the second deck, they found officers in the passageway, warily watching Kruger's stateroom. Several, including Mullenoe, had guns in their hands. Marines were visible at the door to the wardroom.
"Put those guns away," McKay said.
He knocked at Kruger's cabin and asked if he could come in. For five minutes he vanished into that dim interior. Any moment, West expected to hear a shot. Murder on the high seas. Maybe Kruger was right, they were in danger of a mutiny. Maybe that kid Flanagan was an agent provocateur.
Then the most incredible sound filled the passageway. A kind of a sobbing wail. It reminded West of a recording he had once heard of the death song of an Indian warrior. Someone had proposed it for possible use in a western he was making. Everyone decided it was too eerie.
The captain emerged from the stateroom with Kruger's gun. "Send for the doctor. Give him a sedative," he said.
He handed West the gun. "If you make Flanagan the editor, tell him about this," he said.
Absalom! Absalom!
Captain Byron Maher's voice on the bridge telephone was brisk and matter of fact. "Art, Admiral Spruance would like you to alter course to one five zero and rendezvous with the attack transport Mountain Valley at 1800 hours. Get a sea detail ready to transfer an important passenger by breeches buoy."
What the hell was going on? Captain McKay wondered. Just over the horizon was the island of Saipan. Around them steamed the greatest naval armada ever assembled — two dozen aircraft carriers, almost as many battleships, at least as many cruisers and over a hundred destroyers. They were escorting 127,000 Marines and Army troops to assault this inner fortress of the Japanese Empire, a full thousand miles closer to Tokyo than their previous conquest, Eniwetok.
His was not to ask admirals why. Captain McKay ordered the change of course and Navigator Marse Lee hastily plotted the rendezvous, which was not more than a half hour away. It was exactly 1800 hours when they sighted the big bulky transport, her rails crowded with Marines. The sea was calm as they pulled alongside her and the detail under Boatswain's. Mate First Class Wilkinson fired the breeches buoy line to the sailors on the Mountain Valley's bow with the first shot. In five minutes, the other lines were hauled across and the important passenger began his swaying journey in the canvas bosun's chair. He was wearing a life jacket, and the visor of a Marine officer's hat obscured his face.
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