Mister Roberts

by Thomas Heggen

  "What's the matter?" Bergstrom asked softly.

  Thompson stared at him without seeming to comprehend. "That dirty son-of-a-bitch," he said again. Then, with an effort, he answered: "The Old Man. This"—he tapped the dispatch in his pocket—"came in this afternoon. I went down and asked the bastard for emergency leave to fly home. Nothing doing. 'We're not giving any emergency leaves on this ship.' I said. 'Captain, this has been approved by Mr. Billings and the exec. They don't need me up in the shack and I could be back here in a week if necessary. Before the ship even leaves here.' 'Nothing doing,' he says, 'and that's final. I'm not giving any emergency leaves. Start it with one guy and they'll all be running up here." Thompson ground his teeth together. "That dirty miserable son-of-a-bitch," he said with heavy stress.

  Bergstrom shook his head. "God, that is a filthy trick," he said.

  They sat quiet for a moment. Thompson was looking again at the deck.

  "What did Mr. Roberts tell you?" Braue asked thoughtfully.

  "He told me to go over on the big island tomorrow and see the Chaplain and the flag secretary."

  Braue nodded approval. "That's right," he said. "Those Chaplains and those people over on the beach throw a lot of weight. They can go right over the Old Man's head and put you on a plane."

  Thompson shrugged his shoulders and didn't say anything.

  "You're going, aren't you?" Bergstrom asked. "You're going over, aren't you?"

  Thompson nodded. "Yeah," he said heavily, "I'm going over. I saw the exec."

  "Sure," said Bergstrom. "There's a lot of planes going out of there. Chances are they can put you right on."

  Thompson kept his eyes fixed on the deck. He didn't say anything. After a moment, as though talking to himself, he said: "It's not the kid—I never saw the kid, I can't feel anything about her. It's my wife. That kid was everything to her—God! she loved that kid. All her letters, all she talked about was the kid. All I want to do"—he clenched and opened his fist and looked at the fingers—"is to be there for the funeral. If I could just get her through that, I think she'd be all right. I could make it, too, if I could get out of here tomorrow or Thursday." He looked up quickly at the others.

  "You'll get out," Bergstrom said. "This time tomorrow night you'll be on a plane."

  Thompson nodded impatiently, as though talking to a man of incomplete information. "I'll get out," he said flatly. "If they won't do anything for me over there,. I'm going over the hill. I've got it all figured out."

  "Now take it easy," Braue said mildly.

  "I'm not kidding," said Thompson. Suddenly he picked up a ruler and flung it against the bulkhead; for a moment his eyes were frantic. Then he folded his hands and said quietly: "I'm not kidding. If they won't do anything for me, I'll type myself up a set of orders and forge the Old Man's name. Then I'll stick some clothes in a bag and go over there again Thursday and get on a plane. I could be home before the Old Man knows what hit him."

  Braue and Bergstrom glanced at each other. "Take it easy, Frank," Braue said uncomfortably. "You can't do that."

  Thompson looked coolly at them. "I'm not kidding," he said quietly.

  Bergstrom, watching him closely, knew that this wasn't just talk. He saw and measured his friend's desperate intensity, and felt it equal to almost anything. He spun a paperweight on the desk. "Well," he said finally, "you won't have to do that. This time tomorrow night you'll be on a plane. You wait and see."

  Thompson didn't say anything. After a while, because he had the four-to-eight again in the morning, Bergstrom left the two still sitting in the yeoman's office and went down and turned in. It was stifling hot in the compartment, and he lay in his bunk a long time and couldn't sleep. He smoked a cigarette and thought of Thompson. He remembered the desperation he had seen on Thompson's face. Goddamn, Bergstrom thought, he's really taking it hard. He's really pounding his head against the wall. It was after midnight when he finally got to sleep, and Thompson still wasn't in his bunk.

  When he was called at three-thirty, Bergstrom got up and dressed beside the bunk. He looked into the top bunk. Thompson was there, lying on his back, head propped on a pillow, wide staring awake.

  "Take it easy," Bergstrom whispered.

  "I'm all right," Thompson answered. "I'm just going to San Diego, that's all."

  "Naw, take it easy," Bergstrom said. "I'll see you tonight." He went up to take the watch. At eight o'clock, when he came off, Thompson had already gone ashore. It was a long ride over to the big island, and Bergstrom knew the boat would be late getting back. It was three-thirty in the afternoon, almost time to take the watch again, when Thompson returned.

  Bergstrom was digging in his locker for cigarettes when Thompson came down to the compartment "Whew!" said Thompson, and flopped wearily across Bergstrom's bunk. His dungarees were salt-streaked where they had dried from wetting, his face and arms were sunburned pink, and his eyes were red with the sun and with fatigue. After a moment he pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the bunk, and with infinite slowness untied his shoelaces. Then he kicked off his shoes and grinned suddenly at Bergstrom. "Wow!" he said, "what a day!" Still smiling curiously, he shook his head. "Two hours over, and two hours back, and taking seas both ways. And walk, Jesus, did I walk!" With the same patient weariness he started to unbutton his shirt.

  Bergstrom watched him. "How did you make out?" he asked.

  Thompson stretched and pulled off his shirt. "No soap," he said. "I went to the Chaplain and I went to the flag secretary and they both told me the same thing: if the Captain wouldn't approve it, I couldn't get any emergency leave. They said it was all up to the Captain. So"—he was examining the sunburn on his arms—"I went over to the Red Cross and they got off a telegram for me."

  "Nothing doing, eh?" said Bergstrom. "That's too bad. I thought they could probably do something for you.

  Thompson got up and peeled off his trousers. He shook his head. "Couldn't do a thing. I really felt lousy when they told me that; I really felt bad. I had about three hours before the boat shoved off and so I just started walking. I walked for three hours, up one road and down another, way up past some Seabee camp, and up a little mountain and down along the beach—I didn't give a damn where I was going. I just had to walk—I really felt mean. I got so far away I had to run the last mile to catch the boat. I must have walked at least twenty miles all together, but I felt better when I got through. I felt a hell of a lot better." He stood in his shorts and the sudden, curious grin came back to his face. "Jesus," he said, "that's more walking than I've done in four years. I'll be stiff as a board tomorrow."

  Bergstrom was about to say again that he was sorry they couldn't do anything, but Thompson seemed already to have forgotten it. So he said: "I'll see you at eight," and went up for the watch. He was glad to see that Thompson was taking it all right. He was glad to see that he wasn't talking and acting and feeling like he did last night. He'd be all right now, Bergstrom figured. Probably be down in the dumps for quite a while yet, but he'd get over that. He'd have plenty of time to get over that. The thing to do was to talk with him and keep his mind occupied so that he wouldn't brood.

  That was Bergstrom's purpose when he came off watch again at eight: he thought he'd find Thompson and get him off with Braue somewhere for a bull session. When he went through the mess hall, he found Thompson all right. The Monopoly session was going full blast and Thompson was right in the middle of it. The game was noisier than Bergstrom ever remembered it, and Thompson seemed to be having a wonderful time. Some particularly choice piece of crookedness had just been pulled off and Thompson was laughing so hard that the tears came to his eyes. And, while Bergstrom watched, Thompson's hand fell casually to the table and filched a pile of money from the man beside him. The other kibitzers noticed, too, and shouted noisy approval, and Thompson went off again into peals of laughter. He seemed just about the happiest man in the world.

  Watching this scene, Bergstrom was suddenly and sharply disturbed. He stayed
a moment longer, then he left the mess hall and went up to the yeoman's office. His friend Braue was alone in there, writing a letter. Bergstrom shut the door and sat down.

  "Have you seen Thompson since he got back?" he he began.

  Braue scrawled a few more lines on his letter and sealed the envelope. "Yeah," he said. "He didn't do any good over there. They told him it was all up to the Captain."

  Bergstrom nodded. His brow wrinkled in a frown. "You know how he was talking last night?"

  Braue leaned back in his chair and nodded.

  "You know how crazy he was last night? Ready to go over the hill and everything? Really pounding his head against the wall?"

  Braue nodded.

  Bergstrom went on: "Really broken up about it, really taking it hard?"

  "What about it?" Braue asked.

  "Well," said Bergstrom, "tonight he's sitting down in the mess hall playing Monopoly as though there wasn't a thing in the world had happened. Having the time of his life."

  Braue picked up a pencil and studied it minutely.

  "How about that?" Bergstrom asked puzzledly. "Last night he was batting his head against the wall. Tonight he's right back in the old groove. What about that: is that right?"

  Braue didn't answer right away. He was a quiet and thoughtful boy, highly regarded on the ship. He twisted the pencil around in his hand and squinted as though he were examining a diamond. "Well," he said finally, "if you really want to get technical, what the hell can he do?"

  Bergstrom thought that over for a moment, and then he had to admit it was right: what in the hell could he do?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was about ten in the morning when Stoltz, the radioman, went around and awakened Mr. Billings, the communication officer. There was a message to the ship for Mr. Billings to break. Billings mumbled and groaned and finally got up. This was an occupational hazard: about once a month the ship would receive a message and he would have to get out of bed to break it. He always did get up, though, because he always got excited at the possibility that the message might be his orders.

  He got excited now, and when he went up to the radio shack and saw that the message was from the Bureau he got more excited. Feverishly he started breaking it and got as far as "Lieut." , . . Then he stopped to catch his breath. If the next group was "jg" it might be his orders. He went on. The next word was Douglas, and the orders were for Roberts. Back to the States for reassignment.

  After his first disappointment had passed, Billings decided he was very glad for Roberts. If any officer deserved orders, it was Roberts. Billings typed up the message and ran down to show it to him. He found Roberts at number two hatch, watching while some dunnage was removed from the bottom. "Your orders!" Billings shouted, and showed him the message.

  Roberts read it, and then looked up and studied Billings: "Are you kidding?" he said flatly.

  "No, I ain't kidding," Billings said. "This is on the level, Doug!"

  Roberts studied him for a moment longer, then he read the orders again; and then all of a sudden he grinned. He just stood and grinned the widest and most foolish grin Billings had ever seen. He must have stood like that for at least three minutes, not saying a word. Then suddenly, still grinning, he grabbed Billings's overseas cap and flung it over the side. He pounded Billings on the back and started pushing him toward the house. "Come on!" he said. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee!"

  You had to give the Captain credit, he was unpredictable. As Roberts explained to Billings, he fully expected the old bastard to hold him a month or two, just out of spite, before detaching him. Although the orders read that he was to be immediately detached, Roberts had cause to know that the Old Man was not impressed by Bureau directives. The orders of the last officer to get off, Ensign Soucek, had read the same way; and the Captain had kept him for a full month. Roberts expected at least equal treatment.

  But the Captain fooled him. Fooled him wonderfully. When Billings finally took him the message, he read it and sniffed and grunted. He delivered to Billings a brief, ordinary harangue on the subject of Roberts. Then he said with sudden decisiveness: "All right, that's fine! We'll get rid of that guy fast. You tell the executive officer to write up his orders and get him off of here tomorrow. Yessir, by God, we'll get rid of that guy in a hurry!" Then the Captain smiled his most gloating, cat-swallows-the-mouse smile. He didn't know it, but he could scarcely have done anything nicer for Roberts if he had wanted to: which certainly he didn't.

  It was a wonderful day for Roberts. Everything followed with miraculous precision. Billings had been over on the beach the day before, and coming back he had given a ride to an armed guard officer from a merchant tanker. The officer had mentioned that his ship was sailing straight to San Francisco day after tomorrow. Billings, remarkably, even remembered the name of the ship and with Roberts's enthusiastic consent, and without consulting the Captain, he had this message signaled over: "Can you take one officer passenger back to the States?" In a very few minutes the answer came back: "Affirmative. Have him aboard by noon tomorrow." Straight to the States on a fast merchant ship, the most comfortable transportation possible. It was a wonderful day for Roberts. Before he could change his mind, the Captain signed the orders detaching him, and Mr. LeSueur, the executive officer, promised him a boat any time in the morning that he wanted it.

  Roberts spent the afternoon packing. By virtue of the circumstances that normally odious process became a very happy one. Roberts had a fine time throwing the accumulated non-essentials „and undesirables of two-and-a-half years' living into a mounting pile in the corner. He was aided by—or at any rate he had for company—Ensign Pulver. Pulver was considerably depressed by the news, and he lay in Roberts's bunk, propped on one elbow, and made lugubrious conversation. Finally the combination of a soft bunk and a horizontal position proved too much and he fell asleep. By dinnertime Roberts was all packed, and the pile in the corner was mountainous.

  Dinner that evening was quite an exciting meal for all the officers. It was a genuine event when any officer got orders, but when that officer was Roberts it was really so. It was a noisy dinner. Every officer in the wardroom shouted bawdy admonitions at Roberts. If he was asked once, he was asked twenty times: "What's going to be the second thing you do when you hit Frisco?" Then Jake Bailey, the steward, brought out a big chocolate cake. He had laboriously lettered in white frosting, "So long, Mr. Roberts." He was grinning sadly as he brought it over for Roberts to cut.

  After dinner the Doc came over and said offhandedly to Roberts: "Drop around after a while." It was the Doc's way of announcing that alcohol would be available in his room that night.

  It took Roberts a couple of hours to turn over to Carney, his successor, all the records and Title B cards of the First Lieutenant. It was eight o'clock before he got around to the Doc's room. The door was closed and Pulver and Ed Pauley were already there. Ensign Pulver was lying in the Doc's bunk with a drink balanced on his stomach. The Doc poured a half-inch of grain alcohol in a water glass, filled it halfway from a can of orange juice, and handed the drink to Roberts. "Sit down," he said.

  This was not the first time that the four had gathered there, and it was not the thirty-first. In a period of one year this group had consumed an impressive portion of the Doctor's supply of medicinal grain alcohol. Mixed with any type of fruit juice available in the pantry, it made a nice drink. Indeed, as the Doc was fond of saying, this war would likely produce a whole generation of alcohol and fruit-juice drinkers. These sessions in the Doc's room were always pleasant. The Doc always presided and he did most of the talking; but that was all right because the Doc was a wonderful talker and he had wonderful stories to tell. The roles of Roberts and Ed Pauley were those of appreciative listeners and contributing philosophers. Ensign Pulver performed adequately as the foil.

  These social nights passed easily in thoughtful talk. Sex was perhaps the favorite and certainly the inevitable subject. Ship's gossip and personalities, notably the Captain,
were another. The great parent organization, the Navy, was frequently examined. These were the staples, but derivative or even extraneous subjects were permitted. Specialties were indulged, and Roberts and the Doc held long private discussions of medical matters. Ed Pauley, a fine, droll story-teller, spun an oral saga of life in Oswego, New York. When the conversation had not to do with sex, Ensign Pulver didn't contribute much.

  The evening started out according to plan. At first there was polite discussion of Roberts's orders. There was speculation as to how much time in the States he would get, and after that, what type of duty he would draw. It was mentioned that he was lucky to get a ride straight back to Frisco. Then, very skillfully, Ed Pauley transferred the talk to sex. The transition was smooth.

  "Doug," he said to Roberts, "do you rape easily? Because from what I read about the States, you'll probably be attacked in the middle of Market Street by one of those predatory American women."

  This provoked a long and thoughtful discussion of the mores and morals of American womanhood. All in all, it consumed a period of three drinks. It was ground that had been covered before, but on which the definitive word had not yet been said. The talk was almost scholarly. Regional differences in the sexual habits and aptitudes of women were carefully probed. Ed Pauley did an exhaustive job on the propensities of the girls of Oswego. Ensign Pulver was listened to with the respect due an authority as he offered for contrast the reproductive rhythm of Scranton, Pennsylvania. Lieutenant Roberts spoke briefly but searchingly of the peculiarities of the Middle West in general, and Chicago in particular. When all the evidence was in, it remained for the Doc to attempt the definitive word.

  "We are embarking," he hypothesized, "on a new and revolutionary era in the history of sex. In quite a literal sense, women during this war have discovered sex and they have found it a field of human activity which they can dominate. From the traditional role of passivity in sexual relations, they have passed beyond partnership into aggressiveness. From now on, women will be the aggressors in the sex act. Sometime early next year, and probably in San Francisco, we will read of the first criminal assault of a boy by a girl. Soon after that, the matter will become so commonplace it will not be newsworthy. All the assertive functions of courting will be usurped by women; they will send flowers, buy candy, pay for dinners, and in general initiate and control reproduction in all its manifestations. It is probably," the Doc concluded, "some sort of a millennium."