The Circle

by David Poyer

  He felt angry that Bloch was down here during working hours, instead of on deck. But the boatswain’s mind didn’t seem to be on ship’s business. He was intent on scooping a tiny gouge in the wood, humming under his breath in tune with the ventilation fans.

  Dan examined the heavy, private face, the sag of chin, the leathery texture of Bloch’s cheeks. In the harsh light, the corners of his nostrils were shot with broken veins. A thirty-year man, without much longer to go. Dan imagined a rented room ashore, more model ships, dishes in the sink. Not for him. When he got out Susan would be there, there’d be two more kids, they’d buy a place in the country.…

  Bloch glanced up. “Oh. Morning, sir. Thought you was Chief Ludtke, sittin’ there.”

  “What you building, Chief?”

  Bloch leaned back as the compartment began to tilt. The knife started rolling and he flicked it point-first into the table. “USS Constitution,” he said. “Old Ironsides. You build models?”

  “Used to, when I was little. It’s a beauty. You do that carving on the stern yourself?”

  Bloch said it wasn’t much. He had a camphor-wood chest at home that’d knock your eyes out. “Bought it off the Bund, trading with the sampans. Swapped a worn-out foul-weather jacket and two pair of boondockers for it.”

  “The Bund. Germany?”

  “Shanghai. I could tell you some stories … they used to sweep the harbor every morning, police up the bodies. They’d tie them to a buoy, string of ’em, like fish. If nobody claimed them in three days—cut ’em loose, bang, bang, down to the bottom. Merrimack was the last ship out of China in ’49.”

  “Is that right. Can we talk about the replenishment this afternoon?”

  Bloch blinked. “Sure,” he said. He slowly gathered the boom and a few spars, put them in a box, and got up. He pulled on a shirt and buttoned it outside his trousers. “Let’s go out in the lounge.”

  They sat over heavy china mugs of coffee. “All right,” said the chief. “What you need, sir?”

  “What’s happening topside, Chief?”

  “We mustered on station this morning. Ikey and Popeye are turning the guys to. Popeye, that’s what we call Rambaugh. On account of he smokes that little pipe of his upside down, like the cartoon. And ’cause he’s so runty, I guess.”

  “How’s painting progressing?”

  “We’re keeping at it, when we can.”

  “Will we get it done before we’re too far north to paint?”

  “Well, sir—I don’t think so.”

  His stomach quivered. Bryce and Norden had been asking him this every day, and he’d been telling them it was on track. “I thought it was going to be done before we hit sixty north.”

  “We tried,” said Bloch. He looked regretful but not particularly upset as he lifted the white mug with the green stripe at the rim. “The POs’ve had the guys at it from muster to dusk. We’ve been having these surprise general quarters, and you know we got to knock off in the squalls, too. You can tell the XO that, sir, if you’re worried about him jumping your shit.”

  “I’m not worried about what to tell the XO!”

  Bloch pursed his lips. He took a King Edward out of his shirt pocket and began to pick apart the wrapper with his blunt, cracked nails.

  Dan said reluctantly, “Well, maybe I am. But if we don’t get that primer covered, the rust’ll be way ahead of us when we get back.”

  The older man nodded thoughtfully, as if informed of the existence of corrosion for the first time, and recasting his life plans on that basis. He put the cigar in his mouth and popped flame from a kitchen match with his thumbnail.

  “I want to get as much done as we can, Chief. If it means working after normal hours, setting up lights to work after dark, then that’s what we got to do. They can have comp time—uh, rope yarn, when we get up where the bad weather lives.”

  Dan felt uncomfortable. He felt stupid, giving orders to a man twice his age. But hell, he thought, that’s how the Navy wants it. So that’s the way it’ll be. “Refueling will go today at fourteen hundred. Are we set up for it?”

  “We will be.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll have Rambaugh get the gear laid out after lunch.”

  “I’d feel better having it done earlier. Once the tanker comes in sight, we may go right alongside. Let’s say eleven hundred.”

  The cigar ceased its motion. Bloch’s eyes left it to steady on Lenson. “Look, sir. I know you want to start out makin’ a good impression. But don’t you think—”

  The quiet of the lounge was shattered by a strident bonging. “General quarters, general quarters,” stated the announcing system. “This is a drill. All hands man your battle stations. Set material condition zebra throughout the ship. Now general quarters.”

  “Shit,” said Dan, jumping up. Bloch was already on his way out. Lenson tried to recall his route to his battle station, the gun director. But he couldn’t remember how to get there from the chief’s quarters. As he hesitated, running men pushed him aside. Hatches slammed as the ship subdivided itself into watertight sections. He hauled them open again, pushed through, dogged them behind him, sweating with the dreamlike desperation of lateness. At last he gained the weather decks and pounded up ladders. Cold wind tore at his clothes. Panting, he hauled himself up the face of the director, slid into the bucket seat, pulled on earphones, and dropped the heavy steel helmet over them. “… All stations manned, exception of director one,” he heard.

  “Director one, manned and ready,” he shouted, mashing the intercom button. “Mount fifty-one, fifty-two, Director: Stand by to put mount in automatic.”

  The gunner’s mates acknowledged in bored voices. He flicked switches and spun a handwheel. The director hummed and moved to the right. Below, on the forecastle, and aft, the guns began to train around, too, lifting, following his will. The seat was icy under his buttocks as he bent to roll his socks over his cuffs. Too late, he realized he’d left his jacket below.

  “All stations manned and ready,” said Norden, on the battle circuit.

  A moment later, Packer’s voice boomed out over the shipwide speakers. “This is the captain speaking. Time: five minutes, twenty seconds. We did a lot better than that before we went in the yard. We’ll continue with daily drills until we’re ready in under four minutes.

  “We’ll stay at GQ for a few minutes to check comms, then go to abandon-ship stations for drill. All hands use caution moving about the weather decks. I don’t want anyone overboard out here.”

  Dan bent to check out the sights. The seas were heavy. Through the magnification of the range finder, he could see them sawing at the horizon nine miles away. Nine miles … if this was for real, he could put four shells out there, two hundred pounds of steel and explosive, with one squeeze of the trigger that hung by his ear. He put his head out of the director and watched the ship climb a foothill of sea the hue of a blue shark’s back.

  “Mr. Lenson!”

  He looked down and saw Bryce, hatless, looking up from the deck. The XO was bundled in a leather flight jacket. His face was flushed.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your men all at their stations?”

  “Ah … I think so, sir.”

  “So, are they all in battle dress?” the exec called up, smiling.

  That sounded like one of those Brycean quandaries, the kind he already knew the answer to. “They’re supposed to be, sir. I don’t know any of them who aren’t.” God, he thought. That sounds so weak.

  “I suggest you check, Mr. Lenson, instead of sea-law-yering me.”

  “Director one, off the line to check battle dress aft,” he muttered into the mike.

  “What’s that?”

  “Off the line, checking aft.”

  “Hell you are—”

  He hung the headset over the scope, cutting Norden off in midword, and wriggled out of the director.

  The lookouts were crouched silent and miserable to port and starboard. Williams and Hardin
, Hard-on the men called him. He ran an eye over them; socks rolled, collars buttoned, life jackets cinched, helmets buckled. He headed aft, clattered down the ladder to the Asroc deck. He was halfway across it when he saw the open window flaps on the whaleboat.

  Aha, he thought. As he headed for it, smoke streamed out, edges shredded by the wind. He swung himself up and poked his head into the cuddy.

  “Hey there, Ensign.”

  Dan blinked. It was like peering into a cavern. Lassard was dimly visible far forward, his knees drawn up to his face. Coffey, Greenwald, and Gonzales sprawled beside him, boots propped on the thwarts. The troglodytic, feral impression was strengthened by a thick haze. All four seamen were smoking cigars, puffing out jets of smoke, their eyes fixed on his.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  “We’re at GQ, man.”

  “Where’re your helmets?”

  “Boat crew don’t wear helmets inside the boat.”

  “Where does it say that?”

  They exchanged glances. After a moment, Coffey said sullenly, “We never did with Lieutenant Sullivan.”

  “You do now. Get them on. And tie those life jackets properly, damn it.”

  “Ain’t no cause to swear at us, Ensign,” said Lassard. In the dimness of the cabin, his eyes were wide and blue. Like an optical illusion, they alternated from second to second between innocent and depraved. Dan found it hard to meet them. “Navy regs say officers can’t swear at enlisted.”

  “Navy regs say you do as you’re told, Lassard. That goes for all of you.” He turned away, then remembered something else and stuck his head back in. “And put those cigars out. No smoking during general quarters.”

  “Hey, whatever you say,” said Lassard slowly. The four of them regarded Dan with unblinking hate. “Whatever you say, man, that’s what us fuckin’ peons got to do.”

  * * *

  AS he was folding himself back into the director, the 1MC passed “abandon ship.” A pessimistic sequence, Dan thought. He went to his station and waited, reading the directions on the raft placard as sailors trickled back. It was full of interesting advice. “Attempt to swim underneath burning oil.” “Take your shoes and cap along when you abandon ship.” “Tie yourself to others; don’t drift off alone.”

  He was imagining himself breaststroking toward a palm-fringed atoll when one of the men asked, “Sir, who’s senior on this station?”

  “Ah—I guess I am.”

  “You’re supposed to be mustering us, I think.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  The muster list was a plastic plate on the bulkhead, the names smeared, old, nearly obliterated. He began calling them out. Only a couple of men answered. He paused, halfway down it, with that feeling something was wrong.

  “You got me on that, sir?”

  “No.” He ran his finger down it. “Hell, I’m not here, either. I wonder—”

  The 1MC: “Ensign Lenson, lay to the bridge.”

  “Oh, crap.”

  He stood beside the XO’s chair for ten minutes while Bryce subjected him to a leisurely tongue-lashing on the importance of accurate abandon-ship lists. The raft placards, it seemed, had not been updated since before Ryan went into the yards. They were the first lieutenant’s responsibility. Bryce expected more from an Academy man. Perhaps he was wrong to expect much of anything. Lenson had better start buckling down, or unpleasant things could happen. Packer smoked silently on the starboard side.

  When at last they secured, he was at a slow boil. Half the morning was gone and he’d been reamed for something he didn’t even know was his responsibility. Damn, he thought, clattering down the ladder to the main deck. Damn this excuse for a ship.

  He found Bloch sitting on the forecastle, his legs crossed, like a guru spoiled by good eating. Rambaugh was flemishing down distance line, the soiled little flags fluttering in the breeze. Pettus sat between them, surrounded by colored hard hats, life jackets, signal paddles, spanner wrenches, coils of line and wire. Beyond the deck edge, the sea ran by swift and dark and close, bulging up occasionally to lick at the scuppers. “Ax,” the chief was reading from a list as Dan came up.

  “Check,” muttered Pettus.

  “Pliers, side cutter.”

  “Check.”

  “Two marlinespikes, eight- and sixteen-inch.”

  “Check, check.”

  Neither of them seemed to notice Dan. “Chief,” he said tightly, “let’s talk.”

  “I’m listenin’, sir. Sledgehammer, ten-pound.”

  “Let’s go aft.”

  Bloch sighed, handed Rambaugh the list, and lumbered up. They strolled aft. “Let me guess,” said the chief. “The raft musters?”

  “That’s right. Damn it, who’s in charge of those?”

  “I guess we are, sir.”

  “Sure we are, but who’s supposed to do it? That’s not our job, writing names on bulkheads with grease pencils.”

  “Well, it was Ikey’s, before we went in the yard. I guess over the summer, it just slipped his mind. And mine. So I’m responsible, too.”

  The admission disarmed him. He’s been in longer than I’ve been alive, Dan thought, looking at the age-faded tattoos. How many chewings out had Bloch endured? How many green ensigns had he broken in? “Well, let’s get them updated,” he said at last.

  “You want that done before or after we refuel and paint, sir?”

  “Now, goddamn it!”

  “Sure thing, sir. Ikey’s down gettin’ a current muster from the XO’s yeoman.”

  “Good. Now, how about showing me how to set up for replenishment.”

  “You’re just in time,” said Bloch. His face was serious and respectful again, the face of a junior to a senior; but Dan thought he looked a bit, just a bit, tired.

  5

  AT 1500, he broke off and went back up to the bridge. He found Packer nodding, his pipe in his hand, and Evlin bent over the radar. Dan was fidgeting, waiting for a chance to ask about the oiler, when the phone talker said suddenly, “Sir! Starboard lookout reports a ship. Hull down.”

  “Where away?” rapped out Evlin.

  “Zero-eight-five relative, sir. Wait one … says it’s a big one. Four or five mast tops.”

  “That’s Calloosahatchee, all right.”

  The captain woke and swiveled his chair, narrowing his eyes out along the bearing. He glanced around the bridge, saw Lenson, and waved him over with the pipe. Dan waited while Packer relighted it, studying the sagging flesh under the captain’s eyes. The tobacco smelled heavy, like incense. He wondered why everyone in the Navy smoked.

  “Mr. Lenson, what’s the status of my underway replenishment detail? Is First Division ready to go alongside?”

  “Uh, I can’t say I really know, sir, but I think Chief Bloch’s got it in hand.”

  Packer frowned. “You haven’t been around here too long, so I’ll let that one go by. But I don’t want to hear that answer again, understand? I want you to take charge down there. You lead a deck gang, you can lead anybody anywhere. Besides, the chief won’t be there forever.”

  Dan wondered what that meant. But one of the many things they made plain at Annapolis was that you didn’t ask somebody senior to you to explain himself. “Aye, aye, sir,” he snapped, trying to look savvy and aggressive.

  Packer relapsed into silence. After a minute or two, Dan drifted over toward Evlin. “When do we rendezvous, sir?” he muttered.

  “We just did.”

  “I mean, when will we set the refueling detail?”

  “Basically whenever the skipper says.”

  “Okay, but how far in advance does he usually call us away?”

  “Oh. If that’s what you wanted to know, why didn’t you ask? Forty, forty-five minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s get on the horn, Al. Let’s not keep these pump jockeys wondering who the hell we are.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Evlin turned away, picking up the radiotelephone.

  The
1MC called away refueling stations at 1538, when the oiler, now a low gray island, was still some miles distant. The early dusk of high latitudes was falling fast. Dan was already on station, pulling the life-jacket ties through the D-rings. He felt bulky and cumbered by the heavy kapok, the hard hat. He stood forward of Unrep Station Three, watching Bloch and Isaacs and Rambaugh chivvy the arriving seamen into position, rehearsing in his head what he had to remember.

  Navy ships stayed at sea for months. Their appetites for fuel, food, spare parts, and mail were satisfied by oilers and ammunition ships. The transfer was the tricky part: moving cargo in bulk between two rolling and pitching platforms on a constantly moving element. Fuel was the hardest. Instead of winching across a few slings, the connection had to be maintained for as long as an hour, depending on the pumping rate.

  It was the most challenging deck evolution there was, and the most dangerous. Green as he was, he knew it was one of the ways you rated a ship, a division—and a first lieutenant. Ships got names as fast fuelers or slow. Word of screwups or accidents got around the fleet fast. With names attached.

  “Now bear a hand manning the refueling detail,” said the 1MC. Dan watched his refueling team gather forward of the fuel trunk, buckling their vests and bitching in resigned voices. Rambaugh had his pipe in his mouth bowl down. Pettus and Isaacs wore yellow cotton work gloves with the fingers cut off. Coffey was yawning, settling the sound-powered phones over his ears. They were all dressed warmly, foul-weather gear, black wool watch caps. He heard Bloch: “Got ’em all, Ikey? Count ’em.”

  “Ain’t got but fifteen hands here. S’posed to have twenty?”

  “Well, what you gonna do?”

  “Send somebody up to the whaleboat,” Dan said. “There’ll probably be a couple guys caulking off in there.”

  The oiler changed course as Ryan closed, steadying up into the oncoming seas. He watched them burst into spray against the gray hull, deep-laden, massive as an iceberg. As the two ships converged, the destroyer vibrated and began to turn.