Porter got up off the ventilator and shuffled over to where Hirschfeld would touch the deck.
“Stand clear, goddammit . . . sir,” Grisling bellowed.
Porter gritted his teeth and shuffled two steps backward.
The destroyer took a long, lazy roll to starboard, slackening the high-line so that Hirschfeld was momentarily almost touching the waves and enveloped in spray. Thirty seconds later he was standing on the Tiburon Bay’s deck with salt water running in streams off his immersion suit.
“Hello, Barney,” Porter greeted him.
Hirschfeld peeled back the rubber hood covering his head and stared at the surgeon with tired eyes which did not seem to recognize him at first. Then he said: “Oh . . . hello, Chester.”
They were both in the way of a sudden frenzy of activity, so Porter took Hirschfeld’s arm, trying to lead him aside for a few words. But Chief Grisling yelled: “All right, Commander, as long as the schedule’s all screwed up, we’ll take you next.”
“Take Mr. Munceford ahead of me, Chief,” the surgeon snapped.
But Munceford had suddenly decided that he needed some forgotten accessory out of his camera case so he could take pictures on the way over. The case was in a cargo sling far down the deck. Grisling had a fit over this new delay.
“How are you, Barney?” Porter asked the younger officer, trying to ignore the fracas around them.
“Fine, thanks,” Hirschfeld replied, starting to peel himself out of his immersion suit.
“Your wife has been worrying about you and . . . so have I.”
“How is Estelle?” Hirschfeld asked, evading the implied question.
“Like I say, worried. Maybe something you wrote upset her.”
Hirschfeld’s dark, troubled face became furrowed by a frown. “What are you pumping me for, Chester? You’ve obviously gone over everything with Estelle.”
“Listen, I only ran into her at the club last week. Mentioned I had orders to replace you. She began laughing hysterically, then called your ship some pretty bad names for a lady. After I calmed her down, she shut up like a clam and finally ran off. That’s all I know, so help me, Barney.”
Hirschfeld stared at him, not with the shock which Porter had expected, but thoughtfully and perhaps even with a trace of a smile. His mouth opened to speak, but before any words could come out, the bullhorn on the Bedford’s bridge rattled across with a loud commanding voice, urgent, impatient and with a steely quality, as though it belonged to the ship itself:
“Belay the socializing, please! Commander Porter will come over to me immediately. Also do not send our guest until stores are transferred.”
Grisling had just dragged Ben Munceford away from a packed cargo sling, where he had failed to get at his camera case, and was about to buckle him into the bosun’s chair. Upon hearing the order from the Bedford, the old chief boatswain’s mate became so overwrought that he could only make a supplicant gesture toward the Tiburon Bay’s bridge, then roughly yanked Munceford clear of the highline gear.
Hirschfeld reacted to the voice from the Bedford with a fearful start and glanced uneasily toward the bridge of the destroyer. “Finlander is watching us,” he whispered hoarsely.
Porter noticed that one of the faces showing above the windscreen was partially obscured by the lenses of a pair of large binoculars aimed right at them. Instinctively lowering his voice, he hurriedly exclaimed: “For God’s sake, Barney! What’s been happening to you on that ship?”
Hirschfeld refused a direct answer, but quickly and ominously injected: “Just keep your eye on Finlander, that’s all.”
Chief Grisling was calling Porter’s name, but the surgeon had been rooted to the spot by the inflection of Hirschfeld’s words. “What do you mean, keep an eye on Finlander?” he demanded, suddenly severe and formal. “You say that as if you were suggesting he has been acting irrationally.”
The young medical officer shook his head and laughed bitterly. “Oh, no! You’re not going to pin that one on me! He’s no Captain Queeg of the Caine who’s about to have a mutiny. No, sir. If anything, he’s the only sane one on that blighted can. Him and the German. He’s driving everybody else . . .” Hirschfeld stopped abruptly as Chief Grisling stepped up and saluted with a seething politeness.
“Pardon me, sirs. but DDL 113 is most anxiously awaiting the commander’s transfer!” His lips continued moving after the audible part of his request was completed, silently mouthing through some of his favorite epithets.
Lieutenant Barney Hirschfeld kicked his feet clear of the soaking immersion suit, said: “Good luck, Chester,” in a low voice and hurriedly retreated down the cluttered deck. Shaken and confused, Lieutenant Commander Porter allowed himself to be led by Chief Grisling to the bosun’s chair. The straps closed tightly over his thighs and a moment later he swung clear of the Tiburon Bay. As the block creaked on the wire overhead and the tanker fell away, his eyes sought to pick out a last glimpse of the surgeon-lieutenant among the crowd of men lining the rail, but the only one he could clearly recognize was Munceford squinting horribly at him through the viewfinder of his camera. Twenty feet beneath him, black water raged, and spume stung his face with icy needles.
4.
Larsen followed with his eyes the progress of the awkward shape dangling like a weird marionette from the highline. He knew it was Lieutenant Commander Porter and found himself sadistically wishing that the two ships would roll together, dunking the starchy surgeon in the freezing Atlantic. The wish startled him a little because Porter was a good officer and a gentleman of adequate intelligence and humor; probably a dedicated doctor too. Perhaps it was that he took the gentleman part somewhat too seriously; or the dedication to it all. But this was no reason to wish him the victim of a cruel prank, so perhaps the real truth was that he resented the professional navy which this man represented. Resented it and envied it, both. It seemed like a hundred years since he had applied for a regular commission, when the last war was over, and been turned down because he had gone to sea instead of to college. That still rankled in the back of his mind, even though he earned as much as an admiral in his job with Standard Oil and commanded far bigger and better tankers than this one. Being a Commander, U.S.N.R., was not really bad in itself. Still . . . if he had made it back in 1946, he would certainly have been Captain, U.S.N., by now . . . like Finlander.
Larsen’s eyes flicked from the highline to the destroyer’s bridge, which was so much lower than his own that he could look down into it. The figure in a pure white duffel coat, hunched over the bulwark and watching the operation with a casual sort of alertness, had to be Captain Finlander. The profile was hidden by the upturned collar and when he glanced up at the Tiburon Bay’s bridge, the face was shadowed by what appeared to be a long-billed fisherman’s cap. Only Finlander would be permitted such eccentricity of dress. In fact, there was something eccentric about such a high-ranking officer being captain of a mere destroyer instead of a missile cruiser or super-carrier — as Larsen would have preferred for himself. But they said that Finlander badgered his superiors into keeping him at sea on the cans, that he loved them with a passion, that he was a superlative seaman who became intransigent and morose on routine shoreside assignments. No doubt a fine seaman was necessary to command a ship in these arctic waters, and perhaps a full captain was necessary because it was such a critical area in the cold war — but a man like that had to be somewhat mad, or childishly romantic, to deliberately seek such an assignment. College or no college, Larsen would have made a less flamboyant, more flexible Captain, U.S.N.
Lieutenant Commander Porter made it over to the Bedford without being dunked and was received by a crew fewer and far more silent in their work than those aboard the Tiburon Bay. With smooth efficiency they had the outgoing mail sacks on their way within a minute. Captain Larsen cocked his hooded head away from the biting breeze, watched them for a moment, then checked the fuel hoses swaying from their whips and saddles — “the teats of your fat sea cow,
” Munceford had cracked about them yesterday when they refueled the Fritiof Nansen off Cape Farewell. Well — the Tiburon Bay was a plodding sea cow, maybe, but the glamorous destroyers could not operate so long and so far from their bases without her. If she failed to show up and nurse them on schedule, they would have to limp home on two boilers, leaving the northeast approaches to the American continent open to probes by Soviet submarines and spy trawlers. So it actually all depended as much on a lowly sea cow and her Commander, U.S.N.R., as it did on ships like the Bedford and her Captain, U.S.N. Finlander might make admiral in due time, while Larsen never could surmount his reserve rank. But he did stand in line to become Vice-President in Charge of Marine Operations for Standard Oil eventually . . . and that job paid $25,000 per annum, plus bonuses, which in turn would put both his sons through M.I.T. with plenty to spare. Then the navy would beg him to have them accept regular commissions — something he would be most cagey about!
“Sir — Lieutenant Hirschfeld is logged aboard and wishes to speak to the captain.”
Larsen turned from watching the refueling operation to glance over his shoulder at his executive officer and a man standing next to him wearing nothing but a thin windbreaker and an ordinary cap as protection against the raw cold of the bridge. He was a dark, brooding-looking young man with a hooked nose and heavy black eyebrows arched over it. Handsome in a Jewish way, but the lines around his eyes and mouth suggested a permanently troubled personality.
“You some kind of fresh-air fiend, Lieutenant?” Larsen asked him, then turned his head away from a salute, not out of rudeness, but because he had to keep his eyes on the fueling of the Bedford.
“My heavy gear will be over shortly, sir,” Hirschfeld answered. “Can’t wear too much padding under an immersion suit.”
Larsen grunted.
“Sir, I am sorry to disturb you at this time,” Hirschfeld continued, “but Captain Finlander ordered me to report to you immediately.”
Larsen looked toward the Bedford’s bridge and noticed that the figure in the white duffel had a pair of binoculars aimed right at them; at that short distance he could no doubt almost read their lips. “Why, Lieutenant?” he asked.
Hirschfeld spoke as if it were an entirely routine matter, without urgency or emotion. “I am to report, sir, that for the past five days I have been relieved of my duties as surgeon of the U.S.S. Bedford and confined to quarters. Captain Finlander requests that this status be continued for me aboard the Tiburon Bay and that I have nothing but necessary official contacts with officers and men under your command until I am put ashore at Portsmouth.”
Larsen turned around and stared at him. “You are under arrest?”
“Confined to quarters pending a board of inquiry, sir.”
“Inquiry into what, Mr. Hirschfeld?”
“Captain Finlander has ordered me not to discuss the case, which he has placed under maximum security, sir.”
Captain Larsen looked back at the Bedford’s bridge and saw the glint of binocular lenses still trained on them. “Take the conn, Mr. Wilburforce!” he snapped to his executive officer, then pushed his way past the two men to go over to the telephone talker. “Get me the captain of the Bedford, please.”
The young quartermaster spoke into his instrument and after a moment informed Larsen: “Sir, the executive officer says that Captain Finlander is busy and unable to talk to you at this time.”
Larsen’s customary grunt became an angry snarl. “Give me that phone, son!” He pulled the headset off the man’s head and stuffed one cup inside his hood to press it against his ear. “This is Captain Larsen speaking,” he said into the microphone. “I am also extremely busy at the moment and, I do believe, engaged in the same mission as Captain Finlander. But I trust my exec enough so I can speak on the phone for a minute or two without expecting to founder. I hope Captain Finlander has matters well enough in hand to do likewise.”
The voice on the other end of the line was not in the least fazed by this cutting sarcasm. It remained evenly courteous. “Good afternoon, Captain Larsen. This is Commander Allison, executive officer, speaking. If you wait one moment, I will check again with Captain Finlander.”
Larsen could still see the Bedford’s bridge by standing on tiptoe and could pick out her exec as he poked his head out of the wheelhouse and evidently called to the shape in the white duffel. There was no visible reaction from the latter. A few seconds later the courteous voice came back: “I am sorry, Captain Larsen, but Captain Finlander regrets he is unable to speak to you unless it is an urgent tactical or navigational matter. However, I suppose you are actually calling about Lieutenant Hirschfeld, sir?”
Even to an easygoing reserve officer, this was a gross breach of naval etiquette, and if it had not been for his long indoctrination in rudeness aboard unionized merchant ships, Larsen would probably have lost his temper completely. But sardonic humor was his principal and most deadly weapon. “Well, yes, Commander,” he answered in a chatty tone. “I am given to understand that the man has committed a crime. Of course, the Tiburon Bay is perfectly accustomed to acting as a convict ship for the destroyer fleet, but our chief executioner’s mate becomes confused if he is not given a bill of particulars to govern the treatment of individual criminals in his custody.”
The voice from the Bedford remained unfazed. “I see your point, Captain Larsen. The case is really not as sinister as Lieutenant Hirschfeld’s attitude might indicate. You may still treat him as an officer and gentleman, sir.”
“Ah! Then he’s only committed a misdemeanor. Perhaps a little mischief our medical officers are likely to get into, like supplementing their income by engaging in illegal operations, or pushing narcotics in the ward room, or watering the skipper’s supply of medicinal brandy?”
“Well — it’s not exactly a joking matter either, Captain,” the commander told him, a certain annoyance creeping into his tone.
“I’m only an unsubtle tanker captain, Commander. If it is neither a sinister nor a joking matter, you leave me dangling in confusion.”
Commander Allison’s voice was suddenly coldly official. “The matter involves medical practice rather than naval discipline, Captain Larsen. As such, it is beyond the concern of officers of the line and therefore should not be a matter of discussion between us. I believe Lieutenant Hirschfeld himself agrees with this. Certainly it is the wish of Captain Finlander that it be treated in that way, and I respectfully submit that you comply with his judgment in the case.”
“O-oh! I see! That clears it all up for me,” Larsen exclaimed, making a wry grimace. “My compliments to Captain Finlander and my thanks to you, Commander. Out.” He pulled the earphone out from under his hood and thrust the instrument back to the talker. Turning around, he found himself facing the young surgeon, who had evidently been standing directly behind him throughout the conversation. The captain looked searchingly into the tense face, then smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, you are welcome aboard this ship, Mr. Hirschfeld. If you choose to confine yourself to your cabin and not socialize with my officers, that’s your business and we’ll presume you have good reasons. Either way, we’ll give you the benefit of doubt. In the meanwhile, there’s coffee in the chartroom, so why don’t you go in there and thaw out?”
A trace of a grateful smile passed over Hirschfeld’s lips. “Thank you, sir.” He started to move toward the wheelhouse, but hesitated momentarily and said: “It is only fair for me to warn you, Captain, that I’m going to resign from the navy as soon as I get back Stateside.”
Wilburforce heard him and stared at him as if he were mad, but Captain Larsen only nodded and took the coon back from his executive officer.
The Tiburon Bay and the Bedford plowed on at a steady fifteen knots, the big ship heaving with a cumbersome motion as she rose and fell with the swells, the smaller one stamping her forefoot with a nervous, coltish action. The breeze ruffling the surface of those swells was less than Force 1, a mere zephyr wafting down from the north whi
ch made the slightly warmer ocean steam with patches of sea smoke. Low banks of fog still compressed the horizon, which had lost its shimmering pearl-gray color and become darker as the short arctic day faded into a gloomy twilight. A ragged patch in the overcast glowed a mysterious amber color for a few moments as it caught the devious rays of a sun setting beyond the pall of scud to the southwest.
Oil flowed from the Tiburon Bay’s vast tanks into the bunkers of the Bedford, throbbing through the hoses at a rate of better than two tons per minute. The highline swung containers of fresh dairy produce across to the destroyer in hundred-gallon and hundred-pound lots — milk, eggs, butter and ice cream, all less than a week away from Rhode Island farms. Back and forth over the wild trench of water hurtling between the two ships the sling traveled, conveying forty twelve-pound rib roasts, seventy crates of vegetables, twenty-eight hams, a hundred pounds of pork sausage, two hundred and eight pounds of coffee, a bundle of magazines, fifteen full-length feature movies, a case full of fragile transistors and radio tubes, the replacement armature for a burned-out auxiliary generator, seventeen cases of toilet paper, two hundred and forty pounds of soap, two ten-gallon cans of cola syrup, a case of chewing gum, Lieutenant Commander Porter’s Valpack, Munceford’s duffel bag and camera case. . . . Finally, there was Munceford himself, jerking across with his camera stiffly pressed to his face as he registered a wildly swaying scene of his transfer through spray-splattered optics.
It was at this moment that Captain Larsen was jolted by the muffled clanging of the Bedford’s General Quarters alarm, the sound suddenly penetrating the intervening forty feet of hissing sea. Even as the significance of it was penetrating his brain, the bullhorn on the destroyer’s bridge blared at him:
“Now hear this, Tiburon Bay! We have detected a high-frequency radar emission upon us. Break off operation at once! Break off operation at once!”
The Bedford Incident Page 3
