The executive officer went to the communication panel and picked up the phone; after a minute’s conversation he hung up and informed the captain: “Mr. Spitzer reports all readouts negative . . . except one whale which they picked up twenty minutes ago, now bearing zero-five-eight at two-zero-five-zero yards, making six knots on a northeasterly heading, sir. By the way, Queffle is on the MTS.”
Finlander made a gesture of mock anger over having been deprived of catching the Bedford’s underwater-detection experts flatfooted, then he laughed. “Very good! Nothing much gets by our boy Queffle. . . . Mr. Harwell! Compliment the masthead lookouts on their alertness and accurate range estimation. No! Belay that! I’ll do it myself and make those boys’ day for them. Who are they?”
“Jones and Thorbjornsen, seamen second, sir.”
The captain telephoned the crow’s-nest and expressed his pleasure to the lookouts in a few tersely complimentary words. When he hung up and turned around, he found himself facing Yeoman Pinelli and Ben Munceford. He did not react at all to the camouflage jacket with its odd collection of insignia and only made an oblique hint at having seen the pratfall on the foredeck. “Good morning, Mr. Munceford. Good morning, Pinelli. Have we suffered another camera casualty this morning?”
Pinelli was still carrying the instrument and gave it a quick, confirming examination. “No, sir — only a bent sunshade and chipped paint.”
“Anything chipped or bent on you, Munceford?” Finlander inquired.
“I’ve got a pretty hard ass, Captain,” Munceford answered, managing a laugh to cover his embarrassment. The bravado did not go over at all, bringing a wrinkling of Commander Allison’s nose and a hardening glint in Finlander’s crinkly eyes.
“All right, Pinelli, you are relieved of your escort duties for the time being. I will take Mr. Munceford in tow myself.” He waited while the yeoman reluctantly returned the camera to the correspondent, acknowledged his salute, then took Munceford by the arm and steered him into a corner of the wheelhouse. When he spoke, he dropped his voice somewhat, but not so low that he could not be heard by the half-dozen men in there. “Are you really a naturally coarse man,” he asked, “or do you pretend to be because you think it makes you fit in with what you fancy to be a rough bunch of sailors?”
Munceford’s face arranged itself into a defensive pout.”I hadn’t given it any thought, Captain. I —”
“Don’t be offended, Munceford, and don’t think I am a prude,” Finlander told him, speaking like a stern but just father. “A normal amount of mild swearing is all right, but I do not permit within my hearing the kind of profane words which are vulgar vernaculars of copulation and certain bodily excretions. It’s not because they shock my sensitive nature. I have forgotten more hard language than most men on this bridge will ever learn. But the kind of expletive which came off the foredeck a few minutes ago is offensive to me because it indicates a loss of self-control — and that is something I cannot tolerate on my ship. If it takes thought and concentration to keep from senselessly cursing through a trying situation, so much the better. Thought and concentration are the crux of this operation. Self-control is essential to it.”
An unwilling apology began curling off Munceford’s lips. “I’m sorry I offended you, but —”
Finlander’s severity switched back to a gruff good humor with a bewildering suddenness, the bristling brows relaxing from their rigid line, the scar on his throat fading from an ugly red. “Very good, Munceford! This is, after all, part of the necessary background material for your story about us, so don’t take it too personally. Have you found any good picture material yet?”
“Well, I was going to shoot some of the garbage collecting, but...”
The captain waved a hand to indicate that he disapproved of that subject matter. He looked around for his executive officer and called him over. “Buck! It’s such an unusually fine day that I think we should organize a ball game on the fantail later this morning when the light is best for photography. Would you speak to Mr. Ralston about it, please.” Turning back to Munceford, he said: “Now, that should interest the TV viewers, don’t you agree? A volleyball game on a destroyer cruising near the arctic circle in the dead of winter! The kind of thing which shows the high morale of our forces, right? If the boys can play ball, they’ve got the situation well in hand, right?”
If Munceford had not been so angry over the lecture on profanity, he might have detected a subtly ironic overtone in the captain’s voice and noticed a sly glint in the deep-set eyes. But now he became even angrier because Finlander was turning out to fancy himself an amateur movie director — one of his pet hates. “I guess there must be a couple of million feet of film of servicemen playing volleyball all over the world, Captain,” he told him.
“Precisely!” Finlander exclaimed, seemingly too pleased with himself to take notice of the disgusted tone. “And we’ll show the Bedford has one of the best teams. Now, let me see. What else can we line up for you, Munceford? . . . Ah, yes! Whales! Of course! Whales and volleyball. Don’t you think that would make a terrific combination for television?” This time he did not wait for an answer. He hurried over to the communications panel, pushed a button and spoke into the microphone: “CIC, this is the captain speaking. Do you still have a readout on that whale?” An affirmative answer came out of the speaker, including the range and bearing of the animal. “Very good, Mr. Spitzer. Lock on and close. Mr. Munceford would like some pictures of it and you can show him how good you are at sonar tracking at the same time. The bridge will yield the conn to CIC now.” He turned from the intercom and looked toward Lieutenant Harwell. “Did you get that, OOD?”
“Yes, sir. I’m yielding the conn to CIC for sonar tracking exercise. Steering now on automatic remote control.”
Munceford thought that he detected suppressed laughter in Harwell’s voice and suddenly became aware that everybody in the wheelhouse seemed to be holding himself in check with some difficulty. Chief Quartermaster Rickmers had turned his back on him and his shoulders appeared to be shaking convulsively; the helmsman made a weird coughing noise. All the others were deliberately averting their faces from him. Was Finlander making him the butt of a joke after having dressed him down a few moments ago? “Look here,” he loudly protested. “I like to shoot film off the cuff and candid-like, getting things the way they happen naturally. There’s no need to trouble with a lot of set-ups on my account, see.”
Finlander came over and took him by the arm, leading him toward the door to the open bridge. “I believe in making things happen,” he retorted. “Besides, it is no trouble at all. We certainly must uphold the navy’s tradition of being cooperative with the press!” As they moved out of the wheelhouse, Munceford came within a fraction of digging his heels in and resisting the captain’s pull, but something warned him to be careful and he reluctantly allowed himself to be guided to the forward windscreen. “The whale will soon appear close ahead of us,” Finlander told him, selecting a position and pointing him in the right direction. “All you’ve got to do is to have your camera ready, keep alert and wait.” With that he hurried back into the wheelhouse, leaving Munceford alone there, staring at the empty sea.
He did not really believe that any whale would appear at all and strongly suspected that he was being made the victim of an elaborate practical joke — like sending a “boot” on a mission to procure feathers for a crow’s-nest. But it was not the prospect of such a joke which disturbed him so much; in spite of his self-esteem, he had steeled himself to take a certain amount of ribbing. It was being publicly dressed down for his language and then told how to shoot his story which rankled; the icy breeze sweeping over the bridge could not cool his burning resentment over this. To make matters worse, for the first time in his stormy career he felt that he was at the mercy of an absolute authority without any possibility of telling him to go to hell and then quitting forthwith — his preferred technique for coping with such a situation.
Whales and volleyba
ll! Did Finlander really think he would be pleased with such material for his story? Was he going to interfere like this throughout the assignment? Munceford had experienced self-appointed movie directors before, the kind who wanted to produce the whole show as well as star in it. He had had some rough dealings with such people, including some important ones like a U.S. Senator, a Mormon bishop and a captain of industry who considered himself as unassailable as any captain of the navy. A distorted camera angle, a quote edited out of context — these were formidable weapons in the hands of a disgruntled television correspondent. Of course, the aggrieved subjects could and did retaliate, which had something to do with why Ben Munceford only found himself on assignments which were too inconvenient or risky for the more established reporters to cover. Like crawling out on a fortieth-floor ledge to interview a prospective suicide, or making a delayed-drop parachute jump with the paramedics for the sake of a few feet of spectacular film. News directors could occasionally use such a man to liven up the routine work of the precociously dignified, status-conscious “commentator-analysts” who had lately taken over the field. Not too often and always on speculation with no prior commitment, of course — all of which suited Ben Munceford fine. No boss, no strings, no pussy-footing home office, everything strictly on a take-it-or-leave-it and go-to-hell basis. But could he make it work here on the Bedford?
His eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of a swirl ahead of the ship. He left the spot Finlander had assigned him and walked out to the wing of the bridge where a lookout was stationed. “Say, sailor!” Munceford said to him. “Is there really a whale somewhere out there?”
The seaman neither turned nor took his eyes off the quadrant of ocean he had been assigned to watch. “Excuse me, sir,” he answered. “Lookouts are only permitted to speak to the OOD while on duty.”
“Oops! My mistake!” Munceford snapped. He was about to needle the man with a sarcastic remark about the dedication of the Bedford’s crew when he heard a loud whooshing sound. He turned toward it just in time to see a large whale broach and spout no more than fifty yards ahead of the bow. The animal was badly frightened by this ship which was suddenly pursuing it and filling the protecting deep with an uproar of electronic signals; its huge fluke rose high with a cascade of spray, then vanished through the vortex of a creamy whirlpool. Munceford was jolted out of his paralyzed surprise when the lookout softly, and mockingly, exclaimed: “Thar’ she blows!”
“I’ll be damned!” Munceford yelled and belatedly raised his camera to shoot some useless footage of the fading ripples left by the sounding whale. He became aware that Captain Finlander and Commander Allison had come to the door of the wheelhouse and were watching him. “You’ve got to be quicker than that!” the captain disparagingly shouted.
Fuming, Munceford returned to his original position at the windscreen, propped his camera over the edge of it and waited for another opportunity with his finger on the trigger. All right! If this ship spent the taxpayers’ money chasing after whales, then, by God, he would see to it that they at least got a movie out of it! Volleyball and whales! Finlander’s cold war! But would they believe it?
14.
On this morning there was another young man aboard the Bedford suffering from a disturbed state of mind, the same kind of disturbance occasioned by a vacillation between anger and that peculiar kind of fear generated by injured pride; but, unlike Ben Munceford, there was no question of any lack of discipline or self-control, these qualities having been indelibly impressed upon his character throughout a spartan boyhood spent in English public school and naval college. Lieutenant P. L. M. Packer, R.N., knew how to submerge his personal troubles and at least give the outward appearance of the classically jaunty and efficient British naval officer. The human nervous system can stand only so much suppression for a given amount of time before it starts to cripple itself, but Packer’s training helped him to contain or delay this effect; he was also helped by the motto on his family crest — not one of those inscribed in the dead foreign language of Latin, but consisting of a single succinct English word: Endure. Simple, forthright and sometimes tremendously difficult to live up to. So difficult, in fact, that all male Packers seemed destined to die in the attempt. It was this family curse which was preying upon his mind this morning, not because of his own physical fear of it, but because of Shebeona’s evident decision that she was not prepared to accept the motto as her own, especially if it meant to Endure a widow’s weeds.
Lieutenant Packer had completed the coding and decoding of routine signals which constituted the Bedford’s daily contact with NATONAV 1, of transmitting the weather report, of monitoring the traffic to other scattered units of their flotilla spread so thinly over this vast ocean, of estimating the schedule of even skimpier air patrols by intercepting and deciphering position reports on the NATOAVIAN frequency. All business to do with NATO signals was his responsibility, but since this was only a small part of the Communications Center work, it took only a couple of hours of his time each day. Everything else was handled by Lieutenant Andrew S. Beeker and his smoothly efficient staff of radio specialists, which meant that Packer had much time left over in which to brood about the navy he loved and his beloved who hated it.
“Anything exciting I can help you with?” Packer asked Beeker, poking his head inside the EDA room, which housed the high-frequency direction finder (HUFF-DUFF) and multiplex emission sensors (MEESSPLEX) .
“No, thanks, Pete. Take five.” Lieutenant Beeker almost always declined any help from Packer, who suspected he carried a latent germ of Anglophobia in his pragmatic heart. In spite of his youth and low rank, Lieutenant Andrew S. Beeker was one of the foremost radio-communications experts in the United States Navy, the author of an official text with the formidable title: Theory and Practice of Emissions Detection and Analyses in Naval Tactics. He had been born twenty-eight years ago in a slum section of Chicago, escaping by only one day from having been foreign-born, a status which would have made his Annapolis appointment virtually unattainable in spite of his extraordinary aptitudes. His parents were refugees from the Russian Revolution who had taken nearly ten years to make it from Kiev to Chicago, via Istanbul, Marseilles, Lisbon, Havana and Toronto. They had baptized him Andrei Simeonovitch Beikerman — a name which was changed in the nick of time so that he was able to enter the Naval Academy as Midshipman Andrew S. Beeker. A few friends called him Andy, but mostly he was known as The Beek — in spite of the fact that he had a rather thick, blunt Slavic nose. The Beek could receive seventy words per minute of Russian Morse and that was one of the principal reasons for his presence aboard the Bedford; that, and the fact that he could instantly recognize a Russian transmission, often identify the ship (or submarine) it originated from and pinpoint its location within a square mile with his HUFF-DUFF. The Beek would undoubtedly be a full commander within the next ten years, but that would be as far as he would go; he was, after all, nothing but a technically brilliant Russian Jew and the navy had already had its unnerving experience with one of those who reached flag rank. To Lieutenant Packer, however, Beeker was simply an American mid-westerner reared a thousand miles from blue water and in a city whose mayor had once threatened to punch King George V in the nose.
“I’d be glad to pick through the red frequencies for you,” the Englishman offered with a kind of defeated enthusiasm. He knew The Beek would only say again:
“No, thanks, Pete. Take five.”
So Packer went back to his desk in the main radio room, sat down and listened absently to the twittering Morse signals which came off the monitoring circuits, stared dully at the backs of the operators guarding their sets and finally, reluctantly, took Shebeona’s letter out of his pocket and read it for the fifteenth time since it had arrived yesterday.
Peter, darling! It was wonderful to get your letters at last, but again I had to wait too long for them. Of course it isn’t your fault — I know there are no post boxes in that beastly ocean of yours. It’s simply that the waiting a
nd the worrying becomes too unbearable for me and the fulfillments too elusively fleeting. I have felt the same lines eating into my face which I have seen in your mother’s and know their roots are deep in a lonely heart, far beyond the aid of cold creams and pancake makeups. Alas, my poor Peter, my love is not turning out as unselfish as hers and therefore is not worthy of you.
Alan Sternway has asked me to marry him and I have accepted. I am awfully fond of Alan — that’s all. But he will always be there and, anyway, I am told that one’s first love is only good for tender memories. These I will have of you for as long as I live. Devotedly — Shebeona.
Packer had to smooth out many wrinkles in the faintly scented pink stationery in order to read those words; last night he had angrily crumpled up the letter and almost ruined it. Now those wrinkles made him think of the lines in his mother’s face which Shebeona spoke about. It was unthinkable to him that her beauty would ever be marred by such things, yet his mother must once have been almost as beautiful. There was that wedding picture he had found in the attic to prove it; in spite of the ghastly fashions of the mid-thirties, it showed a lovely girl all aglow next to a young naval officer who looked extraordinarily like himself. Seven years remained before widowhood. Seven years which for her contained only thirty days each of fulfilled love, all the rest being the long wait while her husband’s ship cruised from one distant station to the next, moving inexorably toward that fatal rendezvous with the long rifles of the Bismarck. When the Battle of the Denmark Strait took place, Peter was less than five years old; the only man he could remember from early childhood was the one who came to tell of his father’s death. He had never really known his father, and now he wondered how well his mother had known him. And his grandmother, who had lost her husband in the Battle of Jutland — how well had she known him? Even in the long period of peace which followed the Napoleonic Wars the naval Packers had managed to get themselves killed at sea: Sir John had survived Trafalgar only to be killed in a skirmish with an American slaver, and Sir Winston had foundered in the ice of the Antarctica he had been sent to explore. . . . Could he really blame Shebeona?
The Bedford Incident Page 11
