“As you have heard from the talk on the Bedford’s bridge, strange things are going on aboard this ship. Even as the captain and the executive officer lay their plans to trap the Russian submarine they call Moby Dick, there are cross-currents of guilt and conflict. It is a detached world of its own, this world of the Bedford. A little lost world at war, detached from the rest of the world at peace.”
Munceford stopped the tape, rolled it back and listened to himself. What he said sounded trite and melodramatic, but still he did not erase it. Instead he thought to add to his commentary, but the words would not flow and he found himself sitting there with his mouth open, the tape rolling and nothing but the throb of the turbines being recorded. But in spite of his ineptness, this accidentally became a dramatic pause to emphasize the sudden shrill sound of the bosun’s pipe as it blasted through the PA speaker on the bulkhead; instinctively he turned the mike toward it.
“This is the captain speaking!” Finlander’s voice crackled through, its tone well modulated, yet with just the right touch of intensity. “I know all hands are weary and disgusted right now, and thinking that the efforts of the last two days have been in vain. Maybe some of you even believe that Moby Dick has been deliberately making fools of us and those Commies are laughing as they hear us retreat with nothing but another petty humiliation to heap on the many endured by our country in this cold war. Personally, I doubt it. They have too little clean air left for a good laugh. But if they believe we’re running with our tails between our legs, so much the better because it will make them careless. And if you believe it, that’s all right too, because then it will make you mad enough to stick this out till hell freezes over — which it looks to me like it’s about to do outside right now! In any case, I’m turning this ship around in a few minutes and am going to close in on Moby Dick like a cat stalking a dark alley. When our rat decides it’s safe to come out of its hole, we’ll be there to pounce. Sounds simple enough, but you all know it will mean more hours of silent stalking, of patient waiting, of uncertainty, of doubt. Well, sit tight and, above all, sit silent. I want every man, whether he is guarding a sonar receiver or watching a steam gauge or sweeping snow off a launcher, to listen, concentrate and keep his whole being so alert that this ship will tingle like a living animal of prey about to attack. if the Russians down there suspect our presence at all, let it be because they sense this, and then let’s see if they come up laughing!”
The PA circuit clicked off and Munceford kept staring up at the speaker for a long moment while his recorder ran on. Then he turned the microphone in his palm toward his own mouth and said into it: “Yes . . . a lost little world at war, complete with its own God of War who speaks to us from his Olympian tower of gray steel. Must we believe in him?”
“Do you believe in him?” a voice broke in with a jarring sneer.
Munceford jumped around in his chair and felt himself flushing scarlet as he saw Commodore Schrepke standing in the doorway, icy brine running off his skin and black leather. He had obviously been there throughout the captain’s speech, perhaps longer, watching and listening. Now he stepped into the wardroom, checked the empty Thermos, then turned on Munceford with a look of contempt tinged with sardonic amusement. “Do you believe in him?” he asked again.
“I . . . I don’t know,” Munceford stammered.
Schrepke moved in on him and stood swaying with the roll of the ship, pawing at the folds of his jacket to reach the flask in his hip pocket.
“You don’t know?” he repeated, mimicking his uncertain tone.
“Then why do you blather such unmitigated nonsense into your machine? You think it something inspirational to go with your pictures of brave sailors and their sturdy man-of-war, no doubt. Something to fertilize the seeds of patriotism among your grubbing burghers at home, eh? So they pay their taxes more willingly and cheer the parades more loudly and listen more devoutly to the bellicose speeches of their politicians, eh? Ah, yes! Otherwise they might forget our cold war out here and become too preoccupied with the hot business of buying for less and selling for more. . . . But if you don’t know whether you believe in it, how can you do a proper job?”
“It’s just a story, that’s all.”
“Oh, just a story, eh?” Schrepke retorted and took a quick pull from his flask. After the alcohol had seared his throat, his voice took on a frightening rasping quality. “I have often noticed how you correspondents treat everything just as a story. Stories to be peopled by your own pet goblins, giants, dwarfs, and frogs who are princes, and rich old kings who trade in fairy princesses. Yes, indeed, these are your stories!” He took another drink, then stuffed the flask back into his pocket. “You terrify or inspire or delude your people with these stories, yet you yourself don’t know whether you believe in them or not. Does this not strike you as stupid?”
“Well, all right, Commodore! Now that you’ve finally decided to talk to me, go ahead and give your version of the truth,” Munceford urged, edging the microphone toward him. “I represent a free press, you know. All opinions are welcome.”
Schrepke suddenly became aware that the recorder was still running and had taken down everything he had just said. His face twitched with a shock of fury, his fist came up, then swung down, crashing into the table as if it were encased in mail instead of leather. But as quickly as he had reacted, Munceford had been quicker, yanking his precious tape recorder out of the way of the smashing blow. “Thank you, sir!” he exclaimed, pressing the instrument protectively against his chest. “Thank you! That was a very eloquent — and a very German — expression of opinion.”
Schrepke’s fist cocked again, but this time he hesitated, although he could doubtless have knocked the correspondent senseless. Then a violent roll, indicating that the Bedford was turning, threw him off balance and he suddenly needed both hands to brace himself against the table. As the ship recovered her equilibrium, so did he his temper. “What do you know of German opinion?” he coldly demanded. “Is your knowledge based on the horror stories fed you in the kindergarten of your trade? Concentration camps, U-boats and goose-stepping legions — these are the things which mean Germany to you, not so?”
Munceford had twisted himself out of the chair and sprung toward the door, where he stopped now, poised to escape if the German officer gave any further signs of violence. “Those things seem more on your own mind than anybody else’s,” he taunted him.
“Indeed they are!” Schrepke answered with a bitter laugh. “And many more like them. Such as trapped men dying in crushed submarines, cities being incinerated in fire storms and defeated armies herded into the victor’s barracoons. I could add many details to your horror stories, my poor little unblooded sanguinary war correspondent! All kinds of personally experienced horrors except one — the ultimate nuclear horror which has become the exclusive province of my former enemies and judges! The irony of this escapes you, I’m sure, but it is nevertheless there. Here am I, a German officer born under Kaiser Wilhelm and weaned by Adolf Hitler, yet so inhibited in a game which you Americans and Russians indulge in with all the cruel juvenile relish of children playing at war. . . . Is your machine still recording all this nicely for you? The sounds of a German pouring ashes on his head sells very well, after all!”
Munceford frowned as he fumbled with his tape recorder, his violent evasive action of a few moments ago having temporarily indisposed it. “If the way things are handled on the Bedford has you so upset, Commodore, why don’t you do something about it?” he asked testily.
Wolfgang Schrepke snatched a sandwich and slumped into the chair vacated by Munceford. There was suddenly a weary resignation in his demeanor as he shrugged off the question. “If you can’t make up your mind whether or not you believe in Captain Finlander, then I suggest you interview Commander Porter instead of me. That should confuse your addled brain even more, my friend!” He chuckled and shook his head. “Finlander and Porter! There is a fascinating study in opposing archetypes of your peculiar Amer
ican military! . . . One the vainglorious, benevolent martinet who despises weakness, yet feeds his own strength upon it, consuming his subordinates like an inspired cannibal; the other, the plodding officer-intellectual who charts his course by rectitude and platitude, horrified by a colleague as ruthless as Finlander, yet attaching himself to him with the loyalty of a barnacle. Another irony over your head, eh? Ah, well . . . das macht nichts aus!” He took a bite out of the sandwich and, abruptly dismissing Munceford’s presence from his consciousness, sank into a brooding contemplation.
Not even by Finlander himself had Munceford’s intelligence been so insulted, yet the old defensive belligerence did not boil up, which indicated that his mind had also been stimulated. In spite of himself, the taciturn commodore had just bared his breast to him, allowing a revealing glimpse of the seething beneath the disciplined exterior. Munceford at least understood that Schrepke would not have done this had he not been in a state of extreme alarm over something. Over his cloistered isolation on this ship? Not likely, since it was largely self-imposed; anyway, that hard character was sufficient unto itself. Then it had to be over this action against Moby Dick! His mind groped with urgent questions he wanted to ask the German, sincere questions, yet he was defeated by the barrier between them. But there could be no sop for his curiosity now. If this man would not satisfy it, then somebody else! Commander Porter! Yes, that had been a good suggestion, perhaps more deliberate than facetious. Because they both knew that Porter was the weakest link in Finlander’s chain of command.
It was with a quickening realization that time was running out that Munceford shoved his recorder into its case and left the wardroom. The vibrations of the turbines had dropped to a bare tremor and the motion of the Bedford eased with a distinct change of rhythm which indicated she had turned her stern to the seas. The final run on Moby Dick had started! He knew he could not change the course of events, but he ran down the passageway as if he could.
The surgeon had finished setting the cook’s broken arm and curtly ordered him into sick bay in spite of his eager protestations about being fit for duty. Chief McKinley escorted the disgruntled man out of surgery as he angrily brandished his splinted arm to show it did not bother him at all. Pharmacist Engstrom laughed and said something about “crazy seacooks” as he started cleaning up the debris of plaster and bandages around the operating table; he looked up with surprise when Ben Munceford came bursting through the blackout curtain. “You’re too late if you’ve come to cover our only casualty in this battle,” he greeted him.
“Yeah? Well, it doesn’t look like it’s over yet,” Munceford answered. “Maybe more people will get hurt before we’re through.”
“It’ll be those Commie pigboatmen, in that case,” Engstrom scoffed.
Lieutenant Commander Porter gave Munceford a hostile look and retreated into the receiving office, there to escape in the paperwork which the navy appended even to simple operations like the one he had just performed. When he saw that Munceford insisted on following him, he snapped: “So what do you want?”
“Listen, Chester. I know we never hit it off, but I’d like to talk to you.”
“About what?” the surgeon asked with complete disinterest.
“Well . . . things. The Bedford. The way this Moby Dick affair is working out. Frankly, I’m confused as hell and need your help.”
“What’s the matter, Ben?” Porter asked acidly. “Is the hot-shot TV reporter losing his grip?”
“I’m not so hot. I’ve found that out on this trip.”
The surgeon gave him a curious, surprised look, then sighed. “So don’t let it get you. Finlander cuts us all down to size sooner or later.”
“Yeah. I heard him cut you to yours a while ago.”
Porter stiffened and glared stonily down at the top of his desk, but he said nothing.
“All right, don’t get sore,” Munceford continued. “He polished me off too. And I’m sure he must have raked Commodore Schrepke worse than either of us, because he just blew his top to me a few minutes ago. Became about as human as his iron-assed kind ever can. The point is, Schrepke not only outranks Finlander, but he’s got enough experience in this business to be able to tell whether it’s being run right or wrong; you’ve got to hand him that much, no matter what you think of him. It all adds up to something lousing up this well-oiled war machine. What?”
The surgeon continued to stare down at the desk. “The captain and commodore did have a disagreement over whether or not to break off this action,” he cautiously admitted.
“You heard it?”
“Yes. I was present.” A shudder at the recollection loosened his reserve and he added with feeling: “It was the worst blow-up I’ve ever been involved in on a navy bridge.”
“So you were involved. And I get the idea Schrepke expected you to back him up. But you didn’t.”
Porter tried to cover a flinch by looking up sharply. “I am an American naval officer, damn it!”
Munceford slipped the tape recorder out of its case. “Would you like to hear what Schrepke says you are?” he asked. When he received no answer, he put the recorder on the desk, switched it on, rewound the tape a few feet, then played it back. Porter listened silently, the muscles of his jaws twitching beneath the pale skin as the Germanic English rasped at him out of the plastic box.
“. . . the plodding officer-intellectual who charts his course by rectitude and platitude . . .”
When Schrepke’s voice faded out, Munceford held out the microphone and switched over to RECORD. “Do you have any comment, Commander?” he pointedly asked.
The surgeon stared at the microphone as if it were the head of a cobra. His lips pressed together and his head shook angrily, but there was something like desperation in his eyes.
“Come on!” Munceford wheedled. “Isn’t it the opinion of at least two of the better brains aboard that things are being pushed beyond a very dangerous point? That a hell of a lot more is at stake than the pride of an American and a Commie captain? Aren’t you one of the Bedford’s officers who believe this?”
Porter’s lips remained tightly sealed, but his head was suddenly nodding instead of shaking. His body was beginning to sag, as if caving in under the weight of the truth. Munceford pressed in on him, brandishing the microphone in his face. “You do believe it! Then say so, for God’s sake! I believe it too, so it won’t be only you and the German against everybody else on this crazy ship. But we’ve got to get together on it. We’ve got to get it on record — okay?” He was about to grab the surgeon by the shoulder and shake him when he was diverted by a sharp voice behind him.
“Shall I heave this character out, sir?” It was Engstrom, standing in the doorway of the receiving office with an angry, perplexed expression on his face.
Ben Munceford straightened up and felt a cold pang of frustration, but he swung the microphone toward him and announced with a sarcastic tone: “Ah, here is Pharmacist’s Mate Engstrom, a man who is not so shy about expressing himself. So what is your opinion about this action, Mr. Pharmacist’s Mate? Go ahead and tell us!”
“Sure!” Engstrom hissed belligerently, then cut loose a torrent. “I say it’s a tough enough deal out here without having some mealy-mouthed civilian trying to put doubts in our minds about it all and making us think it’s wrong what we’re doing. We’re chasing a god-damned Red spy sub on our side of the ocean, and that’s good enough for me and ought to be good enough for you besides being god-damned grateful somebody’s doing the job for you so you’re free to run around and shoot your mouth off — okay, smart guy?”
Munceford’s freckles rippled under a grin which was almost genuine.
“Now, there’s a loud and simple opinion if I’ve ever heard one,” he exclaimed and turned back to Porter. “It should inspire the commander to put in his own two cents’ worth.”
“Shall I heave this character out, sir?” Engstrom again asked his CO, this time stepping into the office with his arms flexing for act
ion. There was something pathetically frightening about the skinny, bespectacled boy’s ferociousness, and it seemed to jolt the surgeon out of his daze. He reached out and put his hand over the microphone Munceford was pointing at him and said:
“Never mind, Engstrom. I can handle it. You go back to your station.” He waited until the pharmacist’s mate had reluctantly backed out of the door, then took his hand off the microphone. His haggard face wrinkled into a pained frown of concentration as his lips soundlessly rehearsed the words he was groping for.
Munceford tensed as he waited for him to speak, wondering whether the man was at last ready to muster the courage of his convictions and openly condemn Finlander’s vendetta against Moby Dick. It would come too late to influence the immediate events, but at least it would give some real substance to this story. He would no longer be just a hack. “So come on, Commander. You almost got it off your chest a moment ago. So do it now!”
Lieutenant Commander Porter tore his eyes away from the microphone and looked directly into Munceford’s face.
“As a doctor,” he began, articulating his words carefully, “my doubts and fears over this action are medical. Psychosomatic, really. The crew of this ship are torn by conflicting emotional stresses which far exceed those of any ordinary peacetime patrol. The necessity to savagely and relentlessly exert their power as fighters creates a hate syndrome; their natural revulsion over having to act contrary to deeply ingrained American permissive instincts creates a guilt complex. This is nothing new for Americans at war, of course, only we are not at war. The natural release of war’s tremendous pressures — killing — is denied. Frustration builds and compounds the pressure until it begins to make men unpredictably aggressive, withdrawn, volatile, lethargic . . . in psychiatric terms, they are aggravating latent aberrations without recourse to normal checks and balances. . . .”
The Bedford Incident Page 25
