by Jack Vance
About this time during my work at the shipyards, I learned of an army intelligence program based in Palo Alto, where qualified persons were to be instructed in the Japanese language. The program was not yet operational, but persons with previous acquaintance with Japanese would receive special consideration. Learning of this program I enrolled in evening classes at the University, where I became immersed in Japanese geography, Japanese history, Japanese culture, and of course the Japanese language, which I discovered to be complicated and difficult, not because of the grammar which is straightforward and even simple, but because the Japanese speak in idioms, which must be memorized. The written language, which can be characterized as calligraphy, is unique, perhaps at times illogical to the western mind, but at all times fascinating.
For a moment I will digress and attempt to explain the intricacies of the Japanese system of writing. There are two syllabaries, each of which includes about thirty symbols. Each symbol corresponds to a monosyllable, such as ka, ma, ne, mo, fu, and so forth. One of these syllabaries is known as katakana and is used to transcribe foreign words and names, special technical terms; it is also taught to children as their first means of writing. The other syllabary is hiragana, which is used in ordinary Japanese writing, usually in connection with the root characters, called kanji. There are many thousands of kanji; I am not sure of the exact number. They were originally derived from the Chinese, but adapted to the Japanese language, and each defines a concept. Each kanji character must be accompanied by a tail of perhaps two or three hiragana symbols to denote its grammatical function.
The Japanese are a complex folk. One of their cultural traits is an almost mystical appreciation of, and devotion to, beauty—everywhere, and in all forms. This includes the writing of the kanji, which is often accomplished by the use of brushes and ink*.
There were eight of us in the class, but I remember only two of them with any clarity: Max Knight, who worked at the University of California Press, and Mary Chapman, the eighteen-year-old daughter of missionaries. Mary had spent six years of her life on Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan, and already knew a smattering of Japanese. She was tall, slender, healthy and just short of pretty. Yet she carried herself with a style all her own, the elements of which were wholesome innocence, cheerfulness, artlessness, and an innate conviction that everyone she encountered was as virtuous and decent as herself. Everyone liked her, including me, although our relationship never exceeded simple friendliness—to my regret, although I made one or two perfunctory attempts. Even now I sometimes take time to wonder how her life went.
At the Kaiser shipyards I continued to work with Ted Lyon on the No. 2 crane. Every day, after we had sent off steel to the bays, there would be a wait of several minutes. I took advantage of this time to practice my Japanese calligraphy, chalking the characters on steel plates. The steel then went into the fabrication shops, where the workers no doubt wondered as to the significance of these cryptic markings. I half-expected that someday I would look up to find a pair of hard-looking gentlemen in black suits bearing down upon me with the intent of capturing the ringleader in a spy system. However, nothing of the sort ever occurred, and I continued to practice Japanese calligraphy without interference.
At this time Lu Watters’ Yerba Buena Orchestra was starting to attract attention. On Monday nights, the band rehearsed at an isolated roadhouse high up in the hills above Oakland known as The Big Bear*. I attended these sessions as often as I could manage, often in company with my friend Don Matthews, and with my current lady-friend. As I think back, I can only marvel at what intensely romantic evenings these were. When the Yerba Buena jazz band became popular, playing five nights a week at the famous and fabulous Dawn Club, I was there as often as not, standing in front of the bandstand, letting the music blow my hair back. The band subsequently moved to Hambone Kelly’s in El Cerrito, a town to the north of Berkeley. The personnel included Lu Watters and Bob Scobey on trumpets, Turk Murphy on trombone, Bob Helm on clarinet, Wally Rose on piano, Clancy Hayes or sometimes Harry Mordecai on banjo, Dick Lammi on tuba and Bill Dart on drums, all of whom rank in the highest echelon of jazz musicians.
In the spring of 1942 my friends Don Matthews, Jim Tierney and Jerry Edelstein all graduated from the university. Don married Sally Lee, and later they worked for Kaiser in the front office. Sally’s friend Betty married a fellow named Glen Slaughter. During the summer Glen and Betty approached me and asked if I was in the market for a car. I was, so they sold me a Cadillac sedan for $400. Later they jeered at me, and made as if they had cut a fat hog in the ass. The Cadillac, however, functioned flawlessly and I had no complaints.
My friend Jack Hart lived in an apartment on Ellsworth Street in Berkeley. We arranged that he should drive me to work one week, and the next week I would drive him to work. It seemed a logical procedure, but half the time while I waited for a ride, Jack Hart would never show up, and I had to jump in the Cadillac, drive to Ellsworth Street, wake him up, and drive like mad to Richmond so we could get to work on time.
One day I noticed a cornet hanging in the window of a pawn shop. I went in and bought it, and so embarked upon my lifelong effort to become a competent jazz musician, an effort in which I have had varying degrees of success.
This first cornet was pitched in the key of B, not in the usual B-flat. The postman heard me practicing, and offered to trade me his B-flat cornet for this rare B cornet. I accepted, and the B-flat is the cornet which I own to this day.
In 1943 the draft went into effect. Like everyone else, I had registered for the draft, but had been told that my work in a critical occupation placed me in a deferred classification (although for a fact, due to my rotten eyesight, I was probably 4-F anyway). A few weeks later, however, I learned that the situation had changed and that I was no longer deferred. Soon, I feared, the draft board would be calling. I thought things over for a week or two, then went to San Francisco and joined the sailors’ union. After a short period of training I received papers which certified me as an ordinary seaman. Two days later, I boarded my first ship and began my maritime career.
Chapter 4
Ship me somewhere east of Suez,
Where the best is like the worst,
Where there ain’t no Ten Commandments,
An’ a man can raise a thirst.
Rudyard Kipling
I spent the duration of the war aboard ships, first as an ordinary seaman, then as an able seaman. To say that I entered upon a new phase of my life is to utter an understatement so flagrant that the words would seem to tremble on the page. However, I will state simply that life at sea was unlike anything I had ever known or even suspected.
As a rule, seamen enjoy a great deal of spare time. I used this spare time to write, and much of what I wrote was subsequently published in one form or another*. I sold a set of fantasy stories to Hillman Publications, who issued the collection using the title The Dying Earth. I also wrote a mystery story, which was published as The Flesh Mask, and a frothy bit of foolishness to which the publisher attached a wildly misleading and inappropriate title, Isle of Peril. My original title was Bird Island, which was suggested to me by a cartoon appearing in one or another magazine. The cartoon depicted a yacht full of tourists passing a little island swarming with seagulls, pelicans, and many other species of birds. The guide, addressing the tourists, remarks: “On the right, you will notice Bird Island.”
The story generally concerns itself with the misfortunes of Rexie, a cat belonging to Mr. Coves, owner of a hotel on the island. One day Rexie is chasing a mouse; the mouse disappears around a corner. Rexie, pursuing the mouse, rounds the corner to find himself facing not the mouse but a baboon, the pet of a guest at the hotel. Rexie, though puzzled, believes that the mouse by some mysterious trickery has taken on the semblance of a baboon. With this conviction in mind, he pounces upon the baboon, hoping to dispel this peculiar illusion. But the phantasm persists, and Rexie is dealt a sound thrashing.
Yet Rexi
e persists in his belief that the baboon is the mouse in disguise, and every time he encounters the baboon he attacks this phantom creature. On each occasion he is thoroughly trounced.
By reason of these episodes, Rexie becomes disturbed and disconsolate. For solace, he sneaks down to the cellar, where Gaston the chef is ripening a vat of curds for cheese. One day Gaston, descending to the cellar, discovers Rexie indulging in a repast of the maturing cheese. The indignant chef seizes Rexie and hurls him into the middle of the vat. Rexie is forced to swim to the edge of the vat and flees upstairs, sodden with sour-smelling curds.
The routines aboard every ship are the same. There are always three watches, from 4:00 to 8:00, 8:00 to 12:00, and 12:00 to 4:00. There are three men to a watch: one ordinary seaman and two able seamen. Additionally, there are a bosun (or boatswain, or bo’sun), a day-man (who works eight-hour shifts), and a carpenter. The three men take turns steering the ship, which is a rather tiresome task. The quartermaster, as the acting helmsman is known, stands in front of a compass, watches as the needle moves to one side or another, and makes appropriate adjustments with the wheel. Back in the chartroom is a device called a tattletale, which charts the ship’s deviations from its projected course. The good quartermaster’s chart will show a relatively straight line with only a few minute zigzags; mine was always the worst of the crew, and resembled an oscillogram.
The crew is divided into three groups: the deck gang, the engine room gang, and the stewards. This is not to mention the officers, who are a group apart. The crew dines in one mess hall, the officers in another, with the galley between. Everyone eats out of the same pot, as the saying goes, and the cuisine is always good. I’ve never been on a ship where the food was bad.
To ship out aboard a new ship is always an adventure, since you never can foresee the nature of the men with whom you will be spending several months of intimate association. Seamen, so I was quick to discover, are highly individualistic, if not often peculiar. It is something of a marvel that they are able to adapt to each other. This is accomplished through the use of a set of unspoken rules of conduct. When the ordinary seaman first comes aboard the ship, he is unaware of these rules, but he quickly learns them.
First coming aboard, a new arrival makes a cautious survey of the crew, trying to winnow the affable and good-natured from the surly and truculent. Some of the crewmen will seem easygoing, happy-go-lucky, good-fellows-all; others may appear to be reserved or even aloof. Yet I found that at the end of a voyage these aloof ones were often the persons whom I grew to like and respect the most, while those who seemed so agreeable turned out to be rascals.
My first ship was a C3 cargo ship. On this trip the cargo happened to be troops bound for Australia. When I first came aboard, I was informed that I must undergo a medical examination to determine my state of health. I suspected that I could not pass the eye examination, so I memorized the eye chart, which I remember to this day: E; F B; L P E D…As a result I had no problem outwitting the medics.
I drew the 4 to 8 shift, which I found to be the most desirable of the three. Deck work doesn’t start until 8 o’clock, and stops at 5 o’clock, so anyone on the 4 to 8 shift is required to put in only one hour of deck work, which is often unpleasant, dirty, and even miserable.
Arriving in Australia, our first landfall was the port of Townsville, where we discharged the troops, and where I went ashore on foreign ground for the first time. I visited a pub, where I was served Australian fish and chips and Australian beer. The authorities are extremely strict in regard to closing hours. At 5 o’clock in the afternoon the bars stop serving beer. About quarter to 5 every night occurs what is called the swill session, when everyone present lines up behind the bar and starts drinking beer as fast as possible. The bartenders at this time dispense with the beer pump; instead, they walk up and down behind the bar with hoses and spray beer into the tankards. Heaven knows who owes money and who doesn’t. In any event, I enjoyed the spectacle.
The ship returned directly to San Francisco. My next ship was a C2 cargo ship, and its destination was once again Australia. At Gladstone, a port somewhat south of Townsville, I was wandering aimlessly around the back streets and came upon a group of men standing under a lamp-post. They were playing a game they called “Two-Up”. Its rules are as follows: The first player—I will call him “A”—has two coins. The second player, whom I will call “B”, bets upon whether the coins, when tossed into the air, will come down both heads or both tails, or whether they will come down mixed. “A” then throws the coins high up in the air—ten, fifteen feet, twinkling in the lamplight, then coming down to hit the dirt. Everyone crouches to see whether “B” wins or loses. Offhand, it would seem as if this game were entirely one of chance, but these fellows practiced long hours learning how to throw these coins in such a way so as to influence how they alighted, thereby frustrating the bet. Their success with this feat seemed uncanny.
I joined the group and bet a shilling on pairs. The coins went flickering up into the lamplight, came down, struck the dirt. They were not pairs; I lost my shilling.
The next day was Sunday. A chap on my watch named Walt and I went ashore to find that the pubs were closed. We then met with an adventure which even today causes me to cringe at my own foolishness.
Walt and I encountered a young man and asked if he knew where we could buy a bottle of scotch whiskey. He told us that he himself could provide such a bottle—at a cost of £10. We each gave him £5. This fellow told us to wait where we were and disappeared into a nearby house. Walt and I waited; and we waited; and we waited. Finally we knocked on the door of the house. A little girl about nine years old opened the door. We asked what had happened to the fellow who had entered a while ago. The girl laughed. “Oh, him. He ran through and went out the back way. You won’t see him again.”
So I learned never to place my trust in the blandishments of an unknown purveyor. I now realize that this was a cheap price to pay for such a salutary precept.
While at sea, a member of the watch is required to proceed to the bow and there stand lookout. If he sees anything unusual, he must immediately notify the mate on the bridge. During the day, the first intimation of any approaching vessel is when the tip of the cargo masts show above the far horizon. Some seamen have an astonishing eyesight and are able to see these mast-tips, which are no larger than specks. This capability far exceeded my own flawed eyesight. Even when an approaching vessel seemed about ready to collide with us I might fail to take note of it. When this occurred, soon there follow a telephone call from the mate on the bridge.
“Vance, why didn’t you report that ship?”
To this I had a standard response: “The ship was in plain sight; I felt sure that you’d already seen it.”
“Of course I had seen it. From now on, report everything in sight—even if it’s nothing more than a sick seagull!”
“Yes, sir.”
Lookout at night was a lonesome and tiresome hour and twenty minutes. A passing ship would be noticed only if its running lights were visible, and at any distance these tended to merge into the atmosphere. In any case, ships in the middle of the Pacific were rare, so that excessive vigilance seemed to be something in the nature of overkill.
My third ship, which was a Liberty, was probably built by Kaiser in the yard where I had worked as a rigger. I had brought my cornet aboard with me. Whenever I stood lookout at night, I thought to put this otherwise wasted time to some useful purpose. I would bring my cornet to the bow and practice scales, arpeggios, play a tune or two, and generally strive to improve my technique.
One calm night the captain happened to be out on the bridge while I was running up and down the scales. The captain cocked his head to listen, turned to the mate and said, “What in the world is that noise?” The mate pretended to listen, and said, “It seems that Vance is practicing his cornet.” So ended my attempt to enhance my musicianship on company time.
The Katarina crew included two individuals o
f notable quality and strange dispositions—or perhaps there were three, if laughingly, and with modesty, I include myself. The first was the captain, Karl Reisendorf, and the second was Gerald Britt, the bosun.
Capt. Reisendorf reminded me in certain respects of Eric Freitag, the Western-Knapp superintendent, perhaps because both demonstrated traces of a Teutonic background. Captain Reisendorf was about fifty years old, burly and stalwart but not at all fat; his dark hair was cut en brosse in a style like that of a Prussian Junker. He carried himself with what I shall describe as austere deliberation. He was uncommunicative, and when he spoke, he used terse, gruff sentences in response to which any question or doubt was unthinkable, much as if Moses were to ask God to please repeat the Third Commandment, since Moses wanted to be sure that he had everything straight, and could God perhaps speak a bit more slowly and carefully, if he did not mind.
On first knowing Capt. Reisendorf he would seem portentous and grim. As the voyage proceeded, however, the full scope of his character became evident. It turned out that he had a practical and even rather casual philosophy, to wit: If the thing works, don’t fix it. His theories were distinctly his own, and if the world did not like them, the world knew what it could do. When finally we left the ship in Charleston, South Carolina, I had come to admire and even revere this doughty captain.
Initially, the Katarina sailed through the Golden Gate and out into the Pacific. The typical speed of a Liberty ship was about eight or nine knots, and voyages tended to be of considerable duration. In due course we arrived at Ulithi Atoll. We entered the lagoon through the pass and dropped anchor and awaited further orders. Around this time I developed a severe toothache, apparently in one of my wisdom teeth. A navy boat picked me up and took me to a navy hospital ship. There a navy dentist pulled out the ailing tooth, and for good measure he took out my other wisdom teeth as well. This dentist was extremely efficient, and I have the navy to thank for this particular item of dental surgery, all at no cost.
