Williwaw

by Gore Vidal

  “They have a fine old Russian church there, don’t they?” asked the Chaplain.

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Very interesting, these old churches. I suppose one can’t go in the church here.”

  “I think it’s locked until the war’s over,” said Evans. “The priest was evacuated.”

  “Such a pity,” the Chaplain complained. “I should like to have seen it.”

  Duval and his assistants came up from the engine room. The first assistant, a short heavy man, was splattered with grease.

  “What’s the matter?” Evans asked.

  “Just a little trouble with the auxiliary again. It’ll be O.K. I think. Just go easy on them winches. I been up since five working on this damned thing.” Duval gestured with his hands. Bervick wondered when he had left Olga.

  “Good morning, Bervick,” said Duval genially. “Did you sleep well last night?”

  Without answering Bervick left the salon and went in the galley. He could hear the Major murmur words of surprise and he could hear Evans change the subject.

  Martin joined Bervick in the wheelhouse. “What’s bothering you?” He asked. “You aren’t still sore at the Chief because of that Norwegian animal?”

  “Maybe I am. That’s my business.”

  “You’re acting like a half-wit. Before you know it, the Chief’ll get Evans to throw you off the boat.”

  “That’s fine by me. I don’t know if I want to be around that guy.” Bervick gave the bulkhead a vicious poke. “You’re getting a little crazy in the head.”

  Bervick shrugged. “I’m not the only one, I guess.” “Well, you better not bother the Chief very much or there’ll be some real trouble one of these days. Anyway I can’t see how you managed to get so hot and bothered over Olga.”

  “That’s my business.”

  Martin looked at Bervick and saw that there were harsh lines about his mouth. He was fingering his long hair.

  “I guess it is,” said Martin finally.

  Evans came whistling into the wheelhouse. He was followed by a Captain, the Assistant Superintendent of the harbor.

  “Are we sailing?” asked Martin.

  Evans nodded. “Just as soon as the Captain here gives us clearance.”

  “The weather...?”

  “According to the Navy,” said the Captain, examining some papers in his hand, “according to the Navy you will encounter heavy weather near the Agan cape. Twenty-foot sea at the worst. Fair visibility and not too much wind. Of course you realize at this time of year anything can happen.”

  “There are no planes leaving, are there?” asked Evans.

  The Captain shook his head. “Not for a week anyway. This is about the quickest trip for the Major.” He handed Evans an envelope. “Here’s your clearance and the weather report in detail. See you on your way back.” The Captain left.

  “Were off,” said Martin. He looked out over the still harbor. “I guess it will be a good trip. Hope so, anyway.”

  Evans looked at the gray sky. “There’s a lot of snow up there. Go tell the Major that he can’t fly. He wanted to know.”

  Martin and Bervick went below together. They found the Major in the salon, filing his nails. He looked inquiringly at them.

  “No planes leaving, sir,” said Martin. “They’re still weathered in.”

  “Well, that is too bad.” The Major seemed cheerful. Bervick decided that Major Barkison liked the idea of a three-day trip. “Will we leave soon?”

  “Right away.”

  “Good.”

  Bervick and Martin met the Chaplain in the companionway. The Chaplain was not particularly pleased at the idea of a boat trip, but he decided to be hearty and take it like a good sport. “Well, that will be nice. I have always wanted to do this sort of thing. We never were near the ocean in Maryland. That is, Maryland was near, or rather on, the ocean, but we weren’t. This’ll be quite an experience for a landsman.”

  “It will,” said Martin.

  “I hope I shan’t have a repeat performance....”

  “Not if you eat plenty of crackers. Will you excuse us, Chaplain?”

  “Of course.”

  They could hear Evans ringing Stand By. Together they went out on deck. The men on watch were already there.

  “How do you want to go?” Martin shouted to Evans in the wheelhouse. Evans put his head out the window.

  “Let everything go at once!”

  Two seamen from one of the power barges stood by their lines on the dock.

  “O.K.,” said Martin. “Cast off.” The crew began to pull in the lines. Bervick went aft and helped handle the stern. Martin waited while the men coiled the lines. Then he yelled to Evans, “All free!” He could see Evans nod and go to the telegraph.

  The ship swung slowly away from the dock. The wind blew damply and gently in their faces. The sea gulls circled high overhead.

  Bervick joined Martin on the forward deck. They watched the bow of the ship cut with increasing speed through the dark and rippled water.

  “It looks awful quiet, don’t it, Martin?”

  “Does look quiet. I hope it stays that way. The weather didn’t look too good in the report.”

  “Didn’t look bad?”

  “No.”

  “I wish to hell I’d stayed in the Merchant Marine.”

  “It’s tough all over.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We better see what Evans wants. He’ll probably want to hose down the decks.”

  “Yeah.”

  As they turned to go, Bervick reached in his pocket and brought out a bundle which he tossed quickly overboard. “What was that?” asked Martin curiously.

  “Some old rags.”

  “Oh.” They went below.

  The bow of the ship cut more and more swiftly through the harbor and toward the nets. The gulls wheeled higher and higher in the sky, and on the crest of one wave floated a pink piece of cloth, decorated with the words To My Sweetheart...and a map of Alaska.

  Chapter Three

  i

  MAJOR Barkison contemplated the sea and was pleased by it. Today the water was smooth and only occasionally disturbed by gusts of wind. The Major stood alone on the forward deck. A few miles to his left was the vanishing entrance to the Big Harbor; before him was the Bering Sea.

  Dreamily the Major thought of the sea: of the great masses of moon-guided water, constantly shifting: of sunken ships; of all the centuries that people had gone out on the water, and of all those, like Evans, to whom the sea was a part of living. He enjoyed thinking of these large vague things as the ship moved steadily ahead, causing sharp small waves of its own, waves which shattered themselves into the larger ones.

  The water of the Bering Sea was a deep blue-black, thought the Major, and he watched carefully the ship-made waves: black when with the sea mass, then varying shades of clear blue as they swept up into the large waves, exploding at last in sudden whiteness. When he had the time, Major Barkison appreciated beauty. He had three days now in which to be appreciative.

  Several sea lions wallowed fearlessly near the ship. Their black coats glistened in the pale morning light. For a moment they dove and splashed near the ship, and then, quickly they went away.

  He heard the sound of wings behind him. He turned and saw the Indian cook throwing garbage overboard. The air was filled with sea gulls, fighting for scraps on the water. He watched them as they glided in the air, their wings motionless, their heads rigidly pointed. They seemed reptilian to him. For the first time, noticing their unblinking black beady eyes, he saw the snake in these smooth gray birds. The Major did not like snakes.

  Visibility was good. They seemed even closer than two miles to shore. In the distance, toward the end of the island, he could see one of the active volcanoes. At regular intervals a column of smoke and fire came up out of it. The island was a cluster of volcanoes, tall and sharp, their peaks covered with snow. Clouds hung over the peaks and the stone of the mountains was black an
d gray.

  Overhead the sun made an effort to shine through the clouded sky; the sun seldom did, though. This was the place where the bad weather was made, according to the Indians, and the Major agreed. He yawned and was glad that he had not flown. He did not like flying over hidden peaks. He hoped this trip would be uneventful.

  Major Barkison had a sure method of foretelling weather, or anything else for that matter. He would, for instance, select a certain patch of sky and then count slowly to three; if, during that time, no sea gull crossed the patch of sky, the thing he wanted would come true. This method could be applied to everything and the Major had great faith in it.

  He looked at a section of sky above a distant volcano. Slowly he counted. At the count of two a gull flew across his patch of sky. The Major frowned. He had a way, however, of dealing with this sort of thing. He would use the best two counts out of three. Quickly he counted. No gull appeared. The trip would not be bad. In his mind, though, he wondered if it might not be cheating to take the best two out of three. One had to play fair. Not that he was superstitious, of course.

  The Major began to feel the cold of the wind. The cold came gradually. He did not realize it until he found himself shivering. Carefully, holding onto the railing, he walked aft to the galley.

  Inside he stood by the range and warmed himself. He shivered as the cold left. Steam came up from his hands.

  Hodges and the Chaplain were sitting at the galley table drinking coffee. The Indian cook was arranging some canned rations in a cupboard. Major Barkison took off his parka and sat down at the galley table.

  “Pretty cold, isn’t it?” remarked the Chaplain.

  “Yes, it is. Very penetrating, this cold. Goes right through to the bone.”

  “I suppose so. Actually this isn’t half so cold as Anchorage or Nome. The Chain isn’t much worse than Seattle.”

  “I’ll take Seattle,” said Hodges. “Who was it who said this place was the chamber pot of the gods?” The Major laughed.

  “I hear,” said the Chaplain, “that you are going to be promoted, Major.”

  “How did you hear that?”

  The Chaplain giggled. “Through the grapevine. You hear all sorts of things that way, you know.”

  Barkison nodded. “It looks like it’ll be coming through any time now.”

  “That’ll be nice for you. Your career and all that.”

  “Yes, it will be nice.” The Major poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. Then he sat down again. He poured some canned milk into the coffee.

  “They say that the natives think that’s where milk comes from, out of a can,” Hodges remarked.

  “You can get to like condensed milk,” said the Major. “1 never used to like it before I came up here.” He stirred his coffee and thought of Fort Lewis where he had been stationed for many years before the war. As he remembered, he missed the trees and green fields the most; large leafy trees and green smooth clover pastures. He wondered how long it would be before he went back.

  “Where is your home?” asked the Chaplain, turning to Hodges.

  “Virginia, the northern part.”

  “Oh, really. That’s quite near to me. You know the monastery of Saint Oliver?” Hodges shook his head. “Well that’s where I was, near Baltimore, you know. When I was a child I used to visit relatives in Pikefield County. You didn’t know anyone in Pikefield, did you?”

  “I’m afraid I never did. I was never in the southern part of the state much. I was mostly in Fairfax.”

  “Great country,” commented the Major. “I’ve been in many horse shows around there, around Warrenton. Beautiful country, I’ve always liked it.”

  “I never knew you rode, sir,” said Hodges.

  “Why yes. I was in the cavalry when I first got out of the Point. Changed over later. Cavalry was a little bit too much wear and tear for me. You see,” and he lowered his voice and spoke rather wearily, “you see, I have a heart murmur.”

  “Really?” The Chaplain became interested. “Isn’t that odd, but you know I’ve got the same thing. As a matter of fact the doctor up at Anchorage told me I might drop dead at any moment. You can imagine how surprised I was to hear that.”

  “I can imagine.” The Major spoke dryly. The Chaplain’s heart did not interest him. He was a little annoyed that the Chaplain should have mentioned it.

  “Yes, I might drop dead at any moment.” Chaplain O’Mahoney seemed to enjoy saying those words.

  The Major looked out the porthole and watched the gray water shifting under the still sunless sky.

  “I like Anchorage,” said the Chaplain absently.

  “The best place in Alaska,” agreed Hodges. “You can get real steak there. You got to pay high for it, though.”

  “Sure, but they’re a lot more civilized than some places I could mention. It certainly does get cold up there.” The Chaplain shuddered at the thought.

  “That’s why war is hell,” said the Major. He wondered how long it would be before his promotion came through. Almost without thinking he used his method. If the Chaplain blinked his eyes within the count of three, he would not get his promotion for at least six months. He looked at the Chaplain’s eyes and he counted to himself. The Chaplain did not blink. Major Barkison felt much better. He would be a Lt. Colonel in less than six months. O’Mahoney was watching him, he noticed.

  “Do you feel well, Major?” the Chaplain asked.

  “Never better. Why?”

  “I thought you looked odd. You were staring so. It must be my imagination.”

  “It must be. I was just staring, daydreaming, you know.”

  “Yes, I do it often myself. Once I had an unusual revelation that way.”

  The Major changed the subject. He spoke to Hodges. “Are you going to stay with the Adjutant General’s department after the war?” Lieutenant Hodges was regular army like the Major.

  Hodges shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m going to try to get in Operations.”

  “It’s quite interesting, these revelations; I suppose one would call them that....” O’Mahoney began again.

  Major Barkison interrupted hurriedly. “I am certain they are.” He turned to the Lieutenant. “Of course, Hodges, the work’s quite different from what you’ve been doing.”

  “I know. I think I’d like it though.”

  Barkison could see that O’Mahoney was trying to decide whether to tell of his revelation or not. He decided not to. They sat without speaking, and the Major listened to the sounds of the ship. Distant voices from the salon and the wheelhouse and, nearer them, the soft curses of Smitty, the Indian cook, as he prepared lunch. The ship, Barkison noticed, was rocking more than usual. Evans was probably changing course.

  The Major excused himself and walked into the almost dark salon and stood by the after door, looking out. In shallow ridges the wake of the ship foamed on the sky-gray water: gray when you looked at its surface but obsidian-dark beneath. A slight wind blew, troubling only the gulls, who floated uneasily on it.

  Martin came and stood beside him in the doorway.

  “Ah, Mr. Martin. Smooth sailing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “I’m certainly glad it is. Certainly glad it’s calm. I had thought we might have rough weather according to the report, but it doesn’t seem so.”

  “Might be bad yet, Major. This is pretty unusual. In fact this isn’t at all what we expected.”

  “Weather’s incalculable here, I suppose. That’s true of all the Aleutians, I suppose.”

  “You’re right there. You can’t tell much till it’s almost too late.”

  “What sort of work did you do before you came in the army, if I may ask?”

  “I was an actor.”

  “Is that so?” At one time the Major had been interested in the theater. He was still fascinated by the business. “Were you in the pictures?”

  “No, on the stage. Up around New England.”

  “Indeed? This,
” the Major pointed at the water, “this seems quite different from that sort of work.”

  “In a way I suppose so. That’s what the army does. It’s just one of those things, I guess.”

  “Just one of those things,” echoed the Major. He thought of himself on a stage. In his mind he could see himself playing Wellington. The uniforms would be flattering. He would look martial in them. Major Barkison was a romantic, a frustrated romantic perhaps, but still a romantic. Before the war, when the army could wear civilian clothes, Major Barkison had worn very bright ties. “Must be interesting work.”

  “Yes, I guess I’ll do it again if I can.”

  “You must certainly. One should always do the thing one does best.” The Major spoke with the firmness of the master of the platitude.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  Major Barkison toyed with the thought of himself as Wellington. The thought was pleasant and he examined it from all angles. He dreamed for several moments.

  “I understand,” said Martin at last, “that they are going to rotate to the States all men who’ve been here two years or more.”

  “What? Oh, yes, that’s our policy. It’s a little hard to do, naturally. There aren’t many replacements so far. How long have you been here?”

  “Fourteen months. I’ve got another ten months to go.”

  “I know how you feel. How long has Mr. Evans been here?”

  “Over three years, but then he’s practically a native. He lived in Seward. He probably likes Alaska.”

  “He must, to stay here that long. For some people, it’s a good place.”

  “He used to fish in these waters.”

  “Really? He seems to want to go back now. I can’t say I blame him.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Major Barkison wondered if his own request to join a certain General in another theater would be granted. He hoped it would be. There were times when he felt his whole career was being blocked in this, now inactive, theater of war.

  “Arunga’s getting to be quite big, isn’t it, Major?”

  “Yes, it’s about the best developed island here. Probably be quite a post-war base. Key to the northern defense.”