by Roger Jewett
“Not much of anytin’ is wot we ’ave,” Ray said. He was a slight, wiry man with red hair and a freckled face.
Troost judged him to be about 20. He was the youngest of the three survivors.
“He’s right, Captain,” Forster agreed, shaking his head. “Not even a good line for fishin’.”
“Just what do we have?” Troost asked.
None of the men answered.
“Water?” Troost questioned.
“No,” the cook said. “I looked in the supply kit. It’s empty. It’s supposed to have —”
“Don’t matter wot it’s supposed ta ’ave,” Ray exclaimed. “It don’t well ’ave bloody anytin’!”
“All right,” Troost said. “All right. We’re going to need every bit of strength we have.” He looked up. The sky was already considerably darker and the clouds were now rushing across it. “The most important thing we can do is keep warm and the best way to do that is to huddle together. We’ll take turns being the inside man. Every twenty minutes we’ll change, moving from right to left. The first man on the inside will be…” He paused to examine each before he said, “Ray, you’re inside. Forster, you’re right side. Harry, left side.”
“What about you, Captain?” Forster said.
“Nothing about me,” Troost answered. “I’ll take the first watch. We must keep a sharp lookout.”
“Either all of us has a crack at the center,” Harry said, “or none of us.”
“Cook’s bloody well right,” Ray commented.
“He’s right,” Forster said.
“That will come later,” Troost snapped, forcing his voice to go hard. “Starting now. Ray, get between your shipmates. Move it!”
Ray hesitated.
Troost leaned toward him. “Let’s go my boy! It’s important to keep our strength.”
Ray stretched out in the center of the raft.
“Okay — Harry, Forster, sandwich him!” Troost barked.
The two men took their positions.
Troost sat down again. The wind had veered around to the southwest and was becoming stronger with each passing minute.
“How the bloody hell are we going to live through this?” Forster shouted.
Troost didn’t answer. He’d already asked himself the same question.
The raft began to bob with the building sea; it climbed to the top of a wave and dropped below the rush of water.
Troost grabbed the edge of the raft.
“I can’t hold,” Harry suddenly screamed, desperately clutching at anyone within reach. “I’m going over!”
Troost saw Harry slide over the raft’s shallow edge and then, as the raft came up, Harry was tossed back against its side. Troost reached out, took hold of him with both hands, and almost had him in the raft when another wall of black water crashed down, tearing Harry from his grasp. Troost quickly took Harry’s place next to Ray. For what seemed like hours, mountains of water crashed down on the raft.
Troost could hear the men shouting, but not their words. His vision was blurred and his hands were raw and bleeding. Several times he wanted to let go and slide away in a rush of water that would end his suffering. But he couldn’t let go: the raft and the men on it were his responsibility. Could this be his final command?
“John is gone! John is gone!” Ray shouted.
“Can you hold?” Troost yelled back, though they were within inches of each other.
“’E just let go.”
Troost shouted the question again.
“Till my fuckin’ arms are ripped out!” Ray yelled back.
Another flood of water stopped Troost from answering. He buried his face into the bottom of the raft until it came free of the sea’s surge.
Several minutes passed and Troost was beginning to feel a difference in the raft’s movement. It was edging over the crest of each wave. The wind was dropping; the sea was easing. He raised his head and looked up at the sky. There were several star-sprinkled openings. He pulled himself up into a sitting position. “It’s over,” he said quietly. “The storm has passed.”
Ray sat up. “Gawd, it’s a bloody miracle!” he exclaimed.
Troost looked at his watch. “I make it to be 0700.”
“You mean, Cap’n, we’ve been out ’ere for a full 24?”
Troost nodded.
“Now wot do we do, Cap’n?” Ray asked.
“Wait,” Troost answered. “We wait and hope to God a search for survivors has been launched.”
Ray turned away from him and, looking at the suddenly flat sea, he said, “Somehow it never looked this good before.”
“I know what you mean,” Troost answered.
“I was the pointer for number one mount,” Ray said. “John was a steamie in the boiler room. I didn’t really know ’im, but everyone knew ol’ ’Arry. That old bastard had a special way of ruinin’ the best food.”
“Some cooks have that talent,” Troost responded.
Ray faced him. Tears skidded down his cheeks. “T’ere were some good blokes aboard the Broadwater,” he said in a choked voice.
Unable to find the right words, Troost nodded.
Ray moved his knees up, put his arms on them, and cradled his head. Troost reached out and squeezed Ray’s shoulder. Ray raised his head, managed a smile, and asked, “If you ’ad a choice right now between a woman an’ a plate of fish an’ chips, wot would you choose?”
“Fish and chips,” Troost answered, suddenly feeling the gnawing hunger in his stomach.
Ray nodded. “Me too. The bird can come later. Me dad runs a fish-and-chip stand in East Central London, down by the Mission School — makes a proper penny from it too.”
“Are you going to go into the business after the war?” Troost asked.
“Naw, I’m thinkin’ of openin’ a proper restaurant, wit’ tables an’ chairs — you know, a proper place. But t’at’s a long ways off. It’s goin’ to be a long war,” Ray said, and he put his head down again.
To ease the cramp in his legs, Troost shifted his position. He looked up at the sky. Large patches of blue were everywhere and through them, especially in the east, yellow columns of sunlight seemed to rest on the surface of the sea.
“Try to sleep,” Troost said.
“Aren’t you tired?” Ray asked, raising his head.
Troost lied. “Only a little.” Then he added, “I’ll take the first watch — two hours on, two off. One of us must be awake.”
Ray nodded. “You’re all navy, aren’t you, sir?”
“All the way,” Troost answered, knowing exactly what Ray meant and reflecting quietly on his family’s past. His father was an admiral and his father before him. There was a Joseph Troost aboard the Constitution during the War of 1812, and there was even a Lieutenant Mark Troost, from the southern side of the family, aboard the Confederate raider Shenandoah when she destroyed the Union whaling fleet in the Arctic. But there was also a Commander Robert Troost aboard the Union warship Kearsarge.
In his reverie suddenly Troost realized that Ray was smiling at him.
“Me dad and ’is dad before ’im was in fish and chips,” Ray explained. “But me granddad…” He shook his head. “Your guess is as good as me own.”
Feeling paternal, Troost said, “If we make it, I’ll have to try some of your dad’s fish and chips.”
“On the ’ouse,” Ray answered, extending his hand.
They shook hands and Troost said, “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Me word is me bond,” Ray told him.
“Try to sleep now,” Troost said.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Ray answered and cradled his head.
Troost moved again and thought about his son Warren who, according to the last disappointing letter he’d received from him, had failed flight training at Pensacola and been assigned to the Dee, AKO-96, a small, one-of-a-kind supply ship on the East Coast. That kind of assignment for an Annapolis graduate, who had served two years in the fleet and was already lieutenant (J
G), could have resulted only from something Warren did, or did not do. Reading between the lines of Warren’s letter, Troost sensed with regret that his son was giving serious thought to resigning his commission and that, when the country was so very close to a shooting war, would be, in his opinion, calamitous.
Suddenly Troost heard the distant drone of an engine. He touched Ray’s shoulder. “Listen,” he said.
Ray’s head came up.
The two of them looked at each other, then searched the horizon around them.
“Could be a U-boat runnin’ on the surface,” Ray said.
Troost crossed his lips with his finger. “Listen,” he whispered.
Ray frowned, tilted his head up, and the next instant was on his feet, shouting, and pointing upward. “T’ere — t’ere up ahead of us!”
Troost scrambled to his feet.
It was a Royal Air Force Coastal Patrol Sunderland.
“’Ere we are. ’Ere we are. Wot’s wrong wit’ you blokes? Can’t you bloody well see us?” Ray shouted excitedly. He started to jump up and down.
Troost grabbed him. “Easy … easy. The raft will go over,” he cautioned.
“’E’s got to see us!” Ray shouted, twisting free.
The huge seaplane dropped lower; then suddenly it turned toward the raft and, as it roared over them, rolled from side to side.
“He saw us,” Troost said, uttering a sigh of relief.
“Gawd, he’s coming down,” Ray exclaimed. “Oh wot a lovely sight! The bloody blighter is goin’ to land.” He turned to Troost and threw his arms around him. “I love you, Cap’n — I love you!”
Laughing, Troost returned the embrace and said, “I love you too, son.”
The plane touched down, flinging a curtain of white spray on either side of it, turned, and taxied toward the raft.
CHAPTER 3
Ten days after Troost was rescued, he was seated at the head of the Sunday dinner table in the dining room of the small, gray, two-story house, navy-provided quarters, located in one of the few tree-lined streets in the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
Troost moved his eyes to the left, where Lillian, his daughter, sat. Six months ago she’d reached her 20th birthday. She was looking forward to graduating from New York University, where she majored in theater. She hoped to become an actress. Lillian was, even in his admittedly prejudiced view, a beautiful woman, with soft gray eyes, high cheekbones, a figure that even her mother envied, and a voice that caressed when she spoke. He smiled at her and looked at Warren, who was on his right. He was home on a 72-hour shore leave from Norfolk, where his ship, a one-of-a-kind auxiliary oiler and supply ship, the Dee, was being fitted with two five-inch deck guns and prepared for its next assignment. Warren resembled his father more than he did his mother, though he did have her sensuous lip line.
Then Troost looked across the table at his wife. Gloria was a few months younger than he and still a good-looking woman.
“Well, Andrew, do I ring for Carrie to begin serving, or do we all silently sit here waiting for you to finish your inspection?” Gloria asked.
“Sorry,” Troost said, “I was just trying to remember when was the last time all of us sat down to Sunday dinner like this.”
“A long time ago, sir,” Warren answered.
Troost nodded and said, “You may ring for Carrie.” He really wanted to tell them he’d been selected for flag rank and given new orders that would take him to Pearl Harbor, but he decided to wait for a more propitious moment.
Gloria picked up the silver dinner bell and shook it twice; then she said, “Lillian, will you please pass the white wine.”
Troost stiffened. “I’d prefer —”
Gloria smiled. “I know what you’d prefer. But I’d prefer a drink of white wine. Now Lillian, will you please pass the decanter. Thank you.”
“Well I can see,” Warren said, “the more things change, the more they remain the same.”
Troost caught the withering look that flew across the table from Lillian to her brother. He would have been willing to bet she also kicked him.
“Your father makes such a fuss about this tiny bit of wine,” Gloria said, holding up the glass to show that she’d taken a small amount, “but says nothing about the smell that comes from the brewery just a short distance from here. Take several deep breaths when the wind is right and you’re in pink-elephant land.”
“Dad,” Lillian said, before Troost could answer, “I may get a chance to act in summer stock theater on Cape Cod.”
Troost checked himself, then forced himself to nod and smile. “That’s wonderful.”
“Any idea what part?” Warren asked.
Lillian shook her head, making her blonde hair swing from side to side. “Rich —”
“Rich?” Warren questioned. “The last man’s name I heard was Steve, and that was the last time I was home.”
“Professor Richard Gordon. He’s assistant chairman of the theater department — a darling man. A few years younger than you, Dad, and he has the most wonderful contacts. He’s been giving me private coaching lessons.”
“At the college?” Warren asked.
“Mostly in his apartment in the Village,” she answered. “He’s divorced.”
This time Troost and his son exchanged a quick, knowing glance.
Carrie came into the dining room from the kitchen. She was a big, black woman who cooked and cleaned for the Troosts. “I hope everyone here is hungry,” she said, putting a sliced grapefruit topped with a maraschino cherry in front of Troost.
“Starved,” Warren answered.
“Anyway,” Lillian continued, “Rich says he’s going to speak to some of his friends about me.”
“I bet,” Warren mumbled.
“And what was that supposed to mean?” Lillian challenged.
“We’re very pleased for you,” Troost said. He already had decided to pay Rich a visit before leaving for Pearl.
The dinner moved along at a leisurely pace. Carrie had prepared two main courses — a roast turkey with sausage stuffing and a rib roast.
Troost complimented her on every dish she served. When she brought dessert, it was her own version of baked Alaska.
“Sir, aren’t you going to tell us what happened to you?” Warren asked, stirring sugar into his coffee.
“The newspaper made quite a fuss over him when the plane landed at the naval air station at Floyd Bennett,” Gloria said, filling her glass with wine. “The base admiral even sent his car for him.”
“His picture was on the front pages of every newspaper in the city,” Lillian said.
Troost hesitated for several moments; then he said, “I don’t have any more to add to what you already have read in the newspapers.”
“According to the newspapers you saved that British sailor’s life,” Lillian said. “At least, tell how you did it.”
Troost leaned back into the chair. “I didn’t save anyone’s life,” he said quietly. “The three men on that raft pulled me out of the water.”
“But —” Lillian began.
“Two of the men were washed overboard during the storm,” Troost explained, looking down at his coffee. “One was torn out of my grasp; the other didn’t have the strength to hold on and let go. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the U-boat commander reported the spot where he torpedoed and sank the Broadwater, the British Coastal Command Search Aircraft wouldn’t have known her last position. It was just luck that young Ray Forest and I were found.”
“So much for your father, the hero,” Gloria said, raising her wine glass toward Troost.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he responded. “But I saved no one.”
“The important thing,” Lillian said, taking hold of her father’s hand, “is that you’re alive.”
Troost smiled. “I’d have to admit that’s very important to me.”
“To all of us,” Lillian told him.
“Now, if I may, I’d like to propose a toast,” Troost said.
“Excellent idea!” Gloria exclaimed.
Troost filled his glass with red wine. Lillian chose white, Warren red, and Gloria refilled her glass with white.
“To the men of the Broadwater,” Troost said, raising his glass.
Lillian and Warren echoed their father’s words, then drank.
“I have a toast to make too,” Gloria announced.
“By all means, make it,” Troost said, though he really wanted to stop her.
“To all the lovely women who are married to all the handsome naval officers. To all the women who grow old and dry up waiting —”
“Mother!” Lillian exclaimed.
“Let her finish,” Troost said tightly. “Let the woman finish!”
“To all those women,” Gloria said, her speech now slurred, “I salute you… We salute you.” She raised her glass to her lips and gulped the wine; then she put the glass down on the table and accidentally knocked it over. “I want to go to my room,” she told them.
“Lillian, help your mother,” Troost ordered; then in a softer voice, he said, “Please.”
Troost waited until Lillian had managed to guide Gloria out of the room before he said, “That’s the way she is.”
Warren watched his mother and sister. “How often?”
“This is the third time since I’m home,” Troost said.
“Has she seen a doctor?” Warren asked, facing his father.
“She won’t admit to having a problem,” Troost said. “By tomorrow, she’ll have forgotten what happened at the table.”
Warren pursed his lips; then he said, “I haven’t seen her this bad for a long time.”
Troost shrugged. “During the time I was away I almost forgot what she’s like when she’s drunk.”
“Mind if I smoke?” Warren asked.
Troost shook his head. “I’ll have one too,” he said.
Warren thumbed the cigarette lighter and held it for his father; then he lit his own cigarette. “Scuttlebutt says we’re heading for Pearl, or maybe to the Philippines.”
Troost let smoke out of his nose. “Are you going to stay in the navy?” he asked directly.
