The Recommend (A Word War 2 Naval Adventure), page 8
“There was a felucca waitin’, and in we hopped. I was laughin’ like a chief stoker—I don’t think! I couldn’t remember who was officer of the day. If it was the Jimmy ...! You don’t cross old Wouk’s bows and get away with it. A man was likely to dip a badge. This is war-time, see? Old Wouk’s a holy terrer—he invented discipline. Every hair a rope-yarn, every finger a marlin-spike, every drop of blood Stockholm tar. Youse get what I mean?”
They got what he meant. Meredith glanced at his mother and saw her face fascinated. Quietly he topped up Splinter’s glass. Splinter negatived his effort with a quick gulp and went on:
“It’s no good tryin’ to act green with old Wouk—that’s boy’s tough enough to make hard-boiled look like underdone. Ain’t he, Baron? Anyway, we come alongside in this felucca and we have to pay the thievin’ swine coxin’ it five piastres more’n we should have becos we can’t afford no noise, you understand? Up we go up the ladder and who should be officer of the day but the old Gunner.
“Now the Gunner’s a nice fulla. Taut hand, too—he’s got D.S.O.’s stockin’ out of his ears. I begins to see a bit of a faint glimmer of hope. The Gunner stands there lookin’ us over and we look back at him, tryin’ not to fall flat on our puss. Things was a bit touchy for them few seconds. I sorta got the idea that he didn’t want to dob us in, that he was lookin’ for some way out of it—there was no one else on the quarterdeck at that time, all hands was in the old banana-bedstead.
“The Gunner starts to frown and I think ‘Oh well, it was a good run, even if we do cop the whole flamin’ book.’ Then the Baron here takes one pace forward. I’m ready to pick ’im up if he keels over, but he straightens up and says: ‘Sir, I know we is adrift over leave but we has an excuse, sir.’ The Gunner says: ‘I’d be very interested to hear it,’ somethin’ like that, an’ I don’t like his tone, if you know what I mean?
“The Baron says, in that voice that makes you think it’s the flamin’ Ole Man hisself talkin’, he says: ‘Sir, Splinter here ...’ He don’t call me ‘Splinter,’ of course ... he says: “Sir, Able-Seaman Mann here, sir, was pullin’ back in that felucca. His rowin’ was awful, sir. He caught a crab with his starb’d oar, sir, an’ so I made him pull round the Fleet for punishment, sir.’
“Well, y’know of course that that’s an ole naval sayin’, as it were. You catch a crab an’ you pull round the Fleet for punishment. Mind you, I don’t think the Gunner believed him ... But you could see he was tryin’ not to grin, and when a Gunner even tries not to grin you know he’s bustin’ inside with laughter. What I’m tryin’ to say is that Gunners is a pretty sour breed, never seen one of ’em laugh in me life. Can’t understand it. Even a chief stoker sometimes smiles ... Though I’d like to see a grin on the face of old Wouk—it’d crack him athwartships. Anyhow, this bird starts to grin ... Well,” and Splinter felt for his glass, “that was that.”
He drank copiously, and watched solemnly while Meredith replaced the subtraction.
“But what happened?” Mrs. Meredith asked, after a pause, “did Richard ... were you punished?”
Splinter looked at her meditatively. He put his glass down.
“I thought I mentioned it—once a Gunner starts to grin ...”
“When a Gunner starts to grin,” Beth put in quickly, “God’s in His heaven and all’s right with the world.”
“Somethin’ like that,” Splinter said doubtfully, “what I really mean is,” he ended definitely, “we got away with it.”
“I see,” Mrs. Meredith murmured. It seemed she was not sure if she should be pleased at this evidence of her son’s cleverness, and the circumstances in which it had been displayed.
“Great Scott!” Mr. Meredith ejaculated, looking at his watch, “I should be in town by now.” He got up from his chair. “Ah ... Richard, a word with you?” Meredith followed his father from the room.
“Now, Richard,” Mr. Meredith started, taking up his hat from the hall-stand. “I haven’t much time, you know.”
“Yes, Dad. Then why not shove off? Your naval guests, you know ...”
“That’s what I want to talk about. The club, I mean. You should be there with them.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Damn it all, boy, stop grinning! I mean it. Here I am off for a night of entertaining visiting naval officers in the club and I can’t entertain my own son there—”
“Why don’t you?”
“You know perfectly well the secretary, old Burns, is a retired captain. You know he wouldn’t like it.”
“Too bad.”
“Richard ...!”
Meredith saw the hurt in the older man’s face. He said:
“I’m sorry, Dad, but if that’s the way it is, I can’t do anything about it. I’m an able-seaman, and that’s that.”
His father looked shrewdly into his face—it was sober enough now.
“You’re having trouble with your commission?” he asked quietly.
“Not trouble ... no. It just takes time to come through, that’s all.”
“To come through who? Who says yes or no?”
“Well—old Wouk, who Splinter was talking about. He’s a rather hard bird to get past.”
“Wouk? Unusual name. Who is he?”
“He’s an unusual man. You’ll be meeting him tonight.”
“At the club?”
“Don’t you know your own guests?”
“Of course not. Not yet. I sent out a general invitation. Someone from the club does it whenever a warship comes in. Naturally I wanted to entertain your officers.”
“Naturally, Dad.” Meredith’s voice was faintly bitter. “You couldn’t have entertained the men, my messmates, home here?”
“That,” his father answered calmly, “is a damned foolish thing to say. You know perfectly well you can have a party for your friends from here whenever you want to. And I shall be surprised if you don’t.”
“Sorry,” Meredith said contritely, “I guess ...” and he looked squarely into his father’s face, “I’m a bit browned-off about my recommend not coming through.” His father put his hat on, running his fingers round the brim.
“We might be able to do something about that tonight,” he said.
Meredith’s hand landed firmly on his forearm.
“You won’t say a word to Wouk! Not a word ...!” Mr. Meredith looked down at his arm, then with more thoughtfulness than surprise up into his son’s tight face.
“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t, Richard?” Meredith controlled his exasperation.
“There’s nothing like that, no. No trouble. But we’re dealing with the Navy. You ... you just can’t deal with a first-lieutenant like you would a builder. Favour for favour doesn’t apply in my outfit.”
“I see,” his father said slowly, “yes. I see that. But what I don’t see is why you haven’t been given a commission.” He held up his hand in a small gesture of denial to the words forming on his son’s lips. “I don’t know much about your Navy, but I’ve seen some of your junior officers, I’ve talked with them, and I don’t have to be an Admiral to realise that you’re fitted for a commission.”
He heard his father’s vehement voice and his mind flashed back to an afternoon in Manus, painting the ship’s side with Splinter—the lanky seaman’s homely philosophy and reasoning was still clear in his memory. They don’t trust you, Splinter had told him, you’re right out of their experience ...
It would be too difficult to explain that to his father, to a civilian—even if Splinter were right. He said:
“Maybe it’s a matter of experience.”
“But how the devil are you to gain experience as an officer if you aren’t one? The Navy can’t be that much different to any normal business undertaking! Ashore a promising young man’s future is decided upon—then he’s promoted, given responsibility, taken along the paths of experience. Surely that’s sensible enough?”
“Yes, Dad,” Meredith said resignedly. He wanted to finish this. Already he suspected that the one thing holding his recommend back was Wouk’s opinion of his power of command, or lack of it. But how to explain a complex faculty like power of command to his civilian father?
He decided against trying, and in that he made a serious mistake. Power of command is by no means limited to the fighting Services, and Meredith senior possessed more than a fair share of the commodity, and knew its value.
“Let’s drop it, Dad. It will come through sooner or later. And you’ll be late to hell.”
“All right, lad.” A hand patted his arm, fatherly, understanding.
Meredith watched the car move off, listening to the diminishing sound in the quietness of the warm scented night. His burned, finely-cut face was thoughtful.
His mind went back over the old reasonings and wonderings, stimulated by retrospection by his father’s questions. Why? What was it holding him back? He thought he might have the answer—insufficient power of command. Not that he doubted his power to lead, but that Wouk doubted he had it.
And now as he stood there on the porch, the leaves of the poinciana reflecting the street light, shimmering and twisting in the breeze, he felt a sense of embarrassment, shame almost, that his captain and first-lieutenant considered him unfit for a commission.
Beth’s laughter, abrupt and spontaneous, cut out into the night and shovelled his sombre thoughts into the background. His earlier alcoholic happiness, repressed in the past few minutes, swam forward again to colour his attitude. He was smiling when he walked back into the dining-room.
The smile contracted a little when his mother greeted him with:
“There you are, Richard. Now we can get on with the washing-up. I’ve always wanted to see how the Navy goes about it.”
“Washing-up? Where’s Gladys? Not her night-off tonight, surely?”
“Gladys, my wandering hero, is now in the Waafs,” Beth told him, “and in any case it’s considered almost unpatriotic to own a servant these days. So you’re it.”
“What’s wrong with your lily-white hands?”
“That’s just it,” she smiled sweetly.
“That’s just what?”
“They’re lily-white—and they’re going to stay that way.”
“Your sister,” Mrs. Meredith interrupted this scintillating conversation, “has an important job tomorrow morning.”
Meredith looked at them.
“Someone around here is nuts. There is, I suppose, some relationship between washing-up tonight in New Farm and a job in the city tomorrow, but I’m damned if I can see it.”
“Haven’t you been reading the papers?” Beth asked pointedly.
“Oh yes—we get the Courier-Mail just before breakfast every morning. Delivered by rocket.”
Beth had risen from the table.
“Look,” she said, and held out a paper. It was folded at the fourth page.
Meredith looked. Splinter ambled round behind him. He made the first comment.
“Jeez!” he said in a wondering sort of voice.
“This ... this is you!” Meredith accused, and looked up at his sister, then back to the half-page advertisement.
“That’s right. How do you like it?”
Meredith stared at the page. It showed his sister leaning back against the mast of a yacht. But his interest was not in the seamanlike rigging revealed to his gaze. It was in the shapely symmetry of his sister’s form revealed by the scantiest of bathing suits.
“My God,” he said, “so you did go on with it.”
“Of course. You scoffed when I wrote that I was taking on modelling. Now—if I may say so in all modesty—I’m one of the most successful in town.”
“Modesty ...! Mother,” turning on her, “you allow this sort of thing?”
“I don’t see why not, Richard. I admit I was a little—startled at first, but as Beth pointed out, you can see hundreds of girls like that any day on the beach.”
“Not like that,” Splinter murmured.
“So you see I can’t wash-up tonight. Tomorrow my hands will be holding a cake of Smoothie soap. And you wouldn’t want me to look all chapped, would you?”
Meredith stared at her.
Beth pouted, her eyes dancing. “Come now, Splinter, don’t you think it’s a good ad?”
“Ah ... it’s a beaut bathin’ suit ...”
“There you are! Splinter’s not blind to quality goods.”
“You can,” Meredith grunted, “say that again! Here give me that—your eyes’ll bore through the paper.”
He snatched the paper from his friend. Splinter’s eye-tooth showed briefly. Meredith shook the crumpled paper in his face.
“If you breathe a word about this on board,” he threatened, “you’ve had the prong. Understand?”
“Do you think I’m good enough for a sailor’s pin-up girl?” Beth asked mischievously.
Meredith stared at her, his forehead corrugated.
“Give him time,” his mother said consolingly, “he’ll get used to it. I had to, remember?”
“Let’s get washed-up,” Meredith growled.
Chapter Five
FOR THE NEXT weeks, workmen hammered and cut and welded over Termagant’s buckled nose, until she gradually began to resemble her former self.
Secure in dry-dock, in the hands of her “surgeons,” her fighting days were temporarily done with. But that other battle, Splinter and Co. versus Lieutenant Wouk, went on unabated.
Splinter’s team believed, to their minds rightly, that after a year of roaming an unfriendly ocean they should be left more or less free to enjoy this dropped-from-heaven chance of enforced immobility. The ship was immobile—so, thought they, should her crew be.
Lieutenant Wouk was governed by totally different beliefs. It was precisely in immobility that he feared the worst—a crew with little to do rapidly degenerates; tautness becomes slackness, keenness drops to carelessness.
So the main part of his day was spent in devising means wherewith to keep his crew occupied. This was by no means easy. Painting was out of the question, so was washing the superstructure—it would have been grimy again in an hour. The same with the mess-decks. It would be uselessly heartbreaking to scrub and polish below decks and then to have your work trodden over by a horde of overalled dockyard maties.
He had helped his problem by sending half the ship’s company on ten days’ leave. The Brisbane natives, who would be ashore nightly anyway, stayed behind during that first leave period, and the Westralians and Victorians and Tasmanians were sent off.
That reduced his work-force, but he still had a fair-sized team to employ. Guns came in for an outsize polishing routine, and remote storerooms were unstowed, restowed, burnished and re-burnished. Rope falls of boats were end-for-ended, the worn sections running through the blocks given a rest at the other end, on the reels.
Bridges and chart-rooms and asdic-compartments were swarmed over by more men than they’d usually see in a week at sea, and magazines, normally spotless, were scoured to the sterility of an operating-theatre.
And through all this apparent activity the never-ceasing battle went on. Hidden beneath scrubbers and neck-cloths in a bucket a crown and anchor board was sneaked down to B-magazine. The bridge was outraged by the sound of a low voice inviting “Come in, spinner,” and the soft metallic clink of pennies falling in a two-up game.
A surreptitious game of banker was started in the chart-room and another of sudden-death poker in No. 1 provision store. And Thunderguts Cleary, who ran the ship’s book, took his bets sometimes in the cable locker, sometimes on the pom-pom platform, and at others in the tiller-flat.
Lieutenant Wouk did not know for certain of these games of chance, but he had a healthy suspicion. Yet, being a first-lieutenant of large experience as well as physical bulk, he turned a Nelsonian eye. So long as the men were employed—whether gainfully or not did not matter so much—he was satisfied.
But they were under no illusions as to what would happen if he caught them. This added a spice to their illegal employment. It was nerve-tingling to back tails and watch the pennies fall with one eye, while with your other ear you listened, strained, for the first heavy step of approaching Authority.
There was another development to their stay in harbour. German, British, Russian, French and Patagonian sailors may strain at the leash to get away to sea and do bloody battle with the enemy: Australian matelots are none the less patriotic—they are, shall we say, more realistic.
The fighters of Termagant grabbed their heaven-sent beer and girls with both hands. At first. Then, as the weeks went by, and according to the old adage that a bloke’s never satisfied, they began to chafe at their enforced inactivity. It may seem to come under the category of heresy, nevertheless it must be recorded that even to sailors even girls can become a thing of which there’s too much.
It must also be recorded that it takes a lot of girls before naval demand is satisfied. In Brisbane, capital of a traditionally hospitable State, the fact that there was only one American ship in port may have had something to do with their wallowing in a land of plenty.
And so, because even a wallow of femininity seasoned with beer cannot hope to represent a man’s sum total of desire, the destroyer’s sailors began to long for the wide sweep of blue sea, the bracing rush of air, the heart-jumping call to action-stations.
The fact that twelve hours out from Brisbane they’d willingly exchange the blue sea and fresh air and call to action for their lately-despised wallow had nothing to do with the case. They were, simply, fed-up with loafing.
This change of mind showed in little things ... Like the time when at dinner Pudden happened to innocently look up from his pudding, catch Thundergut’s eye, and then naturally lower his own. Thunderguts laid down his knife and fork and leaned across the table.
“Don’t you blink your eyes at me!” he snarled.
Little things ... At that same meal Meredith got up from the table and made ready to fall-in for the afternoon’s work, full twenty-five seconds before the pipe was due. Pudden, already incensed by his messmate’s charge, jumped on him with:
“That’s right! Warm the bloody bell! You’ll get your ring ...!”
