Richard Marsten: Murder in the navy

The room was dark. The radar gear was not operating, and the only light came from behind one of the plotting boards in the corner.

He turned to her and took her shoulders, drawing her close to him in the darkness.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.

She pulled away from him gently, but he felt the stiffening of her shoulders, and he wished the room weren’t quite so dim, wished that he could see her face more clearly.

“I wasn’t going to,” she said.

Her voice sounded strange and distant. He saw her reach into her purse, and then a match flared, and he saw the fine planes of her face for just an instant as she lighted her cigarette. The match went out, and there was only the dimness again.

“Why... why not?” he asked. He felt his own hands go to his jumper pocket again. He pulled one cigarette free from the package in the pocket, lighted it, and then blew out a wreath of smoke nervously. “Why not, Claire?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“What about? What about, Claire?”

“Us.”

She was silent for a moment. She drew in on her cigarette, and the dull red glow lighted her mouth and the tip of her nose.

“What about us?” he said softly.

“It’s no good.”

“Why not?” he asked defensively.

“Don’t shout. For God’s sake, do you want the ship down about our ears?”

“I’m sorry.” he said sulkily.

“Look, let’s be sensible about all this. You were sent to the hospital on the base, and you met a nurse there. All right, it was all fine and dandy. I don’t know why I agreed to see you after you left the hospital, but that was all right, too. We’ll forget all that. We’ll say it was all right.”

“Forget—”

“Let me do the talking, please. Don’t make it harder for me than it is.”

“But you’re talking as if this is a new thing. For God’s sake, Claire, we’ve been seeing each other for a month now. That week end in Wilmington — can you—”

“Let’s forget that week end in Wilmington. That was something that never should have happened.”

“Never should have—”

“I told you not to shout!”

He was nervous now. His hands were beginning to tremble, and he could feel a sick panic inside him. He felt the way he’d felt that time the Old Man had chewed him out on the bridge. He felt exactly like that. He dropped his butt and stepped on it quickly.

“Are you ready to listen?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, go on.”

“I’m trying to tell you I don’t like this sneaking around. You know the regulations as well as I do.”

“Regulations! How does that apply to two people in—”

“It applies. It damn well applies, because nursing is my career. I’m not going to get kicked out because of an affair with an enlisted man!”

She almost spat the words out, and they hung in the silence of the compartment, dripping their venom.

“So that’s it.”

“That’s it.”

“Look, Claire...”

“It’s over. Please don’t try to—”

“Claire, I’m up for another week end soon. We could go to Wilmington again. The same place, Claire. Claire, nobody even knew we were in the service. We could wear civvies again and—”

“No.”

“Claire, you can’t just chuck it all overboard like that.”

“Why can’t I? Why on earth can’t I? Damnit, you’re all the same. You date a girl a few times, and right off you think you own her.”

“A few times? A few times?” He reached for her. “Claire...”

“Get away from me,” she said. “Please, can’t you understand it’s no good? Can’t you see that?”

He grasped her shoulders viciously and pulled her to him. “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “No, I can’t see it. I can’t see it at all. Claire, baby...”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” She pulled away and reached for the doorknob, and he clamped his fingers onto her wrist “Let me go,” she said tightly.

“No.”

“Look, you don’t want me to start yelling, do you? You know what happens when a nurse screams rape, don’t you? Now get your hands off me.”

He brought his hand up viciously, almost before he realized what he was doing. The open palm collided with her cheek, and there was the dull sound of the slap, and the stinging sensation on his hand.

She backed away from him and brought her hand up slowly to her cheek. “You’re dirty,” she said. “You’re dirty and filthy and common. I must have been out of my mind.”

“I’m... I’m sorry, Claire, I...”

“Get out of my way. Open that door or you’ll be chopping rocks in Portsmouth tomorrow.”

“Claire, you’re just upset. You—”

“Do you want me to start screaming?”

“Claire...”

“All right! All right, I warned you.” She opened her mouth to scream, and a shock sped through him. He reached out and clamped his hand onto her mouth, feeling it slide slippery with lipstick under his palm. She struggled and then tried to bite his hand. She twisted her head, freeing her mouth for an instant, opening it wide in an attempt to scream again.

He seized her throat, and they struggled across the room, crashing into the Sugar George gear, reeling over to slam against one of the plotting tables. A set of sound-powered phones clattered to the deck, and he thought. What happens if I let her go now?

His hands tightened around the soft flesh of her throat, and he felt the muscles cord in protest, stand out in firm relief against his palms. He kept tightening his hands, and she kicked out at him, one shoe falling from her foot. Her eyes bulged in the dim light of the plotting board, wide, wider, and then she shuddered and he felt the shudder and knew it was all over. She hung limply at the end of his arms, and he dropped her quickly to the deck. Her lighted cigarette rolled away from her body, and he stepped on it quickly, grinding it out under his heel.

He looked down at her. Her skirt had hiked up over her thighs, and he saw the taut ribbing of her stockings, the garters biting into her flesh, and he thought. It could have been different.

He was sweating. He wiped the beaded drops from his upper lip, took a last look around the room, and then crossed the corner, ducking under the plotting board. He listened at the door there, heard nothing, and quickly opened it. The door led to the sonar shack. He could avoid the ladder leading to the bridge this way. The guides wouldn’t be showing the sound gear, either. He could duck through the sonar shack and then get down to the main deck. He’d mix with the other men, maybe wander toward the fantail, and drop the key to the radar shack over the side.

Rapidly he closed the door behind him.

Chuck Masters sat upright in his bunk. He was wearing a T shirt and gray trousers, and his dog tags pressed their imprint against the thin fabric of his shirt. He lighted a cigarette, looked up at the executive officer, and said, “Mike, I’d prefer to be left off the board. Honestly, I’d prefer it.”

Mike Reynolds shook his head. “It can’t be done, Chuck. I’m short of lieutenants.”

“You can swing it if you want to,” Masters said petulantly. “Can’t, believe me. The Old Man wants an investigation board. Damnit, you know how many people are involved in this mess?”

“How many?” Masters asked dryly.

“Plenty. First we got the Squadron Commander by blinker light, and then we sent a messenger with a formal note. Then we had to inform SOPA, and then the Commandant of the Fifth Naval District. SOPA sent over a legal officer and an intelligence officer, and now—”

“Are those the two meatheads I saw sticking their fingers into my radar gear?”

“Yes. They don’t count, though. The FBI is on its way.”