William Brinkley - The Last Ship

There was no doubt in my mind that she possessed as something close to an absolute both the desire and the determination to get what she wanted. I had often felt this trait carried to her degree to be the very engine force of those possessing it; further felt it to be the Jekyll-and-Hyde of human personality characteristics: inherent in it, its accompanying drive capable of producing either the greatest good for others or the greatest harm. So far at least we had been beneficiaries of the former. And something else: However little exercised it was to date, I would have been disappointed if my judgment that she had something of the bitch in her was in error. I spoke of presentiments: In our daily sessions of late there had entered, though but now and then, a curious and puzzling tension, inexact as to source, clothed in a penumbra seeming to hang in the air; emerging, faintly disturbing, as if forerunner to… yes, I should say, to a testing of wills. Over what? That deeply submerged, unresolved, not yet even spoken, matter of the women? Or something else? I cannot know. It is at these moments—they are hardly more than that, seeming to pass as swiftly as they arise—that I seem to sense the presence of another quality: a considerable willingness for power; a lack of hesitation at outright ruthlessness to acquire it and apply it with maximum force should opportune circumstances present themselves and she in her view find it necessary. And then a thought that startled me: The reason I recognize that secluded strain of ruthlessness in Lieutenant Girard is that I have acquired it myself; we would not be here today had I not.

“Three hundred and ten men’s skivvies,” she finished up crisply, and turned back facing me.

“What’s the drill on issuing these items, Lieutenant?”

“As requested by hands, sir.” She had not missed a beat.

“Well, cease and desist on that. Henceforth I want to see a rationing schedule. A tough one.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

“Some of it isn’t very practical in present latitudes.”

“No, sir. All dress blues. The men would suffocate in them.”

This was the blue woolen uniform worn in cold parallels; from our Barents duty, along with much other heavy-weather gear. “Men,” in this context shipboard, as in others, along with most pronouns and possessives, meant women as well. “Persons” and similar degeneracies in speech, the Navy, with its ancient respect for language, found impossible to assimilate; radarwoman, sonarperson, helmsgirl: wisely the Navy steered away from this nonsense. It might have caused ships to collide, have ended up foundering the fleet. I never heard the women complain about it.

“They scratch,” said Talley.

“Storekeeper Talley puts the matter clearly, sir. Possibly we could alter and adapt it in some way,” Lieutenant Girard said. “Shall I see what I can come up with?”

“By all means, Lieutenant.”

Suddenly, a shot out of nowhere square into the mind, came Selmon’s admonition: the possibility, however remote, of a forced return to cold latitudes. I said nothing of this. I did say, “Put the actual alterations on hold.”

“Aye, sir,” she said without suspicion. “No point in doing them until present clothing runs out. With proper care that shouldn’t be for some while. I’ll recalculate for present latitude.” She waited a moment. “If we’re stopping here.”

I cannot say if the last was a fishing expedition. Knowing Girard, I hardly thought so. In any event I ignored it.

“Yes, do these calculations, if you will.”

“We don’t need to wear much around here,” Storekeeper Talley said. “That’s for sure.”

I looked at Lieutenant Girard. I thought her eyes rolled.

“Until you do,” I said, “cease issuing all clothing. If someone asks for a new pair of pants—or pantyhose—lend him a sewing kit. Lend. Get it signed for.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m wearing mended pantyhose right now,” Storekeeper Talley said.

“Belay it, Talley.”

“Aye, ma’m.”

“Can we get on with it?” I said.

Through another door and we were in the ship’s store storeroom containing toiletries and so-called “crew comfort” items. Again on shelves reaching from deck to overhead the stacked cases stood. Again Girard sounded them out.

“Toothpaste… Toothbrushes… Bath soap… Razors… Razor blades…” A step. “Lipstick… Rouge… Mascara… Tampax…”

“Duration time?” I said.

“It’ll be much shorter, sir. First to go will be the soap.”

“Then let’s start. Right now. On all of this. The tightest rations possible.”

“Aye, sir.”

I looked over at the shelves of cigarette cartons. We had gone over that list.

“Starting now,” I said, “the cigarette ration will be one pack a week.”

“One pack, sir?” Lieutenant Girard said.

“And no new smokers. At that ration, how long will the cigarettes hold out?”

She flipped through the clipboard. “Four months, sir. More or less. I’ll get you a more precise figure.”

We stepped back into the passageway. Tally opened a locker. Neatly arranged on shelves in battened racks to secure them in high seas was what sports equipment we had: a half dozen footballs, a dozen baseballs, a half dozen baseball bats, a catcher’s mask, three volleyballs and a net and stanchions for it. Only the footballs appeared used.

“When’s the next touch football game, sir?” the storekeeper said brightly.

“We’re all aware you’re the ship’s star, Talley.” Which happened to be the truth.

“That’s for sure.” The smallest pause. “Since you say so, sir.”

We proceeded up to the first deck and the ship’s library. I regarded the shelves for a few moments, in a way I had not extended to the other stores. There it was. There they sat. An assortment of fiction and nonfiction, from a standard list. Some of the names surprised me. I skimmed the authors. We had not done badly.

“The Navy did pretty well by us,” I said.

“They give you a choice,” Girard said. “The Navy can be flexible, sir.”

“Is that a fact, Lieutenant? I’m delighted to learn about the Navy’s flexibility.”

“What I meant, sir,” briskly, “was that they do supply a list. Then they give you what’s called an optional choice. Up to five hundred volumes.”

“You’re saying you picked five hundred of these? I didn’t realize that anything went on aboard this ship involving a figure of five hundred that the captain was unaware of.”

“I felt it was an authority you would have wished delegated, sir.”

“I never had the opportunity to delegate, did I, Lieutenant? Well, I suppose you acted within your authority.”

“I thought so, sir.”

I looked at her. No sarcasm. She never really used that. Merely getting the facts out. Altogether 985 books. Not a bad figure, and the quality quite high. We were very fortunate. I felt consolation. In addition, fifty complete Bibles. One hundred New Testaments, half of these red-letter versions for the words of Christ. Two copies of the Talmud. One hundred copies of the Army and Navy Hymnal and Order of Worship, all about exactly how to do it for Catholics, Protestants, Jews—by, in our case, one chaplain. Then I looked toward the overhead and a light came on in me. Parked on a long upper shelf was a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I riffled it with my fingers, stopped at one—HERMOUP-LALLY.

“These,” I said, touching them. “I want the entire set put under lock and key.”

She looked at me a moment, as though she might ask.

“Will do, sir,” was all she said.

Here also were our music tapes—316 of them, it turned out. Not bad at all. Beethoven, Mozart, Bach. We had Handel’s Messiah. Rock, jazz, country, folk. The Beatles. Woody Guthrie. Madonna, Bruce Springsteen, Whitney Houston. I wondered but did not ask whether a portion of these had also been selected by Lieutenant Girard, or all by the Navy. Also 500 videocassettes of American movies. Also our stores of paper and pens were here and my eyes drilled in on these with a special intensity, mind thoughtful, waiting in the stillness. Five dozen reams of 20-pound bond. Thirty thousand sheets of paper. One hundred dozen-sized boxes of ballpoints.