Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“Oh. Oh, yes, sir. A pair of binoculars.”

“Give them to me.”

David moved his black shoes onto the pile of jumpers and reached to the back of the locker for the binoculars. He handed them to the captain.

“Are these government property, Regan?”

“No, sir. I bought them in Honolulu.”

The captain glanced at them and handed them back. “All right, move those jumpers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“ And the T shirts.”

“Yes, sir.”

With his back to the captain, David squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then picked up the jumpers.

“Come on, Regan, on the double.”

“Sir...” Devereaux started, and then hesitated.

“Yes, Mr. Devereaux?”

“Sir, I’ve searched this locker and...”

Again Devereaux hesitated. David, his hands on the pile of T shirts that were shielding the .45, looked up at Devereaux. He’s going to tell, he thought. He’s going to say he found the gun.

“Yes, what is it, Mr. Devereaux?” the captain said.

“Sir, I think I should tell you—”

“Captain down here?” a voice from the top of the ladder asked.

“He’s here, sir,” one of the seamen answered. The captain turned as Levy, the senior gunnery officer, came down the steps.

“Oh, there you are, sir.”

“What is it, Mr. Levy?”

“I think we’ve found the piece, sir,” Levy said.

“Where?”

“Seaman first class has it, sir. Claims he bought it from a dogface. A soldier, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“Aft sleeping compartment, sir.”

“Let’s talk to him,” the captain said. “Carry on,” he called over his shoulder, and went up the ladder.

“Does he want us to continue the search?” Phelps asked.

“I guess not,” Devereaux answered. “They found the gun.”

“I’d better find out,” Phelps said, and he went up the ladder after the captain.

Devereaux turned to David. In a tight whisper, he said, “Take that gun topside and throw it overboard.”

“Now, sir?”

“Now. Move!”

“Yes, sir!” David grabbed the gun and tucked it under his shirt. In thirty seconds he had thrown it over the side, but he still wondered what Devereaux was about to say when he’d used the opening words, “Sir, I think I should tell you—”

Devereaux, on the other hand, knew exactly what he’d been about to say. He’d been about to say, “Sir, I think I should tell you I’ve found the gun. I was going to report to you privately, sir. I didn’t want to embarrass young Regan before his shipmates.”

That was what he was about to say. He had been spared the statement by the intrusion of Sol Levy, the gunnery officer, and the news that a seaman first class had the missing .45. As it turned out, the .45 really had been purchased from a soldier, but it was considered stolen government property nonetheless, and immediately confiscated. By the time the search was resumed, David had already disposed of the weapon. Devereaux, unfortunately, had not disposed of the nagging knowledge that he’d been about to inform on David to save his own skin.

The thought was a new one to him, and he examined it carefully, examined too the inborn American aversion to the informer. He did not enjoy casting himself in the role of the rat. And yet, undeniably, he had been about to tell on David, would have told on David in the next instant. Anyone would have done the same thing, he thought. It was a matter of Regan or me. What do I owe him anyway? Nothing. I only owe number one, George Devereaux. Still the idea of informing was not a palatable one.

I didn’t tell on him, he thought. But I was about to. Well, maybe I would have changed my mind in the last minute. Maybe I would have said, “Sir, I think I should tell you I’ve searched this locker thoroughly, and you’re only duplicating my effort.” Maybe I would have said that if Levy hadn’t come down the steps at that moment. Maybe I would have protected Regan after all.

But he knew he’d been about to inform, and he knew he would have informed if he hadn’t been interrupted. And he knew, too, that contact with David Regan somehow brought out all the worst elements of his personality, somehow reduced the private image of himself to a person he didn’t even know and, worse, a person he despised.

I have to destroy him, he thought.

At first, he thought he was referring to this image of himself, the image he hated, this person who did things George Devereaux would not have done, this childish man who thought longingly of young girls, this vindictive man who insisted on punishing, this timid man who would not face up to the captain, this intolerant man who mouthed democratic principles, this disgusting man who was an informer.

And then he realized he did not want to destroy this image at all. He only wanted to destroy the source of this image, the one person who caused him to see himself so unflatteringly, David Regan. Unconsciously, he began to plot against David, continuing with the revisions all the while, plotting, plotting. There seemed to be no way of eliminating him, of reducing him to nothingness, no way of ripping David out of his life.

Until that April night in Pearl.

David, carrying out the details of the captain’s punishment for his transgression on the bridge, was standing the gangway midwatch. He wore his dress whites and a guard belt carrying live cartridges, and he held a .22 rifle at parade rest, more or less. The officer of the deck was a man called Sammener, and he ran a loose watch, and he realized that no Japanese spies were going to blow up the Hanley while it lay in port, and so he didn’t much care whether David leaned on the rifle or held it on his shoulder or slouched in the most casual parade rest he had ever witnessed. Sammener simply didn’t care. Sammener was sleepy, and he detested midwatches, and the gunner’s mate standing watch with him was a deadly Midwestern bore who had nothing to say, so Sammener wrote a few letters to his wife, and watched David at the foot of the gangway stifling yawns and standing a very sloppy parade-rest watch. The captain was aboard and asleep, and so there was no fear he’d come back to the ship from liberty and raise a fuss.

“What time is it?” Sammener asked the gunner’s mate.

“Oh-two-hundred, sir,” the gunner’s mate replied.

“In English.”

“Two A.M., sir.”

“Thank you.” Sammener paused. “Listen, go get us some coffee, will you? I’ll be asleep here in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir. Where should I get it, sir?”

“The radiomen should have a pot brewing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get some for the gangway watch, too.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “You there! At the gangway! You want some coffee?”

“Yes, sir, I’d like some,” David answered.

“Fine. What’s your name again?”

“Regan, sir.”

“What are you, Regan? A radarman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you doing on gangway watch?”

David grinned. “The captain’s idea, sir.”

“He’s full of them,” Sammener mumbled. “Go get the coffee, Mercer. Make it fast. I’m about to drop.”

The coffee came at 0215. Sammener sent the gunner’s mate down with a cup for David, and David shifted the rifle to his left hand and sipped at the hot cup of coffee. The coffee was good. He’d been very sleepy before the coffee came. It seemed as if he’d been standing mid-watches forever, and yet it had only been a few weeks, and still he never seemed to be wide awake any more. Night after night, he came to dread that hand on his shoulder waking him at a quarter to midnight, and then standing on the dock watching everyone returning from liberty, not getting back into the sack until 4 A.M., and then being awakened again at six to start the navy day. He never seemed to get enough sleep lately. He almost wished they were back in combat. The captain would never enforce such ridiculous punishment if the ship were in...