Pacific Interlude Read Free Page A

petty officers and could be dangerously overconfident. Beyond that, any man who refused to take a transfer from this nightmare of a ship must be some kind of a nut. While he was reflecting on this, a loud deep voice called from the deck, “Hey, Simp! Are you aboard?”
    â€œThat’s Mr. Buller, sir,” Simpson said, his face a study of disapproval. “Do you want to see him here?”
    â€œSend him in.”
    Simpson left and a few moments later Buller appeared at the cabin door. Syl was startled by his sheer size. A former college and professional football player now thirty-six years old, Buller was six feet three inches tall and weighed close to 250 pounds. He had to stoop when he squeezed through the cabin door.
    At five feet eleven and 175 pounds when rail thin, as he was now, Syl had felt himself to be more physically powerful than most men, but he was dwarfed as he stood to greet this astonishing ensign, and his hand felt like a child’s as Buller took it in his huge fingers.
    â€œSo you’re our new skipper!” Buller said in the bellow which was his normal conversational voice. “Thank God you’re here!”
    He squeezed Syl’s hand hard enough to cause a twinge of pain, an accident, perhaps, or a none-too-subtle attempt to establish dominance the moment he met anyone.
    â€œTake it easy,” Syl said with a smile. “I might need that hand.”
    â€œSorry about that but sometimes I get carried away. That bastard Simp is about to drive me crazy.”
    â€œWhat’s the trouble?”
    â€œWe have a very simple problem: we have to get rid of about fifty thousand gallons of gas which the government don’t want but which is perfectly good. Simp wants to sit on it like a mother hen on her eggs until the damn government can find trucks to dump it in the desert. Have you ever heard of such waste?”
    â€œWhat do you want to do?”
    â€œI want to sell it—that’s the best way to get rid of it quick. The men have been doing that ever since they got here in a half-ass way, dipping it up in buckets and pouring it into jerry cans. Simp’s right about one thing—that’s dangerous. I’ve got a guy with a tank truck and decent pumps who’ll come and take the whole mess away tomorrow night if Simp will let me.”
    â€œYou’ve found a black market operator?”
    â€œYou could call him that. He’ll pay us ten thousand bucks for the stuff in Aussie money. Do you know what we can do with that?”
    â€œWhat do you have in mind?”
    â€œWe can rent a house ashore for the crew and enough food and booze to last us as long as we’re here, which might be as long as a month or even more. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live aboard this wreck while they’re working on her? We can’t even use the heads and showers. When they start cutting and welding, it will be worse.”
    â€œI’ve been in yards before.”
    â€œThe men haven’t even been able to draw pay here—everything’s all fouled up. Don’t you figure they deserve a few weeks of good living before we all head into what’s waiting for us?”
    â€œAnd what do you figure that is?”
    â€œHell, it’s no secret that these tankers are used for supplying advance air bases and everybody knows the invasion of the Philippines is coming up. Why do you suppose there’s such a shortage of these little tankers? They’ve been blowing up like firecrackers all over the lot. All it takes is one damn rifle bullet in the tanks. It’s a damn miracle that this ship survived a hit by a plane.”
    â€œThat doesn’t give us license to sell gas on the black market. We could all be court-martialed—”
    â€œAre you a damned regular officer?”
    â€œNo, reserve.”
    â€œI thought so—you don’t have that blank look. These regular military men have been slopping it up at