Voyage to Somewhere Read Free Page B

they were scrutinizing me with as much interest as I was them. Again I had the feeling that this was a meeting so important that it was impossible to say or do anything that would really live up to it. I stood for a moment looking at the men and letting them look at me.
    â€œAt ease,” I said.
    There was the small shuffling sound of mass relaxation that always come after that order.
    â€œStarting at the left of the front line,” I said, “call out your faces.”
    â€œWiden,” the first man called out. “White.” “Whysowitz.” “Wigly.” “Willis.”
    It dawned on all of us at the same time that all the names began with “W.” The personnel officer had simply taken them all in one block from an alphabetical list! As the last men called out “Wenton,” “Wright,” and “Wortly,” they were all smiling. The situation did not, however, appear humorous to me. It meant that no effort had been made to fit together a harmonious crew, no effort had been made to make the proper blending of experienced and green hands, of men with exceptionally fine records and men with medium and bad records. We had just been given pot luck from the alphabetical list. I wondered about their picking Mr. Warren. Probably that was just coincidence, for the officers were kept on a separate list. Nevertheless I didn’t like all the names beginning with “W.” It gave me a funny feeling.
    When the last man had called out his name, I paused. “Well,” I said finally, “you can see there has been no favoritism in picking this crew.”
    The men laughed dutifully.
    â€œHow many of you have had sea duty?” I asked. “Everyone who has had more than two years of sea duty, put up his hand.”
    Out of the twenty-six men two put up their hands, the chief machinist’s mate, who was a tall, thin man with a mustache, and the gray-haired first class boatswain’s mate.
    â€œEveryone who’s had more than one year’s sea duty, put up his hand.”
    The chief boatswain’s mate put his hand in the air. No one else moved.
    â€œAnyone who has had any sea duty, put up his hand,” I said at length. One hand went up. It was that of a quartermaster, a dark young man of about twenty-three years. He left his hand in the air uncertainly a moment, then put it down. The men shifted uneasily on their feet. Only four of them had been to sea at all! Twenty-two absolutely green hands out of a crew of twenty-six! For a moment a wave of panic swept over me. I was trying to think of something to say when a truck arrived on the dock beside us.
    â€œStores for the SV-126,” the driver called.
    â€œWell, men, let’s hustle these stores aboard,” I said. “Chief, use all hands to get stores aboard.”
    The men broke from the ranks and in a moment were rolling, lifting, and passing the contents of the truck aboard the ship.
    There were coils of line half as high as a man, bundles of sweepers, bales of toilet paper, cartons of canned beans, an instrument box marked “fragile,” and cases of fifty-calibre ammunition. In less than half an hour the deck was such a mad clutter of miscellaneous gear that it was impossible to find standing room.
    â€œMr. Crane,” I called, “get the Chief to have this stuff stowed properly before more comes aboard.”
    â€œWhere shall I have it stowed?” Mr. Crane asked.
    â€œOh, the ammunition goes in the magazines, the toilet paper goes in the lazarette …” I paused and wiped my brow. As I did that a seaman wearing a pistol came up to me with a message. I signed his receipt book and opened the envelope he handed me. It was an order from the district office.
    â€œMake ready for sea and sail before 1500 of May twenty-four for Milne Bay, New Guinea. Routing Instructions will be supplied.”
    I didn’t read any farther. That gave us just three days,