Ellis’s head popped back into view. “Skipper?”
“Those women are nurses, you say?”
Ellis leered again. “Absolutely.”
Matt shook his head. “If they want to help, send them to Doc Stevens in the wardroom. And spread the word! They’ll be treated with respect. Any man who inflicts himself on them will go overboard for the Japs. Understood?”
Ellis nodded, his leer now slightly wistful. “Sir.”
“Very well. And, Exec?”
“Sir?”
“Keep them off my bridge.”
Ellis slid down the ladder, firehouse style, and caught up with Kaufman, who was striding purposefully through the amidships deckhouse. His handsome, square-jawed face was clouded with anger. Ellis touched his sleeve and Kaufman spun. He recognized Ellis and forcibly composed his expression. He stood six inches taller than the burly exec, but Ellis was more muscular. A tolerant smile never left his face. Fitzhugh Gray strode up, adding his pudgy but powerful presence to the group. He handed each man a Coke, already opened, and slipped a church key onto the cap of the one in his own massive paw.
In a service where everyone had multiple “names”-real name, nickname, and sometimes multiple titles-Gray had the most. He was the chief boatswain’s mate, and the highest-ranking NCO on the ship. Although he was technically subordinate to the most junior officers, only the captain and the exec would have dreamed of giving him an order. Time in grade, as well as personality, made him the “senior” chief aboard, and he was usually referred to as just “the Chief” by the crew. The other chiefs and officers often used the outdated but still honorific “the Bosun.” Only the captain or the exec ever used the respectful diminutive “Boats.”
“Going to be another hot one,” Gray said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “’Course, if the goddamn Nips get us, I guess we’ll be swimmin’. Them that can swim. I think I’d rather be sweating than swimmin’. I guess you fighter jocks don’t give as much thought to swimmin’ as destroyermen do.” It was just a friendly jibe, but Kaufman was still annoyed by Gray’s earlier threat, and what he perceived as the captain’s humiliating treatment of him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded hotly. Gray looked at Ellis and rolled his eyes. At that moment, Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory joined them. He was already drinking a Coke and he held it up.
“How about this, Captain?” he said. “These destroyer pukes have a Coke machine! Far as I can tell, it’s the only thing that works.”
Rebuffed by Kaufman, Gray began to bristle. Ellis recognized the lieutenant’s friendly banter, however, and turned to him. “That’s right, boy,” he said with a grin, “and if you airedales had done your job in the Philippines, we’d still be sitting fat and happy going up and down with the tide in Cavite. Nothing to worry about but keeping the Coke machine stocked while the yard-apes worked on these worn-out boilers.” He stomped his foot on the deck for emphasis, indicating the forward fireroom below.
Mallory didn’t laugh. “I’m afraid you got me. I wasn’t there, of course, but I heard the fellows didn’t do so good.” Ellis saw Gray take a breath and prepare his tirade about the ineffectiveness of the Air Corps, a topic much discussed. The Japanese air cover and the American lack thereof had been an extremely sore subject since the war began. Ignored now, and glad to be, Kaufman strode away. Mallory started to follow, but Ellis stopped him.
“By the way, Captain Kaufman asked if we could use a hand, and the captain said if you could keep the ammunition flowing to the machine guns it would help.”
Mallory nodded thoughtfully. “Sure thing. Not much else we’d be good for on a ship. Show me where you keep the bullets and I’ll haul as many as you need.” He looked wryly at Ellis and gestured over his shoulder with his chin. “He didn’t like that much, did he?”
Ellis smiled and shook his head. “No, son. I think he expected us to put him in charge.”
The corner of Mallory’s mouth quirked upward. “Kaufman’s really not such a bad guy, but I guess he is sort of-” He caught himself and shrugged sheepishly. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”
Ellis slapped him on the back, and the powerful blow nearly knocked Mallory into the Chief. “I know you will. Boats, have somebody show this man where we keep the bullets. I better get back where I belong.”
Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker pushed aside the pea green curtain and led her entourage into the wardroom. She was petite, measuring only five foot three, and her long, sandy-brown hair was coiled tightly about her head. When it came down, it framed a face that may not have been classically beautiful, but was striking in a pretty, “girl next door” sort of way. Her large green eyes projected an impression of naive vulnerability, but anyone making that assumption would have been mistaken. At twenty-seven, she’d been a Navy nurse since ’35, and in that time she’d encountered every excuse, pickup line, real and imagined ailment, injury, and malingerer’s complaint possible in a bored but active peacetime Navy. She was smart, confident, and even tended toward an arrogant streak when in her realm of expertise. Her mild conceit was understandable, since she was an outstanding nurse and often made a better doctor than the doctors did. She’d assisted in a variety of surgical procedures and performed everything from appendectomies to amputations by herself, since many of her postings had been in remote areas where emergencies were handled on-site. When war loomed, she and her companions volunteered for the Philippines. She had friends there, and that was where she figured nurses would be needed. She knew she was good at her job and genuinely wanted to be where she could make the greatest contribution. That was why she’d become a nurse in the first place. Right now, although she was the highest-ranking officer in the wardroom, it became quickly obvious that she wasn’t in charge.
The ship’s surgeon, “Doc” Stevens, was a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-forties. He and Pharmacist’s Mate 3rd Class Jamie Miller were sitting at the green-topped wardroom table with the Marine sergeant, Pete Alden, playing dominoes when Sandra entered with the five other nurses.
The wardroom was the officers’ dining room, but it also served as a surgery when the ship went into battle. The long dining surface became an operating table, and a large light hung above it by a fixture that could be lowered near the patient. Except for the dominoes, all superfluous articles had been stowed, and various gleaming surgical instruments lay neatly arranged and ready at hand.
The pharmacist’s mate looked to be just a boy, like most of the crewmen Sandra had seen, but the Marine was a large, well-muscled, and deeply tanned thirtysomething. He regarded the nurses with a frankly appraising eye. The imposing surgeon grimly played a domino and glanced at them as the nurses crowded through the opening.
“I sort of expected to see you… ladies here.” His Massachusetts accent was strong and nasal. “I bet you nurses want to be nurses, right?” He shifted in his chair and rubbed his chin. “I never had a nurse before. Not counting Jamie here, of course. Tell me, Sergeant,” he said, addressing the Marine, “have you ever had a nurse?” Alden looked at him, astonished. The nurses were, after all, officers. Stevens shook his head. “Never mind, Sergeant. Of course you have. You’re a wounded hero, after all. I’m sure you had nurses all over you.” Sandra’s face clouded and she began to snap a reprimand. Doc Stevens’s look momentarily silenced her protest. “I know you’re officers and I’m just a lowly Warrant. I don’t give a damn. I know about you nurses; wouldn’t even give me the time of day if I came squirming into your nice, clean, modern hospital. Well, this is my hospital! If you want to stay here and help, that’s fine. There’ll probably be plenty to do. But if you want to give orders or get in the way, you can turn around, climb that ladder and go play dollies under the depth charges because I don’t need you.” He stopped long enough to smile at their expressions. “I’ve got Jamie. He makes a pretty good nurse, even if he looks dreadful in a dress.”