And he sighed and admitted that possibly, just possibly, the letters from Regan to the girl in Talmadge had only possibly reminded him of a life he had loved, yes, of course, the campus and the pretty young girls and the balmy California air, Alice, yes, all right, even Alice, all those things, the letters from Regan had recaptured for him a youthful recklessness he once had known, that was all, and so he’d naturally been impressed, the letters were quite vivid, quite a good style the boy had, I wasn’t interested in content, Regan. I was only interested in style. Face to face with it, now, he asked himself whether this was true, and he knew it was not. I should have, he thought, but she was such a child, and yet she was not unaware, I should have, that was no accident, the pressure against my arm. I should have, I should have!
So.
He sat in his cabin and stared at the gray bulkhead and thought, So. So let the boy go. Let him alone. What did he do? Knock over a roundheeled kid in Connecticut? Let him go. Let him go
But he was still angry.
He was angry because he had recognized something about himself, and the knowledge was somewhat painful. And he was further angered because he believed that David, no matter how much anguish the revisions brought on, could not possibly be in as much pain as he was in at this moment. It seemed terribly unfair to him. Unfair that this kid with peach fuzz on his face could have this sweet ripe Ardis Fletcher in Connecticut, and unfair that this encounter, which he had provoked with his letters, should leave him relatively unscathed while it was causing his instructor such pain. Oh, what the hell, I’ve been in the Pacific too long, he thought; eight months is too long a time, I’m not thinking clearly. I’ll tell Regan tomorrow that his story stinks to high heaven and will he please stop bothering me with it.
And perhaps he would have done just that, perhaps he would have spoken to David earnestly and sympathetically, told him that sometimes these things didn’t work out and David shouldn’t take it too badly, perhaps he’d have recognized that the pain involved for himself was becoming greater than whatever perverse satisfaction he derived out of punishing David, perhaps he’d have dropped the whole ridiculous thing if the skipper of the Hanley had not summoned him to the wardroom the next day.
“Sit down, Mr. Devereaux,” he said. “Smoke?”
“Thank you, sir, no,” Devereaux answered.
“Mind if I light up?”
“Not at all, sir.”
Devereaux was familiar enough with the ways of the Navy to realize that all this polite parlor chitchat was the prelude to some fancy chewing-out. He wasn’t particularly disturbed nor particularly nervous, because he’d been chewed out before, and by experts. One senior officer aboard the Juneau, in fact, had been a first-class demagogue, and the captain of the Hanley could never hope to achieve the same subtle heights of derisive oratory. So he waited patiently while the captain lighted a cigar and shook out the match and waved his hand before his face to clear the room of smoke.
“Now then,” the captain said, and he smiled pleasantly at Devereaux, and Devereaux waited, watching with casual interest, not at all frightened or apprehensive, watching the captain as he would watch a movie being shown on the boat deck, uninvolved, impersonally, almost bored.
“I understand you were a teacher in civilian life, Mr. Devereaux, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very interesting occupation,” the captain said.
“Yes, sir,” Devereaux answered, knowing full well that the captain did not think teaching was interesting. The captain thought only sailing the high seas was interesting, only being the hero commander of a naval warship was interesting. “Yes, sir, it is.”
“Taught writing, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Regular discoverer of budding Hemingways, huh?”
“Some of my students were rath—”
“Good writer, Hemingway,” the captain said. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about Regan?”
“Regan, sir?” Devereaux said, puzzled for a moment.
“Yes. David Regan. Radarman, isn’t he?”
“Oh. Oh, yes, sir. Regan.” Devereaux nodded.
“What about him?”
“Well...” Devereaux shrugged. “What about him, sir? I don’t understand.”
“I understand you’ve been giving him writing lessons.”
“Who told—” Devereaux cut himself short. “Not lessons exactly, sir. I’ve been helping him with a short story he wrote.”
“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Devereaux.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Very nice.”
“Thank you, sir. The boy—”
“But of course, Mr. Devereaux, there are certain naval regulations which forbid fraternization between officer and enlisted man, as I’m sure you are well aware. These regulations are based on the sound facts of naval warfare, Mr. Devereaux, the premise being that the power of command is weakened when the person giving the command has become too friendly with the person receiving the command.”
“Sir, I assure you—”
“I understand perfectly well, Mr. Devereaux, that you are aware of the responsibilities of being an officer in the United States Navy. However, I have never trusted the limited intelligence of the enlisted man, and I never shall. I should hate to have a friendship encouraged which would limit the fighting performance of any man aboard my vessel.”
“Sir, Regan is quite intelligent, and he recognizes the limitations of any relationship between an officer and an—”
“Yes, that’s all well and good, Mr. Devereaux, but someone overheard him calling you ‘George.’ Now, that stuff has got to go, Mr. Devereaux. It has got to go.”
“Sir—”
“Regan happens to be a pretty important person in the fighting structure of this ship, Mr. Devereaux. His battle station is on the bridge, and he is our communications link with Combat Information Center, a man who can understand all this newfangled radar gobbledygook and who can give it to Mr. Peterson, our executive officer, without any hesitation or doubt. He is also capable of sifting information and reporting it in the order of its importance without a moment’s hesitation, and I don’t think I have to tell you how vital that is to us on the bridge who are trying to command a ship under combat conditions.”
“I realize that, sir, but I can’t see the harm of working with him on a—”
“I would not like Regan to become confused, Mr. Devereaux. I would not like him to start calling me ‘Donald,’ for example, which happens to be my name, nor would I like him turning to my executive officer and saying, ‘Fred, many bogeys,’ or whatever it is those radar boys say. I wouldn’t want that to happen, Mr. Devereaux.”
“Sir, if I may say so, that’s reducing it to the absurd. I can assure you Regan would never—”
“You can assure me, Mr. Devereaux, that these classes in English composition will be terminated immediately. That is what you can assure me, Mr. Devereaux.”
The wardroom was silent.
“Are there any questions, Mr. Devereaux?” the captain asked.
“None, sir.”
“Very well, then.”
“May I be excused, sir?”
“You may be excused, Mr. Devereaux.”
Devereaux went back to his cabin and almost punched a hole in the bulkhead with his closed fist. This was the first time in his naval career that he had received an order that positively infuriated him, an order that seemed ridiculously unfair, most arbitrary, and downright undemocratic. We are supposed to be fighting the fascists, Devereaux thought, and the biggest fascist of them all is right aboard this ship! It never occurred to him that the captain was doing him a favor, was offering him an easy way out of a situation that had become inexplicably complex. All at once, Devereaux became a champion of democracy. All at once, Devereaux became a person terribly interested in the rights of the common enlisted man.