his shattered hipbone had turned his face a ghostly white. He was bleating like a sheep. They had cut away his trousers and undershorts, and Patch could see the jagged white bone of the upper thigh sticking out through the skin.
A sailor in a white corpsman’s jacket was holding a bloody compress just below the wound as they carried Peach away, still bleating, toward the sick bay. Patch and the doctor walked behind.
“I’m gonna have to do something pretty quick about that boy, but I don’t know how in hell I can, with the ship bouncing like this—I just don’t know,” the doctor said.
“We’ve got our own medical people aboard,” Patch said. “Can we give you any help?”
“Yes, tell your orthopedics man I can use him—or at least, he can use me . . . and for God’s sake, try to keep these men out of the companionways in this weather,” the doctor said, turning into the sick bay, leaving Patch alone in the writhing corridor with only the straining cantations of the engines and the distant bleating of Private Peach.
Damn that little bastard, Patch thought, looking after the doctor. Damn his nerve to say that to me. Patch couldn’t figure out at the moment whom he was most mad at, the insolent Navy doctor or Peach, who had caused the trouble in the first place. What a fool thing to try to negotiate stairs in this stuff. And now one less man in the field . . . Besides, Patch thought, he was probably going down there to steal something anyway.
The fiercest part of the typhoon raged through the night and into early morning. There were times everyone truly believed the ship could not stand being dropped into the hollow of another swell. Each time the transport’s bow would rise, its cargo of frightened men would brace themselves, stomach muscles tightened, jaws clamped together, chins lowered to their chests as if they were passengers on an elevator broken free in its shaft. Chaplain Greaves continued to pray, and his congregation increased tenfold.
Each time the sea caught the ship up on a crest, there was a terrifying tremor from stem to stern, as though the transport were a patient in an asylum being given an electric-shock treatment, followed by a roller-coaster plunge down into the water with a terrific roar. This went on for hours, but none of the men ever got used to it, and many of their secret prayers dealt only with the hope of getting through the night, leaving the rest to further Providence.
A sickly pink dawn brought a slackened wind and an end to the rain, and it signaled that the typhoon itself had passed over. What remained was mountainous seas, higher even than the bridge of the ship, some of them cresting with a great rush of foam and roar of dirty-looking water. But the swells had a definite direction now instead of the chaotic raving at the height of the storm, which gave a predictable and less frightening cadence to the rising and falling of the ship. On the slopes of some of these waves, exhausted gulls and terns bobbed crazily, flying up at the onslaught of a breaker and screeching mightily before settling back down again.
By late afternoon the seas had subsided a little, and down in sick bay the doctor informed the bridge that they were ready to reassemble Pfc. Peach’s smashed bones. This was necessary so that the helmsman would turn the transport directly into the waves—a course that would increase the pounding, but negate the rolling which had prevented them from operating up to now. As the ship began to pound once more, the relief of the men cooped up in the lounges and dining room turned to anguish, since again no one had bothered to tell them the reason, and they were not enough attuned to the sea to figure it out for themselves.
Earlier, Kahn allowed some of Bravo Company to return to the troop quarters to look after their personal belongings. They reported back that several packs and duffel bags had been gone through and things had been stolen out of them.
12
S harkey
A sailor in a white corpsman’s jacket was holding a bloody compress just below the wound as they carried Peach away, still bleating, toward the sick bay. Patch and the doctor walked behind.
“I’m gonna have to do something pretty quick about that boy, but I don’t know how in hell I can, with the ship bouncing like this—I just don’t know,” the doctor said.
“We’ve got our own medical people aboard,” Patch said. “Can we give you any help?”
“Yes, tell your orthopedics man I can use him—or at least, he can use me . . . and for God’s sake, try to keep these men out of the companionways in this weather,” the doctor said, turning into the sick bay, leaving Patch alone in the writhing corridor with only the straining cantations of the engines and the distant bleating of Private Peach.
Damn that little bastard, Patch thought, looking after the doctor. Damn his nerve to say that to me. Patch couldn’t figure out at the moment whom he was most mad at, the insolent Navy doctor or Peach, who had caused the trouble in the first place. What a fool thing to try to negotiate stairs in this stuff. And now one less man in the field . . . Besides, Patch thought, he was probably going down there to steal something anyway.
The fiercest part of the typhoon raged through the night and into early morning. There were times everyone truly believed the ship could not stand being dropped into the hollow of another swell. Each time the transport’s bow would rise, its cargo of frightened men would brace themselves, stomach muscles tightened, jaws clamped together, chins lowered to their chests as if they were passengers on an elevator broken free in its shaft. Chaplain Greaves continued to pray, and his congregation increased tenfold.
Each time the sea caught the ship up on a crest, there was a terrifying tremor from stem to stern, as though the transport were a patient in an asylum being given an electric-shock treatment, followed by a roller-coaster plunge down into the water with a terrific roar. This went on for hours, but none of the men ever got used to it, and many of their secret prayers dealt only with the hope of getting through the night, leaving the rest to further Providence.
A sickly pink dawn brought a slackened wind and an end to the rain, and it signaled that the typhoon itself had passed over. What remained was mountainous seas, higher even than the bridge of the ship, some of them cresting with a great rush of foam and roar of dirty-looking water. But the swells had a definite direction now instead of the chaotic raving at the height of the storm, which gave a predictable and less frightening cadence to the rising and falling of the ship. On the slopes of some of these waves, exhausted gulls and terns bobbed crazily, flying up at the onslaught of a breaker and screeching mightily before settling back down again.
By late afternoon the seas had subsided a little, and down in sick bay the doctor informed the bridge that they were ready to reassemble Pfc. Peach’s smashed bones. This was necessary so that the helmsman would turn the transport directly into the waves—a course that would increase the pounding, but negate the rolling which had prevented them from operating up to now. As the ship began to pound once more, the relief of the men cooped up in the lounges and dining room turned to anguish, since again no one had bothered to tell them the reason, and they were not enough attuned to the sea to figure it out for themselves.
Earlier, Kahn allowed some of Bravo Company to return to the troop quarters to look after their personal belongings. They reported back that several packs and duffel bags had been gone through and things had been stolen out of them.
12
S harkey
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