escorts get shoved here and there by every port director who gets his hands on them-”
“Whatever you say, sir-”
“ Or ,” said the captain, “we can put you on temporary duty here in the officer pool till she gets back to Pearl. Might be a few weeks, might be a few months. Depends on whether you’re in a hurry for combat duty or- They can use you out there, sure enough. The admiral wouldn’t interfere with your going out, in any way.” Captain Matson grinned.
Willie glanced through the broad picture window which faced the sea and the hills. A rainbow was drifting down a palm-covered misty mountainside far away. Outside on the lawn crimson hibiscus blossoms stirred in the warm breeze, and a sprinkler twirled a sparkling spiral of water over the close-clipped grass.
“Officer pool sounds swell to me, sir.”
“Fine. The admiral will be pleased. Bring your orders around to my yeoman any time today.”
Willie was officially transferred to the officer pool, and took up quarters with Keefer in the BOQ. The Southerner, who had already been assigned to Third Fleet Communications, exulted as Willie unpacked his bags.
“Boy, you catching on to the military life.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they needed me on the Caine -”
“Shinola on that. You gonna get all the war you want, boy. You keep little old Keefer and the admiral happy a few weeks, that’s all.” He rose and swiftly knotted a black tie. “Got the duty. See you tonight.”
Unpacking, Willie came upon his father’s letter. He took it up uncertainly. Months might pass now, before he reached his ship. Dr. Keith had told him to open it upon reporting for duty. He was on duty-temporary duty, to be sure, but it might last a long time. He lit a cigarette, tore open the letter, and sat down to read it. At the first words he started up. He read on, sitting on the edge of the chair, the letter trembling in his hands, the cigarette burning down between his fingers, and ashes dropping off unnoticed.
DEAR WILLIE:
By the time you read this letter, I think I will be dead. I’m sorry to startle you but I suppose there’s no pleasant way to break such news. The trouble I’ve been having with my toe is due to a rather vicious disorder, malignant melanoma. The prognosis is one hundred per cent bad. I’ve known about my condition for a long time, and figured that I would probably die this summer. But the toe began to go a bit sooner. I suppose I should be in a hospital at this moment (two nights before you leave) but I hate to spoil your departure, and since there’s no hope anyway, I’ve postponed it. I’m going to try to stall until I know you’ve left San Francisco. Your mother doesn’t know anything yet. My guess is that I won’t last more than three or four weeks, now.
I’m a little young to go, according to the insurance tables, and i must say I don’t feel ready, but I daresay that’s because I’ve accomplished so little. I look back on my life, Willie, and there’s not much there. Your mother has been a fine wife, and I have no regrets on that score. But I seem to have led such a thoroughly second-rate life-not only compared to my father, but in view of my own capabilities. I had quite a feeling for research. When I fell in love with your mother I thought I couldn’t marry her without undertaking general practice in a high-income community. It was my plan to make a pile in ten or fifteen years of such work, and then return to research. I really think I might have done something in cancer. I had a theory-a notion, you might say-nothing I could have put on paper. It needed three years of systematic investigation. Nobody has touched it to this day. I’ve kept up with the literature. My name might have meant as much as my father’s. But now there’s no time even to outline the procedure. The worst of it is, I now feel your mother would have stood by me and lived modestly if I’d really insisted.
But I’ve had a pleasant time, I can truly
“Whatever you say, sir-”
“ Or ,” said the captain, “we can put you on temporary duty here in the officer pool till she gets back to Pearl. Might be a few weeks, might be a few months. Depends on whether you’re in a hurry for combat duty or- They can use you out there, sure enough. The admiral wouldn’t interfere with your going out, in any way.” Captain Matson grinned.
Willie glanced through the broad picture window which faced the sea and the hills. A rainbow was drifting down a palm-covered misty mountainside far away. Outside on the lawn crimson hibiscus blossoms stirred in the warm breeze, and a sprinkler twirled a sparkling spiral of water over the close-clipped grass.
“Officer pool sounds swell to me, sir.”
“Fine. The admiral will be pleased. Bring your orders around to my yeoman any time today.”
Willie was officially transferred to the officer pool, and took up quarters with Keefer in the BOQ. The Southerner, who had already been assigned to Third Fleet Communications, exulted as Willie unpacked his bags.
“Boy, you catching on to the military life.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they needed me on the Caine -”
“Shinola on that. You gonna get all the war you want, boy. You keep little old Keefer and the admiral happy a few weeks, that’s all.” He rose and swiftly knotted a black tie. “Got the duty. See you tonight.”
Unpacking, Willie came upon his father’s letter. He took it up uncertainly. Months might pass now, before he reached his ship. Dr. Keith had told him to open it upon reporting for duty. He was on duty-temporary duty, to be sure, but it might last a long time. He lit a cigarette, tore open the letter, and sat down to read it. At the first words he started up. He read on, sitting on the edge of the chair, the letter trembling in his hands, the cigarette burning down between his fingers, and ashes dropping off unnoticed.
DEAR WILLIE:
By the time you read this letter, I think I will be dead. I’m sorry to startle you but I suppose there’s no pleasant way to break such news. The trouble I’ve been having with my toe is due to a rather vicious disorder, malignant melanoma. The prognosis is one hundred per cent bad. I’ve known about my condition for a long time, and figured that I would probably die this summer. But the toe began to go a bit sooner. I suppose I should be in a hospital at this moment (two nights before you leave) but I hate to spoil your departure, and since there’s no hope anyway, I’ve postponed it. I’m going to try to stall until I know you’ve left San Francisco. Your mother doesn’t know anything yet. My guess is that I won’t last more than three or four weeks, now.
I’m a little young to go, according to the insurance tables, and i must say I don’t feel ready, but I daresay that’s because I’ve accomplished so little. I look back on my life, Willie, and there’s not much there. Your mother has been a fine wife, and I have no regrets on that score. But I seem to have led such a thoroughly second-rate life-not only compared to my father, but in view of my own capabilities. I had quite a feeling for research. When I fell in love with your mother I thought I couldn’t marry her without undertaking general practice in a high-income community. It was my plan to make a pile in ten or fifteen years of such work, and then return to research. I really think I might have done something in cancer. I had a theory-a notion, you might say-nothing I could have put on paper. It needed three years of systematic investigation. Nobody has touched it to this day. I’ve kept up with the literature. My name might have meant as much as my father’s. But now there’s no time even to outline the procedure. The worst of it is, I now feel your mother would have stood by me and lived modestly if I’d really insisted.
But I’ve had a pleasant time, I can truly
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