“Easy. I just asked myself, ‘Where would I go if I was goldbricking?’-and there you were. Forget it, Jonesie. Have you picked your billet?”
I had not done so because there were many choices, all bad. Most of the troops were quartered in staterooms, four to each double room, three to a single. But our platoon, along with one other, was to sleep in the dining salon. I could see no advantage to being at the Captain’s table so I had not engaged in the scramble.
Sergeant Gumm nodded at my answer. “Okay. When you draw your blanket, don’t use it to stake out a billet; somebody’ll steal it. Pontside aft, abreast the pantry, is the dining-room steward’s stateroom-that’s mine. It’s a single but with a wide bunk. Drop your
blanket there. You’ll be a damn sight more comfortable than sleeping on the deck.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, Sergeant!” (How do I talk my way out of this? Or am I going to have to relax to the inevitable?)
“Call me Sarge. And when we’re alone, my name is Mary. What did you say your first name was?”
“Friday.”
“Friday. That’s kind o’ cute, when you stop to think about it. Okay, Friday, I’ll see you around taps.” We watched the last reddish slice of sun disappear into the bottomland astern of us, the Skip having swung east in one of the river’s endless meanders. “Seems like it ought to sizzle and send up steam.”
“Sarge, you have the soul of a poet.”
“I’ve often thought I could. Write poetry, I mean. You got the word? About the blackout now?”
“No lights outside, no smoking outside. No lights inside except in spaces fully shuttered. Offenders will be shot at sunrise. Doesn’t affect me much, Sarge; I don’t smoke.”
“Correction. Offenders will not be shot; they’ll just wish to God they had been shot. You don’t smoke at all, dear? Not even a friendly hit with a friend?”
(Give up, Friday!) “That’s not really smoking; that’s just friendly.”
“That’s the way I see it. I don’t go around with my head stuffed full of rags, either. But an occasional hit with a friend when you’re both in the mood, that’s sweet. And so are you.” She dropped to the deck by me, slipped an arm around me.
“Sarge! I mean Mary. Please don’t. It’s not really dank yet. Somebody’ll see us.”
“Who cares?”
“I do. It makes me self-conscious. Spoils the mood.”
“In this outfit you’ll get over that. You’re a virgin, dear? With girls, I mean.”
“Uh. . . please don’t quiz me, Mary. And do let me go. I’m sorry but it does make me nervous. Here, I mean. Why, anybody could walk around the corner of that deckhouse.”
She grabbed a feel, then started to stand up. “Kind o’ cute, you
bein’ so shy. All right, I’ve got some mellow Omaha Black I’ve been saving for a special-”
The sky lit up with a dazzling light; on top of it came a tremendous karoom! and where the Myrtle had been the sky was filled with junk.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Mary, can you swim?”
“Huh? No.”
“Jump in after me and I’ll keep you afloat.” I went over the port side in as long a dive as I could manage, took a dozen hard strokes to get well clear, turned over onto my back. Mary Gumm’s head was silhouetted against the sky.
That was the last I saw of her as the Skip to M’Lou blew up.
In that stretch of the Mississippi there are bluffs on the east. The western limit of the river is simply higher land, not as clearly marked, ten or fifteen kilometers away. Between these two sides the location of the river can be a matter of opinion-often of legal opinion because the river shifts channels and chews up property rights.
The river runs in all directions and is almost as likely to run north as to nun south. Well, half as likely. It had been flowing west at sundown; the Skip, headed upriver, had the sunset behind her. But while the sun was setting the boat had swung left as the channel turned north; I had noticed the red-and-orange display of sunset swinging to portside.