Antonio started to follow as Thomas Hudson and Willie went forward but Thomas Hudson shook his head at him and the big man went back to the galley.
They were in the forward cockpit and it was almost dark. Thomas Hudson could just see Willie’s face. It looked better in this light and he was on the side of the good eye. Thomas Hudson looked at Willie and then at his two anchor lines and at a tree he could still see on the beach. It’s a tricky sandy bottom, he thought; and he said, “All right, Willie. Say the rest of it.”
“You,” Willie said. “Flogging yourself to death up there because your kid is dead. Don’t you know everybody’s kids die?”
“I know it. What else?”
“That fucking Peters and a fucking Kraut stinking up the fantail and what kind of a ship is it where the cook is the mate?”
“How does he cook?”
“He cooks wonderful and he knows more about small-boat handling than all of us put together, including you.”
“Much more.”
“Shit, Tom. I’m not blowing my top. I got no goddam top to blow. I’m used to doing things a different way. I like it on the ship and I like everybody except that half-cunt Peters. Only you quit flogging yourself.”
“I’m not really,” Thomas Hudson said. “I don’t think about anything except work.”
“You’re so noble you ought to be stuffed and crucified,” Willie said. “Think about cunt.”
“We’re headed toward it.”
“That’s the way to talk.”
“Willie, are you OK now?”
“Sure. Why the hell wouldn’t I be? That Kraut got me, I guess. They had him fixed up nice like we wouldn’t fix up anybody. Or maybe we would if we had time. But they took time. They don’t know how close we are. But they got to know somebody’s chasing. Everybody’s after them now. But they fixed him up just as nice as anybody could be fixed in the condition he was.”
“Sure,” Thomas Hudson said. “They fixed up those people back on the key nice, too.”
“Yeah,” said Willie. “Isn’t that the hell of it?”
Just then Peters came in. He always held himself as a Marine even when he was not at his best and he was proudest of the real discipline without the formalities of discipline which was the rule of the ship. He was the one who took the greatest advantage of it. Now he stopped, came to attention, saluted, which showed he was drunk, and said, “Tom, I mean, sir. He is dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
“The prisoner, sir.”
“OK,” Thomas Hudson said. “Get your generator going and see if you can get Guantánamo.”
They ought to have something for us, he thought.
“Did the prisoner talk?” he asked Peters.
“No sir.”
“Willie,” he asked. “How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“Get some flashbulbs and take two, in profile of the face, lying on the stern. Take the blanket off and his shorts off and take one full-length lying as he is across the stern. Shoot one full-face of his head and one full-face lying down.”
“Yes sir,” Willie said.
Thomas Hudson went up on the flying bridge. He heard the motor of the generator start and saw the sudden flashes of the bulbs. ONI, up where they evaluate, won’t believe we even have this much of a Kraut, he thought. There isn’t any proof. Somebody will claim it is a stiff they pushed out that we picked up. I should have photographed him sooner. The hell with them. Maybe we will get the others tomorrow.
Ara came up.
“Tom, who do you want to have take him ashore and bury him?”
“Who worked the least today?”
“Everybody has worked hard. I’ll take Gil in and we will do it. We can bury him in the sand just above high water.”
“Maybe a little higher.”
“I’ll send Willie up and you tell him how you want the board lettered. I have a board from a box in stores.”
“Send Willie up.”
“Do we sew him up?”
“No. Just wrap him in his own blanket. Send Willie up.”
“What was it that you wanted?” Willie asked.
“Letter the board, ‘Unknown German Sailor’ and put the date underneath.”