Storm Below. Hugh Garner

but was waved down again. The first lieutenant said, “This is Lieutenant-Commander Frigsby. Sir, may I present Surgeon Lieutenant Craddock?”

      The captain shook his hand. “It’s getting cold out,” he offered by way of greeting.

      “Yes, sir, it is,” Craddock answered. He had noticed the DSC ribbon on the captain’s uniform which was hanging in the closet.

      Not a very prepossessing man, he thought. Short and thin, very English. Not altogether “old school tie,” but a damn good facsimile. Merchant Navy type. Probably not as much spit and polish as some, but everything in damn good working order.

      “Your boat will pick you up at eleven hundred,” the captain said.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Probably a bore riding with us until then, but we’ve got to regain our position with the other ships.”

      “I understand, sir.”

      “You know, of course, that your patient is dead?”

      “I wasn’t aware of it, sir,” answered Craddock without showing his surprise.

      “He died about an hour ago.”

      Craddock looked at him, as though asking why, then, he had been summoned.

      The captain surmised his thoughts. “I’d like you to take a look at the body,” he said. “We have to know the cause of death and things of that sort.” He thought, this man hasn’t been a doctor very long. Probably a medical school graduate who is doing his internship in the navy.

      Craddock rose from the chair in which he had been sitting and followed the blue-sweatered form of the captain up forward to the seamen’s mess. Some of the men jumped to their feet at the entrance of the officers, but the captain murmured, “Carry on,” and they sat down again.

      The doctor pulled the sheet from the body of Knobby, and looked him up and down, flexing the unbroken arm, and looking into the eyes. The captain whispered a few words to the first lieutenant who left the mess, reappearing again a moment later followed by the sick berth attendant.

      When the doctor looked up and saw the red cross on the sleeve of the tiffy’s jacket, he asked officiously, “When did you first see this man?”

      “As soon as they got me up, sir, about seven o’clock. Maybe a little before that.”

      “What was his state then?”

      “Unconscious, sir.”

      “Where was he?”

      “Lying here on the table, sir.”

      “What did you do?”

      “I had him undressed, and applied splints to his broken arm.”

      “Did you notice anything else?”

      “I took his pulse. It was slow and erratic.”

      “Was his coma prolonged?”

      “He never woke up, sir.”

      “What was your diagnosis? I mean after you noticed his pulse?”

      “I had none. I notified the captain that I was afraid there was more wrong with him than a broken arm.”

      “Were you not aware that he was suffering from a fractured skull?”

      The captain answered before Bodley. “There was no hemorrhage then. The sick berth attendant wrapped him up, and mentioned to me that we should call on you. I believe that this is the standard practice in cases of this kind. If he had been aware that the man’s skull was fractured he could have done nothing more than keep the patient warm and apply cold cloths.”

      “Quite so,” the doctor answered. He thought, this bird is tough, and he sticks up for his men.

      “Are you finished with Bodley?” the captain asked, pointing at the tiffy.

      “Yes. Oh, of course.”

      “Carry on, Bodley,” said the captain.

      Later on in the wardroom the captain gave Craddock a drink of rum and Coke. When the MO had made a tentative sip at his drink, the captain asked, “How long will a body keep, Doctor?”

      “It depends of course on the temperature, and the state of injury or cause of death.”

      They are like lawyers, the captain thought, never give a straight answer for fear it is the wrong one. Hedge and wander around a question like a child licking an ice-cream cone. “How long will that lad’s body keep aboard a ship? One, two, maybe three days?”

      “I think so.”

      “The reason I’m asking is that I’d like to take him into St. John’s and have him buried ashore. Some day, after the war, his parents might like to visit his grave. That sort of thing means a lot to a parent.”

      The doctor thought, I like him; he’s hard, and he doesn’t like me, but I like him. He answered, “I think you could carry the body that long.”

      “Good. Where do you suggest we put him?”

      “Somewhere cool. On the upper deck, or the icebox.”

      “No, not the upper deck, and I’m afraid that the icebox is out too.”

      “Anywhere that is reasonably cool.”

      The captain called, “Steward!”

      “Yes, sir,” the steward said, appearing like a genie from the pantry where he had been eavesdropping.

      “Get the coxswain and the chief ERA.”

      In a few minutes the two chiefs appeared outside the wardroom. The coxswain, a short, bandy-legged Great Lakes sailor with a heavy set of black whiskers, was nervously twirling his cap in his hand. The chief ERA was a much older man than any of the others aboard, a Merchant Marine reservist who had spent thirty-five years on Grand Banks trawlers. A pair of solid legs held up a gigantic belly. His face was round and red-mottled behind its three-day beard.

      “Come in, please,” said the captain. He introduced them to the surgeon lieutenant.

      “We have a problem on our hands,” he said. “We have decided to carry the body of Ordinary Seaman Clark to St. John’s for burial ashore. Can either of you suggest where we can place it for the next two or three days?”

      The coxswain said, “How about the icebox, sir? There isn’t much meat and stuff in there now, and we could —”

      “No, the icebox is out. I don’t want a mutiny aboard.”

      The coxswain laughed self-consciously.

      “How about you, Chief?” asked the captain, facing the CERA.

      “Well, sir, you could put him down in my stores. It’s cool down there — well below the water line — and it’s private.”

      “Good! That’s an excellent suggestion.” He looked at the coxswain, who was thirstily staring at the doctor’s half-finished rum. “Now, Coxswain, I want you to take three or four of the older men, Wright and McCaffrey and one or two others, and get the sail-maker to sew the boy up in a hammock. I don’t want him to be made ready for a sea burial or anything like that, but fastened so that the body will be protected until we can put it ashore. The chief will have his men ready the stores, and you’ll place the lad down there, making sure that he is wrapped securely, and properly stowed. Any questions? Good. That’s all.”

      After they had left, the captain rang for the steward and told him to bring the doctor another rum. “I wonder if you’d have a look at another patient while you are here?” he asked.

      “Why yes, sir, what is wrong with him?”

      “The usual. He is a signalman who is currently suffering from an occupational disease common to young sailors, picked up, I believe, in a bistro called the Silver