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The old transport is back in Pearl Harbor, part of a big convoy. Her Captain has asked me to lunch aboard. On my way out I stop in our pantry to tell the steward I won’t be home for lunch. "He’s gone ashore, sir," says Benito, which means he’s left our house to do his shopping. "Pass the word to him." "Aye, aye, sir." We bring the sea with us into our quarters, walls are bulkheads, stairs are ladders, it’s topsides or below. The Exec. is at the gangway. I pay my respects to the Quarterdeck and to the Officer of the Deck, and we climb the ladder and start forward. Across the narrow slip are two submarines, side by side. The deck of the outboard one nearest us, is packed with both ships’ companies. Suddenly a roaring cheer goes up, and to my utter astonishment I see two officers tossed into the harbor. "Don’t look," says the Exec. "Sub men are nuts." "But what the hell?" I say, as both officers are fished dripping aboard, amid laughter and cheers. "Look, both Skippers got the Navy Cross this morning from the top Admiral. Sub service is its own damn Navy; what a celebration. It’s nuts to me. Just like the winning shell in a college boat race, heaving the little cox into the drink. These guys are kids!" My friend joins the Exec. and me for lunch with the Captain. The lunch is a poem, eaten stanza by stanza; after which we four drive to see one of the great wonders of the Base. On the way we pass the boat shop and glimpse the wooden hulls in the dim interior. The wood chips and shavings smell sweet, the planes and saws sound pleasantly reminiscent of another day. Carpenters, joiners, caulkers, apply their ancient craft, methodically, carefully, proudly—ruminating with pencil behind the ear, brushing the fragrant sawdust from overall and hat. We stop for traffic abreast another deep cavern. Instead of the muted tap of mallet on wood, there is the clanging din of metal smiting metal, the hot sulphuric smell of melting steel. Suddenly the ghostly interior is eerily alight, like Dante’s Inferno, as a stream of molten metal pours into a huge ladle and is carried by its trolley, white hot to the mold, attended by begoggled demons. We weave our way through the crowded roads past the dully camouflaged buildings, each contributing its own harsh voice, its special nomenclature. They speak in turn to us as we go by: Air compressor: "Compressed air—air actuated tools." We have passed through the functioning body of a living Base. Wonderland It is peaceful on the high ground, and the sun makes orange the iron ore in the volcanic rock. Below lies the harbor and buildings, stilled by distance. We are about to take Jules Verne by the hand, and descend into a wondrous underground world. Down a long tunnel we stumble, jumping puddles, walking the sleepers and dodging the little trains. The hot air, laden with rock dust, dims the lights. It is a long walk, but the tunnel finally passes through several intersections. We step to one side, climb a few steps, pass through a rock arched opening, and out along a narrow steel bridge. It takes the breath away. We are high up under the dome of a man made cavern, as vast as a great cathedral. Far below are colorless little men, automatons, they seem a mechanical part of their bucking pneumatic drills. On the sliding, loosening rock, they are held fast by ropes to rings in the wall above. From our great height they look like gray ants tied by a strand of thread. The miracles increase, and bewildered by scale and scope, hours later we emerge into
the blinding sunlight, leaving our tremendous dream, buried and unreal. Dumbfounded and
blinking at each other, we take off our hats, letting the sun dry our damp hair, roll down
our dusty One day at lunch the Admiral says, "Knock off the painting and stand by at fifteen hundred, and I’ll come with my worthless Aide and pick you up. I am going to inspect a new radio station. Communication is—ah—what did you call it?" "Magic" I say, "I like ships and the ways they have. I knew that our Navy was wonderful afloat, but Gosh, I had never thought much of our wonders ashore until I started visiting bases. What layman would think of Naval Officers acting like moles underground, or building stations high up like Alpine climbers, or like the Captain here—" "Belay that bilge for your next book!" grins the Captain. "Stow that poetry and toss me a cigarette," says the Aide. "You’ll have a treat," says the Admiral. Water On the dot of three we are off, past the decontamination station and air-raid shelters, past the heavily guarded oil storage tanks, up and back into the beautiful country. Mile after mile of sugar cane, the water sparkling in the irrigation sluices. Higher, and the cactus-like pineapple, and finally the lofty windy plateau, the trees' tortured shapes mutely attesting the trade wind’s force. Beyond, the mountains with their lifted heads, drinking water from the drenching clouds about them. It flows into their subterranean rivers, splashes down their sides through the deep ravines, falls over their precipices, the blowing spray mingling with the sun’s sparkling rays. Rainbows arch their glowing color against the deep shadows of the gorges. Man taps the endless reservoirs and guides the gurgling water into the plantations. The light earth blushes dark. It courses down the arteries to the pumping heart, that speeds it through a myriad veins to meet man’s many needs. It quenches thirst and cleanses. By the heat of fire it turns to steam and drives the engines; or it spurts from the nozzle and drowns the fire. It seeks its level on the sea from which it rose, and now purified by the sun’s distilling, it splashes into the fresh water tanks of the thirsty, salty ships. Nerve Center The Commander and several officers are waiting outside for the Admiral. Even to the trained eye, there is little to see right here on the spot. All that shows above the earth is camouflaged into the earth. The roof of the main building is a reinforced concrete slab many feet thick, overhanging the walls. Grass and a small forest flourish on the top. We enter the door through the thick walls and step into a large elevator. Down, down deep we descend and step into a hall, enter a large bright room. Several men spring up. "Carry on," says the Admiral. Bluejackets sit silently in long rows, wearing headphones. In front of them are all manner of mysterious machines resembling switchboards. They are more highly complicated, and knowledge of them takes long training. Some men sit silent, their eyes as far away as the sounds they listen for—the message that may suddenly flood their minds—or the weary silence they may endure for watch in—watch out. For deep in the rocks of Oahu, may flash the cry of "Torpedo," before the shuddering crash ensues. From cold Aleutian waters or the tepid seas of the south, from the hostile ocean of Japan, another radio man in his steel room aboard ship, may get the electric word of the coming torpedo wake and shoot it here through the air in the wink of an eye. The lost descending plane, with gas tanks empty—the plane shot down, speaks its quick last word before the rubber boat shoves off from its fast sinking. Other men with heads tilted back and half closed eyes, tap out with rapidly moving fingers what the earphones say, the long white teletapes coiling down into the baskets. Others are always sending dispatches, orders in code, by short wave to ships. To continents the dispatches usually travel through the endless electric eel that undulates across the leagues of ocean floor. This is the brain, the nerve center of the Base. We arise to the surface and walk out into the cool breeze. "What did you think of that?" the Admiral says. "Magic, sir." The Commander looks startled. We roll down homeward toward the sea. Native sentries are guarding bridges. The Army is everywhere, troops are lined up at the crossroad stores, marching, or with fixed bayonets in a brake of cane that hides ack-acks and planes. After dinner we drive to the docks, for a task force is going down under. A big new tanker is still taking high-test gas, her long gray side stretches far down the dock. Her appetite is tremendous. She looks like a long steel pier with a lighthouse on one end. She is hundreds of feet of flaming death if she is hit by a torpedo at sea. A big transport is escorted across the harbor by tugs and makes fast astern the tanker. Numbers of Marine landing barges follow astern, like small ducks following their mother, and tie up in columns of four to be taken on board when she is ready. Night has come and the whistles sound in varying tones from the dusky harbor. The dock is crowded with trucks, tanks, cars, stores and gear, shadowy masses in the uncertain light, all marked USMC. The Marines, loaded down like pack-horses under their fighting equipment, are going up the gangway, a rugged hard fine outfit. It all gives a feeling of distant beachheads, hard won and heroically held. The only thing more fascinating than ships and docks, is ships at sea. |