Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 2, February, 1955

Hot by Evan Hunter

Everybody kept telling him to kill the skipper. After a while, it began to look like a good idea.

I wore moccasins, which were against Navy regulations, and the heat of the deck plates scorched up through the thin soles of the shoes, blistering my feet. I sat aft on the fantail, looking out over the heat of Guantanamo Bay, watching the guys from one of the other ships diving over the side and into the water. The water looked cool and clear, and the guys from the other can seemed to be enjoying it. They didn’t seem to be afraid of any barracuda. They seemed to be ordinary guys taking an ordinary swim in the drink.

The Cuban sun beat down on my head, scorched through the white cap there, left a soggy ring of sweat where the hat band met my forehead. The old man made sure we wore hats, and he posted a notice on the quarterdeck saying no man would be allowed to roam the ship without a shirt on. He was worried about us getting sunburned. He was worried about all that sun up there beating down and turning us lobster red.

But he wouldn’t let us swim.

He said there were barracuda in the water. He knew. He was a big-shot Commander who’d politicked his way through Annapolis, and he knew. Sure. He couldn’t tell a barracuda from a goldfish, but he’d pursed his fat lips and scratched his bald head and said, “No swimming. Barracuda.” And that was that.

Except every other ship in the squadron was allowing its crew to swim. Every other ship admitted there were no barracuda in the waters, or maybe there were, but who the hell cared? They were all out there swimming, jumping over the sides and sticking close to the nets the ships had thrown over, and nobody’d got bitten yet.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, and I sucked in a deep breath, trying to get some air, trying to sponge something fresh out of the hot stillness all around me. I sucked in garbage fumes and that was all. The garbage cans were stacked on the fantail like rotting corpses. We weren’t supposed to dump garbage in port, and the garbage scow was late, but did the old man do anything about that? No, he just issued stupid goddamn orders about no swimming, orders he...

“Resting, Peters?”

I jumped to my feet because I recognized the voice. I snapped to and looked into the skipper’s face and said, “Yes, sir, for just a moment, sir.”

“Haven’t you got a work station?” he asked. I looked at his fat lips, pursed now, cracking and dried from the heat. I looked at his pale blue eyes and the deep brown color of his skin, burned from the sun and the wind on the open bridge. My captain, my skipper. The Commander. The louse.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I have a work station.”

“Where, Peters?”

“The radar shack, sir.”

“Then what are you doing on the fantail?”

“It was hot up there, sir. I came down for a drink at the scuttlebutt, and I thought I’d catch some air while I was at it.”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded his head, the braided peak of his cap catching the hot rays of the sun. The silver maple leaf on the collar of his shirt winked up like a hot eye. He looked down at the deck, and then he looked at my feet, and then he said, “Are those regulation shoes, Peters?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Why not?”

“My feet were sweating in...”

“Are you aware of my order about wearing loafers and moccasins aboard ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why are you wearing moccasins?”

“I told you, sir. My feet...”

“Why are you wearing white socks, Peters?”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, goddammit. Regulation is black socks. The uniform of the day is posted every day in the midships passageway, Peters. The uniform for today is dungarees, white caps, black socks and black shoes. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know that we are here on shakedown cruise, Peters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know that the squadron commander may pop in on this ship at any moment? Do you know that? What do you think he’d say to me if he found men in white socks and moccasins? What the hell do you think this is, Peters? A goddamn country club?”

“No, sir.”

“When’s the last time you had a haircut, Peters?”

“Last week, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me, Peters.”

“Last week, sir,” I repeated.

“Then get down to the barber shop after sweepdown, do you understand? And you’d better shave, too, Peters. I don’t like any man in my crew looking like a bum.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I...”

“Get back to your station. And if I find you goofing off again, Peters, it’s going to be your hide, remember that. Now get going.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Change those socks and shoes first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And on the double, Peters.”

“Yes, sir.”

I left him and went down to the aft sleeping compartment. It was hotter down there, and you could feel the sweat clinging to the sides of the ship, dripping from the bulkheads. There was a stink down there, too, a stink worse than garbage, the stink of men living in cramped quarters. I went to my locker and lifted the top, and Ramsey, a radioman second, looked down from his sack. He was in his scivvies, and his bare chest and legs were coated with perspiration.

“Man,” he said, “and I thought it was hot in Georgia.”

“The old man is prowling,” I told him. “You better move your backside.”

“Let him prowl,” Ramsey said. “That one don’t scare me none.”

“No, huh?” I said. I took out a pair of black socks and the regulation black shoes, and then I kicked off the moccasins and pulled off the white socks. “Maybe you like losing liberty, huh, Ramsey? If the old man catches you sprawled out like that, you’ll get a Captain’s Mast, at least.”

“You know what he can do with his Mast, don’t you?” Ramsey asked, smiling and stretching out.

“How come you’re so brave, Ramsey?” I asked, putting on the black socks.

“How come? I let you in on a secret, Dave. You really want to know?”

“Yeah, how come?”

“I’m sick, man. I got me cat fever. The Chief Pharmacist’s Mate himself, he said I got to lay flat on my keester. That’s what he said. So let the old man come down here and say something, just let him. I’ll tell him just where the crowbar goes.”

“You wouldn’t tell him nothing,” I said, smiling. “You and the skipper are buddies.”

“Sure,” Ramsey said.

“I think you really like the old man.”

“Only one way I’d like him,” Ramsey said.

“How’s that?”

Ramsey rolled over. “Dead,” he said.

I went up to the radar shack after changing, and I got to work, piddling around with a bucket and a rag, wiping off the radar scopes, fooling with the plotting boards, making like I was working. The radar shack was about as big as a flea’s nose, and I’d already cleaned it thoroughly after chow. That made no difference to the Navy. In the Navy, you cleaned it again, or you pretended to clean it again. Anything to keep you busy. Anything to keep you from enjoying a swim when the thermometer was ready to pop.

Gary came in while I was behind the vertical plotting board, and he said, “What’re you doing, Peters?”

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” I asked him.

“It looks like you’re working,” he said, “but I know that can’t be so.”

“Yeah, stow it,” I told him.

“You shouldn’t be nasty to noncommissioned officers, Peters,” he said. He smiled a crooked smile, and his buck teeth showed in his narrow face. “I could report you to the old man, you know.”

“You would, too,” I said.

“He don’t like you to begin with.” Gary smiled again, enjoying the three stripes he wore on his dress blues, enjoying the three stripes he’d inked onto his denim shirt. “What’d you do to the old boy, Dave?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Well, he sure don’t like you.”

“The feelings are mutual,” I said.

“You like mid watches, Dave?”

“Whattya mean?” I asked.

“We got to stand voice radio watch in port, you know that. Not enough radiomen. I showed the old man the watch list. Had you slated for a four to eight this afternoon.”

“So?”

“The old man told me to put you on the mid watch.”

“The mid watch? What the hell for? Why...”

“Nobody likes to drag up here at midnight, Dave,” Gary said. “But don’t be bitter.”

“What the hell did he do that for?” I asked.

Gary shook his head. “He just don’t like you, chum. Hell, he don’t like any enlisted man on this ship — but you he likes least of all.”

“The hell with him,” I said. “I’ve stood mid watches before. Ain’t no mid watch going to break me.”

“That’s the spirit,” Gary said drily. He paused a moment, and then said, “But you know something, Dave?”

“What?”

“If I had a character like the old man riding my tail, you know what I’d do?”

“No. What would you do?”

“I’d kill him,” he said softly. He looked at me steadily, and then turned. “Don’t want to interrupt your work, chum,” he said, and then he was gone.

I thought about that mid watch all morning and, when the chow whistle sounded, I dropped the bucket and rags and headed down for the main deck. I got in line and started talking with one of the guys, Crawley, a gunner’s mate. I had my back to the railing so I naturally couldn’t see what was going on behind me. Nobody yelled, “Attention!” either, so I didn’t know what was happening until I heard the old man’s voice say, “How about it, Peters?”

I turned slowly, and he was standing there with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face, but the smile didn’t reach those cold blue eyes of his.

“Sir?” I said.

“You know what this leaf on my collar means, Peters?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I was standing at attention now, and the sweat was streaming down my face, and my feet were sweating inside the black socks and black shoes.

“Do you know that an enlisted man is supposed to come to attention when an officer appears? Do you know that I am the captain of this ship, Peters?”

“Yes, sir. I know that.”

“I don’t think I like the tone of your voice, Peters.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Hereafter, Peters, you keep your eyes peeled, understand? And whenever you see me coming, I want you to shout, ‘Attention!’ in case there are any other members of the crew who don’t understand the meaning of respect. Do you understand that, Peters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And so you won’t forget it, Peters, perhaps we’ll forego liberty for a week when we get back to the States.”

“Sir, I...”

“That’ll do, Peters. I’ll discuss this with the Communications Officer, and you’ll be restricted to the ship for a week after we return to Norfolk.”

“I didn’t even see you, sir,” I said doggedly. “My back was...”

“It’s your business to see me, Peters. And from now on, you’d damn well better see me.”

“You’re the boss,” I said angrily.

“Yes, Peters,” the captain said coldly. “I am.” He looked at me steadily for another moment, and then addressed the other guys standing in line. “At ease,” he said, and he walked through the passageway near the mess hall and went into the washroom.

I watched his back disappear, and then I slouched against the bulkhead, and Crawley, the gunner’s mate, said, “That rotten louse.”

I didn’t answer him. I was thinking of the mid watch, and now the loss of a week’s liberty, after three weeks of shakedown cruise when we’d all been restricted to the base. The swabbies on the base all got liberty in Havana, but not the poor slobs who came down to play war games, not us. We roamed the base and bought souvenirs for the folks at home, but you can buy only so many souvenirs in three weeks, and after that you don’t even bother going ashore. Sure, Norfolk was a rat town, but it was a town at least, and there were women there — if you weren’t too particular — and Stateside liberty ain’t to be sneezed at, not after three weeks in Guantanamo.

And tomorrow we’d be going out with the cruiser again, and that meant a full day of Battle Stations, the phony General Quarters stuff that was supposed to knit us together into a fighting crew. I didn’t mind that business because it wasn’t too bad, but after a mid watch — even if you went to sleep right after evening chow, which you never did — it was a back breaker. You got off at four in the morning, provided your relief wasn’t goofing, and you hit the sack until reveille. If you averaged two hours sleep, you were good. And then Battle Stations all day.

“He rides everybody,” Crawley said. “Everybody. He’s crazy, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I come off a DE,” Crawley said. “We hit more Pacific islands than I can count. This was in the last war, Peters.”

“Yeah,” I said dully.

“We had a guy like this one, too. So we were coming in on Tarawa the night of the invasion, and three quartermasters got ahold of him, right on the bridge, right in front of the exec and a pile of other officers. They told that boy that he better shape up damn soon or he was gonna be swimmin’ with the sharks. He looked to the exec and the other brass for help, but they didn’t budge an inch. Boy, he read the deep-six in everybody’s eyes.”

“What’d he do?” I asked.

“He gave the conn to the exec, right then and there, and we were never bothered by him again. He transferred off the ship inside a month.”

“He must’ve come onto this tub,” I said.

“No, he couldn’t hold a candle to our old man. Our old man is the worst I ever met in the Navy, and that includes boot camp. He’s a guy who really deserves it.”

“Deserves what?” I asked.

“A hole between the eyes maybe. Or some arsenic in his goddamned commanding officer’s soup. Or a dunk in the drink with his damn barracuda.”

“You land in Portsmouth for that,” I said.

“Not if they don’t catch you, Peters,” Crawley said.

“Fat chance of getting away with it,” I said.

“You think they’d know who did it?” he asked. “Suppose the old man gets a hole in his head from a .45 swiped from the gun locker? Suppose...”

“You better knock that kind of talk off,” I warned. “That’s mutiny, pal.”

“Mutiny, my foot. Suppose the .45 were dumped over the side? How would they prove who did it? You know how many guys are on this ship, Peters?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly.

“You wait and see,” he said. “Someday, somebody’ll have the guts to do it. Goodbye, old man. And good riddance.”

“Yeah, but suppose...”

“The line’s moving, Peters,” Crawley said.

The base sent out a drone that afternoon, and we went out and shot at it. We didn’t get back to the bay until about 1930, and then we had a late chow, and the old man announced that no movies would be shown on the boat deck that night because we’d missed the launch that brought the reels around. Findlay, the Chief Bos’n, asked him if we couldn’t see the same movie we’d seen the night before, but he said, “I don’t like seeing movies twice,” and that was the end of it.

I suppose I should have gone straight to bed because the mid watch was coming up, but instead I hung around abovedecks, trying to get some air. Guys had dumped their mattresses all over the ship, sleeping up there under the stars in their scivvies. There was no breeze, and it was hot as hell, and I’d already taken more salt pills than I should have. The sweat kept coming, that kind of sweat that stuck all your clothes to you and made you want to crawl out of your skin. A poker game was in session near the torpedo tubes amidships on the boatdeck, and I watched it for a while, and then climbed the ladder down to the main deck.

Mr. Gannson was OD, and he slouched against the metal counter and threw the bull with Ferguson, the gunner’s mate who was on with him as messenger. They both wore .45’s strapped to their hips, and I passed them silently, nodding as I went by. I leaned over the rail just aft of the quarterdeck, looking down at the fluorescent sprinkles of water that lapped the sides of the ship. The water looked cool, and it made me feel more uncomfortable. I fired a cigarette and looked out to the lights of the base, and then I heard Mr. Gannson say, “You got a clip in that gun, Ferguson?”

I turned as Ferguson looked up with a puzzled look on his face. “Why, no, sir. You remember the ditty bag thing. We...”

“This is shakedown, Ferguson. The captain catch you with an empty sidearm, and you’re up the creek.”

“But the ditty bag...”

“Never mind that. Get to the gun locker and load up.”

“Yes, sir,” Ferguson said.

The ditty bag he’d referred to had been hanging from one of the stanchions in the forward sleeping compartment. Davis, on fire watch, had gone down to relieve Pietro. The fire watch is just a guy who roams the ship, looking for fires and crap games and making sure all the lights are out in the sleeping compartments after taps. I don’t know why he rates a .45 on his hip, but he does. When you relieve the watch, you’re supposed to check the weapon he gives you, make sure it’s loaded, and all that bull. So Pietro handed Davis the gun, and Davis probably wasn’t too used to .45’s because he’d just made radarman third, and only non-commissioned officers stood fire watch on our ship. He yanked back the slide mechanism, looked into the breach the way he was supposed to, and then squeezed the trigger, and a goddamn big bullet came roaring out of the end of his gun. The bullet went right through the ditty bag, and then started ricocheting all over the compartment, bouncing from one bulkhead to another. It almost killed Klein when it finally lodged in his mattress. It had sounded like a goddamned skirmish down there, and it had attracted the OD.

Well, this was about two months ago, when we were still in Norfolk, and the skipper ordered that any sidearms carried aboard his ship would have no magazines in them from then on. That went for the guys standing gangway watch when we were tied up, too. They’d carry nothing in their rifles and nothing in the cartridge belts around their waists. Nobody gave a damn because there was nothing to shoot in the States anyway.

I watched Ferguson walk away from the quarterdeck and then head for the gun locker right opposite Sick Bay, the key to the heavy lock in his hands. I walked past the quarterdeck, too, and hung around in the midships passageway reading the dope sheet. I saw Ferguson twist the key in the hanging lock, and then undog the hatch. He pulled the hatch open, and stepped into the gun locker, and I left the midships passageway just as he flicked the light on inside.

“Hi,” I said, walking in.

He looked up, startled, and then said, “Oh, hi, Peters.”

The rifles were stacked in a rack alongside one bulkhead, and a dozen or so .45’s hung from their holster belts on a bar welded to another bulkhead. Ferguson rooted around and finally came up with a metal box which he opened quickly. He turned his back to me and pulled out a magazine, and the ship rolled a little and the,45’s on the bar swung a little. He moved closer to the light so he could see what the hell he was doing, his back still turned to me.

I threw back the flap on one of the holsters and yanked out a .45, the walnut stock heavy in my hand. I stuck the gun inside my shirt and into the band of my trousers, cold against my sweating stomach. I heard Ferguson ram the clip home into his own .45, and then he said, “Come on, Peters. I got to lock up.”

I followed him out, and even helped him dog the hatch. He snapped the lock, and I said, “Think I’ll turn in.”

Ferguson nodded sourly. “You can sleep in this heat, you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”

I smiled and walked back aft toward the fantail. I wanted to sit down someplace and feel the gun in my hands. But it was so damned hot that every guy and his brother was abovedecks, either hanging around smoking or getting his mattress ready for the night. I went into the head, and the place was packed, as usual.

The gun was hot against my skin now, and I wanted to take it out and look at it, but I couldn’t do that because I didn’t want anyone to remember they’d seen me with a .45.

I kept hanging around, waiting for the crowd to thin, but the crowd didn’t thin. You couldn’t sleep in all that heat, and nobody felt like trying. Before I knew it, it was 2345, and Ferguson was coming around to wake me for the mid watch. Only I wasn’t sleeping, and he found me gassing near the aft five inch mount.

“You’re being paged, Peters,” he said.

“Okay,” I told him. I went forward, and then up the ladder to the passageway outside the radar shack. Centralla was sitting in front of the Sugar George, a writing pad open on his lap.

“Hi, boy,” I said. “You’re liberated.”

“Allah be praised,” he said, smiling a white smile in his dark face. He got to his feet and pointed to a speaker bolted into the overhead. “That’s the only speaker you got, boy,” he said. “Nothing on it all night. Just static.”

“You sure it’s plugged in?”

“I’m sure. You take down anything for Cavalcade. That’s ‘All ships.’ You also take down anything for Wonderland. That’s us.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“In case you didn’t know, Peters.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, smiling.

“You’ll probably get a weather report for Guantanamo Bay and vicinity pretty soon.” Centrella shrugged. “There’s some joe in the pot, and I think those radio guys got a pie from the cook. They wouldn’t give me none, and it’s probably all gone by now. But maybe you got influence.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Okay, you relieving me?”

“The watch is relieved,” I said. “Go hit the sack.”

Centrella nodded and head for the door. “Oh, yeah,” he said, turning, “the old man’s in his cabin. He wants anything important brought right to him.”

“What does he consider important?” I asked.

“How the hell do I know?”

“That’s a big help. Go to sleep, Centrella.”

“ ’Night,” he said, and then he stepped out into the passageway.

I was ready to close the door after him. I had the knob in my hand, when Parson stuck his wide palm against the metal.

“Hey, boy,” he said, “you ain’t going to close the door in this heat?”

“Hi, Parson,” I said dully. I’d wanted to close the door so I could get a better look at the gun.

“You got any hot joe, man?” he asked.

“I think there’s some,” I told him.

“Well, I got some pie. You like apple pie?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He shoved his way into the shack, and put the pie down on one of the plotting boards. Then he went to the electric grill, shook the joe pot, and said, “Hell, enough here for a regiment.”

He took two white cups from the cabinet under the grille, and poured the joe. Then he reached under for the container of evap, and the sugar bowl. The radio shack was right down the passageway, you see, and most of the radio guys knew just where we kept everything. We went in there for coffee, too, whenever none was brewing in the radar shack, so that made things sort of even. Only, I could have done without Parson’s company tonight.

“Come on, man,” he said, “dig in.”

I walked over to the plotting board and lifted a slice of pie, and Parson said, “How many sugars?”

“Two.”

He spooned the sugar into my coffee, stirred it for me, and handed me the steaming mug.

“This is great stuff on a hot night,” I told him.

“You should’ve asked for battleship duty,” Parson said. “They got ice cream parlors aboard them babies.”

“Yeah,” I said. The steam from the coffee rose up and touched my face, and I began to sweat more profusely. I put down the cup and reached for a handkerchief, and I was wiping my face when the old man popped in.

“Attention!” I shouted, and Parson leaped to his feet, almost knocking over his cup. The old man was in silk pajamas, and he stormed into the shack like something on a big black horse.

“At ease,” he shouted, and then he yelled, “What the hell is going on here, Peters?”

“We were just having a little coffee, sir. We...”

“What is this, the Automat? Where’d you get that pie?”

I looked to Parson, and Parson said, “One of the cooks, sir. He...”

“That’s against my orders, Parson,” the skipper bellowed. “I don’t like thieves aboard my...”

“Hell, sir, I didn’t steal...”

“And I don’t like profanity, either. Who’s on watch here?”

“I am, sir,” I said.

“Where are you supposed to be, Parson?”

“Next door, sir. In the radio...”

“Am I to understand that you’re supposed to be standing a radio watch at this time, Parson?”

“Yes, sir, but...”

“Then what the hell are you doing in here?” the old man roared.

“I thought I’d...”

“Get down to the OD, Parson. Tell him I’ve put you on report. This’ll mean a Captain’s Mast for you, sailor.”

“Sir,” I said, “he was only...”

“You shut up, Peters! I see you still haven’t got that haircut.”

“We were out with the drone, sir. I couldn’t...”

“Get it first thing tomorrow,” he said, ignoring the fact that we’d be out with the cruiser tomorrow. “And now you can dump that coffee pot over the side, and I want that sugar and milk returned to the mess hall.”

“I’m on watch, sir,” I said coldly.

“Do it when you’re relieved, Peters.” He stood glaring at me, and then asked, “Were there any important messages, or were you too busy dining?”

“None, sir,” I said.

“All right. I’m going out to the boat deck now to get those men below. I don’t like my ship looking like a garbage scow. Men aren’t supposed to sleep abovedecks.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I’ll be there if anything comes for me. When I come back, you’ll hear me going up the ladder outside. I’ll be in my cabin then. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said tightly.

“All right.” He walked out, and Parson watched him go and then said, “Someday that man’s gonna get it, Dave. Someday.”

I didn’t say anything. I watched Parson go down to the OD, and I thought: Not someday. Now.

I heard the old man yelling out on the boat deck, and then I heard the grumbling as the guys out there stirred and began packing their mattresses and gear. I was sweating very heavily, and I didn’t think it was from the heat this time. I could feel the hard outline of the .45 against my belly, and I wanted to rip the gun out and just run out onto the boatdeck and pump the bastard full of holes, but that wasn’t the smart way.

The smart way was to be in a spot where I could dump the gun over the side. I stepped out of the radar shack and looked down the passageway to where the skipper was waving his arms and ranting on the boatdeck. There was a gun mount tacked to the side of the ship just outside the passageway and the radar shack. The hatch was closed, and I undid the dogs on it, and shoved it out, and then stepped outside, stationing myself near the magazine box alongside the 20mm mount. I could see the ladder leading up to the bridge and the captain’s cabin from where I was standing. My idea was to plug the captain, dump the gun, and then rush inside, as if I were just coming out of the radar shack after hearing the shot.

I could hear the captain ending his tirade, and I thought to myself that it was the last time he’d chew anybody out. I thought everybody was going to be real tickled about this. Hell, I’d probably get a medal from the crew. It was all over out there on the boat deck now, and I peeked into the passageway and saw the old man step through the hatch and glance briefly into the radio shack.

I pulled the .45 out of my shirt.

The gun was very heavy and very hot. My hand slipped on the walnut grip, and I shifted hands and wiped the sweat off on the back of my dungarees. I took a firmer grip on the gun, with the sweat running down my face and over my neck and trickling down my back, sticky and warm. I thumbed off the safety, and the old man passed the radar shack and didn’t even look in, and I sucked in a deep breath and waited.

And then he was starting up the ladder, and I thought, Now, you louse, now! and I sighted the gun at the back of his neck.

I squeezed the trigger.

There was a dull click and nothing else, and I was shocked for a second, but I squeezed off again, and there was another dull click, and the old man was already halfway up the steps, and he still hadn’t turned. I squeezed the trigger twice more, but I got empty clicks both times, and then the old man was out of sight, heading toward his cabin.

I looked down at the gun on my hand, realizing it was empty, realizing there was no clip in it. I remembered the captain’s orders about no magazines allowed in sidearms or pieces, and I remembered that Ferguson had gone to the gun locker to get a clip for his own empty .45.

I was still sweating, and the hand holding the gun was trembling now, as if I was just realizing what I’d almost done, just realizing that I’d almost killed a man.

I felt kind of foolish. Maybe an empty gun makes you feel that way. Or maybe the anger had burned itself out when I’d heard those stupid empty clicks. Maybe that, and maybe I was a little glad the gun had been empty, because chewing out a man is one thing, but killing a man is another. He chewed everybody out, when you got down to it, and nobody had gunned him down yet. Just me. Just me, who would have already committed murder if it hadn’t been for an order the captain issued a long time ago. Me, from Red Bank, New Jersey — a murderer.

I dumped the gun over the side, and I heard the small splash when it hit the water, and then I heard the speaker in the radar shack calling, “Cavalcade, Cavalcade...”

I ran in and began copying down the weather forecast for Guantanamo Bay, and the weather forecast said there would be rain tonight, and I all at once felt a lot cooler.