The Story of Dr. Wassell (15 page)

“Oh, no,” protested the other, emphatically. “You must come to my cabin. I
have some Bols gin—very good. And my name is Van Ryndt.”

The doctor responded with his own name, but continued to argue in favor of
himself as the host. Presently they tossed a coin that decided in favor of
the Dutchman. On the way to his cabin they passed the men from the
Marblehead
, and the doctor, peering to see their faces in the
moonlight, spoke some of their names softly to himself.

“You like these men a great deal?” queried the Dutchman.

“Sure, I like them all right—they’re my men—
my
men—my job, if you look at it that way. I’d have to like ‘em,
anyway.”

The other mused thoughtfully: “You spoke their names as if—well, it
reminded me of saving the heads on a rosary…somehow.”

The doctor did not see much similarity. “I spoke their names because I
wanted to check up if they were all there—and by golly, one of them
isn’t…McGuffey, of course.”

“What?”

“I tell you, if there’s any place that boy can go where he shouldn’t be,
you bet he’ll find it…Excuse me, but before we do anything else we’ve got
to find him.”

They found him some distance away, in the shadow of one of the lifeboats.
He was sitting with the girl on a heap of coiled rope.

“Okay,” muttered the doctor, checking himself. “I guess we can leave him
there.”

“You think he is all right?”

“I’m dead sure he’s all right. And who wouldn’t be?”

“Pardon—I do not fully understand.”

“Okay, I say, okay,” repeated the doctor, feeling it might be a little
indelicate to pass on what exactly was in his mind at that moment. But he
smiled and took the Dutchman’s arm as they continued on their way to the
latter’s cabin. Not till they were entering the doorway did the doctor make a
belated discovery. “Why, this is
my
cabin!” he exclaimed, staring
round and recognizing his own suitcase.

“Then you must be the American doctor?”

“Sure, that’s what I am.”

There was another man already in one of the bunks, fast asleep and
snoring. For some reason the doctor thought this must be the Dutch padre,
until his companion said: “You will pardon him—he is one of the ship’s
officers who is very tired. He was watching for the submarines all day.”

The doctor then grasped the inescapable logic of the situation. “Then
you
must be the padre?”

“That is right. Are you surprised?”

“Well, I guess it was the way you knuckled to at that clean-up job…Sort
of didn’t put the right idea in my mind.”

“Oh, but I have often done that in my own church. It is—it was, I
mean—a very poor church financially and I do not think there is any
shame in physical work.”

“You bet there isn’t,” answered the doctor, and began to remember
incidents in his own life during his first medical practice—the way he
had chopped wood and cooked his own meals because he couldn’t afford help.
This led to a pleasant exchange of reminiscence over the drinks, and it was
past midnight before the doctor felt the first faint onset of drowsiness. And
then he thought of something else. “Just an idea, Padre,” he said, “but how’d
you feel about us having a prayer, tonight before we turn in?”

“Certainly, Doctor. I always do that myself—but in Dutch, of course.
If you would like to say your own prayer meanwhile in English…”

The doctor thought this was a very reasonable solution of the language
problem, so they both knelt by the side of the bunk and prayed in low voices
against the deep basso profundo of the third man’s snores. The doctor said
the Lord’s Prayer first of all, but it did not last out the length of the
padre’s, so he mumbled on: “Oh God, we thank Thee for keeping us safe so far.
Oh God, keep on keeping us safe. Give all the boys a quick recovery, and look
after Renny, and let’s win the war good and proper this time, so all the boys
can go home. In Christ’s name, Amen.”

He did not think it much of a prayer, but then he had never been much good
at extempore praying even in Chinese. After waiting awhile for the Dutchman
to finish it occurred to him that he hadn’t yet touched on his own personal
affairs, so he did so now, briefly and simply. Then the Dutchman got to his
feet, so the doctor said a quick Amen and followed suit. He felt much better
in every possible way, especially when the Dutchman suggested one more
nightcap.

“Ah,” said the doctor, smiling in anticipation, “that’s something I never
did turn down…”

The Dutchman poured out a generous allowance, commenting rather
quizzically meanwhile: “I didn’t know you were a religious man, Doctor.”

“Well, I’m not, in a sort of way, but then I am too, in another sort of
way.”

The padre touched the doctor’s arm gently, as with sudden affection.
“Perhaps,” he said, raising his glass, “the other sort of way is better.”

All night the
Janssens
pushed through the light, but towards dawn
the moon dipped into the sea, and there was a single hour of darkness before
the sky unfurled for another day of blue skies and perfect weather.

But there was now no sight of land, and ten days later the
Janssens
nosed into the harbor of Fremantle.

The doctor took the men from the
Marblehead
ashore to an Australian
hospital and spent the usual busy time getting them settled. After filling
out countless forms, his only remaining problem was that of those lost
receipts for the goods he had bought with the Dutch guilders given him by the
Navy. He still had about five hundred guilders left, and during the days that
followed he made several attempts to get rid of them. The top Navy official
at Fremantle Harbor listened to his explanation of their existence and then
pushed them gently aside as if they were in some way contaminated. “I can’t
do anything with these, Doctor—you’ll have to hand them in somewhere
else.”

“But it’s Navy money—it doesn’t belong to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t belong to me either. Why don’t you try the Paymaster’s
Office?”

So the doctor went to the Paymaster’s Office and was there advised to
await word from Washington. “Can’t do anything here about it. You see, we
wouldn’t know how to put it in the books.”

The doctor did not think this was a very satisfactory reason, so he
trundled his evidently hot money to a third office, where the refusal to
accept it was even brusquer. Finally, after worrying about the matter for
several days, he had an idea: he would put the bills in an envelope and
simply mail them to the Navy Department, Washington, D.C. He reached this
decision whilst having a bath, and was just enjoying the sensation of a load
lifted from his mind when a message came that the Admiral wanted to see him
at once.

Now the doctor’s feeling for an admiral was similar to that which as a
schoolboy he had felt for a headmaster, as a missionary for a bishop, and as
a CCC doctor for some high visiting official. That is to say, he respected
them all, but because he began by being shy, he ended as often as not by
appearing truculent. Anyhow, the shyness carne first, and by the time he had
reached the Admiral’s house, attired in a clean khaki suit and actually a
necktie, he was very shy indeed. The first thing he did on being ushered into
the presence was to plank down those five hundred guilders on the desk with a
burst of urgent explanation. The Admiral looked rather puzzled as he
listened; then he said: “I really don’t know anything about this, Doctor.
It’s not my department, anyhow.” (“But that’s what they
all
say,”
thought the doctor.) “What I asked you to come for is something else
altogether…By the way, what’s the matter? You look worried…”

“Oh no, no, no,” said the doctor.

“Well, the point is,” continued the Admiral quite sternly, “I have to give
you a message, and as I’m not much of a talker, I’ll go right at it. You’ve
been awarded the Navy Cross…Congratulations.”

The doctor felt his hand seized and could only stammer: “Wh-
what
?”

“I said you’ve been awarded the Navy Cross. For gallantry in getting your
men out of Java. A mighty fine thing to do. You saved their lives—no
doubt about it. They say so themselves. They give you all the credit. They
say—”

“Oh, no…no…no…” said the doctor. And suddenly tears streamed from
his eyes. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t only being praised by an admiral,
but to think that the men from the
Marblehead
thought that much of
him…the
Marblehead
…those boys…

A few days later the Admiral gave a dinner and after a certain amount of
preliminary festivity the doctor loosened up. It had begun by his merely
answering questions put by various officers, but soon he found himself
telling them about Three Martini, and the British officer who had seemed at
first so aloof but had really been a grand fellow, and Dr. Voorhuys, and the
Dutch wireless operator at Tjilatjap. “All those fellows helped us—we
couldn’t have done
anything
without them. And Captain Prass, of
course. That man sure was a man if ever there was one…And then there were
the boys themselves. I won’t say they’re perfect, any of them, but it
wouldn’t have been any use me trying to get ‘em out if they hadn’t had the
guts to be got out.” He turned more personally to the Admiral. “And finally,
sir, there was something I haven’t talked to a soul about till now, but I
think I ought to mention it. And that’s prayer. There was a Dutch padre on
board the
Janssens
and every night after that first air attack he and
I prayed that those bloody Nips wouldn’t find us again…Excuse my
language—it’s what an English soldier called ‘em and it’s kinda stuck
in my mind…Yes, sir, we prayed hard, and I don’t really figger anything
else could have got us through.”

The Admiral was at first slightly embarrassed by the turn the doctor’s
remarks had taken, for the power of prayer is not a favourite topic among
high- ranking Naval officers; but when he looked across the table and saw the
face of a man telling very simply what he very simply believed, he felt he
must be equally sincere himself.

So he replied quietly: “You might be right, Dr. Wassell.”