It was after supper and the latrines were being fired and the smoke rose up through the coconut palms. In another twenty minutes the movies would begin. When Coverly had gone a little way beyond the building he began to cry. He sat down by the road. The light was changing and the light goes quickly in the islands and it was that hour when the primitive domesticity of a colony of men without women begins to assert itself: the washing, letter-writing and the handicrafts with which men preserve some reason and dignity. No one noticed Coverly because there was nothing unusual in a man sitting by the side of the road and no one could see he was crying. He wanted to see Leander and cried to think that all their plans had taken him to the flimflam of a tropical island a little while before the movies began while his father was dying in St. Botolphs. He would never see Leander again. Then he decided to try to go home and dried his tears and walked to the transportations office. There was a young officer there who seemed, in spite of Coverly’s civilian clothes, disappointed not to have him salute. “I want some emergency transportation,” Coverly said.
“What’s the nature of the emergency?” Coverly noticed that the officer had a tic in his right cheek.
“My father is dying.”
“Have you any proof of this?”
“There’s a cable at communications.”
“What do you do?” the officer asked.
“I’m one of the Tapers,” Coverly said.
“Well, you might get excused from work for a week. I’m sure you can’t get any emergency transportation. The major’s at the club but I know he won’t help you. Why don’t you go and see the chaplain?”
“I’ll go and see the chaplain,” Coverly said.
It was dark then and the movies had begun and all the stars hung in the soft dark. The chapel was about a quarter of a mile from the offices and when he got there he could see a blue gasoline lamp above the door and behind the lamp a large sign that said WELCOME. The building was a considerable tribute to human ingenuity. Bamboo had been lashed into a scaffolding and this was covered with palm matting—all of it holding to the conventional lines of a country church. There was even a steeple made of palm matting and there was an air of conspicuous unpopularity about the place. The doorway was plastered with WELCOME signs and so was the interior and on a table near the door were free stationery, moldy magazines and an invitation for rest, recreation and prayer.
The chaplain, a first lieutenant named Lindstrom, was there, writing a letter. He wore steel-rimmed GI spectacles on a weak and homely face, and he was a man who belonged to the small places of the earth—to little towns with their innocence, their bigotry and their devilish gossip—and he seemed to have brought, intact to the atoll, the smell of drying linen on a March morning and the self-righteous and bitter piety with which he would thank God, at Sunday dinner, for a can of salmon and a bottle of lemonade. He invited Coverly to sit down and offered him some stationery and Coverly said he needed help.
“I don’t remember your face,” Linstrom said, “so I guess you’re not a member of my congregation. I never forget a face. I don’t see why the men don’t come here and worship. I think I have one of the nicest chapels in the West Pacific and last Sunday I only had five men at the service. I’m trying to see if I can’t get one of the photographers to come down from headquarters and take a picture of the place. I think there ought to be a photograph of this chapel in
“I want some emergency transportation,” Coverly said. “I want to go home. My father’s dying.”
