The Navigator: A War Play

As the curtain rises, so does the plane, a big transport laden with war materials, such as spare parts,
passengers, coconuts, and boxes, ZOOOOM.
The ship labors to gain altitude, eardrums pop.
POP. The passengers sit stolidly along the sides, regarding their fingernails. ZOOOOM.
PILOT: I think there is a little too much censored in the censored.
CO-PILOT: Right.
He adjusts the censored, ZOOOM. (This ZOOOM
should be kept up throughout the play, made louder when nobody is saying anything.)
NAVIGATOR (standing in his chair and peering out
of his dome): Well, there goes the island. Wonder if
we will ever see land again?
RADIOMAN: Not unless this radio keeps working.
CREW CHIEF: Remember the order of jettisoning
in case of trouble. Radioman first —
FIRST MECH.: Then the parachutes —
NAVIGATOR: Then the life raft.
CREW CHIEF: Water?
He serves water all around, in paper cups, from a
water can above Navigator’s desk, which leaks just
enough to soak Navigator’s chart completely.
Navigator peers intently down through drift sight,
occasionally punching a stop watch in his hand.
Near-by passengers observe him with dull curiosity.
PASSENGER (whispering): What is he doing?
FIRST MECH.: Looking for submarines.
ZOOOOM. (Note should be changed a little to indicate level flying.)
Radioman falls asleep with sweet music in his
ears. Crew Chief falls asleep on a pile of parachutes.
First Mech. plays solitaire in the tail.

Navigator climbs into his chair, hangs his black,
outrageous-looking octant on a hook in the dome, and
— apparently hanging from the octant — shoots the sun, writhing serpentinely as the ship wobbles about.
Sits at desk and plunges into stack of books. One of the
passengers makes his way forward and peeks timidly
over Navigator’s shoulder. Navigator thrashes furiously through books and in and out of notations on
scraps of paper. Figures accumulate rapidly in a small
tumbled pyramid.

FIRST MECH. (strolling by): Over Berlin yet?

NAVIGATOR: I understand one of our motors fell off.

FIRST MECH. (angrily): Engines! Engines! Not
motors. Motors are powered from —

NAVIGATOR: Oh, well. Anyway, one of those machines dropped off.

FIRST MECH.: I expect we can coast in.

Navigator returns to his labors. Scowls at pyramid
of figures, glances darkly at First Mech., who shakes
his head sorrowfully and walks away. Navigator
seizes red pencil, measures this way and that, and with
slow elliptical motions of his head huddles over the
chart and makes a sudden jab. Straightens up with
sigh. Passenger sees only a tiny red line on chart.
Looks at Navigator.

PASSENGER (almost in whisper): Where are we?

NAVIGATOR: I don’t know.

CREW CHIEF (aroused from nap): Excuse me.

He shoves Navigator aside, produces a high pile of
bread and canned fish, marmalade, lunch meat, and
jelly. Using Navigator’s desk as a table, and chart as
a tablecloth, he makes thousands of tremendous sandwiches, cutting the bread with a Jack the Ripper sheath
knife. Serves everyone, with pineapple juice as chaser.

Navigator broods glumly over drift sight.

PILOT: IS that left censored censored enough?

CO-PILOT: NO. (Censors it.)

Navigator returns to desk. Stares impassively at chart covered from Island X to Island M with fish.

PASSENGER: When will we get there?

NAVIGATOR: Should have been there an hour ago ZOOOM.

CREW CHIEF sings: “My bonneeee lies ooooover the oooooocean-

CO-PILOT to FIRST MECH.: Better check the censored.

First Mech. checks it.

Navigator climbs up to take sunshot. Sun disappears behind cloud. Radioman closes eyes and crosses self.

Navigator goes to drift sight. All he can see is blinding white undercast. Radioman puts on Mae West.

Crew Chief and First Mech. converse worriedly in
corner. They are discussing possibility of missing
chow. Absent-mindedly they manufacture a few dozen more sandwiches.
Navigator scrapes fish from chart, mops up water
which drips steadily from can above.
NAVIGATOR: Excuse me.
He looks over shoulder of Crew Chief, who is seated
now at his desk working on his “yellow sheet,”but
can’t see that part of his chart dealing with the present
position. Shrugs shoulders, writes down new heading, gives it to Pilot. ZOOM. Navigator confers with Pilot amid much shaking of
heads, pointing this way and that, spying with spyglasses into the thick white stuff and all sorts of
goings-on. Ship starts to let down. Ears pop. Navigator methodically packs all instruments away, takes
last long gloomy look at chart, now quite reduced to
foul-smelling pulp, crumples it up and throws it to the
deck, puts on Mae West, straps self to seat. Radioman smlies cynically.
It is now six hours twenty-eight and one-half minutes since take-off. Pilot glances hbck at Navigator,
who nods.
PILOT: Censored down?
CO-PILOT: Censored down.
PILOT: Censored down?
CO-PILOT: Censored down.
PILOT: What did you say?
CO-PILOT: Everything is down.
PILOT: O.K. There is the Island. Dead ahead.
Right, on the nose. What wonderful navigating.
ZZOOOOOOM. WOP.