The Caine Mutiny (17 page)

“Willie!” The cup clattered to the saucer. Keggs jumped up and grabbed Willie’s outstretched hand with both his own. Willie thought- the other’s hands were trembling. He was disturbed by his friend’s appearance. Thin as he had been, he had lost more weight. The bones protruded from his cheeks and the pallid skin seemed to stretch with difficulty the long distance to his jaw. There were a few strands of gray in his hair which Willie had never noticed before. His eyes were ringed in blue shadow.

“Well, Ed, stuck you in communications, too, did they?”

“I relieved the communication officer last week, Willie. I’ve been his assistant for five months-”

“Department head already, eh? Nice going.”

“Don’t make jokes,” said Keggs haggardly.

Willie accepted coffee and sat. After they chatted awhile he said, “Have you got the duty tonight?”

Keggs pondered foggily. “No-not tonight-”

“Great. Maybe Roland hasn’t shoved off yet. We’ll hit the beach and hunt him up-”

“Sorry, Willie. I’d love to, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Keggs looked over his shoulder. There were no other officers in the immaculate wardroom. He dropped his voice. “The paravane.”

“The one you lost? What about it? You recovered it.”

“The whole ship is restricted for a week.”

“
The whole ship
? Officers, too?” Keggs nodded. “Everybody.”

“Why, in God’s name? Who was responsible for losing it?”

“Everybody is responsible for everything on this ship, Willie-it’s the way-” Keggs suddenly stiffened, sprang to his feet, and swept the coding device off the table. “Oh, God,” he said. Willie saw or heard no reason for the act except a muffled door slam overhead.

“Excuse me, Willie-” Keggs frantically stowed the code machine in a safe, locked it, and seized a clipboard of decoded despatches hanging on a hook in the bulkhead. He stared at the wardroom door, gulping. Willie rose and stared, too, an uneasy fear possessing him despite himself.

The door opened and a straight thin man with scanty light hair, knitted brows, and a mouth like a puckered scar, stepped in.

“Captain Sammis, this-this-is an acquaintance of mine, sir, from the
Caine
, sir, Ensign Keith.”

“Keith,” said Sammis tonelessly, extending his hand. “My name is Sammis.”

Willie touched the cold hand, and it withdrew. Captain Sammis sat in the chair Keggs had been using.

“Coffee, sir?” quavered Keggs.

“Thank you, Keggs.”

“This morning’s traffic is ready, sir, if you wish to look at it.”

The captain nodded. Keggs scrambled to pour the coffee, then he drew despatches from the board and presented them for the Iron Duke’s view one by one, bowing slightly each time, and murmuring a comment. Sammis inspected each despatch and handed it back to Keggs without speaking. It was a picture of flunky and master such as Willie had never seen outside of costume movies.

“I don’t see number 367,” remarked Sammis.

“Sir, I was breaking that down when my friend came. It’s three quarters finished. I can complete it in two minutes, sir- right now if you desire-”

“What precedence is it?”

“Deferred, sir.”

Sammis cast a bleak look at Willie, showing awareness of his presence for the first and last time after the handshake. “You may wait,” he said, “until your visitor has gone.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

Iron Duke Sammis sipped the rest of his coffee at leisure, looking neither left nor right, while Keggs stood at his elbow in respectful silence, clutching the despatch board. Willie leaned against the bulkhead, marveling. The captain patted his mouth with a handkerchief, lit a cigarette with a flick of a gold-plated lighter, rose, and walked out.

“Banzai,” murmured Willie, as the door closed.

“Sh!” Keggs shot him an imploring look and fell into a chair. After a few moments he said hollowly, “He can hear through bulkheads.”

Willie put his arms compassionately around Keggs’s bowed shoulders. “Ye gods, man, how did you ever let him get you so buffaloed?”

Keggs looked at him in mournful surprise. “Isn’t your skipper like that?”

“Hell, no. I mean, he’s a low brute in his own way, but-good God, this one is comical-”

“Take it easy, Willie,” Keggs begged, glancing over his shoulder again. “Why, I imagined all captains were pretty much the same-”

“You’re crazy, boy. Haven’t you been on any other ship?” Keggs shook his head. “I picked up the
Moulton
at Guadalcanal and we’ve been operating ever since. I haven’t even been ashore in Pearl yet.”

“The captain doesn’t live,” said Willie through his teeth, “who can make me do monkey tricks like that.”

“He’s a pretty good skipper, Willie. You just have to understand him-”

“You just have to understand Hitler, for that matter,” said Willie.

“I’ll come over to your ship, Willie, as soon as I can. Maybe later today.” Keggs took the coding device out of the safe with unconcealed anxiety to get to work. Willie left him.

On the rusty littered quarterdeck of the
Caine
, by the DOD’s desk, stood a strange figure: a marine corporal in faultless dress uniform, straight as a tin soldier, his buttons glittering in the sun. “Here’s Ensign Keith now,” said the OOD, Carmody, to the marine. The stiff figure strode up to Willie and saluted. “With the compliments of Rear Admiral Reynolds, sir,” he said, presenting Willie with a sealed envelope.

Willie opened it and read a typewritten note:

Ensign Willis Keith is cordially invited to a reception for Rear Admiral Clough at the home of Rear Admiral Reynolds tonight at 2000. Transportation will be furnished by ComCarDiv Twenty barge which will arrive at the
Caine
at 1915.

Captain H. Matson,

by direction.

“Thank you,” said Willie. The marine saluted rigidly again, went through all the forms of leaving the quarterdeck with the jerkiness of an animated doll, and climbed down the chain ladder outboard to a sleek admiral’s barge with a white-fringed canopy. Carmody dismissed the boatswain, and the barge purred away.

“My God,” said the little Annapolis man, pulling at his mustache and regarding Willie with awe, “what kind of drag do you have?”

“Keep it quiet,” said Willie jauntily. “I am Franklin D. Roosevelt, Jr., traveling incognito.” He strolled off to the forecastle, the mystified stare of Carmody warming him like champagne.

Willie walked to the stem, where a cool breeze fluttered the blue starry jack. He sat on the deck, leaning against the jackstaff, and gave himself up to thorny analysis of recent scenes. What he had observed aboard the
Moulton
confused all his ideas about his own ship. In the first place, he had considered De Vriess a tyrant; but compared to Iron Duke Sammis his captain was lazily benevolent. Then, the
Moulton
was a model of naval order and efficiency, the
Caine
a wretched Chinese junk by comparison. Yet the smart ship had dropped a paravane; the rusty tramp had led all the ships in minesweeping performance. How did these facts fit together? Was the loss of the paravane a meaningless accident? Was the
Caine
’s working skill another accident, owing to the presence of the fisherman Maryk? In the hybrid world of destroyer-minesweepers all rules seemed to be confounded. The words of Tom Keefer came back to him: “The Navy is a master plan designed by geniuses for execution by idiots,” and “Ask yourself, ‘How would I do this if I were a fool?’ ” He respected the communicator’s mind; he had heard Maryk acknowledge its keenness. These maxims must guide him, he decided, until he could piece together his own views and make-

“
Ensign Keith, report to the captain’s cabin on the double
!” the announcement rasped through the loudspeaker, bringing him to his feet. As he ran to the wardroom he rapidly reviewed possible reasons for the summons, and guessed that perhaps Carmody had told the captain about the admiral’s barge. He knocked gaily at the captain’s door.

“Come in, Keith.”

De Vriess, in trousers and undershirt, sat at his desk, glowering at a long list of despatch headings, one of which was circled in heavy red crayon. Beside him stood Tom Keefer and the radioman who had brought Willie the forgotten message three days ago. The radioman twisted his white cap in his hands and gave the ensign a frightened look. Keefer shook his head at Willie.

The sight told Willie all. He experienced a longing to vanish or die.

“Willie,” said the captain in a level, not unkind tone, “three days ago this ship received a despatch addressed to us for action. I learned this interesting fact for the first time five minutes ago while making a routine check of the headings of all despatches received while we were at sea. I always do that when we come into port. These dull habits sometimes pay off. Now, the radio shack has orders to shoot action despatches to the coding officer the instant they come in. Snuffy Smith here claims he gave the message to you three days ago. Is he lying?”

The radioman blurted, “Sir, I gave it to you on the after deckhouse while they were recovering paravanes. You remember!”

“You did, Smith,” said Willie. “I’m sorry, Captain. It’s my fault.”

“I see. Have you decoded the message?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, but it-”

“Very well. Smith, lay up to the radio shack and bring Lieutenant Keefer the Fox sked on the double.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The sailor darted out of the cabin.

The “Fox skeds” were the log sheets on which all despatches sent to Navy ships at sea were copied by the radio operators. These were preserved for several months, then destroyed. Despatches concerning the ship were recopied on separate forms. It was such a retyped form that lay moldering in Willie’s khakis in the clip shack.

“The next thing, Tom,” said the captain calmly, “is to break that message faster than you’ve ever done anything in your life.”

“I will, sir. I really think there’s no great cause for concern. It’s routine precedence. Maybe a BuShips modification or-”

“Well, let’s see, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.” As the communicator walked out he said in low tones of reproach, “Good God, Willie.”

Captain de Vriess paced the narrow cabin, taking no notice of Willie. Except that he puffed his cigarette faster than usual, he gave no sign of being disturbed. In a few moments the coding machine began clicking in the wardroom. The captain went out, leaving the door open, and peered over Keefer’s shoulder as he whirled through the message, working from the long white Fox schedule. De Vriess took the completed decode from Keefer’s hands and scanned it.

“Thank you, Tom.” He came into his cabin, closing the door. “Too bad you didn’t break it when it came, Mister Keith. It might have interested you. Read it.”

He handed the breakdown to Willie.
Lieutenant Commander William H. de Vriess USN detached when relieved. Report to BuPers by air transportation for further assignment. Class two priority authorized. Training duty of Lieutenant Commander Philip F. Queeg has been canceled and he is proceeding to relieve at once
.

Willie returned the despatch to the captain. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s incredible stupidity and carelessness on my part,” he said, choking over the words. “I don’t know what else to say, sir, except-”

“What happened to the despatch Smith gave you?”

“It’s still in the pocket of some dirty khakis. Smith handed me the despatch while Mr. Maryk was swimming for the float. I stuck it in my pocket and-I guess I became interested in the float recovery and forgot all about it. ...” The words sounded so lame to his own ears that he blushed.

De Vriess leaned his head on his hand for a moment. “Have you any idea, Keith, how serious the mislaying of an action despatch can be?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not sure you have.” The captain ran his hands through his hanging blond hair. “Conceivably this ship might have failed to carry out a combat assignment-with all that that entails. I hope you realize that for such failure I would have borne sole responsibility at the court-martial.”

“I know, sir.”

“Well, how does that fact register on you?”

“With a determination never to let it happen again.”

“I wonder.” The captain picked up a stack of long yellow forms on his desk. “By a coincidence which is perhaps unlucky, I’ve been filling out the work sheet of your fitness report this morning, together with those of the other officers. I have to submit them to the Bureau when I’m detached.”

A tremor and tingle of alarm passed through the ensign.

“How do you suppose this incident ought to affect your fitness report?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir. Anybody can make one mistake-”

“There are mistakes and mistakes. The margin for error is narrow in the Navy, Willie. There’s too much life and property and danger involved in every act. You’re in the Navy now.”