The Caine Mutiny (22 page)

“I know.” Maryk’s face became more perplexed. They smoked in silence for a while. “Sure, the book is the right way,” spoke up the first lieutenant, “for the right ship. By the book, though, the
Caine
should be in the boneyard. Maybe this ship has to be run screwy because it’s screwy for her to be afloat at all-”

“Look, Steve. Your trouble is the same as mine, except that I see through it. We’re civilians, free citizens, and it burns us to be treated as dumb slaves by these Queegs, who are the most colossal ignoramuses in the world except for their book. Don’t forget one thing. Right now, the book is all that matters, because of the war. Look. Suppose all of a sudden the whole survival of America hung on shining shoes. Never mind how. Suppose it did. What would happen? All of us would become shoeshiners, and the professional bootblacks would take over the country. Well, how do you think the bootblacks would feel toward us? Humble? Hell, no. They’d figure that at last they’d come into their own-that for the first time in their lives the world was showing a proper respect for shoeshining. And by God, they’d lord it over us, and find fault, and nag, and crab, and bully us to shine shoes their way. And they’d be
right
. That’s the story, Steve. We’re in the hands of shoeshine boys. It’s irritating when they act as though we’re fools and they know all wisdom-it hurts to take orders and guff from them-but it’s their day. Pretty soon all the shoes will be shined, the war will be over, they’ll be nickel-and-dime bootblacks again, and we’ll look back and laugh at the whole absurd interlude. The point is, if you understand it now, you can be philosophic, and take anything that comes-”

The gangway petty officer came trampling up the forecastle. “Mr. Keefer, the captain has returned aboard, and Mr. Gorton wants to see you in his room. On the double.”

“Gorton? I thought he was asleep.”

“He just phoned up from the wardroom, sir.”

Keefer rose, hitching his gun belt and yawning. “Flash red, no doubt.”

“Skipper missed you at the gangway,” said Maryk. “Good luck, Tom. Remember your philosophy.”

“Sometimes I get so bored,” said Keefer. Maryk jumped down into the paint locker.

In the wardroom Keefer found the executive officer in his underwear in an armchair, drinking coffee and looking sleepy, mussed, and cross. “Jesus, Tom,” Gorton said. “How much trouble can one guy cause in one day? Why the hell weren’t you at the gangway when the skipper came aboard?”

“Why, you young fat fraud,” said Keefer. “You, who broke me in to watch standing, and slept through every in-port night watch you had until you became exec-”

Gorton slammed down the cup and saucer on the arm of the chair. Coffee splashed to the deck. “Mister Keefer, we are not discussing anything but tonight’s watch,” he said, “and be careful of your tone in addressing me.”

“Hold on, Burt. Take an even strain. No offense meant. Did the old man eat you out?”

“You’re damned right he did. Do you secure your brains when you’re not writing your goddamn novel? The first night a new skipper is aboard, can’t you be a little careful?”

“Sorry. I did think of it, but I got to talking to Steve and forgot to watch the clock-”

“Well, that’s only half of it. What the hell is Keith doing over on the
Moulton
?”

Keefer’s face crinkled in disgust. “Oh, Burt. That’s too much. Since when is the duty section not allowed to cross the gangplank to the ship alongside?”

“Since always. Read the standing orders again. Why didn’t he check out with me?”

“He looked in on you. You were asleep.”

“Well, he should have waked me up.”

“Burt, anybody waking you up with such a fool request before tonight would have gotten a copy of
Snappy Stories
in his puss.”

“Well, tonight’s another night. We’re back on standing orders, and no kidding-”

“Okay, okay, that’s simple enough. Just so we know about it-”

“Meantime,” said Gorton, looking down into his empty cup, “you’re restricted to the ship for twenty-four hours.”

“What!” flared Keefer. “Says who?”

“Says me, God damn it,” snapped the executive officer. “Good enough?”

“Not by a long shot. If you think you can suddenly pull regs on me that have been dead-filed for two years, and start slapping me with penalties-”

“Shut up!” said Gorton.

“I have a date tomorrow night. It’s the one I broke tonight, and I’m not breaking it again. If you don’t like it tell the skipper I defied you, and recommend a general court-martial-”

“You stupid bastard, do you think I’m the one who’s restricting you? Get this through your thick Reserve head,
the heat is on
. I’ll be the guy everybody will hate. That’s okay. I’m the exec of this ship, and I’ll carry out my orders, do you hear?”

A radioman poked his pale face into the wardroom. “Pardon me, Mr. Keefer, do you know where I can find Mr. Keith? He doesn’t seem to be anywhere-”

“What’s up?”

“Priority, action
Caine
.”

Keefer took the despatch sheet. “Okay, Snuffy.” The radioman withdrew. Gorton said, “Who’s the originator?”

“ServPac.”

The exec’s sullen face lit up. “ServPac? Priority? Could be a stateside convoy run. Break it, for crying out loud.”

Keefer started decoding; he had deciphered about fifteen words when he stopped, muttered a curse, and resumed the work with all eagerness gone.

“Well, what’s the dope?” said the exec.

“Convoy run, all right,” said Keefer listlessly. “But you’re a little matter of 180 degrees off in direction.”

“Oh, no,” groaned Gorton. “No.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Keefer. “The
Caine
is going to Pago Pago.”

CHAPTER 13

The Best Goddamned Target-towing Ship

Next day Willie went to his post on the bridge as junior officer of the deck shortly after sunrise. It was a lovely morning, bright and fragrant. The harbor was blue, and the surrounding hills of Oahu a soft yellow-green, flecked here and there by the fat shadows of puffy clouds which drifted over the north mountains, evaporating on the fair-weather side of the island without shedding rain. Willie was full of fresh eggs and coffee. The lively zest that comes over a ship’s company upon getting under way-no matter where bound-infected him. Pago Pago was far behind the combat zone, almost as safe as Hawaii, but at least it lay southwestward, and it was Somerset Maugham country. Romantic adventure seemed to be opening before him at last. Perhaps there would be encounters with submarines, he thought, and he could begin to redeem himself for his months of piano playing in Pearl Harbor.

Captain Queeg came up to the bridge, brisk and smiling, with a pleasant greeting for each sailor and officer. Willie recognized the narrow blue book under his arm:
On a Destroyer’s Bridge
, a manual of ship handling. “Good morning, Captain. All lines singled up, sir,” Willie said, saluting smartly.

“Ah, good morning. Thank you, thank you, Willie.” Queeg leaned over the bulwark, taking a quick look at the mooring lines. The
Caine
was tied to the
Moulton
, which was secured fore and aft to buoys. The two ships lay in the far corner of West Loch, a narrow inlet of the harbor. Ahead, astern, and to starboard there were muddy shallows. The
Caine
had a few hundred yards of dredged channel in which to maneuver its way out of the corner.

“Tight squeeze, hey?” Queeg said jovially to Maryk and Gorton, who stood together on the port wing, awaiting with interest the new captain’s first demonstration of ship handling. The two officers nodded respectfully. Queeg called, “Take in all lines!”

The manila ropes came snaking aboard the
Caine
. “All lines taken in, sir!” said the telephone talker.

“Kay.” Queeg glanced around the wheelhouse, wetted his lips, dropped the book on the chair, and said, “Well, let’s go. All engines back one third!”

The ship vibrated, and things began to happen so fast that Willie couldn’t tell exactly what went wrong or why. As the
Caine
moved backward the sharp fluke of the decked anchor came ripping down along the forecastle of the other ship, bending several stanchions and ripping two out by the roots. It then gashed a jagged hole in the
Moulton
’s bridge with a ghastly metallic screech. At the same time a gun on the galley deckhouse went battering along the
Moulton
’s side, carrying away two ammunition boxes and an antenna, which squealed and crunched and then fell into the water. Captain Queeg shouted a tangle of wheel and engine orders; the stacks vomited billows of black smoke which poured down on the bridge; there ensued a few moments of wild yelling and running around in the smoky gloom. Then it was all over. The
Caine
was stuck fast by the stern in the mud on the other side of the loch, canted over about ten degrees.

In the shocked quiet that followed, Captain Queeg seemed the least disturbed person on the bridge. “Well, well, beginner’s luck, hey?” he said smiling, as he peered astern. “Mr. Gorton, lay aft and find out if there’s been any damage.” He sent a blinker message to Captain Sammis apologizing for the mishap. The executive officer returned in a few minutes, staggering on the slanted deck, and reported that there was no visible damage to the hull, and the propellers were buried in mud to their hubs.

“Kay, a little mud bath never hurt a propeller,” Queeg said. “Shine ’em up a little, maybe.” He was looking out toward the harbor.

“Guess we’ll have to send a grounding report despatch to ServPac, Captain,” Gorton said. “Shall I-”

“Maybe we will and then again maybe we won’t,” Queeg said. “See that tug? Over there by the point? Give him a call on your blinker light.”

The tug obligingly turned out of the main channel and came chugging into West Loch. A towline was soon rigged, and the
Caine
was easily pulled off the mud. Queeg shouted his thanks through a megaphone to the tug captain, a grizzled chief boatswain, who waved cordially and steamed off. “So much for that,” Queeg said affably to Gorton. “And so much for your grounding report, Burt. No sense getting old ServPac in an uproar over nothing, hey? All engines ahead one third.”

He conned the ship confidently across the harbor to the fueling dock where they were to spend the day taking on oil, food, and ammunition. He stood on the starboard wing, steadily rolling the two steel balls in the fingers of his right hand, his elbows hanging on the bulkhead. Coming alongside the fueling dock, he gave everybody on the bridge a bad scare. He tore in toward the dock at a sharp angle at fifteen knots. Gorton, Maryk, and Willie huddled together on the wing behind him, exchanging pallid looks. A crash with the stern of a tanker in the berth ahead of theirs seemed inevitable. But in the very last seconds Queeg backed down emergency full, and the
Caine
slowed, shuddering fearfully, and dropped into its berthing space as neatly as a New York taxicab parking. “Kay,” said Queeg as the mooring lines flew over to the dock. “Double up all lines. Out smoking lamp and commence fueling.” He dropped the balls into his pocket and sauntered off the bridge.

“Jesus,” Willie heard Maryk mutter to the exec, “a wild man from way back.”

“Shifty as hell, though,” Gorton murmured. “How about the way he dodged that grounding report? De Vriess would never have dared-”

“Why the hell didn’t he get his stern out before we left the
Moulton
? Wind on the beam outboard-”

“Christ, Steve, first time out-give him a chance-”

That afternoon Willie interrupted his coding to write off a letter to May, the last before the start of the voyage. He filled it with warm affectionate descriptions of how badly he missed her, and he praised her doughty persistence in going to Hunter College. He felt impelled to write something about Queeg, though up till now he had remained purposely vague about life on the
Caine
.

Our new captain is a rather strange man, like most of these regular officers, but I think he’s just what the ship needs. He’s a strict perfectionist and a hard taskmaster, and pure Navy through and through. Yet at the same time he has a remarkably pleasant disposition. He seems to be a very daring seaman, maybe a little inexperienced, but full of zip. All in all I think the
Caine
has had a wonderful change in luck, and I expect my spirits are going to improve accordingly. I’ve really been pretty low ...

A radioman knocked at his open doorway. “Pardon me, Mr. Keith. Action from ComServPac. Just come over the harbor circuit.”

“Sure, give it here.” Willie went to the coding machine and broke the despatch.
A written report is desired explaining grounding of Caine this morning in West Loch. Include explanation of failure to report grounding via despatch to this command
.

Willie had very little desire to face Captain Queeg with this unpleasant message, but there was no way to avoid it. He brought the decode to the captain’s room. Queeg was sitting in his underwear at the desk, working over a pile of official mail. When he read the message he sat upright with a loud squeak of the swivel chair. He stared at the sheet for a long time while Willie tried to think of a good excuse to sneak out of the room.

“Fussy so-and-so, this ComServ Pac, hey, Willie?” Queeg looked at him sidewise.

“Wonder how he got the dope, sir-”

“Hell, nothing hard about that. Damn mustang on that tug just skipped on home and reported the whole thing. First useful duty he’s performed in a month, no doubt. I might have thought of that-” Queeg picked up the balls from his desk and rolled them rapidly, eying the despatch. “Well, hell, he wants a grounding report. We’ll give him a grounding report. Spruce up, Willie, and stand by to deliver it by hand. Seems to have his pants on fire for some reason.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Riding to the ComServPac building on the yard bus an hour later, Willie’s curiosity about the grounding report became too strong for him. The manila envelope was closed only by a flexible metal clasp. He glanced from side to side in an automatic guilty gesture; none of the passengers were watching him. He slid the report out of its envelope on his lap and read it.

Grounding of USS CAINE (DMS 22) in West Loch, 25 September 1943-Report on.

1. Subject vessel ran slightly aground on mudbank in subject area on subject date at 0932. It was floated off by YT 137 at 1005. There were no casualties or damage.

2. The reason for the grounding was failure of the engine room to respond in time to engine orders telegraphed from the bridge.

3. This command has recently been relieved. The state of training aboard is believed to warrant a drastic drilling program to bring performance of crew up to proper standards. Such a program has been instituted.

4. It was intended to submit a grounding report in full tomorrow morning by messenger. Report was not made by despatch to ComServPac at the time because help was at hand, damage was nil, and the matter appeared to be disposable without troubling higher authority unnecessarily. Regret is expressed if this estimate was erroneous.

5. It is believed that the intensive drilling already instituted in this command will rapidly bring about competent performance, and such incidents will not recur.

PHILIP FRANCIS QUEEG

That night at the officers’ club in the Navy Yard the
Caine
wardroom had a drinking party to celebrate their departure from Pearl. Captain Queeg joined his officers for an hour or so before moving on to another party of lieutenant commanders in the patio. He was full of jocular good humor, drank faster than anybody else without becoming fuzzy, and entertained them with long anecdotes about the invasion of North Africa. Good feeling ran high. Willie was more convinced than ever that BuPers had sent the
Caine
a prince of a skipper to replace the sour sloven, De Vriess. He snuggled down in the clip shack at three in the morning, feeling that his term aboard the minesweeper was going to be pretty good, after all, while it lasted.

He was shaken out of his sleep by Rabbitt when day was just dawning. “Sorry to bother a man with a hangover, Keith,” the OOD said, “but we just got an action from ComServPac.”

“Right, Rab.” Willie pulled himself wearily out of the clip shack and went to the wardroom. While he was clacking away at the coding machine Gorton came out of his room naked and watched over his shoulder, yawning. The words formed one by one: Caine
departure Pago Pago canceled.
Moulton
replace
Caine
convoy duty.
Caine
remain Pearl target-towing duty. Obtain towing gear target repair base
.

“Now what the hell?” said Gorton. “What kind of quick switch is that?”

“Ours not to reason why, sir-”

“Hope that goddamn grounding didn’t- Well.” Gorton scratched his bulging belly. “Okay, put on your asbestos suit and take it in to the skipper.”

“Think I ought to wake him, sir? Reveille’s only-”

“Hell, yes. Right away.”

Willie disappeared into the captain’s cabin, and the executive officer paced the wardroom, chewing his lips. In a couple of minutes the ensign came out, grinning. “Well, it didn’t seem to faze the skipper any, sir.”

“No? What did he say?”

“Why, he just said, ‘That’s fine, fine. Nobody can get me mad by switching me to Pearl Harbor duty. The more the merrier.’ ”

Gorton shrugged. “I guess I’m crazy. If he’s not worried, no reason why I should be.”

Through the loudspeaker came the shrill boatswain’s piping of reveille. Gorton said, “Well, time to retire. Call me if anything else comes in.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Willie left.

The exec went into his room, wallowed into his bunk like a big pink bear, and dozed off. The captain’s buzzer brought him sharply awake an hour later. He threw on a bathrobe and went to Queeg’s cabin. He found the captain sitting cross-legged on his bunk in his underwear, unshaven and frowning. “Burt, take a look at the despatch on my desk.”

“I saw it, sir, while Keith was breaking it-”

“Oh, you did, hey? Well, that’s something we can start knocking-off right now. Nobody, repeat
nobody
, will have access to action despatches except the coding officer and myself until such time as I release them. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir-”

“Kay, kay, just so’s you know,” Queeg grumbled. “Well, if you’ve seen it, what do you make of it?”

“Well, sir, it seems to me we tow targets instead of going to Pago Pago-”