The Caine Mutiny (23 page)

“Do you take me for an idiot? I can read English, too. What I want to know is, what does it mean? Why the changed orders?”

Gorton said, “Sir, it bothered me, too. But according to Keith, you were perfectly satisfied-”

“Hell, I’d rather stay here in Pearl any day than go moseying out west-if there’s no more in it than meets the eye. That’s what I’m beginning to wonder about. I want you to get dressed and haul yourself over to ComServPac. Find out what this is all about.”

“From whom, sir-the operations officer?”

“I don’t care from whom. You can go to the admiral for all I care. But don’t come back without
the
dope, understand?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The office building of Commander, Service Squadron Pacific, was a U-shaped white wooden structure atop a hill behind some warehouses in the Navy Yard. Lieutenant Gorton appeared there at eight-thirty, dressed in his cleanest, newest khakis, with gleaming fresh collar pins. He went to the operations office and, not without misgivings, presented himself to Captain Grace, a fierce-looking old officer with a square red face and heavy white eyebrows.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Grace growled. He was sipping coffee from a paper cup. He looked as though he had been at his desk since dawn.

“Sir, I’m here with regard to your despatch 260040 to the
Caine
.”

The operations officer picked up a loose-leaf file of despatches on green tissue paper and flipped through them. “What about it?”

“Well, sir-I-I wonder if you can tell me why our orders were changed.”

Captain Grace wrinkled his nose at Gorton. “You’re the commanding officer?”

“No, sir. Exec.”

“
What
!” The operations officer banged the despatch file to his desk. “What in blazes does your skipper mean, sending you over to question orders? You go back and tell your captain-what’s-his-name-”

“Queeg, sir-Lieutenant Commander Queeg-”

“You go tell Queeg that if he has any inquiries about operations he’s to come here in person, and not send subordinates. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all.” Captain Grace picked up a letter and made a show of contracting his heavy white eyebrows over it. Gorton, bearing in mind Queeg’s injunction not to come back without “
the
dope,” nerved himself for one more try.

“Sir-pardon me-did the change have anything to do with our grounding in West Loch yesterday?”

Captain Grace looked as startled at the sound of Gorton’s voice, speaking after being dismissed, as though he had heard an ass bray in his office. He turned and stared at Gorton’s face for perhaps thirty very long seconds. Then his eyes shifted to Gorton’s Annapolis ring, and he stared at that for a good long while. Then he stared at Gorton’s face again, shook his head incredulously, and turned to the letter. Gorton slunk out.

At the gangplank of the
Caine
the OOD, Carmody, saluted the exec and said, “The captain wants to see you in his cabin the minute you return aboard, sir.”

Gorton went below and knocked at the captain’s door. There was no answer. He knocked louder, then cautiously turned the knob and peeked into a black room. “Captain? Captain?”

“Oh. Come in, Burt.” Queeg switched on his bed light and sat up, scratching his stubbly face. He reached to the shelf over the bunk and took down the two steel balls. “Well? What’s the dope?”

“I don’t know, sir. The operations officer wouldn’t tell me.”

“What!”

Gorton, perspiring, described the interview with Captain Grace. Queeg glowered at the rolling balls.

“And you let it go at that, hey?”

“I didn’t see what more I could do, sir. I was practically thrown out-”

“Did you think of snooping around among some of the ensigns on the staff?”

“No, sir.”

Queeg turned his head to glare briefly, then resumed looking at the balls. “Well, why didn’t you?”

“I-” Gorton was baffled by the question. “Well-I-”

“I’m not delighted,” said the captain after a silence. “When I send an officer out for
the
dope, I expect him to return with
the
dope, and to use whatever ingenuity is called for to get it- That’s all.”

He lay back on his pillow. Gorton said diffidently, “Will you be going down there, sir? I’ll arrange transportation-”

“Maybe I will and then again maybe I won’t,” said Queeg. “I don’t appreciate being placed in the position where I might get read off like a midshipman for the stupidity of the
Caine
’s engine-room personnel-” There was a knock at the door. “Come in!”

Signalman Third Class Urban entered, carrying a despatch board in one hand and his frayed hat in the other. His dungarees were faded and streaky, and his shirt hung outside his trousers. He was an undersize roly-poly sailor with a round, red, perpetually puzzled face. “Visual from ComServPac, Cap’n.”

Captain Queeg took the board and read: Caine
under way 29 September 0600. Pick up target and operation order at target repair base
.

“Kay,” said the captain, initialing the despatch and returning the board to the sailor.

“Thank you, sir.” Urban scuttled out.

“Now,” said Queeg, rattling the balls in his fist, “that’s another thing I want knocked off right away, Mr. Gorton.”

“What, sir?”

“You know damn well what. Since when do uniform regulations permit the crew to wear their shirts outside their trousers? They’re sailors, not Filipino bus boys.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Gorton resignedly.

“Aye aye, sir, hell!” snapped Queeg. “I’m serious about this, Burt. You will make the following announcement in the plan of the day tomorrow. ‘Hereafter all shirts will be tucked inside trousers. Failure to comply will result in heavy disciplinary action.’ ”

“Yes, sir,” said Gorton. “They’ve been doing it for years on this ship. I don’t know if we can change them overnight-”

“Those are
orders
,” said Queeg, “and sailors don’t have to be changed overnight to obey orders. If there’s any trouble we’ll hand out a few captain’s masts, and if necessary we’ll hand out deck courts, and if necessary we’ll hand out general court-martials for defiance of orders-but there will be no more flapping shirttails on my ship! Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want a meeting of all officers in the wardroom at 1300.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The exec went out, closing the door softly. Captain Queeg lay back on his bed and stared at the green overhead. Rub, rub, rub, rub, went the little steel balls.

The officers of the
Caine
sat around the green table, chatting in low tones, a ring of perplexed, sullen faces. “Two wardroom meetings in a week,” said Keefer aside to Maryk. “De Vriess didn’t have two all the time he was captain.”

“Take it easy, Tom,” muttered Maryk.

“I’m just beginning to wonder, that’s all,” said Keefer, very low.

Gorton came out of Queeg’s room. “The captain, gentlemen.”

All the officers rose. Keefer slouched, his hands in his pockets. Captain Queeg entered at a businesslike pace, head down, rolling the balls as usual. “Kay,” he said. “Kay, gentlemen.” He sat, and the officers did, too. He pulled out a fresh package of cigarettes, opened it, took out a cigarette, lit it, and laid the cigarettes and matches carefully on the table.

“Gentlemen,” he said at last, looking out from under his eyebrows at the empty air over the table, “I regret to say that I am displeased.”

His eyes shifted momentarily from side to side, taking in the faces around him, and he resumed his stare at nothing. “I am displeased, gentlemen, because I have told you that on my ship I expect excellent performance to be standard-and-well, it isn’t standard. No, it isn’t standard. You all know what I’m talking about, so I won’t embarrass the department heads by going into particulars. Perhaps some of you feel that in your departments excellent performance is standard. Well, in that case, I’m not addressing you. But those whom the shoe fits-well, they’d better get on the ball, that’s all.

“Now, as you know, this ship was supposed to go to Pago Pago. Well, this ship isn’t going to Pago Pago. This ship is going to stay at Pearl Harbor and tow targets. Nice, soft, pleasant duty. The only question is, why have we been favored so generously by ComServPac?

“Well, your guess is as good as mine. A naval officer isn’t supposed to speculate about his orders. He’s supposed to execute them. That’s exactly what I intend to do, and don’t kid yourselves about that!” He looked around at blank faces. “Kay, any questions? No? Then I assume you all know exactly what I’m driving at, is that correct? Kay. Now I would like to point out that there are only two possible reasons why we got our orders changed. Either ComServPac decided that this ship is so outstanding that it deserves some extra-nice duty-
or
ComServPac decided that this ship is so lousy that it might not be competent to carry out an assignment in the forward area. Can anybody here suggest any other possible reason?

“Kay. Now, I’m not saying which I think it is. But if this ship is not outstanding now it had damn well better become so P.D.Q., meaning pretty damn quick. Now, it happens I had occasion to report to ComServPac recently that the engineering performance of this ship was below par, and it’s entirely possible that that’s why our orders were changed. But as I say, a naval officer is supposed to execute his orders, not speculate about them, and that’s how it’s going to be on this ship!”

Keefer was seized with a fit of coughing. He bent double over the table, his shoulders shaking. The captain glanced at him in annoyance.

“Sorry, sir,” gasped Keefer, “some smoke went down the wrong way.”

“Kay,” said Queeg. “Now I want you gentlemen to remember that anything that’s worth doing at all is worth doing well-and furthermore on this ship what’s difficult we do at once, and the impossible takes a little longer, and- Now, our duty for the next few weeks seems to be target towing. Well, we’re just going to be the best goddamn target-towing ship this Navy has ever seen, and- And as I say, we’re supposed to execute our orders, not speculate about them, so let’s not worry about anything that’s happened. As far as the grounding of the ship is concerned I feel that I’m not responsible for the state of training in which I found the ship, and I’m certain that ComServPac will see eye to eye with me on that and so-that’s that. But I am damn well responsible for anything that happens on this ship from here on in. I don’t intend to make a single mistake
and
-I won’t tolerate anybody making any mistakes for me, and I kid you not. And, well, I think you get the idea without my drawing you a picture, and-oh, yes, I knew there was something else.” He looked about and said, “Who’s the morale officer?”

Glances of puzzlement traveled around the table. Gorton cleared his throat. “Ha-hem. Captain, an ensign named Ferguson had that as collateral duty last I knew. It seems to me it was never reassigned when he got detached-”

Queeg shook his head slowly, and rasped the balls in silence for several moments. “Kay,” he said. “Mr. Keith, as of now, you’re the morale officer, in addition to your other duties.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Your first task is to see to it that every man on this ship begins to tuck his shirttail inside his pants.”

Willie looked startled.

“I don’t want to see a flapping shirttail again while I’m captain of this ship, I don’t care what steps you take. You can be as tough as you please. I’ll back you to the limit. If we want these men to start acting like sailors we’ve got to make them start looking like sailors. Woe betide the officer during whose watch I see a sailor with a flapping shirttail-and woe betide that sailor’s department head-and woe betide the morale officer. I kid you not.

“Well, gentlemen, that concludes my business, and, as I say, let’s get excellent performance established as the standard around here, and-and has anybody got any comment to make? No? You, Gorton? You, Maryk? You, Adams? ...” In this way he went around the table, darting a forefinger at each officer. They shook their heads, one after another. “Fine. In that case I can assume that you all fully understand and enthusiastically support what I’ve said today, is that correct? And-well, that’s all I have to say, and-and remember that we are now running the best goddamn target-towing ship in the Navy, and-and let’s get on with the ship’s business.”

All the officers rose for the ceremony of the captain’s withdrawal. “Kay, kay, thank you,” he said, and hurried off into his room.

During the next two weeks, the “best goddamn target-towing ship in the Navy” carried out several towing assignments without mishap.

Queeg’s ship handling underwent a striking change after the brush with ComServPac. His dashing first manner disappeared, replaced by painful inching toward a dock or away from it. The exaggerated caution fretted the nerves of the crew, who were used to De Vriess’s spirited ease and accuracy. But there were no crashings or groundings.