The Caine Mutiny (25 page)

“Kay,” said Queeg, “you will submit a written report, Mr. Keith, explaining this failure.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Now then, Mr. Keefer,” said the captain, wheeling on the officer of the deck, who was watching the target. “Have you any explanation for the fact that the first man to violate my uniform orders is in your department?”

“Sir, there are limits to what a department head can do while he has the deck-”

“Well, there are no limits,” shrilled Queeg, “to the duties of the officer of the deck! He is responsible for every goddamned thing that happens aboard ship during his watch, every goddamned thing!”

The ship was swinging in a circular path. The target and towline were well forward of the beam. The helmsman was staring at the target, his mouth gaping. The turning diameter of the
Caine
was a thousand yards, and the towline was twice that long; it was therefore obvious to Stilwell that at the present rate the ship was going to cut far inside the target, and pass over its own towline. Ordinarily he would have called this fact to the captain’s attention; but today he would have bitten his tongue out before speaking. He held the helm at right standard rudder.

“Kay, Mr. Keefer,” Queeg was saying, “you will submit a written report explaining (a) why this man’s shirt was out when he is in your department and (b) why this man’s shirttail was out when you had the deck. Is that clear?” (The target was now drifting across the bow.)

“Aye aye, sir.”

Chiefs Budge and Bellison were sitting on a ventilator on the forecastle, enjoying a smoke in the salt breeze. Bellison suddenly dug a bony elbow into the water tender’s fat ribs. “Budge, am I seeing straight? Are we cutting back across the towline?”

Chief Budge stared out at the target, then looked wildly at the bridge, then catapulted his heavy body to the life lines, and peered over the side at the water. “Christ, yes. What’s the matter with the old man?”

Bellison said, “Should I yell?”

“It’s too late. We can’t stop any more-”

“Jesus, the screws, Budge-suppose that tow cable wraps around the screws-”

The chiefs held their breath and clung to the life lines, fearfully watching the bobbing target, far on the port beam. The
Caine
majestically steamed over its own tow cable. There was a slight jar, no more, and the old ship continued on its way. Nothing, apparently, happened to the target.

“The two chiefs turned to each other. Bellison uncorked a flood of horrible profanity, which, translated, meant, “This is extremely unusual.” They stared at the sea and the ship’s curving wake for a long while, half stunned. “Budge,” said Bellison at last in a low, shaken tone, “I’m an unholy son of a bitch. This ship has gone around a full circle, and
is starting around again
!”

Budge, his stomach resting heavily on the life line, nodded in wonder. On the sea the ship’s wake was a complete circle of smooth green water flecked with bubbles, a mile across. The
Caine
was plowing into the same track again, still heeled over by the rudder. “What the Christ are we steaming in circles for?” said Bellison.

“Maybe the old man’s slipped his trolley-”

“Maybe the rudder’s jammed. Maybe the cable’s cut. Let’s see what the hell goes on-” They ran off the forecastle.

Meanwhile, on the bridge, Captain Queeg was winding up the shirttail emergency, after a long general harangue on the subject. “Kay, Signalman Third Class Urban. You may now adjust your uniform.” The little signalman frantically stuffed his shirt into his trousers and snapped to rigid quivering attention again. “There,” said Queeg. “Don’t you think you look better? More like a sailor in the United States Navy?”

“Yes, sir,” choked Urban.

The
Caine
had now steamed partly around the circle for the second time, and once more the target lay ahead. Queeg walked away from the palpitating sailor, with a curt “Dismissed.” He saw the target, started with surprise, and threw a savage glance at Keefer and Keith. “What the hell is that target doing up there?” he exclaimed. “Where the hell are we? What the hell’s going on?” He scurried into the wheelhouse and took a look at the rapidly rotating compass. “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed at Stilwell.

“Sir, you told me right standard rudder. I’m holding at right standard rudder,” said the helmsman desperately.

“Kay, that’s right, I did tell you right standard rudder,” said Queeg, turning his head from side to side, looking first at the target, then at the departing destroyers. “Why the hell isn’t that target coming around after us? That’s what I want to know- All engines stop! Steady as you go!”

The
Caine
wallowed to a stop. The target drifted on the port beam, about five hundred yards away. The telephone talker poked his head into the wheelhouse. “Pardon me, Captain-” he said, in a scared voice. “It’s Chief Bellison, sir, from the fantail. He says we ain’t got the target no more. The towline’s broken.”

“How the hell does he know it’s broken?” Queeg snapped. “Tell him not to be so goddamn positive when he’s just making a goddamn surmise.”

Grubnecker moved his lips, as though rehearsing the message, then spoke into the phone strapped on his neck. “Chief, the captain says not to be so goddamn positive with your goddamn sammizes.”

“All engines ahead standard! Rudder amidships! We’ll see whether we’ve got the target or not.”

The
Caine
steamed two miles. The target dwindled to a bobbing dot on the waves, not moving at all. Utter silence hung in the wheelhouse. “Kay,” said the captain. “Now we know what we want to know. We haven’t got the target.” He looked at Keefer and shrugged humorously. “Well, Tom, if ComServPac gives us cables that part when we come right a few degrees that’s his lookout, hey? ... Willie, give me a despatch blank.”

He wrote,
Defective towline parted southwest corner gunnery area Charlie. Target adrift, menace to navigation. Am returning to base. Suggest tug recover or destroy target at dawn tomorrow
.

“Send it out on the harbor frequency,” he said.

As Willie took the despatch Maryk came running into the wheelhouse, his khaki shirt black with sweat. “Sir, the motor whaleboat is swung out and the target detail is standing by. It’ll take us about an hour to recover. If we close to about fifty yards-”

“Recover what?”

“The
target
, sir.” The first lieutenant seemed amazed at the question.

“Show Mr. Maryk the despatch, Willie,” said Queeg, grinning. The first lieutenant ran his eye over the scribbled sheet. Queeg went on, “As I see it, Mr. Maryk-maybe your insight is more profound than mine-my responsibility doesn’t include emergencies arising from defective gear. If ServPac gives me a towline that parts my duty is to let him know and then get back home and await the next operation, instead of fooling away the Navy’s time out here to no purpose- Mr. Keefer, kindly ask the navigator for a course back to Pearl.”

Maryk followed Keefer out to the port wing and tugged at his shirt sleeve. “Tom,” he whispered, “doesn’t he know that we went around in circles and cut the target loose?”

“Steve,” murmured the communications officer, shaking his head, “don’t ask me what goes on in his mind. We’re in trouble with this joker, Steve. I’m not fooling.”

The two officers went into the charthouse, where Gorton was calculating a sun line. Keefer said, “Skipper wants a course to Pearl, Burt.”

Gorton’s mouth fell open. “What! How about the target?”

Maryk told him Queeg’s reasoning on the subject and added, “Burt, if you want to keep him out of trouble, try to talk him into recovering it-”

“Listen, Steve, I ain’t talking the old man into anything he-”

Queeg’s scowling face poked into the charthouse. “Well, well? What’s the staff conference all about? I’m still waiting for a course to Pearl-”

“Captain, I’m sorry if I seem pigheaded, sir,” Maryk blurted, “but I still think we ought to try to recover that damn target. It’s worth thousands of dollars, sir. We can do it if-”

“How do you
know
we can do it? Has this ship ever recovered one?”

“No, sir, but-”

“Well, I haven’t got such a high opinion of
Caine
seamanship as to think they can do such a specialist job. Fool around here all afternoon, maybe get some of these enlisted dumbheads drowned on us, miss the closing of the gate-how do I know the next op-order isn’t waiting for us right now? We’re supposed to be back prior to sunset-”

“Sir, I can recover it in an hour-”

“So you say- Mr. Gorton, what’s your opinion?”

The exec looked unhappily from Maryk to the captain. “Well, sir-I think Steve can be relied on-if he says-”

“Oh hell,” said Queeg, “get Chief Bellison up here.”

The boatswain’s mate came into the charthouse in a few minutes, dragging his feet. “Yes, Captain?” he croaked. “Bellison, if you had to recover that target how would you go about it?”

Bellison screwed up his face into a thousand wrinkles. After a pause he rattled off a confusing answer involving heaving lines, U-bolts, swivels, pelican hooks, slip hooks, pad eyes, spring lines, and chains.

“Hm, hm,” Queeg said. “How long would it take?”

“Depends, sir. Sea ain’t bad-maybe forty minutes, an hour-”

“And nobody would get killed, hey?”

Bellison peered at the captain like a suspicious monkey. “Nuthin’ to get killed about, Cap’n-”

Queeg paced the bridge, muttering, for a few minutes, and then sent another despatch to ComServPac:
If you prefer can attempt recover target. Request instructions
.

The minesweeper steamed in a long lazy circle around the target for an hour. The answer came from ComServPac:
Act at discretion
. Willie delivered the despatch to the captain on the port wing, where he stood with Gorton and Maryk, watching the target.

“Helpful, aren’t they?” Queeg said crankily, passing the despatch to the exec. He glanced up at the sun, which was about an hour and a half above the horizon. “That’s the Navy for you. Pass the buck and get a receipt. Act at discretion, hey? Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, and I kid you not. They’re not hanging the responsibility on
me
for missing tomorrow’s exercise and maybe breaking some thick sailor’s neck. Let’s head for the barn.”

But no exercise was scheduled for the next day, and the
Caine
lay alongside the dock, doing nothing. At eleven o’clock in the morning Gorton sat at the wardroom table, sipping coffee as he worked through a basketful of correspondence. The door was opened by a smart sailor in dress blues, who whipped off a snowy hat and said to the exec, “Pardon me, sir, where is the captain’s cabin?”

“I’m the executive officer. What can I do for you?”

“Sir, I have a mailgram to be delivered to the captain personally.”

“Mailgram from whom?”

“ComServPac, sir.”

Gorton pointed at the captain’s cabin. The sailor knocked. When the door opened Gorton caught a glimpse of Queeg in underwear, his face heavily lathered. In a moment the sailor emerged, said to Gorton, “Thank you, sir,” and went out, his steps echoing up the half-deck ladder. Gorton sat still, waiting. He waited perhaps forty-five seconds, then he heard the buzzer in his cabin ring frantically. Draining off the coffee at a gulp, he pushed himself out of his chair and trudged in to the captain’s cabin.

Queeg sat at his desk, lather still on his face, the ripped-open envelope on the floor, a sheet of flimsy paper in his right hand. His head was sunk down between his shoulders, and his left hand, resting on his knee, trembled. He glanced up sidewise at the exec for a moment, then silently held out the mailgram to him, looking away.

At 1300 22 October commanding officer Caine will submit in person repeat in person written report on latest fiasco to operations officer ComServPac
.

The captain rose, and fished the steel balls out of khaki trousers hanging on a hook. “Will you tell me, Burt,” he said. thickly, “what you think that means?”

Gorton shrugged unhappily.

“Fiasco! In an official mailgram!- I’d sure as hell like to know why he calls it a fiasco. Why should
I
have to submit a written report? Didn’t they tell me to act at discretion? Tell me frankly, Burt, was there anything I could possibly have done that I didn’t do? Any mistake
you
think I made?” Gorton was silent. “I’d appreciate your telling me if there was anything. I regard you as my friend.”

“Well, sir-” Gorton hesitated. He thought ComServPac might have heard about the cutting of the towline; such stories traveled fast in the Navy. But he was afraid to mention it, because Queeg had yet to acknowledge that it had happened. “Speak up, Burt, you needn’t fear offending me.”

“The only thing is, sir,” said the exec, “you-I think maybe you overestimated the difficulty of recovering. I’ve seen it done. We were once out on a shooting exercise with the
Moulton
, back in ’40. The towline parted. They recovered it, no strain, in about half an hour.”