The Caine Mutiny (28 page)

“Mr. Keefer!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want you to make the following announcement over the loudspeaker: ‘Every man who is not wearing a helmet or a life jacket is docked one day’s leave in the United States. Every man who is wearing neither is deprived of three days’ leave. The names are to be reported at once via the telephone talkers to the bridge.’ ”

Keefer looked stunned. He stammered, “Sir, that’s kind of tough-”

“
Mister
Keefer,” said the captain, “I did not ask you to pass an opinion on such disciplinary measures as I deem necessary for the instruction and safety of my crew. If these men are going to commit suicide by coming to GQ unprotected, well, nobody is going to say it’s because I didn’t impress on them the importance of wearing battle gear. Make the announcement.”

The men at the gun stations, hearing the words from the loudspeakers, could be seen turning their heads toward the bridge, their faces showing incredulity and rage. Then a boiling activity began among them, and helmets and life jackets began to appear magically, mushrooming all over the ship and passing from hand to hand.

“Now I want that knocked off!” roared Queeg. “I want those names, and I don’t want any man putting on any jacket or helmet until every single name is turned in to the bridge! Mr. Keefer, you announce that!”

“
What
shall I announce, sir?”

“Don’t be so goddamn stupid, sir! Announce that they’re to stop putting on that goddamn gear and report those names to the bridge!”

Keefer’s announcement blared over the decks: “Now knock off putting on gear. Turn in names of all men without gear to the bridge.”

Sailors were throwing helmets and life jackets from concealed places up to the deckhouses; a rain of the gear was flying through the air. Queeg screamed, “Send for the master-at-arms! I want whoever’s throwing those helmets and jackets put on report!”

“Chief Bellison, master-at-arms,” droned Keefer into the microphone, “please report to the bridge on the double.”

“Not to the bridge, you ass,” screeched Queeg, “tell him to go behind the galley deckhouse and arrest those men!”

“Belay that last word,” said Keefer, turning his face away from the captain to grin, “Chief Bellison, lay aft of the galley deckhouse and arrest whoever’s throwing helmets and life jackets.”

The words had scarcely died in the speakers when the deluge of gear stopped. It had served its purpose, however. There was gear on the deckhouses to spare for all hands, and they were rapidly dressing themselves. Queeg ran frantically here and there on the bridge, watching the men disobeying his orders wholesale, and yelled, “Stop putting on that gear! You, down there! ... Come here, Mr. Gorton! What’s the name of that man on number-three gun? Put him on report!”

“Which one, sir?”

“Hell, the redheaded one. He just put on a helmet. I saw him!”

“Sir, if he’s got a helmet on I can’t see his hair.”

“Christ on a crutch, how many redheaded men are there on that gun?”

“Well, sir, I believe there’s three. Wingate, Parsons, Dulles-no, Dulles is more of a blond-but I think maybe he’s on gun four now, ever since-”

“Oh, Christ,
forget
it,” snapped Queeg. “Of all the lousy fouled-up failures to execute orders I’ve ever seen, Burt, this is the worst! The
worst
.”

By this time every man aboard the
Caine
was wearing a helmet and a life jacket. Queeg peered around the ship, with an angry balked glare. “Kay,” he said. “Kay. I see these birds think they have me licked.”

He walked into the wheelhouse, and picked up the microphone. “This is the captain speaking,” he said, and the angry tone filtered through all the distortion of the speakers. “Now, I am displeased to note that some misguided sailors on this ship believe they can pull a fast one on their captain. They are very much mistaken. I have asked for the names of the men who came to GQ out of uniform. The names don’t seem to be forthcoming. Kay. Since I have no other way of dealing out justice to the numerous cowards who are disobeying my orders to turn in their names, I am hereby depriving every man on this ship of three days’ leave in the States. The innocent must suffer with the guilty, and you’ll simply have to punish the guilty ones among yourselves for bringing this penalty on the whole crew- Kay. Now proceed with general drills.”

The convoy ran into stormy seas halfway to San Francisco, and Willie Keith began to get a clearer idea of the limitations of World War I destroyers. Towing targets on the smiling seas around Hawaii, the
Caine
had done plenty of rolling, and Willie had been proud of his sea legs and his quiet stomach; now he realized that he had been a little premature in congratulating himself.

He was awakened one night to go on the midwatch after an hour and a half of dozing on the wardroom couch, and found that he could hardly stand. He fell down while groping around to make himself some coffee. He struggled into a blue woolen windbreaker, because the air streaming in from the ventilation duct felt cold and damp, and he went zigzagging across a deck that was wobbling like a room in an amusement park Crazy House. When he came topside, clutching the stanchion that held up the hatchway, the first thing he saw was a wall of greenish-black water on the port side, towering high over his head. As he opened his mouth to yell the wall fell away, replaced by a sky of torn moonlit clouds, and an equally horrendous wall rose on the other side of the ship. He inched up the bridge ladder, holding his hat in the expectation of a blast of wind, but there was very little wind. He found the bridge watch all-clinging to handholds in the dark wheelhouse, their bodies swaying back and forth with each roll. Even here, high on the bridge, when the ship heeled over Willie found himself looking upward at tossing water.

“Good Christ,” he said to Carmody, who had one arm braced through the back of the captain’s chair, “how long has this been going on?”

“How long has what been going on?”

“This rolling!”

“This isn’t rolling.” The rubber mats on the deck all slid sideward and heaped up against his legs.

Willie relieved Carmody, and as the watch wore on his terror abated. The
Caine
was apparently not going to founder. But it seemed an entirely reasonable possibility to him that it might come apart. At the extreme limit of a roll, the whole ship groaned from end to end like a sick man, and Willie could see the bulkheads bending and swaying. It struck him forcibly that nothing now stood between him and the black cold waters except the guess of an engineer (now probably dead) made thirty years ago as to how much stress such a ship should be built to stand.

Evidently he had. guessed well, for the
Caine
kept up this careening into the next day, and held together.

Willie went up to the forecastle after a lunch of roast pork, feeling oddly aware of the fact that he had a stomach. He was not seasick, of that he was certain. But he could feel the stomach hanging there in his midriff, palpitating, full, and hard at work at its usual tasks. This second sight into his body induced in Willie a desire for a lot of fresh air blowing in his face. He pulled open the watertight door to the forecastle, and saw Stilwell in a pea jacket and wool cap crouched by number-one gun, tying down the blue canvas cover, which had worked loose and was flapping loudly.

“Afternoon, Mr. Keith.”

“Afternoon, Stilwell.” Willie dogged the door shut and leaned against the life lines, gripping the stanchion. The wind and cold spray in his face were delightful. When the ship rolled to port be could see the convoy plunging along through the gray choppy swells.

“How do you like the rolling, sir?” called Stilwell, over the rushing and bubbling of the bow waves.

“What rolling?” said Willie, with a brave grin.

The sailor laughed. He slid across the deck to the life line and made his way cautiously to the ensign. “Sir, did you ever talk to the captain about-you know, about my leave?”

A little ashamed, Willie said, “Haven’t had a chance, Stilwell. But I’m sure it will be okay.”

The sailor’s face went gloomy. “Well, thanks, sir.”

“I’ll talk to him this afternoon. Come to the clipping shack at three and see me.”

“Thanks a million, Mr. Keith.” The gunner’s mate smiled, undogged the door, and slipped through to the well deck.

Willie took several deep breaths of the medicinal wind, and went below to the captain’s cabin.

Queeg was lying on his bunk in his underwear, fiddling - with a wooden Chinese puzzle, a ball of interlocking pieces. The captain had confiscated it one day, upon poking his head into the radar shack and finding the watch-stander playing with it. He had been working at it ever since, and though he told Gorton he had solved it nobody had ever seen the pieces apart. “Yes, Willie, what can I do for you?” he said, jiggling the puzzle under his reading lamp.

Willie stated his errand, while the captain worked away at his puzzle. “... So, sir, I just thought I’d check and be sure. Did you mean Stilwell’s restriction to apply during the overhaul?”

“What do you think I meant?”

“Well, I didn’t think so, sir-”

“Why not? When a man’s in jail for a year they don’t let him out for two weeks at Christmas, do they? Restriction to the ship means restriction to the ship.”

The close air in the room, and the swaying deck, and the jiggling of the puzzle before his eyes began to trouble Willie. “But-but sir, isn’t this a little different? He’s not a criminal-and he’s been fighting a war for two years overseas-”

“Willie, if you start getting sentimental about naval discipline you’re licked. Every man in a brig or a guardhouse in the forward area has been fighting a war. When a war is on you’ve got to get tougher with enlisted men, not easier.” (Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle.) “They’re under a strain, and there’s a lot of damned unpleasant duty to do, and if you let up the pressure even once your whole goddamn organization’s apt to blow up in your face.” (Jiggle, jiggle.) “The sooner you learn that elementary fact, Willie, the better morale officer you’ll be.”

Willie’s stomach put in an appearance again, throbbing and heavy. He pulled his hypnotized glance away from the puzzle, and his eyes fell on the wooden crate under the captain’s washbasin. “Sir, there are offenses and offenses,” he said, his voice a little weaker. “Stilwell is a good sailor. Before you came aboard, nobody bore down on these men for peeking at a magazine during a watch. I know it was wrong but-”

“All the more reason for bearing down now, Willie. You tell me a better way to get my wishes obeyed on this ship and I’ll take it under consideration. Do you think all reading on watch would stop if I gave Stilwell a letter of commendation, hey?”

Willie’s dizziness got the better of his discretion and he blurted out, “Sir, I’m not sure that reading on watch is any greater violation than transporting whisky aboard ship.”

The captain laughed amiably. “You’ve got a point there. But rank hath its privileges, Willie. An admiral can wear a baseball cap on the bridge. That doesn’t mean the helmsmen can. No, Willie, our job is to make damn sure that the enlisted men do as we say, not as we do.” (Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle.) “And, as I say, the one way to make them do as we say is to get goddamn tough with them and make it stick.”

Willie felt himself breaking out in a sweat.

The captain droned on, “Now, if it was Stilwell’s tough luck to get caught first so that I had to make him the horrible example, well, as I say, reading on watch has got to be knocked off on this ship, and” (jiggle, jiggle) “it’s just too bad that he’s worried about his wife, but I’ve got the whole U.S.S.
Caine
to worry about, and” (jiggle) “sometimes one man has to suffer for-”

But he left the sentence unfinished, because at that point Willie Keith made a queer stifled noise and threw up violently. The ensign managed to turn his green face away from Queeg just in time. Gasping apologies, he seized a towel and began dabbing at the deck. Queeg was surprisingly genial about it. “Never mind, Willie. Send a steward’s mate in here and go topside for some fresh air. Lay off the pork till you get your sea legs.”

So ended Willie’s plea for Stilwell. He could hardly face the sailor, but Stilwell took the news with a stiff blank face. “Thanks for trying anyway, sir,” he said dryly.

Another day and another passed of rough seas and lowering skies; of rolling and pitching, cold winds, and cold damp eating into bones softened by tropic warmth; of a treadmill of watches in a wheelhouse dank and gloomy by day and danker and gloomier by night; of sullen silent sailors and pale dog-tired officers, of meals in the wardroom eaten in silence, with the captain at the head of the table ceaselessly rolling the balls in his fingers and saying nothing except an infrequent grumpy sentence about the progress of the work requests. Willie lost track of time. He stumbled from the bridge to his coding, from coding to correcting publications, from corrections back up to the bridge, from the bridge to the table for an unappetizing bolted meal, from the table to the clipping shack for sleep which never went uninterrupted for more than a couple of hours. The world became narrowed to a wobbling iron shell on a waste of foamy gray, and the business of the world was staring out at empty water or making red-ink insertions in the devil’s own endless library of mildewed unintelligible volumes.