The Caine Mutiny (43 page)

In a minute or so Keefer said, “That isn’t Roland.” Harding, the OOD, joined them. The three officers stood in silence as the
Montauk
’s boat drew alongside. A young, scared-looking ensign with a blond mustache and thin childish lips came up the ladder. His left hand was wrapped in a heavy bandage stained yellow. He introduced himself as Ensign Whitely. “What’s the story on my brother?” said the novelist.

“Oh. You’re Lieutenant Keefer?” said the ensign. “Well, sir.” He looked at the others, and back at Keefer. “Sir, I’m sorry to be the one who tells you. Your brother died of burns yesterday. We buried him at sea.”

Keefer nodded, his face calm and apparently half smiling. “Come on below, Mr. Whitely, and tell us about it. Keith here is an old friend of Rollo’s.”

In the wardroom he insisted on pouring the coffee for all three of them, though Willie tried to take the pot from him.

“Well, I’ll tell you this, Mr. Keefer, your brother saved the,
Montauk
,” Whitely began, after a nervous gulp of half the cup of coffee. “He’ll get the Navy Cross. His name’s already gone in. I realize that doesn’t mean much-I mean, to you and your family, compared to-but anyway, it’s a sure thing, and he deserved it-”

“It’ll mean a very great deal to my dad,” said Keefer in a tired tone. “What happened?”

Ensign Whitely began to tell of the surprise encounter of Admiral Sprague’s escort-carrier force with the main battle line of the Japanese Navy off Samar, in a chaos of rain squalls and smoke screens. His picture of the action was fragmentary and confused. He became more coherent in describing the damage to the
Montauk
.

“The shells started the fires aft. It was bad because secondary conn was knocked out and the exec got it, and ordinarily he took charge at the scene of a fire-at drills, you know. Damn good guy. Commander Greeves. Well, anyway, Roland was damage-control officer and he took over. A lot of av-gas went up on the hangar deck so it made things bad, but Roland got the torpedoes and ammo jettisoned. He kept his head real good and had the fire-fighting parties going strong, see. And it looked as though we were okay. He had the fire pretty well cornered on the port side amidships, mostly on the hangar deck. And then this goddamn suicide just came flying through the smoke screen and the rain and smashed into the bridge. Must have been carrying a torpedo because this time all hell really broke loose. Terrific explosion, fire everywhere you looked, big roaring red flame all over the flight deck, and the ship took a list to starboard. Nobody could raise the bridge on the phones and it was a cinch the old man had got it, and it was nothing but confusion and guys running every which way like ants and some of them jumping overboard. I had a damage-control party on the port side, that’s why I’m alive. Mostly the starboard side got it. Well, the loudspeaker system had failed, too, power connections all torn out around the bridge. The ship was steaming around in a crazy circle, making flank speed, and destroyers dodging out of our way-and all this goddamn fire and smoke, and the gas attack alarm started screaming, too, for no bloody reason, and nobody could shut it off-Christ-

“Well, Roland really took over. There was a gasoline generator for stand-by communications power on the hangar deck port side. First thing, he cut that in and started directing the fire fighting over the loudspeakers. He got ’em to flood the magazines and turn on all the sprinklers and carbon-tet systems and all that, then the steering engine room got through to him on sound power phones and told him they weren’t getting any steering orders, so Roland started conning the ship, too, over the loudspeaker, running out on the catwalk to see what was doing up ahead.

“Well, some big goddamn flaming wreckage came tumbling down from the flight deck all over him out on the catwalk-I don’t know what it was, nobody does. He was pinned under it. They dragged him free and dumped the junk off the catwalk, and he was in bad shape. But he kept on with the fire fighting and conning. A couple of sailors holding him up and greasing him and bandaging him and giving him morphine-

“Well, about that time the air officer, Lieutenant Commander Volk, he came crawling out of the mess on the bridge, and he was pretty stunned but still in better shape than Roland, and he was senior surviving officer, so he took over the conn, and Roland passed out and they took him down to sick bay. But by that time he had all the guys back to doing everything they always did at drills, and of course that’s what counts. So as I say, Commander Volk wrote him up for a Navy Cross, and of course he’ll get it-”

“Did you see him after that?” Keefer said. His eyes were reddened.

“Sure. I was down in sick bay for hours with him. See, I was taking over his department, and he was telling me what to do, talking through a hole in the bandage all over his face. He was weak but still on the ball. Made me read the damage-report despatch to him and told me how to correct it. Doctor said he had a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through. About half his body was third-degree burns. But then he got pneumonia on top of it, and that did it. ... He told me to come to see you in case-” Whitely paused, picked up his cap, and fumbled with it. “He was asleep when he died. He went off easy, as far as that goes, with the dope, and all-”

“Well, thanks, I appreciate your coming.” The novelist stood.

“I-I’ve got his gear in the boat-there isn’t a hell of a lot-” Whitely rose, too. “If you want to look it over-”

“I think,” Keefer said, “you’d better send it all on intact to his mother. She’s listed as next of kin, isn’t she?”

Whitely nodded. The novelist put out his hand, and the young officer from the
Montauk
shook it. He ran a forefinger over his mustache. “I’m sorry, Mr. Keefer, he was a damn good guy-”

“Thank you, Mr. Whitely. Let me see you to the gangway.” Willie sat, elbows on the green baize, staring at the bulkhead, reliving the fire on the
Montauk
. Keefer returned to the wardroom in a few minutes. “Tom,” said Willie, getting up when the door opened, “I know how tough this must be-”

The novelist grinned with one side of his mouth, and said, “Rollo did pretty well, didn’t he, though?”

“Damn well-”

“Give me a cigarette. Makes you wonder. Maybe a military-school upbringing has its points, Willie. Could you have done what he did, do you think?”

“No. I’d have been one of the first guys over the side when the plane hit. Roland was wonderful at midshipmen school, too-just took to it-”

Keefer dragged noisily at the cigarette. “I don’t know what I’d have done. It’s decided below the threshold of intelligence, that’s for sure. It’s instinct. Rollo had good instincts. You never really know till you’re tested- Well.” He turned and started to walk to his room. “Kind of wish I’d gotten to see him last week-”

Willie reached out a hand and touched his arm. “I’m sorry, Tom. For Roland, and for you, too.”

The novelist paused. He put a palm over both his eyes and rubbed hard, saying, “We were never really very close, you know. We lived in different cities. But I liked him. We had a chance to get better acquainted at college-I’m afraid I thought he was too dumb. My dad’s always preferred Rollo to me. Maybe he knows something.” Keefer went into his room, drawing the curtain.

Willie walked up to the forecastle and paced back and forth for an hour, glancing often across the water at the twisted, sooty hull of the
Montauk
. A tremendous red sunset flared and died, and a cool breeze flickered over the rippling lagoon. All the while he kept trying to fit the sly, profane, lazy, fat Roland Keefer into the heroic role he had played at Leyte. He could not do it. He noticed the evening star gleaming in the sky over the palm trees of Ulithi, and beside it the merest silver knife edge of a moon. The thought came on him that Roland Keefer wouldn’t see such sights any more, and he crouched down beside the ready ammunition box and cried a little.

Willie came off watch that night at twelve o’clock and tumbled heavily into bed. He was dozing amid brightening visions of May Wynn when a hand poked his ribs. He groaned, burying his face in the pillow, and said, “You want Ducely. Other bunk. I’ve just been on watch.”

“I want you,” said the voice of Queeg. “Wake up.”

Willie jumped out of bed naked, his nerves prickling. “Yes, Captain-”

Queeg, shadowy against the dim red light of the passageway, held a Fox sked in his hand. “There’s a BuPers despatch for us on this sked. It came in two minutes ago.” Mechanically Willie reached for his drawers. “Never mind putting anything on, it isn’t cold in the wardroom, let’s get this thing
broken
.”

The leather of the wardroom chair felt clammy on Willie’s naked thighs. Queeg stood over him, watching each letter as it emerged from the code machine. The despatch was short:
Ensign Alfred Peter Ducely detached. Proceed best available air transportation to BuPers Washington for reassignment. Class four priority.

“That’s all of it?” said the captain in a choked tone.

“That’s it, sir.”

“How long has Ducely been aboard, anyway?”

“Since January, sir-nine, ten months.”

“Hell, that cuts us down to seven officers-the Bureau is crazy-”

“We have those two new ones on the way, sir. Farrington and Voles. If they ever catch up with us.”

“Mr. Ducely can damn well wait to be detached until they do. Guess I overdid his fitness report, or something.”

As the captain shuffled to the door, slouching in his ragged bathrobe, Willie said with sleepy malice, “His mother owns a shipyard, sir.”

“Shipyard, hey?” said Queeg, and slammed the door.

Nobody except the pharmacist’s mate saw the captain for a week after the arrival of the Ducely despatch; he was plagued with migraine headache, he informed Maryk by phone. The executive officer took over the ship completely.

CHAPTER 26

A Gallon of Strawberries

“I got the Yellowstain Blues,

Old Yellowstain Blues.

When someone fires a shot,

It’s always there that I’m not,

I got the Old Yellowstain Blues-”

Willie Keith, at the battered little piano of the officers’ bar on Mogmog Island, was reviving his rusty gift for improvising. He was quite drunk, and so were Keefer, Harding, and Paynter, who clustered around him, highballs in hand, half giggling and half singing. The gunnery officer exclaimed, “
I’ll
do the next stanza!

“I got the Yellowstain Blues.

Old Yellowstain Blues.

You should see strong men quail,

When he spies a shirttail

Oh, Yellowstain, Yellowstain Blues.”

Willie laughed so hard that he fell off the piano stool. When Paynter bent to pick him up, he spilled his highball all over Willie’s shirt in a ragged brown stain, and the guffaws of the
Caine
officers attracted stares from less hilarious groups in the bar.

Jorgensen came staggering toward them with his arm around . the neck of a tall, pudgy ensign, with protruding teeth, freckles, and the brash expression of a schoolboy. “Fellows, do any of you like strawberries with your ice cream?” Jorgensen said, leering. He was answered with drunken affirmative roars. “Well, that’s nice,” he said, “because this here is my old roommate from Abbot Hall, Bobby Pinckney, and what ship do you think he’s assistant first lieutenant on but the dear old U.S.S.
Bridge
, where all the chow is-”

The
Caine
officers overwhelmed Ensign Pinckney with handshakes. He grinned toothily and said, “Well, it happens the wardroom mess just brought half a dozen gallons of frozen strawberries up out of the hold, and I know how tight things are for you guys on those old four-pipers. And I’m the wardroom mess treasurer so-any time Jorgy or any one of you wants to stop by in the next day or two-”

Keefer glanced at his watch and said, “Willie, flag the gig. We’re going to get some strawberries.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Willie played the closing bars of
Anchors Aweigh
fortissimo, banged the piano shut, and ran out.

Back in the wardroom, the officers bolted dinner greedily, impatient for dessert. The steward’s mates served the ice cream at last with smiling pomp. Each dish was heaped over with rosy strawberries. The first round was gobbled up, and there were cries for more. Queeg suddenly came into the wardroom, in his bathrobe. The talk and laughter stopped, and in silence the officers stood one by one. “Don’t get up, don’t get up,” the captain said amiably. “Who am I to thank for the strawberries? Whittaker just brought me a dish.”

Maryk said, “Jorgensen got them from the
Bridge
, sir.”

“Well done, Jorgensen, very well done. How much have we got?”

“A gallon, sir.”

“A whole gallon? Fine. I’d like to see some more of this enterprise around here. Tell Whittaker I want another dish, with plenty of strawberries.”

The captain sent down again and again for helpings, the last time at eleven o’clock, when all the officers were sitting around in rare good-fellowship, exchanging sex reminiscences as they smoked and drank coffee. Willie went to bed that night happier than he had been for a long time.

Shake, shake, shake ... “What now?” he murmured, opening his eyes in the darkness. Jorgensen stood over him. “I’ve got no watch-”

“Meeting of all the officers in the wardroom, right away.” Jorgensen reached up and poked at the other bunk. “Come on, Duce, wake up.”

Willie said, peering at his watch, “Jesus Christ, it’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s the meeting about?”

“Strawberries,” said Jorgensen. “Get Duce up, will you? I’ve got to rouse the others.”

In the wardroom the officers sat around the table in various stages of undress, hair mussed, faces creased with sleepiness. Queeg was at the head of the table, slouched in his purple robe, glowering straight ahead at nothing, his whole body nodding rhythmically as he rolled the steel balls in one hand. He made no sign of recognition when Willie tiptoed in, buttoning his shirt, and dropped into a chair. In the long silent pause that followed Ducely entered, then Jorgensen, followed by Harding, who wore the DOD’s gunbelt.

“All present now, sir,” said Jorgensen, in the quiet unctuous tone of an undertaker. Queeg made no response. Roll, roll, went the balls. Minutes of dead silence passed. The door opened, and Whittaker, the chief officer’s steward, came in, carrying a tin can. When he set it on the table Willie saw that it brimmed with sand. The Negro’s eyes were rounded in fright; perspiration rolled down his long, narrow cheeks, and his tongue flickered across his lips.

“You’re sure that’s a gallon can, now,” spoke Queeg.

“Yes, suh. Lard can, suh. Got it offen Ochiltree, suh, in de galley-”

“Very well. Pencil and paper, please,” said the captain to nobody. Jorgensen sprang up and offered Queeg his pen and pocket notebook. “Mr. Maryk, how many helpings of ice cream did you have this evening?”

“Two, sir.”

“Mr. Keefer?”

“Three, Captain.”

Queeg polled all the officers, noting down their answers. “Now, Whittaker, did your men have any strawberries?”

“Yes, suh. One helpin’ each, suh. Mr. Jorgensen, he said okay, suh.”

“I did, sir,” said Jorgensen.

“Just one helping each. You’re sure, now,” said Queeg, squinting at the Negro. “This is an official investigation, Whittaker. The penalty for lying is a dishonorable discharge, and maybe years in the brig.”

“Hope to die, suh. I served ’em myself, Cap’n, and lock away de rest. One helpin’, suh, I swear-”

“Very well. That’s three more. And I had four.” The captain murmured to himself, adding the total. “Whittaker, bring a soup tureen, here, and the spoon with which you ladled out the strawberries.”

“Aye aye, sub.” The Negro went into the pantry and returned in a moment with the implements.

“Now-dole into that tureen an amount of sand equal to the amount of strawberries you put on one dish of ice cream.”

Whittaker stared at the can of sand, and spoon, and tureen, as though they were elements of a bomb which, brought together, might blow him up. “Suh, I dunno exactly-”

“Be as generous as you please.”

Reluctantly the Negro dumped a high-heaped spoonful of sand from the can into the tureen. “Pass the tureen around the table. Inspect it, gentlemen. ... Now then. Do you gentlemen agree that that is approximately the amount of strawberries you had on each dish of ice cream? Very well. Whittaker, do that again, twenty-four times.” Sand diminished in the can and piled in the tureen. Willie tried to rub the blinking sleepiness out of his eyes. “Kay. Now, for good measure, do it three more times. ... Kay. Mr. Maryk, take that gallon can and tell me how much sand is left.”

Maryk looked into the can and said, “Maybe a quart, or a little less, sir.”

“Kay.” The captain deliberately lit a cigarette. “Gentlemen, ten minutes before I called this meeting, I sent down for some ice cream and strawberries. Whittaker brought me the ice cream and said ‘They ain’t no mo’ strawberries,’ Has any of you gentlemen an explanation of the missing quart of strawberries?” The officers glanced covertly at each other; none spoke. “Kay.” The captain rose. “
I
have a pretty good idea of what happened to them. However, you gentlemen are supposed to keep order on this ship and prevent such crimes as robbing of wardroom stores. You are all appointed a board of investigation as of now, with Maryk as chairman, to find out what happened to the strawberries.”

“You mean in the morning, sir?” said Maryk.

“I said now, Mr. Maryk. Now, according to my watch, is not the morning, but forty-seven minutes past three. If you get no results by eight o’clock this morning I shall solve the mystery myself-noting duly for future fitness reports the failure of the board to carry out its assignment.”

When the captain was gone Maryk began a weary cross-examination of Whittaker. After a while he sent for the other steward’s mates. The three Negro boys stood side by side, respectfully answering questions shot at them by different officers. The story, painfully extracted from them, was that the container, when locked away for the night at eleven-thirty-they didn’t remember who had placed it in the icebox-had contained some strawberries-they didn’t know how many. Whittaker had been called by the OOD at three in the morning to bring the captain another sundae, and had found the container empty except for a scraping of red juice at the bottom. The officers badgered the Negroes until dawn without upsetting this account. Maryk wearily dismissed the stewards at last.

“It’s a dead end,” said the exec. “Maybe they ate the stuff up. We’ll never know.”

“I wouldn’t blame them if they did. There wasn’t enough for another meal,” said Harding.

“Thou shalt not muzzle thy mess boy,” yawned Willie, “when he treadeth out the strawberries.”

“Steve and I have no worries about fitness reports,” said Keefer, laying his head on his arms. “Just you small fry. Either one of us could be Queeg’s relief. We’re outstanding officers, no matter what. I could call him a dirty name to his face-I practically have. I still drew a 4.0 on the last report.”

Ducely, his head slumped on his chest, emitted a blubbering snore. With a disgusted glance at him Maryk said, “Tom, suppose you bat out a report before you turn in, and I’ll adjourn the meeting now.”

“It will be on your desk,” murmured the novelist, “in about a hundred twenty seconds.” He staggered to his room, and the typewriter began clacking.

The wardroom telephone buzzer rang promptly at eight o’clock; it was Queeg, summoning the executive officer to his room. Maryk unhappily put down a forkful of griddlecake, drank off his coffee, and left the breakfast table. He was cheered on his way by these remarks:

“Operation Strawberries, phase two.”

“Stand by to make smoke.”

“How are your saddle sores, Steve?”

“If things get tough, throw over a dye marker.”

“Who’s your next of kin?”

Queeg was at his desk, dressed in fresh clothes, his puffy face shaved and powdered. This struck Maryk as ominous. He handed the captain the investigation report, headed:
Strawberries, disappearance of-Report of board of investigation
. Queeg, rolling the balls, read the two typewritten sheets carefully. He shoved them away with the back of his hand. “Unsatisfactory.”

“Sorry, Captain. The boys may be lying, but it’s a dead end. The story hangs together-”

“Did your board investigate the possibility that they might be telling the truth?”

Maryk scratched his head, and shuffled his feet, and said, “Sir, that would mean someone broke into the wardroom icebox. For one thing, Whittaker made no claim that the padlock had been tampered with-”

“Did it occur to you that someone on the ship might have a duplicate key to the icebox?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, why didn’t it?”

Maryk stammered, “Why-well, the thing is, sir, I bought that lock myself. There were only two keys. I have one, Whittaker has the other-”

“How about the possibility that someone once stole Whittaker’s key, when he was asleep, and made himself a duplicate-did you look into that?”

“Sir, I-Whittaker would have to be an exceptionally heavy sleeper for that, and I don’t think-”

“You don’t
think
, hey? Do you know that he’s not an exceptionally heavy sleeper? Did you ask him?”

“No, sir-”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

The executive officer looked out of the small porthole. He could see in a nearby anchor berth the bow of the light cruiser
Kalamazoo
, which had been hit by a suicide plane at Leyte. The bow was buckled and twisted to one side so that Maryk was looking at jagged blackened deck plates, from which a torn ventilator dangled crazily. “Sir, I guess there are an infinite number of remote possibilities, but there wasn’t time to go into all of them last night-”

“There wasn’t, hey? Did you sit in continuous session until just now?”

“I believe the report states that I adjourned the meeting at ten minutes past five, sir.”

“Well, you might have found out a hell of a lot in the three hours you spent in your sacks. And since nobody appears to have dreamed of any adequate solution, I shall take over the investigation, as I said I would. If I solve the mystery, and I’m pretty sure I will, the board will have to suffer the penalty for making the commanding officer do its work for them. ... Send Whittaker up to me.”

The steward’s mates followed each other into the captain’s cabin all morning, at intervals of about an hour. Willie, who had the deck, kept the mournful procession moving. At ten o’clock he was distracted from the strawberry crisis by the arrival of the two new ensigns, Farrington and Voles, in a landing craft from the beach. The OOD inspected the uneasy recruits as they stood on the quarterdeck, waiting for the sailors to pass up their gear from the boat, and decided he liked Farrington and didn’t like Voles. The latter was round-shouldered, and had a greenish complexion and a high voice. He seemed several years older than Farrington, who looked like an ensign in a cigarette advertisement, ruddy, handsome, and blue-eyed. The muss and fatigue of travel, and a certain mischievous humor with which he looked around at the dirty old ship, relieved his good looks. Willie liked him for his soiled gray shirt and his impish smile. Voles’s shirt was stiffly starched. “Wait here, gentlemen,” he said. He went forward and knocked at the captain’s door.