The Caine Mutiny (50 page)

With its head to the wind the
Caine
rode better. The fear that had enveloped the officers and crew started to thin. Jugs of fresh coffee were brought up to the bridge from the galley, and soon spirits rose to the degree that profane jokes were heard again among the sailors. The up-and-down pitching of the ship was still swift and steep enough to cause a queerness in the stomach, but the
Caine
had done a great deal of pitching in its time, and the motion was not scary like long rolls which hung the bridge over open water. The unusual crowd on the bridge diminished; the remaining sailors began to reminisce about the scare in relieved tones.

This burst of optimism discounted the wind, which sang its eerie lament as loud as ever, and the flying scud, which was still thick, and the barometer, which had fallen to 29.19. The men on the old minesweeper were used to the idea, now, that they were in a typhoon. They wanted to believe that they would come through safely; and because there was no immediate crisis, and because they wanted so much to believe, they believed. They did not tire of repeating remarks like “This is a lucky ship,” and “You can’t sink this old rusty son of a bitch.”

Willie’s feelings were very much those of the crowd. With the coffee warm in his stomach he began to sense the exhilaration of being in a tight spot, and unafraid. He recovered enough presence of mind to apply some of his lore from the
American Practical Navigator
to the storm, and calculated that the center was about a hundred miles due east, approaching at twenty miles an hour. He even looked forward with some pleasure to the possibility that the calm eye of the storm might pass over the
Caine
; he wondered whether a ring of blue sky would be visible in the black heavens.

“I hear you’re going to relieve me instead of Paynt.” Harding had come up to him unobserved as he faced the wind and made calculations.

“Sure. Shall I take over now?”

“Like that?”

Willie looked down at himself, naked except for sopping trousers, and grinned. “Slightly out of uniform, hey?”

“I don’t know that the situation calls for dress blues with sword,” said Harding, “but you might be more comfortable with clothes on.”

“Be right back.” Willie went down and slipped through the hatchway scuttle, noticing that the sailors were gone from the main deck passageways. He found Whittaker and the steward’s mates in the wardroom, all in life jackets, laying a white tablecloth, straightening out the chairs, and picking tumbled magazines off the deck. Whittaker said to him mournfully, “Suh, I dunno how we gonna have breakfast less’n I get some tin trays offen general mess. We ain’t got enough crockery left but for maybe two officers, suh”

“Hell, Whittaker, I think you can forget about breakfast down here. Check with Mr. Maryk. I think sandwiches and coffee topside is all anybody expects.”

“Thank you, suh!” The faces of the colored boys brightened. Whittaker said, “You, Rasselas, belay settin’ dat table. You go ask the man like Mr. Keith says-”

It amused Willie to consider, as he struggled to dress in his galloping room, that the issue of the morning had dwindled so quickly from life-or-death to a question of the wardroom’s breakfast. He was cheered by the steward’s mates’ solemn persistence in routine, and by the quiet yellow-lit sameness of his room. Down here he was Willie Keith, the old immortal, indestructible Willie, who wrote letters to May Wynn and decoded messages and audited laundry statements. The typhoon topside was a sort of movie adventure, exciting and mock-dangerous, and full of interest and instruction, if only he could remember to keep his head. He thought someday he might write a short story about a typhoon, and use the touch of the steward’s mates worrying about breakfast. He went back to the bridge, dry and buoyant, and relieved the deck. He stood in the pilothouse, safe from the flying spray, his elbow hooked around the captain’s chair, and grinned into the teeth of the typhoon, which wailed louder than ever, “OOOO! EEEEE!”

The barometer stood at 29.05.

CHAPTER 30

The Mutiny

A steamship, not being a slave to the wind like a sailing vessel, is superior to ordinary difficulties of storms. A warship is a special kind of steamship, built not for capaciousness and economy, but for power. Even the minesweeper
Caine
could oppose to the gale a force of some thirty thousand horsepower; energy enough to move a weight of half a million tons one foot in one minute. The ship itself weighed little more than a thousand tons. It was a gray old bantam bursting with strength for emergencies.

But surprising things happen when nature puts on a freak show like a typhoon, with wind gusts up to a hundred and fifty miles per hour or more. The rudder, for instance, can become useless. It works by dragging against the water through which it is passing; but if the wind is behind the ship, and blows hard enough, the water may start piling along as fast as the rudder so that there is no drag at all. Then the ship will yaw or even broach to. Or the sea may push one way on the hull, and the wind another, and the rudder a third, so that the resultant of the forces is very erratic response of the ship to the helm, varying from minute to minute, or from second to second.

It is also theoretically possible that while the captain may want to turn his ship in one direction, the wind will be pushing so hard in the other direction that the full force of the engines will not suffice to bring the ship’s head around. In that case the vessel will wallow, broadside to, in very bad shape indeed. But it is unlikely. A modern warship, functioning properly and handled with wisdom, can probably ride out any typhoon.

The storm’s best recourse in the contest for the ship’s life is old-fashioned bogeyman terror. It makes ghastly noises and horrible faces and shakes up the captain to distract him from doing the sensible thing in tight moments. If the wind can toss the ship sideways long enough it can probably damage the engines or kill them-and then it wins. Because above all the ship must be kept steaming under control. It suffers under one disadvantage as a drifting hulk, compared to the old wooden sailing ship: iron doesn’t float. A destroyer deprived of its engines in a typhoon is almost certain to capsize, or else fill up and sink.

When things get really bad, the books say, the best idea is to turn the ship’s head into the wind and sea and ride out the blow that way. But even on this the authorities are not all agreed. None of the authorities have experienced the worst of enough typhoons to make airtight generalizations. None of the authorities, moreover, are anxious to acquire the experience.

The TBS message was so muffled by static and the noise of wind and waves that Willie had to put his ear to the loudspeaker:
Chain Gang from Sunshine. Discontinue fueling. Execute to follow. New fleet course 180. Small Boys reorientate screen.

“What? What was it?” said Queeg at Willie’s elbow.

“Discontinuing fueling, sir, and turning south. Execute to follow.”

“Getting the hell out, hey? About time.”

Maryk, squat and enormous in his life jacket, said, “I don’t know how she’ll ride, sir, with her stern to the wind. Quartering seas always murder us-”

“Any course that takes us out of here is the right course,” said Queeg. He peered out at the ragged waves, rearing and tossing everywhere as high as the ship’s mast. The flying spray was like a cloudburst. A few hundred yards beyond the ship the gray mountains of water faded into a white misty wall. The spray was beginning to rattle against the windows, sounding more like hail than water. “Kay, Willie. Call Paynter and. tell him to stand by his engines for some fast action. Steve, I’m going to conn from the radar shack. You stay here.”

The TBS ‘scratched and whined. The voice came through gurgling, as though the loudspeaker were under water: “
Small Boys from Sunshine. Execute reorientation. Make best speed
.”

“Kay. All engines ahead full. Right standard rudder. Steady on 180,” said Queeg, and ran out of the wheelhouse. The
Caine
went plunging downhill into a foaming trough. Stilwell spun the helm, saying, “Christ, this wheel feels loose.”

“Rudder’s probably clear out of the water,” Maryk said. The nose of the ship cut into the sea and came up slowly, shedding thick solid streams. The wheelhouse trembled.

“Rudder is right standard, sir,” said Stilwell. “Jesus, she’s getting shoved around fast. Heading 010, sir-020-” Like a kite taking the wind, the minesweeper heeled, and swept sharply to the right. Fear tingled in Willie’s arms and legs as he was swung against the wet windows. “Heading 035, sir-040-”

Hanging increasingly to starboard, the
Caine
was rising and falling on the waves, blown sidewise, riding more like flotsam again than a ship under control. Spray blew across the forecastle in clouds. Instinctively Willie looked to Maryk, and was deeply relieved to see the exec hanging with both arms to an overhead beam, his back planted against the bulkhead, calmly watching the swift veer of the forecastle across the water.

“Say, Willie!” The captain’s voice was angry and shrill through the speaking tube. “Get your goddamn radio technician up here, will you? I can’t see anything on this goddamn radar.”

Willie roared, “Aye aye, sir,” into the speaking tube and passed a call for the technician over the p.a. He was beginning to feel nauseous from the dizzy sidewise slipping of the
Caine
and the queerrise and fall of the slanted deck.

“Mr. Maryk,” the helmsman said in a changed tone, “she’s stopped coming around-”

“What’s your head?”

“Zero nine three.”

“We’re broadside to. Wind’s got her. She’ll come slow.”

“Still 093, sir,” said Stilwell, after a minute of bad wallowing-heavy slow rolls upright and swift sickening drops to starboard. It was hard to tell whether the
Caine
was moving through the water at all, or simply being flung sidewise and forward. The sense of motion came entirely from the sea and the wind; yet the engines were making twenty knots.

“Bring your rudder hard right,” said Maryk.

“Hard right, sir- Christ, sir, this goddamn wheel
feels like the wheel ropes are broken
! Just sloppy-” The hair of Willie’s head prickled to see the looks of fright on the sailors. He felt the same expression forming on his own face.

“Shut your yap, Stilwell, the wheel ropes are okay,” said Maryk. “Don’t be such a baby. Haven’t you ever had the wheel in a sea before-”

“Now God damn it, Steve,” came the squeak of Queeg, “what the hell’s going on out there? Why aren’t we coming around?”

Maryk yelled into the speaking tube, “Wind and sea taking charge, sir. I’ve got the rudder at hard right-”

“Well, use the engines.
Get
her around. Christ on a crutch, do I have to do everything here?
Where’s
that technician? There’s nothing but grass on this radar-”

Maryk began to manipulate the engines. A combination of standard speed on the port screw and slow backing on the starboard started swinging the ship’s head slowly to the south. “Steady on 180, sir,” Stilwell said at last, turning his face to Maryk, his eyes glinting with relief.

The ship was tossing and heeling from side to side. But there was no alarm in the steepest rolls any more, so long as they were even dips both ways. Willie was getting used to the sight of the three rusty stacks lying apparently parallel to the sea, so that between them he saw nothing but foaming water. The whipping of the stacks back and forth like gigantic windshield wipers was no longer a frightening but a pleasant thing. It was the slow, slow dangling rolls to one side that he dreaded.

Queeg came in, mopping at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Damn spray stings. Well, you finally got her around, hey? Guess we’re okay now.”

“Are we on station, sir?”

“Well, pretty near, I guess.
I
can’t tell. Technician says the spray is giving us this sea return that’s fogging up the scope. I guess if we’re too far out of line Sunshine will give us a growl-”

“Sir, I think maybe we ought to ballast,” said the exec. “We’re pretty light, sir. Thirty-five per cent on fuel. One reason we don’t come around good is that we’re riding so high-”

“Well, don’t worry, we’re not capsizing yet.”

“It’ll just give us that much more maneuverability, sir-”

“Yes, and contaminate our tanks with a lot of salt water, so we lose suction every fifteen minutes once we refuel. Sunshine has our fuel report. If he thought there was any danger he’d issue ballasting orders.”

“I also think we ought to set the depth charges on safe, sir.”

“What’s the matter, Steve, are you panicky on account of a little bad weather?”

“I’m not panicky, sir-”

“We’re still supposed to be an anti-submarine vessel, you know. What the hell good are depth charges set on safe if we pick up a sub in the next five minutes?”

Maryk glanced out of the blurred window at the colossal boiling waves. “Sir, we won’t be making any sub runs in this-”

“How do we know?”

“Sir, the
Dietch
in our squadron got caught in a storm in the Aleutians, and got sank by its own depth charges tearing loose. Blew off the stern. Skipper got a general court-”

“Hell’s bells, if your heart is so set on putting the depth charges on safe go ahead. I don’t care. Just be damn sure there’s somebody standing by to arm them if we pick up a sub-”

“Mr. Maryk,” spoke up Stilwell, “the depth charges are on safe, sir.”

“They are!” exclaimed Queeg. “Who says so?”

“I-I set ’em myself, sir.” The sailor’s voice was shaky. He stood with legs spread, clutching the wheel, his eyes on the gyrocompass.

“And who told you to do that?”

“I got standing orders, sir, from Mr. Keefer. When the ship is in danger I set ’em on safe-”

“And who said the ship was in danger, hey?” Queeg swung back and forth, clinging to a window handle, glaring at the helmsman’s back.

“Well, sir, on that big roll around seven o’clock, I-I set ’em. The whole fantail was awash. Had to rig a life line-”

“God damn it, Mr. Maryk, why am I never informed of these things? Here I am, steaming around with a lot of dead depth charges-”

Stilwell said, “Sir, I told Mr. Keefer-”

“You speak when you’re spoken to, you goddamned imbecile, and not otherwise!” shrieked Queeg. “Mr. Keith, place this man on report for insolence and neglect of duty! He told Mr.
Keefer
! I’ll attend to Mr. Keefer! Now Steve, I want you to get another helmsman and keep this stupid idiot’s ugly face out of my sight from now on-”

“Captain, pardon me,” said the exec hurriedly, “the other helmsmen are still shot from last night. Stilwell’s our best man and we need him-”

“
Will you stop this back talk
?” screamed the captain. “Great bloody Christ, is there one officer on this ship who takes orders from me? I said I want-”

Engstrand stumbled into the wallowing wheelhouse and grabbed at Willie to keep from falling. His dungarees ran with water. “Sorry, Mr. Keith. Captain, the barometer-”

“What about the barometer?”

“Twenty-eight ninety-four, sir-twenty-
eight
-”

“Who the hell’s been watching the barometer? Why haven’t I had a report for a half hour?” Queeg ran out on the wing, steadying himself from hand to hand on the windows, the engine-room telegraph, the doorway.

“Mr. Maryk,” the helmsman said hoarsely, “I can’t hold her on 180. She’s falling off to port-”

“Give her more rudder-”

“I got her at emergency right, sir-heading 172, sir-falling off fast-”

“
Why
is the rudder emergency right?” Queeg bellowed, lurching in through the doorway. “Who’s giving rudder orders here? Is everybody on this bridge going crazy?”

“Captain, she’s yawing to port,” said Maryk. “Steersman can’t hold her at 180--”

“One
six
zero, sir, now,” said Stilwell, with a scared look at Maryk. It was the dreaded weather-vane effect, taking charge of the
Caine
. The rudder was not holding, and the ship was skidding sideways at the pleasure of wind and waves. The head was dropping off from south to east.

Queeg grabbed at the helmsman and steadied himself to stare at the compass. He jumped to the telegraph and signaled “Flank Speed” with one handle and “Stop” with the other. The engine-room pointers answered instantly. The deck began to vibrate with the one-sided strain on the engines. “That’ll bring her around,” said the captain. “What’s your head now?”

“Still falling off, sir, 152-148-”

Queeg muttered, “Needs a few seconds to take hold-”

Once again the
Caine
took a sickening cant to starboard and hung there. Waves coming from the port side broke over the ship as though it were a floating log. It wallowed feebly under the tons of water, but did not right itself. It came halfway back to level and sagged further to starboard again. Willie’s face was pushed against the window and he saw water no more than inches from his eyes. He could have counted little bubbles of foam. Stilwell, hanging to the wheel, with his feet sliding out from under him, stammered, “Still falling off, sir-heading 125-”