The Caine Mutiny (51 page)

“Captain, we’re broaching to,” said Maryk, his voice lacking firmness for the first time. “Try backing the starboard engine, sir.” The captain seemed not to hear. “Sir, sir,
back the starboard engine
.”

Queeg, clinging to the telegraph with his knees and arms, threw him a frightened glance, his skin greenish, and obediently slid the handle backward. The laboring ship shuddered fearfully; it continued to drift sidewise before the wind, rising and falling on each swell a distance equal to the height of a tall building. “What’s your head?” The captain’s voice was a muffled croak.

“Steady on 117, sir-”

“Think she’ll grab, Steve?” murmured Willie.

“I hope so.”

“Oh holy Mother of Christ, make this ship come around!” spoke a queer wailing voice. The tone made Willie shiver. Urban, the little signalman, had dropped to his knees and was hugging the binnacle, his eyes closed, his head thrown back.

“Shut up, Urban,” Maryk said sharply. “Get on your feet-”

Stilwell exclaimed, “Sir, heading
120
! Coming right, sir!”

“Good,” said Maryk. “Ease your rudder to standard.”

Without so much as a glance at the captain, Stilwell obeyed. Willie noticed the omission, for all that he was terror-stricken; and he noticed, too, that Queeg, frozen to the telegraph stand, seemed oblivious.

“Rudder is eased to standard, sir-heading 124, sir-” The
Caine
stood erect slowly and wabbled a little to port before heeling deep to starboard again.

“We’re okay,” said Maryk. Urban got off his knees and looked around sheepishly.

“Heading 128-129-130-”

“Willie,” said the exec, “take a look in the radar shack. See if you can tell where the hell we are in the formation.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Willie staggered out past the captain to the open wing. The wind immediately smashed him against the bridgehouse, and spray pelted him like small wet stones. He was astounded and peculiarly exhilarated to realize that in the last fifteen minutes the wind had actually become much stronger than before, and would blow him over the side if he exposed himself in a clear space. He laughed aloud, his voice thin against the guttural “Whooeeee!” of the storm. He inched himself to the door of the radar shack, freed the dogs, and tried to pull the door open, but the wind held it tightly shut. He pounded on the wet steel with his knuckles, and kicked at it, and screamed, “Open up! Open up! It’s the OOD!” A crack appeared and widened. He darted through, knocking down one of the radarmen who was pushing against the door. It snapped shut as though on a spring.

“What the hell!” exclaimed Willie.

There were perhaps twenty sailors jammed in the tiny space, all in life jackets with waterproof searchlights pinned to them, all with whistles dangling around their necks, all with the same round-eyed bristly white face of fear. “How are we doing, Mr. Keith?” spoke the voice of Meatball from the rear of the crush.

“We’re doing fine-”

“We gonna have to abandon ship, sir?” said a filthy-faced fireman.

Willie suddenly realized what was so very strange about the shack beside the crowd. It was brightly lit. Nobody was paying any attention to the dim green slopes of the radars. He let loose a stream of obscenity that surprised him as it came out of his mouth. The sailors shrank a little from him. “Who turned on the lights in here? Who’s got the watch?”

“Sir, there’s nothing on the scopes but sea return,” whined a radarman.

Willie cursed some more, and then said, “Douse the lights. Get your faces against these scopes and keep them there.”

“Okay, Mr. Keith,” said the radarman, in a friendly, respectful tone, “but it won’t do no good.” In the gloom Willie quickly saw that the sailor was right. There was no trace of the pips of the other ships, nothing but a blurry peppering and streaking of green all over the scopes. “You see, sir,” said the voice of the technician, patiently, “our masthead ain’t no higher than the water most of the time, and, anyway, all this spray, why, it’s like a solid object, sir. These scopes are jammed out-”

“All the same,” said Willie, “the watch will be maintained on these radars, and you’ll keep trying till you do get something! And all the guys who don’t belong in here-well-well, stay here, and keep your faces closed so the watch-standers can do their duty-”

“Sir, are we really okay?”

“Will we have to abandon ship?”

“I was ready to jump on that last roll-”

“Will the ship come through it, Mr. Keith?”

“We’re okay,” shouted Willie. “We’re okay. Don’t lose your heads. You’ll be back chipping paint in a few hours-”

“I’ll chip this rusty old bitch till doomsday if she just rides out this blow,” said a voice, and there was a ripple of small laughs.

“I’m staying up here if I get a court-martial for it-”

“Me, too-”

“Hell, there are forty guys over on the lee of the bridge-”

“Mister Keith”-the gutter twang of Meatball again-“honest, does the old man know what the Christ he’s doing? That’s all we want to know.”

“The old man’s doing great. You bastards shut up and take it easy. Couple of you help me get this door open.”

Wind and spray blasted in through the open crack. Willie pulled himself out and the door clanged. The wind blew him forward into the pilothouse. In the second that elapsed he was drenched as by buckets of water. “Radars are jammed, Steve. Nothing to see until this spray moderates-”

“Very well.”

Despite the whining and crashing of the storm, Willie got the impression of silence in the wheelhouse. Queeg hung to the telegraph as before. Stilwell swayed at the wheel. Urban, wedged between the binnacle and the front window, clutched the quartermaster’s log as though it were a Bible. Usually there were other sailors in the wheelhouse-telephone talkers, signalmen-but they were avoiding it now as though it were the sickroom of a cancer victim. Maryk stood with both hands clamped to the captain’s chair. Willie staggered to the starboard side and glanced out at the wing. A crowd of sailors and officers pressed against the bridgehouse, hanging to each other, their clothes whipping in the wind. Willie saw Keefer, Jorgensen, and nearest him, Harding.

“Willie, are we going to be okay?” Harding said.

The OOD nodded, and fell back into the wheelhouse. He was vexed at not having a flashlight and whistle, like everyone else. “Just my luck to be on watch,” he thought. He did not really believe yet that the ship was going to founder, but he resented being at a disadvantage. His own man-overboard gear was in his desk below. He thought of sending the boatswain’s mate for it; and was ashamed to issue the order.

The
Caine
yawed shakily back and forth on heading 180 for a couple of minutes. Then suddenly it was flung almost on its beam-ends to port by a swell, a wave and a gust of wind hitting together. Willie reeled, brought up against Stilwell, and grabbed at the wheel spokes.

“Captain,” Maryk said, “I still think we ought to ballast-at least the stern tanks, if we’re going to steam before the wind.”

Willie glanced at Queeg. The captain’s face was screwed up as though he were looking at a bright light. He gave no sign of having heard. “I request permission to ballast stern tanks, sir,” said the exec.

Queeg’s lips moved. “Negative,” he said calmly and faintly.

Stilwell twisted the wheel sharply, pulling the spokes out of Willie’s hands. The OOD grasped an overhead beam.

“Falling off to
starboard
now. Heading 189-190-191”

Maryk said, “Captain-hard left rudder?”

“Okay,” murmured Queeg.

“Hard left rudder, sir,” said Stilwell. “Heading 200-”

The exec stared at the captain for several seconds while the minesweeper careened heavily to port and began its nauseating sideslipping over the swells, the wind flipping it around now in the other direction. “Captain, we’ll have to use engines again, she’s not answering to the rudder. ... Sir, how about heading up into the wind? She’s going to keep broaching to with this stern wind-”

Queeg pushed the handles of the telegraph. “Fleet course is 180,” he said.

“Sir, we have to maneuver for the safety of the ship-”

“Sunshine knows the weather conditions. We’ve received no orders to maneuver at discretion-” Queeg looked straight ahead, constantly clutching the telegraph amid the gyrations of the wheelhouse.

“Heading 225-falling away fast, sir-”

An unbelievably big gray wave loomed on the port side, high over the bridge. It came smashing down. Water spouted into the wheelhouse from the open wing, flooding to Willie’s knees. The water felt surprisingly warm and sticky, like blood. “Sir, we’re shipping water on the goddamn
bridge
!” said Maryk shrilly. “We’ve
got
to come around into the wind!”

“Heading 245, sir.” Stilwell’s voice was sobbing. “She ain’t answering to the engines at all, sir!”

The
Caine
rolled almost completely over on its port side. Everybody in the wheelhouse except Stilwell went sliding across the streaming deck and piled up against the windows. The sea was under their noses, dashing up against the glass. “Mr. Maryk, the light on this gyro just went out!” screamed Stilwell, clinging desperately to the wheel. The wind howled and shrieked in Willie’s ears. He lay on his face on the deck, tumbling around in salt water, flailing for a grip at something solid.

“Oh Christ, Christ, Christ, Jesus Christ, save us!” squealed the voice of Urban.

“Reverse your rudder, Stilwell! Hard right! Hard right!” cried the exec harshly.

“Hard right, sir!”

Maryk crawled across the deck, threw himself on the engine-room telegraph, wrested the handles from Queeg’s spasmodic grip, and reversed the settings. “Excuse me, Captain-” A horrible coughing rumble came from the stacks. “What’s your head?” barked Maryk.

“Two seven five, sir!”

“Hold her at hard right!”

“Aye aye, sir!”

The old minesweeper rolled up a little from the surface of the water.

Willie Keith did not have any idea what the executive officer was doing, though the maneuver was simple enough. The wind was turning the ship from south to west. Queeg had been trying to fight back to south. Maryk was doing just the opposite, now; seizing on the momentum of the twist to the right and assisting it with all the force of engines and rudder, to try to swing the ship’s head completely northward, into the wind and sea. In a calmer moment Willie would easily have understood the logic of the act, but now he had lost his bearings. He sat on the deck, hanging stupidly to a telephone jackbox, with water sloshing around his crotch, and looked to the exec as to a wizard, or an angel of God, to save him with magic passes. He had lost faith in the ship. He was overwhelmingly aware that he sat on a piece of iron in an angry dangerous sea. He could think of nothing but his yearning to be saved. Typhoon,
Caine
, Queeg, sea, Navy, duty, lieutenant’s bars, all were forgotten. He was like a wet cat mewing on wreckage.

“Still coming around? What’s your head?
Keep calling your head
!” yelled Maryk.

“Coming around hard, sir!” the helmsman screamed as though prodded with a knife. “Heading 310, heading. 315, heading 320-”

“Ease your rudder to standard!”

“
Ease
the rudder, sir?”

“Yes, ease her, ease her!”

“Ru-rudder is eased, sir-”

“Very well.”

Ease, ease, ease-the word penetrated Willie’s numb fogged mind. He pulled himself to his feet, and looked around. The
Caine
was riding upright. It rolled to one side, to the other„ and back again. Outside the windows there was nothing but solid white spray. The sea was invisible. The forecastle was invisible. “You okay, Willie? I thought you were knocked cold.” Maryk, braced on the captain’s chair, gave him a brief side glance.

“I’m okay. Wha-what’s happening, Steve?”

“Well, this is it. We ride it out for a half hour, we’re okay-What’s your head?” he called to Stilwell.

“Three two five, sir-coming around slower, now-”

“Well, sure, fighting the wind-she’ll come around-we’ll steady on 000-”

“Aye aye, sir-”

“We will not,” said Queeg.

Willie had lost all awareness of the captain’s presence. Maryk had filled his mind as father, leader, and savior. He looked now at the little pale man who stood with arms and legs entwined around the telegraph stand, and had the feeling that Queeg was a stranger. The captain, blinking and shaking his head as though he had just awakened, said, “Come left to 180.”

“Sir, we can’t ride stern to wind and save this ship,” said the exec.

“Left to 180, helmsman.”

“Hold it, Stilwell,” said Maryk.

“Mr. Maryk, fleet course is 180.” The captain’s voice was faint, almost whispering. He was looking glassily ahead. “Captain, we’ve lost contact with the formation-the radars are blacked out-”