The Caine Mutiny

by Herman Wouk

  “Harding,” groaned Willie, “do you want dinner?”

  “Huh? Dinner already? No. Sleep is what I want-”

  “We’d better go. It’ll look bad if we don’t.”

  There were three officers at the wardroom table including the captain. The rest were off on shore leave. Willie and Harding took chairs at the lower end of the long white cloth and began eating in silence. The others ignored them and made incomprehensible jokes among themselves about things that had happened at Guadalcanal and New Zealand and Australia. Lieutenant Maryk was the first to glance their way. He was burly, round-faced, and pugnacious-looking, about twenty-five, with a prison haircut. “You guys look kind of red-eyed,” he said.

  Willie said, “We were caulking off for a few minutes in the clip shack.”

  “Nothing like caulking off to start your career right,” the captain said to a pork chop, out of which he took a large bite.

  “Kind of hot in there, isn’t it?” said Adams, the gunnery officer. Lieutenant Adams wore fresh prim khakis. He had the long aristocratic face and negligent superior look which Willie had seen often at Princeton. It meant good family and money.

  “Kind of,” Harding said meekly.

  Maryk turned to the captain. “Sir, that doggone clip shack is over the engine room. These guys’ll fry in there-”

  “Ensigns are expendable,” the captain said.

  “What I mean, sir, I think I could hang a couple of bunks just as easy in Adams’ and Gorton’s room, or even in here over the couch-”

  “The hell with that,” Adams said.

  “Isn’t that a hull modification, Steve?” the captain said, chewing pork. “You’d have to get permission from BuShips.”

  “I can look it up, sir, but I don’t think it is.”

  “Well, when you get around to it. The shipfitters are way behind as it is.” Captain de Vriess glanced at the ensigns. “Do you gentlemen think you can survive a week or two in the clip shack?”

  Willie was tired, and the sarcasm irritated him. “Nobody’s complaining,” he said.

  De Vriess raised his eyebrows and grinned. “That’s the spirit, Mr. Keith.” He turned to Adams. “Have these gentlemen started on their officers’ qualification courses yet?”

  “No, sir-Carmody had them all afternoon, sir-”

  “Well, Mr. Senior Watch Officer, time’s a-wasting. Get them started after dinner.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  The officers’ qualification courses were bulky mimeographed sheafs of coarse paper turning brown around the edges. They were dated 1935. Adams brought them out of his room while the ensigns were still drinking coffee, and handed a course to each of them. “There are twelve assignments,” he said. “Complete the first by 0900 tomorrow and leave it on my desk. Thereafter complete one a day while in port and one every three days while at sea.”

  Willie glanced at the first assignment: Make two sketches of the Caine, port and starboard, showing every compartment and stating the use of each.

  “Where do we get this information, sir?”

  “Didn’t Carmody take you around the ship?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, just write down what he told you, in diagram form.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Willie.

  Adams left the two ensigns to themselves. Harding murmured wearily, “What say? Want to start on it?”

  “Do you remember anything Carmody said?”

  “Just one thing. ‘Climb that mast.’ ”

  “Well, it’s due first thing in the morning,” Willie said. “Let’s have a go at it.”

  They collaborated over a sketch, blinking and yawning, with frequent arguments about details. At the end of an hour their work looked like this:

  Willie sat back and examined it critically. “I think that does it-”

  “Are you crazy, Keith? There are about forty compartments we have to stick in a label-”

  “I don’t remember any of those bloody compartments-”

  “Neither do I. Guess we’ll just have to go around the ship again-”

  “What, for another three hours? Man, I’ll get a heart attack. I’m failing fast. Look, my hands are shaking-”

  “Anyway, Keith, the whole thing’s out of proportion. It looks like some misbegotten tugboat-”

  “It is.”

  “Look, I have an idea. There must be blueprints of this ship somewhere. Why don’t we just get hold of them and- It’s not cricket maybe but-”

  “Say no more! You’re a genius, Harding! That’s it. We’ll do exactly that. First thing in the morning. Me for the Black Hole.”

  “Right with you.”

  Outside the clip shack, under a brilliant yellow floodlight, some civilian yard workers were burning with blowtorches and sawing and banging at the deck, installing a new life-raft rack. Harding said, “How the devil can we sleep with that going on?”

  “I could sleep,” said Willie, “if they were doing all that to me instead of to the deck. Let’s go.” He stepped into the shack and backed out, coughing like a consumptive. “Ye gods!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Go in there and take a breath-a shallow one.”

  The shack was full of stack gas. A shift in the wind was wafting the fumes from number-three stack directly into the little hut, where, having no place to go, they stayed and fermented. Harding took a sniff at the doorway and said, “Keith, it’s suicide to sleep in there-”

  “I don’t care,” Willie said desperately, pulling off his shirt, “I’d just as lief die, all things considered.”

  He crept into his bunk, holding his nose, and Harding followed. For a couple of hours he tossed and thrashed in an eerie doze full of nightmares, wakened every few minutes by a burst of clattering from the workmen. Harding passed into a dead stupor. At midnight the workmen quit, but the sudden quiet and gloom brought no relief; it merely made Willie more conscious of the heat, and of the stinking miasma of the stack gas. He staggered out on deck in his drawers, stumbled down to the wardroom, and passed out on the couch. His body was covered with soot.

  And again-and this was to be his most characteristic experience aboard the Caine, and his longest memory of it-he was being shaken out of his sleep. Lieutenant Adams was standing over him, dressed for a watch with gun belt and pistol, sipping coffee. Willie sat up. Through the porthole he saw black night.

  “Bear a hand, Keith. We’ve got the four-to-eight.”

  Willie went back to the clipping shack, got into his clothes, and dragged himself to the quarterdeck. Adams gave him a gun belt, showed him the leather-bound logs and battered Watch Officers’ Guide which were kept in a rickety tin desk by the gangway, and introduced him to the quartermaster and messenger of the watch, two sleepy sailors in dungarees. The clock on the desk under the shaded yellow electric bulb read five past four. All the ships in the nest were dark and still. “The four-to-eight is a pretty routine watch,” said Adams. “That’s good.” Willie yawned.

  “I don’t know,” said the gunnery officer, “but what I’ll lay below till reveille. Think you can handle it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Fine. There’s nothing to it, really, except making damn sure none of your watch-standers sit down or fall asleep standing up. There are guards on the fo’c’sle and the fantail. Okay?”

  “I got it,” said Willie, saluting. Adams returned the salute and left.

  The messenger, a small seaman first class named Mackenzie, promptly sat down on a crate of cabbages, with a happy sigh. Willie was stupefied by this defiance. “Get up, Mackenzie,” he said uncertainly.

  “Aw, why? I’m here if you need me for a messenger. Hell, sir,” said Mackenzie, with an ingratiating smile, leaning back comfortably, “you don’t have to pay no attention to Lieutenant Adams. He’s the only officer that makes us stand up. Captain de Vriess don’t care.”

  Willie suspected that this was a lie. He glanced at the gangway petty officer, Engstrand, a tall broad-s
houldered first-class signalman, who was leaning against the desk, enjoying the byplay with a toothy grin.

  “If you’re not on your feet in two seconds,” said Willie, “you’re on report.”

  Mackenzie got up at once, muttering, “Christ, another one of these lousy fireballs.”

  Willie was too embarrassed to object further. “I’m going to inspect the guards,” he said.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Engstrand.

  On the forecastle, where a pleasant breeze blew and the night was blazing with stars, Willie found the guard curled up against the anchor windlass, his gun across his knees, fast asleep. This really shocked him. He had learned at Furnald Hall that the penalty for sleeping on watch in wartime was the firing squad. “Hey you,” he yelled, “wake up.” The guard was oblivious. Willie poked him with a toe, then shook him fiercely. The guard yawned and stood, shouldering his rifle. “Do you know,” barked Willie, “what the penalty is for sleeping on watch?”

  “Who was sleeping?” said the guard, with sincere outrage. “I was sending Morse code mentally.”

  Willie wanted to put this felon on report, but he hated to be responsible for his court-martial. “Well, whatever you were doing, stay on your feet and don’t do it again.”

  “I was on my feet,” said the guard angrily. “Just crouching to keep warm.”

  Willie left in disgust to inspect the guard at the stern. He passed the quarterdeck and found Mackenzie supine on a pile of life jackets. “Hell’s fire,” he shouted. “Get up, Mackenzie! Engstrand, can’t you keep this man standing up?”

  “Sir, I’m sick,” moaned Mackenzie, sitting up. “I had a rough liberty.”

  “He is in bad shape, sir,” said Engstrand, with a slight smile.

  “Well, get someone else to stand the watch, then.”

  “Hell, sir, the whole crew is in terrible shape,” replied Engstrand.

  “Get up, Mackenzie!” roared Willie. Mackenzie pulled himself up on his feet, with ghastly moans.

  “Okay, stay that way.” Willie strode aft. The guard on the fantail was asleep on the deck, curled in a ball like a dog. “Jesus, what a ship,” Willie muttered, and gave the guard a tremendous kick in the ribs. The guard jumped up, seized his rifle, and came to attention. Then he peered at Willie incredulously.

  “Holy cats,” he muttered, “I thought sure you was Mr. Maryk.”

  “I’m Mr. Keith,” said Willie, “and what’s your name?”

  “Fuller.”

  “Well, Fuller, if I ever find you off your feet again on watch you get a general court-martial, do you hear?”

  “Sure,” said Fuller affably. “Say, are you from the Academy like Mr. Carmody?”

  “No.” Willie returned to the quarterdeck. Mackenzie was asleep on the life jackets again, and Engstrand was sitting on a hatch, smoking a cigar. He rose hastily when he saw Willie.

  “Sorry, sir. Just taking a blow.”

  “Oh, God,” exclaimed Willie. He was exhausted, enraged, and sick at the stomach. “And you a first-class petty officer. Three cheers for the good ship Caine. Look, Engstrand, you can sit, lie, or drop dead, for all I care, but keep this horizontal bastard on his feet for the rest of the watch, or I swear I’ll put you on report.”

  “Get up, Mackenzie, » said Engstrand, in a dry crisp tone. The sailor sprang off the life jackets, walked to the rail, and leaned against it, staring sullenly. Willie went to the desk and opened the Watch Officers’ Guide with trembling hands, waiting for Mackenzie’s next move. But the sailor stood in the same place for ten minutes, and seemed to find no difficulty at all in standing. At last he spoke up.

  “All right with you, Mr. Keith,” he said, with no rancor, “if I smoke?” Willie nodded. The sailor offered him a pack of Luckies. “Use ’em yourself?”

  “Thanks.”

  Mackenzie lit Willie’s cigarette, and then, to seal the good-fellowship thus established, he began to tell the new ensign about his sex career in New Zealand. Willie had heard some pretty frank talk late at night in college bedrooms, but Mackenzie’s explicitness was something new. Willie was first amused, then disgusted, then fiercely bored, but there seemed no way to turn off the sailor’s cloacal drone. The sky paled, and a dull streak of red appeared on the horizon. Willie was profoundly grateful when Lieutenant Adams came out of the wardroom hatchway, rubbing his eyes. “How’s it going, Keith? Any strain?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let’s inspect the lines.”

  He walked around the ship with Willie, kicking the manila ropes that tied the Caine to the next destroyers. “This number-three line needs chafing gear, the chock is rubbing. Tell Engstrand.”

  “Yes, sir- Mr. Adams, frankly I had a hell of a time keeping the guards and the messenger from flaking out.”

  Adams grinned wryly, then his face became long and stern. “That’s damned serious.”

  “They didn’t seem to think so.”

  Adams pursed his lips, and stopped to light a cigarette, leaning against the life lines. “Tell you what, Keith. You’ve got something to contend with. This ship has been in the forward area since March ’42. It’s been through a lot of action. The men are all Asiatic. They probably think a fantail watch in Pearl Harbor is foolishness. The trouble is, the skipper thinks so, too. It’s the port director’s orders, so we post the guards. You’ve just got to bear down.”

  “What actions were you in, sir?”

  “Hell, about everything. Marshalls raid, Coral Sea-first Savo, second Savo-Rendova, Munda-”

  “What were you doing-minesweeping?”

  “Who ever heard of a minesweeper minesweeping? Mostly we ran av-gas for the marine fliers at Henderson Field. Ran torpedoes up from New Zealand. That was a happy deal, live torpedoes lashed all over the deck and getting strafed. Ran dogfaces up to relieve the marines on Guadal. Ran convoys all over the ocean. Supply scow, troop transport, screen, mail carrier, or what dirty job have you? That’s the Caine. So if she’s a little run down, you know why.”

  “A little run down is putting it politely,” said Willie.

  Adams straightened up, glared at him, threw his cigarette into the water, and walked aft. Over the loudspeaker came the chirp of the boatswain’s pipe, then the words, “Reveille for all hands. Reveille.” Adams snapped over his shoulder, “Check reveille in the after crew’s quarter, Keith. Make sure they’re all out of their sacks.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Willie decided that he had better guard his mouth. Adams and the other officers had been aboard the Caine so long, they must be blind to the fact that it was a filthy wreck. They might even be proud of the ship. He swore to himself that he would be different. He would keep perspective, and he would never rest until, one way or another, he had gotten himself off the Caine. He set six months as his limit. After all, there was an admiral who was fond of him.

  A narrow round hatchway and a steep ladder led to the after crew’s quarters. Willie put his face to the opening and peered down. It was dark as a cave inside, and the smell was like a very hot and dirty gymnasium. Willie lowered himself through the hatchway and shouted, trying to use a fierce tone, “All right! What the hell about reveille, here?”

  A light snapped on in a far corner, revealing tiers of shadowy bunks full of sleepers. “Aye aye, sir,” spoke a lone voice, “I’m the master-at-arms. I’ll get ’em up. We didn’t hear reveille called away, sir. Come on, you guys-up! There’s an officer here.”

  A few naked sailors rolled out of the bunks, but the response was sluggish and small. The master-at-arms turned on a brilliant central light, and went from one tier of bunks to another, shaking, poking, pleading. The sailors were stacked like corpses in a mausoleum. Willie was ashamed of intruding on their wretchedness. The deck was as nasty as a chicken yard with butts, papers, clothing, and moldering scraps of food. The fetid air sickened him.

  “Hurry it,” he said. He fled up the ladder.

  “How’s it going back there?” said Adams when he returned to t
he quarterdeck. The sun was shining, and boatswain’s pipes and loudspeaker’s calls were filling the air in the repair basin. Barefoot sailors were hosing down the deck.

  “They’re getting up,” said Willie.

  Adams nodded satirically. “Excellent. You may secure now. Lay below and get yourself some eggs and coffee.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Willie took off the gun belt, and his haunches felt pleasantly light.

  In the wardroom the officers were already at breakfast. Willie fell into his chair and ate what was placed before him, not knowing or caring what it was. He wanted to fill his gnawing stomach and return to the clip shack and stay there for the day, stack gas or no stack gas.

  “Say, Keith,” said the communications officer, buttering a roll, “I saw Roland last night. Says he’s coming out here later today to pay us a visit.”

  “Swell,” said Willie.

  “We’ve gotten kind of stacked up on messages, by the way,” added Keefer. “How’s about decoding for a couple of hours after breakfast?”

  “Love it,” said Willie, a little desperately.

  Captain de Vriess looked up at him from under thick blond eyebrows. “What’s the trouble, Keith? Saddle bothering you?”

  “No, sir!” exclaimed Willie. “I’m glad to have something to do.”

  “Fine. Ambition becomes an ensign.”

  An hour later, as Willie toiled over a decoding device spread out on the wardroom table, the letters suddenly became a blur. The wardroom jerked back and forth, and began to rotate gently. His head fell on his hands. The fact that Lieutenant Maryk was reading official mail at the table beside him made no difference. He was done in.

  He heard the opening of a door, and then the captain’s voice: “Well, well. Siesta time for Ensign Keith.”

  He did not dare raise his head.

  “Sir,” he heard Maryk say, “that clip shack is no place to sleep. The kid is shot.”

  “Kind of ripe in port, but it’ll be fine under way. Hell, Maryk, this boy’s had four months’ temporary in Pearl. Like to know how the hell he arranged it. He ought to have soaked up enough sleep to go without for a month.”