The Caine Mutiny

by Herman Wouk

  “Well, you’re right, there.”

  “Did your communications officer catch the mistake-this Keefer?”

  “Keefer does very well. Of course no system is foolproof. He’s a strange duck, by the way. Brilliant mind. A writer. Read about all the books in the world. Son of a gun’s been working on a novel in off hours-”

  “Did you discipline Keith?”

  “Put him in hack for three days.”

  “How about Keefer?”

  “I ought to make one thing as clear as I can,” said De Vriess in a firm, pleasant tone. “I regard both those men as excellent officer material. Keith may turn into an outstanding officer after some seasoning. As for Keefer, he has brains enough to do anything superlatively, but he’s older, and his interests are somewhat divided. You engage his loyalty and he’ll deliver the goods. Stands a fine OOD watch under way.”

  “Nice to know. How are we on watch-standers?”

  The far-off thumping of metal scrapers was augmented by a new sound directly overhead, a terrific clatter and clanking of another party of paint chippers. Queeg winced. De Vriess leaped up, pressed a buzzer, and roared into a brass speaking tube at the head of his bed, “Engstrand! Tell the damn deck force to stop trying to split my skull!” The two men looked at each other in wry amusement for a few deafening seconds, and the noise suddenly subsided.

  “Lot of that going on,” observed Queeg.

  “Every time we’re in port the deck boys turn to. Only way to stay ahead of the rust.”

  “I wonder why? Scrape her down to flat bright metal and give her a good double coat, and that ought to be the end of it for a long while.”

  “There isn’t any flat bright metal,” said De Vriess. “These decks have taken too much salt water. They’re pitted. The rust starts up from a pit and just spreads under the new paint like a skin disease. It’s not a bad thing. Chipping paint is good exercise. We’ve killed a hell of a lot of dead time for the crew chipping paint.”

  “How does the ship handle?”

  “Like any destroyer. All the power you need. She won’t turn on a dime like these new destroyer-escorts. But you can maneuver her.”

  “Wind take her much, coming alongside?”

  “Well, you have to watch the wind.”

  “Good line-handling parties?”

  “No kick there. Maryk has them trained up pretty fair.”

  “I like fast line handling.”

  “So do I. You’ve handled destroyers?”

  “Well,” said Queeg, “I guess I’ve had a few million hours as OOD under way.”

  “How about coming alongside and so forth?”

  “Well, I’ve seen it done often enough. Given the orders and so forth.”

  De Vriess regarded his successor narrowly. “Were you exec on this Bristol-class destroyer?”

  “Well, just a month or so. Had almost every other department-it was the Falk-guns, hull, black gang, communications- I was just breaking in as exec when they yanked me over to a carrier-”

  “Skipper give you the conn much?”

  “Well, there wasn’t much chance. A few times.”

  De Vriess offered Queeg a cigarette and lit one himself. “If you like,” he said carelessly, waving out the match, “we can take her out for a couple of runs before you take over. I can stand by while you shoot a few approaches, and getting away from alongside, and maybe some power turns and so forth-”

  “Thanks, that won’t be necessary.”

  De Vriess puffed twice on his cigarette in silence. “Well,” he said, “I’m at your service. How do you want to go about this?”

  “Well, I’ll have to sight the registered publications and execute a transfer report,” said Queeg. “Guess maybe we can do that pretty soon, like today. And I’d appreciate having a look around-”

  “Let’s do that this morning.”

  “I suppose all the reports are up to date? Let’s see-logs, war diary, hull, burn reports, personnel roster, and so forth?”

  “If they aren’t they will be when you’re ready to relieve.”

  “How about the Title B inventory?”

  De Vriess compressed his lips.

  “Well, I’m sorry to say that’s pretty fouled up. I’d be kidding you if I told you anything else.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “The trouble is simply that this ship has steamed about a hundred thousand miles since the war started,” said De Vriess, “and we’ve been through so many strip-ships and night actions and storms and what not that half our Title B gear is gone and we don’t know where the hell it’s gone to. When you lose a snatch block over the side in the middle of towing some silly bastard off a reef under air attack you just don’t make the entry on the Title B card. You ought to, but you don’t.”

  “Well, running off a fresh inventory and sending in a survey report on the lost gear would take care of that.”

  “Sure it would. A Title B inventory takes two weeks. If you want to wait around till we push one through, I’ll be happy to get it rolling-”

  “Hell, no, I can attend to it as well as you,” said Queeg. “I thought maybe I’d relieve tomorrow-if I could see the registered pubs and the reports today.”

  De Vriess was pleased and startled. He had relieved his own commanding officer on the Caine in forty-eight hours; but, as executive officer, he had been fully as familiar with the ship as the captain. Queeg was stepping into a vessel of a new type, about which he knew almost nothing. He would have been justified in requesting several days at sea, in order to observe all the ship’s equipment in action. De Vriess had figured that the transfer of command might take a week. But it was absolutely outside naval manners to make any comment. He rose. “Good enough,” he said. “Pretty nice to think of seeing my wife in three days. How about a quick Cook’s tour of the ship?”

  “Okay.” Queeg dropped the steel balls into his pocket.

  “If I’d known you were coming,” said De Vriess, “I’d have run off a captain’s inspection and shined her up for you a bit. The boys can do a good job, though you may not think so to look at her now.”

  “Pretty cool for Hawaii, this time of year,” said Queeg.

  Willie Keith lay on his bunk in the clipping shack that afternoon, trying without success to read Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, which he had borrowed from Keefer. Curiosity gnawed at him; he could hardly resist leaving his self-imposed jail to have a look at the man who had come to free him from the tyranny of De Vriess. He read the same page over four times, while his mind kept wandering to the task of constructing Queeg from Harding’s description, as scientists construct cave men from a piece of jawbone.

  “Mistuh Keith, suh?”

  Willie looked up into the sad loose-lipped face of Whittaker, a couple of inches from his own. “Yes, Whittaker?”

  “Cap’n want you in de wardroom.”

  Willie jumped to the deck and put on his cleanest khakis, stabbing the ball of his thumb in his hurry to change the collar pins. When he walked into the wardroom, therefore, he was sucking his thumb; a perhaps unfortunate touch of immaturity. The two commanding officers were drinking coffee at the green-covered table. “Ensign Keith,” said De Vriess with sardonic formality, “Lieutenant Commander Queeg.”

  The new captain rose and greeted Willie with a firm handshake and a friendly smile. In one anxious glance Willie took in these details: a small man, slightly shorter than himself; natty blues with two campaign ribbons and one battle star; an oval, somewhat plump fair face with small narrowed eyes; and some strands of sandy hair across an almost bald head, with thicker fringes at the sides. “Hello, Mr. Keith,” said Queeg with cordial good humor, and a gay lift in the tones.

  Willie liked him at once. “How do you do, sir.”

  “Willie,” said De Vriess, “are you all set to run off a registered pubs inventory and a transfer report? Commander Queeg wants ’em this afternoon.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Not missing anyt
hing, are we?”

  “No, sir.” Willie allowed himself a slight contemptuous emphasis. With the new captain present, power seemed to be draining out of De Vriess.

  “Good.” The captain turned to his successor. “He’s all yours. If I can be of any further assistance, let me know.”

  De Vriess stepped into his cabin and closed the door. Willie turned to his new commanding officer. He could not repress a mischievous grin. “Nice to have you aboard, sir.”

  “Why, thank you, Willie,” said Queeg, with a lift of the eyebrows, and a warm smile. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Next morning at eleven the crew lined up at quarters on the forecastle, and the ceremony of transferring command was enacted in a perfunctory way. The officers had tried very hard to make the crew look respectable for the occasion; but despite the shoeshines and new dungarees and shaved faces the general effect was that of a group of tramps freshly deloused by the Salvation Army.

  After the ceremony the two commanding officers went below together. The captain’s cabin was heaped with tumbled luggage of both officers. De Vriess picked his way to the desk. He opened the small safe, took out several tagged keys and some sealed envelopes, and handed them to Queeg. “Envelopes are various safe combinations you’ll want to have. ... Well, I think that’s it.” He glanced around the room. “I left you a stack of mysteries. I don’t know if you like ’em, but that’s all I can read. Distract me from whatever’s bothering me. Never remember what I’m reading from one page to the next, anyway.”

  “Thanks. I guess I’ll have all I can do to keep up with official reading for a while.”

  “Sure enough. Well-I’m off.” De Vriess cocked his head and looked his successor in the eye. Queeg met the glance for a moment, then offered his hand to De Vriess.

  “Best of luck with your new construction.”

  “If I get it. You’ve got a good ship here, Queeg, and a good crew.”

  “I hope I’m up to handling it.”

  De Vriess grinned, and said hesitantly, “I’m wondering if you don’t think it’s a pretty sloppy lash-up.”

  “Oh, I quite understand,” said Queeg. “You’ve been in the forward area a hell of a long time-”

  “It isn’t that. You can do things with some ships that you can’t do with others,” said De Vriess. “Between you and me, these damn buckets ought to be melted down to razor blades. They roll and pitch too damn much, the power plant is shot, all the machinery is obsolete, and the men are crowded like animals. These are the only firerooms left in the Navy where the black gang has to work under air pressure. If anything goes wrong a blowback can kill them all. The men know the kind of deal they’ve got. The strange thing is, most of the crazy bastards like it. Damn few of them put in for transfers. But they have to do things their own way. It’s the hooligan navy, to look at them. But give them a chance, and they deliver. They’ve backed me up in some bad spots-”

  “Well, thanks for the dope,” said Queeg. “Is the gig standing by for you?”

  “I think so.” De Vriess ground out his cigar, and opened the door. “Whittaker! How about bearing a hand with my gear?”

  Willie was at the gangway, buckling on his gun belt, when two steward’s mates came up with the bags, followed by De Vriess.

  “Where’s the gig, Willie?”

  “Oh, I didn’t think you were shoving off till four, sir. I just sent it over to the Frobisher to trade movies. It’ll be back in ten minutes. Sorry, sir.”

  “No harm done. Drop the bags here, men.”

  “Yassuh,” said the steward’s mates. “Good-by, Captain.”

  “Don’t bring the new skipper any of that cold coffee up to the bridge.”

  “Nosuh.” The colored boys grinned.

  De Vriess put his foot up on a life line and stared out over the harbor. He looked strangely impressive in dress blues. Sailors chipping paint on the quarterdeck threw curious glances at him and exchanged low remarks. Willie, oppressed by a heavy gap of embarrassment between himself and his ex-captain, felt obliged to make conversation. “How does it feel, sir?”

  “How does what feel?” said De Vriess, not looking at him.

  “Well, leaving the ship after-how long-over five years, isn’t it?”

  De Vriess bent his head sidewise and inspected Willie coldly. “Happiest damn moment of my life,” he growled.

  “I hope you get a good ship, sir.”

  “It’s about time I had one.” De Vriess walked away. He paced aft to the fantail, looking down at his shoes. A knot of chiefs and petty officers appeared in the port passageway by the galley. They watched the ex-captain as he came forward again. The oldest chief, a fat, ham-faced water tender named Budge, whose belly bulged over his underslung belt, stepped up to him. “Pardon me, Captain.”

  “What now?”

  Budge took off his greasy khaki cap, revealing a bald head, fumbled with the cap and put it on again. “Well, nothing, sir. Except a few of the guys chipped in and got this.” He hauled a long flat box out of his pocket, and opened it, displaying a silver wrist watch. De Vriess stared at the watch, and then looked around at the fidgeting sailors.

  “Whose idea was this?”

  “Well, everybody’s, sir.”

  “Well, everybody’s a damn fool. I can’t accept it. It’s against Navy Regulations.”

  Budge glanced helplessly at the others. “I told them that, sir. But we thought-”

  A tall, tousle-headed shipfitter, De Lauche, spoke up, “You don’t always go by regs, sir-”

  “That’s my goddamn trouble,” said De Vriess. “I’ve been in the hooligan navy too long.”

  Budge scanned the captain’s, unfriendly face, awkwardly juggled the open box, and set it on the dirty screen cover of a ventilator. “We meant it for the best, sir-”

  The dinging of a bell and the asthmatic cough of a motor announced that the gig was coming alongside. “You guys take an even strain with the new skipper,” said De Vriess. “You chiefs and first-class P.O.’s run the ship, as you know damn well. Keep the men in line and give things a chance to break in-” He turned to Willie. “I am leaving the ship, sir.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” They exchanged salutes.

  De Vriess put his hand on the ladder. His eye fell on the watch, glittering in the sun. “Whaddya know,” he said. “Some silly bastard left a watch lying around.” He picked it out of the box and strapped it on. “Might as well steal myself a souvenir of this old bucket. Not a bad watch, at that,” he said, glancing at it critically. “What time is it, Mister Keith?”

  “Four o’clock, sir,” said Willie.

  “Three-thirty,” grunted De Vriess, adjusting the hands. “I’ll always keep it half an hour slow,” he said to the sailors, “to remind me of the fouled-up crew of the Caine. Somebody toss down my gear.”

  He began to descend the ladder, and went out of sight. Then his head and arms reappeared. He looked up at the sailors and threw them a salute. “Thanks,” he said, and dropped down into the gig. The bags were lowered; the boat pulled away. Willie watched it go, expecting to see De Vriess take a long lingering farewell look at his ship. But he did no such thing. The last Willie saw of the ex-captain, he was slouched on the cushions under the canopy, reading a paper-bound mystery.

  “Attention on deck!” called the gangway petty officer.

  Willie turned, stiffening. Captain Queeg, dressed in khaki shirt and trousers, was coming out of the starboard passageway. He looked different without the double-breasted blues. He had surprisingly narrow, sloping shoulders, and was hollow-chested and potbellied. His forehead was furrowed, and there were three deep vertical wrinkles in the center; his eyes squinted as though he were trying to see a long distance. Willie saluted. Queeg, peering around at the quarterdeck, ignored the gesture. “Gig gone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Willie, you’re out of hack as of now. Amnesty, you might say.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Willie said warmly.

&nb
sp; Queeg stopped at the gangway desk and cast his eye here and there, rolling the steel balls absently in his left hand. The sailors worked busily and without talking, heads bent. Queeg glanced down at the quartermaster’s log. “Captain de Vriess hasn’t been logged out.”

  “I was about to do that, sir,” spoke up Engstrand, the gangway petty officer.

  “Very well. Note the exact time of departure.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Queeg watched Engstrand write the notation. The back of the signalman’s blue dungaree shirt was stenciled in red, Killer Engstrand. Hands Off. The captain said, “Mr. Keith.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pass the word to your relief that while we’re in Pearl the gangway watch will be stood in undress whites.”

  This was the uniform of the watch on the Moulton, and on most of the destroyers Willie had seen. The order pleased him. The Caine was being restored to the Navy, with no time lost. “Aye aye, sir,” he snapped.

  Queeg resumed his scrutiny of the ship, ceaselessly rolling the balls, his shoulders lowered, his head moving to and fro. “Okay,” he said. “Pass the word. Meeting of all officers in the wardroom at 1630.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Shall I get a chief to stand by for me? I’ll still have the watch then-”

  “Have chiefs been standing OOD watches in port?”

  “Well, yes, sir-”

  “Never mind getting a chief. You’re excused from the meeting.” The new commanding officer of the Caine walked off toward the port passageway. “Get a couple of your prisoners-at-large with some turpentine,” he said over his shoulder to Willie, “and have this mess cleaned up.” He pointed to the remains of the morning’s oil stain.

  “We have no prisoners-at-large, sir.”

  “Oh? ... Well, then, the deck force. Get it cleaned up.” Captain Queeg went forward.

  CHAPTER 12

  The New Order

  At four-thirty the officers of the Caine were all seated around the wardroom table, except for Keith, Gorton, and the captain. Keefer and Maryk were drinking coffee. The others smoked or drummed their fingers on the green baize. Nobody spoke. The room was unnaturally tidy for that time of day. The magazines and paper-bound novels were racked, and the coding devices usually scattered on the table were absent.