by Herman Wouk
“Not before midnight, I guess,” mumbled the lieutenant, who was slouched almost horizontal in an armchair, gazing dully at a ragged Life.
“This is great, Willie. Glad you came over. Say, the hell with it. Let’s have a couple of cokes.”
“Sure.”
Keggs disappeared into the pantry and emerged in a moment with two frosty bottles. “Anybody else?” he queried, looking around. Most of the officers ignored him. Two of them turned lackluster eyes on him and shook their heads. “If I drink another coke,” said the sloucher in the armchair, “I’ll go into shock.”
Willie said, “You fellows still restricted?”
“Till Sunday,” said Keggs.
“When we’ll probably get a despatch,” said the sloucher, “to proceed to Truk and sweep mines.”
As Willie set up the chessmen, Keggs took a long pull at the coke bottle. “Ah, this is a great coke. I feel good. You guys mind if I turn on the radio?” Nobody answered. He switched on a blast of jazz. “Hot dog. For a change, no Hawaiian music. Get those men ready, Willie. I’m going to take your pants. Breep-de-broop, breep-de-broop-”
He danced as he sang, a queer angular jig, his elbows stuck out, his arms dangling. The lieutenant in the armchair regarded him with a mixture of disgust and pity. “It’s amazing,” he said, “what a cat nap will do for that poor fagged-out son of a bitch.”
Keggs dropped into the chair opposite Willie and moved the red king’s pawn. “Look, Willie, just remember this. When you hear a buzzer ring twice, that’s it. Game’s over. That’s the signal from the gangway that he’s come back on board. Just disappear, like the rest of us. Use the starboard passageway and you probably won’t run into him-”
“Suppose I do run into him?”
“Be nonchalant,” spoke up the lieutenant in the armchair. “Kiss his behind and stroll off whistling Anchors Aweigh.”
“How’s your new skipper?” said Keggs.
“A human being, for a change.”
A couple of the officers yawned, stretched, and went to their rooms. “This is wonderful,” said Keggs, draining his coke. “We should do this more often, Willie.”
The wardroom door opened, and Iron Duke Sammis entered, followed by Queeg. Keggs was unperturbed. He moved a bishop and looked up, grinning. Then he saw the other officers getting to their feet, their faces dead blank. He uttered a strangled, sorrowful neigh and leaped up, overturning the chessboard. The chessmen bounced and clattered all over the deck.
“Gentlemen,” said Iron Duke Sammis, “this is Commander Queeg, the new commanding officer of the Caine. Good evening, Mr. Keith.”
“Good evening, sir. Good evening, Captain,” said Willie.
“Well, I’m glad to see I own a chess player,” said Queeg. “I’ve always wanted to pick up the game.”
“Wonderful relaxation,” said the Iron Duke. “Too bad it eats up so much time. I haven’t shot a game since the war started. But since my communicator seems to have the leisure, I may go in for it again-”
“Sir, all tonight’s decodes are on your desk,” said Keggs tremulously, “and I did two and a half engineering assignments this evening-”
“Could you interrupt your game long enough to let Captain Queeg and myself have a little fresh coffee?”
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”
The two captains went into Sammis’ cabin. Keggs ran to the pantry and came out with Silexes full of clear water.
“What the hell,” said Willie, “are you a steward’s mate, too? Where’s your burnt cork?”
“Easy, Willie. I’m wardroom mess treasurer. It’s quicker to make it myself than to go roust out a mess boy, that’s all.” He began to pick up the chess pieces.
“Game’s over, I take it.”
“Oh, hell, yes.”
“Well, I’ll stick around for some of that coffee-if I’m allowed to drink from the same bowl as the gods.”
Keggs looked over his shoulder at the captain’s cabin. “Sure, stick around. But please, Willie, don’t say those things-he hears.”
When Willie left Keefer on the forecastle to go to the Moulton, the communications officer stared skyward for a while, then took a pad, pencil, and flashlight from his pocket and began to scribble verses. In a few minutes the dim figure of Maryk came up the forecastle. Greeting Keefer morosely, the first lieutenant pulled open a narrow hatch forward of the anchor engine, reached his hand inside, and turned a switch. A shaft of yellow light rose from the hatch. Keefer said, “What goes on in the paint locker, this time of night?”
“Title B inventory.”
“Are you still at that? Sit down for a second, you poor beast of burden.”
Maryk scratched his round, close-cropped head, yawned, and accepted a cigarette. The light streaming up from the paint locker accentuated the lines of fatigue in his face and the puffy creases under his eyes. “Well, it’s going to be a close call,” he said, “but I think I’ll make it by 0900 Friday. What are you doing-working on your book?”
“Well, doing a little writing.”
“Maybe you better secure on that stuff for a while, Tom-at least while you’re on watch-until this new skipper gets squared away.”
“What the hell is an eight-to-midnight gangway watch in Pearl, Steve? We ought to have one petty officer and a messenger, and that’s all.”
“I know. But this bird is fresh off a carrier.”
“What do you think of him?”
Maryk puffed at his cigarette, and a worried, thoughtful expression came over his face. He had ugly, yet not unpleasant features: a wide mouth, a small nose, protruding brown eyes, and round, heavy jaws. His massive body gave him an air of power and determination, weakened by the gentle, good-natured puzzlement visible now in his face. “I’m not sure.”
“Better or worse than De Vriess?”
Maryk paused and said, “Captain de Vriess wasn’t a bad officer.”
“For crying out loud, Steve. He ran this ship like a garbage scow. Stand her up against the Moulton-”
“Pretty good ship handler, though.”
“Sure. Is that all being a captain means? I think Queeg’s what the doctor ordered for the Caine. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in ServPac alerted the Bureau to send us a red-hot book man, to clean things up.”
“Well, I don’t know if you can change the nature of a ship overnight. I’ve been aboard a lot longer than you, Tom. Everything gets done that has to get done-not the Navy way, maybe, but it gets done somehow. She gets under way, she goes where she has to go, the gun crews shoot pretty good, the engine plant holds together-Christ knows how, mostly with baling wire and chewing gum-but the Caine has spent less time getting repaired than any other four-piper I know of, since the war started. What’s Queeg going to do, except try to get things done by the book, instead of the Caine way? Is that an improvement? All De Vriess cared about was results.”
“The book way is the right way, Steve. Let’s face it. I don’t like it any more than you, but it’s true. The wastage, and lost motion, and plain dumb luck by which things get done on the Caine are simply staggering.”
“I know.” Maryk’s face became more perplexed. They smoked in silence for a while. “Sure, the book is the right way,” spoke up the first lieutenant, “for the right ship. By the book, though, the Caine should be in the boneyard. Maybe this ship has to be run screwy because it’s screwy for her to be afloat at all-”
“Look, Steve. Your trouble is the same as mine, except that I see through it. We’re civilians, free citizens, and it burns us to be treated as dumb slaves by these Queegs, who are the most colossal ignoramuses in the world except for their book. Don’t forget one thing. Right now, the book is all that matters, because of the war. Look. Suppose all of a sudden the whole survival of America hung on shining shoes. Never mind how. Suppose it did. What would happen? All of us would become shoeshiners, and the professional bootblacks would take over the country. Well, how do you think the bootblacks would feel toward u
s? Humble? Hell, no. They’d figure that at last they’d come into their own-that for the first time in their lives the world was showing a proper respect for shoeshining. And by God, they’d lord it over us, and find fault, and nag, and crab, and bully us to shine shoes their way. And they’d be right. That’s the story, Steve. We’re in the hands of shoeshine boys. It’s irritating when they act as though we’re fools and they know all wisdom-it hurts to take orders and guff from them-but it’s their day. Pretty soon all the shoes will be shined, the war will be over, they’ll be nickel-and-dime bootblacks again, and we’ll look back and laugh at the whole absurd interlude. The point is, if you understand it now, you can be philosophic, and take anything that comes-”
The gangway petty officer came trampling up the forecastle. “Mr. Keefer, the captain has returned aboard, and Mr. Gorton wants to see you in his room. On the double.”
“Gorton? I thought he was asleep.”
“He just phoned up from the wardroom, sir.”
Keefer rose, hitching his gun belt and yawning. “Flash red, no doubt.”
“Skipper missed you at the gangway,” said Maryk. “Good luck, Tom. Remember your philosophy.”
“Sometimes I get so bored,” said Keefer. Maryk jumped down into the paint locker.
In the wardroom Keefer found the executive officer in his underwear in an armchair, drinking coffee and looking sleepy, mussed, and cross. “Jesus, Tom,” Gorton said. “How much trouble can one guy cause in one day? Why the hell weren’t you at the gangway when the skipper came aboard?”
“Why, you young fat fraud,” said Keefer. “You, who broke me in to watch standing, and slept through every in-port night watch you had until you became exec-”
Gorton slammed down the cup and saucer on the arm of the chair. Coffee splashed to the deck. “Mister Keefer, we are not discussing anything but tonight’s watch,” he said, “and be careful of your tone in addressing me.”
“Hold on, Burt. Take an even strain. No offense meant. Did the old man eat you out?”
“You’re damned right he did. Do you secure your brains when you’re not writing your goddamn novel? The first night a new skipper is aboard, can’t you be a little careful?”
“Sorry. I did think of it, but I got to talking to Steve and forgot to watch the clock-”
“Well, that’s only half of it. What the hell is Keith doing over on the Moulton?”
Keefer’s face crinkled in disgust. “Oh, Burt. That’s too much. Since when is the duty section not allowed to cross the gangplank to the ship alongside?”
“Since always. Read the standing orders again. Why didn’t he check out with me?”
“He looked in on you. You were asleep.”
“Well, he should have waked me up.”
“Burt, anybody waking you up with such a fool request before tonight would have gotten a copy of Snappy Stories in his puss.”
“Well, tonight’s another night. We’re back on standing orders, and no kidding-”
“Okay, okay, that’s simple enough. Just so we know about it-”
“Meantime,” said Gorton, looking down into his empty cup, “you’re restricted to the ship for twenty-four hours.”
“What!” flared Keefer. “Says who?”
“Says me, God damn it,” snapped the executive officer. “Good enough?”
“Not by a long shot. If you think you can suddenly pull regs on me that have been dead-filed for two years, and start slapping me with penalties-”
“Shut up!” said Gorton.
“I have a date tomorrow night. It’s the one I broke tonight, and I’m not breaking it again. If you don’t like it tell the skipper I defied you, and recommend a general court-martial-”
“You stupid bastard, do you think I’m the one who’s restricting you? Get this through your thick Reserve head, the heat is on. I’ll be the guy everybody will hate. That’s okay. I’m the exec of this ship, and I’ll carry out my orders, do you hear?”
A radioman poked his pale face into the wardroom. “Pardon me, Mr. Keefer, do you know where I can find Mr. Keith? He doesn’t seem to be anywhere-”
“What’s up?”
“Priority, action Caine.”
Keefer took the despatch sheet. “Okay, Snuffy.” The radioman withdrew. Gorton said, “Who’s the originator?”
“ServPac.”
The exec’s sullen face lit up. “ServPac? Priority? Could be a stateside convoy run. Break it, for crying out loud.”
Keefer started decoding; he had deciphered about fifteen words when he stopped, muttered a curse, and resumed the work with all eagerness gone.
“Well, what’s the dope?” said the exec.
“Convoy run, all right,” said Keefer listlessly. “But you’re a little matter of 180 degrees off in direction.”
“Oh, no,” groaned Gorton. “No.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Keefer. “The Caine is going to Pago Pago.”
CHAPTER 13
The Best Goddamned Target-towing Ship
Next day Willie went to his post on the bridge as junior officer of the deck shortly after sunrise. It was a lovely morning, bright and fragrant. The harbor was blue, and the surrounding hills of Oahu a soft yellow-green, flecked here and there by the fat shadows of puffy clouds which drifted over the north mountains, evaporating on the fair-weather side of the island without shedding rain. Willie was full of fresh eggs and coffee. The lively zest that comes over a ship’s company upon getting under way-no matter where bound-infected him. Pago Pago was far behind the combat zone, almost as safe as Hawaii, but at least it lay southwestward, and it was Somerset Maugham country. Romantic adventure seemed to be opening before him at last. Perhaps there would be encounters with submarines, he thought, and he could begin to redeem himself for his months of piano playing in Pearl Harbor.
Captain Queeg came up to the bridge, brisk and smiling, with a pleasant greeting for each sailor and officer. Willie recognized the narrow blue book under his arm: On a Destroyer’s Bridge, a manual of ship handling. “Good morning, Captain. All lines singled up, sir,” Willie said, saluting smartly.
“Ah, good morning. Thank you, thank you, Willie.” Queeg leaned over the bulwark, taking a quick look at the mooring lines. The Caine was tied to the Moulton, which was secured fore and aft to buoys. The two ships lay in the far corner of West Loch, a narrow inlet of the harbor. Ahead, astern, and to starboard there were muddy shallows. The Caine had a few hundred yards of dredged channel in which to maneuver its way out of the corner.
“Tight squeeze, hey?” Queeg said jovially to Maryk and Gorton, who stood together on the port wing, awaiting with interest the new captain’s first demonstration of ship handling. The two officers nodded respectfully. Queeg called, “Take in all lines!”
The manila ropes came snaking aboard the Caine. “All lines taken in, sir!” said the telephone talker.
“Kay.” Queeg glanced around the wheelhouse, wetted his lips, dropped the book on the chair, and said, “Well, let’s go. All engines back one third!”
The ship vibrated, and things began to happen so fast that Willie couldn’t tell exactly what went wrong or why. As the Caine moved backward the sharp fluke of the decked anchor came ripping down along the forecastle of the other ship, bending several stanchions and ripping two out by the roots. It then gashed a jagged hole in the Moulton’s bridge with a ghastly metallic screech. At the same time a gun on the galley deckhouse went battering along the Moulton’s side, carrying away two ammunition boxes and an antenna, which squealed and crunched and then fell into the water. Captain Queeg shouted a tangle of wheel and engine orders; the stacks vomited billows of black smoke which poured down on the bridge; there ensued a few moments of wild yelling and running around in the smoky gloom. Then it was all over. The Caine was stuck fast by the stern in the mud on the other side of the loch, canted over about ten degrees.
In the shocked quiet that followed, Captain Queeg seemed the least disturbed person on the bridge. “W
ell, well, beginner’s luck, hey?” he said smiling, as he peered astern. “Mr. Gorton, lay aft and find out if there’s been any damage.” He sent a blinker message to Captain Sammis apologizing for the mishap. The executive officer returned in a few minutes, staggering on the slanted deck, and reported that there was no visible damage to the hull, and the propellers were buried in mud to their hubs.
“Kay, a little mud bath never hurt a propeller,” Queeg said. “Shine ’em up a little, maybe.” He was looking out toward the harbor.
“Guess we’ll have to send a grounding report despatch to ServPac, Captain,” Gorton said. “Shall I-”
“Maybe we will and then again maybe we won’t,” Queeg said. “See that tug? Over there by the point? Give him a call on your blinker light.”
The tug obligingly turned out of the main channel and came chugging into West Loch. A towline was soon rigged, and the Caine was easily pulled off the mud. Queeg shouted his thanks through a megaphone to the tug captain, a grizzled chief boatswain, who waved cordially and steamed off. “So much for that,” Queeg said affably to Gorton. “And so much for your grounding report, Burt. No sense getting old ServPac in an uproar over nothing, hey? All engines ahead one third.”
He conned the ship confidently across the harbor to the fueling dock where they were to spend the day taking on oil, food, and ammunition. He stood on the starboard wing, steadily rolling the two steel balls in the fingers of his right hand, his elbows hanging on the bulkhead. Coming alongside the fueling dock, he gave everybody on the bridge a bad scare. He tore in toward the dock at a sharp angle at fifteen knots. Gorton, Maryk, and Willie huddled together on the wing behind him, exchanging pallid looks. A crash with the stern of a tanker in the berth ahead of theirs seemed inevitable. But in the very last seconds Queeg backed down emergency full, and the Caine slowed, shuddering fearfully, and dropped into its berthing space as neatly as a New York taxicab parking. “Kay,” said Queeg as the mooring lines flew over to the dock. “Double up all lines. Out smoking lamp and commence fueling.” He dropped the balls into his pocket and sauntered off the bridge.
