by Herman Wouk
“Jesus,” Willie heard Maryk mutter to the exec, “a wild man from way back.”
“Shifty as hell, though,” Gorton murmured. “How about the way he dodged that grounding report? De Vriess would never have dared-”
“Why the hell didn’t he get his stern out before we left the Moulton? Wind on the beam outboard-”
“Christ, Steve, first time out-give him a chance-”
That afternoon Willie interrupted his coding to write off a letter to May, the last before the start of the voyage. He filled it with warm affectionate descriptions of how badly he missed her, and he praised her doughty persistence in going to Hunter College. He felt impelled to write something about Queeg, though up till now he had remained purposely vague about life on the Caine.
Our new captain is a rather strange man, like most of these regular officers, but I think he’s just what the ship needs. He’s a strict perfectionist and a hard taskmaster, and pure Navy through and through. Yet at the same time he has a remarkably pleasant disposition. He seems to be a very daring seaman, maybe a little inexperienced, but full of zip. All in all I think the Caine has had a wonderful change in luck, and I expect my spirits are going to improve accordingly. I’ve really been pretty low ...
A radioman knocked at his open doorway. “Pardon me, Mr. Keith. Action from ComServPac. Just come over the harbor circuit.”
“Sure, give it here.” Willie went to the coding machine and broke the despatch. A written report is desired explaining grounding of Caine this morning in West Loch. Include explanation of failure to report grounding via despatch to this command.
Willie had very little desire to face Captain Queeg with this unpleasant message, but there was no way to avoid it. He brought the decode to the captain’s room. Queeg was sitting in his underwear at the desk, working over a pile of official mail. When he read the message he sat upright with a loud squeak of the swivel chair. He stared at the sheet for a long time while Willie tried to think of a good excuse to sneak out of the room.
“Fussy so-and-so, this ComServ Pac, hey, Willie?” Queeg looked at him sidewise.
“Wonder how he got the dope, sir-”
“Hell, nothing hard about that. Damn mustang on that tug just skipped on home and reported the whole thing. First useful duty he’s performed in a month, no doubt. I might have thought of that-” Queeg picked up the balls from his desk and rolled them rapidly, eying the despatch. “Well, hell, he wants a grounding report. We’ll give him a grounding report. Spruce up, Willie, and stand by to deliver it by hand. Seems to have his pants on fire for some reason.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Riding to the ComServPac building on the yard bus an hour later, Willie’s curiosity about the grounding report became too strong for him. The manila envelope was closed only by a flexible metal clasp. He glanced from side to side in an automatic guilty gesture; none of the passengers were watching him. He slid the report out of its envelope on his lap and read it.
Grounding of USS CAINE (DMS 22) in West Loch, 25 September 1943-Report on.
1. Subject vessel ran slightly aground on mudbank in subject area on subject date at 0932. It was floated off by YT 137 at 1005. There were no casualties or damage.
2. The reason for the grounding was failure of the engine room to respond in time to engine orders telegraphed from the bridge.
3. This command has recently been relieved. The state of training aboard is believed to warrant a drastic drilling program to bring performance of crew up to proper standards. Such a program has been instituted.
4. It was intended to submit a grounding report in full tomorrow morning by messenger. Report was not made by despatch to ComServPac at the time because help was at hand, damage was nil, and the matter appeared to be disposable without troubling higher authority unnecessarily. Regret is expressed if this estimate was erroneous.
5. It is believed that the intensive drilling already instituted in this command will rapidly bring about competent performance, and such incidents will not recur.
PHILIP FRANCIS QUEEG
That night at the officers’ club in the Navy Yard the Caine wardroom had a drinking party to celebrate their departure from Pearl. Captain Queeg joined his officers for an hour or so before moving on to another party of lieutenant commanders in the patio. He was full of jocular good humor, drank faster than anybody else without becoming fuzzy, and entertained them with long anecdotes about the invasion of North Africa. Good feeling ran high. Willie was more convinced than ever that BuPers had sent the Caine a prince of a skipper to replace the sour sloven, De Vriess. He snuggled down in the clip shack at three in the morning, feeling that his term aboard the minesweeper was going to be pretty good, after all, while it lasted.
He was shaken out of his sleep by Rabbitt when day was just dawning. “Sorry to bother a man with a hangover, Keith,” the OOD said, “but we just got an action from ComServPac.”
“Right, Rab.” Willie pulled himself wearily out of the clip shack and went to the wardroom. While he was clacking away at the coding machine Gorton came out of his room naked and watched over his shoulder, yawning. The words formed one by one: Caine departure Pago Pago canceled. Moulton replace Caine convoy duty. Caine remain Pearl target-towing duty. Obtain towing gear target repair base.
“Now what the hell?” said Gorton. “What kind of quick switch is that?”
“Ours not to reason why, sir-”
“Hope that goddamn grounding didn’t- Well.” Gorton scratched his bulging belly. “Okay, put on your asbestos suit and take it in to the skipper.”
“Think I ought to wake him, sir? Reveille’s only-”
“Hell, yes. Right away.”
Willie disappeared into the captain’s cabin, and the executive officer paced the wardroom, chewing his lips. In a couple of minutes the ensign came out, grinning. “Well, it didn’t seem to faze the skipper any, sir.”
“No? What did he say?”
“Why, he just said, ‘That’s fine, fine. Nobody can get me mad by switching me to Pearl Harbor duty. The more the merrier.’ ”
Gorton shrugged. “I guess I’m crazy. If he’s not worried, no reason why I should be.”
Through the loudspeaker came the shrill boatswain’s piping of reveille. Gorton said, “Well, time to retire. Call me if anything else comes in.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Willie left.
The exec went into his room, wallowed into his bunk like a big pink bear, and dozed off. The captain’s buzzer brought him sharply awake an hour later. He threw on a bathrobe and went to Queeg’s cabin. He found the captain sitting cross-legged on his bunk in his underwear, unshaven and frowning. “Burt, take a look at the despatch on my desk.”
“I saw it, sir, while Keith was breaking it-”
“Oh, you did, hey? Well, that’s something we can start knocking-off right now. Nobody, repeat nobody, will have access to action despatches except the coding officer and myself until such time as I release them. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir-”
“Kay, kay, just so’s you know,” Queeg grumbled. “Well, if you’ve seen it, what do you make of it?”
“Well, sir, it seems to me we tow targets instead of going to Pago Pago-”
“Do you take me for an idiot? I can read English, too. What I want to know is, what does it mean? Why the changed orders?”
Gorton said, “Sir, it bothered me, too. But according to Keith, you were perfectly satisfied-”
“Hell, I’d rather stay here in Pearl any day than go moseying out west-if there’s no more in it than meets the eye. That’s what I’m beginning to wonder about. I want you to get dressed and haul yourself over to ComServPac. Find out what this is all about.”
“From whom, sir-the operations officer?”
“I don’t care from whom. You can go to the admiral for all I care. But don’t come back without the dope, understand?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The office building of Commander,
Service Squadron Pacific, was a U-shaped white wooden structure atop a hill behind some warehouses in the Navy Yard. Lieutenant Gorton appeared there at eight-thirty, dressed in his cleanest, newest khakis, with gleaming fresh collar pins. He went to the operations office and, not without misgivings, presented himself to Captain Grace, a fierce-looking old officer with a square red face and heavy white eyebrows.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Grace growled. He was sipping coffee from a paper cup. He looked as though he had been at his desk since dawn.
“Sir, I’m here with regard to your despatch 260040 to the Caine.”
The operations officer picked up a loose-leaf file of despatches on green tissue paper and flipped through them. “What about it?”
“Well, sir-I-I wonder if you can tell me why our orders were changed.”
Captain Grace wrinkled his nose at Gorton. “You’re the commanding officer?”
“No, sir. Exec.”
“What!” The operations officer banged the despatch file to his desk. “What in blazes does your skipper mean, sending you over to question orders? You go back and tell your captain-what’s-his-name-”
“Queeg, sir-Lieutenant Commander Queeg-”
“You go tell Queeg that if he has any inquiries about operations he’s to come here in person, and not send subordinates. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all.” Captain Grace picked up a letter and made a show of contracting his heavy white eyebrows over it. Gorton, bearing in mind Queeg’s injunction not to come back without “the dope,” nerved himself for one more try.
“Sir-pardon me-did the change have anything to do with our grounding in West Loch yesterday?”
Captain Grace looked as startled at the sound of Gorton’s voice, speaking after being dismissed, as though he had heard an ass bray in his office. He turned and stared at Gorton’s face for perhaps thirty very long seconds. Then his eyes shifted to Gorton’s Annapolis ring, and he stared at that for a good long while. Then he stared at Gorton’s face again, shook his head incredulously, and turned to the letter. Gorton slunk out.
At the gangplank of the Caine the OOD, Carmody, saluted the exec and said, “The captain wants to see you in his cabin the minute you return aboard, sir.”
Gorton went below and knocked at the captain’s door. There was no answer. He knocked louder, then cautiously turned the knob and peeked into a black room. “Captain? Captain?”
“Oh. Come in, Burt.” Queeg switched on his bed light and sat up, scratching his stubbly face. He reached to the shelf over the bunk and took down the two steel balls. “Well? What’s the dope?”
“I don’t know, sir. The operations officer wouldn’t tell me.”
“What!”
Gorton, perspiring, described the interview with Captain Grace. Queeg glowered at the rolling balls.
“And you let it go at that, hey?”
“I didn’t see what more I could do, sir. I was practically thrown out-”
“Did you think of snooping around among some of the ensigns on the staff?”
“No, sir.”
Queeg turned his head to glare briefly, then resumed looking at the balls. “Well, why didn’t you?”
“I-” Gorton was baffled by the question. “Well-I-”
“I’m not delighted,” said the captain after a silence. “When I send an officer out for the dope, I expect him to return with the dope, and to use whatever ingenuity is called for to get it- That’s all.”
He lay back on his pillow. Gorton said diffidently, “Will you be going down there, sir? I’ll arrange transportation-”
“Maybe I will and then again maybe I won’t,” said Queeg. “I don’t appreciate being placed in the position where I might get read off like a midshipman for the stupidity of the Caine’s engine-room personnel-” There was a knock at the door. “Come in!”
Signalman Third Class Urban entered, carrying a despatch board in one hand and his frayed hat in the other. His dungarees were faded and streaky, and his shirt hung outside his trousers. He was an undersize roly-poly sailor with a round, red, perpetually puzzled face. “Visual from ComServPac, Cap’n.”
Captain Queeg took the board and read: Caine under way 29 September 0600. Pick up target and operation order at target repair base.
“Kay,” said the captain, initialing the despatch and returning the board to the sailor.
“Thank you, sir.” Urban scuttled out.
“Now,” said Queeg, rattling the balls in his fist, “that’s another thing I want knocked off right away, Mr. Gorton.”
“What, sir?”
“You know damn well what. Since when do uniform regulations permit the crew to wear their shirts outside their trousers? They’re sailors, not Filipino bus boys.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Gorton resignedly.
“Aye aye, sir, hell!” snapped Queeg. “I’m serious about this, Burt. You will make the following announcement in the plan of the day tomorrow. ‘Hereafter all shirts will be tucked inside trousers. Failure to comply will result in heavy disciplinary action.’ ”
“Yes, sir,” said Gorton. “They’ve been doing it for years on this ship. I don’t know if we can change them overnight-”
“Those are orders,” said Queeg, “and sailors don’t have to be changed overnight to obey orders. If there’s any trouble we’ll hand out a few captain’s masts, and if necessary we’ll hand out deck courts, and if necessary we’ll hand out general court-martials for defiance of orders-but there will be no more flapping shirttails on my ship! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I want a meeting of all officers in the wardroom at 1300.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The exec went out, closing the door softly. Captain Queeg lay back on his bed and stared at the green overhead. Rub, rub, rub, rub, went the little steel balls.
The officers of the Caine sat around the green table, chatting in low tones, a ring of perplexed, sullen faces. “Two wardroom meetings in a week,” said Keefer aside to Maryk. “De Vriess didn’t have two all the time he was captain.”
“Take it easy, Tom,” muttered Maryk.
“I’m just beginning to wonder, that’s all,” said Keefer, very low.
Gorton came out of Queeg’s room. “The captain, gentlemen.”
All the officers rose. Keefer slouched, his hands in his pockets. Captain Queeg entered at a businesslike pace, head down, rolling the balls as usual. “Kay,” he said. “Kay, gentlemen.” He sat, and the officers did, too. He pulled out a fresh package of cigarettes, opened it, took out a cigarette, lit it, and laid the cigarettes and matches carefully on the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said at last, looking out from under his eyebrows at the empty air over the table, “I regret to say that I am displeased.”
His eyes shifted momentarily from side to side, taking in the faces around him, and he resumed his stare at nothing. “I am displeased, gentlemen, because I have told you that on my ship I expect excellent performance to be standard-and-well, it isn’t standard. No, it isn’t standard. You all know what I’m talking about, so I won’t embarrass the department heads by going into particulars. Perhaps some of you feel that in your departments excellent performance is standard. Well, in that case, I’m not addressing you. But those whom the shoe fits-well, they’d better get on the ball, that’s all.
“Now, as you know, this ship was supposed to go to Pago Pago. Well, this ship isn’t going to Pago Pago. This ship is going to stay at Pearl Harbor and tow targets. Nice, soft, pleasant duty. The only question is, why have we been favored so generously by ComServPac?
“Well, your guess is as good as mine. A naval officer isn’t supposed to speculate about his orders. He’s supposed to execute them. That’s exactly what I intend to do, and don’t kid yourselves about that!” He looked around at blank faces. “Kay, any questions? No? Then I assume you all know exactly what I’m driving at, is that correct? Kay. Now I would like to point out
that there are only two possible reasons why we got our orders changed. Either ComServPac decided that this ship is so outstanding that it deserves some extra-nice duty-or ComServPac decided that this ship is so lousy that it might not be competent to carry out an assignment in the forward area. Can anybody here suggest any other possible reason?
“Kay. Now, I’m not saying which I think it is. But if this ship is not outstanding now it had damn well better become so P.D.Q., meaning pretty damn quick. Now, it happens I had occasion to report to ComServPac recently that the engineering performance of this ship was below par, and it’s entirely possible that that’s why our orders were changed. But as I say, a naval officer is supposed to execute his orders, not speculate about them, and that’s how it’s going to be on this ship!”
Keefer was seized with a fit of coughing. He bent double over the table, his shoulders shaking. The captain glanced at him in annoyance.
“Sorry, sir,” gasped Keefer, “some smoke went down the wrong way.”
“Kay,” said Queeg. “Now I want you gentlemen to remember that anything that’s worth doing at all is worth doing well-and furthermore on this ship what’s difficult we do at once, and the impossible takes a little longer, and- Now, our duty for the next few weeks seems to be target towing. Well, we’re just going to be the best goddamn target-towing ship this Navy has ever seen, and- And as I say, we’re supposed to execute our orders, not speculate about them, so let’s not worry about anything that’s happened. As far as the grounding of the ship is concerned I feel that I’m not responsible for the state of training in which I found the ship, and I’m certain that ComServPac will see eye to eye with me on that and so-that’s that. But I am damn well responsible for anything that happens on this ship from here on in. I don’t intend to make a single mistake and-I won’t tolerate anybody making any mistakes for me, and I kid you not. And, well, I think you get the idea without my drawing you a picture, and-oh, yes, I knew there was something else.” He looked about and said, “Who’s the morale officer?”
