The Caine Mutiny

by Herman Wouk

  “Maybe the old man’s slipped his trolley-”

  “Maybe the rudder’s jammed. Maybe the cable’s cut. Let’s see what the hell goes on-” They ran off the forecastle.

  Meanwhile, on the bridge, Captain Queeg was winding up the shirttail emergency, after a long general harangue on the subject. “Kay, Signalman Third Class Urban. You may now adjust your uniform.” The little signalman frantically stuffed his shirt into his trousers and snapped to rigid quivering attention again. “There,” said Queeg. “Don’t you think you look better? More like a sailor in the United States Navy?”

  “Yes, sir,” choked Urban.

  The Caine had now steamed partly around the circle for the second time, and once more the target lay ahead. Queeg walked away from the palpitating sailor, with a curt “Dismissed.” He saw the target, started with surprise, and threw a savage glance at Keefer and Keith. “What the hell is that target doing up there?” he exclaimed. “Where the hell are we? What the hell’s going on?” He scurried into the wheelhouse and took a look at the rapidly rotating compass. “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed at Stilwell.

  “Sir, you told me right standard rudder. I’m holding at right standard rudder,” said the helmsman desperately.

  “Kay, that’s right, I did tell you right standard rudder,” said Queeg, turning his head from side to side, looking first at the target, then at the departing destroyers. “Why the hell isn’t that target coming around after us? That’s what I want to know- All engines stop! Steady as you go!”

  The Caine wallowed to a stop. The target drifted on the port beam, about five hundred yards away. The telephone talker poked his head into the wheelhouse. “Pardon me, Captain-” he said, in a scared voice. “It’s Chief Bellison, sir, from the fantail. He says we ain’t got the target no more. The towline’s broken.”

  “How the hell does he know it’s broken?” Queeg snapped. “Tell him not to be so goddamn positive when he’s just making a goddamn surmise.”

  Grubnecker moved his lips, as though rehearsing the message, then spoke into the phone strapped on his neck. “Chief, the captain says not to be so goddamn positive with your goddamn sammizes.”

  “All engines ahead standard! Rudder amidships! We’ll see whether we’ve got the target or not.”

  The Caine steamed two miles. The target dwindled to a bobbing dot on the waves, not moving at all. Utter silence hung in the wheelhouse. “Kay,” said the captain. “Now we know what we want to know. We haven’t got the target.” He looked at Keefer and shrugged humorously. “Well, Tom, if ComServPac gives us cables that part when we come right a few degrees that’s his lookout, hey? ... Willie, give me a despatch blank.”

  He wrote, Defective towline parted southwest corner gunnery area Charlie. Target adrift, menace to navigation. Am returning to base. Suggest tug recover or destroy target at dawn tomorrow.

  “Send it out on the harbor frequency,” he said.

  As Willie took the despatch Maryk came running into the wheelhouse, his khaki shirt black with sweat. “Sir, the motor whaleboat is swung out and the target detail is standing by. It’ll take us about an hour to recover. If we close to about fifty yards-”

  “Recover what?”

  “The target, sir.” The first lieutenant seemed amazed at the question.

  “Show Mr. Maryk the despatch, Willie,” said Queeg, grinning. The first lieutenant ran his eye over the scribbled sheet. Queeg went on, “As I see it, Mr. Maryk-maybe your insight is more profound than mine-my responsibility doesn’t include emergencies arising from defective gear. If ServPac gives me a towline that parts my duty is to let him know and then get back home and await the next operation, instead of fooling away the Navy’s time out here to no purpose- Mr. Keefer, kindly ask the navigator for a course back to Pearl.”

  Maryk followed Keefer out to the port wing and tugged at his shirt sleeve. “Tom,” he whispered, “doesn’t he know that we went around in circles and cut the target loose?”

  “Steve,” murmured the communications officer, shaking his head, “don’t ask me what goes on in his mind. We’re in trouble with this joker, Steve. I’m not fooling.”

  The two officers went into the charthouse, where Gorton was calculating a sun line. Keefer said, “Skipper wants a course to Pearl, Burt.”

  Gorton’s mouth fell open. “What! How about the target?”

  Maryk told him Queeg’s reasoning on the subject and added, “Burt, if you want to keep him out of trouble, try to talk him into recovering it-”

  “Listen, Steve, I ain’t talking the old man into anything he-”

  Queeg’s scowling face poked into the charthouse. “Well, well? What’s the staff conference all about? I’m still waiting for a course to Pearl-”

  “Captain, I’m sorry if I seem pigheaded, sir,” Maryk blurted, “but I still think we ought to try to recover that damn target. It’s worth thousands of dollars, sir. We can do it if-”

  “How do you know we can do it? Has this ship ever recovered one?”

  “No, sir, but-”

  “Well, I haven’t got such a high opinion of Caine seamanship as to think they can do such a specialist job. Fool around here all afternoon, maybe get some of these enlisted dumbheads drowned on us, miss the closing of the gate-how do I know the next op-order isn’t waiting for us right now? We’re supposed to be back prior to sunset-”

  “Sir, I can recover it in an hour-”

  “So you say- Mr. Gorton, what’s your opinion?”

  The exec looked unhappily from Maryk to the captain. “Well, sir-I think Steve can be relied on-if he says-”

  “Oh hell,” said Queeg, “get Chief Bellison up here.”

  The boatswain’s mate came into the charthouse in a few minutes, dragging his feet. “Yes, Captain?” he croaked. “Bellison, if you had to recover that target how would you go about it?”

  Bellison screwed up his face into a thousand wrinkles. After a pause he rattled off a confusing answer involving heaving lines, U-bolts, swivels, pelican hooks, slip hooks, pad eyes, spring lines, and chains.

  “Hm, hm,” Queeg said. “How long would it take?”

  “Depends, sir. Sea ain’t bad-maybe forty minutes, an hour-”

  “And nobody would get killed, hey?”

  Bellison peered at the captain like a suspicious monkey. “Nuthin’ to get killed about, Cap’n-”

  Queeg paced the bridge, muttering, for a few minutes, and then sent another despatch to ComServPac: If you prefer can attempt recover target. Request instructions.

  The minesweeper steamed in a long lazy circle around the target for an hour. The answer came from ComServPac: Act at discretion. Willie delivered the despatch to the captain on the port wing, where he stood with Gorton and Maryk, watching the target.

  “Helpful, aren’t they?” Queeg said crankily, passing the despatch to the exec. He glanced up at the sun, which was about an hour and a half above the horizon. “That’s the Navy for you. Pass the buck and get a receipt. Act at discretion, hey? Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, and I kid you not. They’re not hanging the responsibility on me for missing tomorrow’s exercise and maybe breaking some thick sailor’s neck. Let’s head for the barn.”

  But no exercise was scheduled for the next day, and the Caine lay alongside the dock, doing nothing. At eleven o’clock in the morning Gorton sat at the wardroom table, sipping coffee as he worked through a basketful of correspondence. The door was opened by a smart sailor in dress blues, who whipped off a snowy hat and said to the exec, “Pardon me, sir, where is the captain’s cabin?”

  “I’m the executive officer. What can I do for you?”

  “Sir, I have a mailgram to be delivered to the captain personally.”

  “Mailgram from whom?”

  “ComServPac, sir.”

  Gorton pointed at the captain’s cabin. The sailor knocked. When the door opened Gorton caught a glimpse of Queeg in underwear, his face heavily lathered. In a moment the sailor emerge
d, said to Gorton, “Thank you, sir,” and went out, his steps echoing up the half-deck ladder. Gorton sat still, waiting. He waited perhaps forty-five seconds, then he heard the buzzer in his cabin ring frantically. Draining off the coffee at a gulp, he pushed himself out of his chair and trudged in to the captain’s cabin.

  Queeg sat at his desk, lather still on his face, the ripped-open envelope on the floor, a sheet of flimsy paper in his right hand. His head was sunk down between his shoulders, and his left hand, resting on his knee, trembled. He glanced up sidewise at the exec for a moment, then silently held out the mailgram to him, looking away.

  At 1300 22 October commanding officer Caine will submit in person repeat in person written report on latest fiasco to operations officer ComServPac.

  The captain rose, and fished the steel balls out of khaki trousers hanging on a hook. “Will you tell me, Burt,” he said. thickly, “what you think that means?”

  Gorton shrugged unhappily.

  “Fiasco! In an official mailgram!- I’d sure as hell like to know why he calls it a fiasco. Why should I have to submit a written report? Didn’t they tell me to act at discretion? Tell me frankly, Burt, was there anything I could possibly have done that I didn’t do? Any mistake you think I made?” Gorton was silent. “I’d appreciate your telling me if there was anything. I regard you as my friend.”

  “Well, sir-” Gorton hesitated. He thought ComServPac might have heard about the cutting of the towline; such stories traveled fast in the Navy. But he was afraid to mention it, because Queeg had yet to acknowledge that it had happened. “Speak up, Burt, you needn’t fear offending me.”

  “The only thing is, sir,” said the exec, “you-I think maybe you overestimated the difficulty of recovering. I’ve seen it done. We were once out on a shooting exercise with the Moulton, back in ’40. The towline parted. They recovered it, no strain, in about half an hour.”

  “I see.” Queeg compressed his mouth, staring at the balls, and was silent for a while. “Mr. Gorton, can you explain why this vital piece of information was not given to me at the time, when it would have decisively influenced my command decision?”

  Gorton gaped at the captain.

  “Maybe you think I’m pulling a fast one on you, Mr. Gorton. Maybe you think I was supposed to read your mind for any relevant information. Maybe you don’t think that the primary duty of a second-in-command is to give his superior informed advice when asked.”

  “Sir-sir, if you recall, I recommended that you allow Mr. Maryk to recover-”

  “Did you tell me why you recommended that, hey?”

  “No, sir-”

  “Well, why didn’t you?”

  “Sir, I assumed that when you said-”

  “You assumed. You assumed! Burt, you can’t assume a goddamn thing in the Navy. Not a goddamn thing. That’s why I have to submit a written report to ComServPac, because you assumed.” Queeg struck the desk with his fist, and glowered silently at the wall for perhaps a minute.

  “I readily grant you,” he said, “that it called for a little intelligence on your part to understand your duty in this matter and give me all the dope. But it was definitely your responsibility. Hereafter, of course, if you want to be treated as if you don’t have the professional background which I respect in you, why, that can easily be arranged.”

  Queeg sat, nodding to himself, for a long while. Gorton stood dumfounded, his heart pounding.

  “Kay,” said the captain at last. “It’s probably not the first butch you’ve ever pulled, Burt, and it may not be your last, but I damn well hope it’s the last you pull as my executive officer. I like you personally, but I write fitness reports on the basis of professional performance only. “That’s all, Burt.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Queeg on the Carpet

  Willie Keith came into Keefer’s room shortly after the captain left for his interview with ComServPac. The ensign’s hair was rumpled, his boyish face full of strain. “Say, Tom, excuse me,” he said. “How about this written report on Urban’s shirttail? What the devil are you going to say?”

  Keefer yawned and smiled. “What the hell are you worrying about? Write anything. What does it matter? Whose eyes are going to see it? Take a look at what I wrote. It’s on the desk there under those sneakers.”

  Willie pulled out the typewritten sheet and read:

  Subject: Urban, Signalman 3/C-Violation of Uniform Regulations by.

  1. On 21 October 1943 subject man was out of uniform due to inadequate supervision.

  2. Undersigned officer, as OOD, and also as department head of subject man, was responsible for adequate supervision of subject man. Due to insufficient attention to duty this was not done.

  3. The failure to adequately supervise subject man is regretted.

  4. Steps have been taken to ensure that such incidents do not recur.

  THOMAS KEEFER

  Willie shook his head in rueful admiration. “Jesus, that’s perfect. How long did it take you to do it? I’ve been sweating over mine since reveille.”

  “Are you kidding?” said the communications officer. “I wrote that as fast as I could type it. Probably a minute and a half. You just have to develop an ear for Navy prose, Willie. For instance, note that split infinitive in paragraph three. If you want a letter to sound official, split an infinitive. Use the word ‘subject’ very often. Repeat phrases as much as possible. See my beautiful reiteration of the phrase ‘subject man.’ Why, it’s got the hypnotic insistence of a bass note in a Bach fugue.”

  “I wish I could copy yours verbatim. But I guess he’d catch on-”

  “Hell, I’ll bat one out for you.”

  “Would you?” Willie brightened. “I don’t know, I thought I could write, but composing an official report on Urban’s shirttail has me licked.”

  “Which is exactly the idea,” said Keefer. “By making you write a report about a silly thing, he makes you sweat-and that’s all he’s after, to make you sweat. A written report by its nature should be about something important. It’s a terrific effort to write an official document about a shirttail without sounding impudent or idiotic-”

  “That’s just it,” broke in Willie eagerly. “All my drafts sound as though I’m kidding the skipper, or insulting him-”

  “Of course our little circle-steaming friend ran afoul of me, because I’m a gifted writer. I actually enjoy writing Navy letters. It’s like a concert pianist improvising on Chopsticks. Don’t let it get you, Willie. Queeg is a refreshing change from De Vriess, whose bullying technique was sarcasm, about as subtle as a rhinoceros charge. Queeg hasn’t got the personal force of De Vriess, who could look anybody in the eye. So he adopts technique 4-X. This consists of retreating into his official identity, like a priest inside a mumbo-jumbo idol, and making you address him through that scary image. Standard Navy. That’s the whole idea of these reports. So get used to them, because there’ll be plenty of them, and-”

  “Pardon me, when will you write that second improvisation, on Chopsticks? He’ll be back soon.”

  Keefer grinned. “Right away. Bring me Gorton’s portable.”

  Captain Grace, chewing on the stem of an enormous black pipe which emitted a column of blue smoke and occasional sparks from the bowl, accepted the envelope offered by the captain of the Caine and motioned him to a yellow wooden chair beside his desk. Queeg, natty as his bulbous figure permitted in gabardine khakis, sat with his fingers laced tightly together in his lap.

  Grace rasped the envelope open with a wicked-looking Japanese paper cutter, and spread the report before him on the desk. He put on heavy black-rimmed glasses, and read the document. Then he deliberately removed his glasses, and shoved the report aside with the hairy back of his hand. He inhaled on his pipe, and puffed up a volcanic cloud from the hissing bowl. “Unsatisfactory,” he said, looking straight at Queeg.

  The commander’s lower lip trembled. “May I ask why, sir?”

  “Because it says nothing I didn’t know before, and
explains nothing I wanted explained.”

  Queeg unconsciously began to roll imaginary balls between the fingers of both hands.

  “I gather,” Grace went on, “that you divide the blame among your exec, your first lieutenant, your chief boatswain’s mate, and your predecessor, Captain de Vriess.”

  “Sir, I accept full responsibility for everything,” Queeg said hastily. “I’m well aware that the mistakes of subordinates are no excuse for an officer but simply reflect on his ability to lead. And as for my predecessor, why, sir, I am cognizant that the ship spent a very long time in the forward area and I have no complaints about the ship, but facts are facts, and the state of training is definitely not up to snuff, but I have taken steps which will quickly remedy the situation, and so-”

  “Why didn’t you recover the target, Commander?”

  “Sir, as I state in my report the chief boatswain’s mate seemed to have no clear idea how to go about it and my officers were equally vague and uncertain, and failed to give me precise information, and a captain has to lean on his subordinates to some extent, it’s inevitable. And I judged that it was more important for the Caine to report back to base for such further duty as might be assigned instead of wasting God knows how much time in futile complicated maneuvering. If this decision was erroneous it is regretted, but that was my decision.”

  “Hell, man, there’s nothing complicated about recovering a target,” Grace said irritably. “You can do it in half an hour. DMS’s out here have done it a dozen times. Those damn things cost money. God knows where that target is now. The tug we sent out can’t find it.”

  “I’m not commanding that tug, sir,” Queeg said with a sly little smile at his hands.

  Grace screwed up his eyes and peered at Queeg as though he were in a very poor light. He rapped the ash out of his pipe against a horny palm into a heavy glass ashtray. “See here, Commander,” he said in a pleasanter tone than he had hitherto used, “I understand how you feel about your first command. You’re anxious to make no mistakes-it’s only natural. I was that way myself. But I made mistakes, and paid for them, and gradually grew into a fairly competent officer. Let’s be frank with each other, Commander Queeg, for the sake of your ship and, if I may say so, your future career. Forget that this is an official interview. From here on in everything is off the record.”