The Caine Mutiny

by Herman Wouk

  Maryk dropped into his chair and rubbed his face hard with both palms. “Lay off, Tom-”

  “I have laid off, haven’t I, Steve? I haven’t talked about it since the Stilwell thing. This is something new. This is over the red line.”

  Maryk lit a cigar and puffed blue clouds. “All right. Why?”

  “It’s a genuine systematized fantasy. I can tell you exactly what’s happened. Ducely’s orders did it. They were a terrible shock to the captain. You saw what a spin he went into. This is the next step. He’s trying to restore his shattered ego. He’s re-enacting the biggest triumph of his naval career-the cheese investigation on the Barzun. The strawberries don’t mean anything. But the circumstances were a perfect take-off for a detective drama by which he could prove to himself he’s still the red-hot Queeg of 1937. He’s invented this duplicate key to our icebox because there’s got to be one, for his sake-not because it’s logical. It isn’t logical. It’s crazy-”

  “Well, what do you say happened to the strawberries, then?”

  “Oh, Christ, the mess boys ate them, of course. You know that. What else?”

  “He cross-examined them all yesterday morning. Scared them white. And he’s satisfied they didn’t-”

  “I’d like to have heard those interviews. He forced them to keep up their lies. He wanted them to be innocent. Otherwise he couldn’t act out the great drama of the key, don’t you understand-”

  “You’ve got nothing, Tom. Just another one of your fancy theories.”

  “I’ve got a captain with paranoia, or there’s no such thing as paranoia,” retorted Keefer. Maryk impatiently picked up a log sheet on his desk and began reading it. The novelist said quietly, “Steve. Are you familiar with Articles 184, 185, and 186 of the Navy Regulations?”

  The exec jumped up. “For Christ’s sake, Tom,” he muttered. He put his head through the curtain for a moment to peer up the wardroom passageway. Then he said, “Watch your voice.”

  “Are you, though?”

  “I know what you’re talking about.” The exec took a deep breath, and puffed out his cheeks. “You’re the one that’s crazy. Not the captain.”

  “Okay,” said Keefer. He looked the exec squarely in the eye; turned, and went out.

  That night the executive officer wrote a long entry in his medical log. When he was through he put away the folder, locked his safe, and took down the fat blue-bound Navy Regulations volume. He opened the book, looked over his shoulder at the curtained doorway, then rose and slid shut the metal door, which was almost never used in the tropics. He turned to Article 184 and read aloud slowly, in a monotonous mutter: “It is conceivable that most unusual and extraordinary circumstances may arise in which the relief from duty of a commanding officer by a subordinate becomes necessary, either by placing him under arrest or on the sick list; but such action shall never be taken without the approval of the Navy Department or other appropriate higher authority, except when reference to such higher authority is undoubtedly impracticable because of the delay involved or for other clearly obvious reason. ...”

  CHAPTER 27

  The Search

  Flat gray clouds closed in overhead. A strong wind from the west whipped the bridge clean of stack gas, and heeled the Caine over steeply each time it rolled to starboard. Lines of white spray began to appear on the blackish rough surface of the sea. Sailors staggered here and there, collecting keys, distributing tags, borrowing pens and pencils, and maintaining a murmur of rebellious cursing.

  By seven o’clock Willie Keith had interviewed all the men in his department. On his bunk was a large cardboard carton which contained a tangle of some four hundred tagged keys. He hefted the box, wobbled through the wardroom with it, backed up the rolling ladder to the main deck, and inched along the rainy, slippery passageway to the captain’s cabin. He kicked at the door; it rang hollowly. “Open, please, sir. Both arms full.”

  The door opened, automatically blacking out the interior of the cabin. Willie stepped over the coaming into the darkness. The door clanged behind him, and the lights flashed up brightly.

  There were four people in the room: the captain, Ensign Voles, Jellybelly, and Chief Bellison. The captain’s bunk was a sea of keys-there seemed to be a hundred thousand of them, brass keys, steel keys, iron keys, of all shapes, tangled and knotted in each other and in the cords of the white tags. The deck was piled with cardboard cartons. Jellybelly and Bellison were clinking the keys into two separate heaps. Ensign Voles was passing the keys from the smaller heap one by one to the captain. Queeg, sitting at his desk, white-faced and red-eyed, but full of enthusiasm, plunged the keys one by one into the padlock, tried to turn them, and discarded them into a box between his feet. He glanced up at Willie, snapped, “Don’t stand there gawking, dump ’em and run along,” and resumed the regular smothered clank of key into lock, key into lock, key into lock. The air was fetid and smoky. Willie dumped his keys on the captain’s bed, hastened from the room, and went out on the forecastle.

  Slant waving lines of rain were blowing across the bow. The wind whipped his trouser legs and water spattered his face. Willie wedged himself in the lee of the bridgehouse. The bow plunged into a trough, and cut a wave into two foaming black streams as it rose again. Spray blew past Willie and drenched the deck and the bridge, dripping down on him.

  He loved these lonely moments on the forecastle, in all weathers. There was balm in the wide sea and the fresh wind for all the itchy afflictions of life on the Caine. In the late stormy twilight he could see the dim forms of the Montauk, the Kalamazoo, and the nearest destroyers of the screen, small tossing shapes of an intenser black on the gray-black of the ocean. Inside those shapes were light, and warmth, and noise, and all the thousand rituals of Navy life, and-for all he knew-crises as wild and unlikely as the strawberry affair on the Caine. Which of the watchers on the other bridges, seeing the narrow old minesweeper plunging through the steep waves, could guess that its crew was full of mutinous mutterings, and that its captain was immured in his room, testing innumerable keys in a padlock, his eyes gleaming?

  The sea was the one thing in Willie’s life that remained larger than Queeg. The captain had swelled in his consciousness to an all-pervading presence, a giant of malice and evil; but when Willie filled his mind with the sight of the sea and the sky, he could, at least for a while, reduce Queeg to a sickly well-meaning man struggling with a job beyond his powers. The hot little fevers of the Caine, the deadlines, the investigations, the queer ordinances, the dreaded tantrums, all these could dwindle and cool to comic pictures, contrasted with the sea-momentarily. It was impossible for Willie to carry the vision back below decks. One rake on his nerves, a wardroom buzzer, a penciled note, and he was sucked into the fever world again. But the relief, while it lasted, was delicious and strengthening. Willie lingered on the gloomy splashing forecastle for half an hour, gulping great breaths of the damp wind, and then went below.

  It was still raining next morning when the Caine entered Apra Harbor in Guam, and the craggy hills of the island were misty gray. The ship tied up at a mooring buoy, alongside a new 2200-ton destroyer, the Harte. As soon as the lines were secured, Queeg ordered armed guards posted every twenty feet along the port side, to prevent anybody from passing the key across to some friend on the destroyer. He also sent Jorgensen over to the Harte, requesting the chief censor to notify the Caine’s captain if any keys appeared in the mail on the Harte. The censor, a skinny lieutenant with black-rimmed hollow eyes, looked at Jorgensen as though he suspected him of being insane, and made him repeat the request twice. Then he reluctantly nodded.

  Meanwhile, Willie was helping the jubilant Ducely pack his belongings. Queeg had at last detached the ensign, who had arranged to go to the beach with the boat of the Harte at ten o’clock. “Why don’t you stick around and watch the search?” said Willie.

  Ducely giggled, snapping the brass fasteners on his beautiful pigskin suitcase. He was dressed in blues redolent of camphor, the le
ft breast decorated with a new yellow ribbon and two battle stars. “Willie, I’m getting off this hell ship while the getting is good. I have hated every single second of it, and there have been far too many seconds, already. As far as the search goes, you’re not going to find any key. There isn’t any.”

  “I don’t think so, either, but the spectacle will be something-”

  “I’m not saying what I think, Willie. I know there isn’t any key.” The ensign stooped to look in the mirror and combed his long blond hair.

  “What do you know, exactly?”

  “Nothing that I’ll tell you. I’m not going to get involved again with that potbellied little maniac, when I’m about to go free.” Ducely shook pink hair oil on his brush, and stroked his locks carefully. Willie grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

  “Duce, damn your whipped-cream soul, do you know anything that can clear up this crazy mess? Tell me, or I’ll tell Queeg you’re holding something out, so help me-”

  The ensign laughed. “Now, Willie, you won’t tell Old Yellowstain anything. I know you. I’ve been abusing that weakness of yours for ten months. I’m sorry I threw you, Willie. I told you the first time we talked that I was no good. That’s me. I have a certain slight charm in New York, where I can-”

  “What do you know about those goddamn strawberries, Duce?”

  The willowy ensign hesitated, and bit his nails. “It’s a shame not to tell you, really, but I insist on a deal. You say nothing about it until twenty minutes after I’ve left-”

  “All right, all right. What do you know?”

  “It was the mess boys. I saw them scraping out the container. It was one o’clock in the morning. I came down off the midwatch to use the head. They were having such a good time, I guess they didn’t see me pass the pantry-”

  “Why the hell didn’t you speak up at that meeting?”

  “Willie, have you no heart? Did you see Whittaker’s face that night? Red-hot wires under my nails wouldn’t have dragged it out of me.” He swung his bag off the bed. “God, to think that I’m going free, free of this madhouse-”

  “Lucky boy,” snarled Willie. “Did you take your corset ad?”

  Ducely looked embarrassed, and laughed, and turned red. “I guess you can blackmail me about that after the war. Willie, for ten days she seemed absolutely divine to me. I don’t know. If I stayed on this ship much longer I think I’d begin insisting I was Lord Nelson.” He held out his hand. “Willie, I’m no good, but I can respect a hero. Shake.”

  “Go to hell,” muttered Willie, taking his hand.

  Whittaker came to the doorway. “Meetin’ fo’ all officers, Mistah Keith, suh-”

  The wardroom was crowded with officers, chiefs, and first-class petty officers ranged around the table, most of them standing. Queeg, at the head, was rolling the balls, smoking, and silently studying several red-crayon diagrams spread before him on the table. Ducely threaded through the crowd unnoticed, and went out. Queeg began to outline his search plan. He had worked up a scheme for herding the men topside, stripping and searching them by groups, and returning them below to spaces that had meantime been searched. The point of the arrangement was that at no time could the missing key be moved from an unsearched to a searched space; and in this respect, Willie perceived, the plan was ingenious and effective. He felt a little sorry for Queeg. The captain was transformed with pleasant excitement; he seemed genuinely happy for the first time in many months; and it was pathetic to consider that the whole explosive burst of energy was for nothing. When the meeting adjourned Willie tapped Maryk’s shoulder. “Got to talk to you, Steve.” They went into the exec’s room, and Willie told him Ducely’s story.

  “Good Christ,” said Maryk, resting his head wearily against his fist. “So that’s it, after all-the mess boys-”

  “Going to tell the old man?”

  “Well, of course, right away. Why turn the whole ship upside down now? I’m sorry for the boys, but they’ll have to take the consequences. They had no right to eat the damn strawberries-”

  Maryk went up to the captain’s cabin. Keys were still heaped in thousands in boxes on the deck. The captain was in his swivel chair, idly playing with the padlock. He was dressed in new clothes, and shaved, and his shoes were brightly shined. “Hello, Steve. Ready to let her roll? I want you to run it, of course, but I’ll be supervising pretty closely. Any time you say-”

  “Captain, something has come up.” Maryk repeated Ducely’s information. As Queeg gathered the import his head began to sink between his shoulders and the old angry glare at nothing appeared in his eyes.

  “Let’s get this straight. Ducely told Keith, and Keith told you. Ducely’s supposed to be the one who saw it, and he’s gone. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how do we know either Ducely or Keith is telling the truth?”

  “Captain, they’re both naval officers-”

  “Oh, don’t give me that poppycock.” Queeg took a pair of steel balls from the bowl on his desk. “Ducely’s capable of a parting prank, he’s perfectly irresponsible, and anyway, we don’t even know he said it. Keith picked a mighty convenient time to tell us about it-after Ducely left-”

  “Sir, Ducely made him promise-”

  “I know, you said that. Well, I could take good care of Mr. Ducely if I didn’t have other fish to fry. He thinks he’s escaped, does he? Well, I could summon him back from the beach as a material witness-his plane isn’t gone yet-and keep him here till hell froze over. But as I say, Keith may have made up the whole thing, so-”

  “Sir, why on earth would Willie do that-”

  “How do I know who he’s trying to protect?” said Queeg. “His loyalty upward is zero, that’s for sure. Maybe it extends downward in some peculiar direction. Anyway, I’m not going to sit here psychoanalyzing Mr. Keith, when we’ve got important business to do.”

  Maryk said after a small silence, “Sir, you want to go ahead with the search?”

  “Why not? Neither Mr. Ducely nor Mr. Keith produced the key, which is all that interests me-”

  “Captain ... Captain, there is no key, if the mess boys ate the strawberries. Are you going to assume that two of your officers have lied to you?”

  “I’m not assuming a goddamned thing,” Queeg exclaimed through his nose, “and that’s exactly why we’re going to look for that key. Nobody’s going to kid me into assuming it doesn’t exist. Now let’s get going!”

  Heavy swells were rolling into the harbor from the storm on the open sea. The Caine and the Harte, plunging and rubbing and rolling against each other, were mashing their fenders to splinters. Willie, relaxing in the captain’s chair in the empty wheelhouse, was watching Bellison and three sailors slipping and cursing on the forecastle in the thick rain as they put across extra lines and doubled the canvas chafing gear in the chocks. Maryk came into the pilothouse, his black raincoat streaming, and switched on the p.a. system. Willie heard both the normal voice and the denatured boom of the loudspeakers: “Now hear this. Commence search, Commence search. All hands go topside. Clear all spaces. Personal searches will be conducted forward on the well deck under the tarpaulin and aft in the crew’s shower.”

  Willie jumped out of his chair. “Steve! Didn’t you tell him what Duce said?”

  “He says we search anyway-”

  “But that’s pointless-why, it’s-it’s crazy-”

  “Bear a hand, Willie. What’s your assignment?”

  “Personal searches aft. Christ, in this weather, too-well-”

  “Farrington and Voles aren’t assigned. Pick one of them up to help you if you want-”

  Willie made his way aft. The rocking, pitching main deck was all confusion. Sailors in dripping rain gear or soaked dungarees milled on the well deck around Harding and Paynter. Two men stood naked, strangely pink and white in the drab crowd, their faces expressing embarrassment, defiance, and amused scorn. The officers fumbled through their clothes. The guards spaced along the starboard si
de slouched, leaning on their rifles, and joked with the other sailors. Ensign Farrington stood in the entrance of the wardroom hatchway, one hand hanging on the top of the hatch, observing the search with the half-entertained, half-horrified look of a boy at a freak show.

  “Farrington,” Willie called, crossing the well deck, “you come along with me. You’ll assist me.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the ensign said, and fell into step behind Willie. Walking down the port passageway, the lieutenant observed over his shoulder, “This strikes you as queer business, no doubt.”

  “Well, Mr. Keith, I was feeling outside of things, and pretty useless. I’m glad of a chance to help.”

  Willie couldn’t see his face, but the tone of sober deference was unmistakable. It was the tone in which Willie had addressed Lieutenant Maryk and Lieutenant Gorton fifteen months ago, when they had seemed to him infinitely senior, battle-wise men of the sea. For an instant he was flattered; and he reflected that the Caine itself was perhaps so bewildering and odd to Farrington that the search scarcely surprised him, after all. It was becoming hard for Willie to picture the effect of the Caine on newcomers, and to reconstruct the emotions of fresh ensigns.

  They emerged from the passageway into another crowd of wet, sullen sailors, drifting here and there in the rain. Willie herded the men into places of shelter, and organized an alphabetical sequence for the stripping. The men came in pairs into the shower room to take off their clothes. Farrington went to work systematically and unsmilingly, helping Willie rummage through the dank garments. Willie had the grateful feeling that another officer had at last come aboard the Caine.

  One of the first men to be stripped was Meatball. Naked, hairy, and squat, he stood grinning, while Willie felt through the dungarees and in the shoes, wrinkling his nose at the powerful animal smell. He handed them back hastily. “Okay, Meatball, get dressed.”