by Herman Wouk
“Why, Mr. Keith,” said the coxswain innocently, “ain’t you gonna look up my behind?”
The note was good-humored, and Willie swiftly decided not to take offense. “No, thanks. I don’t want any medals for extraordinary heroism.”
“Old man is really Asiatic, sir, ain’t he?” said Meatball, stepping into his trousers.
“Never mind about the captain,” said Willie sharply. “Keep a respectful tongue in your head.”
“Christ, sir, I’m only sayin’ what Mr. Keefer said to a whole bunch of us-”
“I’m not interested. No wise talk about the captain to me, understand?”
“Aye aye, sir,” whined the coxswain, looking so abashed that Willie instantly felt guilty and apologetic. The process of stripping the sailors rasped his nerves; it seemed to him an almost German rape of their personal rights; and the fact that they were submitting so tamely was an indication of the way the Queeg regime had weakened the crew’s spirit. Their only remonstrance was obscene and impudent joking. It gave Willie a twinge to see how easily the coxswain was cowed out of even that small comfort.
The head of Queeg poked around the doorway into the shower room. “Well, well, well. Everything getting under way nicely?”
“Yes, sir,” said Willie.
“Fine, fine. Put Farrington to work, hey? Fine, fine.” The head grinned, and nodded, and disappeared.
“Who’s got a cigarette?” said Willie, a little shakily.
“Right here, sir.” Meatball extended a pack, and swiftly struck a match, shielding it with a cupped fat palm. He said genially, as Willie puffed, “Gives a guy the heebie-jeebies, don’t it, sir?”
Captain Queeg walked forward with rapid steps, ignoring the malevolent looks of the sailors clustered in doorways and under tarpaulins. Raindrops bounced from his yellow poncho. He encountered Maryk climbing out of the narrow hatchway of the forward engine room. “Well, well, Steve. How’s it going down there?”
“Okay, sir.” The exec was flushed and sweating. “Just started, of course-it’ll take about four hours-but they’re really going at it-”
“Fine, fine. Budge is a man you can rely on. Yes, sir. Fact, Steve, I think all our chiefs and first-class are doing themselves proud, and the officers, too, for that matter. Why, even Keith-”
“Pardon me, sir.” The yeoman, Jellybelly, was at the captain’s elbow. He saluted, panting, with a glance at Maryk.
“Yes, Porteous?”
“You-wanted a report, sir, from me. I’ve got it for you-”
“Oh, yes, yes. Excuse me, Steve. Keep an eye on things. Keep ’em moving. Come along, Porteous.”
Queeg closed his cabin door and said, “Well?”
“Sir, you meant that about yeoman’s school in, Frisco?” Jellybelly’s look was cunning and timorous.
“Of course I did, Porteous, I don’t kid about such things. If you have any information which can be proved-”
“It was the mess boys, sir,” whispered the fat yeoman.
“Oh, hell, it was not. Damn it, why do you waste my time-”
“Sir, Chief Bellison saw them. It was around one o’clock that night. He was coming back from breaking up a crap game in the forward crew’s compartment. He passed the pantry. He told a couple of chiefs, and-”
“Are you trying to tell me that my chief master-at-arms would see pilfering, and not make an arrest, and not even report to me?” Queeg pulled steel balls out of his pocket and began to roll them. The happy look was fading from his face, the sick wrinkles reappearing.
“Well, sir, he didn’t think nothing of it, see, because the mess boys, well, they’re always chowing up on wardroom leftovers, it ain’t nothing new. And then when this big fuss was kicked up, he felt sorry for them, he thought they’d all pull BCD’s, so he kept quiet. But it’s all over the ship, sir, this morning-you can prove it easy-”
Queeg dropped into his swivel chair, and looked around dully at the myriad keys stacked on the deck. His mouth hung slightly open; his lower lip was pulled in. “Porteous, this conversation of ours is to remain confidential.”
The yeoman, his face twisted in a rueful leer, said, “It certainly will, sir, I hope.”
“Type out your application for that school, with an approving endorsement, and I’ll sign it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s all, Porteous.”
After a half hour, Maryk began to wonder what had become of the captain. The plan called for Queeg to supervise topside and forward while the exec concentrated on the labyrinthine engineering spaces, but the busy, smiling figure of the commanding officer had vanished from the search scene. Maryk went to Queeg’s cabin and knocked. “Come in,” called a harsh voice. The captain was lying on his bunk in his underwear, staring at the ceiling, rolling balls in both hands. “What is it, Mr. Maryk?”
“Pardon me, sir-I thought you were supervising topside-”
“I have a headache. You take over.”
The exec said uncertainly, after a pause, “Aye aye, sir. I don’t know if I can give the thorough coverage you want-”
“Delegate someone to assist you, then.”
“Aye aye, sir. I wanted to ask you-do you think we have to pull out that lead ballast in the bilges and look under all the blocks? That’s a terrific job, sir-”
“I don’t care what you do. Leave me alone. I’m sick of the whole stupid business. Nothing gets done on this ship unless I wet-nurse it along. Do it any old way you please. Of course you’ll find nothing, and I don’t give a damn if you don’t. I’m used to the idea that nothing I want done on this ship is ever done adequately, and of course a sloppy search is no search at all, but go ahead, do it your way. Leave me out of it.”
“Sir,” said the exec, baffled, “do you want the search to continue?”
“OF COURSE I want it to continue! Why shouldn’t I?” yelled the captain, rising on one elbow, and glaring at Maryk with red eyes. “I still want this ship searched from stem to stern, every damn inch of it! Now please get out, I have a headache!”
Though Maryk glumly persisted in the search, the crew very quickly sensed that something had changed. The captain’s disappearance and the perfunctory manner of the exec were soon reflected in an increasing slackness of the search party, officers and petty officers alike, and in bolder jokes and effrontery from the sailors. By noon the search had dwindled to a shabby farce, embarrassing for the officers, and amusing to the men. The searchers were merely going through lazy motions, like customs inspectors who had been bribed. At one o’clock Maryk called a halt, accepting tongue-in-cheek reports from all his subordinates that their parts in the search had been carried out. The rain had stopped, and the air was steamy and close. The exec went to the captain’s cabin, and found the shades drawn, and Queeg naked in his bunk, wide awake. “Well, did you find it?” said Queeg.
“No, sir.”
“Exactly as I predicted. Well, at least I gauged the caliber and loyalty of my subordinates correctly.” The captain rolled over, his face to the bulkhead. “Kay. Get these keys out of here and return them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you can pass the word around that if anybody thinks I’m licked they’ve got another think coming. I’ll make my arrest in due time.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The exec ordered some sailors to haul the cartons of keys out on the well deck. He summoned Willie Keith, Voles, and Farrington to redistribute them. The crew jammed the little space between the bridge and the galley deckhouse, laughing, yelling, and wrestling with each other, as the officers began the tedious job of unscrambling thousands of keys, calling off the names on the tags, and passing them out to the owners. A carnival of foolishness broke loose. Prim sailors on the Harte lined the rail, staring in astonishment at the mopping and mowing, and walking on hands, and obscene singing, and wild jigging of the Caine crew. Engstrand brought out his guitar to accompany such ditties as Roll Me Over in the Clover, Hi-ho Gafoozalum, The Bastard King
of England, and The Man Who Shagged O’Reilly’s Daughter. Meatball appeared, dressed in nothing but a pair of gigantic pink panties, from the waist of which there protruded a huge black key. The officers were too enmeshed in the tangled masses of keys to interfere with the boiling merriment. All this was taking place within a few feet of the captain’s cabin. The hilarious sounds may have penetrated the dark, hot room; but there was no word of protest from Queeg.
Maryk, meanwhile, had gone below to his room. He took off all his clothes, lit a long cigar, and brought the “medical log” out of his desk safe. Settling himself on his bunk, the folder propped on his knees, he began reading at the first page. The cigar was half smoked when he turned over the last sheet and put the log aside. He smoked away, staring at the green bulkhead, until the butt felt hot to his lips when he drew on it. He crushed it out, and pressed a buzzer beside his bed. Whittaker appeared at the doorway in a moment. “Suh?”
Maryk smiled wryly at the Negro’s scared look. “Relax, Whittaker. I just want you to hunt up Mr. Keefer and ask him to come to my room if he’s free.”
“Yes, suh.” Whittaker grinned and ran off.
“Close the door, Tom,” said Maryk when the novelist arrived. “Not the curtain. The door.”
“Aye aye, Steve.” Keefer slid the squeaking metal door shut.
“Okay. Now, I’ve got something for you to read.” Maryk handed over the folder. “Get comfortable, it’s pretty long.”
Keefer sat in the chair. He glanced quizzically at the exec when he saw the first paragraphs. He read a couple of pages. “Jesus, even I’d forgotten some of this,” he murmured.
“Don’t say anything till you’ve finished-”
“So this is the mysterious novel you’ve been writing all these months, hey, Steve?”
“You’re the novelist, not me. Go ahead and read it.”
The gunnery officer read through the entire log. Maryk sat on his bunk, slowly rubbing his naked chest with his palms, watching the other’s face. “Well, what do you think?” he said when Keefer put the folder down on the desk.
“You’ve got him cold; Steve.”
“You think so?”
“I congratulate you. It’s a clinical picture of a paranoiac, a full case history, not a doubt in the world of it. You’ve got him, Steve. It’s an amazing job you’ve done-”
“Okay, Tom.” Maryk swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, and leaned forward. “I’m ready to go up to Com Fifth Fleet here on the beach and turn in the skipper, under Article 184. Will you come with me?”
Keefer drummed his fingers on the desk. He pulled a cigarette out of a pack in his breast pocket. “Sure you want me along?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Tom, I told you why long ago when we were alongside the Pluto. You’re the one who knows psychiatry. If I start talking about it I’ll make a goddamn idiot of myself and flub the whole thing-”
“You don’t have to talk. Your log does all the talking.”
“I’m going to be walking in on admirals, and they’ll be calling in doctors, and I just can’t present the thing myself. Anyway, I’m no writer. You think the log is enough. A hell of a lot is in the way a thing is written up, for an outsider. You know all these things happened, but when someone reads about them cold-I’ve got to have you along, Tom.”
There was a long silence. “The son of a bitch kept me from seeing my brother,” Keefer said unsteadily. His eyes glared.
“That’s beside the point, Tom. If the old man’s sick in the head there’s nothing to be sore about.”
“True enough-I’ll-I’m with you, Steve.”
“Okay, Tom.” The exec jumped to the deck and offered his hand, looking up into Keefer’s eyes. The squat barrel-chested fisherman and the slender writer clasped hands. “Better put on a fresh uniform if you’ve got one,” Maryk said.
Keefer looked down at his grease-smeared clothes, and smiled. “That’s what happens when you go wriggling through magazines looking for a nonexistent key.”
Maryk was lathering his face when a radioman brought him a message. “TBS, sir. I knocked at the captain’s door and looked in but he seemed to be fast asleep-”
“I’ll take it.” The despatch read: All ships Apra Harbor prepare to get under way not later than 1700. Task units will steam southward and maneuver to avoid typhoon Charlie approaching Guam. Wiping his face wearily with a damp towel, the exec took his phone from the wall bracket and buzzed the captain several times. Queeg answered at last, and sleepily told him to get the ship ready for sea.
Keefer was in his underwear, shining his shoes when the exec came into his room and showed him the message. The novelist laughed and tossed. aside the shoebrush. “Reprieve.”
“Not for long. We do it first thing when we come back-”
“Sure, Steve, sure. I’m with you. But I’m not looking forward to it-”
“Neither am I.”
CHAPTER 28
A Visit to Halsey
For two days the Caine steamed through rain, gusty winds, and ugly cross-swelling seas, in a motley company of ships which had bustled out of Apra Harbor. The typhoon blew by, a hundred fifty miles to the north. On the third morning the sea subsided, and a temperate wind blew a gray drizzle over the water. The ships separated into two groups, one returning to Guam, the other proceeding to Ulithi; the Caine went in the screen of the Ulithi group.
Merely from the backwash of the storm, the old minesweeper and its crew had taken a miserable beating. The rolling and plunging had smashed dishes, chairs, bottles, and small instruments, had tumbled stores helter-skelter out of shelves in dirty heaps on the deck, had shipped water which sloshed about in the passageways, filthy brown, and had sprung leaks in many places of the rusty hull. Antennas were down, and a boat davit and both depth-charge racks were buckled. There had been no hot food for two days. The unwashed, hairy crew had slept for only minutes at a time in their gyrating bunks. Ulithi, sunny and green, its lagoon an azure mirror, looked like Paradise to the men of the Caine-on this particular arrival. They were accustomed to refer to it as a hole, with varying foul modifiers.
“Halsey’s here on the New Jersey,” said Maryk in a low voice to Keefer, on the port wing, as the Caine steamed into Mugai Channel. “It’s flying Sopus and a four-star flag.”
Keefer peered through binoculars at the new gray battleship riding to a slack anchor chain near the channel entrance. “We’re under Com Fifth, aren’t we?” he whispered. “We missed our chance at Guam. If we go back, well-”
Queeg, on the other wing, was shouting to the helm, “Steady as you go! I said steady, damn it! Don’t run down that channel buoy!”
The exec said, “Halsey’s good enough for me. It’s an emergency. We’ll go over there as soon as we drop the hook-”
“Mister Maryk,” called Queeg, “if you’ll be kind enough to give me my anchor bearings-”
The two officers sat in the stern sheets of the gig, staring at the myriad gray jellyfish which pullulated under the shining surface of the lagoon. Keefer smoked. Maryk beat a tattoo on the brown leather portfolio containing the medical log. The gig chugged placidly down-channel toward the imposing New Jersey, two miles away. “Sun’s too damn hot. Let’s get under the canopy,” said the novelist, flipping his cigarette into the water. “Just our luck,” he went on in a low voice, when they were settled on the cracked leather cushions, screened from the gig crew by the noise of the motor, “that he’s been so goddamned normal the past week.”
“Well, it’s been that way right along,” said the exec. “Some crazy thing, then a spell when he’s okay, then something even crazier.”
“I know. Steve, d’you suppose there’s a chance we’ll get sent up to Halsey himself?”
“I think maybe so. I don’t think Article 184 comes up every day-”
“I don’t know how I’ll like looking Halsey in the eye and telling him I’ve got a crazy captain.”
“I don’t like the
idea of it much myself.”
“Fact is, Steve, Old Yellowstain handled the ship fairly well in the storm, you must admit that. Far be it from me to defend him, but what’s true is true-”
“Listen, for a sick man he did fine,” said the exec. “Only thing is, I never sleep good, waiting for him to go off his rocker again.”
“It’s amazing,” Keefer said, lighting another cigarette, “how cleverly these paranoids walk the narrow dividing line between outright lunacy and acts which can be logically explained. It’s their distinguishing characteristic. In fact, once grant their basic premise, which may only be out of phase with reality by thirty degrees or so-not necessarily a hundred eighty degrees-and everything they do becomes justifiable. Take Old Yellowstain. What is his basic premise? That everyone on the Caine is a liar, a traitor, and a funk-off, so that the ship can only function if he constantly nags and spies and threatens and screeches and hands out draconic punishments. Now, how do you go about proving that his premise is wrong?”
“You couldn’t ever prove it to him,” said Maryk. “That’s his sickness, isn’t it? But any outsider knows that there’s no ship with such a thoroughly no-good complement.”
“Well, let’s hope an outsider named Halsey figures it that way.”
After a while Keefer said, “Take that log of yours. Individually, every one of those items could be justified by Queeg. Stopping the movies for six months? Why not? Contempt of the CO is one of the worst offenses in the Navy book. Raising hell about shirttails? Commendable strictness regarding uniforms, unusual in a minesweeper captain. The water famine? Wise prudence, perhaps a bit too conservative, but right within doctrine, to avoid a shortage. How do you prove he was really taking revenge on the crew for Rabbitt’s escape? Luckily, when you add everything up, it becomes crystal-clear, but still-”
Clang, clang! The gig slowed, and Meatball shouted, “Coming alongside New Jersey gangway, Mr. Maryk!”
