The Caine Mutiny

by Herman Wouk

  “Heading 128-129-130-”

  “Willie,” said the exec, “take a look in the radar shack. See if you can tell where the hell we are in the formation.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Willie staggered out past the captain to the open wing. The wind immediately smashed him against the bridgehouse, and spray pelted him like small wet stones. He was astounded and peculiarly exhilarated to realize that in the last fifteen minutes the wind had actually become much stronger than before, and would blow him over the side if he exposed himself in a clear space. He laughed aloud, his voice thin against the guttural “Whooeeee!” of the storm. He inched himself to the door of the radar shack, freed the dogs, and tried to pull the door open, but the wind held it tightly shut. He pounded on the wet steel with his knuckles, and kicked at it, and screamed, “Open up! Open up! It’s the OOD!” A crack appeared and widened. He darted through, knocking down one of the radarmen who was pushing against the door. It snapped shut as though on a spring.

  “What the hell!” exclaimed Willie.

  There were perhaps twenty sailors jammed in the tiny space, all in life jackets with waterproof searchlights pinned to them, all with whistles dangling around their necks, all with the same round-eyed bristly white face of fear. “How are we doing, Mr. Keith?” spoke the voice of Meatball from the rear of the crush.

  “We’re doing fine-”

  “We gonna have to abandon ship, sir?” said a filthy-faced fireman.

  Willie suddenly realized what was so very strange about the shack beside the crowd. It was brightly lit. Nobody was paying any attention to the dim green slopes of the radars. He let loose a stream of obscenity that surprised him as it came out of his mouth. The sailors shrank a little from him. “Who turned on the lights in here? Who’s got the watch?”

  “Sir, there’s nothing on the scopes but sea return,” whined a radarman.

  Willie cursed some more, and then said, “Douse the lights. Get your faces against these scopes and keep them there.”

  “Okay, Mr. Keith,” said the radarman, in a friendly, respectful tone, “but it won’t do no good.” In the gloom Willie quickly saw that the sailor was right. There was no trace of the pips of the other ships, nothing but a blurry peppering and streaking of green all over the scopes. “You see, sir,” said the voice of the technician, patiently, “our masthead ain’t no higher than the water most of the time, and, anyway, all this spray, why, it’s like a solid object, sir. These scopes are jammed out-”

  “All the same,” said Willie, “the watch will be maintained on these radars, and you’ll keep trying till you do get something! And all the guys who don’t belong in here-well-well, stay here, and keep your faces closed so the watch-standers can do their duty-”

  “Sir, are we really okay?”

  “Will we have to abandon ship?”

  “I was ready to jump on that last roll-”

  “Will the ship come through it, Mr. Keith?”

  “We’re okay,” shouted Willie. “We’re okay. Don’t lose your heads. You’ll be back chipping paint in a few hours-”

  “I’ll chip this rusty old bitch till doomsday if she just rides out this blow,” said a voice, and there was a ripple of small laughs.

  “I’m staying up here if I get a court-martial for it-”

  “Me, too-”

  “Hell, there are forty guys over on the lee of the bridge-”

  “Mister Keith”-the gutter twang of Meatball again-“honest, does the old man know what the Christ he’s doing? That’s all we want to know.”

  “The old man’s doing great. You bastards shut up and take it easy. Couple of you help me get this door open.”

  Wind and spray blasted in through the open crack. Willie pulled himself out and the door clanged. The wind blew him forward into the pilothouse. In the second that elapsed he was drenched as by buckets of water. “Radars are jammed, Steve. Nothing to see until this spray moderates-”

  “Very well.”

  Despite the whining and crashing of the storm, Willie got the impression of silence in the wheelhouse. Queeg hung to the telegraph as before. Stilwell swayed at the wheel. Urban, wedged between the binnacle and the front window, clutched the quartermaster’s log as though it were a Bible. Usually there were other sailors in the wheelhouse-telephone talkers, signalmen-but they were avoiding it now as though it were the sickroom of a cancer victim. Maryk stood with both hands clamped to the captain’s chair. Willie staggered to the starboard side and glanced out at the wing. A crowd of sailors and officers pressed against the bridgehouse, hanging to each other, their clothes whipping in the wind. Willie saw Keefer, Jorgensen, and nearest him, Harding.

  “Willie, are we going to be okay?” Harding said.

  The OOD nodded, and fell back into the wheelhouse. He was vexed at not having a flashlight and whistle, like everyone else. “Just my luck to be on watch,” he thought. He did not really believe yet that the ship was going to founder, but he resented being at a disadvantage. His own man-overboard gear was in his desk below. He thought of sending the boatswain’s mate for it; and was ashamed to issue the order.

  The Caine yawed shakily back and forth on heading 180 for a couple of minutes. Then suddenly it was flung almost on its beam-ends to port by a swell, a wave and a gust of wind hitting together. Willie reeled, brought up against Stilwell, and grabbed at the wheel spokes.

  “Captain,” Maryk said, “I still think we ought to ballast-at least the stern tanks, if we’re going to steam before the wind.”

  Willie glanced at Queeg. The captain’s face was screwed up as though he were looking at a bright light. He gave no sign of having heard. “I request permission to ballast stern tanks, sir,” said the exec.

  Queeg’s lips moved. “Negative,” he said calmly and faintly.

  Stilwell twisted the wheel sharply, pulling the spokes out of Willie’s hands. The OOD grasped an overhead beam.

  “Falling off to starboard now. Heading 189-190-191”

  Maryk said, “Captain-hard left rudder?”

  “Okay,” murmured Queeg.

  “Hard left rudder, sir,” said Stilwell. “Heading 200-”

  The exec stared at the captain for several seconds while the minesweeper careened heavily to port and began its nauseating sideslipping over the swells, the wind flipping it around now in the other direction. “Captain, we’ll have to use engines again, she’s not answering to the rudder. ... Sir, how about heading up into the wind? She’s going to keep broaching to with this stern wind-”

  Queeg pushed the handles of the telegraph. “Fleet course is 180,” he said.

  “Sir, we have to maneuver for the safety of the ship-”

  “Sunshine knows the weather conditions. We’ve received no orders to maneuver at discretion-” Queeg looked straight ahead, constantly clutching the telegraph amid the gyrations of the wheelhouse.

  “Heading 225-falling away fast, sir-”

  An unbelievably big gray wave loomed on the port side, high over the bridge. It came smashing down. Water spouted into the wheelhouse from the open wing, flooding to Willie’s knees. The water felt surprisingly warm and sticky, like blood. “Sir, we’re shipping water on the goddamn bridge!” said Maryk shrilly. “We’ve got to come around into the wind!”

  “Heading 245, sir.” Stilwell’s voice was sobbing. “She ain’t answering to the engines at all, sir!”

  The Caine rolled almost completely over on its port side. Everybody in the wheelhouse except Stilwell went sliding across the streaming deck and piled up against the windows. The sea was under their noses, dashing up against the glass. “Mr. Maryk, the light on this gyro just went out!” screamed Stilwell, clinging desperately to the wheel. The wind howled and shrieked in Willie’s ears. He lay on his face on the deck, tumbling around in salt water, flailing for a grip at something solid.

  “Oh Christ, Christ, Christ, Jesus Christ, save us!” squealed the voice of Urban.

  “Reverse your rudder, Stilwell! Hard right! Hard right!
” cried the exec harshly.

  “Hard right, sir!”

  Maryk crawled across the deck, threw himself on the engine-room telegraph, wrested the handles from Queeg’s spasmodic grip, and reversed the settings. “Excuse me, Captain-” A horrible coughing rumble came from the stacks. “What’s your head?” barked Maryk.

  “Two seven five, sir!”

  “Hold her at hard right!”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  The old minesweeper rolled up a little from the surface of the water.

  Willie Keith did not have any idea what the executive officer was doing, though the maneuver was simple enough. The wind was turning the ship from south to west. Queeg had been trying to fight back to south. Maryk was doing just the opposite, now; seizing on the momentum of the twist to the right and assisting it with all the force of engines and rudder, to try to swing the ship’s head completely northward, into the wind and sea. In a calmer moment Willie would easily have understood the logic of the act, but now he had lost his bearings. He sat on the deck, hanging stupidly to a telephone jackbox, with water sloshing around his crotch, and looked to the exec as to a wizard, or an angel of God, to save him with magic passes. He had lost faith in the ship. He was overwhelmingly aware that he sat on a piece of iron in an angry dangerous sea. He could think of nothing but his yearning to be saved. Typhoon, Caine, Queeg, sea, Navy, duty, lieutenant’s bars, all were forgotten. He was like a wet cat mewing on wreckage.

  “Still coming around? What’s your head? Keep calling your head!” yelled Maryk.

  “Coming around hard, sir!” the helmsman screamed as though prodded with a knife. “Heading 310, heading. 315, heading 320-”

  “Ease your rudder to standard!”

  “Ease the rudder, sir?”

  “Yes, ease her, ease her!”

  “Ru-rudder is eased, sir-”

  “Very well.”

  Ease, ease, ease-the word penetrated Willie’s numb fogged mind. He pulled himself to his feet, and looked around. The Caine was riding upright. It rolled to one side, to the other„ and back again. Outside the windows there was nothing but solid white spray. The sea was invisible. The forecastle was invisible. “You okay, Willie? I thought you were knocked cold.” Maryk, braced on the captain’s chair, gave him a brief side glance.

  “I’m okay. Wha-what’s happening, Steve?”

  “Well, this is it. We ride it out for a half hour, we’re okay-What’s your head?” he called to Stilwell.

  “Three two five, sir-coming around slower, now-”

  “Well, sure, fighting the wind-she’ll come around-we’ll steady on 000-”

  “Aye aye, sir-”

  “We will not,” said Queeg.

  Willie had lost all awareness of the captain’s presence. Maryk had filled his mind as father, leader, and savior. He looked now at the little pale man who stood with arms and legs entwined around the telegraph stand, and had the feeling that Queeg was a stranger. The captain, blinking and shaking his head as though he had just awakened, said, “Come left to 180.”

  “Sir, we can’t ride stern to wind and save this ship,” said the exec.

  “Left to 180, helmsman.”

  “Hold it, Stilwell,” said Maryk.

  “Mr. Maryk, fleet course is 180.” The captain’s voice was faint, almost whispering. He was looking glassily ahead. “Captain, we’ve lost contact with the formation-the radars are blacked out-”

  “Well, then, we’ll find them- I’m not disobeying orders on account of some bad weather-”

  The helmsman said, “Steady on 000-”

  Maryk said, “Sir, how do we know what the orders are now? The guide’s antennas may be down-ours may be-call up Sunshine and tell him we’re in trouble-”

  Butting and plunging, the Caine was a riding ship again. Willie felt the normal vibration of the engines, the rhythm of seaworthiness in the pitching, coming up from the deck into the bones of his feet. Outside the pilothouse there was only the whitish darkness of the spray and the dismal whine of the wind, going up and down in shivery glissandos.

  “We’re not in trouble,” said Queeg. “Come left to 180.”

  “Steady as you go!” Maryk said at the same instant. The helmsman looked around from one officer to the other, his eyes popping in panic. “Do as I say!” shouted the executive officer. He turned on the OOD. “Willie, note the time.” He strode to the captain’s side and saluted. “Captain, I’m sorry, sir, you’re a sick man. I am temporarily relieving you of command of this ship, under Article 184 of Navy Regulations.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Queeg. “Left to 180, helmsman.”

  “Mr. Keith, you’re the OOD here, what the hell should I do?” cried Stilwell.

  Willie was looking at the clock. It was fifteen minutes to ten. He was dumfounded to think he had had the deck less than two hours. The import of what was taking place between Maryk and Queeg penetrated his mind slowly. He could not believe it was happening. It was as incredible as his own death.

  “Never you mind about Mr. Keith,” said Queeg to Stilwell, a slight crankiness entering his voice, fantastically incongruous under the circumstances. It was a tone he might have used to complain of a chewing-gum wrapper on the deck. “I told you to come left. That’s an order. Now you come left, and fast-”

  “Commander Queeg, you aren’t issuing orders on this bridge any more,” said Maryk. “I have relieved you, sir. You’re on the sick list. I’m taking the responsibility. I know I’ll be court-martialed. I’ve got the conn-”

  “You’re under arrest, Maryk. Get below to your room,” said Queeg. “Left to 180, I say!”

  “Christ, Mr. Keith!” exclaimed the helmsman, looking at Willie. Urban had backed into the farthest corner of the wheelhouse. He stared from the exec to Willie, his mouth open. Willie glanced at Queeg, glued to the telegraph, and at Maryk. He felt a surge of immense drunken gladness.

  “Steady on 000, Stilwell,” he said. “Mr. Maryk has the responsibility. Captain Queeg is sick.

  “Call your relief, Mr. Keith,” the captain said at the same instant, with something like real anger. “You’re under arrest, too.”

  “You have no power to arrest me, Mr. Queeg,” said Willie.

  The shocking change of name caused a look of happy surprise to appear on Stilwell’s face. He grinned at Queeg with contempt. “Steady on 000, Mr. Maryk,” he said, and turned his back to the officers.

  Queeg suddenly quit his grasp on the telegraph stand, and stumbled across the heaving wheelhouse to the starboard side. “Mr. Keefer! Mr. Harding! Aren’t there any officers out there?” he called to the wing.

  “Willie, phone Paynter and tell him to ballast all empty tanks on the double,” Maryk said.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Willie seized the telephone and buzzed the fireroom. “Hello, Paynt? Listen, we’re going to ballast. Flood all your empty tanks on the double- You’re goddamn right it’s about time-”

  “Mr. Keith, I did not issue any orders to ballast,” said Queeg. “You call that fireroom right back-”

  Maryk stepped to the public-address system. “Now, all officers, report to the bridge. All officers, report to the bridge.” He said aside to Willie, “Call Paynter and tell him that word doesn’t apply to him.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Willie pulled the phone from the bracket.

  “I said once and I say again,” Queeg exclaimed querulously, “both of you are under arrest! Leave the bridge, right now. Your conduct is disgraceful.”

  Queeg’s protests gave Willie a growing sense of gladness and power. In this shadowy careening wet wheelhouse, in this twilit darkness of midmorning, with a murderous wind shrieking at the windows, he seemed to be living the happiest moment of his life. All fear had left him.

  Maryk said, “Willie, think you can grab a look at the barometer without being blown over the side?”

  “Sure, Steve.” He went out on the port wing, clinging carefully to the bridge structure. As he crept up to the cha
rthouse door it came open, and Harding, Keefer, and Jorgensen emerged, clasping each other’s hands. “What’s the dope, Willie? What goes on?” yelled Keefer.

  “Steve relieved the captain!”

  “What?”

  “Steve relieved the captain! He’s got the conn! He’s put the captain on the sick list!” The officers looked at each other and lunged for the wheelhouse. Willie edged to the rear bulkhead and peered around at the blurry barometer. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled back to the pilothouse. “Steve, it’s up,” he cried, jumping to his feet as he came to the doorway. “It’s up! Twenty-eight ninety-nine, almost 29.00!”

  “Good, maybe we’ll be through the worst of it in a while.” Maryk stood beside the wheel, facing aft. All the officers except Paynter were grouped, dripping, against the bulkhead. Queeg was hanging to the telegraph again, glaring at the exec. “Well, that’s the story, gentlemen,” Maryk said, his voice pitched high over the roar of the wind and the rattle of spray on the windows. “The responsibility is entirely mine. Captain Queeg will continue to be treated with the utmost courtesy, but I will give all command orders-”

  “Don’t kid yourself that the responsibility is all yours,” Queeg interposed sulkily. “Young Mr. Keith here supported you in your mutinous conduct from the start and he’ll pay just as you will. And you officers”-he turned, shaking his finger at them-“if you know what’s good for you, will advise Maryk and Keith to put themselves under arrest and restore command to me while the restoring is good. I may be induced to overlook what’s happened in view of the circumstances, but-”

  “It’s out of the question, Captain,” said Maryk.. “You’re sick, sir-”

  “I’m no sicker than you are,” exclaimed Queeg with all his old irritation. “You’ll all hang for collusion in mutiny, I kid you not about that-”

  “Nobody will hang but me,” said Maryk to the officers. “This is my act, taken without anybody’s advice, under Article 184, and if I’ve misapplied Article 184, I’ll get hung for it. Meantime all of you take my orders. There’s nothing else you can do. I’ve taken command, I’ve ballasted on my own responsibility, the ship is on the course I ordered-”