PART THREE
CAPTAIN QUEEG
11
Captain Queeg Relieves Captain de Vriess
Languishing in hack, Willie missed the important moment when Captain Queeg first set foot on the deck of the Caine.
Willie was taking his three-day confinement in the grand manner. Captain de Vriess had given him the run of the ship, but he was determined not to stir from the clipping shack except for bodily needs. When Queeg arrived Willie was hunched on his bunk over the remains of a frigid, dirty break-fast, mopping up the last yellow traces of egg with a piece of stale bread. He was proud of his penance. The meal, brought by the leisurely Whittaker through passageways, up ladders, and along the main deck, had lost all heat and acquired a heavy dressing of soot on the way. It seemed to Willie that adversity was toughening him rapidly; he felt virile and mature. This was a great deal of spiritual uplift to derive from a couple of cold black eggs, but Willie's young spirit had a lot of re-bound to it, like fresh rubber. Also, Whittaker had picked up coffee for the prisoner from the crew's galley near the clip shack, strong and steaming. Willie was partly mistaking the glow of morning coffee for the maturing process.
Nobody was expecting the new captain. The gig was making a routine morning trip to the fleet landing for mail and a movie. The ragged boatswain and his two filthy assistants were appalled when Queeg accosted them and courteously ordered them to load his foot locker and bags into the boat. They had no way of warning the officer of the deck about their passenger, and so the new captain caught his first impression of the ship in its natural unpolished state.
The officer of the deck was Ensign Harding, entrusted with the gangway watch from four to eight only because Lieu-tenant Adams was reasonably certain that nothing complicated was going to happen in those early hours. He was dressed in wrinkled, sweaty khakis, and it was his misfortune to have no hips at all, so that his frayed gun belt sagged slantwise, pre-cariously supported by his rump. His cap was pushed back to allow the breeze to fan his pale bald brow. He was leaning against the gangway desk, happily eating an apple, when blue sleeves with two and a half gold stripes rose along the ladder railings, followed by the face and form of Lieutenant Com-mander Queeg. Harding was not alarmed. Officers of such rank often came aboard; usually they were engineering special-ists coming to the rescue of some vital machinery on the de-caying Caine. He put down the apple, spitting out a seed, and walked to the ladder. Commander Queeg saluted the colors, and then saluted Harding. "Request permission to come aboard, sir," he said politely.
"Permission granted." Harding gave a bare flip of a salute, Caine-style.
The new captain smiled slightly and said, "My name is Queeg." He held out his hand.
Harding stiffened, gulped, pulled up his belt, saluted again, and tried to return the handshake, but Queeg had put his hand up to return the salute, so that Harding grasped empty air. Then the handclasp was fumblingly accomplished, and Harding babbled, "I'm sorry, Captain-I didn't recognize you-"
"No reason you should. You've never seen me before."
"No, of course, sir-Captain de Vriess wasn't expecting you, Captain-would you like me to show you to the captain's cabin? I'm not sure the captain is up yet-"
He whirled on the gangway petty officer, who was staring at Queeg as though trying to see into his soul. "Go tell the captain the new captain is here-"
"Yes, sir." The petty officer, Winston, a stout ambitious boatswain's mate second class, saluted Harding, then turned to the lieutenant commander and gave him a dazzling training-camp salute. "Welcome aboard, Captain." He dashed up the starboard passageway.
Harding cast a despairing look around the quarterdeck, and decided that it was hopeless to try to change the new captain's first impression of the Caine. Supposing, thought the OOD, he did chase away the two half-naked sailors who squatted at a tin tub, peeling potatoes; and called a halt to the din of the metal scrapers;, and ordered the gangway messenger to pick up the tattered comic books that flapped on the deck; and interrupted the curses of the two deck hands who were supposed to be repairing a life raft, but were actually about to come to blows over some moldly chocolate they had found on the raft; what then? There remained the stinking cabbage crates, and the pile of officers' laundry, and the helmets with new names painted on them in red, drying in the sun, and the dirty nest of life jackets on which some sailor had slept, and the oozing black puddle of galley fuel oil which a cook had slopped on the deck. The Caine had been caught in its soiled underwear, and that was that. The world would have to wag on, somehow.
"Did you have a good trip, sir?"
"Middling good, thank you. Flew down from San Francisco. A little bumpy." Queeg's voice and manner were pleasant. He gave no sign of being disturbed at the dishevelment of the Caine, or even of being aware of it.
"My name is Harding, sir," said the officer of the deck. "Assistant first lieutenant."
"Been aboard long, Harding?"
"Just about three weeks, sir."
"I see." The new captain turned and watched the gig crew struggling up the ladder with his gear. "What's the name of that coxswain?"
Harding knew him only as Meatball. "One moment, sir." He dashed to the desk, peered at the watch list, and returned, feeling extremely foolish. "Dlugatch, sir."
"New man?"
"No, sir. I-that is, in general they refer to him as Meatball."
"I see."
Queeg leaned over the railing. "Dlugatch, go easy with that pigskin bag."
"Aye aye, sir," came the grunt of the coxswain.
"I think," said the new captain to Harding, "that you may as well stack my gear here until I talk to Captain de Vriess."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Try to keep it clear of that oil slick," said Queeg with a smile.
"Yes, sir," said Harding, quailing a little.
Winston reappeared. He had managed during his errand to brighten his shoes and snatch a clean white cap from somebody. The cap was squared on his head with just the right forward tilt. He saluted the officer of the deck smartly. "Captain de Vriess coming now, sir."
"Very well." Harding returned the unexpected salute, feel-ing like a hypocrite.
De Vriess emerged from the passageway, greeted the new commanding officer, and shook hands affably. They made a neat picture of the old and the new: De Vriess tieless and comfortable in faded khakis, Queeg correct in stiff white collar and fresh campaign ribbons. "Had your breakfast?" said De Vriess.
"Yes, thank you."
"Would you like to come to my cabin?"
"Fine."
"Let me lead the way-or do you know these 1200-tonners?"
"You'd better lead. I know more about the Bristol class."
They exchanged pleasant smiles, and De Vriess led his suc-cessor forward. When they were out of earshot Winston said to the officer of the deck, "Looks like a good Joe."
"For Christ's sake," said Harding, tightening his gun belt two notches, "let's see what we can do about this quarterdeck."
The two commanding officers sat in De Vriess's cabin, drink-ing coffee. Queeg leaned back comfortably in the low black leather armchair. De Vriess was in the swivel chair at his desk.
"Kind of sudden, this whole deal," said De Vriess.
"Well, I didn't much like being yanked out of anti-submarine school," said Queeg. "I'd moved my wife and family down to San Diego and we were all set for six good weeks, anyway. First shore billet I'd had in four years."
"I'm sorry for your wife."
"Well, she's a pretty good sport."
"They have to be." After a moment of silent sipping De Vriess said, "You're class of '34?"
"Thirty-six," said Queeg.
De Vriess knew this. He also knew Queeg's precedence num-ber, his class standing, and several other facts about him. But it was a nice point of etiquette to simulate ignorance. It was a courtesy, too, to place Queeg by mistake in an earlier class; it implied that Queeg was obtaining a command for which he was rather young. "
They're moving you fellows up now pretty fast."
"I guess they want you somewhere in pretty much of a hurry, too. New construction, I suppose?"
"I don't know. I hope they give me a supply depot in the middle of Utah. Some place with no water."
"Not much chance of that."
"Guess not." De Vriess gave a false sigh of despair. Both men were stepping gingerly around the point uppermost in both their minds: namely, that De Vriess was getting off, and Queeg getting on, an obsolete ship. De Vriess said, "Had much to do with minesweeping?"
"Not a hell of a lot. Seems to me they might have sent me to Mine Warfare School. But I guess somebody in the Bureau had his pants on fire for some reason."
"Well, hell, you know as much as I did when I came aboard. Not a whole lot to it- More coffee?"
"No, thanks."
De Vriess took Queeg's cup and set it on the desk. Queeg reached into his pocket. De Vriess, expecting him to pull out cigarettes, picked up a packet of matches. But Queeg brought out a couple of bright steel ball bearings the size of marbles, and began rolling them absently between the thumb and fin-gers of his left hand. "I imagine," said Queeg casually, "that it's mainly a matter of towing rigs of one sort and another."
"That's about all there is to it," said De Vriess, even more casually. His question about minesweeping had not been ran-dom. In the back of his mind was the conjecture that Queeg was being groomed to command the squadron. But that pos-sibility he now ruled out. He indicated a large battered blue book in the rack above his desk. "All the dope is in BuShips 270, the Minesweeping Manual. You might take a look at it one of these days."
"I've read it. Seems simple enough."
"Oh, it is. Pure routine. The boys back aft are pretty fair hands at it. And your first lieutenant, Maryk, is a crackerjack. You won't have any trouble. We just ran off a very satis-factory exercise last week. Sorry you weren't aboard."
"Maryk," said Queeg. "Regular?"
"No. There are only two regulars beside yourself. The way they're hauling those boys off to radar schools and what not, you'll probably have a solid reserve wardroom by January."
"That's one against how many-twelve?"
"Ten-theoretically. The complement is eleven. We've been down to seven and up again. There'll be eleven now, counting yourself."
Queeg stopped rolling the steel balls, and began rattling them slowly in his fist. "Good bunch?"
"Not bad. Some good, some so-so."
"Made out their fitness reports?"
"Yes."
"Might I have a look-see?"
De Vriess hesitated. He would have preferred simply to talk about the officers, touching briefly on their defects and high-lighting their good points. He cast about for a diplomatic way to refuse the request, but none occurred to him. He pulled open his desk drawer. "If you want to," he said, and passed the bundle of long white sheets to his successor.
Queeg glanced at the first three in silence, rolling the balls ceaselessly between his fingers. "Pretty nice. This about Maryk, especially. For a reserve."
"He's one in a hundred. Used to be a fisherman. He knows more about seamanship than some chief boatswain's mates."
"Fine." Queeg read on. He flipped quickly through the sheets, ignoring the elaborate mathematical scores, glancing at De Vriess's general summary of each officer's character. De Vriess felt more and more strongly that he was abetting a kind of peeking. He was relieved when Queeg handed the reports back to him, saying, "Seems like a good wardroom, all in all."
"As good as you'll find, I think."
"What's the matter with this Keith?"
"Nothing. He's going to be a good officer. Needed a kick in the pants, and I gave it to him. I don't know but what I'll rewrite that before I shoot it in. He's willing and has a good head."
"Why did he need a kick in the pants?"
"Well, he mislaid a despatch. Not an important one, but on general principles-when he's just getting started, you know-I thought he ought to be brought up short."
Queeg pursed his lips, then smiled agreeably. "I suppose no despatch is unimportant, really."
"Well, you're right, there."
"Did your communications officer catch the mistake-this Keefer?"
"Keefer does very well. Of course no system is foolproof. He's a strange duck, by the way. Brilliant mind. A writer. Read about all the books in the world. Son of a gun's been working on a novel in off hours-"
"Did you discipline Keith?"
"Put him in hack for three days."
"How about Keefer?"
"I ought to make one thing as clear as I can," said De Vriess in a firm, pleasant tone. "I regard both those men as excellent officer material. Keith may turn into an outstanding officer after some seasoning. As for Keefer, he has brains enough to do anything superlatively, but he's older, and his interests are somewhat divided. You engage his loyalty and he'll deliver the goods. Stands a fine OOD watch under way."
"Nice to know. How are we on watch-standers?"
The far-off thumping of metal scrapers was augmented by a new sound directly overhead, a terrific clatter and clanking of another party of paint chippers. Queeg winced. De Vriess leaped up, pressed a buzzer, and roared into a brass speaking tube at the head of his bed, "Engstrand! Tell the damn deck force to stop trying to split my skull!" The two men looked at each other in wry amusement for a few deafening seconds, and the noise suddenly subsided.
"Lot of that going on," observed Queeg.
"Every time we're in port the deck boys turn to. Only way to stay ahead of the rust."
"I wonder why? Scrape her down to flat bright metal and give her a good double coat, and that ought to be the end of it for a long while."
"There isn't any flat bright metal," said De Vriess. "These decks have taken too much salt water. They're pitted. The rust starts up from a pit and just spreads under the new paint like a skin disease. It's not a bad thing. Chipping paint is good exercise. We've killed a hell of a lot of dead time for the crew chipping paint."
"How does the ship handle?"
"Like any destroyer. All the power you need. She won't turn on a dime like these new destroyer-escorts. But you can maneuver her."
"Wind take her much, coming alongside?"
"Well, you have to watch the wind."
"Good line-handling parties?"
"No kick there. Maryk has them trained up pretty fair."
"I like fast line handling."
"So do I. You've handled destroyers?"
"Well," said Queeg, "I guess I've had a few million hours as OOD under way."
"How about coming alongside and so forth?"
"Well, I've seen it done often enough. Given the orders and so forth."
De Vriess regarded his successor narrowly. "Were you exec on this Bristol-class destroyer?"
"Well, just a month or so. Had almost every other depart-ment-it was the Falk-guns, hull, black gang, communications- I was just breaking in as exec when they yanked me over to a carrier-"
"Skipper give you the conn much?"
"Well, there wasn't much chance. A few times."
De Vriess offered Queeg a cigarette and lit one himself. "If you like," he said carelessly, waving out the match, "we can take her out for a couple of runs before you take over. I can stand by while you shoot a few approaches, and getting away from alongside, and maybe some power turns and so forth-"
"Thanks, that won't be necessary."
De Vriess puffed twice on his cigarette in silence. "Well," he said, "I'm at your service. How do you want to go about this?"
"Well, I'll have to sight the registered publications and exe-cute a transfer report," said Queeg. "Guess maybe we can do that pretty soon, like today. And I'd appreciate having a look around-"
"Let's do that this morning."
"I suppose all the reports are up to date? Let's see-logs, war diary, hull, burn reports, personnel roster, and so forth?"
"If they aren't they will be when you're ready to rel
ieve."
"How about the Title B inventory?"
De Vriess compressed his lips.
"Well, I'm sorry to say that's pretty fouled up. I'd be kidding you if I told you anything else."
"What's the trouble?"
"The trouble is simply that this ship has steamed about a hundred thousand miles since the war started," said De Vriess, "and we've been through so many strip-ships and night actions and storms and what not that half our Title B gear is gone and we don't know where the hell it's gone to. When you lose a snatch block over the side in the middle of towing some silly bastard off a reef under air attack you just don't make the entry on the Title B card. You ought to, but you don't."
Herman Wouk - The Caine Mutiny Page 17
