The Caine Mutiny (21 page)

“I can’t hear you very well over that water, Captain.”

“I said what kind of
radio guard
are we standing?”

Two hours earlier, Keefer’s chief radioman had reported to the communications officer that Queeg had been in the shack, minutely cross-examining him about the radio guard. The new captain had been violently displeased to learn that they were merely copying local harbor broadcasts. So Keefer phrased his answer carefully. “Well, sir, we’re following standard Pearl Harbor procedure. We copy the harbor circuit.”

“What!” Captain Queeg looked amazed. “How about the Fox schedule? Aren’t we guarding that?” He lifted his leg and soaped underneath it.

“We pick up the skeds from the
Betelgeuse
. They guard for all destroyers in port. It’s standard procedure,” shouted Keefer.

“You needn’t scream. I hear you. Standard procedure for whom? For destroyers in the same nest as the
Betelgeuse
? We’re an hour away by motor whaleboat. What happens if an urgent despatch comes through for us?”

“They’re supposed to give it to us at once over the harbor circuit.”

“Supposed to. And suppose they don’t?”

“Look, Captain, suppose the
Betelgeuse
blows up? Suppose
we
do? You have to assume certain normal conditions-”

“You can’t assume a
goddamned
thing in this Navy,” said Queeg. “Get that idea out of your head. Nothing will be assumed on this ship from now on, not a
goddamned thing
.” He rinsed the soap from his body and shut off the water. “Hand me that towel, please.” Keefer complied.

“Now listen, Tom,” said the captain, in pleasanter tones, rubbing himself with the towel, “in this Navy a commanding officer gets a chance to make one mistake-just one mistake, that’s all. They’re just waiting for me to make that one mistake. I’m not going to make that mistake, and nobody on this ship is going to make it for me. I can keep my own radio gang from doping off, if it takes six months’ restriction apiece, and breaking them all to seamen second class, to wake them up. But I can’t do anything about some silly ape who dopes off on the
Betelgeuse
. Therefore I won’t have the
Betelgeuse
standing guard for me. We’ll stand our own guard, and we’ll stand it around the clock, and we’ll stand it beginning as of now. Is that clear?”

“That’s clear, sir.”

Queeg looked at him amiably. “Say, how about coming to the club with me and having a few?”

“Sorry, sir. Under the new watch orders I have to stay aboard.”

“Oh, damn,” said the captain regretfully, as though he and Keefer were both victims of a silly rule. “Well, another time. Say, I’d like to read your novel one of these days. Has it got plenty of sex in it?” He giggled hopefully.

Keefer said, “Will that be all now, sir?”

“That’s all, Tom,” said Queeg, shuffling down the passageway.

The communications officer went into his room. He lay back on his bunk and picked up Aurelius. He lit a cigarette and took quick, deep puffs. Soon he lay in a cloud of gray curling smoke, reading.

Willie Keith came to the quarterdeck at eleven o’clock that night, looking for Keefer. The gangway petty officer, spruce and surly in white uniform, told him that the OOD was inspecting the forward lines. Willie walked out on the breezy forecastle and found Keefer sitting on a folded blanket, his back against the anchor, his feet dangling over the side, his gun belt lying on the deck. He was smoking, and staring up at the black starry night. “Hi,” said Willie.

“Hi.”

“Busy?”

“Not very. Composing a sonnet.”

“Sorry to disturb you.”

“Not at all. It’s a stinking sonnet. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been hitting that registered pubs manual for three hours. I think I’ve got the first part memorized.”

“Well done.”

“Mind if I go over and visit my friend on the
Moulton
?”

“Go ahead.”

“I looked in on Mr. Gorton to ask him. But he was asleep.”

“Hell, you, don’t need the exec’s permission to visit in the nest. Shove off.”

“Thanks. Lots of luck with the sonnet.”

In the immaculate wardroom of the
Moulton
several officers were sitting around in dejected attitudes, reading magazines or drinking coffee, but Keggs was not among them. Willie went up the passageway to Keggs’s room, and pulled aside the green curtain. His friend was slumped at the desk, snoring, his long face resting on a pile of unfolded blueprints. The desk lamp was shining directly upon his closed eyes. His hands dangled awkwardly, the knuckles brushing the deck. Willie hesitated, then touched Keggs’s shoulder. The ensign started up wildly, with a gasp. He glared at Willie in horror for a moment, then recognition dawned and he greeted his friend with a sweet, sad smile. “Hello, Willie.”

“What the hell are you studying blueprints for?” said Willie.

“I’m taking an engineering course.”

“
Engineering
? You’re a deck man.”

“Skipper’s got, all the engineering men studying deck and all the deck men studying engineering. Makes us rounded officers, he says.”

“That’s great,” said Willie, “providing you don’t have to run a department and stand watches and fight a war- I thought we could play a game of chess, maybe.”

“Jesus, I’d love it, Willie,” said Keggs cautiously. He peeked out into the passageway. “Looks like the coast is clear. I’m game. Come on.” They went into the wardroom. Keggs took down a board and a box of red and black plastic chessmen, saying to a pudgy lieutenant, “When will he be back?”

“Not before midnight, I guess,” mumbled the lieutenant, who was slouched almost horizontal in an armchair, gazing dully at a ragged
Life
.

“This is great, Willie. Glad you came over. Say, the hell with it. Let’s have a couple of cokes.”

“Sure.”

Keggs disappeared into the pantry and emerged in a moment with two frosty bottles. “Anybody else?” he queried, looking around. Most of the officers ignored him. Two of them turned lackluster eyes on him and shook their heads. “If I drink another coke,” said the sloucher in the armchair, “I’ll go into shock.”

Willie said, “You fellows still restricted?”

“Till Sunday,” said Keggs.

“When we’ll probably get a despatch,” said the sloucher, “to proceed to Truk and sweep mines.”

As Willie set up the chessmen, Keggs took a long pull at the coke bottle. “Ah, this is a great coke. I feel good. You guys mind if I turn on the radio?” Nobody answered. He switched on a blast of jazz. “Hot dog. For a change, no Hawaiian music. Get those men ready, Willie. I’m going to take your pants. Breep-de-broop, breep-de-broop-”

He danced as he sang, a queer angular jig, his elbows stuck out, his arms dangling. The lieutenant in the armchair regarded him with a mixture of disgust and pity. “It’s amazing,” he said, “what a cat nap will do for that poor fagged-out son of a bitch.”

Keggs dropped into the chair opposite Willie and moved the red king’s pawn. “Look, Willie, just remember this. When you hear a buzzer ring twice, that’s it. Game’s over. That’s the signal from the gangway that he’s come back on board. Just disappear, like the rest of us. Use the starboard passageway and you probably won’t run into him-”

“Suppose I do run into him?”

“Be nonchalant,” spoke up the lieutenant in the armchair. “Kiss his behind and stroll off whistling
Anchors Aweigh
.”

“How’s your new skipper?” said Keggs.

“A human being, for a change.”

A couple of the officers yawned, stretched, and went to their rooms. “This is wonderful,” said Keggs, draining his coke. “We should do this more often, Willie.”

The wardroom door opened, and Iron Duke Sammis entered, followed by Queeg. Keggs was unperturbed. He moved a bishop and looked up, grinning. Then he saw the other officers getting to their feet, their faces dead blank. He uttered a strangled, sorrowful neigh and leaped up, overturning the chessboard. The chessmen bounced and clattered all over the deck.

“Gentlemen,” said Iron Duke Sammis, “this is Commander Queeg, the new commanding officer of the
Caine
. Good evening, Mr. Keith.”

“Good evening, sir. Good evening, Captain,” said Willie.

“Well, I’m glad to see I own a chess player,” said Queeg. “I’ve always wanted to pick up the game.”

“Wonderful relaxation,” said the Iron Duke. “Too bad it eats up so much time. I haven’t shot a game since the war started. But since my communicator seems to have the leisure, I may go in for it again-”

“Sir, all tonight’s decodes are on your desk,” said Keggs tremulously, “and I did two and a half engineering assignments this evening-”

“Could you interrupt your game long enough to let Captain Queeg and myself have a little fresh coffee?”

“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”

The two captains went into Sammis’ cabin. Keggs ran to the pantry and came out with Silexes full of clear water.

“What the hell,” said Willie, “are you a steward’s mate, too? Where’s your burnt cork?”

“Easy, Willie. I’m wardroom mess treasurer. It’s quicker to make it myself than to go roust out a mess boy, that’s all.” He began to pick up the chess pieces.

“Game’s over, I take it.”

“Oh, hell, yes.”

“Well, I’ll stick around for some of that coffee-if I’m allowed to drink from the same bowl as the gods.”

Keggs looked over his shoulder at the captain’s cabin. “Sure, stick around. But please, Willie, don’t say those things-he hears.”

When Willie left Keefer on the forecastle to go to the
Moulton
, the communications officer stared skyward for a while, then took a pad, pencil, and flashlight from his pocket and began to scribble verses. In a few minutes the dim figure of Maryk came up the forecastle. Greeting Keefer morosely, the first lieutenant pulled open a narrow hatch forward of the anchor engine, reached his hand inside, and turned a switch. A shaft of yellow light rose from the hatch. Keefer said, “What goes on in the paint locker, this time of night?”

“Title B inventory.”

“Are you still at that? Sit down for a second, you poor beast of burden.”

Maryk scratched his round, close-cropped head, yawned, and accepted a cigarette. The light streaming up from the paint locker accentuated the lines of fatigue in his face and the puffy creases under his eyes. “Well, it’s going to be a close call,” he said, “but I think I’ll make it by 0900 Friday. What are you doing-working on your book?”

“Well, doing a little writing.”

“Maybe you better secure on that stuff for a while, Tom-at least while you’re on watch-until this new skipper gets squared away.”

“What the hell is an eight-to-midnight gangway watch in Pearl, Steve? We ought to have one petty officer and a messenger, and that’s all.”

“I know. But this bird is fresh off a carrier.”

“What do you think of him?”

Maryk puffed at his cigarette, and a worried, thoughtful expression came over his face. He had ugly, yet not unpleasant features: a wide mouth, a small nose, protruding brown eyes, and round, heavy jaws. His massive body gave him an air of power and determination, weakened by the gentle, good-natured puzzlement visible now in his face. “I’m not sure.”

“Better or worse than De Vriess?”

Maryk paused and said, “Captain de Vriess wasn’t a bad officer.”

“For crying out loud, Steve. He ran this ship like a garbage scow. Stand her up against the
Moulton
-”

“Pretty good ship handler, though.”

“Sure. Is that all being a captain means? I think Queeg’s what the doctor ordered for the
Caine
. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in ServPac alerted the Bureau to send us a red-hot book man, to clean things up.”

“Well, I don’t know if you can change the nature of a ship overnight. I’ve been aboard a lot longer than you, Tom. Everything gets done that
has
to get done-not the Navy way, maybe, but it gets done somehow. She gets under way, she goes where she has to go, the gun crews shoot pretty good, the engine plant holds together-Christ knows how, mostly with baling wire and chewing gum-but the
Caine
has spent less time getting repaired than any other four-piper I know of, since the war started. What’s Queeg going to do, except try to get things done by the book, instead of the
Caine
way? Is that an improvement? All De Vriess cared about was results.”

“The book way is the right way, Steve. Let’s face it. I don’t like it any more than you, but it’s true. The wastage, and lost motion, and plain dumb luck by which things get done on the
Caine
are simply staggering.”