The Caine Mutiny (53 page)

“You’ll be interested to know, gentlemen,” Queeg said to the officers while Maryk manipulated engines and rudder, “that I was about to issue orders to ballast and head into the wind when Mr. Maryk committed his panic-stricken criminal act. I had previously determined in my own mind that if the fleet guide had given no orders by 1000 I would act at my own discretion-”

Maryk said, “All right, Stilwell, head over to the right some more. Hard right-”

Queeg went on, “And I saw no reason for confiding my command decisions to Mr. Maryk, who seemed to be treating me like a feeble-minded idiot, and I’ll say as much over the green table, and there’ll be plenty of witnesses to-”

“Don’t run ’em down, Stilwell! Rudder amidships!” Maryk stopped the engines and went to the loudspeaker. “Now throw over your buoys!”

The survivors were pulled aboard. A white-faced, wild-eyed sailor, naked except for white drawers, streaked with broad smears of oil, with a bleeding gash in his cheek, was brought to the bridge by Bellison. The chief said, “It was the
George Black
, sir. This here is Morton, quartermaster third. The others are down in sick bay.”

Morton stammered a brief, horrid tale. The
George Black
had been thrown broadside to the wind and all combinations of engines and rudder had failed to bring it around. Ventilators, ammunition boxes, and davits were ripped off the decks by the seas; water began flooding the engine rooms; power failed; the lights went out. The helpless ship drifted for ten minutes, rolling further and further to starboard, with all hands screaming or praying, and finally took a tremendous roll to starboard and never stopped rolling. His next recollection was being under water in complete blackness, and after that he was at the surface, being dashed against the red bottom of his ship.

“We’ll keep circling,” said Maryk. He peered out at the streaked sea, visible now for several hundred yards. “I think it’s letting up some. Take him below, Bellison.”

“I am resuming the conn, Mr. Maryk,” said Queeg, “and we will drop the matter entirely until the storm has abated-”

Maryk turned wearily to the captain. “No, sir. I’ve got it. I respectfully ask you to lay below to your cabin. Contradictory orders will endanger the ship-”

“Are you putting me off my bridge, sir?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Queeg looked to the officers. Their faces were scared and somber. “Do all you gentlemen concur in this act? … Do you, Mr. Keefer?”

The novelist gnawed at his lips, and turned his glance to Maryk. “Nobody is concurring. Nobody has to concur,” the exec said quickly. “Please leave the bridge, Captain, or at least refrain from giving orders-”

“I shall remain on the bridge,” said Queeg. “The ship is still my responsibility. Mutiny doesn’t relieve me of it. I shall not speak unless your acts appear to me to be endangering my ship. In that case I shall speak even at pistol point-”

“Nobody’s pulling pistols on you, sir. What you say suits me.” The exec nodded to the officers. “Okay, no need for you to hang around. We’ll have a meeting as soon as weather permits.”

The officers began straggling out of the wheelhouse. Keefer went up to Willie, saluted, and said with a pallid grin, “I am ready to relieve you, sir.”

Willie looked at the clock in astonishment. Time had stopped running in his mind. It was a quarter to twelve. “Okay,” he said. The formulas of the relieving ceremony came mechanically to his lips. “Steaming on various courses and speeds to look for survivors of the
George Black
. Steaming on boilers one, two, and three. Depth charges set on safe. Condition Able set throughout the ship. Last time I saw the barometer it had risen to 29.10. Fleet course is 180, but we’ve lost contact with formation due to jammed radars, and I don’t know where we are. About one hundred and fifty miles east of Ulithi, I’d say. You can check our 0800 dead reckoning position. We’re in the same place, more or less. The captain has been relieved under Article 184, and is still on the bridge. The executive officer has command and is at the conn. I guess that’s all.”

“Just a routine watch,” said Keefer. Willie smiled ruefully.

Keefer saluted. “Okay, I’ve got it.” He grasped Willie’s hand, pressed it warmly, and whispered, “Good work.”

“God help us all,” murmured Willie.

PART SIX

THE COURT-MARTIAL

CHAPTER 31

Counsel for the Defense

Watery sunlight of a misty San Francisco morning, falling on the desk of Captain Theodore Breakstone, USNR, district legal officer of Com Twelve, illumined a fat manila folder on top of an untidy clutter of papers, labeled in crude red-crayon letters, “CAINE.” Breakstone, a thick-faced man with bristly hair and a large knobby nose, sat in his swivel chair with his back to his desk, staring out at the harbor, regarding with mingled yearning and irritation an attack transport far below which swung slowly in the tide current to its anchor chain. Captain Breakstone longed to go to sea, and his dream was to command a transport-he was an amateur boat enthusiast, and he had navigated a destroyer briefly in World War I-but he was trapped by his excellent civilian record as a lawyer. The Bureau ignored his applications. He assuaged his disappointment by being salty in language and demeanor, and growling “hell” and “damn” as often as possible.

In his lap was a sheaf of long white sheets of paper ruled on either side with a blue line: the report of the board of investigation into the unauthorized relief of Lieutenant Commander P. F. Queeg, commanding officer of the U.S.S.
Caine
. Captain Breakstone had held thousands of such sheafs in his hairy hands during the past three years. The phrases, the attitudes, the glints of emotion through the stilted rubbish of words, were as commonplace to him as the nicks and grooves of an old familiar staircase to an old scrubwoman. He could not recall a case that had unsettled and depressed him more. The inquiry had been a botch. The recommendations were stupid. The facts of the case, so far as they had been uncovered, were a hideous tangled mess. He had turned away from the desk, halfway through a re-examination of the report, to fight down a nauseous headache such as he got from reading on a bumpy train.

He heard a tapping on the glass partition between his cubicle and the clattering office full of desks, files, and blue-shirted Waves. He swiveled around, throwing the papers on his desk. “Hello, Challee. Come in.”

A lieutenant commander walked in through the open doorway. “I’ve thought of a guy, sir-”

“Good. Who?”

“You don’t know him, sir. Barney Greenwald-”

“Regular?”

“Reserve, sir. But a pretty red-hot officer. Fighter pilot. Lieutenant-”

“What the hell does a fly boy know about law?”

“He’s a lawyer in civilian life, sir-”

“A lawyer and a
fighter pilot
?”

“He’s quite a guy, sir-”

“Greenwald, you say his name is? Dutch, or what?”

“He’s a Jew, sir-” Captain Breakstone wrinkled his big nose. Challee pulled himself a little more erect. He stood with one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a black portfolio, his attitude nicely mixing familiarity and deference. He had wavy, sandy hair, and his round face wore a look of good-humored alertness. “-but as I say, sir, quite an exceptional guy-”

“Hell, I’ve got nothing against Jews, you know that. This is a damn touchy case, that’s all-”

“I’m sure he’s the guy for us, sir-”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know him pretty well, sir. He was at Georgetown Law when I was going through-class ahead of me, but we got friendly-”

“Well, sit down, sit down. What’s he doing around Com Twelve?”

Challee seated himself in the chair beside the desk, holding his back straight. “He’s just come off the sick list. He was hospitalized for third-degree burns. They’ve got him on temporary limited duty, officer personnel placement for air. He’s waiting for a medical okay to go back to his squadron-”

“How did he get burned? Shot up?”

“No, sir. Crashed a barrier. His plane burned up but they pulled him out-”

“Not so heroic-”

“Well, so far as flying goes, I don’t know that Barney’s any great shakes. I think he’s got two Japs-”

“What makes you think he’d be good for the
Caine
case?”

“Well, sir, Maryk is a dead pigeon, the way I see it, and Barney goes for that kind of case.” Challee paused. “I guess you’d call him odd in a way. Very odd. I’m used to him. He’s from Albuquerque. Barney is interested as hell in the Indians. You might say he’s nuts on the subject. He specialized in Indian cases after getting out of law school-won a lot of them, too. He was working up a pretty good general practice in Washington, before he joined up-”

“What was he, ROTC?”

“No. V-7, then switched to air.”

Breakstone pulled at his nose with thumb and forefinger for several seconds. “Sounds like he might be pinko.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet, sir. Thought I’d ask you first.”

Captain Breakstone laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. He swiveled from side to side. “Christ, can’t we get a regular? If there’s one kind of smell we don’t want to have hung on this case, it’s regulars versus reserves-it’s bad enough the way it is-”

“I talked to eight guys, sir, on the list you gave me. It’s a hot potato. They’re afraid of it. And two guys have been detached and gone to sea-”

“Did you talk to Hogan?”

“Yes, sir. He begged off practically with tears in his eyes. He says it’s a lost case and all the defense counsel can do is get himself permanently fouled up with the Navy-”

“That isn’t so-”

“I’m just quoting him-”

“Well, maybe it is so, at that, a little bit.” Breakstone pulled at his nose. “Hell, somebody’s got to defend the case. When can you get this Greenwald up here?”

“I guess this afternoon, sir-”

“Get him up here. Don’t tell him what it’s about. I want to talk to him first.”

Lieutenant Greenwald came to Captain Breakstone’s office late that day. After a brief, grumpy questioning the legal officer gave him the
Caine
folder. Next morning when the captain came to his cubicle he found the skinny pilot waiting outside, slumped on a chair.

“Well, come on in, Greenwald. Think you can handle the case?” He took off his raincoat and draped it on a hanger, noticing that the folder lay on his desk.

“I’d rather not, sir.”

Breakstone glanced around in annoyed surprise. The pilot stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking at his shoes. He had a loose, adolescent mouth and a pale face, curly brown hair, and long dangling hands. “Looks more like Harold Teen than a red-hot Jewish lawyer,” thought Breakstone, as he had thought the previous day, too. He said, “Why not?”

“Well, several reasons, sir.” Greenwald kept his eyes bashfully down. “If there’s any other case you need help on-I mean I don’t want to seem uncooperative-”

“What’s the matter? Case too tough for you?”

“Well, I don’t want to waste your time with my opinions on it, sir-seeing that-”

“I’m
asking
you to waste my time. Sit down.” Breakstone’s eyes were drawn to the terrible fire scars on the pilot’s hands, hanging between his knees; the dead blue-white grafted skin, and the raw red edges, and the wrinkled stringy scar tissue. He looked away with an effort. “Challee told me you were a great one for defending the underdog-”

“These men are no underdogs, sir. They deserve to get slugged.”

“Oh, you think so? Well, frankly, so do I, but they’re still entitled to a good defense, and they can’t find themselves counsel, so-”

“I think they’ll be acquitted. That is, sir, if there’s a halfway intelligent defense-”

Breakstone arched his brows. “Oh, you do?”

“Keith and Stilwell certainly will be. So will Maryk, if the case is handled with any brains. I guess I could get them off.”

The legal officer was baffled by this arrogance, expressed in hesitant, diffident tones by the slouching lieutenant. “Please tell me how.”

“Well, the charge is absurd, for one thing. Making a mutiny. There’s no question of force or violence or disrespect. Maryk was damned careful to stay on legal ground. He misapplied Article 184 to commit a mutinous act, but the article’s there in the books. The toughest charge that could possibly stick would be conduct to the prejudice of good order or discipline-as I say, though, it’s none of my affair-”

The captain’s opinion of Lieutenant Greenwald took a sharp turn upward, because Greenwald’s criticism of the charge was a point he had noted himself. “Don’t forget you’re reading the board of investigation’s recommendations, Greenwald, not the formal charge.
I’m
drawing up the formal charge, and as a matter of fact it
is
conduct to prejudice. It was a one-man board, a captain from the mine force here, and I don’t think he ever saw
Courts and Boards
before they sent him over to the
Caine
. That’s the trouble around here, we’re shorthanded, and nobody who’s available knows any law. When a guy like yourself comes along, and you’re on the loose, pretty much, why, I think it’s your duty to make yourself available-” Breakstone pressed a buzzer, and lit a cigar with gestures of short temper. Lieutenant Commander Challee came to the doorway:

“Yes, sir? Hello, Barney-”

“Challee, your friend here seems to think the case is too easy or something. He can lick you with one hand tied behind him, only he doesn’t want to, or words to that effect-”

“Captain Breakstone, I’m sorry I ever got involved,”‘ said Greenwald. “Jack asked me if I minded helping out on a court-he didn’t tell me any details-and I said I’d be glad to. Making out air priorities is pretty dull work. I just don’t want to defend these
Caine
people. Captain Queeg obviously is not crazy. The psychiatrist’s report proves it. These fools find a paragraph in Navy Regs that gives them ideas, and they gang up on a skipper who’s mean and stupid-as a lot of skippers are-and make jackasses of themselves, and put a ship out of action. I’m a damn good lawyer and a very expensive one, and I don’t see contributing my services to get them acquitted. If you’ve-”

“You’re pretty goddamn cocksure about getting an acquittal,” said Breakstone, chewing his cigar.

“They can be gotten off.”

“I’d like to know how,” said Challee. “If ever I saw a plain case-”

“Lieutenant Greenwald, nobody can compel you to defend these birds,” said the legal officer. “But you seem to be pretty red hot on principles, to hear you talk. I think you’ve talked yourself into defending Maryk. Eight officers, including four legal specialists, have ducked the case. I haven’t heard anybody except you give him a chance of getting off. The. first requirement for a good counsel is confidence in his case. I trust you believe in the principle that the worst criminal is entitled to the best defense?”

Greenwald looked down at his fingernails, his boyish mouth loosely open, his eyes sad. “I’d be here forever on this case. Suppose I get my medical okay-”

“There’ll be plenty of war left for polishing your medals,” said the legal officer.

“Are you going to try all three?”

“Maryk first. We’ll hold off on the Keith and Stilwell cases till we see what happens. That’s what I’m recommending to the admiral, anyway. He generally does what I say.”

“When will the court-martial start?”

Breakstone looked to his assistant, who said, “I think we can get it on in two weeks, sir, if Captain Blakely’s available to preside. He said he’d let me know this afternoon.”

“Where’s the
Caine
now?” said Greenwald.

“Drydocks, Hunters Point,” said Challee.

“May I go out and talk to Maryk before I commit myself?”

Breakstone nodded. “Challee, provide transportation for Lieutenant Greenwald.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Greenwald rose. “I’ll go now, I guess.”

“Jeep will be at the main entrance in ten minutes, Barney,” said Challee.

“Okay.” The pilot put on his white peaked cap. The braid was crusty and green. He had the look of a poverty-stricken college boy, one who waited on tables and spent his money for phonograph records instead of food. He went out, his big scarred hands swinging.

Challee said, “He’ll take the case, sir.”

“Queer buzzard,” said the legal officer. “Looks so futile and apologetic, but he has a damn high opinion of himself.”

“He’s a good lawyer,” said the assistant. “But he won’t get Maryk off.”

Lieutenant Greenwald was used to aircraft carriers. The
Caine
, resting on keelblocks in a drydock, rusty and cluttered, looked to him like a little river boat. He went down the long steep wooden gangway stretching across the gulf of the dock to the minesweeper. Amid the rubble on the main deck he noticed a jagged hole, perhaps four feet across, roped off near the after davit of the motor whaleboat. Twisted rusty cables and pipes like entrails projected around the hole. “Like to see Lieutenant Maryk,” he said to the moon-faced short sailor in whites at the gangway desk.