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By Root 4614 0

wonderment-the solemn array of scared offenders in stiff new blue dungarees, the accusing officers lined up at attention opposite the culprits, and Queeg, calm and pleasant, receiving the prisoners’ red service folders one by one from Jellybelly. It was a curious sort of justice. So far as Willie knew, all the offenders had been placed on report by order of Captain Queeg. Ensign Harding, for instance, appeared to accuse Stilwell, but he had not seen the sailor reading on watch. Since Captain Queeg never placed anyone on report himself, but always turned to the nearest officer and said, “I want this man placed on report,” the triangle of justice was maintained in form, accuser, accused, and judge. And Queeg was ceremoniously interested and surprised by the accuser’s narration of the offense which he himself had ordered reported. Willie had watched this strange business for a while and had indignantly concluded that it was an outrage against civil liberties, and constitutional rights, and habeas corpus, and eminent domain, and bills of attainder, and every other half-remembered phrase which meant that an American was entitled to a fair shake.

“Sir,” said Stilwell, “you’re the morale officer, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” said Willie. He swung his legs to the deck, put aside his stationery box, and screwed his fountain pen shut, converting himself with these motions from a girl-hungry youngster to a naval functionary.

He liked Stilwell. There are young ;men, slim, well built, and clean-faced, with bright eyes and thick hair, and an open, cheery look, who invite good feeling, and make things pleasant wherever they are, almost in the way pretty girls do, by the pure morning light that is on them; the gunner’s mate was one of those.

“Well, sir,” said Stilwell, “I got a problem.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Stilwell plunged into a rambling tale, the meat of which was that he had a wife and child in Idaho, and that he had reasons to doubt his wife’s faithfulness. “What I want to know is, sir, does this restriction mean I don’t get to go home on leave? I haven’t been home in two years, sir.”

“I don’t think it does, Stilwell, I can’t imagine that it would. Any man who’s been in the combat area as long as you have is entitled to go home unless he’s committed murder or something.”

“Is that the regulations, sir, or is it just how you figure it?”

“It’s how I figure it, Stilwell, but, unless I tell you otherwise, and I’ll find out pretty damn soon, well, you can count on it.”

“What I want to know, sir-can I write home that I’m coming, like all the other guys are doing?”

The answer to this, as Willie well knew, was that Stilwell had better wait until the captain’s views were explored. But the hungry appeal in the sailor’s face, and Willie’s own slight defensiveness about his lack of information, led him to say, “I’m sure you can, Stilwell.”

The gunner’s mate brightened so marvelously that Willie was glad he had ventured to be positive. “Thank you, Mr. Keith, thanks a whole lot,” stammered Stilwell, his mouth trembling a little, his eyes glistening. “You don’t know what that means to me, sir.” He put on his hat, straightened, and saluted Willie as though he were an admiral. The ensign returned the salute, nodding pleasantly,

“Okay, Stilwell,” he said. “Glad to be chaplain for you any time.” Willie resumed writing the letter to May Wynn; and in the spangled excitement of the images that went shimmering through his brain he forgot the conversation.

The talk in the wardroom at lunch the next day was warm and jolly for the first time since the change of command. Old jokes were revived about romantic escapades in Australia and New Zealand. Maryk took the worst drubbing, for a liaison with a middle-aged waitress in an Auckland teashop. The number of moles on the lady’s face was thoroughly discussed, Gorton putting the number at seven and Maryk at two, with votes for figures in between from the others.

“Well, I think Steve is right, after all,” said Keefer. “I guess two were moles. The rest were warts.”

Whittaker, the steward’s mate, who