Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [101]
Maryk said to the fat exec, “Well, okay, if she did have seven moles, at least she was real. I’m not satisfied, like some guys, with a lot of French magazines and postcards.”
“Steve, I have a wife to be faithful to,” said Gorton cheerily. “She can’t divorce me for looking at pictures. But if I were a free agent like you, and couldn’t do better than that New Zealand wart hog, I think I’d go in for postcards.”
“Damn clever idea I came across once,” said Queeg, obviously in a rare good humor, for he usually took no part in wardroom chatter. The officers fell silent and listened respectfully for the captain’s table talk. “Speaking of postcards, that is. I don’t know how I got on this mailing list but I did and-well, all you had to do was send this company a dollar a month, see, and they sent you these pictures, real big and glossy prints, about six by four, I guess.” He indicated a rectangle with his two thumbs and forefingers. “Well, what was so clever-you know, you can’t send pictures of naked ladies through the mail, well-these gals weren’t naked, no sir, they had on the prettiest little pink pants and bras you ever saw, all nice and legal. The only thing was, their undies were washable. All you had to do was pass a wet cloth over the picture and-well, there you were- Damn clever.” He looked around with a happy snigger. Most of the officers managed to produce smiles. Keefer lit a cigarette, covering his face with his cupped palms, and Willie stuffed a whole slice of ham into his mouth.
“By the way,” the captain went on, “none of you fellows have used up your liquor ration at the club, have you? Or if anyone has, say so.” None of the officers spoke up. “That’s fine. Anybody have any objection to selling his ration to me?”
The ration was five quarts of bottled liquor per month, which could be bought at the officers’ wine mess in the Navy Yard for a fraction of the price in the United States. Queeg caught his officers off guard; they hadn’t been thinking ahead to the cost of liquor back home. With varying shades of grumpiness they all consented except Harding.
“Captain,” he said plaintively, “I plan for my wife and me to drink up my year’s pay, and anything I can save will be a big help.”
Queeg laughed appreciatively, and excused him. That same evening, therefore, the Caine’s officers, shepherded by the captain, lined up at the liquor counter of the club and bought some thirty quarts of scotch and rye whisky. Captain Queeg directed them one by one, with many thanks, as they came away from the counter carrying armloads of bottles, to a jeep that stood outside in the gloom of the driveway. When the jeep had taken on a full cargo the captain drove off, leaving the knot of Caine officers looking at each other.
Carpenter’s Mate Second Class Langhorne was summoned to the captain’s cabin next morning at seven-thirty. He found the captain, in wrinkled stained gabardines, leaning over his bunk chewing a dead cigar stub, and counting an array of bottles spread across the blanket. “Hello, Langhorne. What kind of crate can you fix me up for thirty-one bottles?” the carpenter, a dour Missourian with a long bony face, protruding Power jaw, and lank black hair, goggled at the contraband. Captain Queeg said with a chuckle and a wink, “Medical supplies, Langhorne, medical supplies. Outside your province, and if asked, you’ve never seen these bottles and know nothing about them.”
“Yes, sir,” said the carpenter. “Fix up a crate, say, three by two, something like that-pack it with excelsior-”
“Excelsior, hell, this stuff is precious. I want partitions between the bottles