Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [104]
The convoy ran into stormy seas halfway to San Francisco, and Willie Keith began to get a clearer idea of the limitations of World War I destroyers. Towing targets on the smiling seas around Hawaii, the Caine had done plenty of rolling, and Willie had been proud of his sea legs and his quiet stomach; now he realized that he had been a little premature in congratulating himself.
He was awakened one night to go on the midwatch after an hour and a half of dozing on the wardroom couch, and found that he could hardly stand. He fell down while groping around to make himself some coffee. He struggled into a blue woolen windbreaker, because the air streaming in from the ventilation duct felt cold and damp, and he went zigzagging across a deck that was wobbling like a room in an amusement park Crazy House. When he came topside, clutching the stanchion that held up the hatchway, the first thing he saw was a wall of greenish-black water on the port side, towering high over his head. As he opened his mouth to yell the wall fell away, replaced by a sky of torn moonlit clouds, and an equally horrendous wall rose on the other side of the ship. He inched up the bridge ladder, holding his hat in the expectation of a blast of wind, but there was very little wind. He found the bridge watch all-clinging to handholds in the dark wheelhouse, their bodies swaying back and forth with each roll. Even here, high on the bridge, when the ship heeled over Willie found himself looking upward at tossing water.
“Good Christ,” he said to Carmody, who had one arm braced through the back of the captain’s chair, “how long has this been going on?”
“How long has what been going on?”
“This rolling!”
“This isn’t rolling.” The rubber mats on the deck all slid sideward and heaped up against his legs.
Willie relieved Carmody, and as the watch wore on his terror abated. The Caine was apparently not going to founder. But it seemed an entirely reasonable possibility to him that it might come apart. At the extreme limit of a roll, the whole ship groaned from end to end like a sick man, and Willie could see the bulkheads bending and swaying. It struck him forcibly that nothing now stood between him and the black cold waters except the guess of an engineer (now probably dead) made thirty years ago as to how much stress such a ship should be built to stand.
Evidently he had. guessed well, for the Caine kept up this careening into the next day, and held together.
Willie went up to the forecastle after a lunch of roast pork, feeling oddly aware of the fact that he had a stomach. He was not seasick, of that he was certain. But he could feel the stomach hanging there in his midriff, palpitating, full, and hard at work at its usual tasks. This second sight into his body induced in Willie a desire for a lot of fresh air blowing in his face. He pulled open the watertight door to the forecastle, and saw Stilwell in a pea jacket and wool cap crouched by number-one gun, tying down the blue canvas cover, which had worked loose and was flapping loudly.
“Afternoon, Mr. Keith.”
“Afternoon, Stilwell.” Willie dogged the door shut and leaned against the life lines, gripping the stanchion. The wind and cold spray in his face were delightful. When the ship rolled to port be could see the convoy plunging along through the gray choppy swells.
“How do you like the rolling, sir?” called Stilwell, over the rushing and bubbling of the bow waves.
“What rolling?” said Willie, with a brave grin.
The sailor laughed. He slid across the deck to the life line and made his way cautiously to the ensign. “Sir, did you ever talk to the captain about-you know, about my leave?”
A little ashamed, Willie said, “Haven’t had a chance, Stilwell. But I’m sure it will be okay.”
The sailor’s face went gloomy. “Well, thanks, sir.”
“I’ll talk to him this afternoon. Come to the clipping shack at three and see me.”
“Thanks a million, Mr. Keith.” The gunner’s mate smiled, undogged the door, and slipped through