Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [124]
“The duty of an exec,” Maryk said, coloring a line of squares on the chart with a red pencil, “is to do exactly what the captain would want him to do. It’s the only way to run a ship. Don’t bring any more requests like that to me, Willie. I’m not going to go soft in the head any more.”
Unfortunately, Stilwell didn’t return to the Caine at the end of seventy-two hours, and Captain Queeg did.
Willie learned these two unpleasant facts by telephone at six-thirty in the morning, in his mother’s hotel suite, where he had spent the night. Jellybelly telephoned him, apologizing for disturbing him and explaining that the captain had arrived and wanted a muster at eight o’clock.
“Okay, I’ll be there,” Willie said sleepily, and added, “Hey, is Stilwell back yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Jesus.”
When he arrived at the Navy Yard the shrunken crew of the Caine had already gathered in ragged lines at the edge of the drydock. He fell in place with the officers, yawning, wishing he had had time to eat breakfast. A few drops of rain spattered down from massed gray clouds as Maryk and the captain came up the gangplank. The men assumed a dreary semblance of attention. Queeg, freshly shaved and wearing a new blue raincoat, looked spruce, but his eyes were bloodshot and his face puffy and pallid.
“Well, I won’t keep you men long,” he said, peering around at the crew and pitching his voice high above the riveting and the snorts of the cranes. “Our California sunshine is a little damp this morning. I just want you to know I’m making every effort to see to it that you all get some kind of leave despite the curtailing of the overhaul. It’s just one of those things. As you know, there’s a war on, and we can’t all have things just the way we want them. I want to caution you all as strongly as I can against taking it on yourselves to go over the hill. Just remember, leave is not a right, but a special privilege, and if the Navy wants to work you 365 days out of 365 and one extra in leap year, why, there just isn’t a damn thing you can do about it, so nobody owes you any apologies. As I say, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t go taking French leave, any of you. The Navy will find you even if you’re down in a coal mine, and they’ll send you back to the Caine even if the ship is in the Indian Ocean. And so I hope you’re all having a pleasant stay in San Francisco and-well, Mr. Maryk, let’s, dismiss the men before we all get soaked.”
Willie watched Queeg’s face for a sign of wonder or displeasure at the absence of Stilwell; but the captain maintained a look of jolly good humor. The crew trotted off to their barracks, and the officers straggled after the captain and exec for a conference at the BOQ. Willie saw Stilwell come out of a side street, out of the captain’s view, and go bounding down the gangplank to report to the duty officer. The ensign was immensely relieved. He wanted to whisper the good news to Maryk, but the exec was talking to Queeg.
The officers grouped around a couch in a corner of the BOQ lobby, drinking Coca-Colas. Queeg handed out the new departmental assignments. Keefer became gunnery officer. Willie was exalted to communications officer.
Willie had his first good look at the two newcomers to the wardroom. Ensign Jorgensen was a tall, heavyish fellow with curly blond hair, thick glasses over narrow peering eyes, and a fixed apologetic smile. He was remarkably sway-backed; his rump projected like a small bustle. Ensign Ducely was thin and creamy-faced, and had girlish features and long slender hands. Willie suspected that physical standards had been lowered since his Furnald Hall days. Ensign Jorgensen’s lordosis was cavernous compared to Willie’s; yet here he was with a glistening gold stripe.
“By the bye,” said Queeg suddenly to Maryk, “did I see our friend Stilwell at muster or didn’t I? Seems to me I didn’t.”
“Why, sir-” Maryk began,