Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [139]
“Well, what’s the matter, Willie? Did you or didn’t you?” Maryk said angrily, “Tom, that’s the goddamnedest remark I’ve ever heard.”
“Let Willie answer, Steve.”
“Tom, I-I was pretty busy trying to keep myself straightened out. I wasn’t worrying about the captain. I don’t know-”
“You do and you’re lying, like an honorable little Princeton boy,” said the novelist. “Okay. Take a bow for trying to protect the honor of the Caine and the Navy.” He got up and carried his cup and saucer to the Silex. “That’s all very well, but we’re responsible for the safety of this ship, not to mention our own necks, and it’s not wise to be anything but realistic.” He poured fresh coffee, light brown and steaming, into his cup. “There is a new fact that all of us have got to live with, and let’s face it, lads. Queeg is a poltroon.”
The door opened, and Queeg came in. He was freshly shaved, still were his helmet, and carried his life jacket under his arm. “I’ll have a cup of the same, Tom, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, Captain.”
Queeg sat in the chair at the head of the table, dropped his life jacket on the deck, and began rubbing the steel balls in his left hand. He crossed his legs and danced the upper one, so that his whole slumping body bobbed rhythmically. He stared straight ahead, with a peevish, pouting look. There were heavy green shadows under his eyes, and deep lines around his mouth. Keefer put three spoons of sugar in a cup of coffee and set it before the captain.
“Thanks. Hm. Fresh, for once.” These were the last words spoken in the wardroom for ten minutes. Queeg glanced swiftly at the officers from time to time and returned his eyes to his coffee cup. At last, draining the last mouthful, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, Willie, as long as you don’t seem to be doing much of anything, how about letting me see some decodes, here? There are about twenty-seven numbers I’m still waiting for.”
“I’ll get on it right away, sir.” The ensign opened the safe and languidly brought out the code devices.
“Tom,” said the captain, staring into his empty cup, “my records show that Ducely’s twelfth officers’ qualification assignment is due today. Where is it?”
“Sir, we’ve been at battle stations since three o’clock this morning-”
“We’re not at GQ now and haven’t been for two hours.”
“Ducely’s entitled to eat, and clean himself, and rest, sir-”
“Rest is something you do when your duties are fulfilled. I want that assignment on my desk tonight before Ducely turns in, and you’re not to turn in, either, until you receive it from him and correct it. Is that clear?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And watch those smart-alecky tones a little bit, Mr. Keefer,” the captain added, rising, his eyes on the wall. “Fitness reports include such things as willingness and subordination.” He went out of the wardroom.
“Think he heard?” Willie whispered.
“No, don’t worry,” Keefer said in a normal tone. “That was sullen face number two. Ordinary fatigue plus maybe an ulcer twinge or two.”
“You better watch your goddamn tongue,” Maryk said.
The novelist laughed. “You can’t say he isn’t on the ball. Invasion or no invasion, Ducely does his assignment. You never saw a more fearless wielder of a check list than Old Yellowstain-”
Maryk rose and walked to the door, setting a frayed overseas cap on his head. “All right,” he said, in a dry voice. “Mr. Keefer, the name of the commanding officer of this ship is Captain Queeg. I’m his executive officer. I don’t want any more of this name-calling in my presence, do you hear? None of this Old Yellowstain or anything but plain Captain Queeg.”
“Turn me in, Mister Maryk,” said Keefer, opening his eyes wide so that the whites glittered. “Tell Queeg what I think of him. Let him court-martial me for insubordination.”
Maryk uttered a brief obscenity and went out.
“Well, I guess I’ll hunt up poor Ducely,” Keefer said, “and screw that assignment out of him.”
Harding said, “My audit of the ship’s service accounts is due.” He tossed aside a magazine and