Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [147]
Ducely moaned, lifted his head, and resumed picking feebly at the coding machine.
In one respect Captain Queeg’s isolation from his officers was not as complete as he might have wished; having no private toilet, he was compelled to come below to use the officers’ head in the wardroom passageway. These periodic appearances of the captain at odd hours sometimes led to trouble. It had become instinctive with all the officers to listen for the clang of the captain’s door, and to spring into attitudes of virtue as soon as they heard it. One would leap out of his bunk and pick up a fistful of official mail, another would dart at a coding machine, a third would seize a pen and a mess statement, and a fourth would flip open a logbook.
Since Willie and Ducely were honorably employed, the bang of the captain’s door at this moment did not trouble them. Queeg appeared a few seconds later and flapped through the wardroom in his run-down slippers, pouting morosely at vacancy as usual. The two officers did not look up from their coding. There was quiet while one might count ten, then a sudden frightful yammering in the passageway. Willie jumped up, thinking, or rather half hoping, that the captain had touched some defective light socket and electrocuted himself. He ran up the passageway, followed by Ducely. But there was nothing wrong with the captain, except that he was screeching unintelligibly into the officers’ shower room. Ensign Jorgensen, naked as a cow, his large pink behind jutting like a shelf from his sway back, stood under the shower, his shoulders unmistakably wet, the iron deck under his feel covered with droplets. One hand gripped the shower valve, and with the other he was mechanically fumbling at his car to adjust glasses that weren’t there. His face wore an idiotically pleasant smile. Out of the captain’s jumbled sounds emerged the words, “-dare to violate my orders, my express orders? How dare you?”
“The water left in the pipes, sir-in the pipes, that’s all,” babbled Jorgensen. “I was just using the water in the pipes, I swear.”
“The water in the pipes, hey? Very good. That’s what the officers on this ship can all use for a while. The crew’s water restriction goes off at five o’clock. The officers’ restriction will continue for another forty-eight hours. You inform Mr. Maryk of that fact, Mr. Jorgensen, and then submit a written report to me explaining why I should not make out an unsatisfactory fitness report for you” (he spat out the word “fitness” as though it were an oath) “at once!”
“The water in the pipes, sir,” groaned Jorgensen, but Queeg had flounced into the head, and slammed the door. Keith and Ducely stared at Jorgensen, with stern, hating faces.
“Fellows, I’ve got to have my shower or I don’t feel human,” said Jorgensen, with injured self-righteousness. “I was only using the water in the pipes, really.”
“Jorgensen,” said Willie, “the water supply for nine men dying of thirst has coursed away into that huge cleft between your buttocks. That’s the right place for it, since your whole personality is concentrated in there. I hope you enjoyed it.”
The officers of the Caine went without water for two more days. They all took turns at cursing Jorgensen, and then forgave him. The breeze changed, and the horror of the stack gas and cabbage fumes abated, but the weather continually grew hotter and stickier.