Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [153]
“Look, Mr. Keith,” the sailor said hoarsely, “maybe you mean well, but I don’t know, every time I have anything to do with you I wind up in worse trouble than before. Lay off me, will you? The captain told me to give you this. Here it is.”
Willie read a handwritten scrawl: I hereby state that the confession made by me on 13 February 1944 was made voluntarily, under no duress. I was glad to be given a chance to make a clean breast of it, and I have been given no inducement or promises of better treatment for confession. I will repeat these true facts under oath if necessary. It was signed by Stilwell in a schoolboyish hand; the bright blue ink and the broad pen nib identified the instrument as Captain Queeg’s fountain pen.
Willie said, “Stilwell, this isn’t the end. He got this under duress, too. If there’s anything you want me-”
“Please, Mr. Keith!” A sudden desperate glare came into the sailor’s eyes. “That’s it, see? That’s the way I want it, that’s the truth, that’s how it’s gonna be. There wasn’t no duress, see? Duress!” Stilwell flung Courts and Boards over the side. “I never heard of duress! Keep your goddamn nose out of my business!”
He ran off down the port passageway. Willie mechanically looked over the side. Courts and Boards lay under water, caught between the two hulls, amid floating splinters and garbage. The ships rolled slowly together; the book was squashed to a shapeless wad.
The beer was icy, golden, keenly gratifying and delicious, gurgling out of the triangular holes in the misted cans. Keefer, Maryk, Harding, and Willie lay under palm trees in sweet breezy shade and rapidly drank off a couple of cans each, to quench thirst. Then, more slowly, they began their social drinking. The spot they had chosen was a secluded curve of the recreation beach. They were alone with sand and palms. Far out on the green-blue lagoon the Pluto drifted slowly back and forth at the end of her anchor chain carrying the six nursing destroyers with her.
Willie had resolved to say nothing to the other officers about the Stilwell matter. It seemed unethical for the prosecutor and court members to gossip over the case on the day before the trial. But a few beers dissolved his resolution. He told them about the abortive not-guilty plea, and the documents Queeg had extorted from the sailor.
None of the others spoke for a while. Harding rose and began plunging holes in three more cans of beer. Keefer sat with his back to the bole of a palm, smoking a pipe. Maryk lay face down on the sand, his head on his arms. He had rolled into this position halfway through the story, and remained so.
The novelist accepted a beer can from Harding and drank deeply. “Steve,” he said in a quiet tone. Maryk turned his head sideways. “Steve, has the thought ever occurred to you,” said Keefer, gravely and calmly, “that Captain Queeg may be insane?”
The executive officer sat up with a grunt, and squatted cross-legged, red-brown and thick, white sand clinging to the folds of his skin. “Don’t bust up a good afternoon, Tom,” he said.
“I’m not making jokes, Steve.”
“There’s no point in that kind of talk,” said the exec, shaking his head impatiently like an animal.
“Look, Steve, I’m no psychiatrist, but I’ve read a lot. I can give you a diagnosis of Queeg. It’s the clearest picture I’ve ever seen of a psychopathic personality. He’s a paranoid, with an obsessive-compulsive syndrome. I’ll bet a clinical examination would back me up a hundred per cent. I’ll show you the description of the type in the books-”
“I’m not interested,” said the exec. “He’s no crazier than you are.”
“You’re in a big jam, Steve.”
“I’m in no jam.”
“I’ve seen this coming for a long time.” The novelist got up, tossed his beer can aside, and punched holes in another. Foam boiled over his hands. “See, Steve, about a week after Queeg came aboard I realized he was a psychopath. The shirttail obsession, the little rolling balls, the inability