Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [155]
It was the simplest possible situation, a guilty plea with a typewritten confession in the record, and yet time wasted and wasted in entrances and exits, clearings of the court, wrangles over the meanings of words in Courts and Boards, and searchings through Navy Regulations and the court-martial manual. At the end of an hour and a half of this weariness, Keefer declared the trial finished, whereupon Stilwell roused himself from a horse-like apathy and announced that he wanted to make a statement. This occasioned further flurries of debate. At last he was allowed to proceed.
“The captain give me six months’ restriction for reading on watch, and that’s why I had to get that phony wire sent. I had to see my wife or my marriage would of busted up,” Stilwell said, in halting, self-conscious tones. “I didn’t think reading a comic book at the gangway was enough reason to ruin my life. But I’m guilty. Only I think the court ought to remember why I done it.”
Willie swiftly copied down as much of this as he could, and read it back to Stilwell. “Is that the substance of your statement?”
“That’s fine, Mr. Keith. Thanks.”
“All right,” Keefer said. “Clear the court.”
Willie led out the yeoman, the accused, and the orderly. He waited in the ship’s office for forty minutes, and then Bellison called him and the yeoman back to the wardroom.
“Court finds specification proved by plea,” Keefer said. “Sentence is loss of six liberties.”
Willie stared around at the three officers. Paynter sat like a mahogany idol; Harding was trying to look solemn, but a grin was bursting through; Keefer appeared half irritated and half amused. “Well, that’s it,” the gunnery officer said. “That’s our verdict. Record it.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Willie was appalled. This was a direct insult to Queeg. Stilwell was already confined for half a year; the punishment was meaningless. It amounted to an acquittal. He glanced at Jellybelly, whose face was as blank as a fish’s. “Got that, Porteous?”
“Yes, sir.”
The officers were finishing their evening meal when Jellybelly, still in whites, perspiring and cross, came into the wardroom for signature and authentication of the typed record. “Okay, Jellybelly,” said Keefer, the last to sign. “Bring it up to him.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said the yeoman, getting an extraordinary amount of church-bell timbre into the three words, and he left.
“We have time for one more cup of coffee, I think,” said Keefer.
“Before what?” said Maryk suspiciously.
“You’ll see,” said Willie. “Hold onto your hat.” Silence settled over the wardroom, made more palpable by the clinks of spoons in coffee cups.
The rasp of the telephone buzzer came almost immediately. Maryk leaned back in his chair and with a weary gesture yanked the phone out of its bracket. “Maryk speaking. ... Yes, sir. ... Aye aye, Captain. What time? ... Yes, sir. How about the officer at the gangway? ... Aye aye, sir.” He put the phone back, and said to the expectant officers with a sigh, “Meeting of all officers in the wardroom in five minutes. Somebody’s done something.”
Queeg came in head down, shoulders hunched, his face gray with rage. He announced that he was now convinced there was no loyalty whatever to him in the wardroom. Therefore all gentle treatment of officers was at an end. He laid down several new edicts. There would be five points off a fitness rating for any mistake in a log; another five points off for every hour that a report or statement was overdue; and an automatic unsatisfactory fitness rating if any officer was caught sleeping any time after eight o’clock in the morning or before eight at night.
“Sir,” said Keefer pleasantly, “how about officers who have come off the midwatch? They have no sleep at all before morning-”
“Mister Keefer, the midwatch is a duty like any other, and nobody deserves a letter of commendation for standing a midwatch. As I say, if you