Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [164]
Queeg, lying on his bunk, yawning over a wrinkled old Esquire, said, “Well now, Tom, let’s see. Seems to me you have a registered publications inventory due on 1 October. Have you turned it in?”
“No, sir. As you know we’ve been at sea every day and-”
“We haven’t been at sea at night. I daresay you’ve managed to write quite a bit of your novel lately. I’ve seen you at it almost every night-”
“Sir, I promise to do the inventory tonight when I get back, even if it means staying up all night-”
The captain shook his head. “I’ve got my methods, Tom, and they’re the result of a hell of a lot of observation of human nature. What’s more I’m a damn softhearted guy, strange as that may sound to you, and if I make one exception I’ll start making more and my whole system will fly to pieces, and whatever you may think of the way I run this ship at least it’s been run properly and I’ve made no mistakes yet. So I’m sorry and it’s nothing personal but permission is denied until such time as you turn in that inventory.”
Keefer and Willie took inventory that night, to the accompaniment of some picturesque cursing by the gunnery officer. It had been galling him for a year that Queeg had never permitted him to transfer custody of the secret publications. In Pearl Harbor, Queeg had compelled him to take the books back from Willie, saying it would only be for a week or two, until Willie mastered the manual; but thereafter the captain had balked at allowing the transfer, month after month.
“I finally stopped trying to persuade that criminal lunatic to let me off the hook,” Keefer said between grunts, hauling armfuls of books out of the safe, “because I realized that he would never give up the luxury of those revolting interviews where he had me begging him for something. He would hold me on as custodian of the Caine if I rose to admiral, so long as he was an admiral one number higher than me. The man’s a classic psychotic. A full-dress analysis of him would supersede all the studies of the Jukes and the Kallikaks.” He went on in this vein for several hours. Willie threw in some sympathetic remarks, to hide the fact that he was meanly amused.
Next morning Keefer brought the inventory to the captain’s cabin, and handed it to Queeg with a shamefaced smile. “Permission to use the gig to visit the Montauk, Captain?”
“Permission granted. Thank you, Tom,” said the captain, flipping the pages of the report. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Willie Keith would like to come along, sir.”
Queeg frowned. “Why doesn’t he ask permission himself? ... Well, I’m just as glad not to have to look at his stupid face. He can pick up some of these AlPacs and AlComs that he’s always behind on, while he’s at it.”
When Keefer came out on the well deck Willie was waiting for him, looking drooped despite fresh khakis and a gleaming shoeshine. “Tom, the carriers are under way-”
“Oh, Christ, no-”
“A couple of them are in the channel already. Montauk’s chain is straight up and down.”
“Let’s see.” The novelist ran up the bridge ladder. He stood by the bulwark, staring grimly northward. Four carriers were steaming toward the Caine.
Willie said, “Maybe they’re just going to the south anchorage.” Keefer did not answer.
Towering high over their heads, the leading carrier drew abreast of the Caine, a moving mountain of gray-painted iron, no more than a hundred yards away. The minesweeper rocked in the wash. “Let’s go up on the flying bridge,” Keefer said.
It was only eight o’clock, but the sun was already hot on the unprotected flying bridge. Keefer squinted at the carriers, seven of them now, moving slowly over the glittering water. The Montauk was sixth in line. Down-channel, the leading carrier swung ponderously to port and headed out toward the open sea. “Wrong way for the south anchorage,” Keefer said bitterly.
“They didn’t stay long,” Willie said. He felt apologetic, as though in some way Keefer’s disappointment was his fault. The two officers watched the vast procession for a while in silence.
“This must be the Philippines,