Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [165]
“Well, Tom, I’m just as glad to stay here and tow targets. I’m like Roosevelt. I hate war.”
Two more carriers went slowly past. The Caine rolled and pitched, straining at its anchor chain. “All I’ve ever wanted since this war began,” murmured the novelist, looking up at the airplanes clustered on the stern of the Arnold Bay, “is to serve on a carrier.” Another carrier slipped by, and another.
“I think I see him,” said Willie. “Look there, in that gun tub, the twin-forty on the hangar deck, just aft of the hawse. There, that’s him. He’s waving a megaphone.”
Keefer nodded. He pulled a green megaphone from a bracket in the bulwark, and flourished it over his head. As the Montauk approached, Willie had a clear look at Roland Keefer through binoculars. His old roommate, wearing a purple baseball cap, had the same good-humored grin, but his face was much leaner. He resembled his brother more. It might almost have been the novelist in the gun tub.
Roland bawled something through his megaphone, but it was muffed by the sucking, washing noises of the water between the ships. “Repeat-repeat,” yelled Keefer. He put the megaphone to his ear. Roland was now directly opposite, about twenty feet above them, recognizable without binoculars. As he slipped past he shouted again. A few words came across, “... luck ... next time for sure ... Shinola ... ’By, Tom...”
The novelist roared, “Good luck, Roland. You’ll tell me all about the war next time.”
They could see Roland laugh and nod. He was far ahead of them in a moment. He called back once more, but nothing was distinguishable except the word “... brother ...”
Willie and Keefer stood watching the purple dot of the baseball cap as the Montauk swung into Mugai Channel, increased speed, and headed out to sea.
The people in the United States knew more about the great Battle of Leyte Gulf when it happened than the sailors who fought it, and much more, of course, than the men of the Caine becalmed in Ulithi. On the old minesweeper the development of the battle trickled through slowly in terse coded despatches, mostly damage reports, fogged with unfamiliar names-Surigao, San Bernardino, Samar. Willie was decoding one of these on the morning of October 26, when he struck the name Montauk. He worked on for a while, his face grave, and then brought the unfinished message to Keefer’s room. The novelist sat at his cluttered desk, striking out a paragraph on a yellow manuscript sheet with thick red crayon lines. “Hi, Willie. How’s our side doing?”
Willie handed him the message. Keefer said quickly, “Montauk?”
“Fourth paragraph.”
The gunnery officer shook his head over the message, and glanced up at Willie with sickly embarrassment. He handed back the despatch, shrugged, and laughed a little. “My brother, being the lucky clown he is, came through okay, don’t worry, Willie. Probably earned himself a Congressional Medal of Honor. He’s indestructible.”
“I hope he’s all right-”
“Did he ever tell you about the auto accident he was in, in prep school, when four kids got killed and he came out with a sprained ankle? People run to patterns. He has a lucky life.”
“Well, Tom, we ought to know for sure in a couple of days. They’ll be in here-”
“A suicide plane, Christ, they really bought it-” Willie said, “How’s your novel coming?”
The gunnery officer laid his hand protectingly on the manuscript. “So-so. Old Yellowstain has really slowed the progress of American literature. I’ve done less in a year than in two months under De Vriess.”
“When do I get to read some of it?”
“Pretty soon,” said Keefer vaguely, as he had said a dozen times before.
Two days later, toward evening, Keefer was drinking coffee in the wardroom, when the phone buzzed. “This is Willie, Tom. I’m on the bridge. Montauk is standing in.”
“Coming right up. How does she look?”
“Banged up.”
Keefer came to the bridge with a despatch blank initialed by Queeg. “Get one of your boys to