Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [169]
The Caine officers overwhelmed Ensign Pinckney with handshakes. He grinned toothily and said, “Well, it happens the wardroom mess just brought half a dozen gallons of frozen strawberries up out of the hold, and I know how tight things are for you guys on those old four-pipers. And I’m the wardroom mess treasurer so-any time Jorgy or any one of you wants to stop by in the next day or two-”
Keefer glanced at his watch and said, “Willie, flag the gig. We’re going to get some strawberries.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Willie played the closing bars of Anchors Aweigh fortissimo, banged the piano shut, and ran out.
Back in the wardroom, the officers bolted dinner greedily, impatient for dessert. The steward’s mates served the ice cream at last with smiling pomp. Each dish was heaped over with rosy strawberries. The first round was gobbled up, and there were cries for more. Queeg suddenly came into the wardroom, in his bathrobe. The talk and laughter stopped, and in silence the officers stood one by one. “Don’t get up, don’t get up,” the captain said amiably. “Who am I to thank for the strawberries? Whittaker just brought me a dish.”
Maryk said, “Jorgensen got them from the Bridge, sir.”
“Well done, Jorgensen, very well done. How much have we got?”
“A gallon, sir.”
“A whole gallon? Fine. I’d like to see some more of this enterprise around here. Tell Whittaker I want another dish, with plenty of strawberries.”
The captain sent down again and again for helpings, the last time at eleven o’clock, when all the officers were sitting around in rare good-fellowship, exchanging sex reminiscences as they smoked and drank coffee. Willie went to bed that night happier than he had been for a long time.
Shake, shake, shake ... “What now?” he murmured, opening his eyes in the darkness. Jorgensen stood over him. “I’ve got no watch-”
“Meeting of all the officers in the wardroom, right away.” Jorgensen reached up and poked at the other bunk. “Come on, Duce, wake up.”
Willie said, peering at his watch, “Jesus Christ, it’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s the meeting about?”
“Strawberries,” said Jorgensen. “Get Duce up, will you? I’ve got to rouse the others.”
In the wardroom the officers sat around the table in various stages of undress, hair mussed, faces creased with sleepiness. Queeg was at the head of the table, slouched in his purple robe, glowering straight ahead at nothing, his whole body nodding rhythmically as he rolled the steel balls in one hand. He made no sign of recognition when Willie tiptoed in, buttoning his shirt, and dropped into a chair. In the long silent pause that followed Ducely entered, then Jorgensen, followed by Harding, who wore the DOD’s gunbelt.
“All present now, sir,” said Jorgensen, in the quiet unctuous tone of an undertaker. Queeg made no response. Roll, roll, went the balls. Minutes of dead silence passed. The door opened, and Whittaker, the chief officer’s steward, came in, carrying a tin can. When he set it on the table Willie saw that it brimmed with sand. The Negro’s eyes were rounded in fright; perspiration rolled down his long, narrow cheeks, and his tongue flickered across his lips.
“You’re sure that’s a gallon can, now,” spoke Queeg.
“Yes, suh. Lard can, suh. Got it offen Ochiltree, suh, in de galley-”
“Very well. Pencil and paper, please,” said the captain to nobody. Jorgensen sprang up and offered Queeg his pen and pocket notebook. “Mr. Maryk, how many helpings of ice cream did you have this evening?”
“Two, sir.”
“Mr. Keefer?”
“Three, Captain.”
Queeg polled all the officers, noting down their answers. “Now, Whittaker, did your men have any strawberries?”
“Yes, suh. One helpin’ each, suh. Mr. Jorgensen, he said okay, suh.”
“I did, sir,” said Jorgensen.
“Just one helping each. You’re sure, now,” said Queeg, squinting at the Negro. “This is an official investigation, Whittaker. The penalty for lying is a dishonorable discharge, and maybe years in the brig.”
“Hope to die, suh. I served ’em myself, Cap’n, and lock away de rest. One helpin