Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [179]
Willie jumped out of his chair. “Steve! Didn’t you tell him what Duce said?”
“He says we search anyway-”
“But that’s pointless-why, it’s-it’s crazy-”
“Bear a hand, Willie. What’s your assignment?”
“Personal searches aft. Christ, in this weather, too-well-”
“Farrington and Voles aren’t assigned. Pick one of them up to help you if you want-”
Willie made his way aft. The rocking, pitching main deck was all confusion. Sailors in dripping rain gear or soaked dungarees milled on the well deck around Harding and Paynter. Two men stood naked, strangely pink and white in the drab crowd, their faces expressing embarrassment, defiance, and amused scorn. The officers fumbled through their clothes. The guards spaced along the starboard side slouched, leaning on their rifles, and joked with the other sailors. Ensign Farrington stood in the entrance of the wardroom hatchway, one hand hanging on the top of the hatch, observing the search with the half-entertained, half-horrified look of a boy at a freak show.
“Farrington,” Willie called, crossing the well deck, “you come along with me. You’ll assist me.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the ensign said, and fell into step behind Willie. Walking down the port passageway, the lieutenant observed over his shoulder, “This strikes you as queer business, no doubt.”
“Well, Mr. Keith, I was feeling outside of things, and pretty useless. I’m glad of a chance to help.”
Willie couldn’t see his face, but the tone of sober deference was unmistakable. It was the tone in which Willie had addressed Lieutenant Maryk and Lieutenant Gorton fifteen months ago, when they had seemed to him infinitely senior, battle-wise men of the sea. For an instant he was flattered; and he reflected that the Caine itself was perhaps so bewildering and odd to Farrington that the search scarcely surprised him, after all. It was becoming hard for Willie to picture the effect of the Caine on newcomers, and to reconstruct the emotions of fresh ensigns.
They emerged from the passageway into another crowd of wet, sullen sailors, drifting here and there in the rain. Willie herded the men into places of shelter, and organized an alphabetical sequence for the stripping. The men came in pairs into the shower room to take off their clothes. Farrington went to work systematically and unsmilingly, helping Willie rummage through the dank garments. Willie had the grateful feeling that another officer had at last come aboard the Caine.
One of the first men to be stripped was Meatball. Naked, hairy, and squat, he stood grinning, while Willie felt through the dungarees and in the shoes, wrinkling his nose at the powerful animal smell. He handed them back hastily. “Okay, Meatball, get dressed.”
“Why, Mr. Keith,” said the coxswain innocently, “ain’t you gonna look up my behind?”
The note was good-humored, and Willie swiftly decided not to take offense. “No, thanks. I don’t want any medals for extraordinary heroism.”
“Old man is really Asiatic, sir, ain’t he?” said Meatball, stepping into his trousers.
“Never mind about the captain,” said Willie sharply. “Keep a respectful tongue in your head.”
“Christ, sir, I’m only sayin’ what Mr. Keefer said to a whole bunch of us-”
“I’m not interested. No wise talk about the captain to me, understand?”
“Aye aye, sir,” whined the coxswain, looking so abashed that Willie instantly felt guilty and apologetic. The process of stripping the sailors