Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [188]
“O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.”
The ocean was calm, the sky clear, and the sun bright when the tanker group stood out from Mugai Channel. The Caine’s station was at the extreme right of the screen, five thousand yards from the guide. The zigzag plan was an old familiar one. The squat fat tankers plowed placidly along, and the destroyers rolled in the van, probing under the sea with long fingers of sound. The patterns and precautions of war were as customary to the seafarers of this task group as fireside habits. It was a voyage of sleepy dullness.
Willie Keith’s typhoon chart was empty of red squares in all the blue space between Ulithi and the Philippines. He assumed, therefore, that there were in fact no typhoons in those waters, and went about his chores in quietness of spirit. However, as Captain Queeg had often pointed out, you can’t assume a goddamn thing in the Navy. Not, at least, where typhoons are concerned.
On the night of December 16 the Caine began to roll pretty hard. There was nothing unusual in that. Willie had often clung swaying to a stanchion while the inclinometer on the bridge dipped to forty-five degrees, and green white-capped seas filled the view through the side windows. He was reading The Old Curiosity Shop in his room. After a while he felt the slight headache that preceded nausea when he read in too-rough weather. He wedged the book into a shelf and went to bed; bracing his body with knees and soles so that the motion hardly disturbed him.
He was shaken out of sleep by the boatswain’s mate. As always, his eyes sought his watch. “What the hell-it’s only two-thirty-”
“Captain wants to see you on the bridge, sir.”
This was slightly strange. Not the summons; Queeg called Willie out of his sleep two or three nights each week to discuss some point of accounting or decoding; but as a rule he was in his cabin. Hanging onto the upper bunk with one hand as he pulled on trousers, Willie sleepily reviewed in his mind the accounts he had recently audited. He decided that the laundry statement was probably at issue this time. He staggered topside, wondering whether the rolling was really as steep as it seemed. The wind, wet and warm, was on the starboard quarter, stiff enough to be whining through the life lines and guy wires. Black ragged seas climbed toward the sky with each roll. There were no stars.
Harding said, “He’s in the charthouse.”
“Condition Bligh?”
“Not really. Convulsion second class.”
“Well, good- Rolling a bit.”
“A bit.”
The red light flashing up in the charthouse as Willie shut the door showed Queeg and Maryk bent over the desk, both in their underwear. The captain glanced sideways, closing one eye, and said, “Willie, you’ve been keeping this typhoon chart, hey?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, since Mr. Maryk has been unable to explain satisfactorily why such a serious responsibility was delegated without my permission or approval, I suppose you have no explanation, either?”
“Sir, I figured that anything I did to improve my professional competence would be very welcome.”
“Well, you’re quite right there, it certainly can stand improving-but-well, then, why are you making such a botch of it, hey?”
“Sir?”
“Sir, my foot! Where’s any typhoon warnings between the Philippines and Ulithi? You mean to tell me there aren’t any, this time of year?”
“No, sir. It’s unusual, I know, but the area’s all clear-”
“Unless your radio gang has fouled up some call sign or doped off copying some storm warning or it got lost in your efficient files instead of being decoded and plotted on this chart-”
“I don’t think that’s happened, sir-”
Queeg made the chart rattle, tapping it with his forefinger. “Well, the barometer’s dropped fourteen points tonight and the wind’s shifting every couple of hours to the right and it’s force seven right now. I want you to double-check the skeds for the last forty-eight hours, and I want all storm warnings broken instantly and brought