Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [190]
“I don’t know,” said the exec, “but the damned tankers are all flying Baker. They’re going to try.”
“Mister officer of the deck,” called the captain from the wheelhouse. “Barometer reading, please?”
Willie shook his head wearily, went aft to glance at the instrument, and reported at the door of the pilothouse, “Still steady at 29.42, sir.”
“Well, why do I have to keep asking for readings, here? You give me a report every ten minutes, now.”
“Christ,” muttered Willie to the exec, “it’s been steady for seven hours.”
Maryk trained his binoculars forward. The Caine shuddered for several seconds on the crest of a long swell, and dropped with a jarring splash into a trough. “Some can fueling from the New Jersey up there-broad on the bow-I think the fueling line parted-”
Willie waited for the Caine to rise again, peering through his glasses. He saw the destroyer yawing violently near the battleship, trailing a snaky black hose. The fueling gear dangled crazily free from the battleship’s main deck. “They’re not going to get much fueling done here.”
“Well, maybe not, at that.”
Willie reported the accident to Queeg. The captain snuggled down in his chair, scratched his bristly chin, and said, “Well, that’s their tough luck, not ours. I’d like some coffee.”
The task force kept up the attempt until early in the afternoon, at the cost of a lot of fueling hoses and steadying lines and dumped oil, while junior officers like Willie, on all the ships, made witty comments on the mental limitations of the fleet commander. They did not know, of course, that the admiral was committed to an air strike in support of a landing by General MacArthur on Mindoro, and had to fuel his ships, or else deprive the Army of air cover. At half-past one the task force discontinued fueling and began to run southwest to get out of the storm.
Willie had the deck from eight to midnight. He came to the slow realization, during the watch, that this was extremely bad weather; weather to worry about; during a couple of steep rolls he had flickers of panic. He drew reassurance from the stolidity of the helmsman and the quartermasters, who hung onto their holds on wheel or engine-room telegraph, and droned obscene insults at each other in fatigued but calm tones, while the black wheelhouse rolled and fell and rose and trembled, and rain drummed on the windows, dripping inside in trickles on the deck. The other ships were invisible. Willie maintained station by radar ranges and bearings on the nearest tanker.
At half-past eleven a drenched radioman staggered up to Willie with a storm warning. He read it and woke Maryk, who was dozing in the captain’s chair, gripping the arms in his sleep to keep from pitching out. They went into the charthouse. Queeg, heavily asleep in the bunk over the desk, his mouth open, did not stir. “Hundred fifty miles away now, almost due east,” Maryk murmured, pricking the chart with dividers.
“Well, then, we’re over in the navigable semicircle,” said Willie. “By morning we’ll be pretty well out of it.”
“Could be.”
“I’ll be glad to see the sun again.”
“So will I.”
When Willie returned to his room after being relieved, he derived a curious warm confidence from the familiar surroundings. Nothing had come adrift. The room was tidy, the desk lamp glowed brightly, and his favorite books stood firm and friendly on the shelf. The green curtain and a dirty pair of khaki trousers on a hook swayed back and forth with each groaning roll of the ship, sticking out at queer angles as though blown by a strong wind. Willie wanted very much to sleep deeply and wake to a smiling day, with