Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [197]
Queeg, clinging to the telegraph with his knees and arms, threw him a frightened glance, his skin greenish, and obediently slid the handle backward. The laboring ship shuddered fearfully; it continued to drift sidewise before the wind, rising and falling on each swell a distance equal to the height of a tall building. “What’s your head?” The captain’s voice was a muffled croak.
“Steady on 117, sir-”
“Think she’ll grab, Steve?” murmured Willie.
“I hope so.”
“Oh holy Mother of Christ, make this ship come around!” spoke a queer wailing voice. The tone made Willie shiver. Urban, the little signalman, had dropped to his knees and was hugging the binnacle, his eyes closed, his head thrown back.
“Shut up, Urban,” Maryk said sharply. “Get on your feet-”
Stilwell exclaimed, “Sir, heading 120! Coming right, sir!”
“Good,” said Maryk. “Ease your rudder to standard.”
Without so much as a glance at the captain, Stilwell obeyed. Willie noticed the omission, for all that he was terror-stricken; and he noticed, too, that Queeg, frozen to the telegraph stand, seemed oblivious.
“Rudder is eased to standard, sir-heading 124, sir-” The Caine stood erect slowly and wabbled a little to port before heeling deep to starboard again.
“We’re okay,” said Maryk. Urban got off his knees and looked around sheepishly.
“Heading 128-129-130-”
“Willie,” said the exec, “take a look in the radar shack. See if you can tell where the hell we are in the formation.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Willie staggered out past the captain to the open wing. The wind immediately smashed him against the bridgehouse, and spray pelted him like small wet stones. He was astounded and peculiarly exhilarated to realize that in the last fifteen minutes the wind had actually become much stronger than before, and would blow him over the side if he exposed himself in a clear space. He laughed aloud, his voice thin against the guttural “Whooeeee!” of the storm. He inched himself to the door of the radar shack, freed the dogs, and tried to pull the door open, but the wind held it tightly shut. He pounded on the wet steel with his knuckles, and kicked at it, and screamed, “Open up! Open up! It’s the OOD!” A crack appeared and widened. He darted through, knocking down one of the radarmen who was pushing against the door. It snapped shut as though on a spring.
“What the hell!” exclaimed Willie.
There were perhaps twenty sailors jammed in the tiny space, all in life jackets with waterproof searchlights pinned to them, all with whistles dangling around their necks, all with the same round-eyed bristly white face of fear. “How are we doing, Mr. Keith?” spoke the voice of Meatball from the rear of the crush.
“We’re doing fine-”
“We gonna have to abandon ship, sir?” said a filthy-faced fireman.
Willie suddenly realized what was so very strange about the shack beside the crowd. It was brightly lit. Nobody was paying any attention to the dim green slopes of the radars. He let loose a stream of obscenity that surprised him as it came out of his mouth. The sailors shrank a little from him. “Who turned on the lights in here? Who’s got the watch?”
“Sir, there’s nothing on the scopes but sea return,” whined a radarman.
Willie cursed some more, and then said, “Douse the lights. Get your faces against these scopes and keep them there.”
“Okay, Mr. Keith,” said the radarman, in a friendly, respectful tone, “but it won’t do no good.” In the gloom Willie quickly saw that the sailor was right. There was no trace of the pips of the other ships, nothing but a blurry peppering and streaking of green all over the scopes. “You see, sir,” said the voice of the technician, patiently, “our masthead ain’t no higher than the water most of the time, and, anyway, all this spray, why, it’s like a solid object, sir. These scopes are jammed out-”
“All the same,” said Willie, “the watch will be maintained on these radars, and you’ll keep trying till you do get something! And all the