Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [199]
An unbelievably big gray wave loomed on the port side, high over the bridge. It came smashing down. Water spouted into the wheelhouse from the open wing, flooding to Willie’s knees. The water felt surprisingly warm and sticky, like blood. “Sir, we’re shipping water on the goddamn bridge!” said Maryk shrilly. “We’ve got to come around into the wind!”
“Heading 245, sir.” Stilwell’s voice was sobbing. “She ain’t answering to the engines at all, sir!”
The Caine rolled almost completely over on its port side. Everybody in the wheelhouse except Stilwell went sliding across the streaming deck and piled up against the windows. The sea was under their noses, dashing up against the glass. “Mr. Maryk, the light on this gyro just went out!” screamed Stilwell, clinging desperately to the wheel. The wind howled and shrieked in Willie’s ears. He lay on his face on the deck, tumbling around in salt water, flailing for a grip at something solid.
“Oh Christ, Christ, Christ, Jesus Christ, save us!” squealed the voice of Urban.
“Reverse your rudder, Stilwell! Hard right! Hard right!” cried the exec harshly.
“Hard right, sir!”
Maryk crawled across the deck, threw himself on the engine-room telegraph, wrested the handles from Queeg’s spasmodic grip, and reversed the settings. “Excuse me, Captain-” A horrible coughing rumble came from the stacks. “What’s your head?” barked Maryk.
“Two seven five, sir!”
“Hold her at hard right!”
“Aye aye, sir!”
The old minesweeper rolled up a little from the surface of the water.
Willie Keith did not have any idea what the executive officer was doing, though the maneuver was simple enough. The wind was turning the ship from south to west. Queeg had been trying to fight back to south. Maryk was doing just the opposite, now; seizing on the momentum of the twist to the right and assisting it with all the force of engines and rudder, to try to swing the ship’s head completely northward, into the wind and sea. In a calmer moment Willie would easily have understood the logic of the act, but now he had lost his bearings. He sat on the deck, hanging stupidly to a telephone jackbox, with water sloshing around his crotch, and looked to the exec as to a wizard, or an angel of God, to save him with magic passes. He had lost faith in the ship. He was overwhelmingly aware that he sat on a piece of iron in an angry dangerous sea. He could think of nothing but his yearning to be saved. Typhoon, Caine, Queeg, sea, Navy, duty, lieutenant’s bars, all were forgotten. He was like a wet cat mewing on wreckage.
“Still coming around? What’s your head? Keep calling your head!” yelled Maryk.
“Coming around hard, sir!” the helmsman screamed as though prodded with a knife. “Heading 310, heading. 315, heading 320-”
“Ease your rudder to standard!”
“Ease the rudder, sir?”
“Yes, ease her, ease her!”
“Ru-rudder is eased, sir-”
“Very well.”
Ease, ease, ease-the word penetrated Willie’s numb fogged mind. He pulled himself to his feet, and looked around. The Caine was riding upright. It rolled to one side, to the other„ and back again. Outside the windows there was nothing but solid white spray. The sea was invisible. The forecastle was invisible. “You okay, Willie? I thought you were knocked cold.” Maryk, braced on the captain’s chair, gave him a brief side glance.
“I’m okay. Wha-what’s happening, Steve?”
“Well, this is it. We ride it out for a half hour, we’re okay-What’s your head?” he called to Stilwell.
“Three two five, sir-coming around slower, now-”
“Well, sure, fighting the wind-she’ll come around-we’ll steady on 000-”
“Aye aye, sir-”
“We will not,” said Queeg.
Willie had lost all awareness of the captain’s presence. Maryk had filled his mind as father, leader, and savior. He looked now at the little pale man who stood with arms and legs entwined around the telegraph stand, and had the feeling that Queeg was a stranger. The captain, blinking and shaking his head as though he had just awakened, said, “Come left to 180.”
“Sir, we can’t ride stern to wind and save this ship,” said the