Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [204]
Willie looked at the clock in astonishment. Time had stopped running in his mind. It was a quarter to twelve. “Okay,” he said. The formulas of the relieving ceremony came mechanically to his lips. “Steaming on various courses and speeds to look for survivors of the George Black. Steaming on boilers one, two, and three. Depth charges set on safe. Condition Able set throughout the ship. Last time I saw the barometer it had risen to 29.10. Fleet course is 180, but we’ve lost contact with formation due to jammed radars, and I don’t know where we are. About one hundred and fifty miles east of Ulithi, I’d say. You can check our 0800 dead reckoning position. We’re in the same place, more or less. The captain has been relieved under Article 184, and is still on the bridge. The executive officer has command and is at the conn. I guess that’s all.”
“Just a routine watch,” said Keefer. Willie smiled ruefully.
Keefer saluted. “Okay, I’ve got it.” He grasped Willie’s hand, pressed it warmly, and whispered, “Good work.”
“God help us all,” murmured Willie.
PART SIX
THE COURT-MARTIAL
CHAPTER 31
Counsel for the Defense
Watery sunlight of a misty San Francisco morning, falling on the desk of Captain Theodore Breakstone, USNR, district legal officer of Com Twelve, illumined a fat manila folder on top of an untidy clutter of papers, labeled in crude red-crayon letters, “CAINE.” Breakstone, a thick-faced man with bristly hair and a large knobby nose, sat in his swivel chair with his back to his desk, staring out at the harbor, regarding with mingled yearning and irritation an attack transport far below which swung slowly in the tide current to its anchor chain. Captain Breakstone longed to go to sea, and his dream was to command a transport-he was an amateur boat enthusiast, and he had navigated a destroyer briefly in World War I-but he was trapped by his excellent civilian record as a lawyer. The Bureau ignored his applications. He assuaged his disappointment by being salty in language and demeanor, and growling “hell” and “damn” as often as possible.
In his lap was a sheaf of long white sheets of paper ruled on either side with a blue line: the report of the board of investigation into the unauthorized relief of Lieutenant Commander P. F. Queeg, commanding officer of the U.S.S. Caine. Captain Breakstone had held thousands of such sheafs in his hairy hands during the past three years. The phrases, the attitudes, the glints of emotion through the stilted rubbish of words, were as commonplace to him as the nicks and grooves of an old familiar staircase to an old scrubwoman. He could not recall a case that had unsettled and depressed him more. The inquiry had been a botch. The recommendations were stupid. The facts of the case, so far as they had been uncovered, were a hideous tangled mess. He had turned away from the desk, halfway through a re-examination of the report, to fight down a nauseous headache such as he got from reading on a bumpy train.
He heard a tapping on the glass partition between his cubicle and the clattering office full of desks, files, and blue-shirted Waves. He swiveled around, throwing the papers on his desk. “Hello, Challee. Come in.”
A lieutenant commander walked in through the open doorway. “I’ve thought of a guy, sir-”
“Good. Who?”
“You don’t know him, sir. Barney Greenwald-”
“Regular?”
“Reserve, sir. But a pretty red-hot officer. Fighter pilot. Lieutenant-”
“What the hell does a fly boy know about law?”
“He’s a lawyer in civilian life, sir-”
“A lawyer and a fighter pilot?”
“He’s quite a guy, sir-”
“Greenwald, you say his name is? Dutch, or what?”
“He’s a Jew, sir-” Captain Breakstone wrinkled his big nose. Challee pulled himself a little more erect. He stood with one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a black portfolio, his attitude nicely mixing familiarity and deference. He had wavy, sandy hair, and his round face wore a look