Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [267]
Farrington came back to the bridge. Willie told him to take the wheel, and hurried aft. The passageway was empty. On the main deck sputtering red flames were poking up a little above the hole, all but smothered in fizzing gray clouds. Soapy foam and water ran in rivulets between the tangles of fire hose. Sailors and officers were jabbering by the life lines, well clear of the ragged crater. Some of them were smoking cigarettes. Fifteen or so clustered around the hole in the deck, pouring misty streams into the cavern of the fireroom. Some sailors were passing a hose down through the air lock, and from below there issued a stream of vile workmanlike cursing. The gig, charred but no longer afire, was being bailed out in methodical sloshes of greasy water by Meatball, sweating in his life jacket. Nobody was running any more.
On the deck outside the clip shack the pharmacist’s mate was kneeling with two assistants, bandaging men lying on mattresses or in stretchers. Willie went to the injured men and talked with them. Some of them had been on watch in the fireroom. Their burns were swathed in thick yellow-stained bandages. There were men with gashes from the exploded ammunition, and one sailor with a crushed foot, swelled to twice its normal size and mottled green. Chief Budge was one of the burned ones.
“How goes it, Chief?”
“Okay, sir. Guess we got it licked. Lucky I got that main fuel shut off before I climbed out-”
“Did you take a muster? Did all your men get out?”
“I couldn’t find Horrible, sir-he’s the only one-I don’t know, maybe he’s around somewhere-” The chief tried to sit up. Willie pushed him back.
“Never mind. I’ll find him-”
With a loud rumble number-one and -two stacks poured out a billow of inky smoke, and the ship vibrated. The executive officer and the chief looked at each other with grinning gladness. “Suction on one and two,” said Budge. “We’ll be okay-”
“Well, guess I’ll get under way and pick up the swimming party. Take it easy, Chief-”
“Hope the captain enjoyed his dip,” the chief said in a low voice. “He’s got Queeg beat a mile for fast footwork-”
“Shut up, Budge!” Willie said sharply. He went forward. From the time the Kamikaze hit until suction was regained, seventeen minutes had elapsed.
During the rescue maneuvering in the next hour Willie retained the strangely clear vision and buoyant spirits and slowed calm time sense which he had acquired when Keefer jumped overboard. Nothing seemed hard to do. He made dozens of quick decisions as damage reports poured into the wheelhouse and little emergencies sprang up in the wake of the conquered big one. He nosed the ship slowly among the swimmers, taking care to stop his screws whenever he came near them.
He turned over the conn to Farrington and went to the sea ladder when the captain was hauled aboard. Keefer was unable to climb; so a sailor dived into the water beside him and secured a line around his middle, and the novelist was fished out of the water doubled over, dripping, and clinging to the sopping gray sack. Willie caught him in his arms as he came up to deck level, and helped him to his feet. Keefer’s lips were blue. His hair hung in strings over staring bloodshot eyes. “How the hell did you do it, Willie?” he gasped.