Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [40]
“There’s something about the DMS outfit,” went on Gorton cheerfully, “that makes the Bureau reluctant to shift personnel. Maybe the file is lost back in Washington. We got two chiefs aboard with more than a hundred months. Captain de Vriess has seventy-one. So you’ll get your sea duty-Well-glad to have you aboard. Take it easy.”
Willie stumbled after Paynter to the clipping shack, a metal box on the main deck about seven feet high, six long, and three wide. A doorway was the only opening. A shelf ran along one side, waist-high, piled with empty clipping belts for machinegun bullets and cases of ammunition. Ensign Harding was sleeping on a bunk which had been recently welded into the wall close to the deck; the weld was still bright and angry-looking. Sweat was pouring off Harding’s face, and his shirt was dark with wet streaks. The temperature in the shack was about 105 degrees.
“Home sweet home,” said Willie.
“This Harding has Caine blood in him,” Paynter said. “He’s starting off right- Well, there’ll be some transfers any day. You guys’ll be down in the wardroom right soon.” He started to go.
“Where can I find Mr. Keefer?” said Willie.
“In his sack,” said Paynter.
“I mean later in the day.”
“So do I,” said Paynter, and departed.
Willie wandered around the Caine for a couple of hours, poking his nose down ladders and hatchways and into doorways. He was ignored by the sailors as though he were invisible, except when he faced one in a passageway. Then the sailor would flatten automatically against the bulkhead, as though to allow a big animal to pass. Willie’s sight-seeing tour confirmed his first impression. The Caine was a pile of junk in the last hours of decay, manned by hoodlums.
He drifted down to the wardroom. Overhead the metal scrapers pounded loudly. The long table was covered with green baize now, and the magazines and books had been shelved. The room was empty except for a very tall skinny colored boy in sweaty white undershirt and trousers, who was listlessly dabbing at the deck with a mop. “I’m the new officer, Ensign Keith,” said Willie. “Might I have a cup of coffee?”
“Yassuh.” The steward’s mate put down the mop, and sauntered to a Silex on a metal bureau in the corner.
“What’s your name?” said Willie.
“Whittaker, suh, steward’s mate second. Cream and sugar, suh?”
“Please.” Willie glanced around. A tarnished brass plaque on the bulkhead informed him that the ship had been named for one Arthur Wingate Caine, commander of a destroyer in World War I who had died of wounds received in a gun battle with a German submarine. Above the plaque on a shelf among a lot of naval books was a leather-bound loose-leaf volume, Ship’s Organization, USS Caine, DMS 22. Willie took it down. The steward’s mate set the coffee before him.
“How long have you been on the Caine, Whittaker?”
“Fo’ months, suh.”
“How do you like it?”
The Negro backed away, his eyes bulging as though Willie had whipped out a knife. “Bes’ ship in de whole Navy, suh.” He grabbed the mop and ran out the door.
The coffee was lukewarm and muddy but Willie drank it. He needed stimulation badly. One hour of sleep had allowed him little recovery from the luau. He read the statistics of the Caine blearily. It had been built in 1918 in Rhode Island (“Before I was born,” he muttered). It was 317 feet long and 31 feet wide and could make a flank speed of 30 knots. Upon conversion for minesweeping one of its four stacks and a boiler had been removed to make room for more fuel tanks, thus increasing the cruising radius.
Overhead the clanking became louder; another work party was starting to chip paint. The air in the wardroom was growing hot and foul as the sun rose higher. The mission of the high-speed minesweeper, Willie read, is primarily to sweep in enemy waters ahead of invasion or bombardment forces. He dropped the book on the table, laid his head on it, and groaned.
“Hullo,” said a voice, “are you Keith or Harding?” The speaker stumbled sleepily past him toward the