Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [43]
The descent was an endless slippery horror. Willie’s sweating hands slid on the shallow brackets, and at one ghastly point his foot slipped. But they both reached the deck. Harding tottered, his face beaded with drops. “I’m going to lie down and kiss the deck,” he muttered.
“There are sailors around,” whispered Willie. “It’s all in the day’s work. Come on, let’s hit the clip shack.”
There were two bunks in the little tomb now. Harding dived into the bottom one, and Willie fell on the top bunk. For a while they lay silently, panting. “Well,” spoke Harding wearily at last, “I’ve heard of friendships sealed in blood, but never in puke. All the same, Keith, I’m obliged to you. You did a noble deed with your hat.”
“I’m just lucky,” said Willie, “that you didn’t have to do the same for me. No doubt you’ll have plenty of chance on this happy cruise.”
“Any time,” said Harding, his voice trailing off. “Any time, Keith. Thanks again.” He rolled over and fell asleep.
It seemed to Willie that he had barely dozed off when a hand reached into his bunk and shook him. “Chadan, suh,” said the voice of Whittaker, and his steps receded on the deck outside.
“Harding,” groaned Willie, “do you want dinner?”
“Huh? Dinner already? No. Sleep is what I want-”
“We’d better go. It’ll look bad if we don’t.”
There were three officers at the wardroom table including the captain. The rest were off on shore leave. Willie and Harding took chairs at the lower end of the long white cloth and began eating in silence. The others ignored them and made incomprehensible jokes among themselves about things that had happened at Guadalcanal and New Zealand and Australia. Lieutenant Maryk was the first to glance their way. He was burly, round-faced, and pugnacious-looking, about twenty-five, with a prison haircut. “You guys look kind of red-eyed,” he said.
Willie said, “We were caulking off for a few minutes in the clip shack.”
“Nothing like caulking off to start your career right,” the captain said to a pork chop, out of which he took a large bite.
“Kind of hot in there, isn’t it?” said Adams, the gunnery officer. Lieutenant Adams wore fresh prim khakis. He had the long aristocratic face and negligent superior look which Willie had seen often at Princeton. It meant good family and money.
“Kind of,” Harding said meekly.
Maryk turned to the captain. “Sir, that doggone clip shack is over the engine room. These guys’ll fry in there-”
“Ensigns are expendable,” the captain said.
“What I mean, sir, I think I could hang a couple of bunks just as easy in Adams’ and Gorton’s room, or even in here over the couch-”
“The hell with that,” Adams said.
“Isn’t that a hull modification, Steve?” the captain said, chewing pork. “You’d have to get permission from BuShips.”
“I can look it up, sir, but I don’t think it is.”
“Well, when you get around to it. The shipfitters are way behind as it is.” Captain de Vriess glanced at the ensigns. “Do you gentlemen think you can survive a week or two in the clip shack?”
Willie was tired, and the sarcasm irritated him. “Nobody’s complaining,” he said.
De Vriess raised his eyebrows and grinned. “That’s the spirit, Mr. Keith.” He turned to Adams. “Have these gentlemen started on their officers’ qualification courses yet?”
“No, sir-Carmody had them all afternoon, sir-”
“Well, Mr. Senior Watch Officer, time’s a-wasting. Get them started after dinner.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
The officers’ qualification courses were bulky mimeographed sheafs of coarse paper turning brown around the edges. They were dated 1935. Adams brought them out of his room while the ensigns were still drinking coffee, and handed a course to each of them. “There are twelve assignments,” he said. “Complete the first by 0900 tomorrow and leave it on my desk. Thereafter complete one a day while in port and one every three days while at sea.”
Willie glanced at the first assignment: Make two sketches of the Caine, port and starboard, showing every compartment and stating the use of each.
“Where