Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [46]
“Thanks.”
Mackenzie lit Willie’s cigarette, and then, to seal the good-fellowship thus established, he began to tell the new ensign about his sex career in New Zealand. Willie had heard some pretty frank talk late at night in college bedrooms, but Mackenzie’s explicitness was something new. Willie was first amused, then disgusted, then fiercely bored, but there seemed no way to turn off the sailor’s cloacal drone. The sky paled, and a dull streak of red appeared on the horizon. Willie was profoundly grateful when Lieutenant Adams came out of the wardroom hatchway, rubbing his eyes. “How’s it going, Keith? Any strain?”
“No, sir.”
“Let’s inspect the lines.”
He walked around the ship with Willie, kicking the manila ropes that tied the Caine to the next destroyers. “This number-three line needs chafing gear, the chock is rubbing. Tell Engstrand.”
“Yes, sir- Mr. Adams, frankly I had a hell of a time keeping the guards and the messenger from flaking out.”
Adams grinned wryly, then his face became long and stern. “That’s damned serious.”
“They didn’t seem to think so.”
Adams pursed his lips, and stopped to light a cigarette, leaning against the life lines. “Tell you what, Keith. You’ve got something to contend with. This ship has been in the forward area since March ’42. It’s been through a lot of action. The men are all Asiatic. They probably think a fantail watch in Pearl Harbor is foolishness. The trouble is, the skipper thinks so, too. It’s the port director’s orders, so we post the guards. You’ve just got to bear down.”
“What actions were you in, sir?”
“Hell, about everything. Marshalls raid, Coral Sea-first Savo, second Savo-Rendova, Munda-”
“What were you doing-minesweeping?”
“Who ever heard of a minesweeper minesweeping? Mostly we ran av-gas for the marine fliers at Henderson Field. Ran torpedoes up from New Zealand. That was a happy deal, live torpedoes lashed all over the deck and getting strafed. Ran dogfaces up to relieve the marines on Guadal. Ran convoys all over the ocean. Supply scow, troop transport, screen, mail carrier, or what dirty job have you? That’s the Caine. So if she’s a little run down, you know why.”
“A little run down is putting it politely,” said Willie.
Adams straightened up, glared at him, threw his cigarette into the water, and walked aft. Over the loudspeaker came the chirp of the boatswain’s pipe, then the words, “Reveille for all hands. Reveille.” Adams snapped over his shoulder, “Check reveille in the after crew’s quarter, Keith. Make sure they’re all out of their sacks.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Willie decided that he had better guard his mouth. Adams and the other officers had been aboard the Caine so long, they must be blind to the fact that it was a filthy wreck. They might even be proud of the ship. He swore to himself that he would be different. He would keep perspective, and he would never rest until, one way or another, he had gotten himself off the Caine. He set six months as his limit. After all, there was an admiral who was fond of him.
A narrow round hatchway and a steep ladder led to the after crew’s quarters. Willie put his face to the opening and peered down. It was dark as a cave inside, and the smell was like a very hot and dirty gymnasium. Willie lowered himself through the hatchway and shouted, trying to use a fierce tone, “All right! What the hell about reveille, here?”
A light snapped on in a far corner, revealing tiers of shadowy bunks full of sleepers. “Aye aye, sir,” spoke a lone voice, “I’m the master-at-arms. I’ll get ’em up. We didn’t hear reveille called away, sir. Come on, you guys-up! There’s an officer here.”
A few naked sailors rolled out of the bunks, but the response was sluggish and small. The master-at-arms turned on a brilliant central light, and went from one tier of bunks to another, shaking, poking, pleading. The sailors were stacked like corpses in a mausoleum. Willie was ashamed of intruding on their wretchedness.