Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [50]
“Does that mean we’re going to minesweep for real in-in the near future, sir?”
“Could be.”
“Has the Caine ever done any sweeping, sir?”
“Sure, dummy mines by the hundreds. Never in any operation, thank God.” De Vriess climbed out of his bunk and reached for his trousers. “I’ll like minesweeping, Keith, when they figure out one simple problem.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Who sweeps ahead of the minesweepers- Well, tell Steve Maryk to come in here, will you? And tell Whittaker I’d like some coffee.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not the black tar that’s been cooking down since this morning. Fresh.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roland Keefer came aboard that evening for dinner, bringing a batch of mail for Willie from the BOQ. As usual, Willie ripped open May’s letter first. She had returned to college for the autumn session. It was a sacrifice, for during the summer Marty Rubin had obtained a midday radio booking for her, and she might have continued on it. The pay was a hundred dollars a week.
But I don’t care, dear. The more I read and study, the less ambitious I become. Last year I was sure I wanted nothing in life but a top salary as a top singer. I despised the girls I met in Hunter at first because they couldn’t earn a nickel. But I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s sensible to give up all my days and nights for a salary. I love to sing, I guess I always will. As long as I have to earn money I’m glad I can do it at a fair rate in work I enjoy rather than as a typist in some stale office. But I know I’ll never be a first-rate singer-haven’t the voice, haven’t the style, haven’t the looks (no, I haven’t, dear). What I want now, I think, is to trap some kindhearted sugar daddy who will help me have a couple of babies and otherwise let me read in peace.
Score one for you, my love. Dickens is terrif. Sat up all night reading Dombey and Son-for a book report, mind you, that isn’t due till next week-and now have huge black bags under my eyes. Glad you can’t see me.
What a lie that last sentence is. Are you ever coming home? When is this war going to end? I thought after Italy surrendered that I’d be seeing you any day. But it seems to be bogging down for another long stretch. The European news is usually good but I’m afraid I care mostly about the Pacific. And it may be unpatriotic, but I’m awfully glad you haven’t caught the Caine yet.
I love you.
MAY
“Well,” said Roland as they sat down to dinner, “looks like I’ll be saying good-by to you all for a while. Staff’s piling aboard the Yorktown tomorrow. Guess the admiral wants some sea pay.”
Tom Keefer’s face darkened. He threw down his knife and fork. “Wouldn’t you know. A new flattop.”
“That hurts, doesn’t it, Tom?” said De Vriess, grinning.
“What’s the matter, Tom?” said Maryk. “Don’t you like minesweeping?” All the officers laughed at the standard joke about the communicator.
“Hell, I just want to see some war, as long as my sands are running out uselessly-”
“You came aboard too late,” said Adams. “We saw plenty of war before-”
“You saw some errand-boy duty,” said Keefer. “I’m interested in essences, not accidents. The nub of this Pacific war is the duel of flying machines. Everything else is as routine as the work of milkmen and filing clerks. All uncertainty and all decision rides with the carriers.”
“I’ve got some friends on the Saratoga,” said the captain. “Pretty routine life aboard her, too, Tom.”
“War is ninety-nine per cent routine-routine that trained monkeys could perform,” said Keefer. “But the one per cent of chance and creative action on which the history of the world is hanging right now you’ll find on carriers. That’s what I want to be part of. So my dear brother, who would like nothing better than to rest his duff in Hawaii for the rest of the war-”
“Tom, you are but so right,” threw in Roland cheerfully. “-gets carted aboard a carrier on a silver charger, and I ride the Caine.”
“Have some more liver, Tom,” said Maryk. The first lieutenant, who resembled