Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [54]
“His assignment is communications, not contributions to America-”
Keefer entered the wardroom in underwear and went to the coffee corner. “How are you doing, lads?”
“All right, sir,” said Carmody with sudden subservience, pushing away his coffee cup and taking up a coded message.
“Except we think you ought to do some decoding for a change,” said Willie. He had no fear of Keefer’s higher military rank. He was sure the communicator laughed at such gradings. His respect for Keefer, already high, had risen sharply on learning that he was composing a novel.
Keefer smiled and came to the table. “What’s the matter, class of ’43,” he said, slouching in a chair, “want to go talk to the chaplain?”
Carmody kept his eyes down. “The coding watch is part of an ensign’s work on a small ship,” he said. “I don’t mind.
Every line officer should learn the essentials of communications, and-”
“Here,” said Keefer, draining his coffee, “give me that gismo. I’ve been doping off. Go study Navy Regulations.” He pried the device out of Carmody’s hands.
“No, I can do it, sir. Happy to-”
“Run along.”
“Why, thank you, sir.” Carmody rose, bestowed a brief arid smile on Keith, and went out.
“There goes a happy man,” said Keefer. He began whipping the coding machine through its motions. It was as Carmody had said. He was incredibly fast.
“He tells me you’re working on a novel.” Keefer nodded.
“Got much of it done?”
“About forty thousand words out of four hundred thousand.”
“Gosh. Long.”
“Longer than Ulysses. Shorter than War and Peace.”
“Is it a war novel?”
Keefer smiled ironically. “It takes place on a carrier.”
“Got a title?”
“Well, a working title.”
“What is it?” said Willie very curiously.
“Doesn’t mean much, by itself.”
“Well, I’d like to hear it.”
Keefer hesitated, and spoke the words slowly. “Multitudes, Multitudes.”
“I like it.”
“Recognize it?”
“Bible, I imagine.”
“Book of Joel. ‘Multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision.’ ”
“Well, I put in right now for the millionth copy, autographed.”
Keefer gave him the whole-souled smile of a flattered author. “I’m a little way from that, yet.”
“You’ll make it. May I read some of it?”
“Perhaps. When it’s in better shape.” Keefer had never stopped decoding. He finished his third message and began a fourth.
“You really whiz through those,” marveled Willie.
“Perhaps that’s why I let ’em pile up. It’s like telling a child Red Riding Hood for the thousandth time. The thing is infantile and dull to start with, and becomes maddening with repetition.”
“Most of the Navy is repetition.”
“I don’t mind it, when there’s only fifty per cent waste motion. Communication is ninety-eight per cent waste motion. We carry a hundred and twelve registered publications. We use about six. But all the rest have to be corrected, one set of corrections superseding another every month. Take decoding. Actually about four messages a month concern this ship in any way. Commander Queeg’s orders, for instance. The minesweeping-exercise despatch. All the rest of this garbage we rake over because the captain, bless his intellectual curiosity, wants to snoop on the fleet’s activities. For only one reason. So that at the officers’ club he can say to some classmate of his, very casually, don’t you know, ‘Well, I hope you like screening that southern attack group in the next push.’ Makes him sound like a friend of the admirals. I’ve seen him do it a dozen times.”
He kept racing through the decoding steps as he talked. Willie was fascinated by his negligent speed. Already he had done more work than Willie could perform in an hour; and Willie was the speediest of the ensigns.
“I can’t get over the way you polish those off.”
“Willie, aren’t you wise to the Navy yet? It’s all child’s play. The work has been fragmentized by a few excellent brains at the top, on the assumption that near-morons will be responsible for each fragment. The assumption is sound enough for peacetime. There’s a handful of brilliant boys who come into the Navy with the long purpose of becoming the