Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [59]
The sun had set. The float was a red dot on the purple waves, about two hundred yards off the port quarter. The sailors lined the rail, watching the first lieutenant’s head slowly approach the float, and Willie heard them muttering about sharks. “I saw a goddamn hammerhead five minutes ago,” Bellison said. “I’m damned if I’d swim for it. Save five minutes for the old man and get my behind snatched off-”
Somebody was tapping Willie on the shoulder. He turned impatiently. “Yes, yes, what is it?”
A radioman stood behind him with a flapping despatch in his hand. “This just came over Fox, sir. We’re the action addressee. Mr. Keefer says you got the coding duty-”
Willie took the message and glanced at it. “Okay, okay. I’ll break it in a few minutes.” He thrust the sheet in his pocket and looked to sea. Maryk’s head was barely visible now on the dark water. He had reached the float. He thrashed around in it for a minute or so, kicking up white foam, then leaped half out of the water and waved his arms. His shout came feebly on the wind, “Okay, haul in!” The sailors began to pull the wet line back aboard frantically. The float came cutting through the water with Maryk clinging to it.
Willie, tingling with excitement, scampered down the ladder to the fantail. He lost his footing on the slippery deck and fell. A wave of warm salty water broke over him, drenching him. He got himself up, spitting water, and grabbed a life line. The dripping float clanked on the deck. “Haul down the ball to starboard!” Bellison yelled. A dozen arms reached for Maryk as his head bobbed up near the propeller guard. He clambered aboard.
“Christ, sir, you didn’t have to do that,” said Bellison.
Maryk gasped, “What was the time of recovery?”
The telephone talker said, “Forty-one, sir, when the float got aboard.”
“Beat ’em all, sir,” said a sailor, pointing seaward. Black balls still hung at the yardarms of the other ships.
“That’s fine,” grinned Maryk. “Never have heard the end of it if one of those buckets beat us.” His eye fell on the bedraggled figure of Willie. “What the hell happened to you, Keith? Did you dive in, too?” The sailors noticed Willie now and snickered.
“Got too interested watching you,” said Willie. “That was great work.”
Maryk swept water from his broad brown chest and shoulders with his palms. “Hell, I’ve been looking for an excuse to take a dip.”
“Weren’t you worried about sharks?”
“Sharks don’t bother you if you keep moving. Hell,” said the first lieutenant, “I’d take a shark any day rather than the old man if Iron Duke Sammis beat him recovering sweep gear- Come on, Keith, you and me need new clothes.”
Willie dumped his sodden khakis in a heap in a corner of the clipping shack. He had completely forgotten the despatch in his pocket. There it lay, dissolving to a pulp inside the crumpled khakis, while the ship steamed through maneuvers for the next two days.
The weather was good, and with the novelty of the different minesweeping gadgets, electric, moored, and acoustic, for entertainment, Willie found himself enjoying the trip as an amused spectator. In his watches on the bridge he got on a little better with Captain de Vriess by making a mighty effort to please. Taking as his rule Tom Keefer’s dictum, “How would I do this if I were a fool?” he play-acted a struggling over-conscientious ensign. He stood erect for the whole four hours, peering to sea. He never spoke, except when spoken to, or to report an object he sighted through binoculars. Even if it seemed absurd to mention it-a floating log, a tin can, a spread of garbage dumped from a ship-he gravely announced it; and the captain invariably thanked him in pleased tones. The more he slipped into character as a plodding dolt, the better