Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [62]
“My God,” said the little Annapolis man, pulling at his mustache and regarding Willie with awe, “what kind of drag do you have?”
“Keep it quiet,” said Willie jauntily. “I am Franklin D. Roosevelt, Jr., traveling incognito.” He strolled off to the forecastle, the mystified stare of Carmody warming him like champagne.
Willie walked to the stem, where a cool breeze fluttered the blue starry jack. He sat on the deck, leaning against the jackstaff, and gave himself up to thorny analysis of recent scenes. What he had observed aboard the Moulton confused all his ideas about his own ship. In the first place, he had considered De Vriess a tyrant; but compared to Iron Duke Sammis his captain was lazily benevolent. Then, the Moulton was a model of naval order and efficiency, the Caine a wretched Chinese junk by comparison. Yet the smart ship had dropped a paravane; the rusty tramp had led all the ships in minesweeping performance. How did these facts fit together? Was the loss of the paravane a meaningless accident? Was the Caine’s working skill another accident, owing to the presence of the fisherman Maryk? In the hybrid world of destroyer-minesweepers all rules seemed to be confounded. The words of Tom Keefer came back to him: “The Navy is a master plan designed by geniuses for execution by idiots,” and “Ask yourself, ‘How would I do this if I were a fool?’ ” He respected the communicator’s mind; he had heard Maryk acknowledge its keenness. These maxims must guide him, he decided, until he could piece together his own views and make-
“Ensign Keith, report to the captain’s cabin on the double!” the announcement rasped through the loudspeaker, bringing him to his feet. As he ran to the wardroom he rapidly reviewed possible reasons for the summons, and guessed that perhaps Carmody had told the captain about the admiral’s barge. He knocked gaily at the captain’s door.
“Come in, Keith.”
De Vriess, in trousers and undershirt, sat at his desk, glowering at a long list of despatch headings, one of which was circled in heavy red crayon. Beside him stood Tom Keefer and the radioman who had brought Willie the forgotten message three days ago. The radioman twisted his white cap in his hands and gave the ensign a frightened look. Keefer shook his head at Willie.
The sight told Willie all. He experienced a longing to vanish or die.
“Willie,” said the captain in a level, not unkind tone, “three days ago this ship received a despatch addressed to us for action. I learned this interesting fact for the first time five minutes ago while making a routine check of the headings of all despatches received while we were at sea. I always do that when we come into port. These dull habits sometimes pay off. Now, the radio shack has orders to shoot action despatches to the coding officer the instant they come in. Snuffy Smith here claims he gave the message to you three days ago. Is he lying?”
The radioman blurted, “Sir, I gave it to you on the after deckhouse while they were recovering paravanes. You remember!”
“You did, Smith,” said Willie. “I’m sorry, Captain. It’s my fault.”
“I see. Have you decoded the message?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, but it-”
“Very well. Smith, lay up to the radio shack and bring Lieutenant Keefer the Fox sked on the double.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The sailor darted out of the cabin.
The “Fox skeds” were the log sheets on which all despatches sent to Navy ships at sea were copied by the radio operators. These were preserved for several months, then destroyed. Despatches concerning the ship were recopied on separate forms. It was such a retyped form that lay moldering in Willie’s khakis in the clip shack.
“The next thing, Tom,” said the captain calmly, “is to break that message faster than you’ve ever done anything in your life.”
“I will, sir. I really think there’s no great cause for concern. It’s routine