Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [67]
“Yes, sir.” The petty officer, Winston, a stout ambitious boatswain’s mate second class, saluted Harding, then turned to the lieutenant commander and gave him a dazzling trainingcamp salute. “Welcome aboard, Captain.” He dashed up the starboard passageway.
Harding cast a despairing look around the quarterdeck, and decided that it was hopeless to try to change the new captain’s first impression of the Caine. Supposing, thought the OOD, he did chase away the two half-naked sailors who squatted at a tin tub, peeling potatoes; and called a halt to the din of the metal scrapers;, and ordered the gangway messenger to pick up the tattered comic books that flapped on the deck; and interrupted the curses of the two deck hands who were supposed to be repairing a life raft, but were actually about to come to blows over some moldly chocolate they had found on the raft; what then? There remained the stinking cabbage crates, and the pile of officers’ laundry, and the helmets with new names painted on them in red, drying in the sun, and the dirty nest of life jackets on which some sailor had slept, and the oozing black puddle of galley fuel oil which a cook had slopped on the deck. The Caine had been caught in its soiled underwear, and that was that. The world would have to wag on, somehow.
“Did you have a good trip, sir?”
“Middling good, thank you. Flew down from San Francisco. A little bumpy.” Queeg’s voice and manner were pleasant. He gave no sign of being disturbed at the dishevelment of the Caine, or even of being aware of it.
“My name is Harding, sir,” said the officer of the deck. “Assistant first lieutenant.”
“Been aboard long, Harding?”
“Just about three weeks, sir.”
“I see.” The new captain turned and watched the gig crew struggling up the ladder with his gear. “What’s the name of that coxswain?”
Harding knew him only as Meatball. “One moment, sir.” He dashed to the desk, peered at the watch list, and returned, feeling extremely foolish. “Dlugatch, sir.”
“New man?”
“No, sir. I-that is, in general they refer to him as Meatball.”
“I see.”
Queeg leaned over the railing. “Dlugatch, go easy with that pigskin bag.”
“Aye aye, sir,” came the grunt of the coxswain.
“I think,” said the new captain to Harding, “that you may as well stack my gear here until I talk to Captain de Vriess.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Try to keep it clear of that oil slick,” said Queeg with a smile.
“Yes, sir,” said Harding, quailing a little.
Winston reappeared. He had managed during his errand to brighten his shoes and snatch a clean white cap from somebody. The cap was squared on his head with just the right forward tilt. He saluted the officer of the deck smartly. “Captain de Vriess coming now, sir.”
“Very well.” Harding returned the unexpected salute, feeling like a hypocrite.
De Vriess emerged from the passageway, greeted the new commanding officer, and shook hands affably. They made a neat picture of the old and the new: De Vriess tieless and comfortable in faded khakis, Queeg correct in stiff white collar and fresh campaign ribbons. “Had your breakfast?” said De Vriess.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Would you like to come to my cabin?”
“Fine.”
“Let me lead the way-or do you know these 1200-tonners?”
“You’d better lead. I know more about the Bristol class.”
They exchanged pleasant smiles, and De Vriess led his successor forward. When they were out of earshot Winston said to the officer of the deck, “Looks like a good Joe.”
“For Christ’s sake,” said Harding, tightening his gun belt two notches, “let’s see what we can do about this quarterdeck.”
The two commanding officers sat in De Vriess’s cabin, drinking coffee. Queeg leaned back comfortably in the low black leather armchair. De Vriess was in the swivel chair at his desk.
“Kind of sudden, this whole deal,” said De Vriess.
“Well, I didn’t much like being yanked out of anti-submarine school,” said Queeg. “I’d moved my wife and family down to San Diego and we were all set for six good weeks, anyway. First shore