Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [70]
“If they aren’t they will be when you’re ready to relieve.”
“How about the Title B inventory?”
De Vriess compressed his lips.
“Well, I’m sorry to say that’s pretty fouled up. I’d be kidding you if I told you anything else.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“The trouble is simply that this ship has steamed about a hundred thousand miles since the war started,” said De Vriess, “and we’ve been through so many strip-ships and night actions and storms and what not that half our Title B gear is gone and we don’t know where the hell it’s gone to. When you lose a snatch block over the side in the middle of towing some silly bastard off a reef under air attack you just don’t make the entry on the Title B card. You ought to, but you don’t.”
“Well, running off a fresh inventory and sending in a survey report on the lost gear would take care of that.”
“Sure it would. A Title B inventory takes two weeks. If you want to wait around till we push one through, I’ll be happy to get it rolling-”
“Hell, no, I can attend to it as well as you,” said Queeg. “I thought maybe I’d relieve tomorrow-if I could see the registered pubs and the reports today.”
De Vriess was pleased and startled. He had relieved his own commanding officer on the Caine in forty-eight hours; but, as executive officer, he had been fully as familiar with the ship as the captain. Queeg was stepping into a vessel of a new type, about which he knew almost nothing. He would have been justified in requesting several days at sea, in order to observe all the ship’s equipment in action. De Vriess had figured that the transfer of command might take a week. But it was absolutely outside naval manners to make any comment. He rose. “Good enough,” he said. “Pretty nice to think of seeing my wife in three days. How about a quick Cook’s tour of the ship?”
“Okay.” Queeg dropped the steel balls into his pocket.
“If I’d known you were coming,” said De Vriess, “I’d have run off a captain’s inspection and shined her up for you a bit. The boys can do a good job, though you may not think so to look at her now.”
“Pretty cool for Hawaii, this time of year,” said Queeg.
Willie Keith lay on his bunk in the clipping shack that afternoon, trying without success to read Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, which he had borrowed from Keefer. Curiosity gnawed at him; he could hardly resist leaving his self-imposed jail to have a look at the man who had come to free him from the tyranny of De Vriess. He read the same page over four times, while his mind kept wandering to the task of constructing Queeg from Harding’s description, as scientists construct cave men from a piece of jawbone.
“Mistuh Keith, suh?”
Willie looked up into the sad loose-lipped face of Whittaker, a couple of inches from his own. “Yes, Whittaker?”
“Cap’n want you in de wardroom.”
Willie jumped to the deck and put on his cleanest khakis, stabbing the ball of his thumb in his hurry to change the collar pins. When he walked into the wardroom, therefore, he was sucking his thumb; a perhaps unfortunate touch of immaturity. The two commanding officers were drinking coffee at the green-covered table. “Ensign Keith,” said De Vriess with sardonic formality, “Lieutenant Commander Queeg.”
The new captain rose and greeted Willie with a firm handshake and a friendly smile. In one anxious glance Willie took in these details: a small man, slightly shorter than himself; natty blues with two campaign ribbons and one battle star; an oval, somewhat plump fair face with small narrowed eyes; and some strands of sandy hair across an almost bald head, with thicker fringes at the sides. “Hello, Mr. Keith,” said Queeg with cordial good humor, and a gay lift in the tones.
Willie liked him at once. “How do you do, sir.”
“Willie,” said De Vriess, “are you all set to run off a registered pubs inventory and a transfer report? Commander Queeg wants ’em this afternoon.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Not missing anything, are we?”
“No, sir.” Willie allowed himself