Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [79]
“Better or worse than De Vriess?”
Maryk paused and said, “Captain de Vriess wasn’t a bad officer.”
“For crying out loud, Steve. He ran this ship like a garbage scow. Stand her up against the Moulton-”
“Pretty good ship handler, though.”
“Sure. Is that all being a captain means? I think Queeg’s what the doctor ordered for the Caine. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in ServPac alerted the Bureau to send us a red-hot book man, to clean things up.”
“Well, I don’t know if you can change the nature of a ship overnight. I’ve been aboard a lot longer than you, Tom. Everything gets done that has to get done-not the Navy way, maybe, but it gets done somehow. She gets under way, she goes where she has to go, the gun crews shoot pretty good, the engine plant holds together-Christ knows how, mostly with baling wire and chewing gum-but the Caine has spent less time getting repaired than any other four-piper I know of, since the war started. What’s Queeg going to do, except try to get things done by the book, instead of the Caine way? Is that an improvement? All De Vriess cared about was results.”
“The book way is the right way, Steve. Let’s face it. I don’t like it any more than you, but it’s true. The wastage, and lost motion, and plain dumb luck by which things get done on the Caine are simply staggering.”
“I know.” Maryk’s face became more perplexed. They smoked in silence for a while. “Sure, the book is the right way,” spoke up the first lieutenant, “for the right ship. By the book, though, the Caine should be in the boneyard. Maybe this ship has to be run screwy because it’s screwy for her to be afloat at all-”
“Look, Steve. Your trouble is the same as mine, except that I see through it. We’re civilians, free citizens, and it burns us to be treated as dumb slaves by these Queegs, who are the most colossal ignoramuses in the world except for their book. Don’t forget one thing. Right now, the book is all that matters, because of the war. Look. Suppose all of a sudden the whole survival of America hung on shining shoes. Never mind how. Suppose it did. What would happen? All of us would become shoeshiners, and the professional bootblacks would take over the country. Well, how do you think the bootblacks would feel toward us? Humble? Hell, no. They’d figure that at last they’d come into their own-that for the first time in their lives the world was showing a proper respect for shoeshining. And by God, they’d lord it over us, and find fault, and nag, and crab, and bully us to shine shoes their way. And they’d be right. That’s the story, Steve. We’re in the hands of shoeshine boys. It’s irritating when they act as though we’re fools and they know all wisdom-it hurts to take orders and guff from them-but it’s their day. Pretty soon all the shoes will be shined, the war will be over, they’ll be nickel-and-dime bootblacks again, and we’ll look back and laugh at the whole absurd interlude. The point is, if you understand it now, you can be philosophic, and take anything that comes-”
The gangway petty officer came trampling up the forecastle. “Mr. Keefer, the captain has returned aboard, and Mr. Gorton wants to see you in his room. On the double.”
“Gorton? I thought he was asleep.”
“He just phoned up from the wardroom, sir.”
Keefer rose, hitching his gun belt and yawning. “Flash red, no doubt.”
“Skipper missed you at the gangway,” said Maryk. “Good luck, Tom. Remember your philosophy.”
“Sometimes I get so bored,” said Keefer. Maryk jumped down into the paint locker.
In the wardroom Keefer found the executive officer in his underwear in an armchair, drinking coffee and looking sleepy, mussed, and cross. “Jesus, Tom,” Gorton said. “How much trouble can one guy cause in one day? Why the hell weren’t you at the gangway when the skipper came aboard?”
“Why, you young fat fraud,” said Keefer.