Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [92]
“Sir, I can recover it in an hour-”
“So you say- Mr. Gorton, what’s your opinion?”
The exec looked unhappily from Maryk to the captain. “Well, sir-I think Steve can be relied on-if he says-”
“Oh hell,” said Queeg, “get Chief Bellison up here.”
The boatswain’s mate came into the charthouse in a few minutes, dragging his feet. “Yes, Captain?” he croaked. “Bellison, if you had to recover that target how would you go about it?”
Bellison screwed up his face into a thousand wrinkles. After a pause he rattled off a confusing answer involving heaving lines, U-bolts, swivels, pelican hooks, slip hooks, pad eyes, spring lines, and chains.
“Hm, hm,” Queeg said. “How long would it take?”
“Depends, sir. Sea ain’t bad-maybe forty minutes, an hour-”
“And nobody would get killed, hey?”
Bellison peered at the captain like a suspicious monkey. “Nuthin’ to get killed about, Cap’n-”
Queeg paced the bridge, muttering, for a few minutes, and then sent another despatch to ComServPac: If you prefer can attempt recover target. Request instructions.
The minesweeper steamed in a long lazy circle around the target for an hour. The answer came from ComServPac: Act at discretion. Willie delivered the despatch to the captain on the port wing, where he stood with Gorton and Maryk, watching the target.
“Helpful, aren’t they?” Queeg said crankily, passing the despatch to the exec. He glanced up at the sun, which was about an hour and a half above the horizon. “That’s the Navy for you. Pass the buck and get a receipt. Act at discretion, hey? Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do, and I kid you not. They’re not hanging the responsibility on me for missing tomorrow’s exercise and maybe breaking some thick sailor’s neck. Let’s head for the barn.”
But no exercise was scheduled for the next day, and the Caine lay alongside the dock, doing nothing. At eleven o’clock in the morning Gorton sat at the wardroom table, sipping coffee as he worked through a basketful of correspondence. The door was opened by a smart sailor in dress blues, who whipped off a snowy hat and said to the exec, “Pardon me, sir, where is the captain’s cabin?”
“I’m the executive officer. What can I do for you?”
“Sir, I have a mailgram to be delivered to the captain personally.”
“Mailgram from whom?”
“ComServPac, sir.”
Gorton pointed at the captain’s cabin. The sailor knocked. When the door opened Gorton caught a glimpse of Queeg in underwear, his face heavily lathered. In a moment the sailor emerged, said to Gorton, “Thank you, sir,” and went out, his steps echoing up the half-deck ladder. Gorton sat still, waiting. He waited perhaps forty-five seconds, then he heard the buzzer in his cabin ring frantically. Draining off the coffee at a gulp, he pushed himself out of his chair and trudged in to the captain’s cabin.
Queeg sat at his desk, lather still on his face, the ripped-open envelope on the floor, a sheet of flimsy paper in his right hand. His head was sunk down between his shoulders, and his left hand, resting on his knee, trembled. He glanced up sidewise at the exec for a moment, then silently held out the mailgram to him, looking away.
At 1300 22 October commanding officer Caine will submit in person repeat in person written report on latest fiasco to operations officer ComServPac.
The captain rose, and fished the steel balls out of khaki trousers hanging on a hook. “Will you tell me, Burt,” he said. thickly, “what you think that means?”
Gorton shrugged unhappily.
“Fiasco! In an official mailgram!- I’d sure as hell like to know why he calls it a fiasco. Why should I have to submit a written report? Didn’t they tell me to act at discretion? Tell me frankly, Burt, was there anything I could possibly have done that I didn’t do? Any mistake you think I made?” Gorton was silent. “I’d appreciate