Caine Mutiny, The - Herman Wouk [94]
“I wish I could copy yours verbatim. But I guess he’d catch on-”
“Hell, I’ll bat one out for you.”
“Would you?” Willie brightened. “I don’t know, I thought I could write, but composing an official report on Urban’s shirttail has me licked.”
“Which is exactly the idea,” said Keefer. “By making you write a report about a silly thing, he makes you sweat-and that’s all he’s after, to make you sweat. A written report by its nature should be about something important. It’s a terrific effort to write an official document about a shirttail without sounding impudent or idiotic-”
“That’s just it,” broke in Willie eagerly. “All my drafts sound as though I’m kidding the skipper, or insulting him-”
“Of course our little circle-steaming friend ran afoul of me, because I’m a gifted writer. I actually enjoy writing Navy letters. It’s like a concert pianist improvising on Chopsticks. Don’t let it get you, Willie. Queeg is a refreshing change from De Vriess, whose bullying technique was sarcasm, about as subtle as a rhinoceros charge. Queeg hasn’t got the personal force of De Vriess, who could look anybody in the eye. So he adopts technique 4-X. This consists of retreating into his official identity, like a priest inside a mumbo-jumbo idol, and making you address him through that scary image. Standard Navy. That’s the whole idea of these reports. So get used to them, because there’ll be plenty of them, and-”
“Pardon me, when will you write that second improvisation, on Chopsticks? He’ll be back soon.”
Keefer grinned. “Right away. Bring me Gorton’s portable.”
Captain Grace, chewing on the stem of an enormous black pipe which emitted a column of blue smoke and occasional sparks from the bowl, accepted the envelope offered by the captain of the Caine and motioned him to a yellow wooden chair beside his desk. Queeg, natty as his bulbous figure permitted in gabardine khakis, sat with his fingers laced tightly together in his lap.
Grace rasped the envelope open with a wicked-looking Japanese paper cutter, and spread the report before him on the desk. He put on heavy black-rimmed glasses, and read the document. Then he deliberately removed his glasses, and shoved the report aside with the hairy back of his hand. He inhaled on his pipe, and puffed up a volcanic cloud from the hissing bowl. “Unsatisfactory,” he said, looking straight at Queeg.
The commander’s lower lip trembled. “May I ask why, sir?”
“Because it says nothing I didn’t know before, and explains nothing I wanted explained.”
Queeg unconsciously began to roll imaginary balls between the fingers of both hands.
“I gather,” Grace went on, “that you divide the blame among your exec, your first lieutenant, your chief boatswain’s mate, and your predecessor, Captain de Vriess.”
“Sir, I accept full responsibility for everything,” Queeg said hastily. “I’m well aware that the mistakes of subordinates are no excuse for an officer but simply reflect on his ability to lead. And as for my predecessor, why, sir, I am cognizant that the ship spent a very long time in the forward area and I have no complaints about the ship, but facts are facts, and the state of training is definitely not up to snuff, but I have taken steps which will quickly remedy the situation, and so-”
“Why didn’t you recover the target, Commander?”
“Sir, as I state in my report the chief boatswain’s mate seemed to have no clear idea how to go about it and my officers were equally vague and uncertain, and failed to give me precise information, and a captain has to lean on his subordinates to some extent, it’s inevitable. And I judged that it was more important for the Caine to report back to base for such further duty as might be assigned instead of wasting God knows how much time in futile complicated maneuvering. If this decision was erroneous it is regretted, but that was my decision.”
“Hell, man, there’s nothing complicated about recovering a target,” Grace said irritably. “You can do it in half an hour. DMS’s out here have done it a dozen times. Those damn things