by Herman Wouk
“Hello, Dad!”
Dr. Keith opened his eyes and greeted Willie cheerfully, dispelling the picture of fatigue.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She had a patrons’ meeting at the museum. A few patients are pretty annoyed at me for canceling my office hours, Willie, but here I am.”
“Thanks for coming, Dad. How’s your toe?”
“The same- So, this is the good ship Furnald-”
“Let’s walk around. I’ll show you the place.”
“No. Just sit and talk. Tell me about it.”
Willie explained the use of the alphabet flags hanging from the ceiling, rattled off his store of nautical language to describe the massive anchoring tackle laid out in a corner, and explained the workings of the five-inch gun decorating the middle of the lobby. Dr. Keith smiled and nodded. “You’re learning fast.”
“It’s just a lot of talk, really, Dad. I’ll be lost on a ship.”
“Not as much as you think. How are things going?”
Willie hesitated. He felt glad of the chance to break the bad news to his father, rather than to his mother. He could not guess how she would receive the blow. He preferred to disclose his trouble to a man. He sketched his situation, keeping May’s part in it brief. Dr. Keith lit a cigar, and watched Willie as though his son’s face told him more than the words.
“Pretty bad spot.”
“Bad enough.”
“Do you think you’ll make it?”
“If it’s in me, I will. I used to think I was pretty sharp. Now I’m not sure what stuff I’ve got. I’m more curious than worried.”
“Do you care about becoming a naval officer?”
“I guess so. I can’t see myself as a new John Paul Jones, but I’d hate to be licked in this silly way.”
“Did your mother tell you about Uncle Lloyd?”
“What about him?”
“His partner has gone into the Army as a colonel. Public Relations. Lloyd is almost sure they can pull you out of the Navy and get you an Army commission. Your mother has been looking into ways and means of transferring you from the Navy.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It came up over the week end. You know your mother. She’ll want to work it all out and hand it to you on a plate.”
Willie glanced out through the window. Midshipmen were lounging in front of the building in the sunshine. “Could I still get an Army commission if I bilged?”
“I gather that it wouldn’t make much difference. It might even expedite matters.”
“Will you do me a favor, Dad?”
“Of course.”
“Tell Mom, as nicely as you can, to call off Uncle Lloyd.”
“Don’t be hasty.”
“That’s what I want, Dad.”
“We can always keep it in reserve, you know.”
“No, thanks.”
“I doubt very much you’d go overseas in that billet.”
“I wish to hell I’d known about it sooner.”
“Suppose you bilge next week? One smudged collar will do it, Willie.”
“If I bilge,” said Willie, “I’ll enlist as a sailor.” He had formed no such resolve. The words came to his tongue.
The gong clanged. Dr. Keith looked around and saw other visitors moving to the door. He rose awkwardly, leaning on the cane. His movements gave Willie a twinge of anxiety.
“You’re not in good shape, are you?”
“I’ll live,” laughed the doctor. He took Willie’s arm, but didn’t lean on it, merely holding it as they walked to the entrance. “Well, farewell to the prisoner of Furnald. I’ll break it to your mother as gently as possible.”
“She can still visit me here. I hope you will, too.”
“I can’t help saying,” Dr. Keith remarked, stopping at the door, “that your devotion to the Navy surprises me.”
“I’m not devoted to it. If you want to know, what I’ve studied seems to me a lot of rubbish. The rules, the lingo, strike me as comical. The idea of men spending their lives in this make-believe appalls me. I used to think it was preferable to the Army, but I’m sure now that they’re both the same kind of foolishness. I don’t care. I picked the Navy. I’ll see this stupid war through in the Navy.”
“Do you need any money?”
Willie smiled ruefully. “Cigarettes are cheap here. No tax.” The doctor put out his hand. “Good-by, Willie.” He held his son’s grip a little longer than necessary. “Much of what you say about the Navy is probably true. But I wish I were one of your roommates.”
His son grinned, surprised. “Be nice to have you here. But you’re doing more for the war in Manhasset.”
“I’m compelled to try to think so. Good-by.”
Willie looked after the limping figure, and vaguely thought that he ought to have talked more with his father before the war.
In the weeks that followed May came often to visit him. She was contrite and cheerful. With simple tact she found out when his mother was likely to come, and stayed away on those days. Twice Willie saw her come to the entrance of Furnald, observe him talking to his mother, and depart with a discreet wave. In February her visits became less frequent; she enrolled in Hunter College, and had several late classes. But sometimes she cut these to come to him. Willie was uneasy about her return to school, but she laughed at him.
“Don’t worry, dear, all that is finished. I’m not doing this for you, but for me. You’ve had one good effect on me. I’ve decided I’d rather not be an ignorant canary all my life.”
Willie stuck to his resolve to improve his shaky position with high marks, and he rose gradually to a place among the leaders in the school. In the first hours of fiery determination he had set his goal at Number One, but he soon saw that that would be denied him. A mandarin-like midshipman named Tobit, with a domed forehead, measured quiet speech, and a mind like a sponge, was ahead of the field by a spacious percentage. Bunched behind him were three other masterminds. Willie couldn’t compete with their weird photographic registry of print; he soon realized this, and stopped despairing at marks which fell short of perfect. He drudged away in the niche that he found, varying between eighteenth and twenty-third in Furnald.
His struggle against odds was notorious. The midshipmen and even the ensigns were fond of telling their girls about the unhappy devil carrying forty-eight demerits. This celebrity was useful to Willie. No ensign, not even the punctilious Brain, wanted to be the one to drop the guillotine on him. Once Acres came into the room during a study period and found Willie collapsed in sleep over the desk, a plain case costing eight demerits. Willie shook all day, but the offense was never reported.
Mrs. Keith was outraged at Willie’s position and violently sympathetic. She spent several visiting periods urging Willie to accept Uncle Lloyd’s Army commission, but she gave up at last when she saw that Willie was evidently winning his battle and taking deep satisfaction in it.
In the last weeks, Willie faltered, partly from numb fatigue, partly from a sense that the danger was passing. When the final standings were ‘posted, four days before graduation, he had dropped to the thirty-first place.
That same day a sensational document appeared on the bulletin board: a list of the types of duty open to graduates of Furnald. When the midshipmen returned to their rooms after morning classes they found mimeographed forms on their cots. Each midshipman was asked to list the three types of duty he most desired, and to state the reasons for his first choice.
Nobody could find out how heavily these sheets would count in deciding orders. There were rumors that everyone would get his first choice if the reasons were well put; other rumors that the sheets were just more meaningless Navy paper; still other darker rumors, the more believed for their pessimism, that the purpose was simply to trap those who wanted to avoid dangerous duty, in order to make sure they got it. Some advised asking for the riskiest duty; others were for putting down frankly the desires of the heart. Men like Willie, known for a gift of words
, were pressed into service to write convincing reasons wholesale. An enterprising ex-newspaperman named McCutcheon on the eighth floor enjoyed a burst of prosperity by charging five dollars per reason.
Keefer instantly chose Staff Duty, Pacific, saying, “That’s for me. Laying around on your duff in Hawaii, with all them nurses around, maybe running to get the admiral a dispatch once in a while. That’s my kind of war.” He daringly left blank the other choices. Keggs agonized over the blank sheet for an hour and at last filled it in with a shaking hand. His first choice was Mine Disposal Training, a horrible bogey which no other man in school dared place on his sheet at all. Next he chose Submarines, Pacific-and third, in small letters, he wrote his true choice, Local Defense, Atlantic.
Willie’s one aim in filling out the form was to remain near May. First he placed Staff, Atlantic, calculating that this must land him on the East Coast, possibly even in New York. Next he put Large Ships, Atlantic (large ships spent a lot of time in port). Last he wrote Submarines, Pacific, to show that he was really a daredevil at heart. This last touch was admired on the tenth floor and much imitated. Willie himself thought that his list showed an incisive knowledge of Navy mentality. For a while he was tempted to apply for communications school, a five-month course at Annapolis. Keefer had a brother, Tom, who had attended the school and enjoyed a wild time with the Baltimore girls. But it seemed to Willie that asking outright for half a year more of shore duty would show his hand. Tom Keefer had been sent to Annapolis after requesting an aircraft carrier. When Willie found that out, it decided him against listing the school.
Graduation was one day off, and during a study period the midshipmen of the tenth floor were droning over books, carrying out to the last the pretense of work though the marks were all totaled and nothing counted any more. A word crackled down the corridor like a spark. “Orders!” The midshipmen crowded to their doors. Down the hall came the mate of the deck with a bundle of envelopes. He came to 1013 and thrust two envelopes into Keefer’s hand. “Good luck, mates.”
“Hey,” said Keefer, “there’s three guys in here.”
The messenger riffled through his bundle. “Sorry. Guess Keith’s orders are held up. There’s another batch coming.” Keefer ripped open his envelope, burst into a cheer, and danced. “Made it! Made it! Staff, Pacific, by Christ!” Willie pounded his back in congratulation. All at once Keefer sobered, and pulled himself out of the hug. “Hey, Ed-what the Shinola’s eating you?”
The horse face was leaning against the wall, trembling as though he stood in a bumping trolley car. His envelope lay on the desk.
“What did you draw, Eddy?” said Willie anxiously.
“Dunno. I-I can’t open it, fellows.” He was staring at the envelope as though it were a live mine.
Keefer snorted. “Want me to?”
“Please.”
The Southerner rasped it open and read the orders. “Jesus,” he murmured. Keggs fell on his cot with his face to the wall, groaning.
“For God’s sake,” said Willie, “what is it?”
“’Report to San Francisco for transportation to DMS 21-U.S.S. Moulton.’ ”
Keggs sat up. “A ship? A ship? Not Mine Disposal-a ship?”
“A ship,” said Keefer. “Now what is a DMS?”
“Who cares? A ship!” Keggs fell back on his cot, threw his legs and arms in the air, and neighed, wept, and giggled all at once.
Keefer drew a picture manual, Ships of the Navy, 1942, from a shelf. “DMS-DMS-I swear to God there ain’t no such ship-no wait. Here it is-DMS-page 63.”
The others crowded around him as he flipped the stiff pages to a picture of a queer narrow three-stack vessel. He read aloud: “ ‘DMS-Destroyer Minesweeper. World War I destroyer converted for high-speed sweeping.’ ”
“Oh, God!” breathed Keggs. “Mines. Mines.” He dropped into the chair and writhed.
“Hell, boy, that’s a sight better than Mine Disposal. Sweeping is nothing.”
Willie couldn’t muster up any such false cheer. The three had often talked about minesweeping and agreed it was the worst seagoing horror the Navy had to offer. He pitied Keggs. All up and down the floor shouts were being exchanged. Most of the men had received their first preferences. Those who had been honest rejoiced; the others sulked or shivered. Willie was annoyed to learn that everyone who had asked for communications school, even as third choice, had been sent there. He had missed a chance. But Staff, Atlantic, was fair enough.
The mate of the deck appeared in the doorway. “Here’s yours, Keith. Just came up.”
Willie opened the envelope with a thrust of his forefinger and yanked out the sheaf of papers. His eye darted to the third paragraph. The words seemed to rise up at him with a sound of trumpets: Report to Receiving Station, San Francisco, for transportation to
DMS 22-U.S.S. CAINE.
PART TWO
THE CAINE
CHAPTER 6
Dr. Keith’s Letter
When Ensign Keith followed the bellboy into his room in the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco, he was struck at once by the view of the city in the sunset. The hills were twinkling under a sky massed with clouds, pink in the west, fading to rose and violet in the east. The evening star shone clear, hanging low over the Golden Gate Bridge. Eastward the lamps were burning along the gray arches of the Oakland Bridge, a string of amber gems. The bellboy turned on lights, opened closets, and left Willie alone with the sunset and his bags. The new ensign stood by the window for a moment, stroking his gold stripe, and wondering at so much beauty and splendor so far from New York.
“Might as well unpack,” he said to the evening star, and opened his pigskin valise. Most of his belongings were in a wooden crate in the hotel’s check room. In the valise he carried only a few changes of clothes. On top of a layer of white shirts lay two mementos of his last hours in New York-a phonograph record and a letter.
Willie rolled the record between his fingers and wished he had brought his portable phonograph. How perfect a setting the evening was for May’s sweet voice, and the Mozart aria! She had recorded it for him in a Broadway shop one eight when they were both giddy with champagne. Willie smiled as he thought of the delicious April evenings with May during his ten days’ leave. He reached for the telephone, then pulled back his hand, realizing that it was near midnight in the Bronx, when all candy stores were shut and dark. Besides, he reminded himself, he was giving May up, because he couldn’t marry her, and she was too good a girl to be kept dangling. His plan had been to enjoy an ecstatic farewell, then depart and never write or answer letters, allowing the relationship to die peacefully of malnutrition. May hadn’t been informed of the plan. He had fulfilled the first part, now he must remember the second.
He laid aside the record and picked up his father’s mysterious letter. No use holding it to the light, it was bulky and utterly opaque. He shook it, and sniffed it, and wondered for the fortieth time what could possibly be inside.
“When do you think you’ll get to the Caine?” the father had asked, the afternoon before Willie’s departure.
“I don’t know, Dad-in three or four weeks.”
“No more?”
“Maybe six weeks, tops. They move us out pretty fast, I hear.”
Thereupon his father had limped to the desk and drawn the sealed envelope out of a leather portfolio. “When you report aboard the Caine-the day you get there, not before or after, open this and read it.”
“What’s in it?”
“Why, if I wanted you to know now I wouldn’t have gotten myself a writer’s cramp scrawling it, would I?”
“It isn’t money? I won’t need money.”
“No, not money.”
“Sealed orders, eh?”
“Something like that. You’ll do as I say?”
“Of course, Dad.”
“Fine- Put it away and forget about it. Never mind mentioning it to your mother.”
Three thousand miles from his father and the scene of t
he promise, Willie was tempted to peek at the contents; merely to glance at the first page, no more. He tugged at the flap. It was dry, and came loose easily without tearing. The letter was open for Willie’s inspection.
But the thin strand of honor held, after all, across the continent. Willie licked the crumbled paste on the open flap, sealed the letter tight, and tucked it out of sight at the bottom of the valise. Knowing his own character, he thought it well to minimize the strain on it.
Well, he thought, he would write a letter to May after all-just one. She would expect it. Once he went to sea, silence would be understandable; now it would be cruel, and Willie didn’t want to treat May cruelly. He seated himself at the desk and composed a long warm letter. May would have needed second sight to read her dismissal in it. He was writing the last tender paragraph when the phone rang.
“Willie? Doggone you, boy, how are you?” It was Keefer. “I got your wire, boy. I been phoning all day. Where you been, boy?”
“Plane got hung up in Chicago, Rollo-”
“Well, come on out, boy, time’s a-wasting. We just getting a party organized-”
“Where are you-Fairmont?”
“Junior Officers’ Club-Powell Street. Hurry up. There’s a tall blonde on the loose here that is a dish-”
“Where’s Keggs?”
“He’s gone already, Willie, gone to sea. Three weeks’ delay getting transportation for everybody in Frisco except old horseface-”
“How come?”
“Why, the poor boy was down in transportation office, see, he just come off the train, he was getting his orders endorsed. Wouldn’t you know, the phone rings and it’s the skipper of a creeping coffin that’s going to Pearl, and he’s got room for three more officers. Keggs gets endorsed right over to him. He never even changed his socks in Frisco. Left Tuesday. Missed everything. This is the town, Willie. Liquor and gals till you can’t stand up. Get on your bicycle-”
“Be right over, Rollo.”
He felt slightly hypocritical, finishing up the letter to May. But he asserted to himself that he was entitled to any fun he could grasp before he went out to sea.