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 him-self, 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 mysteri-ous 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 men-tioning it to your mother."
Three thousand miles from his father and the scene of the 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 con-tinent. 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.
Willie considered himself a mistreated hero; he still smarted, under the insult of his orders to the Caine. After triumphing over the handicap of forty-eight demerits and rising to the top five per cent of the school, he had been sent to sweep mines on an obsolete World War I ship! It was mortifying-twice so, because Keggs, nearest him on the alphabetical list but almost two hundred numbers below him in standing, had drawn iden-tical duty. Obviously the Navy had disposed of the two men with no thought of what they deserved, one after another, like hogs being slaughtered. So Willie believed.
He was drawn into a round of drinking and partying that lasted twenty days. He rolled with Keefer from clubs to bars to girls' apartments. He quickly became popular because of his piano entertaining. Officers and girls alike were rapturous over If You Knew What the Gnu Knew: he had to sing it several times every night. He resurrected a knack developed in college days of making up rhymes on people's names as he sang:
"Hirohito trembles when he hears of Keefer,
To calm his nerves he has to light a reefer-"
Willie could go nimbly from name to name in the room, im-provising such couplets to a jazzy refrain. This astounded his audiences, especially the girls, who thought his talents bordered on witchcraft. He and Keefer roared up and down the hair-raising hills in an old rented Ford, and dined mightily on Chinese food, abalones and crabs, and did very little sleeping. They were invited to fine homes and exclusive clubs. It was a great war.
Keefer became friendly with an officer in the transportation department. The result was that the roommates were assigned to a hospital ship for their voyage westward. "Nurses and fresh strawberries-that's the ticket, Willie my boy," Keefer said, proudly announcing this news. They rolled aboard the Mercy at dawn after a roistering farewell party, and they con-tinued the same pace of pleasure all the while the ship was steaming toward Hawaii. Nurses clustered around Willie at the piano in the lounge every evening. There were sharp restric-tions aboard the Mercy on place and time of meetings be-tween the sexes, but Keefer quickly learned his way about the ship and arranged for the pursuit of happiness at all hours. They saw very little of the Pacific Ocean.
They debarked in Honolulu arm in arm with two freethink-ing nurses, Lieutenants Jones and Carter; exchanged brief kisses under the huge Dole's pineapple electric sign, and agreed to meet for dinner. The two ensigns piled their luggage into the taxicab of a snub-nosed grinning Hawaiian in a rainbow--colored shirt.
"Navy Base, Pearl, please."
"Yes, gentlemans."
Keefer got off at the bachelor officers' quarters, a structure of unpainted wood. Willie went to the personnel officer in the cement office building of the Hawaiian Sea Frontier, and was told that the Caine was at the Navy Yard in repair berth C-4. He threw his baggage into another cab and raced out to the repair basin. Berth C-4 contained only a slosh of empty filthy water. He wandered around the yard amid deafening sounds of ship repair, asking questions of workmen, sailors, and offi-cers. None of them had heard of the ship. Battleships, car-riers, cruisers, destroyers, in drydock or alongside docks, were everywhere: gray monsters in dozens, swarming with riveters and sailors. But no Caine. So Willie returned to the personnel officer.
"Don't tell me," said the fat lieutenant, "they fouled up this berthing chart again-" He searched through a heap of dispatches in a box on his desk. "Oh. Pardon me. Yep, she's gone. Shoved off this morning."
"Where to?"
"Sorry. Classified."
"Well, what do I do now?"
"I don't know. You should have caught her."
"My ship just got in an hour ago."
"That's not my fault."
"Look," said Willie, "all I want to know is, how do I get transportation from this point to catch up with the Caine?"
"Oh. You want Transportation. Well, I'm Personnel. You'll have to see Transportation." The lieutenant got up, put
a nickel in a Coca-Cola machine, drew out a frosty bottle, and drank noisily. Willie waited till he had seated himself again.
"Who and where is Transportation?"
"Jesus, I don't know."
Willie walked out of the office. Blinking in the glare of the sun, he noticed a sign on the next door: Transportation. "He doesn't know much," muttered Willie, and entered the office. A dried-up woman of thirty-seven or so sat at the desk.
"Sorry," she said, as Willie entered, "no more scooters."
"All I want," said Willie, "is transportation to the U.S.S. Caine."
"Caine? Where is it at?"
"I don't know."
"Then how on earth do you expect to get to it?" She pulled a Coco-Cola bottle out of a desk drawer, flipped off the cap against the edge of her desk, and drank.
"Nobody will tell me where the ship is bound for. It left this morning."
"Oh. It's not in the yard?"
"No, no. It's at sea."
"Well, then, how do you expect to get to it on a scooter?"
"I don't want a scooter," exclaimed Willie. "Did you hear me ask for a scooter?"
"You came in here, didn't you?" snapped the woman. "This is the scooter pool."
"It says `Transportation' outside."
"Well, a scooter is transportation-"
"Okay, okay," said Willie, "I'm new here, and very stupid. Please tell me how to get a start toward my ship."
The woman pondered, clicking the green bottle against her teeth. "Well, I guess you want Fleet Transportation. This is Yard Transportation."
"Thank you. Where is Fleet Transportation?"
"Jesus, I don't know. Why don't you ask Personnel next door?"
Willie gave up for the day. If the Navy was in no hurry to send him after the Caine, he was in no hurry to go. He went back to the bachelor officers' quarters, thoroughly tired of pil-ing a crate and two bags in and out of taxis.
"Just in time, boy." Keefer was fresh and cool in newly pressed khaki shirt and trousers. Willie still wore his hot, heavy blues. "Big doings. Admiral giving a party for the nurses to-night. Jonesy and Carter got permission to bring us along."
"Which admiral?"
"Who knows? They thick as fleas on a dog's back around here. You find your ship?"
"Shoved off today. Nobody will say where."
"Fine, fine. Nice delay, probably. Shower up."
The admiral's party, at his handsome home inside the base, started as a quiet affair. Most of the guests were within earshot of an admiral for the first time and they minded their man-ners. The admiral, a big bald man with startling black hollows under his eyes, received everyone with genial majesty in his straw-matted, flower-filled living room. After drinks had flowed for a while the atmosphere warmed. Willie, urged on by Keefer, timidly sat at the piano and played. The admiral brightened at the first notes, and moved to a seat near the piano. He waved his glass to the rhythm of the music. "The boy has talent," he said to a captain at his elbow. "By George, these reserves bring some life into things."
"They certainly do, sir."
Keefer heard this exchange. "Hey, Willie, give us the Gnu Knew."
Willie shook his head, but the admiral said, "What? What's that? Let's have it, whatever it is."
The song caused a sensation. The admiral put down his glass and applauded, whereupon everyone else did the same. He was in chuckling high spirits. "What's your name, Ensign? By George, you're a find."
"Keith, sir."
"Keith. Good name. Not a Keith from Indiana?"
"No, sir. Long Island."
"Good name anyway. Now, let's have some more music. Let's see. Do you know Who Hit Annie in the Fanny with a Flounder?"
"No, sir."
"Hell, I thought everyone knew that."
"If you'll sing it, sir," said Keefer eagerly, "Willie can pick it up in a second."
"By God I will," said the admiral, glancing around at the captain beside him, "if Matson here will pitch in."
"Certainly, Admiral."
Willie-easily picked up the refrain of Who Hit Annie in the Fanny with a Flounder, and the house rocked with the chorus sung twice by all hands, male and female. The nurses giggled, cooed, and twittered. "This is the best damn party," cried the admiral, "we've ever had. Somebody give me a cigarette. Where are you stationed, boy? I want you to come again, often."
"I'm trying to catch up with the U.S.S. Caine, sir."
"Caine? Caine? Christ, is she still in commission?"
Captain Matson leaned over and said, "Converted DMS, sir."
"Oh, one of those. Where is she?"
"Just left today, sir." He dropped his voice. " `Ashtray.' "
"Hm." The admiral regarded Willie keenly. "Matson, can you take care of this lad?"
"I think so, Admiral."
"Well, more music, Keith!"
When the party broke up at midnight, the captain slipped Willie his card. "Come and see me at 0900, Keith."
"Aye aye, sir."
Next morning Willie presented himself at the captain's office in the CincPac Building. The captain rose and shook hands pleasantly.
"Sure enjoyed your music, Keith. Never saw the admiral have a better time. By God, he needs it-does him good."
"Thank you, sir."
"Well," said the captain, "if you want I can put you on a plane for Australia. Maybe you'll catch the Caine down there, maybe you won't. She's running convoy. Those escorts get shoved here and there by every port director who gets his hands on them-"
"Whatever you say, sir-"
"Or," said the captain, "we can put you on temporary duty here in the officer pool till she gets back to Pearl. Might be a few weeks, might be a few months. Depends on whether you're in a hurry for combat duty or- They can use you out there, sure enough. The admiral wouldn't interfere with your going out, in any way." Captain Matson grinned.
Willie glanced through the broad picture window which faced the sea and the hills. A rainbow was drifting down a palm-covered misty mountainside far away. Outside on the lawn crimson hibiscus blossoms stirred in the warm breeze, and a sprinkler twirled a sparkling spiral of water over the close-clipped grass.
"Officer pool sounds swell to me, sir."
"Fine. The admiral will be pleased. Bring your orders around to my yeoman any time today."
Willie was officially transferred to the officer pool, and took up quarters with Keefer in the BOQ. The Southerner, who had already been assigned to Third Fleet Communications, exulted as Willie unpacked his bags.
"Boy, you catching on to the military life."
"I don't know. Maybe they needed me on the Caine-"
"Shinola on that. You gonna get all the war you want, boy. You keep little old Keefer and the admiral happy a few weeks, that's all." He rose and swiftly knotted a black tie. "Got the duty. See you tonight."
Unpacking, Willie came upon his father's letter. He took it up uncertainly. Months might pass now, before he reached his ship. Dr. Keith had told him to open it upon reporting for duty. He was on duty-temporary duty, to be sure, but it might last a long time. He lit a cigarette, tore open the letter, and sat down to read it. At the first words he started up. He read on, sitting on the edge of the chair, the letter trembling in his hands, the cigarette burning down between his fingers, and ashes dropping off unnoticed.
DEAR WILLIE:
By the time you read this letter, I think I will be dead. I'm sorry to startle you but I suppose there's no pleasant way to break such news. The trouble I've been having with my toe is due to a rather vicious disorder, malignant melanoma. The prognosis is one hundred per cent bad. I've known about my condition for a long time, and figured that I would probably die this summer. But the toe began to go a bit sooner. I suppose I should be in a hospital at this moment (two nights before you leave) but I hate to spoil your departure, and since there's no hope anyway, I've postponed it. I'm going to try to stall until I know you've left San Francisco. Your mother doesn't know anything yet. My guess is that
I won't last more than three or four weeks, now.
I'm a little young to go, according to the insurance tables, and i must say I don't feel ready, but I daresay that's because I've accomplished so little. I look back on my life, Willie, and there's not much there. Your mother has been a fine wife, and I have no regrets on that score. But I seem to have led such a thoroughly second-rate life-not only compared to my father, but in view of my own capabilities. I had quite a feeling for research. When I fell in love with your mother I thought I couldn't marry her without undertaking general practice in a high-income community. It was my plan to make a pile in ten or fifteen years of such work, and then return to research. I really think I might have done something in cancer. I had a theory-a notion, you might say-nothing I could have put on paper. It needed three years of systematic investigation. No-body has touched it to this day. I've kept up with the literature. My name might have meant as much as my father's. But now there's no time even to outline the procedure. The worst of it is, I now feel your mother would have stood by me and lived modestly if I'd really insisted.
Herman Wouk - The Caine Mutiny Page 8