This incident, which angered and humiliated Captain Thompson, led, by an unfortunate and illogical chain of events, to Stewart Brown's fall, that long-feared and unhappy climax to his role of captain's boy. Coming down from the bridge to confer with Chief Kronsky about the message from the target plane, Captain Thompson passed Lover Boy eating a stalk of celery. Back in his cabin, after the Ajax had secured in its disgrace, Captain Thompson summoned both Brown and Chief Tomkins, of the supply department. "On this entire cruise," he said to Chief Tomkins, his face flushed, "I have not been served any fresh celery myself, but just now on the deck I passed the monkey eating a stalk. How did this come about?"
Chief Tomkins was plainly baffled. "I don't know how, sir," he said. "We did take some celery on at Boston. It's in the stores. But I haven't issued any."
Captain Thompson stood up and came around from behind his desk to face Brown. "How did you get it then, boy?" he asked. "Did you take the key and go to the stores on your own?"
Stewart Brown had then answered with an impertinence. Afterward, Tomkins could not remember exactly what he had said. He had been too startled by Brown's behavior and by the captain's reaction. What Captain Thompson had done was to slap Stewart Brown across the face. The report of this action — so unlike Captain Thompson, so contrary, indeed, and in such defiance of Navy orders and regulations — dumfounded the crew and filled them with a sense of anxiety. It was true that Stewart Brown had betrayed the captain's regard, and, playing the part of favorite to the king, had done so from the beginning; but Captain Thompson, the father figure of the ship, the godlike symbol of ultimate authority, had betrayed himself and revealed his human weakness.
Brown was sent below. He sat on his bunk, sobbing, but no one approached him. It was all over, and he knew it, and everyone else knew it. He had fallen like Lucifer, never to rise again.
The next morning, after muster, captain's mast was held on deck. A chastened Stewart Brown, with pale face and downcast eyes, appeared before Captain Thompson and the formed ranks of the officers and crew free from duty. For his insolence and insubordination he was sentenced to three days of solitary confinement on bread and water, and restricted to the ship for a period of four weeks. Captain Thompson's voice was crisp in the open air, his manner impersonal. The crew, at attention, was sad in its silence.
Brown, in the custody of the master-at-arms, was taken to the sick bay for a routine examination by Doctor Claremont, to determine if his condition permitted the sentence to be put into effect. Doctor Claremont pronounced him fit, and he was taken below. Since no brig existed on the Ajax, a storage space designed for the storage of perishable food, with bars covered with wire netting to permit the passage of air, was designated for this purpose. Brown's bedding was placed inside, and a watch established around the clock, not only to guard Brown but to take him to and from the head.
Opinion about the incident and the sentence varied among the crew. McNulty, a man of strong feeling himself, could understand the captain's reaction; but the captain had slapped Brown, and in the light of that he thought the sentence was a little excessive. It would take some time and effort to restore the damage done to the morale of the crew.
Bullitt, however, professed to be disappointed. "I do wish he had had him either lashed or keelhauled," he said, a bit wistfully. "Especially keelhauled. Mercy, that would have relieved the boredom of it all. As it is now, the whole place is as cheerful as a slave ship."
As HE had watched Bullitt set Pozericki's leg, Williams' old feeling of ambivalence about the chief had returned —admiration for his skill, tempered by exasperation at his behavior. But Bullitt had now resumed his cruise manner, and there was a scent of lemon and alcohol in the air. Stripped to his swimming trunks, and wearing his chief's cap, he was playing solitaire in the sick bay, with the cards spread out on the treatment table. "We must amuse ourselves," he said to Williams, riffling the cards with an air of elegance. "Since we cannot have liberty beyond the base, I have worked out a daily itinerary for us, after a discussion with the games director. In the morning there will be the grand exit from Guantanamo Bay. Grand, of course, to be spelled with an 'e.' After lunch a loll on the sun deck. At sundown, the grand entry into Guantanamo Bay. Cocktails before dinner. And movies on the boat deck. If time lags there is always parcheesi or shuffleboard."
Williams, cleaning up the sick bay, was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to answer the chief. At lunchtime he had taken the bread and water below to Brown, with the Ajax under way once more to its point of practice rendezvous. As he climbed down the ladder to the hold, he was reflective about another aspect of his role of pharmacist's mate at sea. In unpacking the supplies for the sick bay that had been brought aboard at Norfolk, he had been startled to come upon a box that contained several copies of the Roman Catholic missal, a few rosaries of black glass beads, and half a dozen copies of The Book of Common Prayer. He remembered then having been told at Hospital Corps School that in the absence of a chaplain the role of spiritual adviser and comforter was to be assumed by the pharmacist's mate. Was it his duty now to find some words to comfort Brown: The present instance seemed almost classical. Bread and water, and spiritual comfort.
But, possibly because of his unfamiliarity with the role, Williams could not reach Brown. The guard outside the makeshift cell, an inarticulate young seaman named Clark, unlocked the door, and Williams went inside. Brown was lying on his bedding with his face turned to the wall. Williams placed the bread and the mug of water on the deck. He put his hand, tentatively, on Brown's shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked. Brown did not stir. "Is there anything you need.'" Williams asked. Again, Brown did not move, or respond. Williams left him, feeling a little inadequate. Somehow, he thought, he would have to learn to discharge his role of spiritual counselor in a more effective way.
That afternoon, perhaps because of everyone's awareness of Brown in his cell below, held in the heart of the ship like a warning symbol of the consequences of man's imperfection, the gun crews did better. They did, in fact, quite well. Captain Thompson was pleased. He had it announced over the public-address system that a movie would be shown on the forecastle that evening.
When they secured from practice late that afternoon, Clancy was sent ashore with Lover Boy with instructions to find him a new owner. He found a coxswain from an aircraft carrier, who took Lover Boy, complete with his inoculation certificate; and Ensign Cripps remarked that it was too bad Lover Boy didn't keep a diary of his adventures, so that each new owner might profit from the experiences of the one before.
After chow, Clancy, MacDougal and a few of their satellites set up the portable movie screen on the forecastle. The more lowly members of the crew were put to work setting up seats. Aluminum chairs were brought from the officers' country and ranged in two rows; back of these were benches for the crew.
Some time before the captain and the officers appeared, the crew was all in place, waiting, in good humor. They scuffled and laughed, they skylarked and made catcalls. The word "Attention," spoken by Sullivan from the rear, brought them to their feet in silence, while Captain Thompson and his officers made their way forward to the aluminum chairs. Privilege is not without its drawbacks, as they would be reminded when the film was projected on the screen immediately in front of their faces.
After a few abortive beginnings, with sounds of loud, accelerated dialogue from the sound track, and rapid, incomprehensible flashes on the screen, Ole Jensen, at the projector, brought things under control, naturally not without some rather insulting and pointed comment addressed to him, sotto voce, by his shipmates. On the screen before them the lined, passion-worn face of young Frank Sinatra appeared, magnified a hundredfold, and from the sound track poured the smooth, slurred notes of his song.