The two commanding officers sat in De Vriess’s cabin, drinking coffee. Queeg leaned back comfortably in the low black leather armchair. De Vriess was in the swivel chair at his desk.
“Kind of sudden, this whole deal,” said De Vriess.
“Well, I didn’t much like being yanked out of anti-submarine school,” said Queeg. “I’d moved my wife and family down to San Diego and we were all set for six good weeks, anyway. First shore billet I’d had in four years.”
“I’m sorry for your wife.”
“Well, she’s a pretty good sport.”
“They have to be.” After a moment of silent sipping De Vriess said, “You’re class of ’34?”
“Thirty-six,” said Queeg.
De Vriess knew this. He also knew Queeg’s precedence number, his class standing, and several other facts about him. But it was a nice point of etiquette to simulate ignorance. It was a courtesy, too, to place Queeg by mistake in an earlier class; it implied that Queeg was obtaining a command for which he was rather young. “They’re moving you fellows up now pretty fast.”
p. 151
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