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The ride from Fort Shafter to the submarine base after leaving off Joan and Cordy would have been pleasant, Richardson decided, if only old Blunt had not been so talkative.

The first phase of the morning’s excursion, in the early light—the hour after sunrise was always the loveliest—had been quiet, but it, too, in its own way, had been unusual, vaguely uncomfortable. Richardson’s pulse was no longer leaping. Everything was matter-of-fact. From the look on Joan’s face one would have thought nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing had.

He was unable to guess what was going on in her mind. Had she any conception of the turmoil, the emotional crisis in his which she had helped assuage? His extra self, that part of his brain which seemed to function of its own, more objectively, more cool than he was himself, was telling him that everyone, Admiral Small and Captain Blunt included, had been conspiring to help. Keith and Buck and Al Dugan—all the crew of the Eel, in fact—had done so too. Each in his own way, as it came to each to understand. Even the admiral’s driver had tried—how did he know? Was the story of the lifeboats all over the base?

Last night Joan had seemed intuitively to understand more than anyone. She had been wanton, had deliberately given herself. It had been a deeply generous, totally personal effort to lift him from the purgatory into which he was drifting. And yet—of this he was sure—there had been something driving her, too. But could the explosion of feeling with which he had responded be called a cure? Or was it merely a compound of too much to drink—that, too, kindly intended by his friends—and the natural reaction of the sailor, just ashore?

The warm sensuousness of night was gone. During day, one retreated into convention, into formality. Maybe this was the barrier. Last night he thought he knew her. Today he was not so sure.

The Eel—complicated, intense, an example of man’s genius, pound for pound the most complex instrument modern technocracy and cleverness could devise—was simple by comparison. With the Eel he felt safe. Once you had mastered her, learned her needs and capabilities, Eel was always predictable. You could use her, play upon her, exploit her strengths and protect her from the consequences of her weaknesses. She was a comfort, because she was always the same. But why had sailors, from time immemorial, always personified their ships as female? Ships were not enigmas. Women by contrast were. He had no idea what Joan was thinking, or even if she was thinking at all, behind the restraint imposed by the morning.

They kept conversation alive because it was what you did. It meant nothing, had no sequence. Whatever the sentry at the entrance to the Shafter compound may have thought, his expression betrayed nothing. Richardson climbed into the front seat of the jeep beside Blunt. They set out for Pearl Harbor, driving a little faster than before.

Blunt’s mood had changed, or it might only have been suppressed earlier. He was ebullient, talkative, almost effervescent. Mired in his own thoughts, Richardson at first paid only enough attention to respond when response was necessary. He wished Blunt would stop, or at least shift to professional matters.

“You sure are a lucky man, Rich,” Blunt was saying, slapping the steering wheel of the jeep for jovial emphasis. “Half the guys I know would have given a year’s ration of tax-free booze to be in your shoes last night!”

Startled, Richardson could think of no answer appropriate to the remark. Something unknown, unexpected, had grated across his consciousness. This was, at the very least, out of character for the Captain Blunt he had known! Uncertainly, he gave him a searching look, did not reply.

Blunt took no notice. “She’s supposed to be the best piece on the island, but nobody knows who’s getting any of it. They say there’s some airdale in Lahaina—and then you come along, and your first night ashore . . .”

Maybe if he pretended not to hear what Blunt was saying he would get off this kick. A deep uneasiness clutching at him, Richardson managed to find something of interest in a rocky field off to the right. There was something strange, a different quality, almost a babbling note, to the incisive familiar tones. It was the last thing he would ever have expected to hear in that voice!

“When this story gets out, Rich, you’ll be more famous around here than if you sank two Bungo Petes!”

This could not be allowed! A burst of rage flooded to Richardson’s brain. In growing unease at the trend of Blunt’s conversation, he had been about to make another spare, noncommittal comment. A depth of anger which startled even himself boiled to the surface instead. “Commodore, if I hear one word about last night from anybody, I will punch you in the nose! Publicly!”

Blunt, about to say something more, stopped, took a long look at Richardson. The fury in his junior’s eyes was all too evident. He surrendered.

“Oh, hell, Rich, you didn’t think I’d go around telling about this little soiree we just had, do you? After all, I was in on it too, remember. That Cordy Wood, now, she’s really something. You know she’s a damn good wrestler. Slippery as an eel, and quick as greased lightning . . .”

But Richardson had found something else of interest in the area of sand and scrub bushes the jeep was now passing. His disquietude was complete. Surely Blunt had not intended to imply that he might boast about the previous evening! Yet he had done exactly that. And the balance of his remarks had been equally uncalled for. This was a side of his character which Richardson had never seen and could not, even having seen and heard, bring himself to believe was a part of the man he had so admired for so many years.

The old Joe Blunt was deeply sensitive, deeply understanding of his men and junior officers—and of their wives or girls as well. Richardson would never forget Sam Fister, his immediate superior in the Octopus, and what Blunt had done for him. When Sam’s girl wrote frantically that she was in trouble as a result of the submarine’s unscheduled stop in San Francisco, Sam had had the good sense to go right to his skipper. The letter was received in Cavite weeks after it had been mailed, as Octopus moored following a month-long simulated war patrol. No matter that Sam’s supervision was needed for the upkeep to be performed at Cavite, or that nearly six months remained before the prewar navy regulations allowed him to marry. Joe knew his way around, and he called in a good many of his I.O.U.’s that night. Next day, Sam was designated courier to Washington, and boarded the Pan-American Clipper with priority two orders. In three weeks he was back, a married man and ready to give his soul for Joe Blunt.

Later, purely by accident, Rich was present when Admiral Hart, Commander of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet, told Blunt that someone’s wife had written her suspicions to someone else’s wife. Hart was justly feared as one of the toughest officers the navy had ever produced. Richardson, completely forgotten by his two superiors, stood marveling as Blunt laid his own career on the line to block investigation of Sam’s putative violation of regulations. He marveled even more when Admiral Hart agreed, somewhat unwillingly, but agreed nevertheless, that until he received official notice—as he would if Sam claimed quarters allowance for his bride—he had no obligation, at this time of increasing tension, to inquire into officious rumors that concerned neither the battle readiness of the Asiatic Fleet nor the safety of the United States.

Blunt, a model of rectitude himself, had always been tolerant of people and their problems with one single exception: when they hurt his ship or the navy. Although, through their men, women sometimes interfered with the smooth operation of Octopus, Richardson had never heard him speak of a woman in other than chivalrous terms. Yet this morning he had been callous, even degrading, in his comments about the two girls with whom they had just spent the night, and for no reason.

No doubt, in the course of her time at Pearl, Joan had given herself to more than one man. Certainly, she must have to Jim. It was probably true that there were many, for there could not be a man who, meeting her, did not want to possess her. Emotions and pressures of war affected both the male and the female, and considering the differences in their wartime roles, it probably affected them about equally. Joan, far more than most women, was actually participating in the war, and her outlook, correspondingly, might well be more like a man’s. Her job, obviously, had something to do with breaking down enemy coded messages—though this was his own intuitive deduction and could not be discussed. Doubtless, such employment must have its pressures.

Yet, how could you figure out a girl like Joan? Their lovemaking had been swift, fierce, and unrestrained, each seeking something for himself, or herself, at the same time as each gave to the other with the most unselfish and vulnerable completeness. Once, when both were for the moment sated, she murmured that she had planned how they would finish the evening from the instant she had seen him. He was different from the others, she said (astounding how frank she was!), for while they also had the drive of the war and of the risks and the fighting, none had so clearly, so plainly, needed that little thing she could do for them. Rich had never thought of a girl in quite this way. Joan was totally feminine, totally desirable. A very private person, yet completely honest about herself. In her own very womanly way, she was as aggressive as any man, but unfeminine she clearly was not; completely the opposite. Promiscuous, his instincts flatly denied. Free, most certainly; but his every apperception told him the freedom was hers, not that of others. Many men would campaign for her and fail—and some would salve their egos by groundless leers and innuendos.

A woman like Joan, despite her natural privacy, would generate gossip from disappointed men and jealous women alike. But to know Joan was to realize that those who had been allowed to feel the real abandon of which she was capable would not be the kind who would lend themselves to gossip. While Jim was drunk, Rich remembered, he had once—and that was the only time—nearly alluded to his relationship with her. But the inferences had all been Richardson’s. Jim had actually said nothing, had never actually mentioned her, had only scourged himself for some unstated failure regarding Laura.

Rich had a warm feeling at the thought that at first sight Joan had trusted him. Blunt’s extraordinarily crude comment, when he expressed surprise at Rich’s “success” his first night ashore, had been far more right than he would ever appreciate. Then Rich remembered that Jim had (her own words) spoken highly of him.

Oddly, the inner glow remained. Perhaps both he and Joan were brutalized by the war. He had killed Nakame in defiance of the still honored code of the sea, which prescribed forbearance for men in lifeboats. He had also violated the code which his father, the preacher, had so thoroughly inculcated. It should be degrading to think of himself as only one among many in Joan’s life, but in a seldom visited corner of his soul he felt cleansed of something. Somehow, the thought that Joan was not and perhaps never could be for him alone made no difference. It made no difference at all.

He would have to be grateful for her favor, to be one of those she admitted to her private inner circle. He could not hope to be the only man to be with her. Certainly, she would not sit alone while Eel was at sea! But she had done a lot for him, could do a lot more. After last night, he had hopes that he might also be able to do a little for her.

The rest of the trip was in silence, for which Rich was at first grateful and, gradually, a little concerned. Perhaps Blunt had been hurt, perhaps angered. Perhaps it had all been a game. It would not be the first time Blunt had acted a part to get someone’s goat. That must, on second thought, be the explanation! Almost, Richardson convinced himself; but in the back of his mind there lingered something unsatisfied, something unexplained. Probably it would eventually go away. The strain of the just-finished patrol must have made him overquick to react.

The realities of the night before receded more and more as the gate to the navy compound at Pearl Harbor approached. In their place, the harder realities to be faced during the day—the war and the submarines—once again reasserted their predominance over Richardson’s thoughts.

The chief of staff, no doubt, had a desk covered with papers and messages accumulated during the night watch.

For his own part, Richardson wanted to read the daily file of dispatches from submarines on patrol which was maintained in a room off the Operations Office. He needed to see Eel’s refit started; and he wanted to investigate any new devices or technical improvements which might be applied during the two-week repair period. Particularly, he resolved, he must look into that new radar periscope.

By the time Blunt stopped the jeep at the head of the pier where Eel now lay—she had been moved late the previous afternoon—the old relationship seemed almost restored. “Rich,” said Blunt as they shook hands, “will you come to my office about 10 o’clock? There’s some things we should talk over.” With relief Rich promised, saluted, walked down the pier and across the narrow working gangplank to his ship.

Already, much work was going forward. The shattered Target Bearing Transmitter on the bridge, he noted, had been removed during the night. This was a vitally important instrument. Consisting of a specially waterproofed (and pressure-proofed) pair of binoculars, mounted permanently in what amounted to a set of gimbals so that they could be trained on any bearing, it very accurately sent this information to a set of dials near the Torpedo Data Computer in the conning tower. Thus the “TBT” permitted torpedoes to be aimed from the bridge as accurately as the periscope could aim them when the submarine was submerged.

Walrus had a much smaller and less accurate TBT in which the OOD’s own binoculars had to be fitted into a bracket to send the bearings to the conning tower. The new design, bulkier but much more precise, also had the convenience of a built-in buzzer—to give the “mark”—in one handle. Being solidly attached to the ship’s structure, it additionally gave physical support to the man using it in bad weather—a matter for which Rich had been most grateful a few weeks ago. Tateo Nakame had destroyed Eel’s forward TBT (there was one forward and one aft, necessitated by the periscope supports which obscured all-around view). It was good to see that its replacement had high priority.

Among the items Richardson had requested in his refit book, submitted on arrival, was installation of an additional five-inch gun on the main deck forward to match the one Eel already had aft. To go with it, Buck Williams had suggested a rudimentary fire control system, making it possible to use the TDC for coordinated control of both guns from the bridge during gun action. An aiming system could easily be devised if the submarine base could be persuaded to mount the two TBTs side by side, port and starboard, instead of fore and aft.

But moving the TBTs would be quite a job, involving moving electrical connections and making structural changes to the heavy steel plating of the bridge bulwarks. Rich could show the desirability of the new system, but strong arguments would be needed to get the submarine base to alter the standard arrangement. It would require his personal and primary attention.

There would be a conference later on today, at which Keith and the other officers would all be present, to review and plan the refit work. Most critical of the repairs was the matter of the ship’s hydraulic system. During the latter stages of the previous patrol the frequency of its recharging cycle had nearly doubled. This presaged trouble; a thorough overhaul was mandatory. Eel had many more hydraulic devices than the old Walrus. Her torpedo tube doors were hydraulically operated, for example, and her periscope hoist mechanisms had long, thin hydraulic hoist rods in place of Walrus’ electric motors and wire hoist cables.

In response to the increased demand for hydraulic power, the hydraulic plant in the newer subs had been redesigned and enlarged. But the load was twice as great. Maybe the plant still wasn’t big enough. . . .

Eel was a refuge, his home, his occupation. All he had in life, really. But she also carried memory, especially of the past three weeks. Fortunately there were many new faces in the relief crew performing various tasks about the ship. That made a difference. The boat herself also indefinably felt different alongside the dock instead of at sea. His own stateroom, untouched by any of the work going on, and yet so constricted, so crammed with memories of tormented hours, and so alien with the ship in port, was where it was worst.

He could feel the brownout closing back down upon him. Joan Lastrada’s ministrations the night before had been extraordinarily successful, but no woman, hours in the past, could compete with the here and now of the tiny metal-walled chamber in which he had for so many days sat in front of his desk or lain brooding in his bunk. Nor could any woman compete with the great steel hulk of congested machinery which he had used to smash the lifeboats.

Half an hour after he stepped aboard, he was ashore again, reading the message files.

At ten he was in Blunt’s office, a sparsely furnished, white-walled room in the bomb-proof building constructed for the ComSubPac headquarters. It was exactly as he remembered it, except for the addition of a large bookcase with glass doors. On its shelves, instead of books, was an assemblage of mementos, some of which Richardson recognized as dating from Octopus days. The majority, however, were new, evidently recent acquisitions. The single large window, deep set in heavy concrete walls, looked out toward the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard. Immediately below it, Pier One, now empty, was ready for the next submarine to come in from patrol. Blunt’s desk was in front of the window, the back of his chair exactly in front of the glass.

The chief of staff was standing, gazing out the window, his hands massaging themselves behind his back. Characteristic gesture. Suddenly it was reminiscent of that night, two months ago, when, standing in the same pose, Blunt had told Rich of the loss of his old boat. Different in only one thing: night instead of mid-morning. Then the lights of the navy yard had been strong spots of brilliance in the distance, beneath them the black waters of the harbor. Now the bright sun of a late fall morning streamed through the window, tingeing the waters beside the pier an unaccustomed powdery green.

Blunt turned as Richardson announced himself. The pipe in his mouth was freshly lighted, drawing well. He held it between clenched teeth, spoke by moving his lips, articulated behind artificially rigid jaws. “Rich,” he said, “that was a tremendous patrol you turned in. You have no idea of the effect here when your message came in about Bungo Pete, and then the later one when you rescued the aviators. Admiral Small made a special report to Washington about it. I want you to know that.”

He could have used some of this knowledge a week ago. But this was not why the chief of staff had asked Richardson for a conference. He waited.

“How are you feeling, Rich?”

Why should Blunt ask this question at this time? “Fine, sir. I’ve never felt better. . . .”

“No, I don’t mean that, Rich. I’m thinking about your state of mind. This patrol took a lot out of you I know—now wait. . .” as Richardson began to protest. “Any war patrol takes a lot out of the skipper. Most of them don’t realize how much they’ve had to drive themselves, but you really had a particularly tough deal.”

Maybe old Joe Blunt had read a lot more between the lines than Richardson had meant to put there in the patrol report. Or maybe, under the influence of the admiral’s whiskey, he had revealed himself far more than he had intended. Joan, he knew, had guessed. And no doubt Keith understood. Perhaps Blunt still possessed that sensitivity of understanding which had made him so beloved of his junior officers in the Octopus.

“We were wondering whether the fight with Nakame had really gotten to you. You should have sent someone else to unlash the rubber boats when that Jap patrol plane came over. Doing it yourself doesn’t seem the smartest move. You left Leone in charge of Eel under enemy attack. There was a damned good possibility that you might be killed, along with the aviators you were trying to rescue.”

“Commodore, there wasn’t time! The boat was diving! Keith was already below. The patrol plane was practically on us. . . .”

“Plane! Plane!” The foghorn blast. Men dashing to the bridge, tumbling below. Eel’s vents open, air whistling out of them. Consternation: the heaving line fast to one of the bow cleats, the other end still attached to the rubber boats. As Eel submerged, the line would drag the boats under, dump the injured fliers in the water. Richardson the last man on the bridge, seconds left in which to get below before Eel went under. “Shut the hatch, Keith! Take charge!” Jumping down on deck, running forward to free the line, Blunt’s old aphorism reverberating through his mind as the diving submarine took him under with her: “Take it easy, take your time, do it right; take it easy, do it right!” Many feet under, water pressure on his back from Eel’s forward motion bending him over the cleat, he at last managed to get his fingers under the rapidly tightening heaving line, pull it free. It was murder pushing himself clear of the huge cleat digging into his abdomen.

Reliving it, Richardson could remember the pain all over again. For a few minutes he thought the heavy rounded cleat had emasculated him. He passed out, must have bobbed to the surface practically under the rubber boats. The flier caught his arm, undoubtedly saved his life.

The Japanese aviators were playing the cat-and-mouse game, hoping to entice Keith to surface. When their plane came close, he would dunk the ’scope and not raise it again until they were back on their way to the horizon. Richardson timed the plane’s movements, motioned Keith to bring Eel as close as he could, snagged the periscope as it went by, signaled for Eel to surface as soon as the plane went out of sight. Keith neatly brought the boat up directly beneath the two rubber boats, landed the three wounded fliers and the painfully bruised Richardson on deck. The bang of the hatch opening, men racing down on deck, recklessly gathering up the four temporary castaways, pitching them down the open hatch, slamming the lid, opening the vents, getting her back under. Haste. Haste. The plane coming back. Take her down! Take her deep fast! Lean into those diving control wheels! All ahead emergency! For God’s sake, get some down angle on her!

Blunt was still talking. The tone of his voice was the one he used when he was displeased. “Why didn’t you radio the task force to provide air cover? You should not have made Leone surface your boat right under that Jap Betty to pick you up!”

The direct accusation caught Richardson unprepared. This, of all matters, he had not thought would be brought under unfriendly scrutiny.

“But I was in the rubber boat, Commodore! There was no way I could tell Keith to send a message! He couldn’t have sent one submerged anyway. Maybe we should have sent one before, but we were occupied with getting those men aboard. There just wasn’t time to set up and send a message!” Lamely, Rich added the word “sir” to the sentence.

“Well, maybe not,” said Blunt. “But you should have had a message ready beforehand. That’s the way it’s got to be in submarines, Rich. You’ve got to think of everything, all the time. Trouble with you young skippers is that you don’t look ahead. You could have lost your boat, or been lost yourself, along with the three fliers you were trying to help!”

Years ago, Blunt had used that same tone of voice to upbraid Rich for a poorly executed dive in the Octopus. Afterward he had praised him for quickly diagnosing and remedying the trouble, improper compensation of the after trim tank. Richardson felt the sudden return to the attitudes of eight years ago, when he had been the inexperienced new arrival to Blunt’s brand-new submarine. He sat uncomfortably in his chair. Blunt was being a little hard. It was almost contrary to tradition to rake a newly returned skipper, especially on the day following return from a successful patrol.

Apparently Blunt had come to the end of his chastisement. “Anyway, it came out all right,” he said. “You were lucky and got away with it. So let’s forget about it.”

But Rich could not forget about it. There was something behind Blunt’s words. Was there a hint of vindictiveness in his manner? Could he have been reasserting himself, his superiority, after the night in his quarters and the conversation in the jeep? And what about Blunt’s reaction to his personal risk in casting loose the rubber boats—that, at least, had brought him the most peace and contentment of the entire patrol. So far as leaving Keith in command for a time, that had been an incident of combat. Keith had long since qualified for command; else he could not have been exec. Richardson would have trusted him anywhere. Was there, in truth, a real reason behind Blunt’s probing? Richardson himself had secretly wondered whether there had been a subconscious wish to risk death underlying his action. Had Blunt sensed this? Even yesterday, when Rich could have gone below, he had remained on the bridge when the Kona wave had pooped the boat. He might well have been washed overboard. Was that part of the same underlying wish?

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face. Blunt continued in a kinder tone. “Nearly all our skippers are young, like you, Rich,” he said. “You’re not the only one with a few problems and frustrations. Here in Pearl some of us at least get a chance to relieve some of them. Maybe you need a little more of that stuff you got last night.”

“Goddammit, Captain!” burst out Richardson, half rising in his chair.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, take it easy, Rich. This is a world war we’re in. Everybody’s in it, the men and the women too. And don’t forget the women are giving it all they’ve got, just like you are. Just who do you think those girls were, anyway?”

“You’re not trying to tell me . . .” Richardson stopped. Was this a hint at the puzzle about Joan’s work at Fort Shafter?

“They just happen to know more about what’s going on in Japan than either of us ever will, unless we take over the admiral’s job, but I’m not going to say anything more, so forget what I said.” He had long since removed the pipe from his mouth. It had gone out, unnoticed, on his desk. Now he palmed it, tamped down the contents of the bowl, gently shook out the loose ashes, relighted it.

A deep, satisfied puff. A curl of smoke gently rising toward the ceiling. “Anyway, that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. Have you heard about the wolfpacks we’ve been organizing?”

“Yes, sure,” said Richardson, relieved that Blunt had shifted the conversation away from the events of the previous night.

“Mason’s Marauders turned in a pretty good combined patrol, and so did Tremaine’s Tigers, but others haven’t been so lucky recently. It all depends on the area they get, and how well they’ve been trained beforehand, naturally. Also on how much dope they get in the area, and how aggressive the boats are themselves.”

Rich nodded.

“Anyway, what I’m telling you is that the admiral is giving me the next wolfpack, and I was wondering whether you would like to be in it.”

“Us? The Eel? We won’t be through our refit and training for three more weeks!” Suddenly Richardson realized he did not want to be in a wolfpack under his old skipper. A day ago he might have welcomed the idea.

“Timing is no problem. We’ve already picked the other two boats: Chicolar and Whitefish. The Chicolar is a brand-new sub, due to arrive from Mare Island in a couple of days. She has an experienced skipper, though, so she’ll need only routine refresher training. She’ll be okay. The Whitefish is an older boat and her skipper is due for rotation this time in. They’re already here, got in a couple of days before you did, so the timing is really pretty good. We’ll need the three weeks to plan our coordinated tactics.”

There had been hesitation, less than enthusiastic acceptance, in Richardson’s manner. Had Blunt noticed? Had he expected a greater expression of pleasure at the prospect of being shipmates again? But even if so, this could not explain Blunt’s negative attitude toward the rescue of the aviators, for the wolfpack, at that point, had not yet been mentioned.

Blunt was still talking. “Most of you young skippers say Jap convoys are too small for wolfpacks. Since the poor results from the last couple we sent out, the Old Man hasn’t been too willing, either. But last week he had a conference with Nimitz, and since then we’ve been putting this one together.”

In Richardson’s opinion, the damage done by a single three-submarine wolfpack generally was not equal to what could be accomplished by three aggressive boats operating over a wider area independently. Furthermore, higher risk of detection and counterattack resulted from the wolfpack’s need for radio communications between its members.

The disquiet, allayed a moment ago, was back. Blunt, who had taken the bewildered ensign on board the Octopus and made a submariner out of him, who had publicly qualified him with his own dolphin insignia in front of the entire crew, had always been a source of admiration and strength. This had been no less true later, at New London, and until very recently, at Pearl. But there was a subtle difference between the Blunt of today and the Blunt of even two months ago, when Richardson had last seen him. The voice, the mannerisms, the countenance, were exactly the same; yet, there was a new slackness about his jaws and a never before noticed unreality to his conversation.

Only someone who had served under Blunt, who had experienced his vitality as a superior, would be able to see the difference. Admiral Small, obviously, had seen nothing untoward, for he would not otherwise have designated him as the commander of a wolfpack, in charge of three submarines on war patrol.

Suddenly speculation took off on another tangent, and simultaneously it became certainty. Wolfpack commanders were commonly drawn from among underemployed squadron commanders, of whom there were a number in Pearl. Submarining was a young man’s game. The navy—the war—was passing the older men by. They were in the middle; they had had their boats before the war, and there could be but one force commander. The Germans controlled their wolfpacks entirely from shore. It was an American idea to put a wolfpack commander aboard one of the subs. The opportunity was much sought after. There were too many claimants. No one got more than one crack at it. No doubt Blunt had also been restive, perhaps even a little envious, like some of the others. But the chief of staff, of all the officers in Pearl, could not complain about being unemployed. There had to be a substantial reason for ComSubPac to deprive himself of his right-hand man. Something really important must be intended for this wolfpack. That conference between the two old submarine colleagues, Small and Nimitz, had done it!

Then the inner voice of logic began to speak. Richardson should realize that his own perceptions were overdrawn, too finely sharpened by the pressures of the patrol just completed. Admiral Small had had far more opportunity to observe Blunt than Richardson. His view must be the correct one. If anything, he would be aware that Blunt was wearying under his heavy desk duties. The chief of staff’s job was essentially one of paperwork, a despised chore for a man of action, especially for a man of the sea. An assignment carrying with it unusual responsibilities of a completely different nature, at sea on submarine war patrol, doing what his entire career had been preparing him for, would appeal to the admiral as exactly the sort of change his valued assistant needed. This would clear the cobwebs from Blunt’s mind. And it would give him a taste of the action for which the admiral had many times expressed his envy. Joe Blunt might well have felt the same, might have asked for the assignment.

Only one more question to ask, for which Rich already knew the answer. “Have you decided which boat you’ll be riding, Commodore?”

“I figured you’d ask that. The admiral and I think I should be on the most experienced boat, with the most experienced skipper. This adds up to yours.”

Perhaps, in the process of doing something really big, something of real significance in the war effort, the old Blunt would reassert himself. Once away from Pearl Harbor and its indivious subtleties, the old relationship Richardson had so valued could be revived.

He could feel himself pulled in two directions at the same time, but all the decisions had already been made. Admiral Small of course knew that Blunt had once been skipper of the Octopus, and that Richardson had served three years under him there, as well as an additional time in New London. Obviously, it was Small who had decided that Blunt would ride the Eel.

“Great,” said Rich, this being the only reply he could think of. “What do we have to do for training? And when can we start?”

“There’ll be a little more work in it for you and some of your officers, of course, and you won’t have as much free time in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel as maybe you’d hoped. I want all of you to study all the reports of all the previous wolfpacks. And I want you three skippers to get to know each other pretty well, too. Then we’ll set up a training period to work out our tactics.”

“Is our area picked already?” Rich asked.

“AREA TWELVE, the Yellow Sea and East China Sea. That was where we were going to send you, remember, when we diverted you to the Bungo Suido last time. Matter of fact, we’ve not had a submarine in there since, and by now the Japs must be running a lot of traffic through there. There should be plenty of targets, at least in the beginning. As soon as we hit them, of course, they’ll close off again. So I want to go in and hit them real hard right away. Good thing they won’t have old Bungo to shift over there.”

“Fine,” said Rich. “It sounds like a lot of fun.” “Fun” was the wrong word, but Blunt did not seem to notice. If Richardson’s latest evaluation was on target, there would be a lot more than “fun” involved. He hoped he had sounded convincing. “When do we start getting ready?”

“Right after the Chicolar gets in, day after tomorrow. I’ll call all three of you skippers together, along with your execs. It won’t be too tough a schedule. You’ll have plenty of time off. There’ll be plenty of time to see the Lastrada dame, if she has any free time. After sixty days at sea you must really have had lead in your pencil last night. . . .”

Somehow, Richardson managed to make a quiet retreat. There was something wrong, all right.

To Richardson’s surprise, at the afternoon-long refit conference there was no resistance at all to his proposal to move the two Target Bearing Transmitters into little bulges built into the sides of Eel’s bridge. He had prepared himself with diagrams showing the increased arc which could be covered by either TBT in the event of failure of the other, and he was psychologically ready to discuss the loss of aiming capability from the forward TBT after Nakame’s rifle had smashed it.

In this instance, Eel had no torpedoes remaining forward—or aft either, for that matter—but the principle was valid. Rich would use this argument last, had begun to describe his intended use of the side-mounted bearing transmitters for director control of the two five-inch guns, when he realized here was no opposition to his proposal. So far as the refit people were concerned, it was only the question of the physical capability to do the job.

The reaction to his other primary request, that extra skids be provided for stowage of ten torpedoes in the after torpedo room, instead of the standard eight, was the same. He had been prepared for opposition, for no submarine had yet taken twenty-six torpedoes on patrol. Sufficient space existed, but the designed load was only twenty-four fish. Should Eel be unlucky enough to have a “dry run,” be forced to bring her full load of torpedoes back to her base, expenditure of fuel—lighter than the water replacing it—would cause her to be so heavy that submerged trim would not be possible without using Safety tank as a part of the trimming system. The extra gun forward compounded the problem. Well, Safety had been designed with a view to this potential necessity. It was already piped and valved into the trim system. If necessary, he would use it.

Keith put it into words. “Skipper,” he said, “they’d give you ten TBTs on the bridge if you wanted them, or fifty torpedoes. If you asked them, I think these guys would jack up the periscope and build a new submarine underneath it for you!”

It was true, and the amount of work agreed to be accomplished upon Eel in the period of two weeks was nothing less than prodigious. The clue—it was more than a clue, it was a plain statement—came as the conference was ending, as the base repair officer shook hands with Rich. “All of us lost some friends in AREA SEVEN,” was what he said—and then his face showed dismay as he realized that somehow he had said the wrong thing.

The biggest problem concerned the hydraulic plant and what to do about it. Eel was a new submarine. The patrol just finished had been her first. She was also, however, one of the first to have the new enlarged hydraulic system. There had been no previous experience with this particular design. Much was known about the older hydraulic plants, which involved a smaller hydraulic accumulator and an entirely different hydraulic pump, but Eel presented completely new problems.

Al Dugan had carefully maintained the operational history of the plant, especially after difficulties had begun to appear. It was apparent that there was gradually worsening leakage of some kind taking place, perhaps in the accumulator itself, very likely elsewhere too. The expenditure of replacement hydraulic fluid had increased alarmingly in the last few days of the patrol, and the time between recharging cycles of the accumulator had reduced correspondingly.

It was agreed that the hydraulic plant would be completely disassembled and carefully tested. This was to be the principal job of the refit.

Richardson also found, to his surprise, that apparently as an afterthought Keith had requested a survey of the officers’ shower with view to restoring the head room. If the heating control panels for the electric torpedoes could be relocated anywhere else in the compartment, Keith pointed out dryly, it might be possible to do away with the commanding officer’s discomfort while bathing. Richardson had not spoken of the shower design, or joked about revenge upon the designer, for weeks. Changing the heating panels would be a large job for a marginal result. Keith must have done some negotiating with the base repair shop. Clearly, he expected the base to agree to do the work. He must have considered the job important.

Another conference was scheduled for the following morning, at which only Keith, as the ship’s personnel officer, need be present. This was to review the rotation of crew members. Even though Eel had finished only one patrol, in order for the crew rotation policy to work it was necessary to replace some 20 percent of Eel’s complement by new people.

Richardson remembered his conversation of the previous evening with Admiral Small’s driver, He fumbled for the page in his notebook where he had written his name. Lichtmann. “It’s as good as done, Skipper,” said Keith. “I told you they’ll do anything they can for us around here. If we wanted Captain Blunt himself to go out with us next time, I bet he’d come.”

“He is coming!”

“What?”

“We’re going to the Yellow Sea on a three-boat wolfpack, with Blunt as wolfpack commander. This is all confidential, for now, so don’t repeat it around where you can be overheard. We’ll be flagship, so he’ll be riding with us. You and I are going to be his right and left hand, I suspect, to help put this thing together.”

“Oh, hell, Skipper, I was hoping to have another chance to go off by ourselves.”

“Me too, Keith, but that’s the way the ball bounced this time. Anyway, you know Blunt’s an old friend and ex-skipper of mine. It will be great having him along with us.”

The look on Keith’s face showed his doubt. Clearly, Keith shared his skipper’s silent reservations.

The chief problem of coordination between submarines, as all parties to the wolfpack well knew, was that of communication, Submarines patrolling close to an enemy shore spent their days submerged, surfacing to recharge their batteries under cover of darkness. When well away from land they might extend their daylight patrol radius by remaining on the surface, but they had to be ready to dive instantly if in danger of detection.

Once a radio circuit was established between surface ships, transmission and receipt of messages could be virtually assured. Because one never knew when a submarine might be submerged, however, such certainty could never exist between the members of a wolfpack. Very long wave signals from a powerful nearby shore station could be received to a shallow depth with a specially insulated antenna, but the high frequency radio signal of even a nearby submarine could not be heard beneath the surface; nor could a boat transmit while submerged. Furthermore, a receipting system was mandatory, for otherwise there would be no assurance that a particular message of extreme importance had been received by one’s wolfpack mates. A submarine required to make an important transmission, for example an enemy contact report, very likely might have only seconds available before combat or initimate danger. But she could never be sure the message had been received until at least one other boat transmitted a radio receipt signal. She would have to wait, possibly repeat the message, and thus further compromise herself.

The longer the radio message, the greater the chance of its interception by an alert enemy. This could lead to location of the transmitting submarine by a direction-finding station, even to breaking down the code of the message. The result would be a paucity of enemy traffic through the suspect area and a greater likelihood of antisub sweeps. Some wolfpacks had developed special codes to reduce the lengths of their radio transmissions. Keith had been an interested follower of the systems devised, and several times he had stated they did not go far enough. Communications between its members, he said, was the crucial weakness of all wolfpacks. It had been left almost entirely to the communications officers and senior radiomen, whereas clearly it should receive the personal attention of the wolfpack commanders and skippers. Keith’s impassioned presentation easily convinced Richardson, who had long harbored the same thoughts himself. The interview with Blunt ended as Keith and Rich had hoped, with Blunt’s approval of Keith’s ideas. But, beyond giving support to the project in general terms, the prospective wolfpack commander had displayed surprising passivity, almost disinterest.

“You’d think he thinks it’s easy!” burst out Keith, once safely out of earshot.

“He’s just depending on us, especially you, since it’s your idea. He’s paying you a compliment.”

“I don’t read him that way at all. He just doesn’t realize how tough it is to talk to another boat out in the area!”

“Come on, Keith. Neither have we experienced the problem so far. He knows what he’s doing. Anyway, we’ve got his backing. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Richardson’s words were mild enough, but there was a snap of finality to them. His protective instinct regarding Blunt had overreached; he had overdone it. Keith had felt the slight degree of asperity and was giving him a troubled look.

Two days after the new Chicolar had been welcomed from Mare Island, the three skippers and their wolfpack commander met for their first formal conference. Blunt had decided, he said, that the first submarine to detect a convoy would not attack. It would instead trail the enemy and send position reports to help the other two boats to make contact also. The second submarine to make contact would be the first to attack. Then it would fall astern to perform the trailing duties. Not until at least one other sub had attacked and had fallen behind, out of the immediate vicinity of the convoy, was the original “trailer” released to make an attack of her own.

Attacks were to be made on the surface at night as a matter of preference, with due regard for the location of the trailer, who would presumably be keeping station from a sufficiently great distance that no one could mistake her on the radar for a patrolling enemy escort. In addition, narrow sectors directly ahead and directly astern of the convoy center were designated as safe sectors. No submarine could attack another ship in such a sector without positive visual identification. Other larger sectors were designated as unlimited attack zones, where attack on any target was permitted no matter how it might have been detected.

Whenever possible, day or night, Blunt stressed, all submarines should stay on the surface in order to facilitate both communication and positioning for attack.

Richardson found that the ideas of the other two skippers as to how to carry out night attacks in the surfaced condition were quite at variance with his own. Les Hartly of the Chicolar, a rotund and very intense officer, the senior of the three submarine captains, had only one method, to which he held strongly. At the beginning of the war he had commanded an S-boat in the Asiatic Fleet, undeniably an experience to confirm anyone’s latent qualities of self-sufficiency. Lack of a TDC in the S-boats had led to development of more rudimentary approach techniques, based mostly on time-honored concepts of the “seaman’s eye.” Even though Les had later commanded the more modern Porpoise for several patrols, the presence of an early TDC in her control room had not caused him to modify his notions. After three runs in the Porpoise he had been granted leave, to which all Asiatic submariners were clearly entitled, and had then been sent to Mare Island to commission and bring out the new Chicolar.

Hartly by consequence had been more than a year away from the war; but his ideas were nonetheless positive. He spent far more time expounding on their advantages than in listening to those of others. Blunt was the only one who might have commanded his attention, but even the wolfpack commander, with no war patrols to his credit, was at a disadvantage. Only Keith, with eight, topped Hartly’s record of seven war patrols, and Hartly quickly disposed of all suggestions differing from the conclusions he had already fixed on.

The way to handle a convoy, he said many times, was to attack instantly, if possible as soon as contact was made. In this way the risk of counter-measures would be least. He thought of Chicolar as a huge torpedo running on the surface which he would steer at high speed directly for the enemy, continually altering course to keep bows on to the ship he had selected for primary target. Hartly’s attack course was thus always a long sweeping curve. At the last minute he would shoot his torpedoes and then put the rudder over hard in whatever direction looked best.

Since Hardy wasted no time in preliminaries, other than seeking a feasible attack position, his method had the undeniable advantage of being finished very quickly. Another strong point was that Chicolar never exposed more than a bows-on silhouette to her intended victims.

Vainly, Richardson stated the counter arguments. The curved attack course deprived Hartly’s plotting parties of a reasonable opportunity to determine the enemy course, speed, and zigzag plan. The emphasis on immediate attack compounded the plotters’ difficulties. Lack of previous study of the enemy’s movements would prevent them from detecting an unexpected zig until some time afterward, if at all. A large zig away would put the submarine far astern, with a long chase or loss of the opportunity inevitable. A zig toward might put the submarine suddenly dead ahead of the enemy—which usually had one escort out in front—in a bow-to-bow situation with a closing rate equal to the sum of the speeds. This was the most serious of all the contingencies. A surface attack was no longer possible; discovery and counterattack were virtually certain.

It was a matter of individual submarine tactics, professional expertise. Because of the large divergence in views the subject was tacitly avoided in Blunt’s presence, but several times, until it became an incipient cause of acrimony, Rich brought a more general discussion between the three skippers around to this topic. In desperation, and against his better judgment, he finally began to extole his own procedures, which were to track at about seven miles’ distance, and a little ahead of the beam, until all the variables had been as well determined as could be. Then, immediately after the convoy had settled upon a favorable zig course, so that there would be several minutes before the next zig, he would turn in for a deliberate, calculated attack. An inestimable benefit Rich saw in his method was that anything out of the ordinary on the part of the target would instantly be detected by plot, for by this time the plotters would have nothing else to worry about.

But there was no convincing Les Hartly. And he roundly condemned Eel’s extra torpedoes and the second five-inch gun.

Whitey Everett, the new skipper of Whitefish, must have been assigned that particular submarine by someone with a sense of humor. The nickname had been bestowed years ago for his extraordinarily blond hair, now shading into premature gray. The Whitefish was a relatively old submarine, having been completed at the Electric Boat Company yards in Groton, Connecticut, only a couple of months after the Walrus. Rich and Keith had watched her launched and had known many of her original crew.

She was essentially a carbon copy of Walrus, with slightly greater austerity in her interior appointments because, unlike the Walrus, her construction had been ordered after the war began. Everett, a year senior to Richardson, was in fact her third skipper. This was to be his first command patrol. Slow-moving, taciturn, he had early developed a reputation for wisdom. He had been executive officer of a fleet submarine at the beginning of the war, but had then spent some time in New London as skipper of one of the training boats. Subsequently he had returned to the Pacific for a “make-ye-learn” cruise as a prospective commanding officer—a “PCO”—and now, somewhat to his chagrin, had drawn the Whitefish instead of one of the newer, heavier-built submarines like Eel or Chicolar.

Whitey had never participated in a night attack on the surface, Rich quickly realized. Perhaps the aura of deliberateness which he had so long cultivated actually masked inner insecurity. Despite all the theory he had been subjected to and all the discussions he had engaged in, he really had no confidence in his ability to engage in a high speed night action. Patently, he felt most comfortable submerged. On the game floor, whenever the choice was left to him, he elected to attack submerged at daybreak, having used up the whole night waiting for this single opportunity.

The gaming sessions were made as realistic as possible. Each of the three subs was given its own headquarters, with charts, navigation tools, and encoding equipment, and was permitted to communicate with the other submarines only by simulated radio messages. All messages were required to be in the special submarine attack code which Rich and Keith had devised, and no submarine could send or receive messages while it was “submerged.” Players were permitted to view the game floor only when, according to the tactical situation, they were actually in a position to do so. Even then, they could see only that portion of the game floor which, supposedly, would have been in sight through the periscope, or on their radar, under the conditions of the moment.

By the time the long game days wore to an end, Richardson felt mentally exhausted. It was not so much that he was physically tired. Keith rightly put it to boredom. “Dammit, Captain, this is just a communication drill. All we’re doing is writing messages on pieces of paper. It’s almost a waste of time!”

“Not quite true, Keith,” said Richardson, again alertly ready to defend Blunt. “We’re getting to know how the other fellows think and work. We’ve noticed quite a difference between Les Hartly and Whitey Everett. Another thing it’s doing is to give all of us a workout in your new code.”

Again there was the slightly abashed look on Keith’s face. Twice, within a very few days, he had thought he understood what was running through his skipper’s mind only to find that, somehow, he had missed a signal, had gotten unaccountably off the track. “Well, I guess that’s right,” he said uncomfortably. “But you’ve got to admit this is sure tiresome. I suppose it will be a lot different when we try it aboard ship at sea.”

“It’s pretty tiresome, all right. But it will be better when we take on that convoy from San Francisco.” Richardson was feeling twinges of conscience for not having let his most loyal supporter know more of what had been troubling him, but of this he could not speak. He would, however, have continued with a few more encouraging words had not the approach of the unwitting cause of the misunderstanding, Captain Blunt, cut short the conversation.

In addition to the preparations for wolfpack operations, a great deal was going on exclusively concerned with the Eel herself. The relaxation and ease of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel could not compare with the supreme interest in seeing that she was properly gotten ready for the forthcoming patrol. Most of her officers, particularly as the two weeks off the ship drew to a close, found more and more reason to spend long hours on board. Al Dugan, heavyset, phlegmatic, methodical, a submarine engineer to his fingertips, nearly matched Richardson’s own devotion to Eel’s reconditioning. The most important thing he had going, he several times told his wardroom mates, was the hydraulic plant. There was no question in his mind that the problem would be discovered and solved, but as the days wore on and the week of refamiliarization training approached, he gradually began to devote most of his time to watching the work and participating in it. His responses to Richardson’s questions on the subject, while still full of confidence, betrayed his concern. To assist Al in his other responsibilities, he was given full use of the new officer just assigned, Ensign Johnny Cargill. In size, shape, and temperament a younger Dugan, Cargill had graduated from the submarine school at New London only weeks before. His orders to Eel in his hand, he had been an unnoticed member of the group which met the submarine upon her arrival in Pearl Harbor and had automatically landed in her refit crew. He was eagerly trying to be useful and, according to the engineer, despite his youth and complete lack of experience was proving to be of real help. It became accepted that he would be assigned under Al as assistant engineer.

Richardson himself took on the problem of relocating the two Target Bearing Transmitters—one of them new—on either side of Eel’s bridge cockpit. A segment of the bulletproof side plating had been cut out of each side, and new bulged pieces to accomodate the instruments inserted. To get it done right, Richardson went over to the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard with the sections of heavy steel plate which had to be bent into a particular shape to fit his drawings. When the TBTs were mounted he personally supervised their location, height and precise alignment. Finally, with Buck Williams and Keith Leone assisting him, he spent hours carefully “bore-sighting” the transmitters, so that they accurately transmitted the angles of aim to the repeater dials in the conning tower.

The two-week refit at Pearl Harbor, supposed to be rest and relaxation for submarine crews between patrols, had been something less than restful for him, Eel’s skipper realized, when he and his crew rendezvoused back aboard their submarine. First, of course, there had been the coordinated tactics training, the “convoy college.” Then there were the demands of the refit itself, theoretically carried out in entirety under the supervision of the relief commanding officer. Obviously, however, the real commanding officer of any particular submarine could never be unconcerned about the work in progress.

And finally, of course, there was the time spent with Joan. Blunt had been right in one thing. She was indeed sought after. She must have especially made herself available for him—otherwise he’d have had no time with her at all. He found it difficult to analyze his feeling for her. The tensions of war and his own psychic needs were a part of it. So was her tremendous physical attraction. But this last was not special for him alone. Many had felt it. Jim Bledsoe, for one.

Deliberately, he had made his second evening with Joan as different from the first one—only the day previous—as he could. There was a nightclub in Honolulu which catered to the young-officer set, with a maximum of privacy and a dance band. Ostentatiously, it was placarded to the effect that it would close its doors half an hour before the curfew, to make sure that everyone had plenty of time to get home. For most of its habitués, Richardson found, this only adjourned the evening somewhere else. Hesitantly, he confessed that his ingenuity had not extended that far, and that he had not wanted to be with Captain Blunt a second night. Joan dimpled, and made it come right. Her room in Fort Shafter was only a convenience, a place to sleep should she have to remain late on some special project. She had a private apartment in the Moana Valley, with a private entrance.

The apartment was tiny, secluded, tastefully decorated, austere rather than luxurious. All Joan’s possessions, she told him, had been lost when she had had to leave Japan on the eve of war. Her father was in the diplomatic service, but she did not know where he was and thought he might be dead. (Richardson felt this was not strictly true.) Her mother had died some years ago. (This must be true.) It was not until several days later that Richardson realized this was the extent of the information he was likely to learn about her. She was adroit at making him talk about himself, his time at Annapolis, his first duty after graduation, his boyhood in California, his father’s zealous career as a Presbyterian minister, the often expressed ambition for Rich to follow in his footsteps. The bad times of 1930 had wrecked the traveling preacher’s hopes of sending his son to divinity school, and he had died within the year. The appointment to Annapolis had come as a chance for an education which the new widow would have been unable to provide from her meager estate. It also answered a deep personal dilemma. Rich, even as a boy, had sensed that he lacked his father’s dedication to the ministry. His mind ran to mechanical things. He loved machinery. The complex machinery of a submarine was a constant source of delight, and operating it, or watching someone else operate it—if he did it well—was sensuous pleasure.

It was peaceful listening to Joan’s records and talking quietly about the years before the war, when things (from the present view, at least) were much less complicated. He even told her one day about his girl while at the Naval Academy, his “OAO” (the initials were for “One And Only” in the schoolboy lexicon). Sally and he had had fun together. Undoubtedly, she had made someone a fine wife. His classmate Stocker Kane had married immediately after the expiration of the two-year rule, two years to the day after they had graduated. At one point Sally and he had planned the same; but as the two years stretched out ahead, and the demands of a navy life occupied all his interest, he had realized that his own confidence had not matched Sally’s.

“It was just that you didn’t really love her, Rich,” said Joan. “It was too soon for you.” He had to admit to himself that this was true.

Inevitably, even during their closest moments, when the war seemed so distant and Joan’s nearness so fulfilling, that cursed second self of his, which had forced the break with Sally, which sometimes took possession of him or, most often, merely stood there, watching, would evoke the thought of Laura.

Laura. Jim Bledsoe’s widow. Richardson could clearly remember the moment when he first met her. A near disaster during training operations. A trip to the bar at the New London Submarine Base Officer’s Club afterward. Jim bringing forward a smiling girl in a green dress. “This is Laura.” Gray-green eyes. Tall. Slender. Cool hand in his. Blond hair—natural. Rich’s nerves still jumping from the near-collision during a practice approach that afternoon, had responded magically to her presence. She was the first girl, in fact the only girl, who had ever affected him to such a degree. Had she not been Jim’s, had Jim not been his exec in the S-16—if there had only been more time—he might have dared to pursue the strong emotion Laura had so suddenly awakened in him.

The coming of war, a few weeks later, had telescoped everything. A cold, rainy Sunday at the club at New London. A chance encounter with Laura and Jim. The voice on the radio in the next room, sounding somehow different from the regular announcer, letting it be known, even though his words could not be distinguished, that something was radically wrong. Laura, sent back to New Haven. S-16, bravely, uselessly, girding for a possible sneak attack in the Thames River. A short time later, still in December, the terribly bad moment over Jim’s qualification for command of submarines. Laura, once warm and friendly, now cold. Still perfect, but even the coolness was perfection. Then it became apparent that she and Jim still hoped to snatch out of the jaws of war at least a few normal, or near-normal, months together. Before the Walrus was ready to go to sea, Jim had come in with a request for transfer to a New London–based submarine. It had been totally unexpected. Jim was petulant, antagonistic. In a release of long-suppressed emotion he had cursed the Walrus, Richardson, the whole naval establishment.

Perhaps Richardson should have approved the request and sent it forward. The official response would have been automatic; it would have been approved. But Jim’s position would have been understood as unwillingness, or fear, to enter the active war. His career in submarines would have been finished. He would have carried the black mark with him forever. Richardson already bore some of the responsibility for the unfortunate qualification fiasco. He could not do more to Jim than he had done already, however inadvertently.

He had made his voice cold, devoid of emotion. Standing at his desk, he tore up Jim’s paper, threw it aside.

The effect on Laura was something Rich knew he would have to endure in silence. Whatever she knew or surmised about the workings of the navy, she must certainly have been bitter at the hand the navy had dealt her. She must have stated it to Jim. It just wasn’t fair. Jim should have been allowed to stay in New London a while longer. Someone else, despite the black mark of his earlier failure, surely would have given him a second chance to qualify for command. Both of them must have known it was Richardson who had blocked that road.

And then there had been the emotion-charged day of leaving New London for the war zone. Memorial Day, 1942. Laura had been a guest for lunch in Walrus’ tiny wardroom. She and Jim had been married for only five days. It was the last time they were to see each other. Here, with Walrus on the point of departure—forever, as it had turned out—Richardson received a flash of pure personal insight. It was an affecting moment for all hands, with most of the crew saying longing and fearful farewells to their loved ones. He, on the other hand, the captain of the sub, had no one to bid him good-bye except the admiral at the submarine base, who routinely did this for all departing boats; Captain Blunt, his squadron commander; and a few other skippers.

It was at that instant, for the first time, that he was able to identify the strange feeling he had for Laura. She was Jim’s. They had pledged themselves to each other. Richardson had grown to love her, and that was the beginning and the end of that, too.

Through it all, something of which he could never speak, Laura had come to personify the girl he would one day want to marry. Gradually he had come to know it, to accept it. But why had he opposed Jim’s request for transfer? Why had he insisted on taking a disgruntled, potentially disloyal, second-in-command to sea with him? Was it only, as he tried to make himself believe, and as Jim had apparently at last been convinced, that he felt a responsibility to protect Jim from the full consequences of his ineptitude? Was this the only reason, or was there something underlying it, something deeper, more basic? Could he have wanted to separate Jim from Laura?

Buried within every soul lies a capacity for evil. Could that have been his real, his (even to himself) unadmitted motive? It was the first time he had followed this train of thought. It scared him. It was monstrous, diabolical. He, Edward Richardson—“Rich” to Jim and Laura—was not capable of such an act, much less the thought of it. Yet now he had thought of it. The question was whether he had also thought of it, somehow, subtly, unconsciously, before the Walrus got underway from New London.

Joan had sensed something. She was withdrawing from him, growing indefinably more distant. There was something cold inside him. The second self was telling him to stop this morbid thinking. He had acted honestly, without conscious thought of self, or Laura. He had salvaged Jim’s submarine career. It was because of him that Jim had had the chance to find himself. He could hold himself to no responsibility for Jim’s death. Good men had died in the war. Jim had simply been one of them. So had Tateo Nakame.

Joan accepted his mute apology. No word had been spoken. He wondered whether she had guessed he was thinking about another girl.

The in-port routine between patrols always involved, at its end, a third week of exercises at sea. With three submarines designated to travel out to the same exercise area and there operate as a coordinated team, the at-sea period became a strenuous rehearsal for the tactics they had practiced on the game floor. A supply convoy was due in Pearl Harbor from San Francisco. The three boats spent the entire week lying in wait for it, planning its interception, trailing it. For two days and two nights, simulated attacks were carried out. At the end of the time, when the ships arrived at their destination, the eight-ship convoy had twice been theoretically wiped out. Richardson and Leone, who found themselves almost without supervision laying out the problem and the tactics for all three submarines, were so short on sleep as to be virtually wiped out themselves. Blunt, on the other hand, having delegated both minor and major decisions to his two subordinates, made up for long nights of pursuit and attack by equally long naps during the days. At the conclusion of the training he felt better rested, he said, than he had for years. Being at sea again, he repeated several times, was a tremendous tonic.

It was already dark when Eel slid alongside her berth at the submarine base. The training period had been pronounced a complete success. A staff car was waiting for the freshly shaven and showered wolfpack commander, who promptly disappeared. Keith gave Richardson a long, silent look as the two wearily dropped on their bunks.

ComSubPac was holding a conference. The reason was clear when the only attendees turned out to be a Captain Caldwell, the operations officer now temporarily also filling in as chief of staff, Blunt as wolfpack commander, and the skippers of the three submarines assigned to him. “This is top secret,” Admiral Small cautioned them. “You may not speak of it outside this room, not even to your execs. After you get to sea and are beyond Midway, you are authorized to let them know, but not until then, and no one else under any circumstances.”

The three skippers nodded their understanding. Rich shot a glance at Blunt and Caldwell. They were looking steadily at the admiral. From their expressions, they already knew what was to come. This interview, then, was for the benefit of Les Hartly, Whitey Everett, and himself. It would prove the rightness or wrongness of his deductions regarding the importance of the mission they were to be sent on.

Even as the thought raced through his head, Admiral Small confirmed it. “The purpose of this meeting is to inform you three commanding officers of your special mission. You will commit it to memory. You may make no notes of any kind. It will not be mentioned in your operation orders. While I’m speaking, go ahead and ask questions on any points you wish. This is the only notification you’ll receive.”

Small motioned to Caldwell, who rose to draw back the curtain covering the wall chart. It was a different chart from the one Richardson had seen only a few months ago. Larger, more detailed as to land topography. Evidently a metal backing had been installed when the chart was changed, for Caldwell next selected several items from a box and placed them, with a noticeable metallic click, upon its vertical surface. Even Blunt leaned forward attentively.

A red ring had been placed around a tiny island almost at the southern tip of the Nampo Shoto chain—the Bonins—and, almost due west, a large red arrow pointed to a much bigger island at the southern extremity of the Nansei Shoto, the Ryukyu group. Below the arrow, hand-lettered on a piece of cardboard mounted on a large magnet, were the words, “OPERATION ICEBERG.”

The red ring covered the name of the small island, but Rich had plotted his way through the Nampo Shoto too many times to fail to recognize it instantly. Iwo Jima.

The other island, almost directly west of Iwo Jima, was equally familiar: Okinawa.

The admiral was talking. “Gentlemen, Operation ICEBERG is scheduled to begin in January. It is only the first move, and perhaps the most important, in the campaign which will end in Tokyo, we hope, in the fall. First, we are going to take Iwo Jima by assault. Its garrison is already isolated. There will be a heavy bombardment by naval ships and the army air corps, and then our Marines will move in. The Japanese general there is a dedicated soldier and will fight to the last, but we expect to take it fairly quickly after his troops are softened up. Immediately afterward, before the Japs have time to catch their breath, we will move on Okinawa. That’s our real objective. It will be the staging area for the attack on the home islands.” He paused. His listeners were staring at the wall chart. His voice, measured, flat, emotionless, each sentence carrying the impact of an explosive charge, continued.

“We believe the enemy is unaware of our specific intentions, but by now he must have a pretty good idea of our Pacific strategy. The commander on Iwo has been told he can expect no reinforcements, that if attacked he must defend the island with what he’s got. Once we take Iwo, however, Okinawa will clearly be one of our most likely objectives. Undoubtedly Japan will do her utmost to bolster its defenses. But she’ll not expect a one-two punch, and that’s why we plan to move so fast.” He paused again. Richardson could hear Everett breathing beside him. No one spoke. The wall map held death for thousands of men, Japanese and Americans. Admiral Small was pronouncing their death sentences, though of course he had little to do with it. The decision must have been made in Washington, perhaps by the President himself, certainly upon recommendation by the Combined Chiefs of Staff: that extraordinary combination of the military leaders of all the allied nations in the war. Most of the men who would die would not know even that much. Eel, Chicolar, and Whitefish had a part to play. Other submarines, doubtless, had their parts too.

Perhaps the admiral had expected questions. There were none. He went on. “Our mission is to prevent reinforcements to either of these islands.” Now he was coming to cases. “Special submarine patrol areas are about to be established around both Iwo and Okinawa. They will be kept occupied until each campaign is over, or, in the case of Iwo Jima, until it is clear the enemy is not going to send any more troops or supplies. Most of the Japanese forces are already pretty well tied down where they are anyway, with a single exception, the Kwantung Army. That’s the one that has us worried, and that’s where your three boats come in.” Again Admiral Small paused. He looked steadily at the four sitting before him.

Rich nodded shortly, not bothering to note whether the others did also. The Kwantung Army was in Manchuria. Originally formed to safeguard territory seized from Russia, it had been the basis of Japan’s political power in China’s northern province. This was the army which had attacked China in the early thirties, and until Pearl Harbor the Kwantung Army had done nearly all of Japan’s fighting. It was here that most of her top soldiers had received their early combat training. Since 1941, however, the Kwantung Army had been employed only to hold the ground against the possibility of combat against either China or Russia. It had seen little if any action. Yet Japan kept huge forces there, forces she badly needed elsewhere. If the admiral was hinting that a combat role for the Kwantung Army was in the offing, was expected, there must be important business for any submarines in the Yellow Sea. Small was speaking again.

“Shipping in either direction between the home islands and Manchuria is critically important to Japan. Most significant, and of most importance to our forces, is any movement of troops out of Manchuria. We have received indications that the enemy may be contemplating shifting several complete divisions, but as yet we have no idea where to. As soon as they begin to suspect our plans for Okinawa, that’s where they’ll go for sure. They might even ship some of them to Iwo Jima. No matter where they go, they will be bad news for our men. They’re well trained and well equipped. Their officers are fanatically eager to get into the war. It’s up to us—to you fellows and your boats—to stop them from getting there.

“We’ll keep you advised as well as we can, of course, via ‘Ultra’ messages. As you know, we’re able to get certain extremely valuable information from a special group at Fort Shafter”—Small’s eyes for a second flicked directly at Richardson—“and anything pertaining to the Kwantung Army or Manchuria in general will be sent to you immediately. Washington has directed that a coordinated submarine group be kept in the Yellow Sea. You are to try to cut off any traffic between Manchuria and the home islands of Japan. Generally speaking, there’s quite a lot. We suspect most of it is moving close inshore. You can hurt them severely by sinking the ships carrying supplies and replacement cadres to or from Japan. Most important of all, however, are the organized divisions of that army in Manchuria. If we get wind of any movement involving them, you’ll be expected to make a maximum effort to stop it. Carry out normal area coverage until you hear from us. But be ready to take decisive action if and when you do.”

The large eyes in Admiral Small’s heavy face fastened on each of his listeners in turn. His voice took on an even more somber tone. “Until and unless you hear from me differently, you will carry out a regular patrol. From that moment, however, this wolfpack becomes a special mission force. I do not have to tell you how important it is that these reinforcements, if the Japs attempt to send them, do not arrive. We don’t yet know when they’ll be sent, or if they will be, but to stop them, gentlemen, will immediately become the primary mission of this wolfpack. If they go, they must go by sea. They will hurt us badly if they reach Iwo Jima or Okinawa. It is up to you to see that they do not.”

ComSubPac had finished his speech. “There are a couple of more items,” said Caldwell. “First, we have been expecting to see more air activity in the Yellow Sea than has been the case. Perhaps the Japs are running low on aircraft, or perhaps they are conserving them for some other purpose. The low level of air activity may continue for you, or it may increase dramatically. In any case, be prepared for anything.

“Second point, watch the sampans. Some of them are not fishing boats at all, but specially built, big new patrol boats. They have sonar gear aboard, and they carry depth charges. Their main purpose is to detect and report submarines to the main ASW forces. They’re built of wood and look like fishermen, but they’re a lot bigger. So don’t let that fool you. They have a pretty good size gun, about thirty-seven millimeter, and it’s as good as our forties. Your operation order says to grab any good opportunity to knock them out with your guns. But be sure you catch them by surprise, because they can hurt you pretty badly with that gun. Their radio will alert the whole area that you’re around, too, unless you’re lucky enough to knock it out right at the beginning. So don’t take one on until the area is already pretty well aware of your presence.

“Third thing, they don’t have anybody as good as old Bungo in the Yellow Sea” (the bald mention of the name startled Richardson; he hoped his face did not betray him), “but they’ve got a pretty efficient antisub outfit. Several of our boats have had a bad time from them. They very nearly got the Seahorse, you know. That was after Cutter was detached. She was so badly damaged we’ve had to take her off the firing line, probably permanently. We think the wooden patrol boats and ASW tincans are all part of the same organization. The tincans are fairly small, about a thousand tons, but they’re good sea boats with good sonar sets, plenty of depth charges and well trained crews. They’re diesel powered, so they have good cruising range. They usually operate in groups of three; so if you run into one of them there’s likely two more around somewhere, and they’re not good news at all. Some time ago the Jap Navy began building a new and better antisub destroyer, or frigate as they call it. The first one was named the Mikura, and we think these boats in the Yellow Sea are probably Mikura-class tincans. They have a four-inch gun. Watch yourselves if you tangle with one.”

There was not much more to the briefing. A few questions, a final exhortation by Admiral Small. When it was over, Richardson felt Whitey Everett’s eyes upon him. Everett’s face was unnaturally set, even for him. His cultivated austere appearance of competence was belied by the worried manner in which he shifted his eyes from one participant in the briefing to another. To Rich, the unexpected reference to Bungo Pete had been sudden and unsettling. He wanted only to go away, began to excuse himself, and then realized he could not. This would be Whitey’s first patrol in command. He wanted reassurance about the Mikuras, wanted to suggest means of mutual support against them.

It was the last night in port. Preparations for going to sea were complete. Nothing more needed to be done, except see Joan one last time. He could still make some time for Whitey. He would be late, but Joan would understand.