Dust on the Sea by Edward L. Beach

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. Differentin 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.
    â€œHow are you feeling, Rich?”
    Why should Blunt ask this question at this time? “Fine, sir. I’ve never felt better. . . .”
    â€œNo, 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 .
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œCommodore, there wasn’t time! The boat was diving! Keith was already below. The patrol plane was practically on us. . . .”
    â€œPlane! 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,