Dust on the Sea by Edward L. Beach Page B

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.”
    â€œGoddammit, Captain!” burst out Richardson, half rising in his chair.
    â€œOh 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?”
    â€œYou’re not trying to tell me . . .” Richardson stopped. Was this a hint at the puzzle about Joan’s work at Fort Shafter?
    â€œThey 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?”
    â€œYes, sure,” said Richardson, relieved that Blunt had shifted the conversation away from the events of the previous night.
    â€œMason’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.
    â€œAnyway, 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.”
    â€œUs? 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.
    â€œTiming 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 therescue 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