Free Dust on the Sea by Edward L. Beach Page A

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 hadtrusted 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 oldrelationship 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