Buck glanced at his skipper, caught his imperceptible nod, pressed the bridge speaker button. By mutual understanding of the watch officers, merely pressing the button — which allowed a certain amount of feedback to enter the ship’s speaker system for a moment — had become accepted for a routine acknowledgment, making unnecessary the additional distraction of words. In a silence that was almost eerie, for Eel was still on battery power and the customary mutter of the diesel engine exhausts was absent, the sub moved ahead. The two buoys, the red conical one to starboard and the black can-shaped one to port, swam alongside. Only a moment ago they had seemed quite close together, thought Richardson, and now they seemed far apart. He was totally oblivious to the fact that he had made this identical observation at least a dozen times before.
“Skipper…” Buck again, in a conversational tone. “Why didn’t you clear the bridge entirely when we saw the wave coming? There was time for both of us to get below, I’m sure.” He still held the binoculars to his eyes while talking.
Richardson put his own glasses down, let them hang on their strap around his neck. “There probably was enough time, Buck,” he said, “but of course I didn’t have any idea how big that wave would be. We were in a narrow channel. Entering port, the skipper is supposed to stay on the bridge. But why didn’t you obey me when I told you to go?” He was not being entirely frank; he’d been thinking that perhaps the wave had been meant for him, that it might bring peace for all time.
And then he wished he had not asked his own question of Williams, for there was a hint of hesitation as that normally self-possessed young man answered, too smoothly, “I just figured that since I had the deck, I’d better stay up too.” Williams’ binoculars remained against his eyes as he spoke, and he was inspecting the shore to starboard.
“Bridge!.. Conn! Permission to open the main induction and answer bells on the engines!”
Richardson was grateful for the distraction from a conversation which had taken an uncomfortable turn. “Conn!.. Bridge!” He held down the speaker button, bellowed into it, supporting himself with the ruined Target Bearing Transmitter. “Open the induction! Answer bells on three engines! Open the bridge hatch! Lookouts to the bridge!”
The clank of the induction valve, immediately below the after part of the bridge deck, was his answer, even before Keith made the customary acknowledgment. Then came the familiar clatter of the engines rolling on air, and the hearty power roar, accompanied by sprays of water from the mufflers, when the diesel fuel was cut in. The handwheel in the center of the hatch spun; it banged open: crash of heavy steel against lighter steel. Four lookouts, followed by Lasche and Oregon, dashed by him and to their stations. Last up was Keith.
“I still have the conn, Captain,” he said. “Request permission to turn over to the regular OOD”—with a glance at the drenched suit of what had only a few minutes earlier been inspection khakis—“if he’s ready.”
“It’s up to Buck,” began Richardson, but Williams beat him to it, spoke at the same instant. “I’m ready to relieve you,” he said to Keith.
As the traditional ritual of turning over the duties of Officer of the Deck took place — truncated in this instance because of the short time Keith had held the conn — Richardson raised his binoculars and surveyed the channel. So far as he could see, Eel was the only ship in it. The entrance buoys were now astern. Ahead two more red and black buoys were in sight, similar to but smaller than the first pair. The visibility held a hint of haze, and he could barely make out the third pair. Eel was still proceeding through open water, but ahead the shoreline closed in except for a patch of water in the middle toward which she was steering. Unseen in the distance and the haze, the otherwise straight channel made a couple of small bends between banks of hibiscus-laden shore, and to starboard around one of them would be Hospital Point, with usually some convalescing patients and a few nurses watching the ships pass in and out. No doubt there would be a crowd of people today, curious to see what the Kona weather might do to the outlying reaches of the channel and to any ships caught in it. They would have noticed the absence of the usual sweepers and patrol craft, the lack of other ships going in or out (Keith had commented on this after things had returned to normal). From her appearance they would know Eel was returning from patrol, and they would guess the significance of the display of Japanese flags flying from the radar mast. They would probably wave a greeting as the ship rounded the point. Perhaps, with their own injuries, with Arizona’s flag still raised every morning over the 1100 men still aboard the silent, shattered hulk, they would be pleased if they could know that this particular submarine had deliberately run down three lifeboats filled with enemy sailors.
Almost, for a blessed instant, there had again been a feeling of peace and normality, an ordinary gladness at the return from patrol at once safe and successful, relief from the latest emergency passed, anticipation of the good times in store for the next two weeks or so until the demands of getting ready for another patrol would take up all their time and energy. But, as usual, the mood could not last. Richardson would not go to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. He could not join his officers and crew there. He would remain aboard during the refit, perhaps ask for a room in the submarine base BOQ if things became too impossible on board. His lips unconsciously compressed into the hard line which had recently become so often his expression. He released the binoculars, allowing them to drop with unaccustomed disdain on their leather thong and strike his chest. Keith was beside him.
“I’ve been relieved of the conn, sir. Buck has it again.” Then, in a less officious tone, looking squarely at him, Keith added “We hope you’ll be able to join us at the Royal tonight, Skipper. ComSubPac and Captain Blunt will probably want you for dinner, but will you promise to come on out after?”
Instead of the petulant negative he intended to utter, Richardson found himself answering, “Well, there’ll be a lot to do here, but maybe…”
Keith didn’t let him finish, maintained a note of heartiness which instantly betrayed itself as a substitute for anxiety. “Come on, Boss, you can’t let us down. Al Dugan and Buck and I have planned a big party to celebrate the boat’s first run. If you expect me to let anyone put any paperwork in front of you today, you’re crazy!”
Probably the party had been less than a minute in the planning stage. It was even possible that Keith and some of the others had set up some sort of cabal to keep him from brooding over the lifeboats, to see to it that there was always one of them with him. Perhaps that was why Buck had refused to go below. Clever of them! Well, he would not be taken in.
“You know I’ll probably not be able to make it, Keith — It’s almost routine for a returning skipper to have to go to dinner at the admiral’s house the first night.” This was a non sequitur. Keith had already mentioned that probability. But the admiral’s dinners rarely lasted late, and in any case the wardroom party would be held in one of the hotel rooms, where Rich too would be assigned.
Keith was not giving up. “How about after, then?”
Richardson hardened his voice. “No. It’s your party, not mine. I’d be a drag on you fellows. Besides, with the curfew, I’d have to break some of the rules to make it out there after dark. You can all get just as drunk without me, anyway.” He gave his voice all the finality he could muster, while pretending to grin.
Keith recognized defeat in the covert contest. “Okay, Skipper. But you won’t get away from us tomorrow — by the way, shouldn’t we send down for some dry clothes for you and Buck?”