Walrus was already in the water, much nearer to completion than we had had any idea, when we reported to Electric Boat. The yard workers were knocking themselves out, had been ever since Pearl Harbor, — and she would make her first dive within two months. Twenty-four hours a day a veritable army of overalled workmen were in her, on her, and about her.
The acrid smell of welding, the din of power tools, and the clatter of workmen never ceased. Every day we went down to her and looked her over, trying ineffectually to stay out of the way and yet get some idea of what was going on, and every day something new had been added, some new piece of equipment installed, some additional step taken toward getting her ready.
In our office on the second floor of a temporary wooden building erected at the head of the dock at which Walrus lay, Jim, Keith, and Tom wrestled with the problems of preparing the ship's organization and orders and making duty assignments for the crew.
Jim was doing his usual good work, but there had been one bad moment. Shortly before the final transfer ceremony of the S-16 he had come up to me with a sheet of official ship's stationery in his hand. I had been going over the spare-parts inventory in our tiny, soon-to-be-relinquished wardroom, preparatory to having a joint inventory with the S-16's Polish skipper, Radwanski. "Captain," Jim said, it was the first time he had thus addressed me since the qualification fiasco, "I have been thinking it over for a long time. I would like a transfer." The paper was an official request from Jim ad- dressed to the Chief of the Bureau of Naval Personnel via the Commanding officer of S-16 and-the Commander, Sub- marine Squadron Two, requesting a change of duty from S-16 to "any other vessel of Squadron Two."
"What's this for, Jim?" I asked.
Some of Jim's sulky look had returned, and he fidgeted uncomfortably.
"How do you think I'd feel going on the Walrus and knowing that I can never get any place in submarines?" he asked petulantly, all in a rush, as though in a hurry to get it out.
"I've got feelings and ambitions, too. I want to make some- thing out of myself. After what you did to me, putting me up for qualification for command and then bilging me, can't you see I'm all through, shot? With another ship maybe I can qualify to be skipper."
I had expected that Jim might feel this way, and had my answer ready, or thought I did. Quixotically my mind spun sixty miles to the westward and I found myself wondering what he had told Laura. I had not seen her since that day.
"Listen, Jim, you've got this all wrong. I've no prejudice against you. I want you in Walrus because I like you and because you're a good Exec. Someday you will be skipper of your own boat.."
There was a plaintive note in Jim's voice. "That's what I want, too, but I'll never get it with you.
"That's exactly where you're wrong, Jim. There's a lot more to submarining than running a boat up and down the Thames River. The future of the submarine force is in boats like the Walrus, not in old antiquated ones like this one."
"But don't you see? I don't want to go with you. I want to stay where I can do some good. Where people respect me."
"What can you do here that you can't in a fleet sub?"
"I might be able to take over one of the school boats, if I can get with a skipper who'll recommend me."
"What about the war. Don't you propose to get in that?"
Jim looked away. His voice was strained, as though it might he a struggle for him to speak.
"I'm looking out for Number One, from here on. Nobody else will, not you! To bell with the Walrus and to hell with the war, too!"
I couldn't tell Jim of my conversation of a few weeks ago with Captain Blunt, but there was another way. Heretofore I had used the friendly approach, had stood for his silence and sullen bad temper. Maybe this was the time to change, though it would give Jim cause to hate me all the more. I stood up from the wardroom table in S-16, picked up his neatly typed request, and held it in my hand. I made my voice emotionless.
"Listen, Bledsoe, what you've just said is disloyal and disrespectful. The Bureau of Naval Personnel has ordered this whole ship's company to the Walrus. That was your chance to register an objection, but you didn't. I was asked if I wanted you for my Exec, and I said I did. You have already received official orders to that effect. It's too late to change your mind now. Furthermore, I've stood for your bad temper long enough. It's time you stopped acting like a spoiled child. If you deserve command, you'll get it."
Navy regulations specifically forbade my doing so, but as I finished I ripped the paper in half twice and threw it back on the table. Jim had half-opened his mouth to speak, closed it uncertainly as I tore up his request. For a moment he stood, irresolute, and then, muttering something under his breath, he turned and stalked away.
Jim knew the regulations as well as I did but the bluff worked nevertheless. There grew a new wariness about him and we concentrated on our job: organizing Walrus. There was a lot to do, and the burden, of course, fell primarily on Jim. We ate, slept, and breathed the Walrus. We lived in a little world of our own, sometimes not even recognizing the fact that other submarines, some more nearly completed than Walrus and others not so far along, also were going through the same processes alongside us.
And then one day I realized that Jim's sulkiness had been gone for some time. He was not the same as before, of course, and there was this new contemplative awareness. He did his job as usual, organizing not only the official watch sections and administering responsibilities of the ship but also the extracurricular activities such as baseball teams, bowling leagues, and the like. It was not a complete about-face, but distinctly an improvement. At times I thought he might have finally understood. They were followed by moments when it seemed more probable that he was only submerging what feelings he might have, perhaps awaiting more appropriate expression. Whatever it was, I was too grateful for the improvement in our relations to want to question it even had I been able to do so.
And I realized another thing, too. When I finally saw Laura, there was no longer the warm friendliness I had once felt so strongly. We got up a ship's party as a parting gesture for the S-16. It was almost a command performance for all of us, enlisted and officers, to attend. I wondered whether Jim would bring Laura, and when he was late, for a few uneasy moments it looked as though he might have decided to ignore the party after all.
When the door to our hall opened and he and Laura stood there, I had the sudden feeling of cold ice on my backbone.
She was as beautiful as ever, and they made a pleasing picture as Jim, with a solicitous, possessive air, led her through the crowd to the table set aside for us.
"Here comes Mr. Bledsoe!" Kohler spoke in a loud, carry- ing voice. "Now the party can begin!" Jim turned and waved to him, then acknowledged with a grin Larto's violently gesticulated, white-toothed greeting.
Somebody let out a low-pitched whistle from the middle of the crowd, and the irrepressible Russo stood up on a chair to get a better look. "When you going to let me bake you that cake, Mr Bledsoe?" he yelled at him. Jim grinned and shook his head slightly.
Laura's cheeks were flushed and her eyes were dancing as she sat down. She nodded hello to Tom and Cynthia Schultz, greeted Keith warmly, and tossed me a curt, cool hello.