Dust on the Sea by Edward L. Beach Read Free Book Online

Tateo Nakame, of the Imperial Japanese Navy. “A mean old bastard,” Blunt had called him. He might well have been all of that; he was also a dedicated officer of the old school who had given his all for his country. At some other time, in some other context, he might have been a friend, a man to admire. He had his counterpart many times over in the U.S. Navy.
    â€œCaptain?” he did not recognize the voice. The handprints were dissolving, drifting, were no longer recognizable. “Captain?” Through the fog, it was Keith. “Captain, we’ve got everything set to disembark the crew and shift them over to the Royal Hawaiian. Will you be coming over with us?”
    â€œNo, Keith, I’ve got a few things yet to do. . . .”
    â€œMatter of fact, I do too, sir. They’ve secured the galley, but I hadthem lay on some sandwiches and there’s some coffee left, so we can have a fair lunch. Aren’t you going up to the admiral’s mess?” Whatever Keith’s intention, he had broken the spell. Maybe this was what he had meant to do all along. “There’s only a few of us left aboard, Captain; everybody else is in the bus. Okay if I shove them off? Then I’ll join you down in the wardroom.”
    â€œOkay, Keith.” Now that he had been reminded of it, he was hungry. Breakfast had been early that morning. The crowd on deck had pretty well dissipated. Eel was now just another submarine among the many tied up at the docks in various stages of refit. Soon she would be moved over to a routine berth, to free the space in front of the ComSubPac headquarters for another submarine due to return from patrol. But this would not be his responsibility, nor Keith’s. Someone else would do it—the “refit commanding officer” (who was he, anyway? He should know; the man must have been in that crowd he had tried to talk to on the forecastle, must have introduced himself). Richardson climbed down the ladder into the crew’s dinette. At sea it had always been filled with an active throng of men, either reading, seeing a movie, playing some game, or eating. Now it was deserted, vacant, like the whole submarine. Already silent, devoid of life. Stagnant, the way life usually became. And smelling a little stagnant, too.
    He moved forward into the wardroom. There was a pile of official mail, some newspapers, a sheaf of patrol reports of other submarines. By custom, all of it—even the official letters—would be looked at during the next patrol. Things demanding answers immediately would be brought to him by the refit skipper. No point in worrying about it now. No point in thinking about any of it. Keith would be waiting and was probably hungry.
    Submarine skippers returning from war patrol generally got the use of an automobile from the ComSubPac motor pool during their stay in port. Favorite skippers always got the best cars, but of course they had to drive them themselves. None so far as he knew, Richardson reflected as he arrived in front of the admiral’s house on Makalapa Hill, had ever been given the admiral’s own car and driver.
    â€œWhat are your instructions, driver?” he said as he stepped out of the car.
    â€œDeliver you, sir, and return when you or the admiral send for me,” replied the sailor. He was dressed in immaculate whites. His sleeves bore several hashmarks denoting successive enlistments. He wore a silver submarine insignia.
    Struck by sudden curiosity, Richardson bluntly asked the obviousquestion. “How is it that an experienced submariner like you is pushing this sedan around Pearl Harbor?”
    â€œI was on the Nerka , Commander,” said the man, suddenly sober. “They took me off just before Captain Kane took her out on her last run. This is my relief crew assignment, and I guess I was just lucky. In a couple of weeks I’ll be getting my orders back to a new sub in the States.”
    â€œThanks,