Run Silent, Run Deep. Edward L. Beach

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СКАЧАТЬ total submarine service would not have been considered for a command billet or even for qualification for command, but the war had already changed a lot of things.

      It had taken me a full year to complete my submarine notebook and qualify in submarines, and gruff old Joe Blunt, my skipper in Octopus at the time, had pinned his own dolphins on my shirt. Jim had needed no notebook, had put on his dolphins within six months of graduating from the submarine school. Three years I served in Octopus, fourteen months as Engineer, before the man who had relieved Blunt, Jerry Watson, judged me worthy of his recommendation for “Qualification for Command of Submarines.” That had happened only last spring, and I had received my orders to the S-16 within two weeks. The Octopus had sailed for Manila the same day I had taken off in the Pan-American Clipper, bound in the other direction.

      And here was Jim going through the same thing after only half the time in subs. This seemed contrary to the conservative submarine instinct—contrary to my reservations, too; and yet the whole thing, in this instance at least, had been my own doing.

      An interview with our Squadron Commander, Joe Blunt himself, now older-looking and gruffer than ever, had kicked the whole thing off nearly a week before.

      Captain Joseph Blunt was short and spare, and he looked and acted his name. Everyone in the submarine force knew that diesel fuel ran in his veins instead of blood. He was hard-boiled, but his weakness was “the boats”—and he had no use for any man who did not feel the same way. When he sent for me that Tuesday morning, I knew him well enough to climb right out of S-16’s superstructure and run over in my dirty khaki. True to form, he started shouting questions at me the moment I opened the door to his office.

      “Richardson,” he barked, “what about your Exec? Do you think he’s ready for command yet?”

      The question caught me by surprise. “Why, I haven’t thought much about it, Commodore,” I answered. “He’s an excellent officer, but still very junior———”

      “He’s a Lieutenant, too, isn’t he? Anyway, his rank makes no difference if he knows his business. I’ve a particular reason for asking you. He’s your responsibility, you know.”

      I could think of nothing more intelligent to say than a noncommittal “Yes, sir!”

      The Squadron Commander waited a moment, clamped a well-chewed pipe between his teeth and sucked moistly—and futilely—on it. “Did you know that our submarine production target has been tripled for next year? Does that mean anything to you?”

      I waited in my turn. This was the first time I had heard this particular piece of news, though I suppose I should have anticipated something of the sort on account of the war. “We’ll need more qualified submarine personnel,” I ventured.

      “Do I have to draw you a diagram, Richardson?” Blunt cracked out. “Just where do you expect we’re going to find the skippers for these new boats?”

      “You mean me?” I stuttered, feeling as though a cold blast of air had suddenly blown on the back of my neck.

      “Precisely. I’ve received a request from the submarine detail desk—and this is all private information, understand—to nominate officers from my squadron for the new boats under construction at the Electric Boat Company here and in the Navy Yards at Portsmouth and Mare Island.” Old Joe Blunt was looking me right in the eyes, the way he did when he was really putting a man on the spot. “But also I’ve got to keep this training squadron going. Now do you see why I asked you about Bledsoe?”

      “You mean,” I said, “if Jim can take over the S-16, I can be nominated for one of the new submarines?”

      “That’s about right, Rich. Of course, you’ll get one anyhow eventually—that is, if you want one”—here old Blunt looked suddenly sardonic—“but you’ve been doing well with the S-16, and I think you should have your chance now. There are a number of skippers senior to you, however, who will have to take priority over you for the available replacements; so the way it stacks up, unless Bledsoe can take over the S-16, I’m going to have to hang on to you for a while longer.”

      This was the first time since he had left Octopus that Captain Blunt had called me by my nickname, and obviously it was not accidental. He was telling me, as clearly as he knew how, that he would back me up in giving the S-16 to Jim, but that doing so was my responsibility. That was the whole crux of the matter. I was morally sure that Jim, despite his good qualities, was not yet ready for an independent command of his own. There was a certain flippancy—a sort of devil-may-care attitude—almost recklessness, about him. And yet Jim had shown extraordinary aptitude in certain phases of the S-16’s work. He certainly knew the ship, mechanically, as well or better than anyone on board. It was just a hunch, more than anything else on my part, that somehow there was a degree of immaturity about him which needed more seasoning before he was turned loose with the responsibility of a ship and crew on his back. He had been commissioned in the Navy only slightly more than three years. His total submarine service was less than three years. This was reflected in the fact that he was not yet “qualified for command of submarines,” a designation requiring proof of one’s ability before a board of skippers and written certification of acceptance by them, ordinarily earned some time prior to actually getting your first boat. Subconsciously, without giving the subject open thought, I had not yet been ready to recommend him.

      “Bledsoe is not yet qualified for command, Commodore,” I began slowly. “As a matter of fact, I had not intended to put him up for a while——”

      Captain Blunt slid himself forward on the edge of his chair, hands placed on its arms as though he were about to rise from it. “That’s really up to you, too, isn’t it?” he said. “Why don’t you talk it over with him and think about it for a while. Let me know tomorrow.”

      I rose, beating him to it. “Aye, aye, sir,” I answered, and turned to go out.

      “By the way, Rich,” Captain Blunt called after me, “keep all this confidential for the moment.”

      This was the second time he had cautioned me. I gave him another “Aye, aye, sir” and beat my retreat. There were entirely too many things to think about. Undeniably, the idea of having command of one of the newest and most powerful submarines our Navy could build, one of the new Gato class, even better than the recently completed Tambor and her sisters—and far improved over the old Octopus—was tantalizingly attractive. The new boats carried ten torpedo tubes and a total of twenty-four torpedoes, as compared to only six tubes and sixteen fish in the Octopus. They were bigger, built to dive deeper, and had a considerably longer cruising range. Their fire-control system had been improved and streamlined so that it was both easier to operate and simpler than any I’d been used to. By comparison even to the Octopus, poor old S-16 was nothing but antiquated scrap iron, kept in operation for training duties only so that the fleet boats could be released for other more valuable service.

      The skippers of the fleet boats were the elite of the submarine force. When they spoke up in the squadron or division councils, or before the Admiral, their words carried weight and they were listened to. Someday, naturally, I had hoped to join their number. Now, because of the war, the dream of a submariner’s career was suddenly practically at hand—all I had to do was to turn the S-16 over to Jim.

      By the time I got back aboard I had gone over all the arguments at least three times. The chance of getting a first-line command early was too much to pass up lightly, even though I could be practically assured of being given one later on. But there was also the fact that I owed something to the S-16 and her crew. It would be unthinkable СКАЧАТЬ