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allotted mooring, on the other hand, seemed less ribald than his memory recalled, somehow more subdued. Everyone present must know how he had destroyed Bungo Pete. His radioed report of the action in which Eel had sunk a submarine, a Q-ship, and a destroyer, and then rammed and sank three lifeboats, had been classified Top Secret and was deliberately sparse of details. But the Pearl Harbor grapevine was renowned.
    The patrol report, laboriously composed and typed on mimeograph stencil sheets ready for reproduction, lay sealed in Quin’s tiny yeoman’soffice near the wardroom. Contrary to usual practice, it had been typed in two parts. The second part, labeled “Top Secret Addendum to Report of First War Patrol of USS Eel ,” contained all the details of the fight with Bungo. This, Richardson planned to hand to Admiral Small or Captain Blunt personally.
    Williams, as Officer of the Deck, was making the landing. Keith was on the bridge ready to lend a hand. Richardson could not divest himself of responsibility for the safe handling of the Eel , but he could clearly demonstrate his confidence in Buck Williams and Keith Leone by ostentatiously paying no attention as they maneuvered the ship alongside the dock.
    As Eel slowly traversed the last few feet to her appointed mooring space, Richardson quietly left the bridge, climbed down the steel rungs at the break in the cigarette deck rail, and made his way forward to the forecastle.
    Instinctively, because he knew exactly what they would be doing and what space they would require, he avoided the practiced maneuvers of the line-handling parties on the submarine deck. As Eel ’s way gradually petered out through the last few feet of still oily Pearl Harbor water, he found himself exactly opposite the submarine force commander and his chief of staff.
    At about the right time—for it would not do to be premature with the ship not yet fully in, nor to be too late, Rich saluted, encompassing both Admiral Small and Blunt with the same salute.
    â€œGood morning, Admiral,” he said. “Morning, Commodore.”
    Neither Small nor Blunt was interested in the traditional formalities. Both returned his salute, Blunt rather condescendingly, Richardson felt. Both called across a welcome.
    The admiral’s words could not be faulted. “Rich,” he said loudly, obviously intending that everyone should hear, “that was a magnificent patrol! I’m delighted you had no trouble this morning coming in. Congratulations on a great run!”
    Captain Joe Blunt had been Richardson’s greatly admired skipper in Octopus , his first submarine, during the years before the war. He was short and spare, though lately the spareness was less evident and his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair had a lot more “salt” in it. So did the extraordinarily heavy eyebrows. Before the war, sub skippers were older. Blunt must now be in his fifties. His face had always appeared weathered and craggy to Rich, no doubt from the years he had spent on an open submarine bridge. He had been the epitome of the professional submarine officer, considerate and helpful to his subordinates,demanding of performance, confident of himself and his ship. He knew more about Octopus , and could handle any part of her better, than anyone else aboard. Since the Octopus days, he had been squadron commander and training officer at New London for both Richardson’s previous commands, the old S-16 and the new Walrus . Now both Octopus and Walrus were gone, lost somewhere in the Pacific. It was natural that it should be Blunt’s greeting which Richardson would afterward recall most clearly. “Welcome back, Rich,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you until late this afternoon. Didn’t you receive our weather warning this morning? We told you to remain outside until this Kona weather passed!”
    Four heaving lines flew out to the pier, to be caught in midair by