Dust on the Sea (28 page)

Richardson had heard of prisoners making weapons out of spoons, but there was no way he could envision to make one out of the spoon Moonface had forgotten, even if he had enough time. Maybe something would present itself later. He carefully put it out of sight on one of the shelves. Night was falling. He began to feel the hunger pangs, but
more important was dryness in his mouth heralding real thirst. No doubt this also was part of Moonface's design.

With the coming of darkness it became impossible to distinguish objects inside the storeroom. No light could enter through the solid walls and door, and very little came through the cloudy glass in the porthole. This at least could be repaired somewhat. Rich unlatched the glass port, swung it open, breathed deeply of the cool sea air. The opening was much too small for him to put his head through, but it gave him some comfort to crouch near the porthole, the better to get its full benefit. At the same time, he reflected, this would give him the opportunity of closing the port quickly and silently. He practiced the little maneuver so that he could do it in the dark without fumbling.

With the light still remaining, he could see almost straight down into the water. This resulted from the rather considerable flare of the patrol boat's bows. By the same token, one would have to lean dangerously far out over the edge of the forecastle deck to see the porthole or the side of the little ship from topside. Flared bows, of course, were common with surface ships. Even
Eel
was built with considerable flare to give her better sea-keeping ability at high speed. It was owing to this characteristic of design that years ago a cruiser had sailed from Pearl Harbor to San Francisco, unknowingly bearing the word “
MADHOUSE
” in huge block letters on both her bows. Her entrance into San Francisco Bay created a delighted sensation in the newspapers, and instant consternation to naval authorities. Her captain had been completely unaware that anything was out of the ordinary until after he had anchored his ship and was heading shoreward in his gig.

There was a change in the regular routine of the patrol boat. After some moments Rich realized the engine had stopped. The boat was lying to, drifting. Perhaps she had also been drifting part of the time last night. Possibly this was why
Eel
had not heard her on sonar before surfacing. It was even possible that Moonface, believing in the presence of a second submarine, was hoping to catch
Eel
unawares.

It was becoming a dark night, darker than most. After a while, peering out of his tiny porthole, Richardson was convinced that a night fog had set in. The visibility, so far as he could tell, was nearly zero. It would be a good night for someone with a radar, a bad one for anyone without. Moonface's orders might well be to lie to at night, making maximum use of whatever sonar gear he possessed. But if so, why had he gotten underway again last night? It was while he was mulling this over, wondering if the boat in which he was prisoner was capable of a sonar watch, and if so what it would use for power with the engine stopped, that a tiny noise wafted on the foggy air called him to straining attention.

Somewhere in the distance—it might be miles away, carried by the vagaries of fog and damp night atmosphere—an engine had started. He turned his head from side to side, putting first one ear and then the other to the open porthole. It
was
an engine! He had heard it starting—first rolling on compressed air and then bursting forth with power—too many times not to recognize it. It was one of
Eel
's main diesel engines starting! There should be at least two—there were two! But the sound was so faint, so vague, that he could hardly believe he really heard it. Yet he had heard it; of this he was sure. Sonar, listening for underwater noises, probably would miss it. He wondered if any of Moonface's patrol-boat crew had also heard, and, having heard, would understand what it portended.

There could be a number of reasons why an engine might be heard in the Yellow Sea: other patrol boats, a merchant ship, even an airplane flying overhead. No Japanese could be so intimately familiar with the sound of a U.S. submarine diesel engine as the sub's own skipper. It was about the right time—a little late, perhaps—for
Eel
to surface, assuming she was back on some sort of a near-normal routine. Every sound he had heard had been a familiar one in the right order. Had he been closer, he would have heard the clank of the main induction and the clank also of the hydraulically operated engine exhaust valves. He could almost swear he had heard them, though it might have been only that he so wanted to. If true, it meant that the hydraulic system had been repaired and
Eel
was back in full commission!

It must be
Eel
. It could not be
Whitefish
. Distant and faint though it was, that sound was like a fingerprint. There was only one possible source for it!
Eel
was remaining in the vicinity, must be looking for him. She might even suspect the sampan. She would not, surely, be caught twice by the same trick of lying to with engines stopped.

If she saw the patrol boat, she would surely look it over through her periscope, would wonder whether the boat might indeed have picked up her skipper and quartermaster. . . . And then the idea which had been nagging at Richardson's mind for the past several minutes suddenly assumed full detail.

He would have to move quickly and quietly, and he must eradicate all signs of what he had done. The hull of the patrol boat was dark, probably in order to blend in better with the general low visibility at night. He would need contrasting paint; one of the sealed cans he had noted had some dried white paint around its edges. He seized it, shook the can carefully, was rewarded with the heavy gurgle of a partly full can. He laid it gently on the floor at his feet To open it—the spoon!

It would not do to commit himself too far in advance. All must be
in readiness to eliminate the signs as quickly as possible, preferably as he went along. It was imperative not to betray himself by paint drippings. There must be no cause for someone to look over the side and see what he had done. He must not leave any marks on the deck, on himself, or on his clothes. He would need something to apply the paint—a rag—and something to clean his hands with afterward, another rag. One of the cans apparently contained a solvent—turpentine. He thought about using it, decided not to unless absolutely necessary. The odor might become noticeable outside his cell. Perhaps if he would wrap his hands first—better yet, his leather wool-lined mittens, still in the pocket of his jacket!

Hastily he made his preparations. He placed the can on the deck, pried up its lid carefully. With a paint-soaked rag in his left hand, he reached as far out the porthole as he could to the right, drew a single broad vertical white stroke on the black wooden hull. He could not see what he was doing, had to go by the feel of the rag against the hull planking. Three times he resoaked the rag, repeated the stroke, until he was satisfied that he had made a solid vertical smear of paint, carefully allowing for the fact that he could not reach as far at the top and bottom of the stroke as he could in its midsection. More paint on the rag. Three short horizontal strokes, not too long. Then another vertical stroke alongside the porthole. Three more horizontal strokes attached to it. Finally, with his right arm reaching as far to the left as he could, a vertical stroke and a single horizontal stroke at the bottom.

He dropped the paint-soaked rag into the water. His ruined gloves followed. Carefully he squeezed the lid down tightly on the can, placed it on the shelf where he had found it. The rag he had laid on the rim of the porthole, after some thought, also went over the side. The remaining rags went deep into the sack from which he had taken them.

The whole operation had taken perhaps an hour. It was a dangerous move. A gamble. If discovered, the retribution would be savage. Rich could feel his pulse thumping as he proceeded with his careful clean-up. Finally he was left with only the spoon. For several minutes he debated dropping it out the porthole, decided against it. He might have use for it later on. Moonface might remember it, demand it back. He wiped it off carefully. Perhaps he should place it on the floor where he had found it, but he decided against this also. In the end it was hidden again on the shelf where he had first put it.

On the side of the flared bow of the little patrol boat, around his porthole, Richardson had written in large block letters the word “EEL.”

After several hours Rich decided that not only had his painting spree gone completely unnoticed, but also Moonface seemed to have forgotten all about him. Perhaps the Japanese skipper intended to let hunger and thirst weaken his resolve, in preparation for an even more thorough interrogation next day. On the other hand, every hour brought nearer the possibility that next day
Eel
might closely inspect the patrol boat through her periscope, would note the name lettered on her bow, would realize that only two persons could have written it there.

If, on the other hand,
Eel
did not see his sign, inevitably Moonface would see it. The consequences would, at their least, be most unpleasant. Among other things, it revealed at least part of what Moonface wanted to know.

Alive, now, to the possibility of other significant noises, he kept the port open and his ear to it. Nothing was to be heard except the idle lapping of the water against the patrol boat's drifting hull and the creaking of masts and gear on deck to an occasional gentle roll. The entire ship was still. Absolutely silent. He could not even hear the quiet movement of any of her crew.

After a suitable interval he cautiously put his hand out the port to sample his paint, found it satisfactorily tacky. This at least seemed to be working out, but of course everything depended upon whether or not
Eel
would choose tomorrow in daylight to look over the patrol boat. If the fog continued, the prospect of her doing so would be greatly reduced.

In his current state of mind, Richardson was not only sleepless but also acutely conscious of everything going on aboard the little ship. It must have been about midnight that he heard voices speaking in low tones in Japanese not many feet away from his prison. There was a certain furtiveness about them, as if they did not wish to be heard, as if they were worried, uneasy, perhaps in subdued fear. He shortly afterward was conscious of some other voices talking loudly, farther away. One voice, shouting in particularly violent tones, was that of Moonface. The others sounded conciliatory, placating. One clearly carried a note of justification, of exculpation, was finally reduced to frightened pleading.

Moonface's authoritarian tones increased in intensity. His denunciations grew louder. There came sounds of heavy blows. The pleading voice was crying in pain. Then several more dull thudding noises, and the pleading voice was silent. Moonface's voice continued for several minutes in a paroxysm of rage, then silence again descended upon the little ship. Richardson recognized it for what it was. It was the silence of terror.

Several more hours passed. Daylight was beginning to lighten the murk when Richardson heard purposeful footsteps coming toward his cell. Quickly he closed and latched the port, turned with foreboding as the door was unbarred and opened.

Three solemn Japanese sailors accosted Rich, tied his arms as before, led him aft.

Moonface had arrayed himself in full uniform, with samurai overtones. He had buckled a pistol belt around his ample middle. Hung from the belt, its ornamented brown scabbard secured by a length of intricately brocaded line, was a heavy curved sword about three feet in length. A shorter sword, or dirk, was stuck in the pistol belt, and from the belt also hung a leather holster and a modern automatic pistol. Richardson instantly saw that Moonface was in an evil humor and at the same time hugely pleased with himself.

“I am not ready to talk to you yet, my friend,” he scowled, “but I will be soon. Have you had a good breakfast?”

Rich stared at him stonily.

“Probably not, but such are the fortunes of war. Too bad. Since I am a samurai, a two-sword man, I cannot of course eat with commoners, but it would amuse me if you attend upon me while I have my breakfast.” His scowl was replaced by the unpleasant grin which, by this time, Richardson had learned to fear. He made a great show of waving his hands through the air, clapping them together. From somewhere one of the sailors brought out a white mat, unrolled it on the deck. Moonface sat on it cross-legged. “You may stand over there,” he said, pointing to one side. “I do not want my faithful retainers interfered with as they serve me.” Again the show of clapping his hands. An uncomfortable-looking sailor brought a tray upon which lay a dish of meat with some vegetables, several small cups, two bottles filled with colorless liquid, a pair of chopsticks.

Moonface unsheathed his dirk, inspected its keen edge, stropped it gently in the palm of his hand, and returned it to its polished wooden sheath. He picked up a sliced piece of meat with the chopsticks, stuffed it into his mouth. “You must forgive my servants,” he said, smacking his lips and making sucking noises between his words; “we samurai are generally more punctilious in our requirements for proper service, but in war one must do the best one can with what one has.”

Richardson shot a glance at the half-dozen crewmen standing about: the man who had unrolled the mat, the one who had brought the tray, another who seemed also to be in attendance, the three guarding him. Already, in the short time he had been aboard the ship, he felt he had gained some understanding of the Japanese character in spite of the facade of impassiveness. With the exception of Moonface, all were
extremely tense. Obviously they were terrified of their big captain. “This man is insane,” he said to himself, “plain crazy, and all the more dangerous because of it.” He fought down the flow of saliva which had started at the sight of food, willed himself to be as impassive as the Japanese, stared woodenly at Moonface. Moonface ate the entire meal, drank ceremoniously and with satisfaction in the small cups from the more ornate of the two bottles, not at all from the other, which evidently contained only water.