Machines cannot fight alone.

ACCORDING to the naval lieutenant everybody was unhinged by the end of that d y. Wh the battle is on and the giv -and take is of rugged proportions you expect casualties, but on a beautiful day in the South Pacific with nothing but friends for 300 miles around the loss of one of the boys does something to you. It leaves you too numb to talk and it haunts you in your bunk. The lieutenant was Inter cept Officer on the carrier and throughout the whole ordeal he stood watch in the nerve center of the ship?where all the "dope" from the radios and radars is pooled and weighed and acted upon. The nerves of the ship were frayed at their ends on that August day. By 1400 hours the patrol plane was overdue. At 1410 the pilot cut in with his radio requesting "homing." He couldn't find the carrier. The officer known as the FDO took over and told him to stand by while they got a radar "fix" on him. The pilot had to ask a repeat on this. "Static bad out here," he said. Later it cleared up a little and con versation went back and forth while the radar operator scanned his screen for the tell-tale "pip" of the patrol plane. But in three of its sectors the radar screen was cluttered with interference and the operator got tense as he twisted his knobs and strained his eyes for the tiny pip that would locate the plane. "Radar can't see you yet, thunderstorms around," called the FDO. "Thunderstorms north of here," answered the pilot, "static getting worse again." Time dragged on and all other business gradually stopped while everybody waited and watched. The room got quieter. At 1430 the radar operator, with the help of some kibitzers who had gathered around to lend an eye, came up with a fix near the edge of a patch of clutter. The plane seemed to be emerging from the area of a thunderstorm? on the far side from the carrier. The FDO grabbed the microphone. "You are 30 miles from the ship. Steer 357." "Say again," from the pilot. "You are south of the ship," shouted the FDO a little desperately. "Static terrible, can just tell you are talking," came the answer. "Steer 357. I say again, steer 357" loudly and firmly pronounced the FDO. "Gasoline low," called the pilot, "not hearing you any more. Are you hearing me?" They were hearing him, but not too well; static was all over the place. The FDO kept calling. In supreme frustration he talked every way he knew how; loudly, softly, imploringly, profanely. And he kept at it for a full half hour after the Status Board showed that no gasoline could possibly be left in the tanks of the patrol plane. That evening at the wardroom mess the Executive Officer was heard to damn the business of trusting men's lives to radars a man can't see and to radios he can't hear.