now, and would
watch for signs of its reuse.

The progression slowly passed before the designated hours of his
sleep---he needed only eight in thirty-six---and the Cuban fleets
withdrew to regroup. He remained on the bridge until he was sure it
was not a feint, then sought out his own quarters, leaving message to
wake him if they tried anything new or unexpected.

Safe again within the darkness of his room he lay on his back, unable
to sleep. After a time he reached for the microphone beside the bed
and began a supplemental Log entry, which doubled as his personal
diary. He knew that his enemies might one day use it against him; but
he did not care. He spoke slowly, not letting the words run away with
him, pausing often, thinking out loud. This was the only way he had
found of drawing the real knowledge of internal warfare from himself,
and of rising above the constrictive circle of day-to-day thoughts and
concerns. A part of what he said is recorded here.

"God they're giving us a hell of a pounding. How do I tell them? How
do I tell my own men that they have to hang on?

"When you're under attack. . .and all the things that you believed in,
or wanted. . .and all your hopes, your reasons for continuing, seem to
disappear. Or seem to be cut off behind you. And you're left out
there. . . can't find any reason for the suffering, it makes no sense.
It's impossible to remember the other parts of your existence: all you
know is that. . .you're struggling, you're under attack. . .and there's
not a damn thing you can do but to hold on. Try to deal with it.

"Maybe I could write something out in the order of the day, if that
wouldn't be resented. Go back to Chinese history, and show that their
ancestors, when under attack or political repression. . .the thing they
all had in common were the things I mentioned earlier. The struggle to
endure without knowing why, and stubbornly. . .when the logical thing
to do, would have been to despair. And somehow. You know, what Prince
Andrei was going through: the way he. . .was just numbed and
overpowered by it all. And he couldn't find any reason or meaning
anywhere. How it went beyond words or thought so that, in his heart,
in the very fiber of his being, he disbelieved in all semblance of hope.

"Going through the motions. . .never believing that you really have a
chance for life or happiness."

He massaged his brow, the fingertips out of habit stroking the roug