A resident of New York, he asked, "Where do the Dodgers play?" "In Brooklyn," a voice warbled. Another pause, and Blum riveted his eyes on the man behind the machine gun, realizing that his group might be taken for the enemy. Was he to be killed by his own Navy? He furtively slid into the water, expecting to hear a deadly rattle. But instead, Blum found himself being fished out of the water by the strangers and dragged into their boat, where he rejoined his raftmates. He thanked God, or whoever was running the universe, that none of them had, in their madness, answered "Chicago" or "Philadelphia." The boat then chugged around as the crew searched for other men, and shortly returned to the Bassett with a full load. Blum was the first to set foot on the deck, since he was the only one strong enough to climb the cargo net unassisted. Crewmen ushered him to the bridge, where he found Lieutenant Commander Harold J. Theriault, the ship's captain. Again the question that reflected one of the greatest blunders in American naval history: "What ship are you from?" And again the incredulity when the reply was given. 'How many of you are in the water?" Theriault asked. Blum hesitated. Yes, how many? Were the survivors in his group the only ones? "I don't know," he said. Did he want anything to eat or drink? "Yes," Blum replied, "a big glass of tomato juice." Meanwhile, he was taken to a water fountain and could not stop drinking. But there was still room for the juice. A man then approached him carrying a large bowl. "What's that?" Blum asked. "Hot tomato soup." Hot soup? How often out there in the water had he dreamed of feeling a cold glass of juice trickle down his leather-dry throat. Would a fish drink hot soup? He took the bowl and threw it overboard. "Cold tomato juice, please," he said. He would see to it that this nightmare ended on the proper note.