Run Silent, Run Deep

by Edward L. Beach

  "Fight For," and "Next Time." No doubt about it, he knew how to be an effective Executive Officer. But at this moment the consideration of what was to be accomplished during our refit, ordinarily of consuming interest to all of us, had suddenly lost all fascination for me. I interrupted Jim, beckoned him into the tiny stateroom which he and I shared.

  "Jim," I said, "have you thought much about qualification for command?"

  Jim looked startled.

  "Of course. You have to be qualified before you can have your own boat." I grinned at him, but inside I was in a turmoil. This was casting the die. Jim's face still held the surprised question as I took the plunge. "Well, I'm recommending you today."

  A succession of emotions crossed his face.

  "You're kidding! I thought, I was too junior."

  "Not any more." Jim's bunk was folded up against the curved side of the ship, leaving room above mine so that a person could sit upright upon it. I sank into it, leaned back.

  Jim looked down at the deck, shifted his weight uneasily.

  "What's happened?" he asked.

  "Nothing, old man. I just thought it was time to put you up."

  "I mean when the Commodore sent for you. Is this what you talked about?"

  "Nope." I forced another smile.

  "I'll bet it was though." Jim seemed lost in thought. He kicked the side of my bunk impatiently, jackknifed his length into the chair in front of our desk. He reached for a cigarette.

  "Know what I heard yesterday?" He paused, the lighted match in front of it, then sucked the flame into its tip.

  "What did you hear yesterday." I made it a statement instead of a question.

  "That we're going to start a big submarine campaign against the Japs." He puffed moodily.

  I put both hands behind my head. "What's so surprising about that? It's what the submarine force was built for."

  "I mean against the Japanese merchant marine. We've been training to fight warships and to act as fleet advance scouts and all like that. That's why the big boats are even called 'fleet submarines.' Now they're going to send us against the merchant ships, just like the Germans have been doing."

  "Maybe so. What's that got to do with your qualification?"

  More quick puffs. "Don't you see? We'll have to build a lot more boats-the dope is that E. B. tripled their order for steel plate already. Everybody who has a training boat now will get one of the new fleet boats. All the fleet-boat skippers who have made a few war patrols will become Division Commanders, and all the Execs of these river boats will move up to skipper!"

  I snapped to attention, immediately on guard. "Where did you hear that?"

  "Oh, it's around. All over the base, in fact. They say all the skippers around here will receive orders in a couple of weeks.

  I'll bet", — here Jim took a deep drag-"old Blunt told you to qualify me, didn't he?"

  "No such thing, Jim." I hoped the lie sounded convincing.

  "A Squadron Commander can't do that anyway. You know that."

  "Sure, but he can make some pretty strong suggestions. I'll bet he told you to get me qualified so I could take over some- body's boat when he leaves, come on now, didn't he?" Jim's face lighted with pleasure. He rushed right by my beginning remonstrance. "Say-that would be pretty good! Skipper of my own boat! They'd probably even give me the S-16. You'll be leaving pretty soon, you know!"

  "Listen, Jim," I began again uneasily. "You can think what you want. It doesn't make any difference. Maybe you're right and there will be a lot of moves. Eventually its bound to happen, but it can't all take place in an instant. After all, it takes over a year to build a fleet-type submarine.

  But Jim's enthusiasm was not to be dampened. He probably didn't even hear me. "Everybody knows they're setting up a pool of Execs qualified to take over these river boats when the skippers leave, but I didn't think I was eligible. If I get the S-16, or some boat like her, they won't want to send me back to being Exec again; so they'll just have to leave me here until they get far enough down the list to give me one of the big ones. That will take a long time." Excitedly he stubbed out his smoke, jumped to his feet.

  "What do I have to do?"

  "Well," I hesitated, "I imagine the Squadron Commander will appoint a Qualification Board on you."

  Jim's face fell. "You mean I'll have to make a submerged approach with this old tub? Why, she's so out of date it would be just a waste of time!"

  "That's where you're wrong, Jim," I said a bit sententiously, startled by his sudden vehemence. "Even if the S-16 is not very modern, for all you know you might have to command this ship or one like it in action. After all, there is a squadron of S-boats out in the Philippines right now. Besides, what about the training exercises for the sub school?"

  "They ought to have their heads examined," said Jim, reaching into the desk for another cigarette. "That's just plain crazy, keeping those S-boats out there. They ought to be brought back as quickly as they can."

  Jim and I had argued this point before, although he had never expressed himself so directly regarding the fighting prowess of the S-16.

  "Easy, old boy, you may be right, but there is nothing you can do about it. The Examining Board will expect to see you make a submerged approach in this boat, using the equipment she's got-so you may as well figure on it."

  Jim lighted off and took a petulant puff.

  "I haven't had a chance to do any approach work since reporting to Philadelphia."

  As skipper, it was, of course, my responsibility that my officers have adequate opportunity for their own training, and I had to admit the justice of this. The demands of the sub school had taken priority, and I had not insisted on saving adequate time for either Jim or Keith. Keith, of course, would soon be up for his dolphins.

  "Look, Jim," I said, "after we get the S-16 back together and this refit finished, we'll take time out of our post refit trials to give you a couple of practice runs. That's all you need. Just enough to get your hand back in.

  Jim's brow cleared, somewhat indecisively. Then he leaped to his feet, crushing out the hardly tasted cigarette as he rose.

  "I want to run up the dock and phone Laura. Okay?"

  "Sure!" I rose too. "Give her my best."

  "You bet I will!" He turned at the stateroom entrance. "This is a terrific break, you know! This is just what we've been waiting for. You'll be our best man, won't you?"

  He turned and dashed away, leaving me virtually thunder- struck. I had, of course-as we all had-realized that Jim and Laura were as good as engaged. But I didn't expect their marriage to hinge upon his qualification for command of submarines.

  The upshot was another unforeseen complication, too. Upon receipt of my recommendation for Jim's qualification for command of submarines, Captain Blunt immediately ordered three other skippers in our squadron to form an Examining Board, and he furthermore directed them to meet on Jim at once.

  With Christmas almost upon us, this was not a popular order.

  The conversation with Blunt had taken place on Tuesday; Thursday was Christmas; Friday, Saturday, and Sunday the Examining Board worked Jim over on his knowledge of Sub- marine theory, tactics, strategy, logistics, and even history.

  Furthermore, our two weeks' refit was summarily cut in half and the following Monday found S-16 getting under way again.

  Cutting short our repair and upkeep period was hard on the ship and crew. Jobs which had long wanted doing had to be again postponed; some of the very urgent ones had to be hastily rushed to completion. Our topside paint job had to be foregone, the rust spots merely scraped and daubed with red lead. Nor was this all for the members of the Examining Board also had to give up what plans they might have made.

  One, Roy Savage, had already received his orders to the Needlefish, soon to be launched at Mare Island. Carl Miller was awaiting his orders any day. Only the third, Stocker Kane, was like myself apparently fated to stay in his old R-boat a while longer.

  After thinking over the
prospect of leaving my ship to Jim, I was not too happy either. Against my better instincts I had pushed him into a situation for which I knew he was not yet ready. I had officially signed my name that, in my opinion, he was ready for the examination, when in my bones I felt this not to be the case. True, Jim could handle the ship well and he had studied-and therefore presumably knew-the sub- merged-attack doctrine. But now that the question had come to issue I was convinced that, so far as Jim Bledsoe was concerned, it, was much too soon. His judgment under pressure or in emergency situations was still an unknown quantity.

  Somehow I felt unsure of him. Under these circumstances how could I, seeking my — own advantage, blithely leave S-16 and her crew of forty men to him? And yet, having started the train of events, I was powerless to stop it.

  Qualification for command of a submarine is probably the toughest formal test of a submarine officer's career, and it is almost equally tough on the Examining Board and his own skipper. Successful qualification usually does not carry with it an immediate command assignment, though in Jim's case it would, and somehow he had guessed it. No special insignia exists for it like the gold dolphin pin for qualification in submarine duty. A mark is merely placed opposite your name in the submarine force roster, — but no man can be ordered to submarine command without that mark.

  A submarine is a demanding command in peace or war, probably more so than any other ship. The submarine skipper personally fights his ship, giving all the commands and making all the decisions. During war his is the responsibility for success or failure; his the praise for sinking the enemy, the blame for being sunk himself. In peacetime there are still the hazards of the malevolent sea-ever-ready, with its sequence of inevitable consequences, to pounce mercilessly upon momentary disregard for its laws.

  Appearance before a Qualification Board, a serious matter for the candidate, is thus equally serious for the members of the board themselves. On the one hand, they hold the career of a brother officer in their hands, but on the other, and much more important, they must consider the lives and well- being of his future ship's company as well. And it is serious, also, for the person or persons recommending him, whose own judgment in so doing is under inspection.

  On Monday we were-somehow-ready. The disassembled pieces of machinery had been put back together, mostly unrepaired, and great patches of red preservative on our decks and sides betrayed the areas we had been scraping free rust and loose paint. Prior to the arrival of the Qualification Board, Jim, at their dictum, had made all preparations for getting under way; this was something he normally did every third clay anyway, when he had the duty-though not, of course, under quite the same degree of pressure. The engines were warmed up and primed, the batteries fully charged, the crew at stations. All lines to the dock bid been "singled up," which means that the usual three strands of mooring line to each of our four cleats had been reduced to one, ready for immediate release. I waited on the forecastle, swathed in muffler, foul-weather jacket, and sea boots, turning my back to the freezing wind sweeping the river. Jim, of course, was on the bridge.

  Three figures suddenly appeared from behind the parked cars at the head of the dock, marched toward us. I recognized them immediately: Carl Miller, skipper of the R-4, Roy Savage of the S-48, and Stocker Kane of the R-12. Savage was the senior in rank, a Lieutenant Commander of several years, and had been designated "Senior Member" of the Qualification Board. He was a stocky, taciturn individual, whose usual imperturbability seemed only intensified by this assignment.

  Bluff Carl Miller, also a Lieutenant Commander, had gone through submarine school with me several years before.

  Stocker Kane, junior member of the board, and my closest friend of the three, was another hard-to-know person, though one soon learned to like and respect his careful thinking.

  Jim hurriedly climbed down on deck and stood with me to welcome the three other skippers aboard. Gravely we acknowledged their salutes. "Good morning, sir," I said to Savage. "Morning, Carl. Morning, Stocker."

  Roy Savage didn't believe in wasting time., "Take her on out as soon as you're ready" he said to Jim. "Rich,"-turning to me, "Bledsoe is skipper of this ship today. You and I are just passengers. You are only to take her over to avoid danger of casualty, and you know the consequences, of course, if you do."

  This was customary for the under-way qualification, and Roy Savage knew I knew it. His care to spell it out for me, therefore, somehow tinkled a warning note in my mind. Savage, I had heard, had been indignant at Blunt's sudden directive to head the board on Jim. He was the senior skipper in our squadron, and had already received his official orders of detachment from the S-48, though there was as yet no sign of his relief. Perhaps he felt that his pending detachments should have absolved him from the duty. Perhaps this was an inkling of the attitude we might expect from him through- out the day.

  Stocker Kane now spoke, handing me a typewritten sheet of official stationery. "This will save your Yeoman a little trouble. I've got a copy for the Quartermaster, too." He smiled faintly as I reached for it.

  S-16's Yeoman, Quin, a young, eager-faced lad, stepped forward and took, the piece of paper from me, attaching it to another sheet he carried in his hand. The papers constituted our "sailing list," a list, corrected as of the last possible moment, containing the names, addresses, next-of-kin, and other pertinent information on all persons embarked, which is sent ashore whenever a submarine gets under way. This was an outgrowth of one of the early accidents wherein difficulty was encountered in determining exactly who had been aboard the ill-fated craft and how to reach their relatives.

  Rubinoffski, our Quartermaster, who had been loitering-near the conning tower, also received a list of our passengers and forthwith disappeared to enter their names in the log.

  Noticing the unobtrusive efficiency of these two, I felt a glow of pride at the fact that they so obviously knew exactly what they were doing.

  Jim had returned to the bridge and was waiting. I could well appreciate how he must have felt, remembering how I had sweated under the eyes of my Qualification Board on Octopus' bridge. But I had never really given thought until this moment to the feeling my skipper must have experienced.

  Despite the qualification gimmick, nothing relieved me of responsibility for S-16. And yet I had to stand idly on her red- lead-spotted deck, too far from the bridge to take corrective action should anything go wrong, while one of my own officers, as a result of my recommendation, held my career as well as his own in his nervous hands.

  There was reason for Jim to sweat. There was a strong ebb tide, aided by a north wind, in the Thames River that morning. The signs in the river were obvious, — heavy current making around the buoys and a slight chop in the channel.

  One of the ways to handle this situation is to back out rapidly, getting the whole ship in the body of the current as quickly as possible, thus allowing the vessel to drift bodily down stream while maneuvering to turn. Backing slowly would result in our stern being caught by the current first, thus getting the ship awkwardly backward in the river.

  Jim surveyed the situation, then cupped his hands and bellowed to the dock: "Take in the brow!" Quin hounded over the gangway, handed an envelope to the petty officer who had appeared to superintend casting off our lines, sprang light-footedly back. Kohler, our Chief of the Boat who was in charge topside, waved to the same man, and two dungareed sailors on the dock pulled the gangway up and pushed it out of the way. Jim leaned over the hatch on the bridge.

  "Stand by to answer bells on the battery," he ordered. Then to the men on deck, "take in Two and Three." Our two middle lines to the dock were lifted off their cleats by the line handlers on the docks and tossed to us. Our men quickly snaked them aboard and passed them into the stowage bins under the deck.

  "Take in Four," Jim called to the stern.

  As Number Four, our stern line, came in, S-16 remained moored only by Number One line from our bow to a corres- ponding cleat on the dock. We were on the downstream
side of the dock, the current tending to push us away. This was a favorable effect, in a light current; one to watch in a heavy ebb on the Thames. Jim, correctly anxious to back away smartly, did not wait for the current to be felt.

  "Slack One!" he shouted to the bow detail; then nearly as loudly to the helmsman on the bridge, "All back full" and a moment later, again to the bow, "Take in One!"

  He might have given some additional order to the helms- man standing on the bridge as he turned around to face our direction of motion, but of this I could not be sure. In a moment S-16 commenced to gather sternway and to my horror her stern commenced to move to port, toward the dock. Jim, standing facing the stern beside the periscope standards, saw it, too.

  "Left full rudder," he yelled, with urgency in his voice. If the shear to port did not stop, our port propeller would hit the pilings of the dock, probably necessitating a dry-docking to repair it or replace it. This time I heard the helmsman's reply as he raised his voice in response to Jim's, and I thought I detected an unusual note of apprehension.

  "Rudder is left full, sir!"

  That was enough for me.

  I took the first running step toward the bridge, cursing Jim's confusion with the rudder-facing aft, he must have confused port and starboard, and the traditional requirement which had put me on deck instead of on the bridge at this moment as well. But Jim had realized the error, too. He turned around.

  "All stop!" he bellowed. "Starboard ahead full." The orders came in time. The slant to port was arrested and the ship halted her sternway. In a moment, the danger past, Jim was again in command of the situation.

  "All stop!" again. Then, looking over his shoulder, this time, "Rudder amidships, all back full." The S-16 backed this time straight as an arrow. As her stern cleared the dock Jim put the rudder full left once more, and she neatly. curved around, backing smartly upstream against the current and squaring away for the downstream passage. As she did so, three little black notebooks unobtrusively slid back into the hip pockets of the three alien skippers, bearing their quota of newly penciled comments.