"Look, Captain," he said, "we already know they are going here," indicating with his finger. "We know they are running close, inshore. Our main mission is to sink them. After we knock off a couple." We might have argued longer had not the musical notes of the general alarm interrupted us.
Startled, I jerked up, caught Jim's eye and then with one move we raced to the conning tower.
"Bong bong bong bong bong," the doorbell chimes were still pealing out as, breathlessly, I confronted Dave Freeman.
Already the reduction of oxygen was becoming noticeable.
"A ship, sir, coming this way, a big ship." The periscope was down, evidently having just been lowered. I grasped the pickle, squeezed it as Dave spoke, started it up again. In a moment I was looking through it. There in the distance, exact- ly like our practice approaches in New London, were the masts, stack, and bridge structure of a large vessel. I could hear the warming-up notes of the TDC. Keith was ready for business.
"Bearing-Mark!" Down periscope!"
"Three-two-eight," read Dave from the azimuth ring.
Keith furiously spun one of the handles. "Angle on the bow?"
"Starboard ten."
"Estimated range?" I had not tried to get a range."
The ship was still well hull down, only her upper works showing. "Give it fifteen thousand yards," I said.
Jim had extracted the Is-Was from its stowage, was rotating the dials. Rubinoffski, garbed in his underwear with hastily thrown-on shoes and carrying his trousers, came clat- tering up the ladder. Off watch, he had been caught in his bunk by the call to quarters. Freeman relinquished the pickle to him, dashed below, bound for his own station. The Quarter- master hastily thrust his bony legs into his dungarees, managed to get them hooked at the top in time to grasp the periscope control button and raise it at my order. I spun the periscope around quickly, lowered it. "Nothing else in sight," I said, motioning for it to come up again. Another look, this time carefully at the sky. Clear, a few clouds, not much cover for aircraft, no airplanes in sight. Down went the periscope again.
I looked around, looked at Jim. He nodded briefly.
"Conning tower manned, sir." Quin was hastening on his headset, nodded also. The periscope started up with my thumb motion.
"Observation," I snapped "Ship is at battle stations, rapidly called out Quin.
I rose with the periscope. "Bearing-Mark!"
"Three-three-nine and a half!"
"Use forty feet. Range-Mark!"
Rubinoffski fumbled with the range dial lining up the pointers.
"One-four-oh-double-oh!" The scope dropped away.
"Angle on the how still the same. Starboard ten." Keith was spinning his TDC cranks with both hands.
"Any other ships in sight, Captain?" This was Jim. "No," I said, "no escorts."
"I have the dive, Captain, depth sixty feet." Tom had climbed up two or three rungs of the ladder to the control room, had his head at the deck level.
"Very well." I turned to Keith. "What's the course to close the track with about a thirty-degree angle?" Keith looked at his dials for a moment. "We're on it now, sir. Recommend no change. What kind of a ship is it, Captain?"
Jim had finished orienting the Is-Was, now crowded between Hugh Adams at the plotting table and Keith at the TDC. He looked at me with that same look of anticipated pleasure, that eagerness for combat that I had recently noticed.
"Can't tell yet. Buff superstructure, black stack, two masts. Some kind of a cargo vessel."
"Is he smoking?"
"No-no smoke at all."
"New ship then, Anyway, in good shape."
I nodded.
Up forward of the periscope hoist motors was the under- water sound receiver and control equipment for the sound heads under our bow. I leaned over alongside the earphoned sonar operator. His pointer was going around steadily and slowly. He shook his head at my inquiring glance'. I indicated the area on our starboard bow as the place for him to concentrate on, stepped back to the periscope, motioned with my thumbs.
"Zig to his right," I called. The angle on the bow, had changed, was now port twenty degrees, and I could see more of the enemy ship, a large new-type freighter. As I turned the periscope something, else caught my eye-a discontinuity in the horizon-another mast. It would indeed have been highly improbable that a large, valuable freighter should be coming out of port unescorted. I looked closely on the other side, then back again. There were two small masts, one on either side, both apparently abeam or a little distance astern. This would not be as easy an approach as I had for a short time been hoping. "He has two escorts, Jim,' I said.
"What kind?"
"Can't tell yet. They're a lot smaller and I can't see them.
Quin was watching me. He picked up the telephone mouthpiece, spoke into it briefly. I could visualize everyone in the ship getting the word: 'The skipper sees two destroyers up there!"
"Jim," I said, "have the ship rigged for depth charge.
Shortly before we fire we will go to silent running also."
"Right," said Jim, as he squeezed by me to relay the necessary instructions to Quin.
Several observations later the situation had developed more clearly. Our target was a single large merchantman with cargo hatches forward and aft and four large goal-post type derricks. She had a single low, fat stack rising out of an amid- ships deckhouse evidently fitted for passenger accommodations.
The ship had obviously come out of Bungo Suido and was headed south, perhaps bound for Guam or Saipan, making respectable speed and escorted by three old type destroyers.
One escort rode on either beam of the target and the third one, which I had not seen until some time later, was following astern.
I could feel Walrus tense up as the target drew steadily near her. He was zigzagging, presenting first one side and then the other. We were right on his base course and had only to maneuver for a shot as he went by. I could feel myself tense up as well as the crucial moment approached.
We closed off the ventilation system, the air-conditioning machinery, and all other equipment not absolutely essential to the progress of the business at hand. The sweat spurted out of my pores, ran saltily down my cheeks and into the comers of my mouth. I ran my hands ceaselessly through my moist hair, wiped them off on my trousers. Hugh Adams was bothered by sweat dropping off the end of his nose onto his carefully laid-out plot.
Through the periscope I could see the whole ship now, even her red waterline heaving in and out of the sea. I had directed Tom to run several feet deeper to reduce the amount of periscope exposed, leaving me just enough height to make observations between passing waves. The range had closed to about two miles when the target made another zig.
"Angle on the bow-starboard thirty-five," I sang out, as the periscope descended. "Keith, what's the distance to the track?"
"Two thousand yards, Captain."
"Torpedo run?"
"Two-seven-double-oh." Jim, detailed to the angle solver on firing, relayed this one for me.
"Are we ready to shoot, Jim?" Jim glanced upward at his check-off list. My eyes followed his. Every item on it but one — had been neatly checked off in grease pencil. "We're ready to shoot, Captain, except that outer doors are still closed."
According to the Pearl Harbor submarine base our torpedoes were prone to flood if left exposed in the torpedo tubes with the outer doors open for too long a period. It was advisable not to open them until just before firing.
I turned to Quin. "Open the outer doors forward."
"Open the outer doors forward," he echoed into his tele- phone transmitter. Up forward at the command the torpedo- men would speedily crank- open the heavy bronze torpedo tube muzzle doors. This was the last act in the preparation of torpedoes for firing.
I nodded for the periscope, crouched before it till it came up, rode it to its full extension, spun it around, lowered it.
"We're inside the screen," I said. "The near escort will pass astern, well clea
r." I failed to mention that the rear escort, a few hundred yards astern of the target, would lay no means pass clear. Within minutes after firing, he would be upon, us. No point in alerting or worrying our crew at this stage over something that could not be helped.
"We'll give him three torpedoes on a ninety track, or as near to it as we can!"
"Ninety track. Three fish spread!" echoed Jim.
"The next observation will be a shooting observation! Stand by forward!" My mind racing, I studied the slowly moving dials on the face of the TDC. We could already shoot at any time. It was only a matter of waiting until the situation was most favorable. The "correct solution light," a red F, was glow- ing brightly on the face of the angle-solver sector of the TDC.
The "torpedo run" was well within maximum range of the torpedo. It would only be a few seconds longer.
I could feel the taut expectancy of the ship, this was to be our first kill. In the forward part of the conning tower O'Brien, the sonarman, had put the propeller beats on the laud-speaker.
We could hear the "chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug," as the enemies screws came closer and closer.
Less distinct was the lighter, high-pitched beat of the nearest escort. "Thum, thum, thum, thum." The sonarman switched from one to the other, kept them both coming in. It looked about time.
"This is a shooting observation," I said again. "Up periscope!" The periscope handles met my outstretched hands.
I snapped them down, put my eye to the eye guard. "No change," I said. "Bearing-Mark!"
"Three-three-six."
"Range", — I turned the range knob-"Mark!"
"One-eight-five-oh."
"Shoot," I said, snapping the handles up as the signal for the periscope to start down. Quin had turned around facing the firing panel, had turned the switch of Number One torpedo tube to "On."
"Fire!" shouted Jim. Quin leaned on the firing key. Walrus shuddered. Over the sonar loud-speaker I could hear the torpedo whine out of the tube. Jim made an adjustment to the face of the angle solver with his right hand, held a stop watch in his left, watched it intently. "Fire Two!" he shouted.
Quin leaned on the firing key a second time.
Another adjustment by Jim, then "Fire Three!" and Walrus jerked for the third time. I motioned for the periscope again, took a quick look. Our torpedoes were running nicely.
"Torpedo run?" I called out, as the periscope was on the way down.
"One-six-five-oh." A quick calculation. A little over one minute to go. Up went the periscope again. I spun it around, dipped it, raised it again. One escort was passing astern. I hadn't given him much of an inspection before, he was an old type destroyer, Momo class as nearly as I could tell, with a well-deck forward of the bridge, and two stacks far apart.
The periscope dipped again and then went back up to the target. All still serene.
"How long?"
"Thirty seconds to go." I swung around once more, then back to the target, just in time to catch sight of a white-clad figure racing out to the side of his bridge. Then a stream of vapor shot from his stack, evidently his whistle. Too late, however. There was now no chance of avoiding our torpedoes unless they were improperly aimed. I swung the periscope all the way around. The destroyer which had just crossed our stern was heeling over radically I away from us, starting to turn toward with hard-over rudder. A quick look on our port beam. The rear-most destroyer was coming directly at us, showing white-water all along his waterline.
There was no time to linger. "Take her down!" I shouted.
There would still be a few seconds before the periscope went under, time, perhaps to see the torpedoes strike home.
I started to swing back toward the target, suddenly received a sharp blow on my head as the periscope yoke collar unex- pectedly descended upon it. I reeled backward, momentarily stunned, looked up to see Rubinoffski's consternation. He was squeezing the pickle, and the periscope base with the rubber, eye-pieces had already dropped out of sight into the periscope well. I could hear the rush of air in the control room as negative-tank flood valve was opened and Kohler yanked the tank vent. Negative would take in approximately nine tons of water, well forward of amidships, thus helping us to start down. I could feel Walrus' deck tilt forward gently. I rubbed my aching skull opened 'my mouth to curse at Rubinoffski, but never got the words out. Suddenly there was a tremendous stupefying roar.
Whrangg.
Our hull resounded like a tuning fork. The sensation could be likened to being inside a wash boiler and having a giant, beat on the outside with a sledge hammer. My ears rang.
Jim was shouting. "We've hit him! It's a hit!" He slapped me on the back. "You did it, skipper. You sunk the son-of-a-bitch!" Then he turned to Keith, pounded him on the back also.
"How about the other two fish?" I asked him.
Jim looked at his stop watch, shook his head regretfully.
"No luck there…" As he spoke, there came clearly a tinny, high-pitched Pwhyunng. I glanced, startled.
"That was timed for the third torpedo," Jim said, punching the winding stem of his watch, showing me its face.
Walrus' deck was tilted down even farther by now and she was clawing for the depths.
"What do you think that noise could have been?" I asked.
Keith answered: "Gosh, I don't know. Maybe an air flash, have you ever heard an air flash explode, Captain?" Jim and I both shook our heads. I would have discussed it more but a shout from O'Brien started a whole new train of thought.
"He's starting a run on us!" I leaped to his side, grabbed the extra pair of earphones. The enemy destroyer's 'pings' could clearly be heard, sounding just like our own destroyers.
They were coming in rapidly, too, and I could hear the "thum, thum, thum," of his propeller beats. The sonarman put his left hand on the gain control, ready to tune down the volume when the depth charges went off. I could see it shaking as he touched the knob.
WHAM… WHAM… The giant alongside us cut loose with three violent blows from his sledge hammer.
Walrus quivered and shook. Dust rose from the equipment and the deck. A piece of cork bounced from nowhere, made a peculiar "plop' as it landed on Adams' chart table.
I became aware of a new sound, a click which seemed to precede each depth charge. "CLICK, WHAM… CLICK, WHAM…" two more depth charges. Then there was a pro- longed swishing of water as though someone were hosing our side with a fire hose. The propeller beat, reduced in volume because of our having lowered the gain, suddenly dropped in frequency. O'Brien glanced up briefly. "He's passed overhead. That's 'Down Doppler.'" It was similar to the drop in pitch of a train going by at high speed.
'Maybe they'll go away now." This was Jim's voice. It did seem possible, for the destroyer's beat kept on without slack- ening or other change, toward the general direction of south- east.
"Search all around," I directed O'Brien. Obediently, he did so, holding the control handle over and causing the sound- head pointer to travel a complete circle. I, still had the ear- phones on and something, a discontinuity in the sound as he went by it some impulse-caused me to ask him to turn back to the northwest sector.
There it was again. A slight increase in noise level.
Nothing specific, no propeller beat, just an increased sound From that bearing. Walrus reached her maximum designed depth and now we slowed to minimum speed in accordance with our silent-running routine. We should be difficult for some- one else to hear, and, conversely, could hear better ourselves.
But the noise, if such it really was, could not be resolved into identifiable components. I motioned with my finger all around the dial. Obediently O'Brien set his equipment in motion. The propeller beats of the Momo-class destroyer which had depth- charged us were still to be heard, more faintly than before but on the same general bearing. He was-going away. There was no question of it. I could see O'Brien listen intently in its direction. Finally he looked up, uncovered one ear. "Captain," he said, "there are at least two sh
ips over there. Two sets of high-speed propellers. Maybe more."
Jim had approached unnoticed. "Good," he said, "they've gone off."
"I'm not so sure," I muttered, half to myself. "This noise level…" I motioned to O'Brien, who went past the new sector again. When the sound head moved past the bearing rapidly there was no question about the increase in noise level, but when we turned directly on the bearing it was impossible to make anything out, or even to distinguish any difference.
Jim listened with me for some minutes. "What do you think it is?" he finally whispered.
"Don't know. Never heard anything like this before."
"Could it be the ship we sank?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe we should come up and take a look through the periscope."
For several more minutes we waited. Nothing more could be heard from the direction in which our Momo-class destroyer had disappeared. Nothing more could be heard in any direction, in fact, but the feeling of uneasiness persisted, the noise, if such it could be called, had not changed. If anything, it, was a bit weaker. Walrus stealthily slipped through the depths, every nerve taut, unable to see, not sure of what she heard. I ordered a course change, to put the area of high-sound level nearly astern, not exactly, so as not to mask it with the quiet swishing of our own propellers.
More time passed. It was over an hour since we had fired our torpedoes. Gradually our guard relaxed. To relieve the op- pressive heat and humidity I permitted the ventilation system and air-conditioning machinery to be started. It was quiet all around the sonar dial, except for our port quarter, where the faint noise level persisted.
"If there's anything up there, it's the ship we just sank!
Maybe that's the sinking ship we're hearing!" Jim's sustained excitement was infectious. I could sense the approval of every- one in the conning tower. Every eye turned upon me.
Jim spoke again, eagerness flashing from every facial ex- pression. "God, skipper! If we hurry we might be able to see him sink! We don't have to surface, just get up to periscope depth!"
Run Silent, Run Deep Page 18
