"One-five-double-oh!" Fifteen hundred yards. I had my bin- oculars in the TBT bracket, was holding a dead bead on the vertical stack, had been for several long seconds.
"Shoot!"
"Fire!" I could hear. Jim's bellow from the conning tower, and the sea was calm enough to let me feel the slight jolt as the fish went out. Three jolts. Three fish. Their white streaks stretched relentlessly, reaching for the first target.
"Shift targets!" I swung the TBT to the rear-most vessel.
"Shifting targets, aye aye!" I could picture Keith setting in the new bearing, turning the crank as fast as the cramped space would permit his arm and hand to move. Since course and speed were the same as for the first target, he needed to change only bearing and range. "Set!" came from Jim.
But we were not set at all. The second ship was too far away, too far astern of the leading one. "Left full rudder!" I shouted the command down the hatch to the helmsman and into the mike at the same time. We swung rapidly to the left, leaving our torpedo tracks running on to their destiny in a long, thin fan. There were about thirty seconds more to wait.
"Rudder amidships"
" as our swing approached the best attack course for the new target. "Steady as you go!"
"Steady as she goes!" echoed Oregon up the hatch. He put the rudder a little right to stop the swing, caught it, centered the wheel. "Steady on two-two-eight!"
"Let her go two-three-oh!"
"Two-three-oh, aye-aye!"
At a sharp angle we raced toward the second ship. It was so far behind that our attainment of a perfect firing position for the first had brought us much too fine on the bow of the second. But there was nothing to do but ride it on through.
I was suddenly conscious of the breeze whistling in my ears and the swish of the water as we tore through it. Walrus pitched gently. Far up ahead she drove her snout down toward a small roller, stopped before she got under it, lifted her bow again with a gentle, tantalizing withdrawal, lowered it softly once more. The slats of her wooden. deck were clearly outlined by the white water washing over our pressure hull, several feet below, alternately black, solid-looking, the next moment ephemeral, etched black-on-white in delicate detail, every fore-and-aft plank precisely lined out, each thin steel crossbeam an interlocked solidity which had neither depth nor length. The pulsing roar of the diesel exhaust was the pounding beat of my heart as, rolling just a little from side to side, we careened onward.
This was infinitely more dangerous than the attack on the, first ship. All, this one had to do was turn only a little toward us, only thirty or forty degrees, and we would be in a bad way. It would be bow to bow, then, and we would have to expose our own broadside to sheer off.
"A light!" Tom Schultz and the starboard lookout were both shouting, pointing to the first ship. We were broad- side to broadside, just past each other on opposite courses.
There was a light on his deck, about the size of a flashlight, pointed over the side. I looked hard-our torpedoes should have reached there-sure enough, there were their wakes.
Three up to it, one only going on beyond. As I looked I could see some kind of disturbance in the water, as if something were thrashing alongside. Another flashlight joined the. first, and then a clearly visible cloud of steam issued from the forward edge of his stack. A moment later we, heard the whistle.
I cursed aloud. Damn the torpedoes! Damn them and their designers to bloody bell forever! Why couldn't they build an efficient torpedo? Why did we have to carry the thing all the, way into energy waters to prove it wouldn't work! A consuming fury possessed me.
"Jim," I said bitterly into the mike, "we got two hits; good shooting. None of them exploded."
An answering whistle from the other ship, our pres6nt tar- get, and now the situation was critical indeed. I watched him narrowly, suddenly tense. With our ineffective torpedoes, if he should see us, turn toward to Tam us But he didn't. He turned away, presented a perfect target, and we fired everything left in the forward tubes at him. It looked as if all three hit, and at least-one exploded-right under his stack. His steel hull folded up like paper, bow and stern rising high, center going under water, stack still vertical in the middle, rising now out of roiled-up water.
We put our rudder left again, then right and circled by him. I called Jim and Keith up to see and together. the four of us stared at what we had done. He was gone beyond help, no doubt of that, even if help could have reached him. As we looked, the broad V became sharper. The sides rose, became more vertical, they folded up completely together, forecastle to poop deck with the stack crushed between, and sank from sight. The bow half was several feet shorter than the stern half, and the last thing we could see as the wreck took its final dive was the big bronze propeller, framed in the rudder bearings, still spinning slowly.
Seconds later a heavy explosion came resounding through the water.
"What's that?" cried Tom.
"Dunno," muttered Jim. "Maybe it's his boilers letting go when the cold water reached them."
"The boilers should already have been flooded, from where we hit him," I ventured. "Maybe it's some compartment collapsing from the increased pressure."
"Not with all that noise!" Jim looked incredulous. "That was an explosion!"
'Maybe an explosion inward. Ever blow up a paper bag and pop it?" But we were arguing from ignorance, and more important matters needed our attention. A muffed reverberation from somewhere ahead called them to mind. Gunfire.
"That's the other ship!" Jim spoke before anyone else. "He went off to the northeast"
It made sense that he should carry a gun, but under the circumstances it might have been smarter of him not to have fired it. Jim and Keith raced below-again, the former to plot our interception course, the latter to superintend reloading and checking of torpedoes forward.
We made a long run of it, keeping well out of sight of the fleeing ship, closing in only occasionally for a radar check of his latest position, guiding ourselves by the sporadic booming of the gun on his forecastle or stern. The moon having risen higher, it was now even brighter then before, shedding an all-pervading radiance which, to our night-adapted eyes, seemed as bright as day. Since the target had been alerted and would doubtless observe maximum precautions, these two factors combined appeared to rule out any chance of our getting close enough on the surface to make an attack. It would have to be done submerged.
After three hours of chase, having attained a satisfactory position on the fleeing freighter's bow, Walrus quietly slipped beneath the waves. We had obtained a fair solution of the zigzag plan, now much-more, radical than the previous one, and needed only the last-minute refinements. One thin we had decided, however, based on the five bits we had obtained on the two ships previously and the single explosion resulting: We would make sure of him this time. We would shoot four torpedoes, all aimed to hit, and we would hold the- two left forward as well as the four aft in reserve for a quick second salvo if the first also proved a dud.
The night was dark enough to make one thing unnecessary raising and lowering the periscope for frenetic moments of observation., I kept it up, its tip only a few feet above. the waves, and waited for the zigzagging freighter to cross our bow. It was just as Captain Blunt had said, a long time ago: "After you get in front of him, anyone ought to be able to hit the target. The problem is getting in front."
We had gotten in front, and we bided our time until his zigzag threw him right across our bow. We had opened the outer doors on only four torpedo tubes-at the last possible moment, "Shoot!" I said, watching the huge bulk of the ship glide past.
"Fire!" Jim. "One's fired, sir!" Quin. I could feel the torpedo going out. Someone was counting out the seconds. Up to ten. I shifted the periscope cross hair from the target's stack to his forecastle.
"Shoot!" I said again.
"Fire!"
"Two's away, sir!" Periscope wire now on the stern, bisecting the deckhouse there. "Shoot!" The jolt of the third fish crosshair on the st
ack for the last one. "Shoot!" Four white streaks in the water, only a thousand yards, half a mile, to go. The first one looked like a sure bull's-eye, right under the stack. The white streak of bubbles, clearly visible against the gray-black of the uneasy sea, drew unerringly to the point, got there. I could see the white froth where the side. of the ship intersected it, held my breath for a frozen second, let it out with a sigh. This was exactly the way it had looked during all these many years of training in Long Island Sound or off Pearl Harbor. This would have been scored a bull's-eye all right; the torpedo would have been recorded as passing exactly where aimed, under the target. There was no difference, and I could feel the unreal "time reversed upon itself" sensation, which I had experienced upon entering Pearl Harbor, lying dormant, just under the surface.
"Time for Number Two fish, skipper." Jim spoke quietly, into my ear. I swung the 'scope slightly.
White froth at the bow also. Plus something else. A splash- a small geyser of water and spray rose halfway to the target's deck. Something had exploded, not the warhead, however, or at least only a small fraction of the TNT supposed to be inside it. Seconds later we heard the sound of it, clearly audible in the conning tower. "Puwhuuung"-the same sound we had heard some months before in AREA SEVEN.
"Jim," I said furiously, "make a note in the log. Low-order explosion. Possibly air flask!"
"Aye, aye, sir! Time for the third torpedo, skipper."
This one would be aft. I swung the scope to the right, caught the torpedo wake' going into the rudder and propeller declivity in the counter stern. This time it exploded; there was a flash of light from right out of the water, accompanied by a cloud of white spray, so fine that it resembled steam.
The freighter shuddered under the impact. The stern was partially obscured by the cloud of mist, though there was no high-rising column of water such as some of the patrol reports had described-. I had an instantaneous impression of great force being contained within the sides of the ship, al- most as though the stern itself had been beaten in.
"WHRANNGG!" There was no mistaking this noise. It was a combination explosion, unlike a depth charge, for it in- cluded the smashed sheet-metal sound of crushed and crumpled steel.
"It's a hit! We've hit him!" Jim's excitement was plain to hear. I braced myself for the blow over my shoulders. It did not come, however; instead there was Jim's voice again: "Can I have a look, sir?"
"Wait a minute," I growled. "How about the fourth fish?"
"Time right now-mark!"
It should go right into the area under the stack, like the first one. I looked for the wake, found it. It terminated just forward of the stack, between the stack and the bridge structure.
It, too, looked exactly like a drill torpedo, set to run under.
But it made no difference for as I watched in astonishment the bow of the ship suddenly swooped into the air. The stern had already disappeared under water, and the weight of the submerged portion had lifted the bow of the freighter right out of the water. It could not have taken ten more seconds before the ship was vertical, straight up and down; She had gone so fast that I was certain I could still see some forward momentum to the up-and-down hulk. Things, gear, debris of all kinds, fell from the bridge into the sea in a cascade of junk. At least two items were human, and they moved as they fell.
"Let me see, please!" Jim was beside himself with eagerness, almost pushing against me.
"Here!" I relinquished the periscope.
"Stand by to surface. Surface!" I shouted. The whistle of air, the upward heave of Walrus hull, and she started up.
A shout from Jim. "She's sinking! God-look at her go!"
Keith had slipped away from his TDC, was standing alongside Jim. With the conning, tower darkened for better periscope visibility I could not see his expression, but his very stance communicated eagerness to see, too, I gave Jim a gentle above. "Here, let Keith look too."
"She's going fast!" Keith spoke rapidly, echoing Jim.
Suddenly he jerked-back, grabbed Quin by the arm, propelled him to the periscope. "Take a look, quick!" The Yeoman jammed his face to the eye-piece. Keith gave him a few seconds, pushed him away, turned the instrument over to Rubinoffski who was hovering eagerly nearby. Jerry Cohen was next, and even O'Brien, the sonarman, received a split-second glimpse.
In the meantime the familiar sounds of coming to the surface could be heard, and finally the voice of the Diving Officer started shouting out the depths from his control-room depth gauges. "Twenty-six and holding!", He called at last.
"Open the hatch!" I rasped at Rubinoffski. Instantly he whirled the hatch hand wheel, snapped the latch back with almost the same motion. The heavy bronze hatch slammed out of his hands, crashed against the side of the bridge. released air inside the boat howled out, firing four torpedoes builds up a not-inconsiderable air pressure-and the Quarter- master was lifted bodily off his feet and began to sail up the open hatch. Years ago the old Salmon had lost a man over- board in just this manner. It was at night, too, and they had never found him. I barely managed to grasp Rubinoffski around one ankle as he went by, hung on for dear life with my other hand and my own toes hooked under the ladder rungs.
Bits of debris, dirt, cork chunks from behind some of our instruments, pieces of paper, and even someone's carelessly stowed white hat went shooting by past us, and then the storm of wind subsided. We leaped up the remaining ladder rungs, got our binoculars to our eyes within seconds.
There was nothing to be seen. Fearful that I had somehow gotten disoriented, I swung the glasses all around through a full circle, but there was still nothing.
"Nothing in sight, Captain! I can't see him, sir!" It was less than two minutes of the time that our torpedo had struck.
Our lookouts boiled up to the bridge, followed by Tom and Jim. "Where is he? Where is that son-of-a-bitch?" The excitement of battle was in Jim's voice. I tried to make my own calm and dispassionate: "Gone, Jim. He's already sunk!"
Jim was bubbling over. "How about that!" he shouted, pacing around the confines of the undamaged part of our bridge, staring over our port bow, which was the last observed bearing of the vanished ship.
A cry from the port forward lookout. "Something in the water, sir!" He pointed.
In the intermittent hollows of the shallow sea could be seen several dark masses clustered together. Wreckage, perhaps a boat or raft or two. "Where are they?" Jim rushed forward, aimed his own glasses briefly in the indicated direction, dashed below. In a moment he had reappeared with a bandolier of ammunition slung around his shoulder and one of the ship's two Browning automatic rifles clutched in his hands.
"Just in case we need it," he explained carefully. He drew one of the previously prepared twenty-cartridge clips from the bandolier, fitted it to the magazine of the gun.
Walrus wallowed in the ocean, making barely steerageway, the turbo-blowers just beginning their whining lift to seaworthiness. A few hundred yards away the group of wreckage could now be more clearly seen, still black and essentially formless. One boat, maybe another, were distinguishable. I thought I could make out movement in the Stygian mass and Jim, Tom, and I leveled our glasses at it.
Afterward I found it hard to explain why we did not leave forthwith, for there was no advantage to be gained from looking over the unhappy victims of our success, only possibly trouble if one of them happened to have a gun and in defiance chose to use it. Nor was it chivalry, for we could not help them, and they were certainly close enough to Palau to make their way there without excessive difficulty. It must have been a subconscious force within us, some insatiable need or curiosity or motive of vengeance.
"Left full rudder," I ordered. With our slow speed this would put us a little closer. Two boats now could be made out clearly, plus some dark objects which were most probably life rafts, and miscellaneous pieces of floating debris.
"Rudder amidships!" I could bear the groan of the hydraulic mechanism. From the pump room beneath the control room came the thump as
the hydraulic accumulator replenished itself and cut off, and the screaming of the blowers welled out of the hatch in a never-ceasing wail. We coasted gently closer. Now people could be distinguished in the life rafts, sitting motionless, crouched over, faces turned toward us.
There were many bobbing beads still in the water, hanging on to a barrel or hatch cover, or to the ropes lining the sides of the rafts. In the lifeboats no one could be seen, though the dark interior seemed to be solid with a crawling, jostling life- movement.
A wave of passion shook me. This filthy, spineless, crawling thing was the enemy! This, the perpetrator of the Pearl Harbor crime! This the killer of innocent women and children in the Chinese war, and now again in the Philippines! I could feel the savage lust for revenge. I had never hated the Japanese so much as now, now that I could kill them, crash them, smash them to small bits, ram their fragile boats with my ship, grind them beneath her ribs of steel…
"Yaaaah! You Jap bastards! How do you like it now! Go back and tell your stinking emperor and his buddy Tojo about this!" Jim cupped his hands, was screaming at the top of his lungs in the general direction of the enemy survivor group as they slowly came alongside.
There was no movement, no answering hail, no indication of having heard, much less-understood. Suddenly Jim reached for the automatic rifle, really a portable machine gun, raised it to his shoulder before anyone could stop him. He pulled back the bolt, aimed into the middle of the nearest lifeboat.
I reached him just in time, grabbed the gun. His face was livid. "Stop it, Jim!" I hissed savagely into his face. "Stop it, or so help me I'll." I never did know what I'd have said, for Jim, breathing hard, released his grip on the gun.
"Thanks, skipper," he whispered after several deeply drawn breaths, "I must have flipped my lid-I'm sorry! I–I-I don' t know what came over me-" his voice trailed off.
Run Silent, Run Deep Page 24
