The patrol boat’s decks had been the scene of a second funeral, for the fusillade of automatic-weapons fire had killed two of her crew. Both were horribly shattered by fifty-caliber machine gun bullets. In addition, the Japanese crewman whom Moonface had threatened to behead was dead when Yancy reached him. Three Japanese were treated for injuries from flying wood splinters, and the other prisoner in irons was suffering from a prior beating by Moonface. Several, apparently only slightly hurt, among them Moonface, stubbornly stayed in the water and refused the proffered help of Eel’s pharmacist’s mate.
By contrast, there were no injuries at all among the submarine crew. No doubt the overwhelming surprise of Eel’s attack contributed to this. From beginning to end, the shooting had lasted less than three minutes. Bandaging the injured, requiring all the survivors who remained on board to witness the triple funeral, disengaging Eel’s bow, and allowing the smashed wooden boat to roll over and sink to the water’s edge took an hour and a half.
After serious thought, Richardson had decided against attempting to take prisoners. Moonface was the only one he would have wanted in any case, but the man was patently a psychopath and therefore almost certainly of little value to intelligence authorities. He would, however, be a distinct and permanent nuisance, not to say a danger, to the Eel and her crew for the month or more that he would have to be on board. Furthermore, the only way to take him prisoner was to go into the water after him. This was less than a desirable prospect in view of the swords and knives he might still have about his person. In the end, after the wounded had been bandaged and a broken leg splinted, Eel simply backed clear of the wreck, leaving the boat and life raft surrounded by debris but floating safely and stocked with food, already half-loaded with survivors who were busily picking up the rest. The boat contained a simple magnetic compass, and Keith carefully handed the most self-possessed crewman (the one who had brought up the provisions and helped locate the prisoners chained below) a slip of paper on which he had written the course and distance to the nearest land: Saisho To, or Quelpart Island, seventy-five miles to the northeast.
It was not until after he had slept for several hours that Richardson was able to speak privately with his officers. The opportunity came during an inspection of the work to restore the flooded engines to operation. “Writing Eel on the bow of that boat was what did it, Skipper,” said Keith. “After we dunked we had a lot of water in the conning tower and control room. The main induction was flooded solid up to the inboard flappers, and there was a lot of water in both enginerooms. Also we flooded these two engines here through their exhaust lines before the enginemen were able to crank the inboard exhaust valves shut. We’re still checking them over pretty carefully, but I don’t think we damaged them. Anyway, with all that water on board we went right down to the bottom of the Yellow Sea. Good thing the bottom was there, too! Al was shifting the main vents over to hand power and getting them shut by hand, and we’d have been able to blow soon. So even if we had been in deep water I don’t think we’d have lost the ship. But it was mighty comforting all the same to feel her squash down into the mud.
“Then we had to drain all the water out and pump it over the side; so it took us several hours before we were squared away and able to come back to the surface. When we did, we found that sampan on radar right where the plot showed we had probably left you swimming. So we hung around and watched him all day.
“But”—and here Keith’s voice dropped, and Buck Williams looked uneasy—“Old Man Blunt wouldn’t let us plan a rescue operation. He said we couldn’t be sure that you had been picked up by the sampan and that it would just be risking our lives on a hunch. There was nothing he could say, though, when that signboard of yours showed up. Matter of fact, he didn’t say anything, but he still would have no part of what we were doing. So Buck and Al and I cooked up this little operation by ourselves. I hope you don’t think it was too unorthodox.”
Keith was obviously a little anxious, for no submarine had ever made an attack in the manner Eel had. Endangering the all-important torpedo tubes, however successful the outcome, was a matter for serious concern.
“It was just right,” Richardson assured him. “You did exactly right. But what about the commodore? What do you mean, he took no part in your planning?”
Keith obviously had thought through what he was to say to this expected question. “We know he’s your old skipper and all that, and your friend too,” he said carefully, “but we’re really worried about him, sir. There’s something wrong with him. Not all the time, but part of the time. Sometimes he makes sense, and sometimes he doesn’t.” Keith’s voice, already lowered in tone, had developed a flat, monotonous quality. His wide forehead bore an unaccustomed pair of vertical creases. The gray eyes, looking steadily and unblinkingly at Richardson, were troubled. “We talked about this just the night before we dunked and left you and poor old Oregon topside. We’re sure now that the hydraulic accumulator suddenly bled down at just the wrong time and caused all the trouble. Lichtmann, Starberg, and Sargent were all three in the control room, about to drop through the hatch into the pump room, and they heard it bleed off. Along with Al, they’ve been knocking themselves out working on it ever since.”
Keith instinctively moved closer, spoke even more softly. “The commodore has told just about everybody in the wardroom that Lichtmann is sabotaging the plant on the sly. No explanation how he knows. He says it’s obvious, and that Lichtmann’s name is even German. He says if anyone catches Lichtmann fooling around with the plant, he should shoot him on the spot! It’s got so that beginning last night we set up a watch list of officers to stick with Blunt all the time. Larry relieved Buck, just now, so that all three of us could talk to you about it.”
“Nobody in the crew has heard of this yet, Skipper,” said Al, “but they know something peculiar is in the wind. There’s nobody sabotaging the hydraulic gear—that’s just the commodore’s idea. We think we know where the problem is, and we think we’re closing in on it. But nobody can work looking over his shoulder all the time for fear somebody will come along and shoot you!” Dugan was breathing deeply. He was obviously under heavy stress.
Richardson felt himself treading the edge of an abyss. Its depth could not be known, but the boundaries were clear, the paths that led to disaster well marked. If Eel’s crew were to learn of the concerns just stated, the effect would be instant. In the taut confines of a submarine on war patrol, the one all-encompassing fact, from which all others automatically flowed, was the total interdependence of all its parts, human or mechanical. The unreliability of the hydraulic system had already taken its toll in terms of effectiveness and confidence. If to this must now be added the dreadful fear of hidden disloyalty, it would be like a cancer, eating at the heart of morale. Thenceforth, no member of the crew could go about his duties in the certain knowledge, so imperative in their exposed condition, of complete support. What lookout did not already harbor the secret fear of being late to the hatch, of a miscount of persons through it, of finding it shut in his face with the boat diving? What maneuvering room electrician, receiving a signal for emergency speed, did not fear the circumstance which had caused it? What member of the crew, officer or enlisted man, upon hearing the call for battle stations did not feel a clutch of apprehension lest the enemy, this one time at last, be able to overwhelm their own best efforts?
Again, it was only their confidence in themselves and in each other, and each in all the others, that enabled this ever-present fear to be set aside. What, then, if the very basis of the tenuous fabric of cohesiveness were ripped asunder? Even if there were demonstrably no truth in the accusation against a crew member, what would be the effect of its having been voiced?
Richardson could feel himself shriveling inside as he contemplated the certain ruin that would result. No matter how carefully the thing was handled, it would be a disaster. Lichtmann might or might not have been able to create a secure position for himself during his short time with hi
s new shipmates, but there was no way he could remain unaffected if the suspicion were to become known. Richardson must, somehow, at all costs, prevent the situation from progressing further. Certainly he must get Blunt to explain the source of his suspicions and, if possible, allay them.
The greatest danger lay in the crew’s becoming aware of what it was their officers were discussing so earnestly. Keith’s action in ensuring that someone was with Blunt at all times had been the right move, but even this might become too obvious if continued much longer. Richardson would have to rescind the order soon, before either the crew or Blunt became aware of it. Perhaps he could take the surveillance duty himself—and then he realized he had already been doing so, up until the time of his enforced absence.
But he was undetermined, irresolute. What could he do? If the situation had continued to retrogress during his absence to the point now described, what could anyone do? Buck Williams was obviously waiting for a chance to say something. He might have some clue, suggest a direction in which movement was not yet foreclosed. “What do you think, Buck?”
“I’m out of it pretty much,” said Buck Williams. “All the commodore thinks and talks about is the hydraulic system, and that’s not in my department. But I sure do agree that there’s something wrong with him. He doesn’t sleep. Sits around most of the time in the wardroom smoking his pipe. Then, when he does start wandering around, we all wish he’d go back and be quiet again. I think if he could only get some sleep and relax a little bit, he’d be a lot better off. I know we’d all be.”
The comment triggered a thought in Richardson’s mind. “Keith,” he said, “who succeeded to command during my absence?”
Keith looked uncomfortable. “Well, he said he would, because he was senior officer present. But then he didn’t do anything. At first I tried to carry on as I had for you, but he wouldn’t make any decisions, except to turn us down on everything. So finally I just had to go and take care of things myself without telling him.”
“What Keith’s saying is not exactly true, Skipper,” said Buck, interrupting. “All of us told Keith that he just had to take over. Things were going to hell fast. It was a pretty serious situation down there on the bottom, and with you and Oregon gone. Our morale was already about zero. The commodore was no good at all, sir. Besides, I don’t think he even could qualify in this submarine if he took a test right now. Lots of the orders he gave we couldn’t carry out because they didn’t apply to this ship.”
“That’s right, Skipper,” said Dugan, “we just said ‘Aye aye, sir,’ to him, but then we’d ask Keith. He was the real skipper while you were gone.”
“All right, fellows,” said Rich, “I promised you I’d take care of him, and I will.” But it was an empty promise. He had no plan, no notion of how to begin or what to do. He was still covered with bandages and liniment. His mind was barely functioning. He was perilously close to admitting his inadequacy when the man on telephone watch in the compartment interrupted him.
“Captain,” he said, “there’s an op-immediate coming in for us in the radio room.”
When decoded, the message said:
INDICATIONS ARE THAT ALL YELLOW SEA TRAFFIC IS MOVING CLOSE INSHORE X MANY SMALL TO MEDIUM SIZE CARGO SHIPS CONVOYED INSHORE OF ISLANDS ON WEST COAST OF KOREA X TRAFFIC ALONG CHINESE COAST MOVING INSIDE TEN FATHOM CURVE X SPECIAL FOR BLUNTS BRUISERS X GO GET EM BOYS
-7-
“Commodore,” said Richardson, “this message is a directive to get in as close to the coast of Korea, and maybe China too, as we can. This large-scale map of the area”—he tapped for emphasis a chart laid out on the wardroom table—“is an official Japanese Navy chart that we grabbed from that patrol boat. As you can see, there’s a chain of small islands varying from five to ten miles off the west coast of Korea. We checked out the depth markings—it was simple; they’re just in meters. There’s at least two hundred feet of water all around them, all the way up to the mainland of Korea. That’s almost as deep as it is anywhere in this area. The combined submarine track chart shows that most of our submarines have concentrated on the middle of the Yellow Sea. Once the Japs realized this, it made sense to stay close in to shore whenever they could. They probably do that whether or not they think there might be a submarine somewhere around, for the little they might save by heading straight across the Yellow Sea is nothing compared to the losses they would take if just one aggressive submarine got loose in a medium-sized convoy.”
It was a regular wardroom conference, unchanged from any of the preceding ones except for ComSubPac’s recent message, a copy of which lay on the table. Blunt sat silently puffing on one of his several pipes.
Richardson and Leone had spent considerable time preparing for this conference. “Keith,” said his skipper, “show the commodore that depth-of-water overlay you worked out.” Keith produced a piece of semitransparent tissue from a folder of papers. On the tissue were outlines of some of the islands and mainland sections on the larger map, and a series of carefully printed numbers in what were obviously the water areas. “Here’s where it fits, sir,” said Keith, spreading out the tissue, flattening it carefully. He slid it about until his land-contour lines fitted over those on the chart.
“These figures are the depth of water taken from our own best American chart of the area. They’re given in fathoms, so we converted them to meters. You’ll see, sir, how close the few depths on our chart correlate to the depths the Japs have on theirs. This area being so close to their home base, the Japanese Navy made a very thorough survey, and there’s a lot more data on their chart than we have. But even though they have twenty soundings for our one, every sounding we show agrees with what they have. This means the charts must be accurate. Look what they show for the depth of water around some of these outlying islands. . . .”
The advocates talked on and on, each in turn picking up his thread of the argument.
“So, we’ve got to go here, Commodore,” Richardson was saying; “the Maikotsu Suido has just got to be on the track of every one of their convoys. It must be practically like highway number one through there. The water is deep for the Yellow Sea, even though it is inside the island chains, and the strong northerly current that’s supposed to be there can be used to our advantage.”
Blunt took the pipe out of his mouth. “One of our best boats was in there a couple of years ago. His patrol report said this was a bad place for submarines to patrol in.” They were the first words he had said for fifteen minutes.
“I know, Commodore. That was the Wahoo, and it was just under two years ago. Dornin took the Trigger in later and said the same thing. They were the only two boats to try this spot. But it doesn’t make sense that an offhand comment, even by two of our best skippers, should prevent anyone else from ever trying this area. Their fish weren’t dependable then, remember. Anyway, if both boats hadn’t used up all their torpedoes and left the area early, they’d probably have been back in there.”
The pipe was back in Blunt’s mouth. His eyes closed wearily, his head nodded. Suddenly he jerked himself upright again. Rich and Keith looked at each other. Inadequate rest was undoubtedly part of his problem.
“We’ll patrol submerged in there for a day or so, Commodore. We could tell the Whitefish to patrol outside and to the north. If we get a chance to stir things up in there, maybe the traffic will shift outside, not knowing there are two submarines, and we’ll be able to give them a one-two punch.”
Blunt’s eyes were almost glassy. He took the pipe out of his mouth again. “Nothing doing! There’s something strange going on aboard this boat, Rich! While you were working out your schemes, I’ve got into something a lot more important. Somebody is sabotaging the hydraulic system, and I’m going to catch him at it. When I do . . .” he looked significantly down and to the right, at his right hip, patted it with a slow deliberate motion. To his consternation, Richardson realized that under the submarine jacket he had worn all day he had buckled a gun belt, and at that very moment, in the w
ardroom, was armed with a holstered automatic!
A deep calm settled upon Richardson. He had hoped, by heavily involving Blunt in tactics, to divert his mind from his suspicions. The message from Admiral Small had come at just the right time. The lure of action, the necessity to concentrate upon the orders Blunt would have to give his two remaining submarines, orders which Richardson would frame for him, discuss with him, would push everything else into the background where Richardson intended the hydraulic system henceforth to remain. But obviously the scheme had failed before it had been fairly tried. Something more drastic must be done. Buck’s mention of Blunt’s extraordinary wakefulness had suggested another idea, a second plan which had been discarded in favor of the one he had been acting on. Now the secondary plan must be implemented. He affected not to see the gun, continued the conversation for a few minutes, excused himself temporarily. The headache resulting from the beatings he had taken on the patrol boat was returning, he said, and he needed some help for it. It was not, however, about his headaches that he was talking to the tall pharmacist’s mate a few minutes later.
“Yancy,” he said, “the commodore has driven himself to the point where he’s completely exhausted. Can we give him something to make him sleep for a while?” Immediately thereafter he sought out Buck Williams. As he returned to the wardroom, Williams followed him, said to the exec, “Keith, I’m going to start routining our fish up forward, but first there’s a change we want to make in the procedure. Can you come up there with me for a minute, so I can show it to you?”
Dust on the Sea Page 22
