Dust on the Sea

by Edward L. Beach

  If all went well, the first announcement of the presence of a submarine would be the crash of lethal explosions against the steel sides of enemy cargo ships. With four ships in the convoy, and four close escorts, not to mention probable air cover, only consummate skill would make possible an attack on all. He would have only ten torpedoes to shoot. From that moment on, Eel would become the subject of a relentless search by at least two, and perhaps all four, vengeful tincans. If she could remain at periscope depth there was the possibility that a modicum of the initiative might yet remain with her. The probability, on the other hand, was that she would be driven deep, or as deep as the shallow Yellow Sea would permit, there reduced to a sea-mole, blind, wandering through the watery wasteland, fearing every change in enemy propeller cadence, every shift in echo-ranging scale, as the precursor of the depth charge attack that would have Eel’s name on it.

  He would need every faculty, every capability, every intuitive sense, if he was to guide his ship and crew safely through the ordeal into which he was leading them. A querulous superior who held no responsibility for the operation of the ship, nor for the conduct of the approach and attack, could not be tolerated. He would have to be put aside even if strong methods became necessary.

  Blunt was still in the forward end of the conning tower, several feet away. Richardson crowded over behind the TDC, alongside Keith and Buck Williams. “Keith,” he hissed, “when I tell you, run down to the control room and get hold of Yancy. Tell him that if I send him a message to take charge I mean to take charge of Captain Blunt with as many men as he needs, and get him back in his bunk asleep in whatever way he has to do it.” Keith nodded his understanding. “Don’t go until I tell you to,” he finished.

  Keith nodded again.

  “What’s the distance to the track now?” Richardson said, resuming his normal voice.

  “Forty-two hundred,” said Buck.

  “Range?”

  “I’m showing—mark!—ninety-two hundred yards.”

  “Speed through water?”

  “Own speed—three and a half knots coming down slowly.”

  “Depth?” demanded Richardson.

  “We’re at ordered depth, sir,” said Keith. “Depth is five-eight feet. You haven’t looked around yet. . . .”

  “Keith, I want that bathythermograph card,” said Richardson, putting special emphasis in the words. “Jump on down and see what’s holding them up. Get it and bring it back up here yourself.” There was an understanding look in Keith’s eyes as he ran below.

  “Stand by for an observation,” said Richardson. “Radar periscope—we’ll use the fast procedure again for our next range, Scott, but this time I want you to stop it at the deck and bring it up slowly until we break water. I want to get a look around first.” Scott and Rogers nodded their comprehension.

  “Up ’scope,” said Richardson. The periscope came up, stopped with the handles just clear of the bottom of the well. On his knees, Rich extended them, bent over, his chin on the floor, to look through the ’scope. “Up a little,” he said, motioning with his thumbs, “up a little more, that’s high!” He extended his right hand palm down over the handles. Swiftly he rotated the periscope completely around, bouncing on his haunches much as a cossack sword dancer might have done, his torso and head contorted to look through the eyepiece. He made two complete circles. “All clear for now,” he said, turning around to the port bow. “Here they are. Bearing, mark!” He flipped up the handles and pointed downward with his thumbs. The periscope started down into the well.

  “Two-nine-six relative,” said Scott, who had moved to the periscope in Keith’s place to read the azimuth ring.

  Richardson made a sudden horizontal cutting motion with the palms of both hands. Quin, still wearing the telephone headset, had taken Scott’s place at the periscope hoist controls and stopped the periscope’s descent.

  “I think there’s a plane up there,” said Richardson. “No point in leaving the ’scope up too long. Now we’ll go for the radar range. Everybody ready?” Quin and Rogers nodded.

  “Bring her all the way up, Quin, until you hear Rogers sing out ‘Range,’ then drop it immediately. Don’t worry about me. You got that?” Quin had seen the procedure many times in drill, and only moments ago again, this time for real. He nodded his understanding.

  “Up periscope.” The handles were up quickly this time, since the periscope had been stopped before it had reached the bottom of the well. It rose up . . .

  “Range!” shouted Rogers. The ’scope started down. Richardson stepped clear.

  “Eight-seven-five-oh. Good range,” said Rogers.

  Buck was twirling one of the control cranks on the front of the TDC. “That was down four hundred yards,” he said, “but I was right on in bearing.”

  “Good. No zig yet. Angle on the bow is starboard thirty-five.”

  “Should be starboard thirty-four,” said Buck. “Four hundred yards’ range difference in eight minutes. That’s about one and a half knots. That puts the speed up to sixteen knots.” Carefully he turned a third knob on the TDC controls.

  “Distance to the track?”

  “Four thousand three hundred. Ten minutes since the last zig.”

  Another interminable wait. “Three minutes since the last look,” said Williams.

  “We’ll make a very fast observation this time, just to check things,” decided Richardson. “Fast procedure again. . . . Ready?” Nods of assent. “Up ’scope!”

  The ’scope came up. “Range!” shouted Rogers.

  “Zig toward!” barked Richardson. It slithered away, the hoist rod knob on the side of the periscope yoke barely grazing his forehead. He would have to be a little more agile next time, or risk a lump on his head.

  “Seven thousand yards!”

  “Three-zero-zero!”

  “They’ve just zigged,” said Richardson. “Only the leading ship has turned. Angle on the bow is starboard fifteen.”

  “Starboard fifteen,” repeated Buck, cranking another one of the handles. “That was about a twenty-five-degree zig to his right. Range was down another hundred. That gives us seventeen knots. Maybe they’ve increased speed. These guys are really pouring on the coal!” Again, he carefully and precisely adjusted his “target speed” control knob.

  “I can’t see the water line yet, but it does seem to me they’re making pretty good speed.” Richardson turned to the radar operator. “Think we can go a little deeper, Rogers?”

  “Yes, sir, that was a real good pip, that time.”

  “Control, make your depth six-oh feet.” Quin relayed the word by telephone.

  A few seconds later Al Dugan’s voice came up the hatch. “We’re at six-oh feet, Conn.”

  A good approach officer always keeps his fire control party advised of the situation topside, including the reasons for his own maneuvers and his intentions for the future. Richardson waited a few moments. Keith would be back shortly—was back, a small smoke-smudged card in his hand.

  “Here’s the bathythermograph card, Skipper,” said Keith. “It’s isothermal all the way down. I guess that’s what it had to be with this current. It’s just like the one we got this morning.” He flicked his eyes briefly to the forward part of the conning tower, where Blunt stood under the closed hatch leading to the bridge, idly holding its wire lanyard. Keith turned his eyes back to Rich, nodded ever so slightly.

  “I was afraid of that,” said Richardson, acknowledging with his eyes the nearly imperceptible signal. He raised his voice so that Blunt could also hear. “The water is isothermal all the way, Commodore. No layer. When sighted, the target was on course approximately north, running close to the coast of Korea. It’s a four-ship convoy, ships in column, with escorts ahead, astern, and on both flanks. Also, there’s an aircraft patrolling overhead. I figured the convoy for a zig to his left, which he did shortly after we sighted him. Approximately twelve minutes after that he zigged again, but this time to his right, which I really didn’t ex
pect, because that keeps him really close in to the beach. If he’s zigging every ten to twelve minutes, there’ll probably be one more zig before we get to the firing point. Most likely away, to his left, but we can’t be sure. The starboard flanking escort and the astern escort will be the ones to give us trouble. I figure to shoot right after the near escort has passed; stern tubes with a fairly large track on the leading ship, then swing around for bow tubes with a sharper track on the last three. As soon as we shoot the stern tubes, the after room will start a reload just as fast as they can, because we may need those torpedoes back there. The same with bow tubes, but the ones I’m really going to depend on immediately are the stern tubes.” He was really speaking for everyone’s benefit, pointed with emphasis at Quin, who, once again relieved from the periscope control by Scott, nodded his understanding that he was to relay this information to all stations.

  “There are four big ships in column, and four escorts. The three leading escorts are all the same type tincan. They look new. My guess is they’re the new Mikura class. They might be the same three that got the Chicolar. Anyway, they’re in about the same pattern, one ahead and one on each beam of the leading ship. They’re patrolling back and forth on station as well as following the zigzag. I can’t make out the astern escort as well. He looks a little bigger, probably an old destroyer. I’ve been making all observations on the leading ship, which is a two-stack passenger-cargo ship between eight thousand and ten thousand tons. The other three ships are ordinary freighters, somewhat smaller than the leading one. We’ll shoot three fish aft at the leading ship, depth set ten feet. The fourth torpedo aft we’ll keep in reserve with a depth setting of four feet. Then we’ll swing hard right for a quick shot, two fish each, at the last three ships. Set depth of all torpedoes forward ten feet!”

  The small audience nodded its understanding. Quin pressed the button on the top of his telephone mouthpiece, spoke into it at some length.

  “Quin,” said Richardson when the yeoman had finished, “tell the people in the forward and after torpedo rooms there are to be no torpedoes unsecured at any time, even while they’re loading them. We’ll try to keep from taking sudden angles, but the chances of a quick counterattack are pretty good, and we may have to go deep in a hurry after we shoot. I want all the special securing lines rigged on the torpedoes just as though we were reloading them on surface, and if we order silent running again, they are to stop dead and hold everything right where they are.”

  Quin nodded his alert appreciation. “All fish to be reloaded with surface reload procedure and never to be unsecured in case we get depth charged and have to take a steep angle. Hold everything if silent running is ordered,” he said. Again he pressed the button on the top of his mouthpiece, relayed the word to the torpedo rooms and, of course, simultaneously throughout the ship.

  “How long since the last look?” said Rich.

  “Two and a half minutes. Don’t forget that aircraft!”

  “Observation,” said Rich. “Radar periscope; then we’ll switch to number two at the deck, and I’ll try for a masthead height.” He glanced about the conning tower, motioned with his thumbs to Scott. “Regular procedure,” he barked. The periscope came up. He grabbed the handles, rose with it, reached a fully standing position. “Mark!” he said.

  “One-nine-two-a-half, true,” said Keith.

  “Range!” said Rogers. The periscope started down.

  “Range was five-four-double-oh,” said Rogers. Richardson stepped behind number two periscope, motioned with his thumbs for it to be raised. Behind him he could hear Buck Williams making the new insets in the TDC. “He might be going a bit faster yet,” said Buck.

  “No more than seventeen knots,” said Richardson. He was again on his knees, stooped as low as he could get. The periscope handles on the attack ’scope came into view. He grabbed them, snapped them down. The periscope was facing the wrong direction. With a quick jerk he spun it quickly, sighted on the target, turned the range crank. Keith was also on his knees on the other side of it, fingers on the dial. “Mark!” said Richardson. “Down ’scope!” He banged up the handles. The periscope started down. Both he and Keith had to throw themselves out of the way of the descending yoke to avoid being struck on the head.

  “I can see the water line clearly. That was a good masthead height reading. Did you get it, Keith?”

  “Got it,” said Keith. “Eighty-five feet. That’s a good-sized ship.”

  “Yes, she’s a beauty,” agreed Richardson. “No zig yet. Angle on the bow was starboard twenty-five.”

  “How does twenty-seven look, Skipper?” said Buck. “That puts him on course three-four-five, using seventeen knots.”

  “That looks fine, use twenty-seven. How long since the last zig, Buck?”

  Keith answered him, “Six minutes, Skipper.”

  “All right, we’ll shift to the attack periscope. Control,” said Richardson, “make your depth six-four feet! That will give us three feet of the attack periscope exposed,” said Rich in an altered tone, addressing the members of the attack party.

  “What’s the weather like topside?” asked Blunt. It was a legitimate question. Richardson should have described the weather conditions earlier.

  “Weather calm, clear, small waves about one or two feet in height, just enough to make our periscope hard to see. No whitecaps, however. The plane is on the far beam of the convoy. As we get closer I plan to come down at least one more foot.” He turned to Keith.

  “Have we completed our check-off?” he asked. Richardson would have said more, but was interrupted by the wolfpack commander.

  “How do you know those new two-stack ships can’t be making more than seventeen knots, Rich?” Blunt asked. “We have lots of merchant ships that can make at least twenty.”

  “Damn few of the older one-stackers can even make seventeen, so that’s tops for this outfit,” Richardson answered swiftly. Keith’s look told him that his exec had caught his flash of irritation, quickly masked. By contrast with the previous one, this was not a legitimate question. Later, perhaps, during a postmortem over coffee in the wardroom. Not now, with the moment of attack nearly at hand. There had been a tinge of querulousness in Blunt’s voice. Standing under the closed bridge hatch, Blunt’s eyes were glittering in the deep shadows under the bushy eyebrows. Still holding to the lanyard, he leaned forward, supporting himself on it, projecting himself toward the periscopes.

  “You said we’re close to land. What is our position? Why wasn’t I informed when we got this close in?” Blunt’s voice had risen perceptibly. His bearing communicated anger. His face was flushed, his jaw hung slack, emphasizing the wattles under his chin.

  “Check-off list is completed, sir,” said Keith, breaking in. “We’re ready to shoot bow and stern, except for opening outer doors.” Keith had seen the same signs as Richardson, was loyally trying to stave off a bad situation.

  “We’re expecting a zig,” said Richardson, taking Keith’s cue and addressing his words to the fire control party. “We’ll hold the outer doors closed for a bit more. The less time the fish are flooded in the tubes, the better they’ll run. As soon as the enemy zigs, we’ll complete preparations and be shooting almost immediately.”

  “Goddammit, Richardson, answer me! What have you been up to while I’ve been asleep?” Blunt was shouting now. His voice filled the conning tower.

  “How long since the last look?” asked Richardson. His self-control was slipping. He must not show it. Even now, if he could somehow bring this extraordinary situation under control, Eel’s crew might not fully understand the true circumstance. In the aftermath of a successful attack, the sudden contretemps in the conning tower might be relegated to one of those strange discussions between superior officers which no one could pretend to understand. But further interference on the part of Blunt could not be borne. Within minutes, two or three at the most, Eel would be firing nine of her ten loaded torpedoes. Her concealment would be shattered the moment the firs
t torpedoes found their target. She would then instantly become the hunted instead of the hunter. He would need every capability at his command to regain the initiative, to escape the sonar searchers in the four escorts—maddened because of their failure to detect Eel previously, now certain of her presence in the immediate vicinity.

  Keith was looking at him intently. The thought in his mind was leaping at him from the wide, staring eyes.

  “Richardson, I’ll not be ignored like this!” The squadron commander had left his perch on the step under the hatch, was crowding past the astounded Scott, bumping Stafford’s back where he still maintained his sonar vigil according to the most recent orders. Keith waited no longer, turned, crowded through the group in the opposite direction, and bolted through the still-open hatch leading to the control room.

  “Two minutes since last look!” Williams, automatically picking up for the absent Leone. No doubt Buck had taken it all in, just the way Keith had, was trying to be of assistance. Not only with Captain Blunt, but also to keep the approach in hand. Blunt was standing alongside Rich. His eyes were glaring, his breath coming in short, noisy, low-pitched whistles through his partly open mouth.

  The charade must be played out. At least, keep him occupied until Keith and Yancy returned. “Commodore, would you like a quick look?” With his thumb, Richardson motioned to Scott. The periscope began its ascent. Stooping—that gave him something to do for a few seconds—Rich grasped the handles. He swung the ’scope around toward Blunt, with his free hand propelled him toward it much as he might one of Eel’s own officers, and ranged himself in Keith’s position on its back side. Blunt could not prevent the intuitive, habitual move of hooking his right elbow around one handle, placing his left hand upon the other, affixing his eye to the rubber guard.

  “Around this way, sir,” muttered Richardson, waiting only long enough to be sure Blunt was firmly attached in the familiar position to the periscope. “This should be the bearing of the leading ship.”