Dust on the Sea

by Edward L. Beach

  “Bearing, mark!” said Blunt, twitching the periscope barrel a fraction of a degree. Relief flooded through Richardson. The tone of voice and the action were those of the Blunt of old. “Range, mark!” Blunt had dropped his right hand to the range knob, was turning it.

  “Four-nine-double-oh!” read Richardson, matching the just-determined enemy masthead height against the periscope range dial. Williams looked up suddenly from the TDC, jerked his head around toward the periscope. His hand flew to the range input crank of the computer, but the look on his face was one of puzzled inquiry. Clearly, the range just called out by Richardson did not agree with that generated by the Torpedo Data Computer. Rich shook his head. With relief, Buck dropped the range crank, reached to the face of the TDC, pointed to the target-bearing dial, nodded his head vigorously. Good for Buck! The bearing, at least, was right on.

  “Angle on the bow, starboard twenty-five!” said Blunt. Again Buck nodded. Blunt’s observation as to the attitude of the leading ship was approximately the same as that predicted by the TDC. A quick-thinking young man, that Buckley Williams. The ’scope had been up ten seconds. Now to get it down. How to cause Blunt to order it down. Leaving it up unnecessarily was not only anathema to submariners; it was, under the circumstances, dangerous. All Blunt’s submarine instincts should cause him to lower it, now that a routine observation had been completed. Three more seconds passed. There was a control lever in parallel with the one Scott and Quin had been using, secreted in the dark overhead alongside the periscope—the one used by the OOD during routine submerged patrolling when there was no battle stations personnel to do it for him. Blunt showed no sign as yet of giving up his view through the instrument. Rich pulled the handle gently toward him. The periscope began to descend ever so slightly. Blunt would feel the slow movement; perhaps the thought would communicate itself to him. . . .

  “Down ’scope!” Blunt stepped back, snapped up the periscope handles as Richardson jerked the lever and the long silver tube dropped away.

  “Looks like a beautiful approach, Rich. You’re in a perfect position to get all four of those bastards!” Blunt was rubbing his hands together with pleasure. “How I wish I were still young enough to take a boat on patrol! You young fellows are having all the fun!” The aging face was alight. The jaw muscles no longer looked flabby. In the space of a few seconds, ten years might have dropped from him. Richardson was barely able to conceal his astonishment at the precipitant right-about-face in his attitude, but temporary deliverance from a problem for which he could not, in the short time available, think of a permanent solution, supplied an even greater emotion, of relief.

  Keith was coming up the ladder from the control room. Behind him was someone tall, and behind him, a third person, short, powerful, and black—Yancy and Chief Commissary Steward Woodrow, in charge of the wardroom, in charge of all the provisions on board as well, and one of the most respected men in the ship.

  Yancy carried a small cardboard box in his hand. Woodrow had a rolled-up blanket under his arm and two uniform web belts over his shoulder. Keith also had picked up a pair of web belts, Richardson saw, as for the second time in half a minute he made a signal of negation. He pointed back down the hatch, saw the grateful looks of the two enlisted men as they went back below. They could not have much relished the job they had been about to carry out.

  Keith’s arrival in the midst of the fire control group caused a certain amount of shuffle among the tightly packed men, and in the process Richardson found the opportunity to maneuver Blunt back to his old position under the hatch—the only free space in the conning tower—while Richardson himself shouldered past Rogers on the radar console to where Stafford stood watch on the sonar. He leaned over to speak to him. Stafford, probably the only person in the conning tower to have been totally unconscious of the difficult situation just past, pulled away one earpiece to listen.

  “Stafford,” said Rich, “can you hear them okay?”

  “Yes sir, I can hear them fine. The leading ship has twin screws, I think, and the others—I can’t hear them quite as well because they’re behind him—I think they’re single-screw ships. I can hear three escorts, too. All the tincans have twin screws.”

  “The nearest escort, the one we need to worry about most, bears around two-zero-zero true. The other one that I’m worried about bears around two-four-five. He’s the leading escort. I think that one will probably pass well clear ahead, but the one on two-zero-zero might come pretty close to us. Keep on that one, and let me know if you notice any change in what he’s doing, either ping interval or speed, or anything.” Stafford nodded, replaced the earphone over his right ear. Richardson crossed back aft to the after end of the conning tower, crowded in alongside of Keith and Buck at the TDC.

  Behind both of them, facing in the opposite direction, Larry Lasche toiled at an automatic plot board. Rich heard him as he spoke over his shoulder: “Buck, I’m getting seventeen knots overall. Target course for this leg, three-four-zero.”

  “I’ve got three-four-five, seventeen knots, Larry,” answered Williams. “Looks pretty good.”

  “What’s the distance to the track?” said Richardson.

  “Twenty-six hundred yards.”

  “We’ll have to turn toward a little more,” said Richardson, addressing both Leone and Williams. “We have to maneuver for this stern tube shot and at the same time not close the track too much in case they zig toward.”

  The face of the TDC contained a number of dials, the two most prominent of which represented the target and the Eel, on converging courses. Somewhere to the left of the target dial, all three men knew, there lay an escort, zigzagging back and forth irregularly as it patrolled on station to starboard of its charge. It would pass nearly overhead shortly before the time to shoot.

  Rich raised his voice. “Left full rudder,” he said, “make your new course one-nine-zero.”

  “One-nine-zero,” responded Cornelli, swinging the stainless-steel steering wheel. Obediently the “own-ship” dial on the face of the TDC began to turn counterclockwise, finally settled with the bow of the miniature submarine aligned with the number 190 on a surrounding dial.

  “Time since the last look?”

  “Two and a half minutes,” said Keith. “About nine minutes since the last zig.” Keith also was ignoring the data from Blunt’s observation of half a minute previous.

  “Steady on one-nine-zero!” said Cornelli.

  “Observation,” said Richardson. “Up periscope. Number two.” The periscope started up. Once again he had to ignore the muscular pain as he went through the deep knee bend ritual, motioned with his hand to Scott to stop it just before it had reached its full height. “Bearing, mark!” he said.

  “One-nine-five,” said Keith.

  “Range”—turning the range dial on the side of the periscope—“mark! Down periscope.” The periscope dropped away.

  “Four-three-double-oh,” said Keith.

  “Angle on the bow starboard thirty,” said Rich. “No zig yet. The near escort bears about ten degrees to the left of the main target, angle on the bow zero. He’s patrolling on station as before. The aircraft is circling the convoy.”

  “Speed checks at seventeen knots,” said Buck.

  “Plot gets seventeen knots,” said Lasche.

  “Target course three-four-five,” said Buck. “Distance to the track two-one-double-oh.”

  “This may turn out to be a long-range shot,” said Richardson. “I’m concerned about this near escort. If the convoy zigs away, we’ll have to close the track more, which will force us to a speed burst. We’ll be broadside to him, too. If the convoy zigs toward us a little, we’re in a perfect position, but if it zigs too much, it may run right over us. How long since the last zig?”

  “Eleven minutes,” said Keith.

  “Time since last look?”

  “One minute.”

  “Up periscope,” said Rich. “I’ll take a look around.” He grabbed the periscope handl
es as soon as they came up out of the well, kept the periscope down low, spun it around rapidly. “All clear,” he said. “Up!” He motioned with his thumbs. The periscope started up. “Bearing, mark!” he said. “Range, mark! Down ’scope. No zig yet.”

  “Checks right on,” said Buck.

  “How’s the near escort, Skipper?” asked Keith.

  “Looks like he’ll pass astern,” said Richardson. “Distance to the track?”

  “Nineteen hundred yards,” said Buck.

  “We can’t swing around to the right any more for our stern tubes, because there’ll be a zig any minute,” said Richardson. “Control,” he spoke more loudly, “make your depth six-five feet.” In a more normal tone he said, “That will barely let me see over the top of the small waves we’ve got up there. It’ll also give us a little more clearance in case he runs over us—up periscope!”

  “It’s a zig away!” said Richardson. Through the periscope he could see the bulk of the leading ship begin to lengthen. She was riding low on the water, belching smoke again, heeling over slightly toward him in her turn. A quick turn of the periscope to the nearest escort showed it also with the starboard side in view. He had evidently turned a little sooner. Astern, three freighters were plowing along in the original path, evidently planning to turn in column as before, when they reached the knuckle in the water where the leader had put over his rudder.

  “This changes everything,” said Rich as the periscope descended into its housing. “Right full rudder! All ahead full!” He turned to Buck. “Starboard sixty! Give me a course for a thirty gyro, bow tubes, on the leading ship, one-twenty starboard track. We’ll shoot three each at the first and second ships and try to get the stern tubes off at the third ship!”

  “Course for thirty right gyros, one-twenty starboard track, bow tubes: two-two-zero!” said Buck, figuring swiftly with his fingers on the dials on the face of his TDC.

  “Make your new course two-two-zero!” ordered Rich. He waited to hear Cornelli’s acknowledgment from the forward end of the control room, then spoke swiftly to Keith. “So far, the near escort has shown no signs of detecting us, but he may pass very nearly overhead. The reason for not swinging farther is to give us a chance to get around for a stern tube shot afterward.”

  “Right! Where’s the escort now?”

  “He’s over on our port bow with a starboard angle,” answered Richardson. “But we’re speeding up and closing him.” Richardson turned, quickly stepped forward to the sonar again. “Stafford,” he said, “keep your gear on that near escort. What’s he bear now?”

  “Two-one-zero,” responded Stafford, obediently swinging the sonar head dial to the left.

  “Very well. Keep your bearings on that fellow coming in. I want him to pass ahead.”

  “Aye aye,” said Stafford. “Bearing two-one-zero.”

  “Steady on two-two-zero,” sang out Cornelli.

  “What’s the range now?” said Richardson, stepping quickly aft again.

  “Twenty-five hundred yards TDC,” said Buck. “Distance to the track fifteen hundred yards. Gyros right ten, increasing.”

  “All ahead one-third!”

  “Speed through water, four and a half knots,” said Keith.

  “Escort bears two-one-five,” said Stafford.

  “Keith, finish the rig for silent running except for the torpedo rooms. Secure the ventilation. Rig all compartments for depth charge, but leave the hatch to the control room open for the time being.” He swung back to Buck. “What’s the speed through water now?” he said.

  “Four knots.”

  Still too fast to put the periscope up. The feather it would make splashing through the seas would surely be detected by the escort, now close aboard and coming nearly directly for them. He would have to wait for Eel to slow down a little more. On the other hand, he was nearly at the firing point. Things were moving rapidly. He cocked his head as if he could visually appraise the situation going on on the surface of the sea above. The main target would now be nearly broadside on, and in perfect position for firing. The three ships in column astern would by now have reached the turning point. Each in succession would have made its turn onto the new course. The near escort, close on the port bow, was closing in even more, but might pass ahead.

  “Escort bearing two-one-five,” said Stafford again.

  This was bad. The escort was patrolling his own station back and forth, superimposing a random zigzag plan upon the more formal zigzag plan being carried out by the convoy. Two successive sonar bearings of the same value indicated that he was now heading directly toward Eel. Possibly his sonar operator had detected something suspicious in the water.

  “Escort bearing two-one-four,” from Stafford.

  “Speed through water?” he said to Buck. He could read it almost as well himself, but it helped to have someone else do it for him.

  “Three and a half knots.”

  “Keith, I’m going to make one more observation, and then we’ll be shooting. Also, I’ve got to try to find that aircraft again. This is not a shooting observation, but open the outer doors forward anyway.”

  “Open outer doors forward, aye aye,” said Keith. “We’re ready to shoot in all respects, Captain, as soon as we get the outer doors open.”

  “Up periscope,” said Richardson. The scope came up. As before, he rode it up, swung it all around rapidly, steadied it on the port bow for a second. “Bearing, mark!” he said. “Down ’scope.”

  “Two-three-oh,” said Keith. “No range. Did you get a range?”

  “No range,” said Richardson. “That was the main target. The aircraft is clear to starboard. The escort is about thirty degrees to the left. He’ll be passing overhead very soon.”

  “Escort bearing two-one-four,” said Stafford.

  “Outer doors are open forward, Captain,” said Keith.

  “Be sure all periscopes are all the way down,” said Richardson. “The tincan will pass overhead in a few seconds.”

  All inside the conning tower could feel the tension which had suffused the air. With the securing of the blowers the noise level had dropped perceptibly. The air suddenly felt dead. The temperature rose. People spoke in lower voices simply in reaction to the atmosphere in which they moved.

  “Escort bears two-one-five,” said Stafford, his voice sounding unusually loud in the sudden stillness. “Still pinging the same. He’s close aboard now.”

  He had not detected them. That was good. Everyone in the conning tower could hear the propellers resounding through the water. The Eel was nearly broadside to his approach. An alert sonar watch perhaps should have recognized a return echo. A change in his ping rate or his propeller speed would betray his interest.

  “He’s pinging steadily, long range,” said Stafford. “No change in rpm.”

  Thum, thum, thum, thum, from the propellers. Growing louder, ever louder. This was Eel’s time of greatest danger. No doubt depth charges were carried at the ready, and even now, if a submarine were detected only a few hundred yards ahead, a devastating blow could be dealt her.

  Thum, thum, thum, went the propellers. Louder and louder. Thum-thum-thum! Close aboard now. THUM-THUM-THUM-THUM-THUM-THUM-THUM-THUM!

  “Tincan passing overhead!” said Stafford.

  There was a swish of water through Eel’s superstructure. The submarine rocked gently in the destroyer’s wake. The escort had passed, after all, not more than a few feet away from where they stood.

  In the sudden stillness in the conning tower Blunt was staring from the forward starboard corner where he had stationed himself, still gripping the lanyard to the hatch. His face was beaded with sweat. Richardson tossed him a quick smile. Except for the fact that this was very much for real, Blunt had experienced it many times. “He’s gone by,” Rich said. “This is a shooting observation. Stand by forward.”

  “Shooting observation. Stand by forward,” echoed Keith. Quin repeated the same in the telephone, giving emphasis to his voice as he transmitte
d the order.

  “Range fifteen hundred, gyros thirty right, torpedo run eighteen-fifty,” said Buck.

  “Up periscope,” said Richardson. He laid the vertical cross hair of the periscope directly between the stacks of his target. He was a complete automaton, and yet his mind encompassed the fact that the ship was crowded with people—soldiers, from the general olive-drab appearance—and was heavily laden. Millions of Japanese yen and untold hours of Herculean labor had gone into building her. She was obviously a new ship, probably completed after the beginning of the war. She had recently been repainted. She was a thing of pride to her skipper. She was doomed. Explosion, fire, drowning lay in the cross hair that he carefully, coldly, placed upon her.

  “Mark!” he said.

  “Zero-two-three-a-half,” said Keith.

  “Set,” said Buck.

  “Shoot,” said Richardson. “Down periscope!”

  “Fire one!” said Keith.

  “Fire one!” shouted Quin into his telephone.

  Keith was leaning on the firing button built into the side of Eel’s conning tower, just forward of the TDC. “Number one fired electrically!” announced Quin. Everyone in the conning tower had felt the jolt transmitted to the sturdy fabric of Eel’s hull when the torpedo had been expelled.

  Keith released the firing key. “Stand by two,” he said.

  Lasche was counting off the seconds. “. . . Eight . . . nine . . . ten.”

  “Fire two” sang out Keith.

  “Number two fired electrically,” reported Quin.

  “. . . Nine . . . ten . . .”

  “Fire three!”

  The jolt of the torpedo departing. Quin reporting the message from the torpedo room that the third torpedo had been fired electrically. Had this not happened, the chief in the torpedo room would instantly have fired it manually. Larry Lasche, counting out the seconds between torpedoes to ensure they were not fired too closely together.

  “All torpedoes running hot, straight, and normal,” announced Stafford, playing his sound head-dial back and forth over a small arc, oblivious to the fact that “hot,” at least, could refer only to the old steam and compressed-air torpedoes.