“Go on over to a fifteen-degree down angle, Keith. We’ve got to get as deep as we can as quick as we can. Al, see that the sound heads are rigged in. We may hit bottom with this steep angle.”
“Aye!” said Dugan as he reached again for the announcing microphone. “Rig in the sound heads,” he ordered. “Forward torpedo room, bear a hand! Rig in the sound heads immediately. We may hit bottom. Report by telephone when they are rigged in.”
Instead of easing off on the stern planes to level the ship after her initial dive, as was the ordinary procedure, the stern planesman under Keith’s direction grimly held the stern planes in the “full dive” position. Eel’s deck continued to tilt down even more.
“All ahead emergency!” barked Richardson, vectoring his voice up the hatch to the conning tower. They could feel the increased bite of the electric motors as the electrician’s mates opened their rheostats wide.
“We’ll lose the bubble in the small-angle indicators, Captain,” said Dugan. “It goes out at ten degrees.”
“Let it,” said Rich. “Shift to the large-angle indicators. Pass the word to all hands to rig ship for steep angle. The planes will figure to catch us within a few seconds after we’ve completely submerged, and they’ll expect that we won’t be very deep by that time. We’ve got to get just as deep as we can—left full rudder!” He explained the order tersely. “Got to get off the track. Coming in from ahead and astern that way means they’re geared to drop their eggs right on line and ahead of our diving point. Can’t help it if it slows up our dive a little.”
The water which had recently fallen upon the control room deck had mixed with the carefully applied wax of a previous, less strenuous period. The linoleum deck had become slippery. The fifteen-degree dive angle, relatively shallow when drawn on a sheet of paper, assumed a strenuous, perceptibly out-of-horizontal attitude. Al Dugan braced himself against the corner of the table, still trying to peel off his outer clothing. Keith and Rich gripped the steep steel ladder, now leaning well past the perpendicular, which led from the control room to the conning tower. At its top the watertight hatch had been closed in response to the order to rig for depth charge. The two tool benches with padded tops, normally located on the deck just before the diving panel to provide seats for the men operating the bow and stern planes, had begun to slide on the deck. One of the lookouts, not immediately occupied, ranged himself forward of them, one hand gripping the side of the control room table, braced the other against the forward-most bench, kept them from slipping farther. Keith cast him a grateful glance.
“Seven-oh feet,” said Keith. “Fifteen degrees down bubble. Forty-five seconds since we dived.” The lookout whose place he had taken had by now removed his parka and foul-weather jacket, moved silently into position on the bow planes. Keith stepped back a foot.
“Fifty seconds,” he said. “She’s going down fast now.”
“Make your depth two hundred feet, Keith,” said Rich. “Hold your angle for a while, though, until passing about one hundred fifty feet.”
All watched the depth gauges as, with excruciating slowness, they moved onward to the safe haven of the depths.
Richardson was doing some rapid mental calculations. “At fifteen degrees down bubble, the stern of the boat is about seventy-five feet higher than the bow, or roughly fifty feet higher than the control room, where the depth gauge is. That means our stern has only been out of sight for about ten seconds. We put the rudder over just about the right moment—there won’t have been time for any noticeable change of course to be noted by the attacking aircraft. Since then we’ve changed course about thirty degrees to the left, which means we’re about one hundred yards off the track already, except that the stern is probably only about fifty yards off the track.”
There was a metallic thud followed by a clatter of loose objects from somewhere below. Muffled oaths came up through the hatch grating in the control room deck. A toolbox had slipped its moorings and had fallen to the deck in the pump room, no doubt bursting open and strewing its contents all about. Rich could imagine the cooks in their galley, one compartment aft, bracing themselves to hold dinner on the stoves. In the torpedo rooms, at least, the four torpedoes remaining were secured in the torpedo tubes, with tail buffers up tight. There was consequently no chance that a torpedo, poorly secured in a rack, perhaps with a faulty securing strap (a number had broken just in normal use), might get loose. He found himself thinking that the initial kick of the rudder would of course have been to starboard, and the propeller wash, no doubt visible on the surface, would probably have first indicated an apparent change of course to the right. A trained naval pilot, however, would not have been fooled. The propeller wash must still be coming to the surface. Sixty seconds had passed. The depth bombs must have been released into the water.
“Passing one-five-zero feet,” said Keith.
“Take the angle off the boat, Keith. Zero bubble.”
“Stern planes on full rise,” ordered Keith. Obediently the stern planesman, still swathed in his heavy rainclothes and submarine jacket, his face now covered with large globules of sweat, reversed the direction in which he was holding his control wheel.
“Ease the rudder,” ordered Rich. “Rudder amidships!” Eel was now some forty-five degrees away from her initial heading, and with her rudder amidships and her unusual down-by-the-nose attitude coming off rapidly, her speed went up another notch, to nearly nine knots. Nine knots to outrun an airplane coming twenty times as fast!
“Sixty-five seconds,” someone said. If they were dropping, they had already done so. Sonar, which might have heard the charges hitting the water, was of course blind, because the retractable heads below the keel had been housed. At this speed they could hear nothing anyhow. The acoustic frequency head mounted topside had been manned when the submarine dived, but its operator could hear only the wild roar of water through which the submarine was tearing at maximum submerged speed. It would not be long—it could not be long—they must have dropped. . . .
WHAM! A tremendous, side-splitting, careening blow! The fifteen-degree down angle which Eel had assumed had already perceptibly lessened, and it was no longer necessary to hold on to the steel ladder which they had previously been holding so tightly. Rich and Keith were, however, still gripping it, and they could feel it buckle within their grasp and then spring back to its original shape. The full shock of the depth charge seemed thus to have been communicated directly into their own bodies. Al Dugan, less securely braced, had perhaps felt the shock less but was nevertheless thrown to the floor. Something had gone wrong in the pump room. The sound of an electric motor increasing rapidly in speed, the normally inconspicuous whir of its running rising violently in pitch until it nearly resembled a police siren. This could be disastrous. Through the cloud of dust raised by the explosion and the confusion occasioned by the shock of its nearness, Rich was conscious of Keith and the planesmen standing steadily to their posts, rocked though they were, yet desperately fighting to maintain control of their leaping, quivering equipment. Throughout the ship the men on watch must be going through the same thing, silently and desperately, pitting their wits and their training against the blow of the enemy.
WHAM! A second explosion, louder even than the first. Then, almost coming on top of each other, WHAM! WHAM! Two more, slightly less loud.
“Stern planes jammed on full rise!” The stern planesman’s desperate shout instantly brought Keith and Richardson to his side.
“All stop!” shouted Richardson. This would at least eliminate the wash of the emergency ahead propellers against the stern planes immediately behind them, would reduce their upward thrust, which would otherwise have Eel on the surface within seconds.
“Shift to hand power!” snapped Keith. Releasing his control wheel, the stern planesman grabbed the shift lever, tried to pull it out of its socket in order to place it in the hand-power position. It would not move. Keith and Richardson placed their hands over his on the handle, braced their f
eet on the diving panel, pulled with the combined strength of three men. It snapped loose, and together the three shoved it into the hand-power position. Swiftly Keith reached for the folded-in cranking handle on the periphery of the four-foot-diameter stern plane wheel, pulled it out against its spring, set it into its socket. He and the stern planesman each placed both hands upon it, leaned their entire weight into the wheel, began laboriously, wordlessly, and with frantic speed, to crank it against heavy resistance toward the zero position.
Al Dugan, having picked himself up from the floor, joined Richardson. Keith and the stern planesman were cranking furiously. The stern plane angle indicator was moving, though very much more slowly than under hydraulic power.
WHAM! Another depth charge, and a few seconds later, WHAM! A sixth. No one paid any attention. The emergency was in the stern planes. They must be leveled before the boat took the up angle which could spell disaster. Already the fifteen-degree down angle had been reduced to zero. Now it was going the other way. Rich noticed with approval that the bow planesman, very much aware of the desperate struggle taking place immediately to his left and watching it with an intent look of dismay, had instinctively and without orders turned his bow plane wheel to “dive” to counteract the effect of the stern planes. At least, he still had control in hydraulic power, and since the propellers had been stopped, the immense effect of the stern planes upon the attitude of the submarine would be lessened. Normally, the submerged maneuvering convention was that bow planes control the depth of the submarine and stern planes its angle. Richardson put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good work, Smitty,” he said. Under the stress of the moment, unhabitual use of the man’s nickname came naturally. He turned his attention back to the stern plane wheel. The indicator was now nearing zero, indicating that the vital control surface had been restored to its neutral position.
“Good going, Keith,” said Richardson. “And the same for you, Blackwood,” addressing the perspiring and panting stern planesman. He was still dressed in the heavy clothing he had worn for his lookout stint on the bridge, and must obviously be pouring with sweat inside. It was hot in the control room. With all the doors and hatches shut and all bulkhead valves closed in the ventilation lines, there was no circulation of air. Less than two minutes before, Blackwood had been near to freezing on the bridge. Now he was roasting down below.
“All ahead one-third,” said Rich. “Do you want to see if you can put the stern planes back in hydraulic power?”
“We’ll try it,” said Keith. “What do you think the trouble was, Al?”
“My guess is that the depth charge went off pretty near to the stern planes while they were on hard rise, and jammed them into the stops. Didn’t you find it pretty hard to crank them clear in hand?” said Al.
“Right,” said Keith, while Blackwood nodded. “They went much easier once we started them moving.”
Richardson crossed to the general-announcing-system control station, punched the call button for the after torpedo room. “Stern room,” he said into the microphone, “is there any visible damage to the stern plane ram or hydraulic system?”
“Negative, Control,” said a voice immediately. “One of those depth charges sounded like it was right alongside, and it really gave them a jolt, but everything looks okay.”
“All right,” said Keith. “Go ahead and shift, Blackwood, but stand by to shift right back into hand power if you don’t have control in hydraulic.”
Gravely Blackwood operated the shift mechanism, tested his plane, nodded, reported to Keith, “Stern planes look okay, sir. I have control in hydraulic power.”
“Good,” said Rich. Then, addressing Keith, “Make your depth two-zero-zero feet. I daresay those planes will stick around awhile, so we’ll just stay down here until they’ve had a chance to get tired. Have all compartments check for damage and report.”
As was to be expected, the close shave with the two aircraft was the main topic of conversation throughout the ship. There had, however, been no damage. A fuse had been knocked out of the field circuit of one of the air compressor motors, causing it nearly to run away, but Lichtmann, on watch in the pump room, had been on the point of cutting off the air compressors anyway, as was routine on a dive. He had managed to cut the armature current before any serious damage had been done. It would be well, however, to check it carefully, Dugan reported, before using that particular air compressor again. Fortunately, the pump room harbored two of the vital mechanisms.
“At least, Commodore,” said Richardson, trying to make as light as he could of the incident, “they obviously had located us earlier, and carefully planned this attack. That means our decoy plan is working.”
“Too damn well, if you ask me,” responded Blunt. “Whitey Everett better have something to show for this, is all I can say!”
The wolfpack commander’s words were not a witticism. The two were having coffee alone in the wardroom. Clearly, Richardson’s scheme had gone too far for Blunt’s peace of mind. He must move carefully to avoid driving him back into the unrealistic state he had been in. Obviously, something serious, either psychological or physical, was happening to him. Keith had stated the obvious fact: stress of any kind was destructive to him.
Indeed, Richardson had already decided that the ComSubPac directive not to dive until the APR contact strength had reached three was obviously not applicable if an aircraft had previous knowledge of the submarine’s presence. During an attack run it would naturally reduce the strength of its radar signals to avoid alerting a radar detector aboard the target submarine. Henceforth, Eel would dive at strength one, or upon any persistent APR contact, whatever the strength. . . . He hoped there would be a message from Whitefish that night indicating that the stratagem carried out at so much risk had been successful.
But Whitefish sent no message. Instead was a message from ComSubPac:
RECENT BIG FUSS IN YELLOW SEA MUST BE DUE TO EFFECTIVE AREA COVERAGE AND SINKINGS BY BLUNTS BRUISERS X INDICATIONS INTENSIFIED ANTISUBMARINE ACTIVITY BY AIR PATROLS X CONVOYS STILL MOVING ON WEST COAST OF KOREA ALSO CHINA COAST CLOSE INSHORE X GREAT WORK JOE COMSUBPAC SENDS X
“They must be going around Whitey, Commodore,” said Richardson. “He’s in the Maikotsu Suido, all right, probably right in the middle of it. But this message says the ships are running close inshore, and my guess is they’re staying just as close to shore as they can get. They’re probably moving at night also, which could be another reason he’s not picking them up.” Rich had strenuously protested against requiring Whitefish to send radio messages. Japanese direction-finding stations had doubtless been alerted to locate the submarine in the Yellow Sea. If they should now recognize that there were two subs to worry about instead of only one, the risk to both would be intensified and the chance of targets for either greatly reduced. Eel could send messages for the time being, he had argued, for the presence of one submarine in the Yellow Sea was known; doing so, in fact, was desirable to draw attention away from the location of her wolfpack mate.
“I recommend we send Whitefish a message tonight that we’re coming in to join her in the Maikotsu Suido,” announced Richardson soberly. “We can send the message while we’re still out here, and tell her not to receipt for it or open up her radio in any way. We have four fish left, and if we’re lucky, we might be able to bag another ship. If we can get one out of a convoy running along the coast, that will divert the rest of them offshore into the middle of the Maikotsu Suido, and that’s where Whitefish will be waiting for them.” Rich could see that Blunt was somewhat less than enthusiastic.
“Why don’t we just tell Whitefish to go into shallow water?” said Blunt.
Richardson could feel his eyes narrowing. If Blunt could not see the obvious, somebody had to tell him. “Listen to me,” he said; then suddenly he realized that his voice had taken on much the same timbre as when he had protested Blunt’s callous comments about Joan and Cordelia Woods. “Listen: Les Hartly lost his ass and his ship because he
didn’t know his business! It was our job to square him away, and we didn’t do it. He thought he knew all the answers because he’d been a skipper a long time, but a lot of things have changed since he made war patrols. He ran into a bear trap without even knowing what was going on, and they nailed him. It’s just the opposite with Whitey Everett. This is his first command. He’s not sure of himself. He’s good at the periscope, but he’s never made a surface attack at night, and you know he won’t. He’ll never go after those ships in shallow water, either, and we’ll just waste the rest of our time out here in the area. Dammit, Commodore, we’ve got to back in there! We know where the enemy is, and that’s where we’ve got to go!” The intensity of Richardson’s words clearly surprised the squadron commander. A lot depended upon Blunt’s reaction to Richardson’s harsh words. His mention of Les Hartly had been just right. Blunt hesitated. Rich moved in for the kill.
“Commodore, Les was away from the war too long. Things changed a great deal while he was in Mare Island getting the Chicolar ready. In a different way, the same thing is the problem with Whitey. Hardly anybody has figured everything out on his first patrol in command. Even you, sir. This is your first war patrol. You get to have a feel for the enemy after you’ve been fighting them. You can’t get it by reading patrol reports. Keith and I are the experienced ones. This is the sixth war patrol for me and the ninth for Keith. We know what we can do, and we know what the enemy can do. ComSubPac has some experienced skippers on his staff. He knows, too. He is practically ordering us to go into the shallow water after them, and he’s right.”
The squadron commander said nothing. His eyes flickered twice as he listened. Richardson realized he had carried the day. In a very real sense, command of the wolfpack had now passed to him. The patrol had already cost something in terms of mutual respect and friendship—this would merely add a little more to the price—but the way was clear for him to put his scheme into execution.
Dust on the Sea Page 34
