Dust on the Sea

by Edward L. Beach

  “Range to escort,” one thousand.” Keith’s voice from the conning tower hatch. The escort was now clearly in view just forward of Eel’s port beam. For a few minutes Rich had been wondering whether she might indeed be one of the Mikura-class frigates. In this case, he would again have to revise his estimates as to her size, armament, and draft—upward this time. He could see her clearly now. Her silhouette had broadened. She was nearly broadside-to again. She was a twin of the first escort Eel had sunk, might well be one of the two survivors of that attack. All three had been identical.

  The ASW ship was not quite as long as Eel and probably was smaller in displacement. No doubt she was designed to outrun the submarine in a fair chase. She was big enough to carry a heavy gun of some sort, at least one four-inch (the briefing had specified such a gun), plus various rapid-fire weapons of her own. Eel would have to fire first, and effectively, immediately following the moment of surprised recognition to knock her out before she got her own guns going.

  It had been about five minutes since the escort had come into view. She still gave no indication she had seen the ungainly silhouette off to her port side. Freed of the hurried pace of the periscope observations, Richardson could look her over carefully. She was a handsome ship, low to the water, her long clean side unbroken by any hint of portholes or other penetrations. Her forecastle was sharply raked, with a rather large square bridge set at least a third of the way aft from the bow. Amidships a single fat smokestack squatted incongruously, its height not quite equal to that of the bridge structure. There was some kind of a gun forward on the forecastle, but it was trained fore and aft, with no sign of anyone preparing it for combat. Abaft the bridge, around the stack and all the way to the square flat stern, was an indistinguishable jumble of top hamper and deck gear. He thought he could distinguish depth charge racks on the very stern, but of this he could not be sure.

  Detail after detail stood out. Strange that he could see clearly, and yet there was no indication Eel had been seen. Doubtless the much smaller size of Eel’s silhouette, the fact that it was obscured by the dark hills behind it, that the enemy escort was outlined against the nothingness of the sea and the heavy sky, must be the determining factors. That and the matter of initiative. The Japanese had had no indication there was an enemy submarine waiting outside their harbor, no doubt were still settling down to their sea routine. Eel, on the other hand, had been primed for desperate action for three days, her every sensing capability at maximum alertness. Clearly audible was the gentle slap of waves splashing under the wooden slats of Eel’s main deck. Eel’s ventilation sets had never seemed louder. Her air-conditioning machinery sounded as if all its gears were stripped, and he could hear the rhythmic beat of the compressors. Likewise, he could hear the enemy escort’s engines, diesels from the sound of them, their loud stutter borne in over the water, intensified by the acuteness of his senses.

  “Bridge,” said Keith through the hatch, “target is at new CPA, range nine-five-oh, steady course.”

  There was still a very real danger that Eel would be seen as the destroyer swept past. Perhaps an after lookout would be more alert than those forward. Nevertheless, the likelihood from now on would diminish. Richardson had been holding his breath for nearly a minute. Three fifty-caliber, two twenty-millimeter and two forty-millimeter guns were still trained on her, were silently following her. They would continue to do so for a few minutes longer, but already the extraordinarily black night was beginning to close around the little ship. In a few minutes she would be swallowed by darkness again. Her outlines were growing hazy. He expelled a second long-held breath. Now she was gone.

  “Range to escort one-four-five-oh, Bridge, opening. No change in course.”

  Richardson again twice clicked the bearing buzzer built into the handle of the port TBT. This would let Keith know that he had heard and acknowledged the report. He would, however, keep his gun crews on the alert for a few minutes longer, for insurance. . . .

  “Range to leading ship four-six-five-oh, Bridge. Plot still shows him on the same course. The near escort is now at two thousand yards, still going away. He’s drawn up abeam of the last ship in column.”

  The danger had not materialized. Suddenly, unaccountably, Richardson almost wished it had. Nothing could have withstood the surprise fusillade of automatic fire Eel had been ready to lay upon her—he caught himself up short. Was this after all so very different from the fate he had dealt Bungo Pete? Or was it the old death wish in another guise? There was an ebbing of feeling within him, a wearying. The adrenalin flow was dissipating, and with it his sense of mission and combat. A deep yawn forced his jaws agape. Sleep would be delicious.

  But there was work yet to be done. He moved to the bridge microphone, pressed the button. “Keith,” he said, “give me a course and speed to trail. I’d like to stay about seven thousand yards astern of the last ship, but close enough to have a good radar return on all of them.”

  Dawn was breaking. About an hour previously, Eel had slowed nearly to a halt to permit the convoy to gain distance. Two more messages had been sent to Whitey Everett in the Whitefish. Now it was approaching the time for the critically important message. Everyone expected the convoy would make a radical course change at dawn and head at maximum speed on a southeasterly course, but it was still possible that the ships would instead continue along the coast of the Shantung Peninsula to its farthest extremity or even around it, ultimately to turn left into the Gulf of Po Hai. Eel must inform Whitefish just as soon as the evidence was clear.

  Two special messages had been made up in anticipation of the two possible situations. One, a single long dash, would indicate that the convoy was continuing to hug the coast. The second consisted of a short dash followed by the wolfpack letter code for course and speed.

  Richardson had been on the bridge all night and had begun to realize how cold it could be in the northern reaches of the Yellow Sea in early winter. He had taken the precaution of once again ordering Keith to get some sleep. It would be important for Keith to be well rested for the daylight pursuit anticipated. Blunt, of course, he could not control, but Blunt was not concerned with Eel’s proper functioning. Since the attack on the freighter north of the Maikotsu Suido, Blunt had changed. He made no further reference to sabotage of the hydraulic system and was no longer taciturn. He had become, if anything, at times loquacious. He slept frequently. Except for sporadic interest, as in the discussion preliminary to the present operation, he took no further part in what went on about him. With occasional exceptions which had to be anticipated and handled carefully, for the past several days he had acquiesced in whatever instructions were given, in his name, to the other submarine under his command.

  Eel had dropped so far astern that, with growing daylight, the only thing visible of the convoy was a faint cloud of smoke beyond the horizon. She had at the same time moved off the track to starboard in order to gain distance away from the land. The Japanese as well as the Chinese might be employing coast watchers, and it would be well to have sufficient water for diving in case of attack from the air.

  Now, within a few minutes, would be time for the convoy to change course, if it was intending to. The blackness of night had long since turned to a gray haze, and this, too, was burning off. The sun, not yet over the horizon, would burst in full splendor upon the scene in about half an hour. Richardson was mentally prepared for the report, when it came: “Bridge, radar reports convoy has changed course to the right.”

  “Very well, Conn,” responded Richardson, pushing the bridge microphone button. “Can you give me a course? Is there any indication of increased speed?”

  “Not yet, sir. Plot and TDC are working on it.” He wished Keith were coordinating radar, TDC, and plot, but determined that he would not call him. The others surely should be able to operate the various components satisfactorily. But Richardson need not have worried. The next report from the conning tower was in Keith’s voice. He had evidently left word to be called w
hen the situation changed.

  “Bridge, conn. Target has increased speed. Plot and TDC are tracking him on course one-three-oh, speed thirteen. All three ships have changed course to the right in a column movement. The last one is just completing her turn now.”

  “Good work, Keith,” said Richardson on the speaker. “Are you sure enough of your information to send the message to Whitefish?”

  “Affirmative, Skipper. Got it ready to go.”

  “Send it as soon as you can. Let me know when you get a receipt.”

  The bridge speaker blared again with Keith’s voice in a slightly different timbre. He was speaking from the radio room. “Message sent and receipted for by Whitefish, Bridge,” he said.

  A moment later Keith stood beside him on the bridge. “That’s about it, Skipper,” he said. “The last radar fix we had on Whitey shows him dead ahead of the convoy about twelve miles out. There should be some action over there in less than an hour.”

  “Do we still have radar contact on them?”

  “Yes, sure. Why?”

  “Because . . . I don’t think we ought to dive yet. We’d better stay up as long as we can and see what happens.”

  “We might get spotted and driven down by a plane. Besides, you’ve been up all night, and all day before that. You rate some rest, Skipper.”

  “Sleep can wait. If a plane spots us, that might help Whitefish by drawing those two escorts in our direction. What I’m really thinking about, though, is that we’ve got to keep those three transports from getting to Okinawa. After Whitey attacks, they’ll scatter—and it will be up to us to put him back in contact for a second attack.”

  “That is, if he’ll try a surface end-around with planes up there,” observed Keith, uneasily.

  The sun, driving up over the horizon, transmitted little warmth to the frigid group bundled up on Eel’s bridge, but it did have the effect of burning off the night’s overcast and producing a clear blue sky. The visibility in all directions was phenomenal, totally the reverse of the situation of only a few hours before. Fully surfaced, Eel now plowed along easily in the moderate sea associated with deeper water. With enough depth for diving beneath her keel, the more familiar circumstances induced a feeling of comfort among her entire complement, only slightly lessened by the fact that any aircraft patrol worthy of the name could pick her up by sight alone at a distance of many miles. But unless the plane were flying extremely close to the water, Eel would sight it also in plenty of time to dive. She would not again be caught by any tricks with the plane’s radar transmitter power.

  If aircraft came out to escort the convoy, which was inevitable because of its importance, they would concentrate ahead of it, where a submarine in attack position would be. On the other hand, if they could be induced to attack the wrong submarine, every depth bomb dropped on Eel was one less that could be used on Whitefish, one less that could be effective in protecting the convoy.

  “Convoy’s been on this course one-half hour, Bridge.”

  “Did you get a fix on Whitefish when she dived? When should she be getting in?”

  “We figure the convoy will be running over the Whitefish in about fifteen more minutes.”

  One of the after lookouts was screaming. Richardson did not need to hear the words clearly to understand what he was saying. “Plane! Starboard quarter!” the man was shouting.

  “Clear the bridge!” shouted Richardson. He swung a quick look aft through his binoculars. The plane was still some distance away, but obviously coming directly toward the Eel. There would be plenty of time to get her down. He stood aside, allowed the lookouts, the quartermaster, and Keith to precede him, and then Al Dugan, whose watch it now was. Two blasts on the diving alarm. “Take her down!” He straightened up, put his binoculars back to his eyes. The plane, a two-engine bomber, was still coming, still four to five miles away. The main vents were popping. The air was whistling out of them. Eel’s bow was already settling toward the sea. Richardson stooped under the bridge overhang, felt for the hand rail over the hatch, swung down into the hole, grabbed the lanyard, and pulled the hatch to. It gave a satisfying click as the latch snapped home, and Cornelli leaped past him to dog it tightly.

  “One-five-oh feet,” Rich said. “How does that check with the chart, Keith?”

  Leone was in the after part of the conning tower, bent over the chart of the area spread upon the table in the far corner. “One-five-oh looks okay, Captain,” he said. “Not much deeper than that, though, or we’ll drive her nose into the mud.”

  A deep feeling of weariness pervaded Richardson’s body. The cold air on the bridge had been bracing, but inside the submarine the warmth of the interior was instantly stupefying. “Control, make your depth one-five-oh feet,” he repeated. “Ease your angle when you pass one hundred feet.”

  He yawned hugely as he spoke. Suddenly it was all he could do to concentrate on giving the necessary orders. The boat was under, her bow was tilted down at a satisfactory angle, and there should be no trace of her left on the surface except the wake of her passage.

  “Left full rudder,” he ordered. He would not, at least, blunder blindly into a bomb or depth charge dropped ahead of the diving point.

  Eel had been submerged just ten minutes and had already returned to periscope depth. There was nothing in sight. The plane must have had orders not to waste its time over a submarine diving where it could not possibly attack the all-important convoy. Its instructions would be to proceed ahead of the troopships, against the possibility of a submarine in attack position—against Whitefish, in fact. How long had it been since Whitefish had dived, anyway? And if successful, when might Whitey’s torpedo explosions be heard?

  “Any time now,” said Keith.

  Richardson was spinning the periscope around. Nothing in sight. Several quick, careful looks, then up a little higher. Still nothing. No plane, no ships, no smoke, just brilliant blue sky and a yellow-brown, mud-colored sea with a small chop: waves about two feet high. Around again, more slowly, several times, dropping the periscope occasionally just beneath the surface in order to break up the continuity of exposure. Still nothing in sight. How long now?

  It was only five minutes since he had asked the question, reassured Keith. According to Larry Lasche’s plot, something could be happening any minute, but on the other hand, a delay of even ten or fifteen minutes ought not to be surprising. Buck had roused himself—he could not have had more than an hour or so in his bunk—and had taken over the TDC. It was not running, for he had no information to set into the instrument. Stafford, searching carefully all around on the sonar, concentrating in the estimated direction of the convoy, could hear nothing. The ships were much too far away to hear screws. Blunt also was in the conning tower; nearly the whole of Eel’s battle stations control party was there. Something must happen. Whitefish simply must not fail now.

  A distant boom filled the confined space.

  “Torpedo explosion,” reported Stafford, unnecessarily.

  Ten seconds later there should be another. He looked at his watch. His eyes, accustomed by the periscope to the brilliant sunlight on the surface, had difficulty in focusing on the tiny second hand. Ten seconds must have passed—fifteen seconds at least, now. Thirty seconds. Only a single hit. Perhaps Whitey Everett had conservatively fired only at the leading troopship. Undoubtedly there would be depth charges, if only to keep him submerged below periscope depth while the uninjured ships made their getaway.

  Whitefish was one of the thin-skinned submarines, as Walrus had been. There was no definite proof that the “heavy hull” submarines were better able to stand depth charging than the “thin-skinners,” but this was nevertheless generally believed to be the case. So far, Everett had retreated to an inactive portion of the area to inspect for damages after every depth charge attack. A heavy barrage at this point, which the escorts might very likely drop simply as a face-saving measure, whether or not they had any idea of Whitefish’s location, might have the same effect ag
ain.

  “Stand by to surface,” croaked Richardson. “Up periscope.” As he swiftly spun the instrument around, he felt the querying glances of the conning tower crew. He went around carefully three times. Nothing in sight. He clicked up the handles of the periscope. It dropped away.

  “Ready to surface,” said Keith. Here at least was someone who understood that targets of this importance, so laboriously set up, must not be abandoned.

  “Surface the boat!” The sound of air blowing in the ballast tanks, the sudden lifting effect as they expelled water from the flooding holes at their bottoms, were almost like personal reflexes of his own.

  “Four main engines on propulsion,” Richardson said.

  The bridge was still cascading water from all of its parts. The main induction banged open behind him. Eel drove ahead on her battery, thrusting her nearly submerged bulk through the seas and into the teeth of a strong cold breeze, while back aft four mufflers spit white water and groaned as the engines rolled over.

  “Lookouts to the bridge!” They came piling up in their foul-weather gear, well protected against the cold and the wet. Rich had not been so provident. His already rumpled khakis had been heavily splattered across the back as he came up the hatch, and the chilled wind was already biting into him.

  “Here, Captain,” said Cornelli coming up the hatch, handing him a foul-weather jacket. “Mr. Keith . . . I mean, Mr. Leone, said to give you this.” Gratefully Richardson put it on while Cornelli moved aft to take up his watch station.

  Williams and Leone were beside him. “We’re running down the bearing of the convoy,” said Richardson. “I’ll keep the deck. Buck, you handle the routine. Allow no extra people on the bridge. Keith, you stand by in the conning tower. Pass the word to all hands to look alive. We may have to dive suddenly. Keep a continuous high periscope and radar watch on. The convoy may have split up. It sounds like one ship was hit, and if so, the other two will be getting away from the attack position as fast as they can.”