Dust on the Sea

by Edward L. Beach

  Of course, you always did it to leeward. Thought of doing it made the need imperative, the torture unbearable. A wad of lens paper. A muttered excuse to Buck Williams, now OOD again. The starboard side, just abaft the fifty-caliber stowage. Half a dozen quick steps aft to the cigarette deck. His hands fumbled ridiculously, cold-stiffened fingers tearing at the zipper of his parka trousers, then at his belt and the oversize buttons in the fly of his woolen pants. A deep sigh of relief. He could not have stood it much longer. A long moment of slowly ebbing pain.

  “APR contact, strength one and a half!” The plane was coming closer.

  “APR contact! Strength two!” The question: to be detected or not detected.

  Blunt was on the bridge. “What are you planning to do, Rich?”

  “Get below, Commodore,” Richardson said testily. “There’s a plane coming in. We’ve got to be clear to dive in a hurry. I’ll tell you about it as soon as I can!”

  The look under Blunt’s shaggy brows seemed less sure of itself than it had in previous years or even during the early stages of the current war patrol. There was almost a respectful note in his voice, along with the recently acquired querulousness, as he replied, “Okay, Rich, I’ll be in the conning tower.”

  Richardson punched the bridge microphone. “Plot, any sign of a convoy change to the left?”

  “Negative, Bridge. Convoy course one-four-zero base course, zigzagging.”

  “Bridge, control. APR contact strength three!” It was at this signal strength that ComSubPac had advised all submarines should dive. And it was adherence to this directive that had placed Eel under severe risk not long ago. Almost without volition, he voiced his concern.

  “Lookouts, there’s a plane coming in on us. We don’t know what direction, most likely from aft. Keep a sharp lookout!” If the convoy would only make its last change of course now, Eel could submerge on its track, undetected, and might have a chance for an attack with her last precious torpedoes. If he waited too long, detection by the aircraft might cause an unpremeditated radical change in the convoy course and thus throw away all the day’s work in reaching position.

  Yet, if the escorts cooperated, detection of Eel might possibly work to Whitey Everett’s advantage. Richardson had to hope both escorts, supported by the plane, would attack, not knowing there were two subs to contend with, thinking that by working together they might eliminate the single submarine pursuing them. Once Eel was located and under attack, the troopships would make another radical swing away from the vicinity. Doubtless they would run southwest again, possibly even nearly due west. All depended on Eel being detected at the right time, and Whitefish not; so that Whitey could submerge undisturbed in the path of the transports, now hopefully denuded of escorts or air coverage.

  “APR contact! Strength three and a half!”

  “Convoy course one-four-zero, no change.” Al and Keith were anticipating his requirements for information.

  “Aircraft dead astern!” Cornelli shouting from the after part of the bridge. He swung aft quickly. The aircraft was well above the horizon, still at a great distance, flying relatively high. Perhaps they had already been detected. Richardson felt almost a sense of relief. This part, at least, was now out of his hands. “All right, I have him in sight,” he said.

  The plane seemed hung in the heavens, almost stationary. It was approaching directly toward them. Well, if the convoy would not change course toward him, he would at least try to get on its path. The maneuver would drive the transports more to the west, make things that much easier for Whitefish.

  “Right full rudder,” he bawled down the hatch. “Come right to two-three-zero!” This would put Eel on a course perpendicular to the estimated convoy course, and it would permit her most quickly to gain position dead ahead. When the plane saw this maneuver it would evaluate it as meaning but one thing: that Eel was running in for an attack position on the convoy. Only a few minutes would be needed. The convoy should reverse course. But how would the plane signal to the convoy? Perhaps there was a common radio frequency, but most likely, to give Eel’s position accurately, specifically to give it to the escorts, the plane would have to drop at least a smoke float, and probably a bomb as well.

  Well, so be it. There was no doubt the plane had seen them now. It had turned slightly to compensate for Eel’s own course change. It was the same plane which had flushed Eel that morning, or one exactly like it. He could see the glint of the whirling blades in the early afternoon sun and the two engine nacelles under the wings. It might be able to increase speed to four miles a minute on a run in. He estimated the range right now to be about six miles, but it would not do to run this one too close.

  “Clear the bridge!” he called. Might as well get the lookouts and Cornelli below ahead of time. Thirty seconds. Yes, the plane was probably now about four miles away. With a fast dive Eel could get completely submerged in thirty seconds, probably even faster at the speed with which she was still racing ahead. The wind was now coming over the port bow and was considerably less unpleasant, since he could keep his back to it as he watched the airplane.

  Fifteen seconds more. It would be touch and go, but this was the way it had to be. “Clear the bridge!” he shouted. “Take her down!” There was no one on the bridge but himself, but all dives should be done as nearly as possible with the customary routine. He fumbled for the diving alarm, placed his mittened hand on it, pressed twice. The vents popped. One more quick look at the airplane. It was beginning its dive, coming in at a shallow angle. Estimated range three to four miles. This would be good. Eel was due to catch a bomb, but except by the greatest of misfortune she would survive it unscathed. The important point was that it would give at least one of the convoy escorts a point of aim, a datum point to investigate. The involved scheme which Richardson had laboriously composed while conducting the end-around run depended upon separating the convoy from the escorts. His gloved hands fumbled for the hand rail. He dropped down the hatch, grabbed the lanyard toggle, heard the hatch click shut.

  Eel was already perceptibly angling downward in a swift, surefooted dive. “Hatch secured,” shouted Cornelli, too loudly, thought Richardson.

  “Depth of water is two-five-oh feet, Skipper,” said Al from below. “I’ll start taking the angle off after we pass one-hundred-seventy-five feet.”

  The conning tower annunciators, both of which should have been at the “ahead flank” position, had been moved over to “ahead emergency.” Obviously Al’s doing. With the full voltage of the battery discharging current almost as if there were a short circuit, the propellers for a few minutes would be turning even faster than under the drive of Eel’s four diesels. Eel’s deck tilted down even more. He heard Al speak imperatively to the planesmen. “Full dive on bow planes. Stern planes keep the angle at fifteen degrees. Yes, I said fifteen degrees!” Eel leaned even more steeply into the dive.

  “Mark! Four-six feet,” said Cornelli. But he held out his hand to show that he had no stop watch. In the back of the conning tower Keith was grinning, exhibited the stopwatch with his thumb on the winding stem. “Twenty-three seconds,” he said, consulting it. “Fastest dive in the books. I almost didn’t get the periscope down. When the water hit it, I thought we were going to break it right off!”

  Rich nodded, crossed to the control room hatch, squatted on his heels to talk to Dugan. “We’ve stopped our watch up here, Al,” he said. “Did you get a watch started on the dive?”

  “You bet, Skipper.” Al had one in his hand, the short white lanyard looped around his thumb. “We’re passing seventy feet now. It’s forty-five seconds since the diving alarm, and we’re just reaching fifteen degrees down bubble.”

  “What’s your speed through water?”

  “Still showing twelve knots. It dropped fast as soon as we opened the vents, but it’s dropping a lot slower now.” There was indeed a furious rush of water around the conning tower, perceptibly shaking it, vibrating all topside equipment.

  “Passi
ng one hundred feet, Skipper,” said Al. “Do you want to change course?”

  “Good. Left full rudder,” he ordered, raising his voice to the helmsman standing with his back to him alongside Cornelli. “Come left to one-four-zero.” The plane would be approaching the diving point now, would be adjusting for time late, computing the lead angle. Probably it had already dropped, since the release point for the speed and altitude would no doubt be passed long before the airplane arrived over the diving point.

  “Taking the angle off now,” said Al. “The rudder helps.”

  Richardson could feel the submarine’s attitude returning to the normal horizontal.

  “Steady on one-four-zero,” said the helmsman. Just as he said the words they were swallowed up by the roar of a tremendous explosion in the water near at hand. Eel’s tough frame shook like a tuning fork, its component members vibrating in their own discordant cacophony, as the shock wave was converted into the innumerable frequency ranges to which the parts of it resonated.

  “That was good and close,” Keith started to say, when his words likewise were engulfed in a second explosion, a ringing, high-pitched metallic WHAM, as though some giant outside Eel’s hull were striking her side with a tremendous sledgehammer.

  “All compartments report,” said Cornelli, grabbing a hand telephone set from its rack. He held the phone to his ear for several minutes, nodding his head briefly from time to time. “I figured they’d all be on the line, sir,” he said. “All compartments report no damage.”

  “Al,” said Richardson, “you still have speed control. Get us up to periscope depth as soon as you can.”

  “Periscope depth, aye aye. All ahead one-third,” called out Dugan. The annunciators clicked as the helmsman carried out the order, and Eel began to climb back to sixty-foot keel depth in a much less dramatic fashion than she had initially gone the other way.

  Richardson had forgotten Blunt in the conning tower. Now the latter spoke. “What are you up to, Rich?” he said.

  “We’ve got two torpedoes left, Commodore, and I want to try to turn the convoy around to give Whitefish a chance to get into action one more time.”

  “How are you going to do that with only two fish? And even if you do get one of the ships, the escorts will keep you from surfacing. . . .”

  “Yes, sir, but what if we knock off the escorts?” Richardson stared hard at Blunt. He did not want to reveal his entire scheme, for the discussion which would inevitably follow would arouse concern in the well-knit submarine crew which could only be to its disadvantage. Again Blunt looked unsure of himself. He almost replied, then evidently changed his mind, said nothing.

  Several minutes later, through Eel’s periscope, barely projecting above the tops of the waves, splashed over by some of them, Richardson had two things in view: the Japanese patrol bomber, now minus two of its limited supply of bombs, orbiting over the general area and obviously looking for his periscope; and a single escort which had appeared over the western horizon. Upon seeing it, he had directed that a white smoke candle be broken out and made ready near the submerged signal ejector. If the bomber was not thoughtful enough to fire a smoke float for the tincan, it might be necessary for Eel to do it. It was a disappointment, however, that only a single escort had taken the bait.

  The frigate’s lookouts must all be blind, thought Richardson, as for the fourth time in three hours he elevated Eel’s periscope well above the wave tops to give them every possible opportunity to see it. Sonar conditions must be abominable. The tincan swept on heedlessly, pinging loudly, surely getting a good return echo, but giving no sign of having any contact whatsoever. His intention to be discovered only while Eel’s stern with its two loaded torpedoes was directed toward the enemy had caused him to forgo an equal number of other opportunities, when a depth charge attack might have developed from a disadvantageous bearing. Also, he had been forced to keep a close eye on the patrol bomber, which was swinging in wide circles around the general vicinty. The plane had never, however, given Eel an opportunity to use the smoke float; for this, it must approach close enough to the submarine’s position to have plausibly dropped it. At some point the plane would turn low on fuel, having been in the air since before dawn.

  It was now late afternoon. The convoy must have headed west again, and, with a four-hour head start, it was lengthening its distance every moment. Probably it had soon changed to the south once more, and would again follow the same pattern as previously, giving the latest area of contact a wide berth before finally settling down to an easterly course toward the coast of Korea.

  The patrol bomber was coming in low, the first time it had come in so low. Eel’s stern pointed nearly toward the destroyer. Distance, perhaps five miles away. He had the periscope low again, so low that every other wave either blocked his view entirely or covered the periscope with yellow water. The plane was passing fairly close, though not overhead. Its pilot could not have seen the periscope. Since it would be sunset in an hour, perhaps this was to be the aircraft’s last pass through the area before heading for base.

  ‘Stand by with the smoke candle!”

  If he could be sure the patrol plane had no more depth bombs, he might risk letting him see the periscope and drop a smoke candle of his own. But of this he could not be sure. Eel would be forced to go deep when evidence of a real attack run developed. Once forced deep by the plane and under persistent depth charge attack from the Mikura, there might never be a chance to return to periscope depth. Eel’s own smoke candle would simulate one from the plane, but the pilot would know he had not dropped it and—just possibly—might be able to communicate the fact to the escort skipper. The thing to do was to fire it just after the plane had passed, but without the pilot being able to see it. Richardson cursed his indecision. Twice he had run through the same debate and passed up a possible opportunity, fearing it would be too obvious. Again he watched the plane pass by, low to the water, a mile and a half or two miles away. This was the closest it had come yet. Then, gradually gaining in altitude, it flew off to the west. He waited a few seconds. This might be the moment, but there would still be time for the plane to reverse course and return to the scene if he acted prematurely. When it had diminished to a relatively small silhouette in the cloudless sky, he ordered the smoke float loaded into the ejector and fired. A feeling of almost detached curiosity as to what the results would be took possession of him.

  It was almost a minute before the smoke functioned. Richardson was about to write it off as a dud, when suddenly there was a tiny cloud of white smoke blossoming on the water some distance astern.

  “Sixty feet,” he ordered. This would give nearly seven feet of periscope for the destroyer to look at. He would need it, for the lengthening shadows of growing twilight were drawing near.

  Signs of incipient activity on the escort. He had seen the smoke. Slowly, almost leisurely, he approached it. No doubt the destroyer’s skipper was puzzled how it came to be there. He would think the plane had dropped it after all, and that perhaps it was merely delayed in going off. It would be hard to imagine it deliberately being placed there by the submarine he was looking for. Richardson could feel the tenseness of his own state of mind, his own fatigue (which he must not show), the dependence which he was placing upon this stratagem. Carefully he maneuvered so that Eel’s stern pointed directly at the tincan’s bow.

  “Destroyer screws have speeded up,” said Stafford. “He’s shifted to short-scale pinging! Starting a run!” Stafford’s voice, as usual, betrayed his rising excitement. Veteran though he was, he would never—nor would Richardson—be able to discount the potential lethality of a well-delivered depth charge salvo.

  “Make your depth six-five feet, Control.” He could hear the whine of the TDC behind him as Buck Williams set in the information, relayed from Stafford, from Keith, from himself, at the periscope.

  “Gyros are three left,” said Keith. “Torpedo run is nine hundred yards. We still have to flood the tubes and open the outer
doors—what’s the matter, Captain?”

  “We can’t shoot,” said Richardson in a weary, exasperated tone. “He’s zigzagging.” With only two torpedoes left, Eel must fire only when there was certainty of hitting. This meant a “down-the-throat” shot with all data static: bow to bow or, as in this case, stern to bow. A sinuating, weaving course, such as the escort was now using, made the chance of missing too great. Rich motioned with his thumbs for the periscope to be dropped a foot. He squatted down with it, continuing to look through it from a stooped position. “He thinks we’ve gone deep,” he said. “He’s coming in so slow he can’t have set his charges shallow. They’d blow his own stern off. So we’ll cross him up by staying at periscope depth. Range, mark!” He turned the range knob on the side of the periscope.

  “Range nine-two-oh yards,” said Keith. “Torpedo run seven-five-oh.”

  “Shut all watertight doors,” said Richardson. “Here he comes!” He had in the meantime directed Al Dugan to run one foot lower in the water, at sixty-six-foot keel depth instead of sixty-five. This permitted Richardson to stand with less of a stoop as he kept the periscope at the lowest possible height from which, between toppling waves, he could still see his adversary. “He’s going to pass astern close aboard, but a clean miss if I ever saw one—there he goes! He’s dropping now!” It was unprecedented for a submarine captain to observe his own depth charging, although it had been done (at much greater range) during depth charge indoctrination drills at Pearl Harbor. The thought did not at all occur to Richardson until much later. “This chap must be an absolute amateur. He’s attacking our wake instead of a solid contact. He’s made a clean miss by at least fifty yards!”