Dust on the Sea

by Edward L. Beach

  -11-

  By midnight Eel had covered all the possible positions of the fleeing ships, had they turned eastward anytime before 10 o’clock. Definitely the convoy had not done so. It was Richardson’s second night up in a row, and somehow he had found a new source of energy, for the terrible lassitude of the early evening was less evident. Probably he should have turned in, as his officers urged. But the knowledge that part of the Kwantung Army was loose in the Yellow Sea only a few miles distant, bound for Okinawa and inadequately escorted, was a driving force which took the place of any will of his own. By Blunt’s order, which he had drafted, Whitefish was heading south to intercept. Twice, Richardson had sent her messages reflecting what he had learned of the enemy movements. It was Eel’s responsibility, as the submarine last in contact, to find the convoy and position her wolfpack mate most advantageously.

  He spent most of the time in the conning tower poring over the charts, alternating this with periods on the bridge—it was not so dark as the previous night—and once, as he had made his custom, walking through the ship to visit every compartment to talk with as many of the crew as possible. He would have been hard put to define why this simple habit had grown so important to him, would have said it “gave him a feel” for his crew, would have totally disavowed any suggestion that it had become an important ritual to him, or that the crew also, confined to their stations in the submarine’s compartments, had come to look forward to these visits on the eve of battle.

  The only sour note in Eel’s readiness, outside of her complete expenditure of all torpedoes, was her hydraulic system. The situation had been accurately described by Al Dugan. Richardson found Lichtmann nodding on his station in the tiny, crowded pump room, where he had been valiantly trying to match Richardson’s sleepless vigil, had replaced him with Starberg, and sent him up to his bunk with a clap on the shoulder and warm words of gratitude. It was hot in the pump room, and the atmosphere was heavy with oil. Immobility made drowsiness inevitable; yet, in emergency, instant alertness was mandatory. Gravely, he elicited a promise from both men that they would exchange positions every six hours and include Sargent in the vigil as well.

  All seven sets of vent valves he found alertly manned. Like Lichtmann, the men had nothing to do unless the diving alarm were to sound, but there was a man with a telephone headset at each station, and many others around in each compartment. Everyone in the ship was acutely aware of the importance of instant operation of the main vents, should the diving alarm be sounded. The pin in each mechanism was in the correct place for hand operation. Richardson was vociferously assured by all that each valve had been operated many times already, was free and easy to pull by hand. In the enginerooms, the four roaring diesels were, as always, a source of comfort and admiration. He grinned when he noted the rpm dial on each registering 760 instead of the rated maximum of 720 rpm’s. A little operation on the governor linkages had been all that was necessary, and their added speed was reflected in higher propeller rpm’s and the extra knot Eel was logging on her pitometer speed indicator.

  Richardson had slipped on a pair of dark red goggles prior to leaving the dimly lighted conning tower, and for this reason no one noticed the black eye until, in the maneuvering room, the chief on watch, egged on by his watch mates, diffidently asked him about it. First carefully shutting his eyes against the light, he lifted the goggles, was rewarded by a chorus of delighted chuckles. Instantly he wished he had not done it, however, for his eyes stayed shut of their own accord when he put the goggles back in place. His head nodded. Had he not stumbled with a small movement of the ship he would have fallen asleep on his feet. He had to force himself to visit the last compartment, talk with the crew in the after torpedo room. This visit was obligatory, for it was here that that last supremely important torpedo had been watched over, made ready, and fired. But it was too hot in the submarine. The noise in the enginerooms was stupefying. Hastily he walked forward to the control room, climbed the ladder to the conning tower and then to the bridge.

  It was about an hour past midnight. Radar contact had at last been made. The convoy still consisted of two troopships and a single escort. They had made a large diversion to the west and had indeed passed close to the Whitefish. But nothing happened. Whitefish had dived but been unable to close for an attack; now she too was on the surface again, driving southeast in obedience to more orders sent in the name of the wolfpack commander.

  The convoy had finally once again swung to an easterly course, and Eel, under cover of the night, was maneuvering to cut the corner and get into position directly ahead. Keeping the convoy under surveillance from ahead instead of astern, Richardson had decided, would provide a better opportunity of holding or regaining contact after Whitefish had made the dawn attack which by this time he knew would be the most he could hope for. The likelihood of a night aircraft patrol was remote. The two submarines had added the better part of a day to the transports’ Yellow Sea transit, and robbed them of the intended all-daylight passage. The two remaining troopships were exposed to the night surface attack they had tried to avoid.

  But tonight they were completely safe. Eel had no torpedoes, and Whitefish would not attack at night. He sat on Stafford’s vacant stool, folded his arms on his knees, leaned his head on them.

  He could not have been totally asleep, for he remained aware of the muted comings and goings of the conning tower crew, Keith’s occasional advice to the Officer of the Deck, the radar reports to plot, and even the request to dump a sack of garbage. But the brownout of fatigue was claiming its due. His senses dulled, his perceptions began to drift. He was back aboard the Walrus, had just felt the depth charges of Bungo Pete for the first time, was in love with Laura, despised Joan because (he assumed) she was causing Jim to be unfaithful to Laura. But this could not be entirely Joan’s fault, for Jim had been unfaithful in Australia as well, and Rich, in his turn, had also found relief from reality in Joan’s arms. Now Rich had killed Bungo Pete, and he had been disloyal to his idealized thoughts of Laura. Bungo had returned in the person of Moonface, to claim his vengeance. He hated Moonface, but not Bungo Pete.

  Joe Blunt too. He was Tateo Nakame—Bungo Pete—in American guise. The idea of the older warriors supporting the younger ones whom they had trained, who now carried the load of the combat. Now it was reversed. Now Blunt needed help, needed the support of those who had once looked to him for wisdom, skill, and judgment. Ships were everywhere, some sinking, some flying. Bungo’s Akikaze, with Blunt in command, had opened fire on Eel from the bottom of the sea. Eel could not hit her with torpedoes, for she was too deep. And now there was the escort destroyer he had just sunk, the one that had given him the black eye.

  “Morning twilight, Captain. Morning twilight, Captain. Morning twilight, Captain. . . .” There was a hand on his shoulder shaking him. A disembodied hand. “Morning twilight, Captain.” Someone had lifted his head gently, was slapping his cheeks. “Here, drink this.” It was a mug of coffee. The steam warmed his nose and cheeks, reflected from his eyelids. Keith was in command of the Eel and he was in love with Joan and he was holding the cup of coffee and slapping his face.

  Slow dawning. Understanding. “What is it? Did I doze off?”

  “You sure did, Skipper. We don’t see how you stood it so long, as it was. Here, drink this coffee. It’s morning twilight, and the Whitefish has just dived to attack.”

  “Where’s the convoy?”

  “Twelve miles astern. We’re tracking them at fourteen knots, and I’ve slowed to maintain the range constant.”

  Groggily Richardson wrenched to his feet. Eel lurched. He stumbled, put out his hand to steady himself. It slipped on the slick steel periscope barrel. He nearly fell, grabbed one of its hoist rods. He gulped down the coffee, then the fried egg sandwich which Keith suddenly produced from a hidden corner. It was still hot. So! His sleep, and now his awakening, had been part of a prearranged operation! Damn them all anyway! They needn’t think they could control him! His mi
nd cleared slowly as he studied the radar ’scope. Three ships in column, the smallest the escort, leading.

  “They haven’t been zigzagging,” said Keith. “Maybe they’ll start at dawn. Anyway, it looks like they’ll pass right over Whitefish. We had her right here when she dived.” He laid a pencil on a spot about halfway between the center of the ’scope and the small pip indicating the escort. “He should be shooting in about twenty minutes more.”

  “Any aircraft contacts?”

  “Negative. We’re watching the APR, though. Maybe somebody will come out at dawn.”

  Richardson nodded. The pieces were falling into place. Whitefish had reported six torpedoes remaining, three forward and three aft. She would get only one salvo off, would have another salvo left in the other end of the ship. At best, only one of the three ships would be hit. Whatever else, it had better be one of the troopships! His efforts of the day before had largely been wasted, except that now there was only a single escort. It would have been far better had Eel somehow pressed home herself into the convoy to put her last two fish into a primary target! He had forgotten the aircraft patrol, that the plane had prevented him from submerging in an attack position, that had not Eel forced the convoy to head again to the westward it would at this moment be within the shelter of the Korean archipelago, with no further opportunity for any submarine to attack.

  Richardson and Leone were still watching the radar when they realized the formation had lost its cohesiveness. The distance between the last two ships began to increase. Then the small pip which was the escort pulled aside, dropped back with the lagging large pip.

  “Whitefish has attacked,” observed Blunt. He had come to the conning tower without their being aware of it.

  “Yes, and the escort is looking for him. We may hear some depth charging soon.”

  “The second ship in column is still heading this way,” said Keith.

  “We’ll have to turn him around.” Richardson’s numbed brain was working with the details. “What’s the weather like topside?” he asked.

  “Same as yesterday: cold, with a light chop.”

  “Good. Call all hands, Keith. Pass the word to stand by for surface action.”

  “What are you going to do, Rich?” asked Blunt.

  “This transport skipper may still think the only submarine around is behind him. If the remaining escort stays with the ship Whitey has just torpedoed and the undamaged troopship comes on alone, we might have a chance to sink him with gunfire. If the tincan is with him, the tincan will head for us and the transport will reverse course. That may give Whitey a fourth crack at him.”

  Richardson spoke rapidly. His voice was not normal. The weariness was showing through, even though the few hours of near-sleep in the conning tower had mightily rejuvenated him. He yawned rapidly several times. The adrenalin was beginning to pop through his veins, but his system needed extra oxygen to make up for accumulated fatigue. Deliberately he forced himself to take several deep breaths. He began to explain to Keith that it was vital he be kept informed of any change in the disposition of the three ships, then broke off. Keith knew this. No point in wasting the effort. Carrying a second mug of coffee, he made his way to the bridge.

  The destroyer escort skipper must have been discouraged at losing his consort and two of his convoy, but that didn’t stop him from doing his duty. Very soon, Eel’s radar showed only two ships, one large and one small. Plot quickly confirmed that they were continuing their course to the east. And as the brilliant edge of the sun came over the eastern horizon, burning away the remaining shadows with long streamers of light leaping from wave crest to wave crest, to the consternation of the two Japanese skippers a surfaced submarine lay limned exactly against the crescent-shaped, rapidly growing orb. Moments before, there had been nothing there. Both Japanese captains had thought their erstwhile attacker to be by this time several miles astern, but the new apparition, clearly a submarine, revealed unmistakable hostile intent by opening fire with two large guns, landing one solid hit on the troopship’s forecastle and several near-misses in the water alongside.

  The Mikura-class frigate dashed toward the submarine, which dived, and the merchant skipper, frantically reversing course, was happy to hear several loud depth charges astern. These signified that the escort at last had contact and was working over their antagonist. Under such conditions, he had been thoroughly and frequently briefed, a sub’s ability to assume the offensive was nil; so, as he came again in sight of the crowded lifeboats and rafts from his companion, well aware both of the risk he took and of the importance of the soldiers in the water, he disobeyed his orders by slowing to pick up the survivors. For an hour he remained in the vicinity, not without trepidation, in case the submarine being depth charged should fight its way clear and come back, while the surviving troops climbed up his cargo nets. Finally, his ship seriously overcrowded, he took up a northerly course, gave a wide berth to the area where depth charging was continuing, and once again, this time without incident, turned eastward.

  The Japanese skipper would have been far less courageous had he had any way of knowing that almost directly beneath him, as he hove to, lay the submarine which had actually fired the torpedoes which had sunk his two companions. One of the depth charges dropped almost at random in the immediately ensuing counterattack had been uncomfortably close, starting a gasket in one of the internal risers of number seven main ballast tank in the after torpedo room. The result was a slight leak, and Whitey Everett had therefore set Whitefish gently on the muddy bottom of the Yellow Sea while the damage was surveyed and repaired. When heavy screws, approaching, slowing, circling, and finally stopping were reported, Everett had suspected some new and unusual tactic on the part of the enemy. He had forthwith directed cessation of all repair work and stopping of all running machinery. Not until about two hours after the heavy screws restarted and all noises on the surface had faded away did he resume normal activities.

  For his first patrol in command, Whitey Everett had done well; he had sunk five ships and would bring back but three torpedoes, all in stern tubes. His officers and crew applauded his decision not to push his luck.

  It was the worst of bad fortune, Richardson decided, for Eel to have this time dived in an area of the Yellow Sea where the sonar conditions were the best he had ever experienced. More, by its own good fortune—or perhaps a combination of excellent sonar equipment and an unusually alert operator—the tincan had come directly upon Eel with a firm, solid contact and an apparently unlimited supply of depth charges. Perhaps Richardson should have remained at periscope depth. He might have, had there been any torpedoes remaining in Eel’s tubes, or had not the signs of deep fatigue, discernible in the entire ship’s company as well as himself, impelled him otherwise. Perhaps, too, there was a psychological compulsion, a realization that fate could not load the dice of war entirely on one side indefinitely, that Eel had had more than her share of success recently, that the enemy too had some capability and must have his innings. In any event, Eel lost the initiative when she went deep. The depth charge attack she was now enduring was the most severe and the most deliberate of Richardson’s experience.

  Were the water deeper, there would have been a greater range of uncertainty as to what setting to place on the depth charges. As it was, Eel could go no deeper than two hundred feet, and her Japanese antagonist easily remained in contact. The sound of his screws came in alternately from one side or the other, ahead or astern, but always remaining at close range. The initial flurry of charges was small in number, only six, but extremely well placed. Thereafter the tincan contented itself with dropping only one, or perhaps two, at the optimum point of each deliberate, careful approach. All were close, and all had done some damage.

  Perhaps there was an unknown oil leak, or an air leak, to betray Eel’s position to the surface. Perhaps the water was clear enough in this particular area for the submarine’s outline to be hazily visible to a masthead lookout. In the Yellow Sea this hardly
seemed possible. But the enemy’s ability to hold contact was uncanny. Perhaps an aircraft had come out to help him. Maybe it could see through the mud-yellow water. At 200 feet, after all, the highest point of the submarine would be only 154 feet—exactly half her length—beneath the surface.

  All machinery, with the exception of the main motors, had long since been secured. The humidity of the atmosphere inside the boat had instantly gone to 100 percent and remained there, with the constant addition of moisture from the bodies of Eel’s sweating crew, as the air temperature crept steadily upward. Never again, Richardson decided, would Eel’s linoleum decks be waxed. The moisture settled upon them, lifted the wax, and the whole was stirred into a disgusting ooze as men shuffled through it. In the meantime, an accumulation of small leaks was gradually filling the bilges of the enginerooms and the motor room. Eel was slowly losing trim. To pump bilges would require running the drain pump. To pump out an equivalent amount of water from one of the trimming tanks would require use of the trim pump. Both would make noise, and Richardson refused to permit them to be run. Little by little the amount of lift required on bow planes and stern planes increased, until finally they reached their limits. It was then necessary for Eel herself to run with an up angle so that some of the thrust of her slow-moving propellers, turning at minimum speed, could be directly converted to an upward component. Precarious footing on a steeply sloping deck was thenceforth added to her crew’s discomfort.