The conning tower was crowded with men, nearly all wearing red goggles. All wore heavy clothing, for it would be cold topside in contrast to the atmosphere inside the submarine, which was hot, smelly, and humid. The profuse perspiration pouring down Richardson’s skin inside his own heavy jacket bothered him not at all, but the perspiration around his eyes as he looked through the periscope was more annoying than the drip landing on his forehead. Ceaselessly he wiped his face on a towel, frequently was forced to use a piece of lens paper on the glass objective lens of the periscope as it clouded up with the moisture exuding from his face.
“We’re ready below!” Dugan’s report sailed up through the control room hatch. For some minutes Richardson had been debating with himself once again whether it would be better to execute a traditional battle surface close aboard his adversary in hopes of overwhelming him with gunfire before he was able to respond. Again he put aside this alternative, although it ran counter to traditional submarine training before the war. Sonar conditions were simply too good. Eel would be detected before she was able to get close enough to execute the standard drill, and once this happened, the enemy would instantly renew the depth charging, or try to ram. Far better to surface without warning, at a greater range. This would give Eel time for several precious minutes of gunfire.
Opposed to the submarine’s assemblage of guns—two short-barrel five-inchers plus automatic weapons ranging from the lethal forty-millimeter on down—the enemy escort vessel could muster a single four-inch, backed up by an unknown number of rapid-fire guns of various calibers. It was upon his five-inchers that Richardson was depending to get in some quick, vital, damaging blows, most importantly in the vicinity of the four-inch on the tincan’s forecastle. A single hit from this gun could penetrate Eel’s pressure hull and totally eliminate her ability to dive. The Jap’s bow had undoubtedly been designed for ramming, and a single blow from it, struck fair, would surely rupture Eel’s hull and drive her under as well. Better to retain the advantage of surprise and begin the action from afar.
“Shut the lower hatch! All ahead standard!” The slam of the hatch between conning tower and control room. The clink of the annunciators, now, like steering, returned to the conning tower. “Left fifteen degrees rudder. Come left to one-eight-oh!” Richardson intended to surface broadside to the enemy so that both five-inchers could be gotten into action immediately. Too much rudder, however, might give Al Dugan trouble with depth control, riding as he was with a bubble in the aftermost ballast tank. On the other hand, the increased speed would give the bow planes and stern planes greater bite.
“Four knots, Captain.” Buck Williams, wearing a telephone headset, was reading the ship’s speed from the face of the TDC. The TDC would be used like a gunfire range computer, with radar ranges and TBT bearings set into it. Output, compensating for enemy movement, would be read off from it directly to the gun captains at each of the guns.
“Steady on course south.” Cornelli at the helm.
“Quin, tell the diving officer to start blowing!” Quin repeated the order. Instantly the sound of high pressure air flowing into the ballast tanks could be heard. Richardson could feel the lift of the emptying tanks, but there was no answering rising sensation. Al would operate the bow and stern planes to hold the submarine down as long as possible. The blowing increased in volume. “Depth six-oh feet.” Keith was reading the conning tower depth gauge for him. “Speed through water five-a-half knots.”
“Stadimeter range,” said Richardson, “mark!”
“Two-eight-double-oh,” read Keith. Angle on the bow and bearing had already been fed into the TDC. “Checking right in there!” from Williams.
The blowing continued. There was a moment of tense stillness. The next move would be Dugan’s.
“Can’t hold her! Reversing planes!” Dugan’s voice boomed loud on the general announcing speaker in the conning tower. Suddenly the submarine began to rise beneath them. Al had been directed to bring her up all flat, partly to get the main deck clear as soon as possible, partly to keep water in the after engineroom bilges from collecting in the after end and possibly, at that last moment, damaging the all-important generators.
“All back full!” ordered Richardson.
“Four-five feet,” said Keith. “Four-oh feet.” Water could be heard pouring through the superstructure, sluicing off the bridge. “Three-oh feet. Two-eight feet. Two-four feet . . . Two-four feet and holding!”
“All stop! Open the hatch!” bellowed Richardson. “Open the gun access trunk! Gun crews on deck!” The hatch banged open. There was a slight lift of air through the hatch, instantly dissipated because only the conning tower volume was involved. Richardson scrambled up the ladder, stepped clear of the horde of men following him. Instantly he was glad he had picked the port side to begin the action. The starboard side of the bridge—a large section of the bulletproof steel plating—was missing, evidently blown off by that last, closest, depth charging. Perhaps it was this which he had heard striking the side of the submarine and clattering on down into the depths. Luckily there was no further damage. No doubt the heavy plating had warded off the depth charge explosion. If so, to this everyone in the conning tower, and perhaps Eel herself, owed their lives.
Richardson was conscious of the bang of the gun access trunk hatch, the scurrying feet of many men running aft and forward. The men who had come up the hatch immediately after him had already cast loose the two forty-millimeter guns. Others pulled out the twin twenty-millimeters and hurriedly mounted them on their little stand just aft of the periscope shears, and still others mounted the three fifty-caliber machine guns in their mounting sockets on the undamaged port side of the bridge. On the forecastle he could see the round forward torpedo room hatch being lifted to the vertical and the shadowy forms of two men lifting their machine gun out, setting it in its socket to the left of the open hatch circle.
Keith’s voice from the conning tower. “Diving officer reports securing high pressure air. Shifting to low pressure blowers. Ship is riding at twenty-two-foot keel depth. Bridge speaker system is out!”
Richardson had expected this report from Dugan by loudspeaker. It was evident he had tried to make it, and that the bridge speaker system was one more casualty of the recent depth charging.
“Captain, I’m sending Quin up to relay your orders by telephone. We’ll have to take a chance on a wire through the hatch. We have wire cutters in the conning tower if we need them, and he has another in his pocket.”
Seconds later Quin was standing beside Richardson alongside the port TBT.
“I have communications with the forward and after five-inch guns, Captain,” said Quin. “They’re bore-sighting them now. Mr. Williams is giving them range: twenty-four hundred yards.”
“Good,” said Richardson. He raised his voice. “Hold fast, men!” he shouted. They had all been thoroughly briefed, but it was well to repeat the order. “Hold fast until I give the order!”
“Five-inchers and the forward-torpedo-room hatch have the word,” said Quin. A mutter of comprehension reached Richardson from all the bridge personnel.
“Bore-sight completed, forward five-inch,” said Quin. “Just a minute on the after gun—after gun bore-sight completed, Captain. Both guns, bore-sight completed. Training out on the port beam.”
“Ask them if they can see the target through their telescopes.” He heard Quin repeating the question, a moment later the reassuring reply, “Number one and two five-inch both can see the target clearly.”
Richardson was looking at the enemy ship through the TBT binoculars, never once removing his eyes from it. He thumbed the button built into the handle. The enemy must have just become aware of Eel’s sudden appearance on the surface.
“Have we got a second radar range on them yet, Quin?” he asked.
“Getting it right now, sir. Mr. Williams is getting radar range two-two-double-oh. He’s having the guns set in two-one-five-oh on their range dial.”
�
�Very well. All guns load.” He could hear the disciplined clatter as the five-inch shells were slammed into the breeches and the locks slammed home behind them. The forties had their clips of four rounds each already in place. One jerk back on the arming lever and a round was rammed to the firing chamber. The same with the twenties with their canned ammunition and the fifty calibers with their belts. The months of training were paying off. The first time this had been tried in drill there had been much clutter and confusion. Not this time. He had strenuously impressed upon all hands the importance of getting off this first broadside, these first few salvos, suddenly, with precision, and if possible with complete surprise.
Through his binoculars the enemy ship had been presenting a slight starboard angle on the bow, perhaps ten degrees. Now its already truncated silhouette shortened, became symmetrical. Richardson realized he was looking dead on at the enemy ship. The bridge command circuit had been rigged up. Miraculously, its permanent topside parts had not been damaged—it was a much simpler system and entirely separate from the ship’s announcing system. He spoke into the microphone hanging from its cord which he had placed between the twin eyepieces of the TBT binoculars. “Angle on the bow zero,” he said. “He’s seen us. Heading this way. Bearing, mark!” He pushed the button again.
“Williams says Mr. Leone can see him through the periscope,” said Quin. “They’re checking his speed now. They had him on five knots, but he’s speeding up, they think. They’re setting a new range at the guns, two thousand yards.”
Eel lay quietly in the water, all her way having drifted off. Fully surfaced, she rocked gently in the two-foot waves. Evening twilight had long since disappeared. Deliberately, Richardson had not ordered the main engines started. Despite the partial depletion of Eel’s battery, it was still good for about half an hour of full speed. He would rather continue to give the impression of being disabled, and at the same time retain the sudden rapid mobility afforded by the battery.
“Forties, twenties, and fifties will not shoot until specially ordered,” said Richardson, avoiding use of the word, “fire.” This too had already been thoroughly explained. The forties would be permitted to open up at fifteen hundred yards’ range. The twenties and fifties not until one thousand yards.
There was a flash from the forward deck of the approaching escort vessel. He had opened fire with his four-inch gun. This had been anticipated. The risk of a lucky hit would have to be taken. The enemy would, at least, have to shoot directly over its own high bow. Aiming would be difficult. Richardson did not even bother to search for the fall of shot.
“Buck has sent range two thousand to both guns,” said Quin hurriedly, forgetting the more formal appellation he should have used for the torpedo officer. “Range is twenty-one-fifty, closing. Speed ten knots, tracking right on.”
“Tell Mr. Leone to shoot when the hitting range is two thousand,” said Richardson. He raised his voice. “Stand by on the bridge. The main battery will be opening up in a moment.” He did not want an overly tense member of the bridge crew to waste his ammunition prematurely.
“Range two-one-double-oh,” said Quin. Richardson could visualize the two dozen rounds of ammunition laid out by each gun, the second and third shells cradled in arms of the loaders ready to be slammed into the breeches. There was another gout of flame from the foredeck of the approaching destroyer escort.
“Range is two-oh-five-oh, commence firing,” reported Quin breathlessly.
BAM BAM! The two five-inch guns went off almost simultaneously. Two brilliant flashes of orange-yellow flame on the main deck. A few seconds’ delay, then BAM BAM once more, and then for a third time the twin salvo roared out. The two guns gradually diverged in time as the gun crews vied with each other in ejecting the expended shell cases, slamming the new shells into the breeches, clearing away the hot brass from around the guns, keeping the ammunition train going. The forward gun was firing a split-second faster than the after gun, but it had a longer ammunition train and no ammunition supply scuttle through the main deck. For prolonged firing the after gun would be able to maintain a more rapid pace. At the moment, however, the two guns were firing ammunition laid out on deck. It was an outburst of frenzied action.
For a few seconds, Richardson could abandon himself to the role of spectator, watching the fall of shot, observing the enemy reaction. He could even watch the trajectory of his own five-inch projectiles by the faint glow put in the base of each to assist in spotting. The first two must have landed simultaneously; one, or perhaps both, in the water only yards in front of the approaching destroyer. The resulting splash—almost a vertical column of water—was as high as the top of her mast. It must have deluged the crew on deck around her gun. The second and third he could not see, nor the fourth and fifth, but then he began to see splashes in the water beyond, half concealed by the bulk of the approaching ship.
“Down two hundred!” he shouted to Quin. He heard Quin repeat the message to Keith. First shots were almost always short in range because of the cold gun effect. It was quite possible that one or two had hit the enemy already. With no range correction, the next shots might be over. At the short range, any splashes immediately beyond the target, as long as they were in line, must however have been from shells which had torn their way through her superstructure. He lined up the TBT, pressed the button. That would send down a deflection correction, if one was needed.
“Mr. Keith says periscope agrees with down two hundred,” said Quin. “Range is now fifteen hundred, TDC.”
Richardson seized a moment of silence while both deck guns were loading, yelled, “Forties, open fire on target’s bridge!”
This too had been rehearsed. Instantaneously the monotonous, sharp WHACK, WHACK, WHACK of the forties began, their crews racing about, jerking the quadruple clips from their racks, slamming them into their loading slides. The forties were fitted with tracers and had almost a flat trajectory. He could see them, arching only slightly, reaching toward the enemy ship. Some were exploding on contact. The others, armor-piercing, were going into the dark hull. An unearthly glow suffused the escort’s angular silhouette as they struck, or as the tracers illuminated it briefly on passing, leaving its dark bulk even blacker on the black sea. There was another flash of flame on her foredeck, only the fourth or fifth. She was not making nearly so good practice (as the old gunnery saying went) as Eel. A critical factor, of course, was that the submarine had more than double the heavy armament. Furthermore, the forties had aircraft proximity fuses. Some of their bursts were not on impact but in the air, over the deck. They must be inflicting terrible casualties on exposed personnel. So far, the enemy tincan had not opened up with any automatic weapons—undoubtedly because, coming end-on as she was, her own bridge and superstructure masked at least some of them. But now there came a series of red flashes from the top of her bridge structure. Someone had got a machine gun going up there. It was small, however, probably no larger than fifty-caliber, hardly able to reach effectively across the intervening half-mile or more to the submarine.
So far Eel had received no hits, and at the same time Richardson was certain that his five-inchers must have struck the enemy several times. Clearly, the forty-millimeters were hitting repeatedly. Several times he had heard a whistling, tearing sound, knew it to be the passage of a large-caliber shell overhead. The closest must have passed a good ten feet above the bridge. The enemy was shooting over. That was a good sign. Eel’s own five-inchers must have pumped out ten shots each by now. Surely they had already dealt significant damage.
“Range one thousand yards!” shouted Quin in his ear, screaming to be heard above the monotonous regular pounding of the forties.
“All right, men!” yelled Richardson, pounding the shoulders of the group huddled with the fifty-calibers alongside him on the bridge. His gesture took in the twenty-millimeter crew. “Commence fire! All weapons!”
It was like a jet of fire spurting from Eel’s bridge. Three thin arcs of fifty-caliber tracer ammun
ition, arching fairly high, dropped upon the enemy ship, as did a pair of twin tracers arching slightly less high from the twenty-millimeter mount immediately aft. Up forward, from the forward torpedo room trunk, another single arc of fifty-caliber tracers streamed out toward the enemy.
The five-inchers were methodically continuing their destructive pounding. Their pace was slower now, having used up the ready ammunition laid out in advance. The pointers by consequence were aiming each shot with careful deliberation.
“Enemy speed has slowed to eight knots,” shouted Quin. They had hurt her. If the damage was to her main propulsion plant, while Eel’s was still in full commission—assuming the men in the after engineroom had been able to get the leak under control—Eel could probably outrun her. If the damage were to her hull, so that the tincan’s skipper had been forced to reduce speed because she was taking water, so much the better. But, of course, slowing might have been for some other reason, not related to damage.
Richardson had only to give the order for the full power of Eel’s two batteries, quickly followed by the hastily started diesels, to begin escape and evasion. He could head the ship southwest. Perhaps regain contact with the last fleeing transport if Whitefish had not sunk her. Possibly, somehow, he might one more time find the means to bring Whitefish into contact for one last attack with her remaining torpedoes. Perhaps, now that the troopship was bereft of escorts, Eel might be able to sink her by gunfire in a night action. If his brain was still able to function to plan the search. If he could find her, after all these hours. Provided there was still no air cover, or that the tincan did not get to her first.
Dust on the Sea Page 45
