by Peter Albano
Ensign Hasse’s voice squeaked in the speaker.
“Forward torpedo room rigged for dive.” Then Williams’s voice came through from the control room followed by Lieutenant Cadenbach, Lieutenant Dunlap, all reporting, “Rigged for dive.”
Mark Allen leaned over the speaker. “Rig out the bow planes!” Housed flat against the sides of the bow like huge leaves, the bow planes began to rotate and turn out until perpendicular to the hull and slanted slightly forward, their leading edges digging into the water.
“Lookouts below.” The two lookouts tumbled anxiously from their perches on the periscope shears and vanished down the hatch.
Mark Allen looked all around. The bow had already been forced below the surface by the planes. “Let’s pull the plug — clear the bridge!”
Brent was down the hatch and into the conning tower first, followed by David Jordan. Both men stood next to the TDC. Within a minute the phones, helm, radar, sonar, and plotting table were manned: Quartermaster Harold Sturgis taking his place at the helm and engine-room controls; Sonarman Crog Romero the sonar; Yeoman Randolph “Randy” Davidson at the phones and fastening his headset; Petty Officer Tadashi Takiguichi the radar. Reginald Williams came up the hatch from the control room and took his position next to the periscopes and Lieutenant Charlie Cadenbach hunched over his tiny table next to Sturgis.
Mark Allen, the official OD, came last. Dropping through the hatch, he shouted, “Dive! Dive! Dive!” and hit the dive alarm with the heel of his hand. The horn blared through the boat like an old auto horn. “Oogah! Oogah!” Holding the wire hatch lanyard in his hand and bowing his back, the admiral jerked the hatch cover home with a clang of metal on metal. A few swift whirls of the steel wheel in the center of the hatch dogged it watertight. Then, he dropped down into the conning tower. Immediately, operators at the diving station threw levers and popping sounds were heard as the vents of the main ballast clanged open.
“Green board!” a man shouted.
“Green air!” another man shouted. “Pressure in the boat.” Brent felt pressure on his eardrums as air was pumped into the boat to test for leaks.
“Very well,” Mark Allen said. He shouted down the hatch into the control room. “Secure the air and take her down to sixty-four feet.” He turned to Jordan. “This will give me two and a half feet of periscope.”
“Sixty-four feet,” the diving officer, Ensign Herbert Battle repeated. Leaning over his two planesmen, he gave his instruction in a calm voice.
Allen turned to Cadenbach who was hunched over his table, staring at a chart and fingering parallel rules. “Navigator, depth under keel.”
“One hundred ten fathoms, sir.”
Brent could hear the venting of air as water rushed into the main ballast tanks, the hum of electric motors as the batteries took over. The boat inclined downward. Slapping and gurgling, the sea crept up the bridge and conning tower, green water covering the tiny glass eye-ports. Then an awesome quietness as the boat completely submerged and Brent felt the pressure begin to build against his eardrums again. Despite the whirling fans of the ventilating system, the heat began, and very quickly the conning tower became uncomfortable with the warmth and smell of closely packed bodies. Everyone had a strange rosy flush in the reddish glow of the battle lamps.
“Passing fifty feet, sir,” Herbert Battle shouted up the hatch.
“Blow negative and level off,” Mark Allen said. “All ahead standard.”
“Passing sixty, blowing negative, and leveling, sir.”
“Very well. Up ’scope.” Williams pushed the pickle-control button hanging from the overhead and there was a sharp metallic pop of an electrical relay snapping shut. With a creaking of sheaves, the periscope began to rise from its well.
“Level on sixty-four feet, sir.”
“Very well.” Allen stooped over, caught the handles of the periscope as they came out of the well, extended them like a cross as the base of the periscope came clear of the deck, pressed his eyes against the rubber-lined eyepiece, rising smoothly with the tube to a standing position as it locked into place. He spun it around slowly, chuckling. He nodded to Jordan. “Nothing.” He stepped away.
Jordan draped his arms over the handles casually and stared into the lens like the old professional he was. He flicked the magnification control from one and one-half to six, turned the scope, stared hard at something off the starboard quarter, and gestured to Mark Allen. “Not quite, Admiral. Hulled down on the horizon — we have company.”
Mark Allen took the periscope. “The ‘honey barge.’”
“Have you ever sunk a load of shit, Admiral?” Jordan asked casually.
“What?”
“A practice attack. Why not? She can’t be doing more than five knots.” He waved an arm in an encompassing gesture. “A perfect setup. Clear weather, calm sea. You have a good crew. Go for it. Put a fish up her ass.”
Mark Allen smacked his lips and hit the General Alarm button with the heel of his hand. Instantly, the musical bong, bong of the alarm sounded throughout the boat. By the time Brent had reached up to the Torpedo Data Computer and threw the On switch, the attack periscope was already up and Mark Allen was staring into it.
Reginald Williams, the assistant attack officer, moved opposite Mark Allen, staring at the bearing and range scales on the shaft of the periscope. He had hung an instrument called an Is-Was around his neck. Used for matching target bearing with target course, it was made of celluloid and looked much like an old circular slide rule. An ancient instrument, it dated back to the old S-boats.
David Jordan took a place next to the helmsman and the engine-room controls, watching every move, listening to every command. Obeying a gesture from the admiral, Charlie Cadenbach dropped down the ladder into the control room and continued tracking the ship’s course in “Plot.” The congestion was eased slightly.
Brent looked around the tiny compartment at the intent faces. These few men were the attack team who delivered Blackfin’s lethal cargo from this crowded eight-by-sixteen-foot compartment. In one way or another, every other man in the crew had no other function except to support the few isolated in the steel tank of the conning tower; to obey every command, every whim, and live or die by the decisions of that single old man staring through the periscope.
“Conning tower manned and ready,” Williams said.
“Very well.”
“Forward torpedo room manned and ready, engine rooms One and Two manned and ready, forward battery room manned and ready” came in as the talker reported from the phone board.
Brent stared at the TDC as its motors came up to speed with low-pitched whines. A primitive kind of computer, he had learned to appreciate its complexities and ability to solve problems with multiple variables and provide a real time schematic diagram of the relative positions of the submarine and her target. It even computed the gyro angles required to direct the torpedoes to their target and transmitted them to the torpedo rooms electrically.
About four feet tall, the top panel was black with twelve circular dials highlighted with white etched letters and calibrations. Each was labeled: Target Speed, Target Length, Target, Own Ship, Relative Target Bearing, Own Course, Time, and a Distance to Track indicator which had a grid face.
Brent had spent long hours at the machine with other members of the attack team back at Charlie Four making dry runs. He had learned to set the machine’s dials by turning the eight small cranks beneath them, feeding in target length, speed, range, bearing, and course while at the same time entering Blackfin’s speed and course. Then the wait for the red solution light that could spell a horrible death for an unsuspecting crew.
“Ship is at battle stations,” Davidson reported.
“Very well,” the admiral said as he stared through the periscope. “Down ’scope!” Stepping back, he pulled a microphone down from the overhead. “Now hear this,” he said. “We’re going to make a practice attack on a barge being towed out of the harbor. All commands wi
ll be obeyed just as if this is the real thing. However, we won’t flood tubes and obviously we won’t fire fish — we don’t have any, anyway.” He looked around the room. “All right, stand by. Right standard rudder. Steady up on two-six-zero.” The helm was put over.
“Steady on two-six-zero,” Sturgis said.
“Very well. Up ’scope!” Staring into the lens, he said to Williams, “Stand by, XO, first bearing.” He stared rigidly into the eyepiece. “Bearing! Mark!”
Standing on the opposite side of the periscope from Mark Allen, Reggie watched the spot where the vertical cross hair on its barrel matched the azimuth circle etched on the overhead around it. “Zero-eight-zero,” he read.
Brent entered the information into the TDC.
“She has a short antenna mast,” Mark Allen said. “Make its height twenty-five feet. Total height from waterline to masthead about forty-five feet.” His hand moved to a small wheel on the side of the periscope. At first he turned it rapidly, but slowed, matching the split images in the range finder. He stopped. “Range! Mark!”
“Eight-five-five-zero,” Williams said, reading a range opposite the twenty-five-foot masthead height markers on a dial at the bottom of the instrument.
Brent turned his cranks.
“Down ’scope,” Allen said stepping back. He said to Reginald and Brent, “Angle on the bow is tough — it’s flat and wide. Make it port thirty.” Williams adjusted the Is-Was.
Brent turned a dial and the TDC hummed. The target was thirty degrees away from coming directly at Blackfin. “Initial range eighty-five hundred,” Brent said. “Speed five.” Williams glanced at his instrument and nodded concurrence.
Mark Allen turned to Brent. “What’s the distance to the track?”
The admiral was asking him for the distance from the submarine to the target’s projected track. Brent looked at the grid, made a quick reading of coordinates. The problem was really quite simple, something taught in freshman geometry. A thirty-sixty-ninety triangle. “Four-two-seven-five, sir.”
“Our speed through water?”
Quartermaster Sturgis glanced at the log. “Four knots, sir.”
“All ahead full.” And down the hatch, “Control, sixty-five feet.” There was clink of annunciators and the hum of the electric motors grew. Allen spoke to Williams. “We’ll make this observation fast. Stand by. Up ’scope!” Williams pushed the button of the pickle.
Mark Allen leaned over, caught the handles as they came out of the well, and began his observation half doubled over, trying for minimum exposure of the periscope head. “Bearing, mark! Range, mark! Down ’scope.”
“Bearing zero-six-zero, range six-five-zero-zero.”
Allen turned to Brent who was cranking the new data into the TDC. “Angle on the bow, sixty.”
Brent glanced at his grid. “Distance to track three-five-two-five.”
“Very well. Our speed through water.”
“Nine knots, sir,” Sturgis said.
Allen said to Takiguchi, “How long was the periscope above water?”
The sonar man glanced at a stopwatch. “Nine seconds, sir.”
“Good.” Allen tapped the shaft of the periscope. “All ahead standard. Flood tubes one, two, three, and four.” Almost a minute ticked off.
“Tubes one, two, three, and four flooded, sir.” All was quiet for several minutes. Finally, Mark Allen barked, “Open outer doors.” He turned to the periscope. “This will be a shooting observation. Up ’scope!” The periscope slithered out of its lair. “Bearing mark! Range mark!”
“Bearing zero-seven-zero, range two-five-zero-zero, sir.”
“Angle on the bow, zero-eight-five.” Allen stepped back. “Down ‘scope!”
Brent cranked his dials furiously and shouted, “Set!” indicating the bearing from the periscope had been set into the TDC.
Mark Allen spoke to Davidson. “Torpedo firing order normal. Depth eighteen feet, speed medium.” Davidson spoke into his headset.
A red “F” glowed on the angle solver dial of the TDC. “I have a solution light,” Brent said. “You can fire anytime, sir.”
“Very well. Simulate firing one! Shoot!” Williams pulled a phone from the bulkhead and reached up to the firing panel, a long metal box with ten windows, four of which showed red lights. Beneath the windows was a row of switches, and beneath the switches the firing key, a plunger fitted with a round brass plate curved to fit a man’s hand. Williams simulated throwing a switch and pushing the key. “Fire One,” he said into the phone.
“One fired electrically” came from the talker. Williams waited a few seconds and repeated the process. “Fire Two… Fire Three… Fire Four,” and the same procedure was repeated.
Jordan smiled and said, “All fish running hot, straight, and normal.” The men smiled at each other. Then Jordan shouted, “Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!” Everyone looked at him. “Congratulations, men,” he said with an impish smile. “You can paint a turd on your conning tower.” Laughter swept the compartment. Allen leaned over the open hatch. “Mr. Cadenbach. Give me a course back to the Narrows.”
“I would suggest three-five-zero” came back.
“Right standard rudder, steady up on three-five-zero.”
Turning his helm and staring at his rudder-angle indicator, the quartermaster repeated the command. “Steady on three-five-zero,” he said.
“Very well. All ahead one-third. Prepare to surface.” The command rang through the boat.
He turned to Crog. “Sonar, give me a reading on the tug and tow.”
Hands on earphones, Crog leaned forward and studied his scope. “Bearing three-zero-zero, range twelve hundred yards, sir.”
“Up ‘scope.” The periscope slid up and Mark Allen rotated around in a complete circle and stopped, staring off the port bow. He grunted with satisfaction. “Very good, sonar. Down ’scope.” He shouted down the hatch, “Surface! Surface! Surface!”
The Klaxon blared through the boat and Battle’s shout could be heard. “Blow negative to the mark! Six degrees up!”
Hissing under high-pressure, air jolted into the main ballast tanks, blowing out water. Blackfin shuddered and then inclined upward.
Mark Allen called down into the control room, “Maneuvering room, stand by to light off four main engines. I want sixteen knots.” He turned to Brent and gestured at the hatch. “Stand by, Mr. Ross.”
Brent climbed three steps up the bridge ladder and stood just under the hatch, gripping the handle of the hand wheel. He could hear water splashing and gurgling, draining off the bridge. Ensign Battle’s shout came up, “Five-oh-feet, four-oh-feet, three-oh-feet…”
“Crack the hatch!”
Brent whirled the wheel and air began to blow out the slightly open hatch. He heard Battle’s voice. “Pressure, three-eighths-inch,” indicating a slightly higher pressure inside the boat than outside.
“Two-five-feet and holding steady” came from Battle again.
“Open the hatch! Section Two to steaming stations.”
Brent completed undogging the hatch and unsnapped the safety latch. Counterbalanced by a large, coiled-steel spring, the heavy bronze hatch cover flung itself open with a huge rush of air, banging the side of the bridge and locking open with a thud. Brent, followed by Allen, Jordan, two lookouts and a helmsman, Seaman First Class Jay Overstreet, scampered onto the bridge, which was streaming water out of its scuppers. Quickly, four pairs of binoculars scanned the horizons and Overstreet took the wheel.
“Steer three-five-zero,” Mark Allen said.
“Three-five-zero, sir. Ship is steady on three-five-zero, Admiral.”
Allen scanned the horizon ahead, then shouted down the hatch, “Open the main induction valve!” He turned to Overstreet. “All ahead two-thirds!” With a thump, the main induction valve located just abaft the bridge and under the cigarette deck, opened. Immediately, there was a roar as the main engines sprang to life and Blackfin surged ahead with her new power. Allen shouted into the speak
er, “Start the high pressure blow!”
There was a clang in the bowels of the ship followed by a high-pitched screech like the cry of an animal caught in the jaws of a steel trap as the turbo blow began forcing high pressure air into the main ballast tanks, expelling water and kicking up spray from the vents along the sides of the boat. Slowly, the submarine began to shrug herself higher out of the seas.
The tug and tow were passing only a thousand yards off the port beam. Jordan waved. “Some mighty surprised sailors over there.”
Brent and the admiral chuckled. Tadashi Takiguchi’s voice came up through the hatch. “Radar shows two vessels a thousand yards off the port beam, others bearing two-zero-zero, range fourteen miles, one-three-five, range twenty-three miles and three bearing three-five-five, clearing the Narrows at thirty-one miles, thirty-three, and thirty-four.”
“Radar. Give me a bearing on the center of the channel.”
“Three-five-five, Admiral.”
“Very well.” To the helmsman, “Come left to three-five-five.”
Jordan waved a hand the length of the boat. “She’s running fully surfaced, Admiral.”
Allen nodded. Turned to the speaker, “Secure the high pressure blow.” Mercifully, the screaming animal died.
Lieutenant Brooks Dunlap’s voice came through the speaker. “Permission to charge batteries, sir.”
“Permission granted.” The pulse of the main engines slowed with the new load as switches were thrown and amperes began to flow from the four eleven hundred kilowatt Elliot generators and into the batteries. Mark Allen turned to Brent. He was obviously in an expansive mood. “This is your watch?”
“Correct, sir. This is my section.”
“Well take her in, Lieutenant. Course three-five-five, speed twelve. I’ll lay below to my cabin. Call me when you make a landfall.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Mark Allen and David Jordan disappeared down the hatch.
Chapter X
The next week was hectic. Each morning Blackfin stood out to sea or steamed into Long Island Sound to conduct drills. Beginning with the second day, a Navy destroyer accompanied Blackfin, serving as both target and attacker. Hours were spent in deep water, running silent and rigged for depth charge. On two occasions, the admiral took the submarine to the bottom where she settled into the mud while the crew stood at their stations silently, listening to the screws of the destroyer thrashing across the surface hundreds of feet above their heads. Dummy charges were dropped and on one occasion, two actually bounced off the bridge.
