Dust on the Sea (33 page)

To ensure that everyone understood, Rich rehearsed the instructions: “Rogers, set your range index at about fifteen thousand yards. As soon as you see a pip, you holler ‘Range!' good and loud, so that Scott can hear it. Don't wait to match it with your range marker. You can do that afterward. I want to get the 'scope down just as soon as possible. We're going to be waving ten feet of it up in the air. It will look like a telephone pole!”

Turning to the TDC he said, “I'll get my eye on the periscope on the way up and will line it up so that it goes down exactly on the target bearing.” Keith and Buck both nodded. With the periscope exposed ten feet above the surface, its tip would be out of water long before the base with the eyepiece would come out of the periscope well, long before the radar connection in the bottom of the base would engage. Hence there would be no benefit to orienting it down low, as Rich had done previously. “Everybody ready?” said Richardson. “Up periscope!”

The radar periscope started to rise. As before, Richardson squatted on his haunches facing it. He was ready for the pain, set his face so as not to show it. He snatched the handles as they came up, spread them out, lunged against the eyepiece, began to rise with it. He could hear the radar wave guide engage the trombone section at the base of the periscope, heard the snap of the radar as Rogers kicked it in to the now complete wave-guide tube. The periscope traveled all the way to the top, stopped with a bouncy jerk, started back down. Richardson followed it as far as he could, almost gasping with the pain of returning to the squatting position, snapped the handles up as they began to enter the well.

“No pip, sir,” said Rogers.

“One-eight-four, true,” said Keith.

“Target bearing zero-zero-four, relative,” said Richardson, looking at the azimuth ring built into the bearing circle around the periscope where the tube disappeared into the top of the conning tower. “It's a convoy of four freighters, and I can see at least three escorts. Angle on the bow of the leading ship is about starboard ten. I can give you an estimate of range; let's see . . . I couldn't see the water line . . . use a fifty-foot height of mast and give them one-quarter of one division in high power.”

Keith had seized an ivory-colored celluloid slide rule hanging by a string alongside the TDC, set the scales, read off the answer: “Twelve thousand yards!”

“Twelve thousand looks a little short to me,” said Rich. “One of the escorts is out in front. Right now he bears a degree or so to the right of the bearing I gave you. One is to the left, and one farther to the right. They were all on different courses, so they must be patrolling on station. We'll soon know if the convoy itself is zigzagging. They're so close to shore that if they are, their next zig will probably be to their left. Also, I thought I could see another set of small masts astern of the last ship. There might be a fourth escort back in the clean-up spot.”

“If we get a shot at them,” said Keith, “that's the one we'll have to worry about.”

“That one, or the left-hand escort,” agreed Rich. “At least our fish are Mark Eighteens, and they won't leave a wake for him to head for.”

“We still have ten fish aft, Skipper, and ten left forward. Recommend we try for a stern tube shot if we can,” said Keith.

“Right. Matter of fact, we may have to shoot both bow tubes and stern tubes,” said Richardson. “And besides, with these tincans moving around we'd better have a fish or two ready at each end set shallow just in case we need to take a shot at one.”

Keith said, “The torpedo rooms are pretty fast on the reload, if we give them warning. Maybe we'd better have them lay out their gear now, and start reloading as we fire.” Rich nodded. Keith pointed with emphasis at Quin, who had been listening with extreme attention.

Quin picked up his telephone mouthpiece, pressed the button, spoke into it. “Tubes forward and tubes aft,” he said, “the skipper wants you to be ready to make a reload as fast as you can. There's four destroyers up here and four targets. Start reloading as soon as you have an empty tube. He needs some fish ready for the tincans.”

Richardson shot him an approving look. “Three minutes since the last observation,” said Keith. “If that optical range was any good, they ought to be just under eleven thousand yards right now.”

“We'll try another radar range,” said Richardson. “Same procedure as before. Everybody ready? . . . Up periscope.” Up came the tube, Richardson squatting like an ancient devotee of an ageless religion in front of it, his knees spread, the tube rising almost between them, his hands waiting. The handles came out of the well. He snapped them down, jammed his forehead against the rubber guard around the eyepiece of the periscope, straightened up rapidly as the periscope continued
to rise. The radar wave guide engaged the bottom of the periscope. Snap! went the radar.

“Range!” shouted Rogers.

Richardson had not yet reached the full standing position. He went back down with the periscope, snapped up its handles, backed clear at the last possible moment. Keith was standing on the opposite side of the periscope tube, looking up at the azimuth ring in the overhead. “Zero-zero-four-a-half,” he said.

“Range thirteen thousand five hundred,” sang out Rogers. “Good range, sir.”

“Angle on the bow is still starboard ten. That was a good bearing. There are definitely four cargo ships and four escorts,” said Richardson. “One of the escorts is patrolling astern, one on each flank and one ahead. No zig yet.”

Turning to Rogers, he asked, “How was your radar pip? Do you think we can come down a little?”

“That was a good pip,” said Rogers. “We ought to be able to come down about four feet.”

“Good. Control, make your depth five-six feet!”

Eel
nosed down slightly as the depth gauge began gradually to increase, steadied at the new figure. “It's nine minutes since you took a look around, Captain,” said Keith.

“I'll do it next time. What's the state of charge of the torpedoes? Have you got the water injection yet?”

“All fish in the tubes got a freshening charge two days ago, Captain,” said Keith. “We just took the injection temperature. It's fifty degrees. Buck has already made the temperature correction for torpedo speed on the TDC.”

“Good,” said Rich. “Anything else we've forgotten?”

“Well, maybe we'd better rig for silent running and rig for depth charge. Also, it wouldn't hurt to know the depth of water in case we have to go deep in a hurry.”

“Stafford,” said Richardson, “can you hear the escorts echo-ranging?”

Stafford didn't hear until Scott leaned over his shoulder, made him remove one earphone, and repeated the question.

“Yes, sir,” said Stafford, “distant echo-ranging, bearing south.”

“Quin,” said Rich, “tell control to get a single ping sounding as quick as they can.” He explained, turning to Keith and Buck, “If they're echo-ranging, they won't notice a single extra ping, especially at this distance.”

Keith said, “We should get a bathythermograph reading, if there's time.” He was going over his check-off list. The bathythermograph,
which recorded water temperature against depth of submergence, gave indication of the location of temperature layers and was therefore useful for evasion.

“All right. We'll go deep after the next observation. I'll save the look around for the next time.”

“Fast periscope technique again,” Richardson said to Scott and Rogers—“Up periscope!”

The 'scope started up. Again Richardson went through the routine. “Range!” shouted Rogers. The 'scope started down.

“Bearing zero-zero-five-a-half,” said Keith.

“Range twelve thousand,” said Rogers.

“Fifteen hundred yards in three minutes gives us a speed of fifteen knots,” said Richardson.

“I make it fourteen and a half by TDC,” said Buck.

“Use fourteen and a half,” said Richardson. “Target has zigged to his left. Angle on the bow of the leading ship is now starboard thirty. There are definitely four escorts. The leading ship is considerably bigger than the other three. It looks like a passenger cargo ship of perhaps ten thousand tons, with two stacks, and goalposts fore and aft over her cargo hatches. The other three ships are somewhat smaller, ordinary freighters. Two masts each, with booms.”

“Distance to the track is six thousand yards,” said Buck.

Richardson had already made the same calculation in his head. If the target continued on its present course with no further zigs, and
Eel
remained stationary, the convoy's nearest point of approach would be six thousand yards away, far outside optimum torpedo range. As yet,
Eel
had not maneuvered. It was still too early to tell how radical a zigzag plan the enemy ships were using, but they were close to the coast of Korea, and the most likely direction of their zigzagging would be toward the center of the Maikotsu Suido. The most probable next zig might even be farther to the target's left. Clearly,
Eel
would have to move over to get into position, and to do so it would be necessary to use high speed. Far better to do it now, before the escorts were close enough either to hear the submarine's propellers or to pick her up by echo-ranging on her broadside as she closed the track.

Assessment of the situation was virtually instantaneous, more a suddenly presented picture than a careful step-by-step evaluation. “Right full rudder! All ahead full! Control, make your depth one hundred feet! What was that sounding?”

“Two hundred beneath the keel,” said Keith. “Two hundred sixty feet depth of water.”

“Very well,” said Richardson. ‘Control, make your depth two hundred
feet. Be careful as we near the bottom. Do not use much angle. Our sonar heads are down. If we touch, they'll be wiped off.”

Six miles to the south, eight Japanese ships were moving steadily toward the same point at which
Eel
also was aiming. Four of them were targets of war, fated, if
Eel
could have her way, to find their last port of call on the bottom of the Yellow Sea. The remaining four were professional fighting ships, designed and trained to combat submarines. Perhaps a thousand men in all, about equally divided between the merchant ships and the antisub ships. Four merchant skippers, ever conscious of the possible presence of submarines, huddled unnaturally together for mutual protection, alert for any warning of danger, ready for instant flight should an enemy submarine appear. Four Japanese Navy skippers, eager for the accolade of having sunk the second U.S. sub in two weeks in the Yellow Sea. Four hundred depth charges between them, and about five hundred Japanese Navy men, no less eager than their commanders to sink an American submarine.

Opposed to these, eighty persons in
Eel
, probably better trained, certainly in a more complex ship than any of theirs. But both of
Eel
's advantages—surprise and invisibility—stemmed from her ability to submerge. Submergence alone made it possible for eighty men to challenge a thousand, and to gain this capability the submarine had given up the ability to sustain damage. To submerge, she must be in exactly neutral buoyancy. Reserve buoyancy, which permits a surface ship to view the prospect of hull damage with some degree of equanimity, does not exist for a submerged submarine. Even a small hole in
Eel
's pressure hull—made by a sharp enemy bow, a flailing propeller, an explosive shell from a gun, or the crushing water hammer from a near depth charge—could start a flood of water equivalent to fifty fire hydrants. A ton of water taken in—only a few hundred gallons—would be enough to send her to the bottom. If, somehow, all her ballast tanks survived whatever had caused the damage to the pressure hull (hardly likely, since they surrounded it), and if no more than one compartment had been flooded, she might, by blowing all of them dry, stagger to the surface, there to be smashed pitilessly down again by the knife-sharp bows and waiting guns of her assailants.

In the immediate future were not one contest but two, both unequal. Unequal, first, in that
Eel
would have one clear, unopposed shot at her antagonists (provided that some egregious error in approach technique, such as permitting one's periscope to be sighted, was not committed, or bad luck—sonar detection—encountered).

But once the submarine's presence became known, which it must ultimately and inevitably be by the crashing roar of her torpedoes, the
inequalities would shift abruptly, and the second battle begin. From this point on, it was the submarine that would be on the defensive: slow moving, her machinery silenced save for the motors turning the propellers at minimum speed (for to run faster would make more noise), her torpedo tubes empty (reloading them would make noise), running at deep submergence, listening, always listening, for the pings of enemy sonar, for the sound of the searching propellers. Blindly twisting at excruciatingly slow speed in the desperate effort to avoid the high-speed rush of the enemy destroyer bringing the killing depth charges.

Four ships against one. Five hundred men against eighty. An alerted enemy, in their home waters, free to move swiftly in any direction, free, even, to seek help in emergency. Free to see, as well as listen. Free to make noise, to have no care for the making of noise. Free of the fear of the black water transforming itself into white at the instantaneous moment of ingress. Free of imagining, and awaiting, that tortured last view of a closely circumscribed steel world while light and power from the batteries yet remained. Free of the terror of the everlasting darkness and pressure at the bottom of the sea.