“You’re the one who needs some rest,” said Blunt.
It was an unrealistic comment to be addressed to a submarine skipper in the midst of a depth charging. No doubt Blunt meant it only in the complimentary sense.
Rich waved a hand in deprecation. “Where’s Keith?”
“I meant to tell you. He was in the after engineroom when the depth charges went off. He was knocked out somehow. Yancy is back with him.”
This was a blow. Keith Leone was not only his right-hand man, upon whom he had come to depend more than anyone else, he had also become his closest friend. “How bad is he hurt?”
“Don’t know yet. Several others were shaken up too, and somebody in the after room must have flipped, because he began running forward shouting to surface the boat and let the married men out. They stopped him with a wrench on the head. He and Keith are laid out together in the engineroom.”
“Shifted to short scale! She’s starting a run!” As Richardson swung around to the sonar receiving console and adjusted his earphones, he noticed that Stafford’s hands were shaking. So, nearly, were his own. He could see the pulse jumping in his wrists. Through the earphones Rich could hear the malevolent propeller beats coming closer. The rapid pings of the Japanese sonar sounded triumphant. They were exactly like those of a U.S. destroyer. He could pay no further attention to Blunt, who was standing irresolutely on the top rung of the ladder leading to the control room. The hatch was normally closed upon rigging for depth charge. Blunt had opened it to mount to the conning tower.
“She’s coming in on our port bow,” whispered Stafford tensely. The pointer indicator for the sound heads indicated the same. “No bearing drift at all! She’s coming right in on top of us!”
This was going to be a good run. The pings seemed to come right through the machine, and right through Eel’s pressure hull as well. Richardson could hear them without the earphones.
Perhaps a slight change in tactics would be in order. The tincan must be within a thousand yards. The cone of its sonar beam must have a limiting angle of depression, like American sonars. There would be a conical space beneath it where it was deaf. “Left full rudder,” he ordered.
Cornelli, at the steering wheel where he had been for twelve hours, spelled occasionally by Scott, began cranking the large steel wheel. Like all the other hydraulically controlled mechanisms, it had been shifted to hand power and now operated as a pump by which oil could slowly be pushed through the hydraulic lines and gradually move the heavy rudder rams. Cornelli had stripped to the waist. His muscular torso gleamed with sweat under the light of the emergency battle lantern above him. The wheel was four feet in diameter, with a handle which could be snapped out against a spring on its im. With both hands on the handle, Cornelli was jackknifing himself at the waist rapidly. Drops of sweat flew off his arms and shoulders as he furiously pumped the heavy steel wheel. The rudder angle indicator moved left with agonizing slowness.
“That’s well, Cornelli,” said Richardson. The rudder had not quite reached full left, but it was far enough. Cornelli was panting heavily. The oxygen content in Eel’s atmosphere was low. He was heaving deep breaths, alternately inflating and contracting his chest and stomach muscles.
“Rudder is twenty left. Thanks, sir,” he puffed.
Through the gyro repeater built into the sonar dials Richardson could see Eel slowly move left, bringing the pinging escort more nearly dead ahead. “All right, Cornelli, start bringing the rudder back to zero. Scott, you help him.” The air inside the submarine had become considerably more foul than was normal for an all-day submergence. The exertions of the crew, despite the enforced inactivity of some of them, resulted in greatly increased oxygen consumption. Cornelli was still heaving great, nearly sobbing, pants. Richardson felt that he himself was ready to do the same even without physical exertion. Blunt had been panting merely from having climbed up the ladder from the control room. After a few turns of the wheel Cornelli gratefully turned it over to Scott. “Just bring it back slow and stop on zero,” said Richardson. “We’ve got her swinging now.”
He turned, called past Blunt to Al Dugan at the diving station, “Al, we’re going to speed up. When we do, bring her up to a hundred fifty feet.”
Al Dugan also had a towel wrapped around his neck. Perspiration glinted on the ends of his close-cropped hair. He leaned back, looked up the hatch. “One-five-oh feet,” he said.
“All ahead full,” ordered Richardson. The rudder was nearing zero as he gave the command. “Commodore,” he continued, “she’s about to drop again! Please go below and shut the hatch!”
“I figure we’ve just entered the cone,” said Stafford. “We’re going to pass right under her on the opposite course.”
“I know,” said Richardson. He might have gone on to explain his reasoning, which was that once inside the cone of silence there was less chance the enemy ship would hear the sudden increase in speed of Eel’s propellers, and also a fairly good chance that she would not be able to react quickly enough to change the settings on her depth charges. Additionally, there was the factor that with the two ships proceeding on opposite courses, once Eel had passed beneath her adversary her propeller wash would thrust an increased amount of water directly toward the other ship. There might be an appreciable delay before the frigate could regain contact, since her sonar would also have to contend with her own propeller wash, as well as the water turbulence from her depth charges. Richardson said nothing, however, for suddenly it would have been too great an effort. A huge yawn racked his being. Almost with a sigh, really a deep pant by which his system subconsciously strove for more oxygen to keep it going, he asked, “Scott, when is sunset?”
“Half an hour ago,” said Scott.
“How about evening twilight?”
“About an hour altogether. It will be dark in half an hour more.”
“She’s dropped!” screamed Stafford in Richardson’s ear. Stafford was an oldtime submariner, a sonar man from way back, with many years of experience. He had been invaluable on the patrol thus far, as on the previous one. But even good men had their limits. Perhaps this was the last patrol Stafford should have to make — that is, if this were not to be the last one for other reasons.
“How many?”
“Don’t know. Two at least! Maybe more this time!”
WHAM! A tremendous, all-encompassing explosion… WHAM! Another, equally loud. There was a sound of rushing water. WHAM! WHAM! Two more, even louder, almost simultaneous. Something struck the side of the submarine, skidded or scraped for a moment, fell clear. Richardson felt momentarily disoriented. Stafford had been knocked off his stool in front of the sonar equipment. Richardson saved himself from falling by gripping the handrail alongside the control room hatch. Blunt, however, still standing in the hatch, had been knocked backward off the ladder and had disappeared below into the control room just as the hatch itself, sprung loose from its latch, slammed shut with a resounding clap and then bounced open again.