Quin was prone on the floor, under Scott, who had fallen upon him. Unaccountably, the light in the conning tower was suddenly dim. The main lighting circuit had gone out. Only the emergency battle lights were still burning. The cloud of dust was so great that Richardson could hardly see to the after end of the cylindrical compartment, to the TDC and plotting table, normally the battle stations of Buck Williams and Larry Lasche. In the control room, through the reopened hatch, there was a haze of dust through the likewise dimmed light. There was confusion down there too. Blunt, in falling, must have landed upon Dugan, although Richardson could not see the situation clearly enough to discern who was who in the scramble. Relief flooded through him when Dugan’s bulky figure arose from the tangle, the top of his head assumed something like its normal position. There was blood smeared on it, Richardson noted. Whether Dugan’s or someone else’s was not clear, but at least he was back on his feet.
“All compartments report!” Rich shouted down the hatch.
Quin, with his earphones, would have been the normal channel for the order, but he was still temporarily out of commission. He could see him trying to listen, however.
Suddenly Dugan leaned back. “After engineroom reports damage!” he said, speaking swiftly.
“Are they taking water?”
It could not be serious. Al Dugan had yet to feel the weight in his diving controls. There was, however, that sound of rushing water, which he could still hear. It sounded like something changed in the superstructure. There was a quality to the noise which Richardson had never heard before.
He grabbed the telephone handset. Through it Richardson could hear compartments still reporting, as they had been trained, from forward aft.
“Silence on the line!” he bellowed into the telephone mouthpiece. “After engineroom report!”
The voice at the other end of the line seemed extremely distant, weak. It stated its message of horror, baldly, matter-of-factly, without embellishment or inflection of voice. It was almost as though the speaker were too tired, or too much under shock, to place any personal feeling into what he had to say: “After engineroom is flooding!”
Richardson had been expecting something like this. Neither strong steel hull nor human flesh and blood could continue to stand up under the crushing pounding so deliberately delivered for the past several hours. Nor could vital internal machinery. This was the end. This the solution to the problems. Now he could abandon himself to the inevitable. He was so tired — so tired, WHAM! WHAM! Two more depth charges. God, would they never stop? The last two depth charges, however, seemed not quite so close as the previous ones. The destroyer had finished its pass and was now dead astern. Had not Eel speeded up, the two middle depth charges in the pattern would have fallen neatly around the conning tower instead of farther aft. Now the frigate would be turning around, beaming its sonar where its plot would indicate Eel should be. But the escort would be pinging straight up Eel’s wake, through the disturbed water of her thrashing screws, the inline disturbance of six closely spaced depth charges. Richardson could increase its difficulty by maneuvering to keep the disturbance between them. Even with full speed, however, the rapidly accumulating weight of water in Eel’s after engineroom would soon be too much to carry. He could hasten the end by ordering “all stop” and letting her sink quietly to the bottom. The men in the after engineroom could prolong their lives a little by evacuating the compartment, dogging it down tightly after them. Then everyone could rest.
The alternative was to fight it. Eel must have gained some distance on her attacker. There would be a period of some peace, some opportunity to see if it might not yet be possible to salvage the situation. What was it that old Joe Blunt used to say so many years ago when he was still the much-admired skipper of the Octopus? “When you get into firing position, take your time and do it right.” That was one of them. The other was something to the effect that no matter what happened, there would be time to do what had to be done. Only the coward gave up and let circumstances rule him.
Richardson was aware of Quin staring at him with great wide-open eyes. Al Dugan in the control room below was taking a step up the ladder to bring Richardson into clearer view.
“All compartments, this is the captain. Stand firm to your stations! I’m going aft!” Deliberately he forced himself calmly to replace the handset in its cradle. “Buck,” he called, “I’m going to the after engineroom. You’re in charge up here. You can reach me by telephone. Keep the speed on, and keep that tincan astern. I’ll be back in three minutes!”
He stepped into the hatch, placed his heels on the ladder leading to the control room. It would do the control room gang good to see him coming down in his accustomed way, back to the ladder, hands on the skirt below the hatch rim opposite. “Gangway, Al,” he said. The diving officer, standing on the bottom rung of the ladder, swung clear. “Is she getting heavy aft?” he asked Dugan in a low tone.
“A little, but we’re still holding her at this speed. I don’t think we can if we slow down, though.”
The steps he must take had almost instantaneously become clear in Richardson’s mind. First, at all costs keep off the bottom. Second, stop or reduce the flooding. Third, get Keith and all other injured persons to a place of comparative safety, leaving only able-bodied men to do what could be done in the after engineroom. “Al,” he said, speaking swiftly, “line up your air manifold for blowing number seven main ballast tank alone. If you find yourself getting out of trim, or if we have to slow down, put a bubble in it big enough to balance the weight of the water in the after engineroom. Be careful and don’t put too much air in the tank.” Dugan nodded.
“Line up the drain pump on the drain line and be ready to start it. If we can still reach the after engineroom bilge suction, I’ll open it and give you the word to start pumping. And remember, if you get too much air in number seven tank, the only way to get rid of it will be through the vent valve, and it will go right to the surface for them to see!”
As Richardson swiftly made his way through the successive compartments, opening the watertight doors, seeing they were redogged behind him, he was acutely conscious of the haggard looks with which everyone regarded him. His was the responsibility for the situation, and it was to him alone they had to look for survival.
There were two or three men peering through the heavy glass viewing port in the closed watertight door between the forward and after enginerooms. One of them had his hand on the compartment air-salvage valve above the door. They moved quickly aside for him. No water was yet visible in the compartment.
“Open the door,” he ordered. Instantly the dogging mechanism handle was spun, the door swung open. He stepped through. “Dog it and keep a watch on me,” he said crisply. “Stand by to put pressure on the compartment, but don’t do it unless I signal, or unless you see water.” Air pressure in the engineroom, a last resort to reduce intake of water, would thereafter prevent opening either door to the compartment until an airlock system was devised.
Water was coming in from somewhere. He could hear the hydrant-like spurt of it beneath the deck plates. The upper level was deserted except for Yancy, the pharmacist’s mate.
“Where’s Leone?” asked Richardson.
“He’s down below with Mr. Cargill and Chief Frank. He’s okay, sir. The other man is all right, too. He just couldn’t take any more. So I gave him a sedative, and I think he’ll be okay when he wakes up. He’s over there lying on the generator flat.” Yancy indicated the area aft of the starboard main engine.