He picked up the handset. “Keith?… Go ahead. We’ll be coming up in a very few minutes, so hold it down to ten pounds’ pressure.”
It must be quite dark topside. Eel would slow down and come to periscope depth immediately. This would greatly reduce the necessary air pressure in the after engineroom. The bubble in number seven tank would expand as the ship rose nearer to the surface, giving additional buoyancy, but of course additional buoyancy would be needed as she slowed down. Exactly how much was the problem. As the lifting effect of the stern planes became less pronounced, the whole business of balancing weights and buoyancy submerged would become more ticklish. The risk of emitting another bubble, if the buoyancy aft became too great, would have to be accepted.
Richardson paced around the periscope in the darkened conning tower, becoming readjusted to the reduced light. He could hear the repeated orders to “blow” and “secure the air”—and once or twice a quickly telephoned order to the after torpedo room to “crack the vent,” then shut it tightly again — as Dugan fought to maintain submerged trim.
There were other noises too. The bustle of breaking out ammunition, the preparation of the gun crews, the setting up of the ammunition supply parties. At one point, Richardson got on the telephone to all compartments and quietly announced his instructions to the gun crews. The gun captains and the pointers and trainers of the two five-inch guns were summoned to the conning tower for specific instructions. Their first move would be to check the bore-sight of their guns, for their telescopes might well have been damaged or knocked out of alignment. They could do this swiftly by sighting on the previously laid-out marks on deck forward and aft, using Buck Williams’ improvised bore-sight telescope jammed into the open breech. Then they were free to swing on the target, but they were not to open fire until ordered.
The six men, goggled and garbed in heavy clothing, listened gravely. This was very near to the situation for which they had trained and planned two months ago, and for which periodically, whenever they had the opportunity, they had checked out the guns. Their only chance to fire them since leaving Pearl had come briefly, some twelve hours previously, at the last troopship. Combined with awareness of the emergency, it was also clear there was a certain relish at the prospect of vengeance against their tormentor. The gun captains would wear telephones and would receive range settings from Buck Williams, who would be manning another set in the conning tower. Buck, in turn, would receive ranges from the radar and firing bearings from the bridge TBTs.
Final instructions were for Keith alone. “If anything happens to me on the bridge,” Richardson said, “do not dive under any circumstances. We’ll have to hope that water hasn’t gotten into number three and four generators — Johnny Cargill and Frank will be checking on that. The first thing to do is to damage this tincan so that he won’t be able to follow, or anyway, keep up with us.” It was characteristic of Keith that he should merely nod.
Time for all the preparations could not have taken ten minutes. The crew was working in desperate haste, well aware of the danger that the destroyer might come upon them before they were ready. In the dim visibility through the periscope, the tincan could barely be seen in the darkness. Eel’s high-speed run had gained considerable distance. Now the enemy was slowly and methodically moving up her wake. He had probably finally realized his mistake with the air bubble, but was still beset by confused echoes from his own recent depth charges and from the turbulent water left behind by the submarine’s propellers. Nevertheless, the sonar conditions would clear, and at the end of the disturbed water he must find the submarine.
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.