The blowing continued. There was a moment of tense stillness. The next move would be Dugan’s.
“Can’t hold her! Reversing planes!” Dugan’s voice boomed loud on the general announcing speaker in the conning tower. Suddenly the submarine began to rise beneath them. Al had been directed to bring her up all flat, partly to get the main deck clear as soon as possible, partly to keep water in the after engineroom bilges from collecting in the after end and possibly, at that last moment, damaging the all-important generators.
“All back full!” ordered Richardson.
“Four-five feet,” said Keith. “Four-oh feet.” Water could be heard pouring through the superstructure, sluicing off the bridge. “Three-oh feet. Two-eight feet. Two-four feet… Two-four feet and holding!”
“All stop! Open the hatch!” bellowed Richardson. “Open the gun access trunk! Gun crews on deck!” The hatch banged open. There was a slight lift of air through the hatch, instantly dissipated because only the conning tower volume was involved. Richardson scrambled up the ladder, stepped clear of the horde of men following him. Instantly he was glad he had picked the port side to begin the action. The starboard side of the bridge — a large section of the bulletproof steel plating — was missing, evidently blown off by that last, closest, depth charging. Perhaps it was this which he had heard striking the side of the submarine and clattering on down into the depths. Luckily there was no further damage. No doubt the heavy plating had warded off the depth charge explosion. If so, to this everyone in the conning tower, and perhaps Eel herself, owed their lives.
Richardson was conscious of the bang of the gun access trunk hatch, the scurrying feet of many men running aft and forward. The men who had come up the hatch immediately after him had already cast loose the two forty-millimeter guns. Others pulled out the twin twenty-millimeters and hurriedly mounted them on their little stand just aft of the periscope shears, and still others mounted the three fifty-caliber machine guns in their mounting sockets on the undamaged port side of the bridge. On the forecastle he could see the round forward torpedo room hatch being lifted to the vertical and the shadowy forms of two men lifting their machine gun out, setting it in its socket to the left of the open hatch circle.
Keith’s voice from the conning tower. “Diving officer reports securing high pressure air. Shifting to low pressure blowers. Ship is riding at twenty-two-foot keel depth. Bridge speaker system is out!”
Richardson had expected this report from Dugan by loudspeaker. It was evident he had tried to make it, and that the bridge speaker system was one more casualty of the recent depth charging.
“Captain, I’m sending Quin up to relay your orders by telephone. We’ll have to take a chance on a wire through the hatch. We have wire cutters in the conning tower if we need them, and he has another in his pocket.”
Seconds later Quin was standing beside Richardson alongside the port TBT.
“I have communications with the forward and after five-inch guns, Captain,” said Quin. “They’re bore-sighting them now. Mr. Williams is giving them range: twenty-four hundred yards.”
“Good,” said Richardson. He raised his voice. “Hold fast, men!” he shouted. They had all been thoroughly briefed, but it was well to repeat the order. “Hold fast until I give the order!”
“Five-inchers and the forward-torpedo-room hatch have the word,” said Quin. A mutter of comprehension reached Richardson from all the bridge personnel.
“Bore-sight completed, forward five-inch,” said Quin. “Just a minute on the after gun — after gun bore-sight completed, Captain. Both guns, bore-sight completed. Training out on the port beam.”
“Ask them if they can see the target through their telescopes.” He heard Quin repeating the question, a moment later the reassuring reply, “Number one and two five-inch both can see the target clearly.”
Richardson was looking at the enemy ship through the TBT binoculars, never once removing his eyes from it. He thumbed the button built into the handle. The enemy must have just become aware of Eel’s sudden appearance on the surface.
“Have we got a second radar range on them yet, Quin?” he asked.
“Getting it right now, sir. Mr. Williams is getting radar range two-two-double-oh. He’s having the guns set in two-one-five-oh on their range dial.”
“Very well. All guns load.” He could hear the disciplined clatter as the five-inch shells were slammed into the breeches and the locks slammed home behind them. The forties had their clips of four rounds each already in place. One jerk back on the arming lever and a round was rammed to the firing chamber. The same with the twenties with their canned ammunition and the fifty calibers with their belts. The months of training were paying off. The first time this had been tried in drill there had been much clutter and confusion. Not this time. He had strenuously impressed upon all hands the importance of getting off this first broadside, these first few salvos, suddenly, with precision, and if possible with complete surprise.
Through his binoculars the enemy ship had been presenting a slight starboard angle on the bow, perhaps ten degrees. Now its already truncated silhouette shortened, became symmetrical. Richardson realized he was looking dead on at the enemy ship. The bridge command circuit had been rigged up. Miraculously, its permanent topside parts had not been damaged — it was a much simpler system and entirely separate from the ship’s announcing system. He spoke into the microphone hanging from its cord which he had placed between the twin eyepieces of the TBT binoculars. “Angle on the bow zero,” he said. “He’s seen us. Heading this way. Bearing, mark!” He pushed the button again.
“Williams says Mr. Leone can see him through the periscope,” said Quin. “They’re checking his speed now. They had him on five knots, but he’s speeding up, they think. They’re setting a new range at the guns, two thousand yards.”
Eel lay quietly in the water, all her way having drifted off. Fully surfaced, she rocked gently in the two-foot waves. Evening twilight had long since disappeared. Deliberately, Richardson had not ordered the main engines started. Despite the partial depletion of Eel’s battery, it was still good for about half an hour of full speed. He would rather continue to give the impression of being disabled, and at the same time retain the sudden rapid mobility afforded by the battery.
“Forties, twenties, and fifties will not shoot until specially ordered,” said Richardson, avoiding use of the word, “fire.” This too had already been thoroughly explained. The forties would be permitted to open up at fifteen hundred yards’ range. The twenties and fifties not until one thousand yards.
There was a flash from the forward deck of the approaching escort vessel. He had opened fire with his four-inch gun. This had been anticipated. The risk of a lucky hit would have to be taken. The enemy would, at least, have to shoot directly over its own high bow. Aiming would be difficult. Richardson did not even bother to search for the fall of shot.
“Buck has sent range two thousand to both guns,” said Quin hurriedly, forgetting the more formal appellation he should have used for the torpedo officer. “Range is twenty-one-fifty, closing. Speed ten knots, tracking right on.”
“Tell Mr. Leone to shoot when the hitting range is two thousand,” said Richardson. He raised his voice. “Stand by on the bridge. The main battery will be opening up in a moment.” He did not want an overly tense member of the bridge crew to waste his ammunition prematurely.
“Range two-one-double-oh,” said Quin. Richardson could visualize the two dozen rounds of ammunition laid out by each gun, the second and third shells cradled in arms of the loaders ready to be slammed into the breeches. There was another gout of flame from the foredeck of the approaching destroyer escort.