Williams tilted his head back again, snapped an order up the hatch. “All ahead two-thirds!”
“All ahead two-thirds answered, sir.” The helmsman, Cornelli, was a new quartermaster just taken aboard from the relief crews. He was inexperienced, but he had worked out well in the training period before departure. Richardson noticed, however, that Scott, the quartermaster in charge of the watch, was standing by him at his post in the forward end of the conning tower. He appeared to be totally engrossed in writing something in the quartermaster’s notebook, but his eyes had flickered more than once in the direction of the new helmsman. It was a good thing to see.
Approximately a minute had passed since the dive had been initiated. Eel’s decks still held a steady five degree down angle, as measured by the curved bubble inclinometers on the diving stand and in the conning tower.
“Passing one hundred feet, Conn,” said Williams. “Trim still looks good, sir.”
It was unnecessary, but Richardson felt impelled to say something in reply. He leaned over the open hatch so that he could see the top of Williams’ head. Buck was supporting himself on the ladder with one foot on the lowest rung, intently watching the action of bow and stern planes, depth gauges, inclinometer bubble, the diving crew about him and the auxiliaryman behind him. “Level off at one-five-oh feet, control. Let me know when you have a one-third speed trim.”
“One-five-oh feet. One-third trim, aye aye,” responded Williams, as though he did not already know that this was exactly what he was expected to do. “Passing one-two-five feet, Conn.”
Richardson also had a depth gauge in the conning tower, did not need this piece of information, but he seized the opportunity to note that his own depth gauge registered the same amount as that which Williams had just announced to him.
“Ease your bubble,” Buck said suddenly to the stern planesman. “Watch it! Don’t overshoot!”
Leaning back and raising his voice, he called up the hatch, “All ahead one-third!”
“All ahead one-third answered,” came the reply from Cornelli, a split second after the annunciator clink.
To the bow planesman Williams said, “Ease your bow planes. Try to hit one-five-oh feet with a zero bubble and hold it.”
“One-five-oh feet, sir, zero bubble,” responded the man operating the right of the two large shiny wheels in front of Williams. He had been progressively lightening himself, removing his binoculars, divesting himself of foul-weather bridge jacket and at the same time holding the bow planes on full dive with a free hand or occasionally a knee. Now he took the bow plane wheel, leaned into it counterclockwise. The bow plane indicator rose toward the zero position.
A moment later, Williams swung to his left, spoke to the man on the trim manifold, pointing to him for emphasis. It was the first order he had given him. “Flood forward trim from sea, one thousand pounds.”
“Flood forward trim from sea, one thousand pounds,” echoed the man, fitting his wrench to the manifold and turning it. Watching one of the gauges above it, in a moment he reported completion of the operation.
Buck Williams continued to concentrate on the diving panel. “Stern planes on zero,” he ordered.
The stern planesman put his planes exactly on zero, held them there. Attentively, Williams watched the gauges. His concentration increased.
“Pump from forward trim to after trim, five hundred pounds,” he ordered. This maneuver completed to his satisfaction, he continued watching the instruments, his posture gradually relaxing.
“Pump from auxiliary tanks to sea five hundred pounds,” he ordered. This done, “Bow planes on zero.”
The ship’s speed, as indicated on a dial on his diving panel, had dropped below four knots. Keel depth was a fraction less than one hundred and fifty feet. For a long minute Williams watched his dials, said nothing. Then, leaning back again, he called up the hatch to the conning tower. “Final trim, sir. One-five-zero feet, one-third speed.”
To Klench he said, “Damn good compensation, Chief. You were right on, fore and aft. I figure she was only five hundred pounds light overall, maybe less, once she starts soaking up a bit.”
“Thanks, sir,” said Klench, obviously pleased. “I did figure she’ll soak up about five hundred pounds when she gets settled down.”
“Control,” called Rich from the conning tower. “I have the conn. Make your depth six-five feet. Bring her up easy.” To the sonarman in the conning tower he said, “Search all around. Let me know when you have completed your search.”
With planes on full rise, her propellers turning over at minimum speed, Eel slowly swam toward the ordered depth. It took several minutes to get there because of the slow speed, and the further fact that on the way up Rich ordered ten degrees right rudder in order to permit the sonar to listen on the bearing which had been blocked by Eel’s screws. Satisfied, he allowed Williams to bring her all the way up without interference, raising the tall attack periscope as the ship passed seventy-five feet in order to take a quick look as soon as its tip broached the surface. He was rewarded by the sight of the underside of the water, now under full sunlight, looking exactly the same as it would from above the surface. The Yellow Sea obviously deserved its name. The water was not yellow, but the color of light brown mud.
The periscope broke the surface, surged upward. With his right elbow crooked around one handle, holding it to his chest, his left hand pushing on the other, he quickly walked it around, inspecting first the horizon, then the air. Nothing in sight.
He walked around a third time with the periscope elevated at maximum elevation. Nothing.
Back to the horizon for a more leisurely search. Still nothing. He lowered the periscope.
“Control,” he ordered. “Five-eight feet. Prepare to surface.”
The radar periscope had better optics than the attack periscope because of the larger diameter and greater simplicity of its lens system. His next search would be through it.
“Five-eight feet, aye aye. Prepare to surface, aye aye.”
Buck Williams had come one more step up the ladder from the control room. “Captain, how soon do you figure to surface?”
Williams, who had been up since 3:30 that morning, was really asking whether he would have to bundle up again and go back on the bridge, or whether he could turn that chore over to Al Dugan. Al, no doubt, had already been called and was probably having breakfast at that very moment.
“Sorry, Buck,” said Richardson. “You’ll have to take her up yourself. The visibility is excellent. We can triple our area coverage on the surface, and I want to get back up there.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Buck.
Suddenly Williams stepped off the ladder to make room for someone to come up to the conning tower. Blunt. “Rich,” he said. “Why are you surfacing?”
“Your orders, Commodore. We’re just finishing our trim dive. We’re on station in the middle of the area, with no land nearer than a hundred fifty miles. Visibility is excellent, so we’ll have no trouble seeing enemy aircraft before they see us.”
“I gave no such order, Rich. I said you should use your best judgment about running on the surface in the area. I also said I don’t want to be detected.”
Rich was uneasily conscious that Scott and Cornelli, the other two persons in the conning tower, had expressions of irresolute surprise on their faces. “Let me show you on the chart, Commodore,” he said. Perhaps if he could get Blunt into a low-voiced conference in the back of the conning tower it would be possible to straighten things out with no further damage to morale.