During all of this Blunt had been a quiet but interested observer. Now he spoke. “Rich, why did you turn tail to the enemy when you first contacted him?”
Richardson was surprised at the question. “That was agreed procedure, sir,” he said. “We made first contact, so we have to trail and avoid getting too close ourselves.”
“It looked as if you were avoiding combat. But now you’re closing in again, and you’re getting in among the islands, too. I don’t like it, Rich, it’s too shallow. Our charts aren’t that good.”
He spoke rapidly. His voice had a nervous quality.
Richardson stared his amazement. It wouldn’t do to let Buck Williams or the lookouts hear this exchange. He crowded over toward Blunt, dropped his voice, “Commodore, this is actually the deepest place in this whole section of the Yellow Sea! Take a look at the chart. These islands are narrow pinnacles coming up out of the bottom. It’s over fifty fathoms where we are right this minute! Besides, there’s plenty of sea room around and between these islands. We can see them on radar, and we can see them with the naked eye. This is our chance, sir. Your chance to start this patrol off with a real bang!”
“We’re on the surface too close to land, Rich,” muttered Blunt. “What if a plane takes off from one of these islands to provide air cover?”
“They’ll never see us at night, Commodore. We’ll soon merge in with the land return of these islands so their radar won’t work, either!” Richardson terminated the exchange by putting his binoculars to his eyes. Fighting the ship was his responsibility, not the wolfpack commander’s. Later there might be more to discuss, even recriminations, but this was out of place now. The sweep of events was beginning to move too rapidly.
Eel was again at full speed, throwing spray from both bows. Holding the now clearly outlined bulk of a relatively steep, slab-sided land mass on her starboard bow, she raced to regain contact on the other side. In the meantime Keith was sending another message to the other two submarines. When contact was regained, the message explained, Eel would slow down again, remain close inshore, wait until the convoy had passed on ahead, and then follow from astern at a greater distance.
In between observations of the convoy the radar kept swinging about, searching in all directions. It was during one of these searches that Rich saw the wolfpack training bearing fruit.
“Radar contact!” Rogers’ boyish voice. He had relieved Quin when the tracking party was called. Rich could hear him clearly, without benefit of speaker.
“Radar contact, bearing two-zero-zero! He’s got a radar too. I think it’s the Chicolar!”
“I’ll check it, sir.” Keith. In a moment the exec reported, “It is the Chicolar, Captain. He acknowledges with his radar.”
During convoy college a means had been devised for handling the radar of two submarines for precisely this eventuality. “Now that we have him on the radar, Captain, I’ll give him a vector to the target.”
In a few moments Keith’s voice again on the bridge speaker, “Bridge, conn, tallyho from Chicolar. He’s going in on our vector, figuring to pick them up on his own radar on the way.”
This was, of course, just like Les Hartly. Richardson would never have attacked with so little information on the target. He was surprised to hear Blunt mutter approvingly.
Once out from behind the island, and again with a good radar contact on the enemy convoy, Eel slowed down, closed the island shoreline. Her diesels growling softly, she lay to in the quiet water, her stern again toward the enemy. Her radar still ceaselessly patrolled the night, and short contact reports still went out to Whitefish.
Chicolar, now in contact on her own, needed no further information except possibly early notification of any change in enemy course and speed. In any case, she would be monitoring the transmissions to Whitefish.
“Captain”—Keith’s voice on the speaker—“We’ve got the whole picture on the PPI ’scope. Chicolar is going in on their port bow, and she’s about ten thousand yards from firing position right now.”
“Commodore,” said Richardson, “why don’t you go down and watch it? I can’t because it would hurt my night vision. We’ll go to battle stations as soon as Chicolar finishes.…”
Blunt dropped down the hatch. Several more minutes passed.
“Bridge, conn! Target has zigged to his left!” This was bad. If it zigged far enough, this could put Chicolar dead ahead, and the leading escort would be upon her in a matter of minutes.
“Bridge, conn. Target course checks at two-four-five! Chicolar is now sharp on their port bow!”
Richardson had to fight the impulse to run down below to see for himself. He could visualize the situation well enough. The enemy bearing, which had steadily been drawing left for Chicolar, had suddenly stopped drawing to the left and was now steady. Because of Les Hartly’s approach technique, they were almost dead ahead of him. The target was coming directly for Chicolar, making eleven knots, and Chicolar was heading for the target at twenty knots.
He grabbed the bridge microphone, “Commodore!” he yelled. “Recommend an emergency message to Chicolar! Target is heading right for him!” Chicolar had held radar contact on the enemy such a short time that his plotting party could not yet have fully assessed the enemy’s zigzag plan. He very likely would not discover the sudden deterioration of the situation until long after Eel’s tracking party had seen it in their plot.
No answer from the conning tower. The commodore must be there. Keith, alone, would have answered immediately. If necessary he would have sent the message in name of the wolfpack commander. There was no time to lose, not even time to encode a message in their simple wolfpack code.
“Keith!” bellowed Richardson. “Emergency message to Chicolar!” No answer. Cursing, Rich shouted to Williams, “Take the conn, Buck! I’m going below!” He dashed down the ladder, rushed to the after part of the conning tower.
The commodore’s squat bulk blocked the radar. He had pushed both Rogers and Keith aside, was staring at the PPI ’scope. Its hood had been removed. In his right hand he held the radio transmitter microphone. Keith, his eyes much bigger than usual, looked at him helplessly.
“Commodore! We’ve got to warn Les!”
Blunt did not move. Peering over his shoulder at the unhooded ’scope, Richardson could take in the entire panorama of disaster at a glance: the single gleaming pip with swirling, spiral-dotted radar indications emanating from it; and only a little distance beyond, three or four miles on the radar ’scope, six pips arranged like the head of an arrow — three large pips in a column, three small ones in a triangle formation around the leading pip — headed directly for the pip that was Chicolar.
“What did Blunt say?” he hissed to Keith.
“Nothing,” whispered Keith. “He hasn’t said anything. He just grabbed the radio mike and won’t let it go.”
Richardson turned to Blunt, “Commodore, there’s barely time — he can still dive.…” He reached for the microphone, grabbed it. Blunt’s fingers were clenched. No time to wrestle for it. Rich fumbled for the button, leaned over, shouted into the microphone, “Les, this is Joe. Emergency! Zero angle on the bow! Get out of there! Les, this is Joe. Emergency! Zero angle on the bow!” He repeated the message twice. Still no sign from Blunt. He could feel Keith crowded against his right shoulder. Rogers, too, on the other side. The range could now be no more than three miles.