Some division was occurring in the enemy convoy. The three smaller pips continued as before, but the three larger ones, still in column, were drifting to the right. In a minute the shaft of the arrow had broken away from its head, had headed up more to the north. The three little ones, however, were converging directly upon the little pip from which the dotted sweeping wand of radar emanated.
“Captain!” Buck Williams’ voice on the bridge microphone. “Gun fire to the north!”
“All ahead flank! Right full rudder!” shouted Richardson. He broke away from the group in the conning tower, dashed to the bridge. “Buck,” he said, “I’ll take back the conn. Sound battle stations, and take your post on the TDC. Get your gun crews ready also. They’re shelling the Chicolar. We’ll have to go and help.”
“Roger, Captain. We’re lying with our head one-seven-oh, all stop, except for your last order.”
“Right, Buck. I have the conn.… Keep your rudder right full!”
“Can you see all right, sir? Maybe I’d better stay up with you a few minutes.”
“Okay, Buck, do that. Go ahead and sound battle stations anyway, right away.”
The pealing notes of the general alarm rang through Eel. Within seconds the report came up. “Battle stations manned and ready!”
“Conn!” Richardson shouted into his bridge microphone. “Range and bearing of Chicolar!”
There was some delay. Finally Keith replied, “Range to Chicolar, eleven thousand yards!”
“Buck!” said Richardson savagely, “I can see well enough up here! Get down there and get Blunt away from the radar!”
Williams dashed below.
“Helm!” Richardson called down the hatch to the helmsman, “make your new course three-five-zero!”
“Three-five-zero, aye.” Scott. The helm was his battle station. Richardson did not know the exact bearing of Chicolar, but 350 would do for a start. He picked up the microphone, “Conn, bridge; bearing and range to Chicolar!”
“Three-four-five, Bridge. Range eleven thousand two hundred.”
“Steady on three-four-five, helm!” ordered Richardson.
Under the thrust of four suddenly aroused diesels, Eel was picking up speed swiftly, curving to the right, straightening out on the ordered course. Up ahead Richardson could see flashes on the horizon.
Damn Les Hartly and his all out bows-on approach! This was exactly the situation which had been predicted, and now he was caught! Maybe Eel could get there in time to create a diversion, but Chicolar needed only one shell through her pressure hull to end her career. He leaned over, pressed the bridge speaker button. “All hands hear this,” he said. “Chicolar has been caught on the surface by enemy tincans. They are shelling her now. We’re going over to try to help. Gun crews stand by in the control room and crew’s mess!”
Rich was conscious that the battle lookouts, men specially designated to take lookout stations during surface action and who were also trained to operate the two bridge forty-millimeter guns and the twenty-millimeter pair, were coming up one after the other and taking their stations.
Al Dugan would be coming shortly, was there. “I’ll keep the deck, Al,” he said. “You run the routine. If we can get close enough to open fire with all weapons, maybe we can take the heat off Chicolar and they can dive.”
“What are you going to do about the convoy, Rich? Are you going to let them get away?” Blunt’s voice. He had again come on the bridge without anyone being aware of it. “Rich,” he went on, “I have a report to make about your executive officer. I want you to relieve him of duty and confine him to his room. He was insolent to me just now, pushed me, even.”
Rich could feel his eyes narrowing. He answered rapidly, “Can we talk about that later, sir? We’ve got to see what we can do to help Chicolar!”
“That’s what I mean,” said Blunt, shifting back to the first subject as though he had never mentioned the second. “We’ve got three ships now that are about to get away. They’re unescorted, too. Those are our targets. That’s what we came out here for. Leave the Chicolar. Go after them. That’s an order, Richardson!”
“Commodore, the Chicolar is worth a dozen of those old ships! She’s in trouble!”
“You heard me, Richardson! The Chicolar can take care of herself. You go after those three ships. Do I make myself clear?”
“Bridge”—this was Keith on the speaker—“Chicolar has dived.”
“Keith, what’s the range and bearing of the convoy?”
“Convoy has reversed course, Bridge. They bear zero-zero-zero, thirteen thousand yards, course zero-nine-zero, speed twelve.” In one way Blunt was correct. Unescorted, the three freighters, or whatever they were, would be easy meat.
No doubt the three escort ships would depth charge the area where Chicolar had dived. They would be out of action for some time. Whatever Eel did had to be done immediately.
Raising his voice, Rich shouted into the bridge hatch, “Come right to zero-three-zero.… Keith,” he said into the hand mike, “give me a course to intercept the convoy.”
“Zero-three-zero looks good, Bridge!”
In the distance, far on the port beam, the flashes of gunfire had ceased. Richardson could hear the detonations of explosions. No doubt they were depth charges. Keith confirmed it. “We can hear distant depth charges below,” he reported.
Richardson’s night vision was returning rapidly. At ten thousand yards he could see the dark blobs of three ships on his port bow. With her superior speed Eel drew abreast of them, maintaining her distance.
“Conn, bridge. Target course?”
“Steady on zero-nine-zero, Bridge,” Keith responded. “Convoy is not zigzagging. Three ships in column. Speed twelve.”
Obviously they were trying to make as much distance away from the scene of action as they could. Anticipating only a single submarine in the area, they had ceased to zigzag, had probably gone to emergency speed. Rapidly Eel opened out on the convoy’s starboard bow.
“We’ll fire two fish at each ship,” Rich said to Keith. “Give me a course for a ninety track on the middle ship. We’ll shoot all fish to hit, and take them in order from forward aft.”
“Aye aye, Captain. Looks pretty good right now, sir; come on around anytime. Recommend course north.”
All this time Eel had been plying along at nearly twenty knots through a calm, motionless, almost oily sea. Richardson felt again the curious sense of detachment he always felt at just this moment. “Stand by,” he ordered. “Left full rudder. Helm, make your new course zero-zero-zero!.. All right, Keith,” he called into the bridge microphone, “we’re making our approach now. Call out the ranges as we come in!”
The range closed swiftly. At seven thousand yards Rich ordered two-thirds speed ahead. He could see the large bulks of the three ships looming clearly, shadowy shapes in his staring binoculars. Swiftly he swept from one to the other. They were running in very close formation, hardly three ship-lengths apart. Two were relatively new ships, not large, perhaps three thousand tons each. Engines aft — probably the products of a war construction program. The third ship was a trifle larger and looked older, an old-type freighter with a tall stack and a small deck house amidships. Possibly four-thousand-ton size.