Today, however, the minesweeper was missing. As Eel approached the sea buoy — the farthest marker to seaward — it was noticeable that the heavy swells which the submarine had been feeling since the turn off Barber’s Point were considerably intensified near the shore. There was also a perceptible rise in the temperature of the air, a sultry warmth emanating from the shore. Richardson caught Keith’s eyes upon him.
“Kona weather,” Richardson said. He had once been familiar enough with the moist winds, sweeping from the south, which could pick up the surf and on occasion batter the low-lying parts of the island. Keith had heard of it too, though probably he had never seen a real Kona blow. Keith nodded shortly.
Lieutenant Buckley Williams, wiry and slender, finishing his fourth patrol, was Officer of the Deck and would have the privilege of bringing the travel-stained sub in to her berth. He, Keith, and Richardson stood together at the forepart of the bridge, the two younger officers on either side pressing against the overhang of the windscreen, Richardson in the middle leaning back against the periscope support foundation. Above them, standing on two little platforms built on to the periscope shears, protected from falling by guard rails, four lookouts zealously followed the orders that prohibited them from taking their binoculars down from their eyes. Their postures showed their discomfort as they held the heavy glasses. During the patrol, lookouts had tired rapidly. Perhaps something could be done for them during the refit period. Aft on the bridge deck, on that section still known as the “cigarette deck” from oldtime submarine tradition, when it was the only place where smoking was permitted, Ensign Larry Lasche, finishing his first war patrol, and Quartermaster Jack Oregon, a veteran of Walrus, were likewise obeying the ship’s standing order which required them, when not otherwise gainfully employed, to maintain a careful, sweeping binocular watch on the sea and the horizon. The order, strictly speaking, said “air” as well, but except for that terrible day when the war began, the air over Hawaii belonged to the United States.
Buck Williams and Keith Leone were also using their binoculars in careful sweeps of the water where an enemy submarine periscope might suddenly and disastrously appear; only Richardson could be considered a passenger, in all the meaning of the word. A feeling of lassitude, of nonparticipation, possessed him. His had been the adamant insistence on the binocular order; now his own pair hung uselessly from their strap around his neck, not once having been used, their focus as yet unchecked from the setting Oregon habitually put on them.
The waterproof bridge speaker, protected under the wind deflector in front of Williams, suddenly blared. “Bridge, this is control. Request permission to open hatches and send line handlers on deck!”
“Permission granted!” bellowed Williams, reaching a thin, muscular arm to the starboard side of the bridge, where the “press-to-talk” button of the bridge speaker was located.
Richardson afterward was never able to explain what it was that pierced through to his consciousness at this precise moment. Perhaps it was some long-submerged recollection of his training under Joe Blunt in the Octopus, his first submarine, now, like Walrus, a casualty of the war. Perhaps it was just that things simply did not seem right, that some sixth sense was in rebellion. He jerked upright from his indolent pose of a moment ago. “Belay that!” he shouted.
Buck Williams’ reaction was characteristically quick. “As you were! Belay my last! Do not open hatches!” he shouted into the speaker. Then he straightened up, looked at Richardson. “Sorry, Captain,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
Keith was also looking at him inquiringly, the widespread gray eyes in his sensitive face — no longer boyish after eight war patrols — showing startled surprise.
All Richardson’s senses were suddenly alert. Something was dreadfully wrong. The empty channel must somehow be involved, but his rational senses gave no clue to what it was. “Make sure that all hatches stay shut!” he said. Then he raised his binoculars and for the first time swept deliberately around the area. Eel was passing the sea buoy, had passed it. Less than a mile ahead, the red and black entrance buoys beckoned. Deliberately, as though in the grip of some greater comprehension than his own, he stepped to the side of the bridge and peered astern.
Lasche and Oregon were also staring uneasily astern. No one could have said what it was that was bothering him — and then, suddenly, clearly, there it was! He swung around.
“Buck!” he said savagely, “Get everybody off the bridge! Put Oregon in the hatch, ready to shut it on order!” Keith waited to hear no more, dived wordlessly below to his station in the conning tower.
“Clear the bridge!” bellowed Williams, the timbre of his voice showing his wonder. “Oregon!”—as the quartermaster raced past him—“You wait till last, then stand on the ladder and be ready to shut the hatch on orders!” Wide-eyed, Oregon stepped aside, let the lookouts precede him, looked questioningly at Williams and his skipper.
“I’m staying up here, Oregon,” said Richardson. “I just want you to be ready to shut the hatch if necessary!” The quartermaster scuttled down the ladder.
“In the space of twelve seconds the bridge had been abandoned, except for the Officer of the Deck and skipper. “What is it, Captain?” said Williams.
“Take a good look aft, Buck,” said Richardson, putting his own binoculars back to his eyes.
“I don’t see anything, Captain — nothing, really — the horizon does look a bit strange out there, though.…”
“That’s not the horizon, Buck. It’s a lot closer than that!”
“But it is too the horizon! There’s nothing beyond it!”
“No, Buck. It’s the top of a big wave. It’ll be breaking here in a couple of minutes!” Richardson’s voice held a calmness that surprised even himself.
Williams stared at him. “I don’t get it, sir,” he said.
“Once in a while this happens in what they call Kona weather, Buck. A big wave sweeps in from the sea, and unless you’re ready for it, it can do a lot of damage. There must have been a couple already today. That’s why there was no minesweeper in the channel. We’re going to be pooped in a minute. Better be ready to hang on.…”
“Should we send for a line to lash us to the bridge?”
“That would have been a good idea if Pearl had thought to warn us about this, but I don’t think we’ll have that much time now. Matter of fact, here it comes!” Mesmerized, the two officers stared aft.
Suddenly Richardson reached behind Williams, pressed the bridge speaker button. “Conning tower! Keith! You have the conn! Keep us on course through the periscope!”
“Conn, aye aye!” said the speaker in Keith Leone’s unmistakable voice. “The ’scope is up! What’s going on?”
“Kona wave about to poop us, Keith. We may not be much good up here. You’ve got to keep us in the channel!”
“I will keep us in the channel. I have the conn! Should we shut the main induction, Bridge?”
The question was an eminently logical one. Judging from the sudden precautions taken on the bridge, it was evident that massive flooding was expected from the pooping wave. While the main induction valve, thirty-six inches in diameter, and its associated piping were as well protected from the sea as could be arranged, the four big ten-cylinder diesel engines running in Eel’s two enginerooms sucked an enormous quantity of air into the ship. Were the induction valve to be submerged, water instead of air would be sucked in and flood the engineering spaces. Prolonged flooding — for several seconds — might even endanger the ship, not to mention much delicate electrical machinery. By shutting the induction valve, Keith also inferred the obvious shift to battery propulsion, which, of course, required no air.