He squatted on his haunches behind the periscope, motioned with his hands for Keith to raise it until its handles just cleared the upper lip of the periscope well. They came up; he snapped them down into position, swung the periscope quickly dead ahead. Jabs of pain went through his knees and thigh muscles as he put his eye to the eyepiece, motioned for the periscope to be raised. He rose with it to his full height, snapped the handles upward into the stowage position, followed the periscope down until he was once again on his haunches and had to pull his head clear as it continued down into the well.
“There’s at least two ships out there, Keith. I can see masts. You caught them when they blew smoke for a moment. They’re probably heading this way. We’ll take another look to make sure.”
“Sonar, do you hear anything bearing dead ahead?” The sonar watch stander shook his head.
“Shall I send for Stafford?” asked Keith. “He’s a magician on this gadget.” Richardson nodded. Stafford must have been waiting for the call, was in the conning tower in less than a minute. He began tuning the sonar receiver, heavily padded earphones covering both sides of his head, an intent faraway look on his face.
“Two minutes since the last look,” said Keith.
“Up periscope,” said Rich, oblivious to the protests of his leg muscles as he resumed his squatting position.
“Several ships heading this way,” he said a moment later, as the periscope descended. “Sound battle stations.”
The general alarm, amplified on the ship’s general announcing system, sounded like a series of low-pitched musical chimes. There was a scurrying in the control room. Richardson and Leone could sense the crew tumbling out of their bunks, breaking away from whatever work they had been doing, dashing to their stations for combat. Buck Williams jumped up the ladder from the control room, followed closely by Scott. Cornelli — he had been promoted to the helm to replace Scott, who now had Oregon’s spot — took over the steering station. Behind him Rich could hear the low-pitched whir of the TDC as Buck turned it on.
“Target bearing?” said Buck in a low voice to Keith, who had moved aft alongside of him. “Due south, Buck,” said Keith.
“Estimated range?”
“Beyond the horizon. Start with fifteen thousand yards, as a guess.”
“That’s a pretty good estimate,” said Richardson, who had been listening.
“Battle stations manned and ready below,” said Quin, who had taken a telephone headset out of its stowage box, put it on his head and plugged it in.
“Battle stations manned in the conning tower, Captain,” said Keith. “The ship is manned for battle stations.” At the beginning of the patrol Keith had pasted a little check-off list on the side of the TDC. He had already checked several items. Richardson could visualize the attentive calm throughout the submarine: the torpedo room crews at each end, the electrician’s mates in the maneuvering room to whom would fall the main burden of the submerged maneuvering, the engineroom crews standing idle, ready instantly to start engines should the order come to surface. The damage-control parties, forward and aft. The extra hands in the control room and dinette, ready for whatever emergency might devolve upon them.
He crossed to the hatch leading to the control room, looked down, saw Al Dugan’s sweaty, oil-streaked face looking up. “You all set down there, Al?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, Captain.”
“What shape is the hydraulic system in?”
“Starberg and company are buttoning it up,” said Al. “Everything but the main engine exhaust valves and the main vents is cut back in already. I’d like to leave the vents in hand power.…”
With the ship already submerged and the vents closed, there was no reason why they could not stay in hand power, for the vents did not have to be operated to surface the ship. They would, of course, have to be opened to dive. “How about diving if we need to, Al? Do you have men free of battle station assignments standing by each vent?”
“Yes, sir, Captain. No strain. We’ve got two on each vent, and a telephone manned by each pair. You can work your vents right now by telephone if you want to.” Dugan grinned confidently.
These phones were no doubt surreptitiously manned whenever the ship went to battle stations. They were part of the interior grapevine system by which the rest of the crew would find out what was going on. “Fine,” Richardson said.
“Three minutes since the last look, Skipper,” said Keith. Richardson returned to the periscope station.
“I’ll take a look all around this time too,” he said. “Up periscope.”
He repeated the squatting-and-rising ritual. “Bearing, mark,” he said.
“No range.” He spun the periscope completely around twice, snapped the handles up. It dropped away.
“All clear all around,” he said. “It’s a convoy. At least three big ships, maybe a couple more. Also, there are escorts. I could see at least two masts of smaller ships on either beam of the convoy.”
“Estimated range, Captain?” Buck.
“I’d still say fifteen thousand,” said Rich.
“Speed?”
“No estimate. They’re reasonably big ships, five- to seven-thousand-tonners.”
“I’ll start them at twelve knots,” said Buck, twirling the dials on his instrument.
“Let’s try for a radar range,” said Rich. He pointed to Quin. “Control, make your depth five-two feet!” This would leave only five feet of water over the top of the periscope shears and would cause the fully extended radar periscope to reach ten feet above the surface. Height, unfortunately, was obligatory at the longer ranges. He turned to Rogers. “Are you peaked up and ready? I want this to go real fast.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right.… Scott,” he said to the quartermaster, who had now taken over the job of raising and lowering the periscopes, “when I give the word, I want the radar periscope all the way up. As soon as it hits the top, start it back down again. If Rogers gets a range before it’s two-blocked, start it back down immediately. Don’t worry about me, I’ll get clear.” Scott nodded his comprehension. This had been part of the technique developed during training with the new radar periscope. Rogers’ duties were to sing out loudly as soon as he had seen a radar return indication on his A ’scope, even before measuring it.
To ensure that everyone understood, Rich rehearsed the instructions: “Rogers, set your range index at about fifteen thousand yards. As soon as you see a pip, you holler ‘Range!’ good and loud, so that Scott can hear it. Don’t wait to match it with your range marker. You can do that afterward. I want to get the ’scope down just as soon as possible. We’re going to be waving ten feet of it up in the air. It will look like a telephone pole!”
Turning to the TDC he said, “I’ll get my eye on the periscope on the way up and will line it up so that it goes down exactly on the target bearing.” Keith and Buck both nodded. With the periscope exposed ten feet above the surface, its tip would be out of water long before the base with the eyepiece would come out of the periscope well, long before the radar connection in the bottom of the base would engage. Hence there would be no benefit to orienting it down low, as Rich had done previously. “Everybody ready?” said Richardson. “Up periscope!”
The radar periscope started to rise. As before, Richardson squatted on his haunches facing it. He was ready for the pain, set his face so as not to show it. He snatched the handles as they came up, spread them out, lunged against the eyepiece, began to rise with it. He could hear the radar wave guide engage the trombone section at the base of the periscope, heard the snap of the radar as Rogers kicked it in to the now complete wave-guide tube. The periscope traveled all the way to the top, stopped with a bouncy jerk, started back down. Richardson followed it as far as he could, almost gasping with the pain of returning to the squatting position, snapped the handles up as they began to enter the well.