The third ship, struck by a single torpedo, was the smallest of the three. The torpedo had hit her aft. She was stopped and also well down by the stern. Farther aft, the fourth ship, approximately similar to the last one hit, had turned course radically to the left. Belching clouds of smoke, she was obviously racing away from the carnage which had overtaken her sisters.
Farther to the left, the single escort which had been astern, an old destroyer of some kind, had apparently experienced some uncertainty but now also was turning away. Perhaps she would accompany the single undamaged ship in her flight eastward. Nothing else in sight: all was serene and calm through the remainder of the periscope’s circular sweep.
Back to the escort up ahead. She was still in her turn. The aircraft was coming also, but not dead on. Evidently the pilot had no fix on Eel’s position. The Mikura frigate (if that was the correct class name) was the main concern.
“Down periscope.” The tincan was a perfect shot for bow tubes, if there were but a single bow tube ready. He cursed the zig away which had forced him to change his plans at the last minute and left him without the torpedo he had planned for this eventuality.
“How much longer before we’re ready to shoot forward?”
He could hear Quin repeating the question in the telephones. No answer. He knew they must be working with maximum urgency. At least one torpedo must be ready soon.
“Up periscope. Observation,” he gritted. “Bearing, mark!”
“Three-four-eight,” said Keith.
“Range — use forty-five feet — mark! Down periscope.”
“Five hundred twenty-yards,” said Keith.
“Left full rudder! New course, three-three-zero!” He needed no TDC helper for this obvious move. The less the gyro angle, the better.
Buck was frantically spinning the dials on the TDC. Keith brushed past Richardson, began spinning one of them himself.
“Angle on the bow?” said Buck.
Rich had deliberately waited, since Buck had only two hands and could only get two pieces of information into the TDC at once. Keith’s help had relieved that problem.
“Port one-twenty,” said Rich, “but he’s turning toward. Set him up at port ninety, and I’ll take another look.”
The total time since the first torpedo had been fired was in the neighborhood of three minutes. Most of the time had been occupied by the necessity of turning to bring the stern tubes to bear. The Mark Eighteen torpedoes required a run of about 350 yards before the arming mechanism in the warhead rotated enough to activate the exploder. Since there were no wakes in the water, the Jap escort would not know immediately where to look for the submarine. He would instinctively reverse course, but it was possible there might be a moment or two of indecision while he searched.…
“Up periscope!”
“Number one tube is ready,” shouted Quin.
“Observation! Bearing, mark! Range, mark! Down scope. Angle on the bow, port sixty. Turning toward.” He needed the essential bits of fire control information, heard Buck set the data into the TDC.
“Set!” said Buck.
“Set depth four feet!”
“It’s already set, Captain,” said Keith.
“Open outer doors forward,” said Rich.
“Number one outer door is open,” screamed Quin, his voice pitched much higher than normal, his tenseness betraying itself in the steaming, sweating, densely packed conning tower.
“Stand by forward,” said Richardson. Suddenly he felt calm. This was the time to be deliberate. This one shot must be a good one. He would leave the periscope up and aim the torpedo deliberately.
“Number two tube is loaded, Captain. Depth set four feet. You have two fish ready forward.” Keith’s voice.
“Bearing, mark! He’s still turning. Angle on the bow, port forty-five.”
“Zero-one-zero!”
“Set,” said Buck. “I’m following him around.”
“Short-scale pinging, bearing three-four-oh!” Stafford.
“Check fire!” roared Keith. “Correct solution light has gone out!”
“Down ’scope,” said Richardson, almost wearily. The chance was gone. Obviously, with the destroyer swinging toward, the distance the torpedo would run before hitting would be too short to arm it. “Shut the outer doors,” he ordered.
“He’s starting a run! Shifted to short-scale pinging!” This was Stafford, repeating himself at the sound gear. His voice also was elevated a notch.
“Rig for depth charge,” said Richardson, knowing well that the ship was already fully rigged for depth charge except that the control room hatch had not been closed. Torpedoes in the forward and after torpedo rooms, however, were in the process of being reloaded. “Quin,” he said swiftly, “forward and after rooms! Secure for depth charging immediately.”
Wide-eyed, Quin repeated his orders into the telephone.
“Shut the lower hatch,” he ordered. Someone in the control room, probably Al Dugan, pulled the oblong hatch down on its lanyard. Scott leaped on it, kicked the handles shut. Unlike the hatch to the bridge, it was not fitted with a hand wheel.
Blunt’s voice from the forward part of the conning tower, “Aren’t we going deep, Rich?”
He had forgotten the wolfpack commander. During the entire time Blunt had stood holding on to the hatch lanyard under the bridge hatch. It was too late now to permit him to go below, even had he been willing to do so, or had Richardson been willing to spend the effort to convince him to do so.
“We’ll take this one at periscope depth,” announced Richardson. “He’ll figure we’ve gone deep and will set his depth charges deep. Maybe after he passes we’ll get a chance for another shot.” He crowded over alongside of Stafford, just forward of number one periscope. Silently, Stafford indicated a section of the dial to which his sound head arrow was oriented.
“There he is, sir. Short-scale pinging. He’s speeded up!”
“He may not have seen the periscope, but if he did, he’ll figure we’ve gone deep now. As soon as he goes by, we’ll try to line him up for a stern shot!” Richardson spoke in answer to the thought wave he felt hurled at him from everyone in the conning tower. If Eel could survive this first quick attack at periscope depth he might be able to get a shot off while the destroyer was getting ready for a second. All depended upon being able to get that periscope up for an observation, upon the likelihood that the tincan might have to wait a few moments for the disturbance of her depth charges to die away before she could regain contact. There might also be the necessity to do some reloading of depth charges in her launchers. He did not mention the airplane. It could not see beneath the surface. Not in the Yellow Sea. The only danger from it was a few additional bombs or depth charges dropped in the wake of the escort’s barrage. Of course, if it sighted his periscope at the crucial moment when he had it up to aim the torpedo… He left the thought unfinished.
The sonar dial was calibrated in relative bearing, but through a connection with the submarine’s gyro compass a second dial, concentric with the first, gave true bearing as well.
“True bearings!” he snapped to Stafford.
“Three-three-five, steady on three-three-five,” repeated Stafford. Rich’s instinctive selection of course 330 for a minimum gyro had been a good one.
“Make your course three-three-five!” ordered Richardson. “All ahead full!”
“What are you going to do, Rich?” Blunt again. His voice was almost squeaky.
“I’m going to run right under him at full speed! At this short range and with depth charges going off, he’ll lose contact anyway. Maybe we can catch him by surprise and get through the barrage before he’s able to drop them all,” answered Rich, forcing himself to speak normally instead of in the clipped tones he had almost used. He must not betray his own inner tension. If only Blunt would keep quiet! “Quin!” he said, “Tubes aft, report on condition of their reload.”