The third ship, still more or less on an even keel, was sinking too, but more slowly. Her stern had sunk to the water’s edge, and around the bow Rich could see ten feet or more of red underwater paint. She had had time to get lifeboats out, and Rich could see two of them already in the water, apparently picking up other crew members.
Most important of all, however, was the appearance of the lead escort. The frigate which had been patrolling ahead of the two-stacked passenger cargo ship had headed over in the direction of her consort. Still some distance away, she was heading directly for Eel, zero angle on the bow, would be dropping her own depth charges in a couple of minutes. He swung back to the destroyer which had just depth charged him.
“He’s swinging to his left. Stand by aft. Open outer doors aft. Range, mark!”
“Four-seven-five,” said Keith. “Bearing one-eight-zero.”
“Angle on the bow, port one-seventy. He’s turning left. Crank in port one-two-oh, Buck.” The TDC dials whirled.
“No spread, Keith. We’ll shoot on periscope bearings as soon as you get your correct solution light.”
“Tubes ready aft,” announced Keith.
“Set,” from Buck.
“Correct solution light aft!”
The computer in Richardson’s brain was in command. His cross hair exactly bisected the bridge of the tincan. She was a war-built escort, nearly the equivalent of a destroyer. Designed particularly for antisubmarine work. Diesel-powered. Capable of at least twenty knots, maybe more. She was swinging left now, swinging a little more.
“Echo-ranging from aft. Long-scale pinging.” Stafford. “Echo-ranging forward also. Long-scale pinging forward and aft.” This must be the second escort.
“Stand by number ten,” said Richardson again. “… Fire!” The jerk as the torpedo started on its way. “Stand by number seven,” he said. “I think he’s slowed down. Give him fifteen knots!” The probability was that the tincan had reduced speed more than this, but her initial way would carry her on. He was gratified to see that she continued to turn to the left, that her angle on the bow had now approached his advanced estimate of 120 port. “Set in angle on the bow port ninety,” he said.
“Set!” from Buck.
“Light!” from Keith.
“Mark the bearing!”
“One-seven-two-a-half!”
“Set!”
“Fire!” he snapped a second time.
Maybe there would be time to do something about the other escort. He swung the periscope around. “New setup,” he said. “Angle on the bow zero, bearing, mark!”
“Zero-zero-five,” from Keith.
“Range, mark!”
“One thousand yards!”
“Stand by forward.” There was some delay. Buck must be cranking his dials like mad. Keith’s voice in his ear: “Outer doors opened forward, Captain. Ready to shoot forward. Tubes one and two. Ready with tube one.”
“Set,” again from Buck.
“Shooting observation!” said Richardson. “Bearing, mark!.. Fire!” Again the jolt as the torpedo went out. Again the hiss of air, the rumble of water counterflooding the tube. One torpedo left. He aimed a little right of the onrushing escort. “Fire!” he barked for a fourth time in the space of forty seconds. He swung the periscope around once again, passed the sinking ships in a blur of kaleidoscopic disaster, settled on the escort vessel astern. He got there just in time to see a plume of water rise up amidships. At the close range, the reverberating roar of four hundred pounds of torpex arrived almost simultaneously with the sight. The torpedo must have gone off directly underneath the center of the ship, for it lifted her up amidships, irresistibly, like a huge, powerful plunger. She broke into halves. Her bow plunged downward on one side of the plume. Her stern slid down the other. In the middle of the catastrophe a mixed cloud of smoke, water, steam and debris continued to rise into the heavens. Then the water, and what had been a fine new ship, subsided, shrank swiftly down into nothingness, leaving only a pall of black smoke and huge ripples rapidly eddying from the center of the disaster. Black dust on a white disk in a mud-gray sea.
No time to play the spectator. He swung the periscope rapidly around — the other way this time (still all clear) — to the other escort coming in from ahead. She had put her rudder hard over, was already heeling far to starboard, swinging sharply to her left, in a violent emergency turn. He should never have fired at her. He should have known she would maneuver in automatic reflex to the hit on her consort. The geometry of that hastily conceived last-minute shot was totally destroyed, the torpedoes wasted. He swung the periscope farther left; as he expected, there came the third Mikura, hastening over to join her fellows, now reduced from two to only one.
Time to do one more thing. “Here, Keith,” he said, “you have time for a quick look.” He swung the periscope to the leading ship. Only a small section of her bow still protruded above the surface.
“Commodore,” he called. Blunt was alongside of him. Keith swung the periscope back and forth twice, lingered for a moment in the direction of the fourth and last ship in the column, now fleeing in the distance accompanied by a single escort. He stepped away from the periscope. Blunt fixed his eye to it, eagerly duplicated Keith’s maneuver.
“What’s the tincan doing on our starboard bow, Commodore?” said Rich. He grabbed the handles of the periscope on the opposite side from where Blunt was looking, turned it around to the approximate bearing of the last escort.
“Angle on the bow is starboard ninety,” said Blunt. “Range”—he fumbled for the dial, turned it. Rich performed Keith’s function, read the dial for him. “Seven-five-oh yards,” he said.
Buck, in his eagerness, could hardly keep himself from reaching for the periscope handles. Gently Richardson pulled Blunt away, propelled Buck to the periscope. Larry Lasche’s eyes were also alight with hope for a view, but regretfully Richardson shook his head. He allowed Buck no more than ten seconds, time for one quick sweep past the destroyed convoy, took it back himself, spun it around twice, lowered it. “Make your depth two hundred feet,” he ordered. “Pass the word to all compartments we have sunk three cargo ships and one escort, and we’ll probably hear many more depth charges before this day is over.”
He suddenly realized he was sweating profusely. Keith and Buck were no better. Their faces were beaded, as his must be. The temperature in the conning tower had climbed to well over 100 degrees, and the humidity, with all the vapor-producing, perspiring bodies filling it, must be 100 percent. The deck plates beneath his feet, once Scott’s pride for their immaculate condition, were a quarter of an inch deep in muck. Globules of moisture were condensed on the conning tower’s cold sides (anywhere the careful cork insulation was violated) or on exposed metal — the periscopes — which elsewhere was cooled by contact with sea water. Added to this was the perspiration which had dripped off their bodies and the debris which the near depth charges had discovered in the nominally clean compartment. All this had landed on the deck. They had been shuffling through it for what seemed like an age.