“Three-eight-double-oh!” read Rich from the back of the periscope as it dropped away. He was suddenly conscious of beads of perspiration on his face. The range was becoming short.
“Angle on the bow is zero,” announced Blunt.
Buck said, “That puts him on course three-one-nine. Course to head for him, one-three-nine!”
“Right full rudder! Come right to new course one-three-nine!” ordered Blunt.
“No time, Captain,” said Richardson, speaking rapidly. “He’ll be here in eleven minutes. Recommend come left to zero-five-zero and pull across his track. That will set him up for a straight stern shot.”
“Guess you’re right,” muttered Blunt. There was something in his voice. Some slight hesitation. Perhaps it was embarrassment.
“Rudder is right full, sir!” Cornelli sang out loudly from the other end of the conning tower.
“How’s your speed check, Buck?” Blunt had moved over behind the TDC again.
“Ten knots, sir. Good speed check.”
“Captain,” said Richardson, speaking in a hoarse whisper, “rudder is right full!” For the second time there was the hand clutching the forehead, spanning over the momentarily closed eyes.
“I’m getting a turn count,” said Stafford. “One hundred ten rpm. Single screw.”
“That checks out, Captain,” said Rich, still speaking almost under his breath. “Ten turns per knot is about right.” Then, desperately, still in a loud whisper, “Don’t you want to put the rudder left?” His last few words were spoken in a rush, with increased emphasis, yet a deliberate downplay of the intensity he felt rising within him.
Blunt looked puzzled, but he did not answer. That hand-to-forehead gesture again. The submarine had barely begun to swing. No time to argue the misunderstanding. “Shift the rudder!” barked Rich. “Rudder should be full left! New course, zero-five-zero!” He looked sharply at Blunt, mustering in his mind the words he would use to explain his action, to convince Blunt of the need for it. To his surprise, they were not necessary. The wolfpack commander continued his grave inspection of the dials on the face of the TDC. Not a line on his face indicated concern over any matter other than the slowly developing tactical problem there displayed. He could not be unaware of the change in the intended maneuver. Yet, by every evidence available to Richardson, the incident was as if it had never occurred.
Something unreal, unexplainable, lay just beneath the surface. Rich felt he could sense it, could perhaps understand it too, if only he could have a clue. Blunt had momentarily lost the picture; Rich, as assistant approach officer, had quite properly corrected the situation. In a training approach, things would now merely continue to the normal firing point. True, had it been an approach for submarine command qualification, the observing officers might not have passed the candidate. Richardson, acting as Blunt’s assistant but actually in command, still held full responsibility for the conduct of the approach and the safety of his submarine. By correcting Blunt’s error he had asserted himself as the real commander of the Eel. He had done it with sorrow, with hesitation. He could not understand how Joe Blunt, the man with a TDC-like mind, could possibly have lost the picture so completely. Yet, he had, indisputably. More, he had somehow failed to grasp the simple solution offered by Rich until, in perplexity, it had had to be done almost by subterfuge.
Over it all lay the appreciation that the action Richardson had to take probably had ruined his effort to rehabilitate Blunt.
But instead of an explosive misunderstanding or a petulant acceptance of what Rich had done, there was no reaction at all. There was not even any change in the expression on Blunt’s face. It was as if nothing untoward had happened.
Carefully, Rich inspected his superior’s face for the second time within a very few minutes. Nothing. The oldtime zest he thought he had noticed when Blunt first took over the periscope was no longer evident — the jowls were again sagging — but nothing more. Perhaps Blunt was merely covering up. After the attack was completed there would be a postmortem. There would be private discussions. That must be it. There was no time to bandy about now in argument. Blunt was sticking to the business at hand, as he should, as Richardson also should.
Eel had barely begun to turn to starboard; now, her rudder shifted to full left, she corrected herself and was beginning, according to the TDC dials, slowly to turn to port. At this speed she would hardly get far enough off the target’s track to give the torpedoes time to arm. Surely, Blunt would increase speed. Two-thirds speed would do it. Perhaps Blunt was waiting until Eel was more nearly around to the new course, but that made little sense because the length of time wasted in turning at slow speed would still further reduce the distance the sub would be able to attain off the track. Irresolutely, Rich waited. The “own ship” dial on the TDC showed Eel had turned about ten degrees; there were forty-five degrees more to turn. No move by Blunt. Strange. Something had to be done. After all, Rich was supposed to be his assistant. He could no longer contain himself. Maybe a hint would do it. “Where’s the escort, Captain?”
“Escort is still patrolling on station about one thousand yards ahead of the target. Right now he’s still on the target’s starboard bow, but he’s beginning a swing over to the other side. He’s well clear for now.”
“At this speed he’ll be going by in about six minutes.” Rich was deliberately understating the time by a small fraction. “With this setup we could put sonar on him instead of the target.… Was that a hint of a nod from Blunt? He still stood where he had been for the past half-minute — did he mean for Rich to give the order? Abruptly, Rich swung away from the TDC, jostled his way past the crowded bodies in the conning tower to its forward end, where Stafford sat crouched before his sonar console. He lifted one of Stafford’s earphones, spoke briefly, pointed to a sector of his bearing dial. The sonarman nodded his comprehension.
“Sonar’s on the escort, Captain,” reported Rich as he made his way back to the TDC. “Escort is already to the right of the target and seems to be passing well clear.”
Another imperceptible nod from the wolfpack commander. With the momentum achieved, the obvious step was easy. “Recommend two-thirds speed to get us around and clear the track, sir.” This time Rich did not wait, gave the order. The clink of the annunciators and Cornelli’s report. Within seconds the “own ship” dial seemed to have taken on a bit more of life. Eel was turning faster. The slowly changing geometry of the creeping dials was now clearly becoming favorable.
“We’re all ready to shoot aft, Captain, except for the outer doors on the torpedo tubes. Three fish. Tubes seven, eight, and nine. Depth is set at fifteen. Number ten is set at five feet. Recommend we proceed at this speed for five minutes and then slow to one-third again for an observation.”
“Very well,” said Blunt.
Again the hiatus, waiting, while the dials on the TDC face slowly turned, registering what the target would be doing if its course and speed were indeed those set into the instrument, and provided there had been no undetected change. At Rich’s instruction, Stafford was giving regular reports on the doings of the escort and occasionally switching over to the main target, whose heavy single-screw beat was easily distinguishable from the higher speed twin propellers of her protector. If there were anything unexpected happening while Eel, because of her increased speed, could not use her periscope, it did not show on the sonar bearings of either vessel. The continually confirmed fact added confidence, although Richardson could not recall when he had perspired so during an approach and attack.