If aircraft came out to escort the convoy, which was inevitable because of its importance, they would concentrate ahead of it, where a submarine in attack position would be. On the other hand, if they could be induced to attack the wrong submarine, every depth bomb dropped on Eel was one less that could be used on Whitefish, one less that could be effective in protecting the convoy.
“Convoy’s been on this course one-half hour, Bridge.”
“Did you get a fix on Whitefish when she dived? When should she be getting in?”
“We figure the convoy will be running over the Whitefish in about fifteen more minutes.”
One of the after lookouts was screaming. Richardson did not need to hear the words clearly to understand what he was saying. “Plane! Starboard quarter!” the man was shouting.
“Clear the bridge!” shouted Richardson. He swung a quick look aft through his binoculars. The plane was still some distance away, but obviously coming directly toward the Eel. There would be plenty of time to get her down. He stood aside, allowed the lookouts, the quartermaster, and Keith to precede him, and then Al Dugan, whose watch it now was. Two blasts on the diving alarm. “Take her down!” He straightened up, put his binoculars back to his eyes. The plane, a two-engine bomber, was still coming, still four to five miles away. The main vents were popping. The air was whistling out of them. Eel’s bow was already settling toward the sea. Richardson stooped under the bridge overhang, felt for the hand rail over the hatch, swung down into the hole, grabbed the lanyard, and pulled the hatch to. It gave a satisfying click as the latch snapped home, and Cornelli leaped past him to dog it tightly.
“One-five-oh feet,” Rich said. “How does that check with the chart, Keith?”
Leone was in the after part of the conning tower, bent over the chart of the area spread upon the table in the far corner. “One-five-oh looks okay, Captain,” he said. “Not much deeper than that, though, or we’ll drive her nose into the mud.”
A deep feeling of weariness pervaded Richardson’s body. The cold air on the bridge had been bracing, but inside the submarine the warmth of the interior was instantly stupefying. “Control, make your depth one-five-oh feet,” he repeated. “Ease your angle when you pass one hundred feet.”
He yawned hugely as he spoke. Suddenly it was all he could do to concentrate on giving the necessary orders. The boat was under, her bow was tilted down at a satisfactory angle, and there should be no trace of her left on the surface except the wake of her passage.
“Left full rudder,” he ordered. He would not, at least, blunder blindly into a bomb or depth charge dropped ahead of the diving point.
Eel had been submerged just ten minutes and had already returned to periscope depth. There was nothing in sight. The plane must have had orders not to waste its time over a submarine diving where it could not possibly attack the all-important convoy. Its instructions would be to proceed ahead of the troopships, against the possibility of a submarine in attack position — against Whitefish, in fact. How long had it been since Whitefish had dived, anyway? And if successful, when might Whitey’s torpedo explosions be heard?
“Any time now,” said Keith.
Richardson was spinning the periscope around. Nothing in sight. Several quick, careful looks, then up a little higher. Still nothing. No plane, no ships, no smoke, just brilliant blue sky and a yellow-brown, mud-colored sea with a small chop: waves about two feet high. Around again, more slowly, several times, dropping the periscope occasionally just beneath the surface in order to break up the continuity of exposure. Still nothing in sight. How long now?
It was only five minutes since he had asked the question, reassured Keith. According to Larry Lasche’s plot, something could be happening any minute, but on the other hand, a delay of even ten or fifteen minutes ought not to be surprising. Buck had roused himself — he could not have had more than an hour or so in his bunk — and had taken over the TDC. It was not running, for he had no information to set into the instrument. Stafford, searching carefully all around on the sonar, concentrating in the estimated direction of the convoy, could hear nothing. The ships were much too far away to hear screws. Blunt also was in the conning tower; nearly the whole of Eel’s battle stations control party was there. Something must happen. Whitefish simply must not fail now.
A distant boom filled the confined space.
“Torpedo explosion,” reported Stafford, unnecessarily.
Ten seconds later there should be another. He looked at his watch. His eyes, accustomed by the periscope to the brilliant sunlight on the surface, had difficulty in focusing on the tiny second hand. Ten seconds must have passed — fifteen seconds at least, now. Thirty seconds. Only a single hit. Perhaps Whitey Everett had conservatively fired only at the leading troopship. Undoubtedly there would be depth charges, if only to keep him submerged below periscope depth while the uninjured ships made their getaway.
Whitefish was one of the thin-skinned submarines, as Walrus had been. There was no definite proof that the “heavy hull” submarines were better able to stand depth charging than the “thin-skinners,” but this was nevertheless generally believed to be the case. So far, Everett had retreated to an inactive portion of the area to inspect for damages after every depth charge attack. A heavy barrage at this point, which the escorts might very likely drop simply as a face-saving measure, whether or not they had any idea of Whitefish’s location, might have the same effect again.
“Stand by to surface,” croaked Richardson. “Up periscope.” As he swiftly spun the instrument around, he felt the querying glances of the conning tower crew. He went around carefully three times. Nothing in sight. He clicked up the handles of the periscope. It dropped away.
“Ready to surface,” said Keith. Here at least was someone who understood that targets of this importance, so laboriously set up, must not be abandoned.
“Surface the boat!” The sound of air blowing in the ballast tanks, the sudden lifting effect as they expelled water from the flooding holes at their bottoms, were almost like personal reflexes of his own.
“Four main engines on propulsion,” Richardson said.
The bridge was still cascading water from all of its parts. The main induction banged open behind him. Eel drove ahead on her battery, thrusting her nearly submerged bulk through the seas and into the teeth of a strong cold breeze, while back aft four mufflers spit white water and groaned as the engines rolled over.
“Lookouts to the bridge!” They came piling up in their foul-weather gear, well protected against the cold and the wet. Rich had not been so provident. His already rumpled khakis had been heavily splattered across the back as he came up the hatch, and the chilled wind was already biting into him.
“Here, Captain,” said Cornelli coming up the hatch, handing him a foul-weather jacket. “Mr. Keith… I mean, Mr. Leone, said to give you this.” Gratefully Richardson put it on while Cornelli moved aft to take up his watch station.
Williams and Leone were beside him. “We’re running down the bearing of the convoy,” said Richardson. “I’ll keep the deck. Buck, you handle the routine. Allow no extra people on the bridge. Keith, you stand by in the conning tower. Pass the word to all hands to look alive. We may have to dive suddenly. Keep a continuous high periscope and radar watch on. The convoy may have split up. It sounds like one ship was hit, and if so, the other two will be getting away from the attack position as fast as they can.”