Whitey Everett was obligated to continue to pursue the convoy as soon as countermeasures against him had ceased. But he, too, had probably been up most of the night, and so, no doubt, had most of his crew. The mental strain required to return to periscope depth shortly after a depth charging and in the face of possibly waiting countermeasures must have been great. It was all to his credit that he had done so, even though by Rich’s estimate a second torpedo was wasted on the already sinking troopship. Following this effort, by normal standards Whitey could be excused if he had decided to return to the sheltering depths to rest himself and his crew. Possibly, if Eel were to head in that direction, calling Whitefish on the sonar, contact could be made with him. But if so, contact with the fleeing convoy would be lost.
Richardson was not aware of weighing the alternatives. Perhaps his mind was already too clouded to consider them properly. Stafford was directed to call Whitefish continuously on the sonar, sending the code signal for surface chase. But Eel pounded on without slowing through the rising sea, throwing an ever-increasing cloud of spray on deck, periodically changing course in obedience to Keith’s recommendations as the tracking party combined periscope sightings of masts with radar information. Sooner or later the troopships must change course to the east, and Eel would then be directly ahead of them. But what could Eel do with only two torpedoes against two escorts and two huge transports? Richardson now regretted, with the intensity borne of inability to remedy the situation, that he had not insisted upon taking some of Whitefish’s torpedoes. The thing could have been done in a few hours of intense work, even if it had never been done before in the war zone. If Blunt had ordered Whitey Everett to do it, he would have had to comply.
But where was Blunt? Richardson had been on the bridge for hours now and had heard not a word from him. He had not asked for him, for there was nothing in the way of combined operations that could be done, now that Whitefish had successfully attacked and was out of communication. As soon as Whitefish surfaced and checked in by radio, Blunt would of course be informed, even though it would be Richardson’s proposals that would be sent to her as directives in Blunt’s name.
And what about that airplane that had caused the Eel to dive? It must have been assigned to the protection of this convoy. Perhaps there were other ships traversing the Yellow Sea also, and it was no doubt true that both aircraft fuel and aircraft themselves were in short supply to Japan. But where was it? That plane, or another one, could not be far away. Eel must not be sighted once she got ahead of the convoy.
Al Dugan had relieved Buck Williams as OOD. “I got a couple of hours’ sleep, Skipper — was out like a light, too — so I feel pretty good. Keith says he wishes you could get some rest.” He had brought with him a mug of black coffee and three huge sandwiches, which Richardson gulped gratefully. Obviously, despite their words, no one expected him to go below.
“Where’s the commodore?” he asked.
“He’s been asleep. Turned in after we surfaced, and just woke up for lunch. He’s probably in the conning tower now, or will be as soon as he finishes eating. I hurried up so Buck could eat.” Dugan paused, then spoke again with a different note in his voice. “Captain, I’ve got to tell you, we have trouble again with the hydraulic system. It’s really going to need a total overhaul to find out what the matter is. Something isn’t acting right.”
Richardson put his binoculars down from his eyes, looked around seriously. The cold wind had burned a deep redness into his face. The collar of his foul-weather jacket was turned up and buttoned, so that the artificial fur protected the back of his neck and caressed his cheeks, and he had procured a blue knit sailor’s watch cap from the conning tower, which he had jammed on over his head as far as it would go, covering his ears. The face which looked at Dugan was puffy, a mottled mahogany covered with a stubble of whiskers. Above it the skin around his eyes and across the bridge of his nose was white where the binoculars had protected it, but the eyes themselves, seemingly deeper set than usual in their sockets, were red with strain and fatigue. “What’s the trouble now?” he said, his numb lips and tongue having difficulty with the words.
“She’s recycling again too fast. I’ve got Lichtmann down there in the pump room watching it. He’ll stay there, and if we need to relieve him, I’ll send Starberg or Sargent down. Bow planes, stern planes, and steering are set for hand operation, and so is the main induction. The cooks are checked out on the induction, and there’s extra people in the enginerooms to handle the exhaust valves by hand. The main vents are all shifted over to hand power again, too, with telephones and people standing by.”
Richardson nodded. “What’s Lichtmann doing?”
“He’s got the main plant turned off, with the rams full and the bypass valve shut. The accumulator is full, with air pressure on top. He’ll turn the plant on when we need it, and then secure it again. You know we can refill the accumulator by bleeding off the air on top and then using the hand pump. So that’s all rigged and ready to go. We’ve been testing it, and Lichtmann can give us another full accumulator, after the first one is discharged, in a couple minutes of hard pumping. So we can handle everything, although we can’t do all the things all at once, the way we used to. That’s why I put everything we can in hand power.… That fellow Lichtmann is sure a jewel. Where in the world did you find him?”
“He’s a legacy from Stocker Kane,” said Richardson, quietly, and Dugan knew that the slight hesitation in Richardson’s words was not entirely from the cold weather on the bridge.
“Bridge, conn. Convoy has changed course to the left again. New course one-eight-oh. Recommend we come left to one-eight-oh.” This was the third course change the convoy had made in the past hour and a half. The ships were now well abaft Eel’s starboard beam, running on parallel course. To head for what had been estimated to be their original destination point on the coast of Korea, they would have to come around left at least fifty degrees more.
“Bridge, control. APR contact. Strength two.” The first indication of the presence of an aircraft.
“Look sharp, lookouts! There’s an aircraft around here somewhere!” With the beautiful visibility, there should be no trouble in seeing the aircraft. The seas themselves were still small, although perceptibly building up, and the plane would be sighted the moment it came over the horizon should it try the same gambit that had so nearly caught the Eel a week or so before. For hours Richardson had been pondering his tactic in the event of an airplane contact. To dive on APR contact, which had been his latest determination, would eliminate any further chance of catching the convoy, but to be detected by the airplane would have almost the same effect. In that case… Suddenly it was clear what he must do.