“Al,” he said, “I’ll take over the entire deck. You go down and stand by the dive in the control room. If this plane shows up, I want to go down fast, even if we are in hand power. We’ve got to avoid detection, but we can’t dive until the last minute. I want to go deep so as to get clear, and if we have to, we’ll change course on the way. But then I’ll want to come back to periscope depth immediately and surface as soon as we can. We mustn’t lose any more time submerged than we can possibly help.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Al. But still he looked puzzled. “What are we going to do with the convoy, Skipper?” he began. But then he stopped. There was something in Richardson’s face, some look of fixed purpose mounted on the thin edge of exhaustion, which dissuaded him from adding the additional requirement of an explanation. With a final “Going below!” he ducked under the bridge overhang and stepped on the ladder rungs.
“Tell Keith on your way down, Al,” said Richardson, as Dugan’s head passed below the level of the bridge deck, “and keep me fully informed about that APR contact. That’s going to be the key to the whole thing!”
The convoy had swung around another twenty degrees, to course 160 degrees true, and the APR contact had remained steady. The plane was probably circling in front of the convoy and would inevitably soon detect Eel, particularly when further course changes would put the submarine more nearly ahead also. Richardson was about to issue another cautionary warning to the lookouts, but refrained. They were already as alert as they could be. Nervousness might only cause another mistaken identification of a bird as an aircraft.
“APR contact fading slightly. Strength one.” Al was making the reports himself from the control room. The radar signal was steady, not rising and falling as had been the case previously, and having reached its closest point of approach, the plane was now getting farther away. Soon it would turn back.
Time passed. The Whitefish had surfaced at last, was a number of miles astern. The convoy was changing course every half hour, Richardson decided. Plot now gave their course as 140, and Eel had altered her course accordingly, putting the ships well on her starboard quarter. One more similar change to the left would bring them within ten degrees of the predicted course, and they might well choose to come all the way around. Whitefish, in the meantime, diverging from Eel’s track, would be in a position to attack again if they reversed course to the west.
Richardson had been on the bridge for hours, sustained by sandwiches handed up from below and countless mugs of black coffee. There was a rising need within him which could no longer be kept below the level of severe, if not disabling, distraction, bordering on growing torment. A quick trip below ordinarily would take care of the business, and had several times already. But this was no longer possible. He could not leave the bridge now, even for the two or three minutes the mission would require. Not with the prospect of imminent air attack. The lookouts, all of them new members of the crew, youngsters whose only submarine experience was in Eel, would be caught by surprise. They might even be a bit shocked, but it didn’t matter what they thought. The old submarine solution would have to do. The old N-boats and O-boats had only a covered bucket for use submerged, which the most junior member of the crew would have to carry topside and dump at appropriate times. In their ability to dive, submarines possessed one tremendous asset other ships did not have: when you dived, you flushed the whole outside surface of the ship.
Of course, you always did it to leeward. Thought of doing it made the need imperative, the torture unbearable. A wad of lens paper. A muttered excuse to Buck Williams, now OOD again. The starboard side, just abaft the fifty-caliber stowage. Half a dozen quick steps aft to the cigarette deck. His hands fumbled ridiculously, cold-stiffened fingers tearing at the zipper of his parka trousers, then at his belt and the oversize buttons in the fly of his woolen pants. A deep sigh of relief. He could not have stood it much longer. A long moment of slowly ebbing pain.
“APR contact, strength one and a half!” The plane was coming closer.
“APR contact! Strength two!” The question: to be detected or not detected.
Blunt was on the bridge. “What are you planning to do, Rich?”
“Get below, Commodore,” Richardson said testily. “There’s a plane coming in. We’ve got to be clear to dive in a hurry. I’ll tell you about it as soon as I can!”
The look under Blunt’s shaggy brows seemed less sure of itself than it had in previous years or even during the early stages of the current war patrol. There was almost a respectful note in his voice, along with the recently acquired querulousness, as he replied, “Okay, Rich, I’ll be in the conning tower.”
Richardson punched the bridge microphone. “Plot, any sign of a convoy change to the left?”
“Negative, Bridge. Convoy course one-four-zero base course, zigzagging.”
“Bridge, control. APR contact strength three!” It was at this signal strength that ComSubPac had advised all submarines should dive. And it was adherence to this directive that had placed Eel under severe risk not long ago. Almost without volition, he voiced his concern.
“Lookouts, there’s a plane coming in on us. We don’t know what direction, most likely from aft. Keep a sharp lookout!” If the convoy would only make its last change of course now, Eel could submerge on its track, undetected, and might have a chance for an attack with her last precious torpedoes. If he waited too long, detection by the aircraft might cause an unpremeditated radical change in the convoy course and thus throw away all the day’s work in reaching position.
Yet, if the escorts cooperated, detection of Eel might possibly work to Whitey Everett’s advantage. Richardson had to hope both escorts, supported by the plane, would attack, not knowing there were two subs to contend with, thinking that by working together they might eliminate the single submarine pursuing them. Once Eel was located and under attack, the troopships would make another radical swing away from the vicinity. Doubtless they would run southwest again, possibly even nearly due west. All depended on Eel being detected at the right time, and Whitefish not; so that Whitey could submerge undisturbed in the path of the transports, now hopefully denuded of escorts or air coverage.
“APR contact! Strength three and a half!”
“Convoy course one-four-zero, no change.” Al and Keith were anticipating his requirements for information.
“Aircraft dead astern!” Cornelli shouting from the after part of the bridge. He swung aft quickly. The aircraft was well above the horizon, still at a great distance, flying relatively high. Perhaps they had already been detected. Richardson felt almost a sense of relief. This part, at least, was now out of his hands. “All right, I have him in sight,” he said.
The plane seemed hung in the heavens, almost stationary. It was approaching directly toward them. Well, if the convoy would not change course toward him, he would at least try to get on its path. The maneuver would drive the transports more to the west, make things that much easier for Whitefish.
“Right full rudder,” he bawled down the hatch. “Come right to two-three-zero!” This would put Eel on a course perpendicular to the estimated convoy course, and it would permit her most quickly to gain position dead ahead. When the plane saw this maneuver it would evaluate it as meaning but one thing: that Eel was running in for an attack position on the convoy. Only a few minutes would be needed. The convoy should reverse course. But how would the plane signal to the convoy? Perhaps there was a common radio frequency, but most likely, to give Eel’s position accurately, specifically to give it to the escorts, the plane would have to drop at least a smoke float, and probably a bomb as well.