There was a sudden appearance of instantaneous immobility in the sea, and almost simultaneously a crashing roar filled the submarine. Several tremendous shocks in succession were transmitted to Eel’s stout hide. The giant outside was wielding his sledgehammer with gusto. The periscope quivered, vibrated strongly against his eyes. Fortunately, the eyepiece was surrounded with a heavy rubber buffer, shaped partly to protect the user’s eyes from stray light and partly to give him a firm ridge against which to press the soft flesh between his eyes and their bony sockets. The story would later be told how Richardson had stood at his periscope in the midst of a depth charge attack which had Eel resounding throughout like a tremendous steel drum, her sturdy body whipped and tortured, her machinery damaged from the heavy shocks. The fact was he had the advantage, possessed by no one else in the submarine, of seeing the depth charges dropped and knowing they were clear astern. Noisy they might be, but dangerous they were not — at least not much. And once they began to explode, the ice broken, as it were, they were only an annoyance.
But there must be some way to bring this sea dance to an end. Those depth charge racks would take some time to refill. Maybe now was the time. The tincan skipper would try to ram if he saw the submarine. Perhaps he should have a point of aim.
“All ahead two-thirds! Left full rudder — ease your rudder — amidships — meet her — steady as you go!”
“Steady on two-six-eight-a-half,” from Cornelli at the helm.
“Steer two-seven-zero.” That would make it easier on the plot and everyone concerned.
Eel and the escort were now on nearly opposite courses. Soon the escort would turn, come back to the scene of the depth charge attack, try to regain sonar contact, look hopefully for signs of success. Range by periscope stadimeter was 1,000 yards… 1,400 yards. She must turn soon, was turning, with rudder hard over, listing to starboard. Increased exhaust smoke was coming out of her sides; her engines had speeded up. She came all the way around. Eel was making five knots; her periscope must be throwing up a perceptible feather.
“Angle on the bow, starboard ten.” The periscope was leaking. Perhaps the vibration during the depth charging had loosened the seal rings through which it passed at the top of the conning tower. A rivulet of water trickled down on Richardson’s forehead, between his eyes. Another splatted on the top of his head and down the back of his neck. “Range — mark!” he said. “Down ’scope. Get me a rain hat!”
“One-seven-five-oh.” Someone handed him a towel. Blunt. He had been standing silently in the conning tower for minutes, perhaps hours. Not a word was said. Scott passed over one of the baseball hats which a number of the crew had been wearing. It had a long broad bill — just right. He put it on backward.
The TDC was whining. “Need an observation,” said Buck Williams.
“Up ’scope — angle on the bow, port five.”
“Range one-six-five-oh,” said Keith.
“Set,” said Buck. “He must still be zigzagging. That changed the gyro from right four and a half to left three.”
Not good enough. The escort had to be on a steady course to ensure the torpedo would hit. Mush Morton in the Wahoo had once faced such a situation, although with more torpedoes. So had Roy Benson in an early patrol in Trigger. Both reported that the destroyer needed a point of aim to steady on, and they had held their periscopes up to provide one with the result that the destroyer had rushed directly at them, and was met by a salvo of torpedoes. The “down-the-throat” shot had not been at all popular with submarine skippers, however. It was undeniably risky, downright hairy. Only one of Wahoo’s torpedoes had hit out of six fired. Trigger’s had exploded prematurely. But torpedo performance was now vastly improved.
“We have to get this over with,” said Richardson. “This periscope has been up for a long time, and we must be making a big feather, but he doesn’t act as if he sees it.… Control, make your depth four-two feet!” He felt water running off the cap and down the sides of his face, salt trickling into his mouth. Eel’s deck tilted upward slightly, and he had to rotate the hand grip in his left hand to stay on the escort. He had not looked around recently. This would be the time to do it. The pressure of water against the periscope at five knots, which made it more difficult to turn, would be eliminated with the top of the shears five feet above the surface. The little rivulet of water running down the side of the periscope seemed diabolically to follow him no matter on what bearing he looked. He made two swift circles, settled back on the escort. The exercise of walking it around had brought an added dividend, a tiny modicum of relief from the overpowering weariness.
“Four-two feet, Conn,” said Al Dugan.
He felt high out of water. His eye — the tip of the periscope — was now nearly twenty-five feet above the water. Five feet of the conical periscope shears would also be exposed. The escort would see this, would assume the submarine had been damaged, had perhaps lost control, broached, and was either trying to surface or struggling to get back down again.
“Bearing, mark!” he snapped. “What’s the course for a zero gyro angle, zero angle on the bow?”
“Bearing zero-nine-three. Recommend course two-seven-three, Skipper.” Keith.
“Come right to course two-seven-three!”
“Right to course two-seven-three — steady on two-seven-three.” Cornelli spoke loudly from the forward part of the conning tower.
Shadows were lengthening. There was a flash — orange mixed with red — from the forecastle of the escort. A gun. There was another flash. They must be shooting at the periscope. Hastily Richardson swung the periscope all the way around, searching for splashes, saw none. “They’ve seen us now,” he said. “Control, make your depth six-oh feet. Down periscope!” In a moment he would raise the periscope again, but it was a relief to wipe his streaming face. The conning tower had been darkened, all white lights extinguished. His right eye, accustomed to the much brighter, though waning, light topside, was virtually blind. The pupil of his left eye had no doubt narrowed sympathetically, for he found himself fumbling among the familiar objects and people.
“Six-oh feet, Conn.”
“Up ’scope.” He would leave it up, provide a point of aim which would irresistibly draw the escort directly for it in an attempt to ram. If the escort would stop zigzagging, the result would be a perfect down-the-throat shot. He would have to take a chance with his periscope, pray that a lucky shot would not strike it.
“We’re ready aft,” said Keith. “Torpedo run is one thousand yards. Gyro is exactly one-eight-oh. Are you on the bearing?”
The periscope vertical cross hair was bisecting the escort’s bridge, lay exactly in line with her stem and stick-mast. She looked disproportionately — ridiculously — broad. There was another orange flash on the forecastle, hidden partially by the high raked bow, now that Richardson’s periscope-eye view had returned to a more normal six feet. She had not wavered for several seconds, no doubt had ceased zigzagging, probably had increased speed.
“Make her speed fifteen knots,” he said. “Bearing, mark!”
“One-eight-oh-a-half.”
“Cornelli”—he raised his voice so the helmsman could hear clearly—“steer two-seven-three-a-half.” He watched as his periscope cross hair drifted slowly to the right, until it was just clear of the escort’s port side. He brought it back until it lined up once again with stem and mast.