“Bearing, mark!” he said again. He could feel the pressure mounting, the taut stillness in the conning tower, the unblinking eyes staring at him, the dry throats and nervous lips which must go with their alacrity in carrying out his orders. The electric torpedoes would show no wakes. Not knowing it had been shot at, the escort would not try to avoid. If they missed, she would come relentlessly on and pass directly overhead in her attempt to ram. In any case, recognizing that the sub must be at or very near periscope depth, she would know exactly what depth setting to use on the inevitable barrage of depth charges. There had not been time for an entire salvo of charges to be made ready, but undoubtedly several of them had already been wrestled into the racks for an immediate re-attack.
“Torpedo run, seven-fifty yards!” Buck Williams’ clipped voice was not that of the irreverent youth who had disobeyed him when the Kona wave had been about to strike.
“Shoot!”
“Fire nine!” shouted Keith, Buck, and Quin almost simultaneously, the last into his telephone mouthpiece. He barely felt the jolt as a burst of high pressure air ejected the torpedo. With any speed on, ejection aft was always facilitated. He must leave the periscope up for another few seconds to keep the escort running true, headed for it, not zigzagging.
“Can’t hear the torpedo aft in the screws,” said Stafford.
“Torpedo fired electrically,” said Quin.
“Running time thirty-three seconds,” said Lasche.
“Steady on two-seven-three-a-half,” said Cornelli.
“That looked like a beautiful shot, Skipper,” said Keith quietly. “Fifteen seconds to go.”
Someone was counting the seconds in a loud voice. Larry. The escort had grown perceptibly larger. There was another flash from the forecastle. This time Rich saw the splash as the periscope went through it, a vertical column of water high enough to hide the frigate momentarily from his view. The shell must have missed the periscope barrel by only a few inches. It was fortunate that on a moving ship the gunner’s aim was probably being thrown off just a little.
“Twenty-five,” said Larry, counting from his plotting table.
Richardson could feel the perspiration on his forehead, around his eyes, on the palms of his hands. Eel was still making two-thirds speed, and the periscope vibrated gently against his right eye. Surprisingly, it was painful.
The escort was now filling the entire field of the periscope in high power, the slope of its sides barely discernible on either side. It looked curiously flat. The single eyepiece of the periscope gave no depth. Seemingly a very short distance behind its bow, although he knew it to be a full third of the tincan’s length, the square-windowed bridge of the little ship filled what was left of the field of view.
“Thirty-three,” said Lasche. “Thirty-four.”
“It must have missed,” said Keith. How could he speak so calmly!
Nothing else to do. Richardson had not intended to use both of his remaining torpedoes on a single ordinary escort. He had hoped to occupy both of the antisubmarine craft, but had failed in that as well. Now he had no choice. It was even unlikely Eel could go deep enough in the short time remaining to clear the escort’s sharp bow. No doubt it had been specially strengthened for ramming, as had the bows of American escorts. “Stand by number ten!”
Richardson lined the periscope exactly on the target’s bow. “One-eight-oh,” said Keith.
“Shoot!” He uttered the word with finality. It carried with it a sense of being the last cast of the die. Eel had nothing left to fight with. If this torpedo missed, it was a certainty that in a few more seconds her periscopes would be knocked over, the shears bent or broken off, perhaps even the conning tower ruptured.
“… Fired electrically,” said Quin.
“Run, four-five-oh yards.” Keith. “Running time, twenty-three seconds.”
He should start to go deep, but it would do no good. No matter what, the stern would remain near the surface for a while. Better take the blow on the periscope shears than the rudder and propellers. Ten seconds more to go. Five seconds.
Something was happening to the tincan’s bow. It shook perceptibly. The bridge structure, which had seemed so close behind the stem, had been replaced by a solid column of white water, stained by a vertical streak of blackness in its center. Simultaneously, the shock of the explosion slammed into the submarine’s conning tower, and an instant later the noise — a bellowing cataclysmic thunderclap — came in.
The escort’s stem shivered again, more slowly, then began to twist to the left and at the same time sag deeper in the water. Before Richardson’s eyes it leaned to starboard and quickly slid under water. The last thing he saw was a relatively large unbroken expense of forecastle deck, on which some kind of capstan and anchor equipment was clearly visible, as the shattered bow, torn completely loose from the remainder of the ship by the force of the explosion, swiftly disappeared.
He flipped the periscope to low power. The explosion must have taken place under the keel and just forward of the bridge, for the bridge structure could still be seen, horribly shattered, all its windows smashed, the neat square outline now buckled and twisted. The rest of the ship, too, was sinking fast. He could see her stern elevated above the top of the bridge structure, and the base of the bridge itself was already well under water. He swung the periscope around twice, swiftly. Nothing else in sight. “Surface!” he ordered. “Four engines! Here, Keith, you take the periscope!”
Men were cheering in the conning tower and below in the control room. Someone thrust a towel at him to wipe his face. Several of the conning tower crew, completely forgetting naval protocol, were pounding him on the back, shouting words in his face, grasping at him to touch him, almost caress him. Dimly he was aware of air blasts from the control room, the lifting strain of the ballast tanks. Scott handed him a foul-weather jacket, followed it with his binoculars.
“Thirty feet,” someone called. “Twenty-six feet and holding.”
“Bow’s out! Stern’s out. All clear all around,” shouted Keith.
“Open the hatch!”
Scott spun the hand wheel. It banged open with a crash. A torrent of air blasted out of it, lifting him. Richardson leaped to the bridge, ignoring the cascade of water still pouring from the periscope shears and bridge overhang. Swiftly he scanned the skies with his binoculars. Nothing in sight. “Lookouts!” he shouted. “Open the induction!” Clank of the induction valve. Gouts of black exhaust mixed with water from four main engine mufflers.
“I’ll take the deck, Captain,” said Al Dugan. “Keith gave me the course. He’s laying out the search for the convoy right now. You need some rest, sir; why don’t you go below and sack out for a while?”
Gratefully Richardson turned over the details of the bridge watch to Dugan. Perhaps he would take his advice, but for the moment he could not feel weary. His binoculars settled for a long lingering minute on the destroyed escort. She was now vertical in the water, almost fully submerged except for a small section of the stern. Men were bobbing in the water around her. Someone was standing on top of the stern itself, and as Richardson watched, made a headlong dive into the sea. Among the debris that floated around the swiftly submerging hulk were two life rafts and what looked like an overturned lifeboat. On her new course, Eel would pass within half a mile of the spot. There was nothing he could do to help. He must pursue the remaining ships, endeavor to turn them back somehow, somehow bring Whitefish back into contact.