The stern of the escort had disappeared. A plume of white water burst from the spot where she had sunk. A great white mushroom boiled up, covered the entire area. The crash of the exploding depth charges stunned his ears. When the white, watery mushroom, fifty feet in height and a hundred feet in diameter, had disappeared, there was not even debris left in sight. No doubt much would rise to the surface to mark the grave of the little ship, but there could not possibly be any survivors.
All the lookouts, Scott, and even Al Dugan were mesmerized, awestricken at what they had seen.
“Mind your business, all of you,” shouted Richardson. “You lookouts get on your sectors! If there’s a plane around, he’ll be coming over to see what happened!” His own guilt at having overlong inspected the result of his handiwork was expressing itself in unnecessary railing at his crew for the all-too-human fault of doing the same thing. Guiltily, they all swung back into their proper search arcs.
“Sorry, Skipper,” muttered Dugan, with his binoculars to his eyes ostentatiously surveying another portion of the horizon. Richardson as swiftly felt remorse at his outburst. He could not bring himself to talk, squeezed Dugan’s arm by way of acknowledgment.
Al Dugan dared to put down his binoculars, turned squarely to face Richardson. “Skipper,” he said, “you’re beat to a frazzle. You’ve got to get some rest. Besides, you ought to look at yourself in a mirror. Do you realize you have a black eye?”
This too would be added to the legend. The vibration of the periscope against his eye during the depth charging, even though it had been protected by a rubber buffer, had been sufficiently strong and prolonged to bruise the tender skin. The result was a perfect black eye, a regulation “shiner” in all respects save the manner in which it was acquired. Little he could do about it, he reflected, as he washed his face at last at the fold-up wash basin beneath his medicine cabinet. He plunged his face deep into the dripping washcloth, bathed it first with hot water and then with cold, rubbed it vigorously. The fatigue lines stood out clearly. His bunk beckoned. It would be so restful to lie there, if only for half an hour! But he dared not. Another cup of coffee, a hasty sandwich, and Richardson was back in the conning tower. He must be alert the moment a message arrived from Whitefish, must supervise the search for the fleeing convoy, must show Blunt where to station Whitefish for one final effort.
-11-
By midnight Eel had covered all the possible positions of the fleeing ships, had they turned eastward anytime before 10 o’clock. Definitely the convoy had not done so. It was Richardson’s second night up in a row, and somehow he had found a new source of energy, for the terrible lassitude of the early evening was less evident. Probably he should have turned in, as his officers urged. But the knowledge that part of the Kwantung Army was loose in the Yellow Sea only a few miles distant, bound for Okinawa and inadequately escorted, was a driving force which took the place of any will of his own. By Blunt’s order, which he had drafted, Whitefish was heading south to intercept. Twice, Richardson had sent her messages reflecting what he had learned of the enemy movements. It was Eel’s responsibility, as the submarine last in contact, to find the convoy and position her wolfpack mate most advantageously.
He spent most of the time in the conning tower poring over the charts, alternating this with periods on the bridge — it was not so dark as the previous night — and once, as he had made his custom, walking through the ship to visit every compartment to talk with as many of the crew as possible. He would have been hard put to define why this simple habit had grown so important to him, would have said it “gave him a feel” for his crew, would have totally disavowed any suggestion that it had become an important ritual to him, or that the crew also, confined to their stations in the submarine’s compartments, had come to look forward to these visits on the eve of battle.
The only sour note in Eel’s readiness, outside of her complete expenditure of all torpedoes, was her hydraulic system. The situation had been accurately described by Al Dugan. Richardson found Lichtmann nodding on his station in the tiny, crowded pump room, where he had been valiantly trying to match Richardson’s sleepless vigil, had replaced him with Starberg, and sent him up to his bunk with a clap on the shoulder and warm words of gratitude. It was hot in the pump room, and the atmosphere was heavy with oil. Immobility made drowsiness inevitable; yet, in emergency, instant alertness was mandatory. Gravely, he elicited a promise from both men that they would exchange positions every six hours and include Sargent in the vigil as well.
All seven sets of vent valves he found alertly manned. Like Lichtmann, the men had nothing to do unless the diving alarm were to sound, but there was a man with a telephone headset at each station, and many others around in each compartment. Everyone in the ship was acutely aware of the importance of instant operation of the main vents, should the diving alarm be sounded. The pin in each mechanism was in the correct place for hand operation. Richardson was vociferously assured by all that each valve had been operated many times already, was free and easy to pull by hand. In the enginerooms, the four roaring diesels were, as always, a source of comfort and admiration. He grinned when he noted the rpm dial on each registering 760 instead of the rated maximum of 720 rpm’s. A little operation on the governor linkages had been all that was necessary, and their added speed was reflected in higher propeller rpm’s and the extra knot Eel was logging on her pitometer speed indicator.
Richardson had slipped on a pair of dark red goggles prior to leaving the dimly lighted conning tower, and for this reason no one noticed the black eye until, in the maneuvering room, the chief on watch, egged on by his watch mates, diffidently asked him about it. First carefully shutting his eyes against the light, he lifted the goggles, was rewarded by a chorus of delighted chuckles. Instantly he wished he had not done it, however, for his eyes stayed shut of their own accord when he put the goggles back in place. His head nodded. Had he not stumbled with a small movement of the ship he would have fallen asleep on his feet. He had to force himself to visit the last compartment, talk with the crew in the after torpedo room. This visit was obligatory, for it was here that that last supremely important torpedo had been watched over, made ready, and fired. But it was too hot in the submarine. The noise in the enginerooms was stupefying. Hastily he walked forward to the control room, climbed the ladder to the conning tower and then to the bridge.
It was about an hour past midnight. Radar contact had at last been made. The convoy still consisted of two troopships and a single escort. They had made a large diversion to the west and had indeed passed close to the Whitefish. But nothing happened. Whitefish had dived but been unable to close for an attack; now she too was on the surface again, driving southeast in obedience to more orders sent in the name of the wolfpack commander.
The convoy had finally once again swung to an easterly course, and Eel, under cover of the night, was maneuvering to cut the corner and get into position directly ahead. Keeping the convoy under surveillance from ahead instead of astern, Richardson had decided, would provide a better opportunity of holding or regaining contact after Whitefish had made the dawn attack which by this time he knew would be the most he could hope for. The likelihood of a night aircraft patrol was remote. The two submarines had added the better part of a day to the transports’ Yellow Sea transit, and robbed them of the intended all-daylight passage. The two remaining troopships were exposed to the night surface attack they had tried to avoid.