“Sir!” the signalman above him shouted. “Stevens asks, ‘Is all well?’ How should I reply?”
“Tell him that everything is fine and that we will rendezvous with him when we return.”
He watched for a moment as the sailor used a handheld signal device with blinkers over the front of a battery-powered light. The destroyer was about half a mile from them now and continuing to open. Lights flashed back, and while he could read Morse code, it was a science best left to those whose ratings required it, such as radiomen, signalmen, and communications technicians. He pulled his stopwatch from his trouser pocket, then took several deep breaths as he watched the chief in charge of the underway replenishment detail check the topside and head toward the aft hatch. Forward, everyone had already disappeared belowdecks, and the forward hatch was secure. He glanced aft. The aft hatch was flush with the deck.
“Okay, XO, let’s dive the boat.” He looked up and shouted, “Clear the deck! Dive! Dive!” He hit the button on top of the watch.
The signalman bumped him slightly as the sailor slid past and down the hatch. Shipley waited for a second, making sure topside was clear, and then shouted the order to dive once again.
He slid down the ladder to the conning tower, the repeating “oogle” of the horn giving satisfaction that they were leaving daylight behind and returning to the bosom of the depths. He looked up as the sailor double-checked the hatch, ensuring that he — the skipper — had done his job properly.
“Make depth sixty feet,” Shipley ordered. He looked at the stopwatch.
“Christmas Tree?” he asked.
From the control room one deck lower, he heard Weaver report, “Main induction valves still open!”
“Switch to battery power,” Shipley ordered. “Close main induction valves.”
Almost immediately, a new report came from the control room below them. “All green!”
The vibration of the diesel engines stopped, bringing almost silence to the boat.
Across the conning tower, Boohan worked the levers, opening the vents of the ballast tanks.
“Planes out,” Boohan reported.
“Planes out” should have been reported as soon as he closed the hatch, Shipley thought.
The sound of water rushing into the tanks filled the void surrounding them. The deck tilted as the submarine continued down, but then began almost immediately to ease on the angle.
“Passing fifty feet,” Arneau reported.
The planesmen spun their wheels in unison, keeping the boat on course while leveling the Squallfish.
“Depth sixty-five feet,” Arneau reported.
Shipley looked at the planesmen. Boohan stepped over to them and whispered something in their ears. The two sailors turned the wheels a little farther, bringing the boat level.
“Seventy feet.”
Boohan pushed two levers closed, hit a blast of compressed air, and the Squallfish rose a few feet.
“I make our depth six zero feet,” Arneau said.
“Final trim,” Boohan reported.
Shipley looked at his stopwatch. Every eye was on him in the conning tower. He smiled. “Considering that this was a real surprise test for submerging, it wasn’t too bad.” He put the stopwatch into the pocket of his foul-weather jacket.
“Up periscope.”
“Wait, Skipper,” Senior Chief Boohan said. “You gotta tell us the time,” he pleaded.
Shipley smiled. “Eighteen seconds to clear the decks. That’s two seconds better. Forty seconds for Christmas Tree green. Periscope depth and final trim not as good. It was one minute fifty-five. That’s five seconds longer than our last dunk. But I am very happy with the emergency-dive sequence. Once we’re below the waterline, a second or two is less important than it is when we’re surfaced.”
Boohan slapped the backs of the heads of the two planesmen. “Okay, you did good.”
“Steady up on course zero three zero.”
“Aye, sir. Helmsman, left ten degrees rudder, steady on course zero three zero. Planesman, maintain depth sixty feet,” Arneau ordered.
“Coming left, ten degrees rudder, to course zero three zero, sir,” the helmsman said.
“Keep us at periscope depth for a while, XO. Run up the scope and take a look-see so we can make sure the Stevens decided to turn back and finish the job. Where are our guests?” Arneau nodded aft. “The chief of the boat—”
“Aye, sir!” Senior Chief Boohan shouted from his navigation position near the planesmen.
“COB, where are the visitors?”
“Norton is supposed to take them down to forward berthing. We have several sailors who don’t have hot-bunk partners yet.”
“Very well, COB,” Arneau replied before turning back to Shipley. “The officer is waiting for you in the wardroom, Skipper.” Shipley nodded. “Thanks, XO. When you are ready, secure the special bridge watch and set the regular underway watch. Then join me in the wardroom. We’ll talk with one of our visitors and do the night orders while we are there.”
“Aye, sir. That was close. Whew!” Arneau shook his head. “We only missed by inches.”
“Close is okay; inches are okay.” Shipley let go of the pipe he was holding. “I’m going to the wardroom to talk with the young lieutenant who has disrupted our mission and caused us to have to surface during the day.”
Arneau grinned. Bright white teeth lit up his tan skin. “Probably some surface skimmer who knows no better, Skipper.”
“He looked sunburned to me, Skipper,” Senior Chief Boohan added. Submariners were renowned for pale skin and a propensity for burning easily when they did hit the beach.
“Skipper off the bridge!” the junior officer of the deck shouted as Shipley disappeared down the hatch to the control room, heading forward toward officers’ country and the wardroom mess.
Shipley ducked and stepped into the wardroom mess. The officer was sitting at the first table. The man jumped up, barely missing the pipes running across the overhead.
“Be careful,” Shipley said grimacing, his eyes glancing up at the pipes. “You’ll knock yourself out if you’re not careful while you’re aboard.”
The officer raised his head to look and bumped his forehead on one of the pipes, causing him to crouch quickly.
“Or raise some bumps on your head,” Shipley finished, his voice trailing off. “You okay?” He stepped to the coffee urn and poured himself a cup. When he turned, the officer was still standing. He looked him over. He had to be more than six feet tall.
Anyone over six feet in a diesel submarine ran the risk of doing themselves a head injury. There was no spare room for spreading out in a submarine. Everyone molded their life around crowded conditions, low overheads, and short bunks.
“How tall are you?” Shipley asked.
“Six-foot-one, sir.”
“You’re going to have to be careful while you’re on board, Lieutenant. You have any experience on board a submarine?”
The officer shook his head. “First trip.”
Shipley nodded and turned back to his coffee. The man’s feet were going to hang over the edge of the rack. Seemed squared away, but then lieutenants are supposed to be. The officer had the notorious Navy regulation haircut. Tapered brown hair down to within a couple of inches of the shoulder line; sideburns even with the ears. Shipley turned back to the table as he quietly stirred powdered milk into his coffee.
He watched quietly for a moment. The officer was leaning slightly to the right as his eyes tracked the overhead piping. Then the man reached up and ran his hand over the small bump growing on his forehead. He then looked at his fingers.