WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM.
He was good. Wiping the moist palms of my hands frequently on my trouser thighs, I tried to figure out his maneuvers, outguess him as he criss- crossed overhead. He was nearly as good as Bungo Pete, might well qualify as his little brother. He had not been able to catch us quite so near to the surface as Bungo had, but he was doing well nevertheless. And, of course, it takes only one depth charge to finish you, if it's close enough.
For hours Walrus crept along at deep submergence, while our enemy battered at her tough hide with depth charges.
Hours during which we twisted and turned, listened to his. propellers-a destroyer's high-pitched "Thum, thum, thum, thum, thum," twin screws, rather than the slower and more sedate chugging of the single merchant propeller this type of ship should have — had. Try as we would we could not shake him. His horrible resounding pings came steadily through our earphones, kept the dial of the sonar receiver flickering with red Hashes. First he would come along one side, pinging coldly and steadily, evaluating; then he would cross over, either ahead or astern, do the same thing from the other side. When finally satisfied he would pass overhead- or nearly so-and drop. just a few at a time, not many, aimed as accurately as he could. We would listen to the Q-ship's propellers, try to de- termine when he was starting a run for. real, when only to change position. Then, at the proper. psychological moment, we would put our rudder over, speed up, or slow' down a little, try to make him miss. Wham! Wham! Wham! WHAM!
WHAM! Successively louder, then diminishing again as he straddled us with his patterns. We got so we instinctively knew when the closest charge in any given pattern was due, and would cringe inwardly until we had felt it and survived.
We were up against a professional and everyone in the ship knew it. We went about our duties with parted lips and staring eyes, and the peculiar parched-skin condition, contrasting strangely with the continual sweating of my palms and the general high humidity inside the ship, was not entirely due to loss of body fluid.
Give him credit for putting us hors de combat, for it was long after daybreak before we got clear, of him and were able to come back to periscope depth, there to wait until night before surfacing. There might be a plane waiting to pounce on us, we reasoned, or some damage which, having once surfaced, might prevent our diving again upon necessity.
Before we finally got Walrus to the surface, a match would not stay lighted, nor would a cigarette bum. The slightest exertion brought the sensation of being badly out of breath, and a dull lassitude settled over all of us which took a determined effort to fight off. The first few breaths of cool, fragrant night air fixed that, however, and we turned to with interest to see what our topsides looked like.
The shell, probably about four inches in size, had struck the after part of the bridge and exploded, tearing off a chunk of the cigarette deck and wrecking the 20-millimeter gun. Several pieces of light plating hung loosely, but the structure beneath, our main induction valve and the associated, piping, was unscathed.
It was good that we had not surfaced prematurely, however, or been forced to dive before making a thorough inspection and removing the damaged plating. Once we had opened the main induction valve, a jagged section of steel framing hanging loosely nearby in all probability would have jammed it open. It was over an hour before Tom pronoun us ready to submerge again. And we had to prohibit use of the cigarette deck for the remainder of our time on patro.
Two nights later it was our turn. We sighted a cloud black smoke against the eastern horizon, shortly before mc rise, and took off after it. A couple of hours later the smoke had turned into two ships proceeding in company, about a mile apart. This time the radar produced a range of four miles as its initial offering, showing that it was working better, or that the ships were bigger, or both. We tracked them for a short time, got their course and speed, twelve knots, due north, zigzagging. There was no escort.
We chose a position ahead of the two ships and slightly on their starboard bow, waited for the next zig. As soon as it came, our own rudder went over too, and the increased power-song of the diesels back aft sounded choked off as the heel-to-starboard drove two of their mufflers underwater. It was, as usual, clear, calm, and warm. Stars twinkled over- head, millions of them. The moon was now well up, its glow reflecting off the somber black sides of our targets. The horizon to the north was blackest, which was where we were coming from. But visibility all around was entirely too good to take any chances. We had to come in fast and get it over with.
We kept our bow turned exactly on the leading ship, changing course to keep it so as he came into torpedo range, and we increased our speed to "full" — not everything wide open, but close to it. We would shoot three torpedoes at the first ship, three at the second, and save the four in our stern tubes for whatever might develop during the ensuing confusion while we retired.
Swiftly the three ships approached each other. We, the hunter, already carrying a scar where their protectors had drawn first blood; they, the hunted, trapped in their turn.
Swiftly we drew closer, rapidly they grew larger in my binoculars. I could feel my pulse racing, my nerves tighten- ing up. We were fully committed now-they were as big and broad as a bam, bigger than a barn. I could see them clearly: standard merchant types, not very different from the Q-ship of two nights ago; every detail etched itself in my mind. Just a little closer, get in close, so close you can't miss, here's the leading ship, old-style tall-stack freighter making lots of smoke… he's nearly broadside to, now, surely they can see us "Range!"
"One-five-double-oh!" Fifteen hundred yards. I had my bin- oculars in the TBT bracket, was holding a dead bead on the vertical stack, had been for several long seconds.
"Shoot!"
"Fire!" I could hear. Jim's bellow from the conning tower, and the sea was calm enough to let me feel the slight jolt as the fish went out. Three jolts. Three fish. Their white streaks stretched relentlessly, reaching for the first target.
"Shift targets!" I swung the TBT to the rear-most vessel.
"Shifting targets, aye aye!" I could picture Keith setting in the new bearing, turning the crank as fast as the cramped space would permit his arm and hand to move. Since course and speed were the same as for the first target, he needed to change only bearing and range. "Set!" came from Jim.
But we were not set at all. The second ship was too far away, too far astern of the leading one. "Left full rudder!" I shouted the command down the hatch to the helmsman and into the mike at the same time. We swung rapidly to the left, leaving our torpedo tracks running on to their destiny in a long, thin fan. There were about thirty seconds more to wait.
"Rudder amidships"
" as our swing approached the best attack course for the new target. "Steady as you go!"
"Steady as she goes!" echoed Oregon up the hatch. He put the rudder a little right to stop the swing, caught it, centered the wheel. "Steady on two-two-eight!"
"Let her go two-three-oh!"
"Two-three-oh, aye-aye!"
At a sharp angle we raced toward the second ship. It was so far behind that our attainment of a perfect firing position for the first had brought us much too fine on the bow of the second. But there was nothing to do but ride it on through.
I was suddenly conscious of the breeze whistling in my ears and the swish of the water as we tore through it. Walrus pitched gently. Far up ahead she drove her snout down toward a small roller, stopped before she got under it, lifted her bow again with a gentle, tantalizing withdrawal, lowered it softly once more. The slats of her wooden. deck were clearly outlined by the white water washing over our pressure hull, several feet below, alternately black, solid-looking, the next moment ephemeral, etched black-on-white in delicate detail, every fore-and-aft plank precisely lined out, each thin steel crossbeam an interlocked solidity which had neither depth nor length. The pulsing roar of the diesel exhaust was the pounding beat of my heart as, rolling just a little from side to side, we careened onward.