In the late afternoon a large Japanese task force, consisting of several battleships and cruisers, was sighted, escorted by half a dozen or more destroyers and three or four aircraft circling overhead. Harder was out of position for an attack, but it appeared that here was an opportunity for a contact report which might enable some other submarine to get into position to trap the task force later on.
While watching the largest battleship, which appeared to be one of Japan’s two mystery ships — huge 60,000-ton monsters — Dealey saw him suddenly become enveloped in heavy black smoke, and in a few moments three distant explosions were heard. It was possible that one of our other submarines already had made an attack.
Suddenly a destroyer darted out of the confused melee of ships and headed directly for Harder. Perhaps her periscope had been sighted!
Battle stations submerged!
At maximum full speed the destroyer’s bow is high out of water. His stem squats in the trough created by his own passage, and black smoke pours from his stacks, to be swept aft by the wind of his passing. Harder turns and swings her bow directly toward the onrushing vessel; lines him up for a shot directly down the throat.
Things are deathly quiet in Harder’s conning tower. There is no problem to solve by TDC or by plotting parties, except the determination of the approximate range at which to fire. The target’s bearing remains steady. The torpedo gyros remain on zero. The target’s angle on the bow remains absolute zero, and he is echo ranging steadily, rapidly, and right on.
The range closes with fantastic speed. Dealey makes an observation every thirty seconds or so. The periscope is almost in continuous motion. The sweat peels off his face, drips off the ends of his fingers as they grip the periscope handles — everything else in the conning tower is stock-still, as though time had ceased to function, except for the range counters on the TDC, which steadily indicate less and less range.
Range, 4000 yards. Only a few minutes to go. The sound man, intently listening to the approaching propeller beats, reports, “He has slowed down.”
Through the periscope it is obvious that he has indeed slowed down. His bow wave is smaller, and he now appears to be digging his bow deeper into it as the stern rises somewhat.
From the sound man: “Turn count fifteen knots!”
Wily fellow, this. He knows he is approaching the submarine’s position, and plans to search the area carefully.
On he comes. Still no deviation in course, headed directly for the submarine’s periscope. Probably he has seen it, and he no doubt plans to run right over it as he drops his depth charges. Not being a submarine man, he probably fails to realize that that periscope has been popping up and down in nearly the same place entirely too precisely and entirely too long. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that the submarine is obviously making no attempt to escape.
In Harder’s conning tower the range dials on the TDC have reached 1,500 yards; target’s speed is 15 knots, angle on the bow zero, relative bearing zero, torpedo gyros zero.
“Standby to shoot! Up periscope!”
The periscope whines softly as it rises out of its well. At this moment another report from Sound: “Fast screws! Close aboard starboard beam!”
Another ship! Destroyer, of course! The thought flashes through Dealey’s mind with a small shock. He has been so intent on laying a trap for this fellow dead ahead that he has neglected to look about for others who might be coming.
“Too late to worry about him now,” Dealey mutters to himself, squatting before the periscope well. Aloud he says, “To hell with him! Let’s get this son of a bitch up ahead.”
“Bearing — mark!” The periscope starts down. “No change,” barks out Dealey, meaning that the situation is exactly as it should be.
“Set!” from Sam Logan on the TDC.
“Fire!” from Lynch. As assistant approach officer, Frank Lynch is responsible that all details of the approach have been correctly executed and the proper settings made on the torpedoes. The ship lurches; one torpedo is on the way. Sam Logan deliberately waits five seconds, then he turns a handle on the face of the TDC a fraction of a degree to the right and quietly says again, “Set.”
“Fire.” A second torpedo speeds on its way. Logan turns the handle again, this time to the left.
“Set.”
“Fire.” Harder shudders for the third time as a torpedo is ejected.
There is no time to waste looking around. Not even time to try to identify the source of the extra set of screws on the starboard beam.
“Take her down! All ahead full! Right full rudder.” If the torpedoes miss, Harder will have two minutes to gain depth before the destroyer is on top of her.
Lynch has a stop watch in his hand. Logan is intently watching the face of his TDC, where a timer dial is whirling around.
The suspense is unbearable. Harder has already tilted her nose down and is heading for the protection of the depths at full speed, but she has not, of course moved very far yet.
“How long?”
“Forty-five seconds, Captain! Should be hitting any second now!”
“Fifty seconds!” You’d think Logan was timing a track meet.
“Fifty-five seconds!” And precisely as the words are uttered there is a terrific detonation. One torpedo has struck home.
“Sixty seconds!” Logan is still unperturbed. At that instant another terrific explosion rocks the submarine.
Two hits for three fish. Dealey smiles a tight smile of exultation. That’s one son of heaven who won’t be bothering anyone for a while.
But there is no time to indulge in backslapping. Harder has reached only eighty feet in her plunge downward and is passing right beneath the destroyer. This is an excellent move, for it will confuse and interfere with the author of that other set of propellers. However, Dealey has not reckoned with the tremendous effect of his torpedoes. Just as the submarine arrives beneath the enemy ship there is the most deafening, prolonged series of rumblings and explosions anyone on board has ever heard. Either the enemy’s boilers or his magazines have exploded. In fact, the noise and shock are so terrific that quite possibly both boilers and magazines have gone off together.
But this merry afternoon is just starting, for the other set of propeller beats now joins in the game and proceeds to hand out a goodly barrage of depth charges as Harder still seeks the shelter of deep depths. He has evidently radioed for help also, and it isn’t long before Sam Dealey is able to distinguish a different sort of explosion amid the rain of depth charges. Aircraft! And soon after, two more ships also join the fray. For a couple of hours numerous depth charges and bombs were heard and felt, but, in the words of Harder’s skipper, “no one was interested in numerical accuracy at that time.”
Some hours later, after darkness had set in, the submarine surfaced. In the distance astern a single lighted buoy burned, marking the location where the fifth Japanese destroyer in four days had been sunk by this one sharpshooting submarine.
Of the beating he had taken, Sam Dealey, characteristically, said very little. One paragraph in his patrol report merely stated: “It is amazing that the ship could have gone through such a terrific pounding and jolting around with such minor damage. Our fervent thanks go out to the Electric Boat Company for building such a fine ship.”
However laconic and matter-of-fact Sam Dealey may have been about the patrol just completed, our own Submarine Force Commander and indeed the Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in the area recognized an outstanding job when they saw one. They had one advantage over Dealey, in addition to the latter’s natural unassuming modesty. They had been sitting on the side lines, reading the dispatches and noting the Japanese reaction. Reports had come from all sides, wondering what the Americans had turned loose off Tawi Tawi. The Jap radio had blared unceasingly that a submarine task force of unprecedented magnitude had been operating off that fleet base, that several submarines had been sunk, but that they had, of course, themselves sustained some losses. Each time a submarine sinking had been claimed, Admiral Christy and his staff had mentally crossed their fingers; each time events proved that Harder was still very much alive, they had sighed with relief. And finally, when Sam Dealey had reported “mission accomplished” and started for home, their jubilation knew no bounds.