“Steady on zero three zero!” Albacore is still swinging to the hard-over right rudder, and the helmsman eases the rudder slightly. A few seconds after the ship is steady on the course.
Another periscope observation. The range is now 9000 yards. Distance to track, 2,300 yards — the enemy will pass 2,300 yards from Albacore’s present position, if he doesn’t change course. Angle on the bow, fifteen starboard.
A minute later the periscope whirs upward again, then slithers downward. “Left full rudder!” Blanchard barks the order, then briefly explains it.
“There’s a destroyer between us and the carrier. He has a ten-degree starboard angle on the bow, which means he’ll pass fairly close to us. We’ll change to north for a while to let him go by, and then come around for the big fellow. No zig yet.”
One of the customs of the submarine service is that of continually cutting in your control party on what is going on. Doubtless this grew out of everyone’s desire for the dope — and the fact that the person at the periscope is the only one in position to have any.
So Jim Blanchard needs no prodding, and gives with more dope as soon as he makes another observation. “The can has zigged slightly away and now has a forty starboard angle on the bow. He’ll pass well clear. We’re coming around to get set up for the flattop. Give me a course for a ninety track!” The last is a command addressed to Ben Adams.
“Zero five zero, Captain!” Ben has been expecting that, and he has the answer ready. A ninety track means that the submarine course and target course are at exactly right angles to each other — the perfect position.
“Steady on zero five zero, sir!” from the helmsman. Blanchard glances at the TDC. The range has certainly closed fast. There isn’t much longer to go.
Suddenly a squawk box — a regular commercial interoffice speaker mounted above and alongside the TDC — announces with a tinny voice: “Conn, this is Plot. Target course one four zero, speed two seven — repeat, speed two seven!”
This is the confirmation the skipper has been waiting for. “Set in speed two seven!” he snaps at Lieutenant Ted Walker, operating the TDC.
The latter swiftly whirls a small crank with his left hand, stops it carefully, and sings out, “Set!”
“Up ’scope!” Then, “Looks good! All clear around! Nobody close aboard! Make ready all tubes!” There isn’t time to spare now, and Jim makes no effort to describe what he has just seen. Albacore is well inside the formation. The destroyer recently avoided is about one thousand yards dead ahead, evidently oblivious of the submarine’s presence. He has been heard to echo range listlessly once or twice; you can’t blame his lack of interest, for at 27 knots he’d be lucky to hear anything anyhow. A heavy cruiser is crossing Albacore’s stern, and the cruiser and carrier first sighted are about three miles away on her starboard quarter. Two destroyers on the target’s own starboard quarter look as though they will be in the best position to give a little trouble, but Jim plans to shoot before they can get up to him. Quite a few planes are in the air, and that adds to the problem, for if the submarine is detected now things will go to hell in a hurry. The carrier needs but to turn hard left to stay nicely out of torpedo range, while those two tin cans with him could keep right on coming. Not to mention another destroyer who, if he puts his rudder hard right, will pass direcover Albacore.
Albacore plans to shoot bow tubes, and has so handled the approach; stern tubes are made ready also simply to be prepared for anything. The carrier might zig across her stern, for example, although not a zig has he made so far — he probably is trusting to his high speed to protect him from attack.
“All tubes ready, Captain. Depth set, speed high. Ready to shoot!” As the report is made, the familiar quietness settles in the conning tower. Here comes the biggest chance Albacore has ever had. The value of this particular target is incalculable. The very sequence of messages during the past week has proved that. ComSubPac doesn’t know yet that one of his submarines has made contact, but he certainly bent every effort to dispose enough submarines along the anticipated track to insure that someone would. Now that he has brought this particular submarine into action, however, it is up to Jim Blanchard and his Albacore to take their turn at shaping destiny.
Jim Blanchard squats on his heels before the lowered periscope. He doesn’t need to look at the TDC — those years in S-boats have given him the ability to visualize the setup without any mechanical help.
“Six five feet,” he orders. The previous order had been sixty-four feet; now he goes down as deep as he can, leaving only a few inches of periscope exposure.
“Up periscope!” The strident whirring of the electric hoist motor fills the conning tower.
“I figure we’ll be on the firing point in one minute, Captain!” This from the Executive Officer. “Recommend we let them go any time!”
Jim Blanchard motions impatiently. He, too, has figured that out. He squats before the periscope, facing the shiny oily barrel, then raises his head and looks at the members of his fire-control party. Not a word is spoken; all eyes are on the skipper.
Something in their bearing tells Jim what he wants to know. No question about their readiness. As the periscope handles rise into his hands, he speaks softly: “Final bearing and shoot!”
“Stand by number one!” He fire control talker speaks into his telephone mouthpiece. Then he speaks louder, so that the whole party in the crowded conning tower can hear him—“Standing by ONE!”—signifying that the people in the forward torpedo room have the word and are ready.
The ship’s control talker speaks softly into his telephone headset. “We’re getting ready to shoot now. Final bearing going in!” This is unofficial but very understandable, and it is not known that any skipper ever objected to it.
In the after port corner of the conning tower, squeezed into a space barely large enough to stand in, the ship’s torpedo and gunnery officer is attentively watching the spinning dials of the TDC. It is Ted Walker’s responsibility that that instrument is correctly lined up, and this, of course is the crucial point. Suddenly he starts. “CHECK FIRE!” he bellows. “Correct solution light has gone out!”
“Stop the periscope!” The tip of the ’scope has not yet broken the surface, and Jim stops it where it is, in hopes that the trouble can be quickly discovered and fixed.
The target is sliding by the firing point at 27 knots. It is already too late for the “Banjo” solution — veteran S-boat sailor that he is, Blanchard has not neglected to have the old angle solver broken out and set up also, together with the TDC. But there is no hope for it, for with the target’s high speed there is not the slightest possibility of swinging ship fast enough to catch up with him.
Only one thing to do, if you don’t want to let the target get away. If you put up the periscope and feed continuous dope in the TDC, perhaps you can keep close enough to the correct solution to go ahead and shoot anyway, with a good chance of hitting. If the light is merely burned out, this does no harm; if there is something seriously wrong with your gear, this is the only hope anyway.
But this has the tremendous disadvantage of requiring you to keep the periscope up for a very long period. Two destroyers are tearing down upon you in close quarters; they will surely spot you, and be on you within seconds after you get the torpedoes away. Your only hope of nailing the carrier is to be so close that he doesn’t have time to turn away to parallel the torpedo wakes — which he certainly will do as soon as he sees them — which means as soon as he spots the ’scope.