Blanchard has had about ten seconds to figure all this out. He cannot wait any longer. The risks, the odds, all facets of what he is about to do flash through his mind. This is a desperate chance he is about to take, and he is putting his ship and his fine loyal crew into grave danger. The carrier, and all that that ship might mean to other United States forces — Jim must make the decision alone, without help, and instantly!
“Up periscope!” Since it had been stopped just short of breaking surface, it is up almost instantly. “Continuous bearings!” Jim snarls the words as though by their defiance alone he could straighten out the trouble in the TDC. “Sing ’em out, Ben; I’m going to stay right on him!”
Adams starts chanting the bearings as they are matched on the asimuth circle by the hairline on the periscope barrel. “Three three eight — three three nine — three four one…”
“Set! — Set! — Set!” from Walker. He has had to make only slight adjustments to his computer. The TDC is following all right, so the trouble is in the angle-solver sections. Possibly the small red light which indicates that the TDC is operating properly has merely burned out, and nothing is actually wrong at all.
Blanchard hazards a quick look at the two destroyers coming along behind the target. No definite sign that anyone has yet spotted Albacore’s periscope, despite the long, continuous exposure from close aboard — but it’s hard to tell, because the two DD’s are bows on anyway.
The skipper’s mind is working like lightning. Apparently there is still a chance of avoiding detection, if he doesn’t persist in the attack and gets the periscope down immediately. Whatever is wrong with the TDC is either deep-seated or completely inconsequential. If deep-seated — the torpedoes will probably miss by a wide margin; if it is simply a burned-out bulb, he can go ahead and shoot. But somehow he knows the trouble is more than a burned-out light bulb!
Jim Blanchard seizes upon the one thing left to him by which he can rescue his approach from dismal failure. The huge Japanese carrier, obviously one of the biggest class — the Shokaku or one similar — is now right at the firing point, racing past with all his majestic glory, completely unaware of the ominous periscope in the water so close to his starboard side. So near, and yet so unattainable! So near… and Jim decides to take that last desperate chance which may yet bring victory out of seemingly hopeless confusion.
“Standby forward! Standby ONE!”
“One standing by!”
“Bearing—mark!” The skipper has moved the periscope hairline slightly, now holds it perfectly motionless. His voice is loud, commanding.
“Three four eight!” from the Executive Officer.
“Set!” from the TDC.
“FIRE ONE!”
“One fired, sir!” This is something new in the way of procedure for firing torpedoes. Ordinarily they are fired from the TDC, as the fire control officer gets the instrument set up for each succeeding fish and as the proper time interval passes. The Captain has deliberately taken over firing the torpedoes himself, and, by his specific commands, has completely contravened the training they all have had.
It is normal, too, to put the periscope down as you are shooting torpedoes, at least between fish. But Jim Blanchard is not putting down his periscope. Suddenly he speaks again.
“Standby TWO!”
“Number two standing by, sir!”
The skipper moves his periscope to the right a perceptible amount, stops it, and says, “Mark!”
“Three five five!”
“SET.”
“FIRE TWO!” And number-two torpedo ejects and runs out toward the enemy.
“Standby THREE.… “Bearing — mark!”… “Fire THREE!”
“Standby FOUR!”… “Bearing — mark!”… “Fire FOUR!”
… “Fire FIVE!”… “Fire SIX!”
What Blanchard has done, quite simply, is to watch where each torpedo goes, and then compensate for it in aiming the next one. Since he is firing steam torpedoes, it is possible to tell where they are going by their telltale stream of bubbles and the small amount of smoke they make. In each case it has been obvious to the skipper that the torpedoes were passing astern of the target, and in each case he has had to compensate by aiming more to the right. The final bearing of the sixth torpedo was quite a bit on the starboard bow and considerably ahead of the target.
Now there are six torpedoes in the water, and there is nothing left for Albacore to do but get away and hope that one or more may strike home. But first a look at the onrushing destroyers. Jim Blanchard spins his periscope.
“Take her down! Take her down fast!” The skipper roars the orders through the lower conning tower hatch to the diving officer in the control room just below. “All ahead full!”
He is answered by the swoosh of air as negative tank is vented into the control room. Albacore’s deck tilts steeply forward, and down she rushes. Just before the periscope goes under, the skipper sees three destroyers heading his way, and the airplanes which had been flying overhead have apparently turned and headed for the spot from which the torpedoes had come.
Much as Jim wishes to, there is simply no time to wait and see whether any of his torpedoes hit. He has taken enough chances with his ship and crew already, and it would not be fair to expose them further. Nothing he can do now will change matters, and the obvious maneuver is the well-known get the hell out of here!
Down goes Albacore, struggling to reach the friendly depths before the ash cans arrive. Throughout the ship her crew are feverishly rigging for depth-charge attack.
Thirty seconds after the periscope goes under, while the submarine is still speeding to deep submergence, a single explosion is heard. One hit! In spite of all the troubles he has had, Albacore has managed to get one fish into the target. That will slow him up some. Then the preliminary gladness is submerged in bitterness. A perfect firing position, with six fish fired, for only one hit! Damn that fire control system!
So much for the Japanese carrier, for one minute later Albacore has something else to think about. Payday arrives with a flourish. Jim Blanchard has, of course, left his periscope up entirely too long. The nearest enemy tin can could not have been more than five or six hundred yards away when Albacore completed firing her torpedoes, and is coming for her with express-train speed.
The frenzied beating of the destroyer’s propellers resound through the submarine’s hull as he races closer. Somehow, there is nothing to compare with the furious menacing cadence of the propellers of an anti-submarine warfare ship of any kind — especially when that particular ASW vessel would have words with you.
With his stop watch in hand, Commander Jim Blanchard listens as the roar of the enemy screws grows louder, louder, ever more deadly in timbre, until finally it reaches a screaming crescendo of churning, malevolent, revengeful fury; until the very bulkheads vibrate with it, the THUMTHUMTHUMTHUMTHUM coming in such rapid sequence that Albacore’s whole hull resounds to it like a huge tuning fork — and then he starts the watch, holding it negligently in his hand, its leather thong looped around his left wrist. No point in looking at the watch — he keeps his eyes on the depth gauge. The submarine is still on her way down, seeking the protection of a few hundred feet of sea water between herself and the attacking destroyer.