The final attack on the Jap sub had been made at exactly two minutes after midnight on the morning of February 10. Then, an hour or so after sunset on the 11th, at 1915—
“Captain to the conn!” The skipper is up there in an instant.
The radar operator points to his radar scope. “There’s another Jap sub, Captain!”
Sure enough, there, if you watch closely, is the same tiny disturbance which alerted Batfish two nights ago. This time there is less doubt as to what action to take. The same tactics which were heralded with such signal success on the first occasion are immediately placed into effect. The crew is called to battle stations, the tracking parties manned, and all is made ready for a warm reception. The radar party is cautioned — unnecessary precaution — to keep that piece of gear turned off except when a range and bearing are actually required.
If anything, it is even darker than it was the first night. Having found how ineffective the Jap radar really is — or was it simply that the Jap watch standers were asleep? — Fyfe determines to make the same kind of attack as before.
The situation develops exactly as it did before, except that this submarine is heading southeast instead of northeast. At 1,800 yards he is sighted from the bridge of the American submarine. He is making only 7 knots, somewhat slower than the other, and it takes him a little longer to reach the firing bearing. Finally everything is just about set. Sprinkle has made the “ready to shoot” report, and Fyfe will let them go in a moment, as soon as the track improves a bit and the range decreases to the optimum. About one minute to go — it won’t be long now, chappy.
“Hello, he’s dived! He dived right on the fire bearing!” Where there had been an enemy submarine, there now only the rolling undulation of the sea. Nothing to do now but get out of there. Batfish must have waited too long and been detected. The Jap was keeping a slightly better watch than Fyfe had given him credit for, and now Batfish is being hunted. Just as quickly as that the whole situation has changed. With an enemy submarine known to be submerged within half a mile of you, there is only one of two things to do. Dive yourself, or beat it.
If you dive, you more or less give up the problem, and concentrate on hiding, which many skippers probably would have done. If you run away on the surface, however, there is a slight chance that he’ll come back up, and you’ll have another shot at him. Jake Fyfe is a stubborn man, and he doesn’t give up easily: he discards the idea of diving. “Left full rudder!” he orders instead. His first object is to get away; and his second is to stay in action. Maybe the Jap will assume that he has continued running — which is precisely what Jake hopes he will do.
“All ahead flank!”
The Jap was on a southeasterly course before he dived. Knowing that his periscope must be up and watching his every move, Fyfe orders a northerly course, and Batfish roars away from the spot, steadying on a course slightly west of north. Three miles Fyfe lets her run, until he is reasonably sure to be beyond sonar as well as visual range. Then he alters course to the left, and within a short time arrives at a position southwest of the position at which the Jap sub dived.
In the conning tower, at the plotting station, and on the bridge there is some rapid and careful figuring going on. “Give the son of a bitch four knots,” mutters Sprinkle to himself. “That puts him on this circle. Give him six knots, and he’s here. Give him eight knots — oh, t’ hell with 8 knots!” Clark Sprinkle’s exasperation is almost comical as he grips his pencil in sweaty stubby fingers and tries to decide what he’d do if he were a Jap.
The point is that Batfish wants to arrive at some point where she will be assured of getting a moderately long-range radar contact the instant the Nip surfaces, in a position to be able to do something about it. But don’t let her spot us through the periscope, or wind up near enough for her to torpedo us while still submerged. This is where the stuff you learned in school really pays off, brother.
Naturally, Batfish cannot afford to remain overly long in the vicinity. Every extra minute she spends there increases by that much the diameter of the circle upon which the enemy may be; and even at that very moment he may be making a periscope approach — while she hangs around and makes it easy for him. But Fyfe has no intentions of making it any easier than he can help. Once he has put his ship in what he has calculated to be a logical spot to await developments, he slows down to one third speed — about 4 knots. Then he orders the sound heads rigged out. With his stem toward the direction from which the enemy submarine would have to come, were he making an attack, and making 4 knots away from there, Batfish is forcing the Jap to make high submerged speed in order to catch her; she is banking on detecting him by sound before he can get close enough to shoot, or on detecting the torpedo itself if a long-range shot is fired.
Twenty minutes pass. Fyfe cannot guess how long the Nip sub will stay down, but his game is to outwit him. If his initial gambit of running away to the northward has fooled him, he’ll probably show within an hour after diving. The soundmen listen with silent intensity, their headphones glued to their heads. The radar operator scrutinizes his scope with equal urgency. It would not do to miss any indication.
Suddenly, both sound operators look up at the same time. The senior one speaks for both. “Mr. Sprinkle! There’s a noise, bearing zero one five!”
Clark is there in an instant. “What’s it like?” He flips on the loud-speaker switch.
Clearly, a rushing sound can be heard, a sort of powerful swishing sound. It changes somewhat in intensity and tone, then suddenly stops. Like a flash the exec grabs the portable mike. “Captain,” he bellows to the bridge. “He’s blown his tanks, bearing zero one five. He’ll be up directly!”
The blast from the bridge speaker nearly blows everyone off the bridge, for Sprinkle has a powerful voice. All binoculars are immediately turned to the bearing given. But the black night conceals its secrets well. Nothing can be seen.
The bridge speaker blares again. “Radar contact, zero one eight. That’s him all right!”
Apparently convinced that all is clear, the Japanese submarine has surfaced, and is evidently going to continue on his way. Batfish is to get another chance. Whether the target saw them, or thought he saw them; heard them or thought he did; detected them on radar, or simply made a routine night dive, will never be known. One thing Jake is definite on, however: he will get no chance to detect Batfish this time.
Once again Batfish goes through all the intricate details of the night surface approach — with one big difference. The skipper is not going to go in on the surface. The Jap detected him the last time. He’s got more strings to his bow than that.
The Jap has speeded up and changed course slightly. Batfish again seeks a position in front of him, and when the range and distance to the track are to Fyfe’s liking, Batfish dives — but not entirely. Since the radar antennae are normally on top of the highest fixed structure of the ship, it follows that they are the last things to go under when a submarine dives. All Fyfe had done was dive his ship so that these vital antennae were still out of water, although nearly all the rest of the submarine is beneath the surface. This is a good trick; that Batfish had been able to do it so neatly is a tribute to the state of training and competence of her crew. With her radar antennae dry and out of water, they still function as well as when she was fully surfaced, and the dope continues to feed into the fire-control gear, even though not a thing can be seen through the periscope.