Dust on the Sea (16 page)

Richardson shook his head. “Not that I know of,” he said. “Probably he knows a lot about what they're doing that we don't.” But the uneasy feeling had begun to grow again.

Shortly before dawn next morning, Richardson climbed up on the bridge. Keith was there with Oregon, still shooting his morning stars for a careful fix of position.

“Ready for our morning dive for trim, Keith?”

“Nearly, sir. One more star.”

Swiftly Leone inverted his sextant, sighted on one of the pinpoints still showing through the rapidly graying atmosphere, with his left hand made a quick rough adjustment on the inverted sextant arc. Then, reversing the sextant to its correct position, he squinted at the star, gently rocked the sextant from side to side, carefully twirled the vernier scale knob with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “Stand by,” he said. “Stand by—mark! Did you get it, Oregon?”

“Got it,” said the quartermaster. Oregon held a notebook and a large pocket-watch in his left hand, was writing in the book with a pencil with his other hand. “Watch time was six thirty-seven and twenty-one seconds.”

“Sixty-one degrees, fourteen minutes, and three-tenths,” read Keith from his sextant scale. “That's it, Skipper. I'll figure it up right away. We're not far off our dead reckoning position, though. Should be right at our patrol spot.”

Then to Buck Williams, who was Officer of the Deck, “Navigator and quartermaster going below, Buck.” Keith and Oregon swung down the hatch.

Dawn was breaking rapidly. It was becoming perceptibly lighter. There was a muggy haze to the atmosphere, grayness creeping into the sky. The stars were already too dim to be viewed. The horizon was becoming more visible, though its outline was still far from clean. Keith must have had considerable difficulty in getting a sharp enough horizon for his sights.
Eel
lazed gently ahead, a single exhaust pipe aft burbling.

Rich put down the binoculars through which he had been surveying the sky and the sea, looked at Williams.

“We're ready to dive, Captain,” reported the OOD. “We have two hundred fifty feet of water under the keel, going ahead one-third on one main engine. Battery charge is completed. So far as I know, we are on station.”

“Very well, Buck,” said Richardson. “Take her down.”

“Clear the bridge!” yelled Buck. At the same time, he reached forward to a switchbox placed on the center of the bridge overhang just behind the windscreen, placed his entire mittened hand upon it, pressed distinctly two times. Simultaneously he shouted “Dive! Dive!” down the open hatch. The sound of the diving alarm reverberated loudly twice on the ship's general announcing system. At the order “Clear the bridge,” the four lookouts posted on the periscope shears behind Williams hastily tucked their binoculars into their windbreakers, stooped through their lookout guard rails, grasped the fireman's poles, and slid swiftly down the intervening eight feet to the bridge deck. They landed with a thump. Half doubled over, protecting their binoculars with their left arms, they dashed forward to scramble one after the other down the hatch.

Quartermaster Scott and Larry Lasche, now a lieutenant (junior grade), who had been standing their watch on the after part of the bridge, walked forward more deliberately, waited until the four lookouts were below, and then themselves disappeared. Scott would wait in the conning tower alongside the bridge hatch to assist in closing it when the last man came down.

At the instant the diving alarm had sounded, a series of small geysers—mainly air, but with a little water mixed in—appeared in quick succession on either side of the main deck from forward to aft: the main vents, jerked open by hydraulic power from the control room.
Simultaneously, the exhaust noise from aft ceased. There was a clank as the main induction valve, the air intake both for the engines and for ventilation, seated itself under the forty-millimeter gun in the center of the cigarette deck. There was increased turbulence of water astern. In accordance with standard diving procedure, the electrician mates in the motor room had put both motors on “ahead full.” Up forward, the bow planes were beginning to rig out and take a bite into the water.

Eel
's bow began to slide down toward the water's surface. The sea burst through the large bullnose casting on her bow.

Richardson grinned at Williams. Seeing the bullnose go under had always given him a small thrill of pleasure. It provided a means, also, for testing or hazing his officers. Calmly, Williams put his binoculars to his eyes, made a pretense of taking another look around the horizon.

“Okay, Buck, I'll go below,” said Rich, knowing that he had lost this little game of chicken. It was, after all, the Officer of the Deck's duty, as well as his prerogative, to be the last man off the bridge. Rich gripped the hatch hand rails, dropped lightly down the ladder into the conning tower. Williams, a couple of seconds behind, swung down on the wire lanyard attached to the hatch, bringing it down with his weight. The hatch latched shut. Scott swiftly remounted the ladder, reached up, and twirled the handwheel on the underside of the hatch, extending the dogs and locking it securely shut.

“Hatch secured!” called Scott. Instantly there was a loud noise of air blowing from the control room below. A rapid increase in air pressure was noticeable in the ears.

Williams released the lanyard, stepped swiftly to the control room hatch, and a moment later was at the diving station where the lookouts had preceded him. The first two had their hands on the large chromium bow plane and stern plane wheels. The submarine had already taken a five-degree bow down attitude. Williams held up his right hand, palm and fingers open in the habitual signal, scrutinized an aneroid barometer on the diving instrument panel.

“Secure the air!” bellowed Williams above the noise, clenching his fist and shaking it for emphasis. The roar of air blowing from an open pipe stopped. Air pressure stopped rising. Ears adjusted. There was a pause as Williams carefully watched the barometer. “Pressure in the boat is two-tenths, Captain. Holding steady,” he announced up the hatch. Then, raising his voice, he called over his shoulder, “Blow negative to the mark!”

Lichtmann, standing watch on the air manifold on the starboard side of the control room, was expecting the order, promptly twisted the blow valve open. The roar of high-pressure air, slightly more muted
because it was blowing into a tank under the pressure hull instead of freely into the control room, again filled the compartment. The chief petty officer to Williams' right, facing the main hydraulic control manifold with its triple row of handles, stood up to inspect a gauge on the panel above them. He traced the needle with his finger as it slowly moved counterclockwise, suddenly held up his clenched fist. The blowing stopped.

“Negative blown to the mark, sir.” Klench, the chief, sat down on his padded tool bench, his hand on one of the shiny levers before him.

“Shut negative flood valve!” said Williams.

Klench pulled the lever toward him. There was a faintly perceptible thump somewhere below. “Negative flood valve is shut,” he said.

“Vent negative!” Klench leaned forward, pulled another handle. There was the low-pitched whoosh of a large volume of air issuing from a big opening. Air pressure in the control room again perceptibly increased. When the blowing noise stopped, Klench pushed back the lever he had been holding open. “Negative tank vented, sir. Vent shut,” he reported.

“Negative tank is blown and secured, Conn. Passing sixty feet. Trim looks good.” Williams tilted his head back, projected his voice through the open hatch so that Richardson in the conning tower could hear him. Negative tank, always kept full of water when the submarine was surfaced, gave her negative buoyancy when the ballast tanks were flooded on diving. Thus it increased the speed of submergence, after which, to achieve the desired state of neutral buoyancy, the tank had to be emptied again. This would be done after
Eel
had broken clear of the surface and was adequately tilted down by the bow, but it was important also that the tank not be blown at too deep a depth, for to do so would cause a tremendous volume of air, at a relatively high pressure, to be vented back into the submarine.

Williams tilted his head back again, snapped an order up the hatch. “All ahead two-thirds!”

“All ahead two-thirds answered, sir.” The helmsman, Cornelli, was a new quartermaster just taken aboard from the relief crews. He was inexperienced, but he had worked out well in the training period before departure. Richardson noticed, however, that Scott, the quartermaster in charge of the watch, was standing by him at his post in the forward end of the conning tower. He appeared to be totally engrossed in writing something in the quartermaster's notebook, but his eyes had flickered more than once in the direction of the new helmsman. It was a good thing to see.

Approximately a minute had passed since the dive had been initiated.
Eel
's decks still held a steady five degree down angle, as measured by
the curved bubble inclinometers on the diving stand and in the conning tower.

“Passing one hundred feet, Conn,” said Williams. “Trim still looks good, sir.”

It was unnecessary, but Richardson felt impelled to say something in reply. He leaned over the open hatch so that he could see the top of Williams' head. Buck was supporting himself on the ladder with one foot on the lowest rung, intently watching the action of bow and stern planes, depth gauges, inclinometer bubble, the diving crew about him and the auxiliaryman behind him. “Level off at one-five-oh feet, control. Let me know when you have a one-third speed trim.”

“One-five-oh feet. One-third trim, aye aye,” responded Williams, as though he did not already know that this was exactly what he was expected to do. “Passing one-two-five feet, Conn.”

Richardson also had a depth gauge in the conning tower, did not need this piece of information, but he seized the opportunity to note that his own depth gauge registered the same amount as that which Williams had just announced to him.

“Ease your bubble,” Buck said suddenly to the stern planesman. “Watch it! Don't overshoot!”

Leaning back and raising his voice, he called up the hatch, “All ahead one-third!”

“All ahead one-third answered,” came the reply from Cornelli, a split second after the annunciator clink.

To the bow planesman Williams said, “Ease your bow planes. Try to hit one-five-oh feet with a zero bubble and hold it.”

“One-five-oh feet, sir, zero bubble,” responded the man operating the right of the two large shiny wheels in front of Williams. He had been progressively lightening himself, removing his binoculars, divesting himself of foul-weather bridge jacket and at the same time holding the bow planes on full dive with a free hand or occasionally a knee. Now he took the bow plane wheel, leaned into it counterclockwise. The bow plane indicator rose toward the zero position.

A moment later, Williams swung to his left, spoke to the man on the trim manifold, pointing to him for emphasis. It was the first order he had given him. “Flood forward trim from sea, one thousand pounds.”

“Flood forward trim from sea, one thousand pounds,” echoed the man, fitting his wrench to the manifold and turning it. Watching one of the gauges above it, in a moment he reported completion of the operation.

Buck Williams continued to concentrate on the diving panel. “Stern planes on zero,” he ordered.

The stern planesman put his planes exactly on zero, held them there.
Attentively, Williams watched the gauges. His concentration increased.

“Pump from forward trim to after trim, five hundred pounds,” he ordered. This maneuver completed to his satisfaction, he continued watching the instruments, his posture gradually relaxing.

“Pump from auxiliary tanks to sea five hundred pounds,” he ordered. This done, “Bow planes on zero.”

The ship's speed, as indicated on a dial on his diving panel, had dropped below four knots. Keel depth was a fraction less than one hundred and fifty feet. For a long minute Williams watched his dials, said nothing. Then, leaning back again, he called up the hatch to the conning tower. “Final trim, sir. One-five-zero feet, one-third speed.”

To Klench he said, “Damn good compensation, Chief. You were right on, fore and aft. I figure she was only five hundred pounds light overall, maybe less, once she starts soaking up a bit.”

“Thanks, sir,” said Klench, obviously pleased. “I did figure she'll soak up about five hundred pounds when she gets settled down.”

“Control,” called Rich from the conning tower. “I have the conn. Make your depth six-five feet. Bring her up easy.” To the sonarman in the conning tower he said, “Search all around. Let me know when you have completed your search.”

With planes on full rise, her propellers turning over at minimum speed,
Eel
slowly swam toward the ordered depth. It took several minutes to get there because of the slow speed, and the further fact that on the way up Rich ordered ten degrees right rudder in order to permit the sonar to listen on the bearing which had been blocked by
Eel
's screws. Satisfied, he allowed Williams to bring her all the way up without interference, raising the tall attack periscope as the ship passed seventy-five feet in order to take a quick look as soon as its tip broached the surface. He was rewarded by the sight of the underside of the water, now under full sunlight, looking exactly the same as it would from above the surface. The Yellow Sea obviously deserved its name. The water was not yellow, but the color of light brown mud.