Dust on the Sea (55 page)

Time passed. The
Whitefish
had surfaced at last, was a number of miles astern. The convoy was changing course every half hour, Richardson
decided. Plot now gave their course as 140, and
Eel
had altered her course accordingly, putting the ships well on her starboard quarter. One more similar change to the left would bring them within ten degrees of the predicted course, and they might well choose to come all the way around.
Whitefish
, in the meantime, diverging from
Eel
's track, would be in a position to attack again if they reversed course to the west.

Richardson had been on the bridge for hours, sustained by sandwiches handed up from below and countless mugs of black coffee. There was a rising need within him which could no longer be kept below the level of severe, if not disabling, distraction, bordering on growing torment. A quick trip below ordinarily would take care of the business, and had several times already. But this was no longer possible. He could not leave the bridge now, even for the two or three minutes the mission would require. Not with the prospect of imminent air attack. The lookouts, all of them new members of the crew, youngsters whose only submarine experience was in
Eel
, would be caught by surprise. They might even be a bit shocked, but it didn't matter what they thought. The old submarine solution would have to do. The old N-boats and O-boats had only a covered bucket for use submerged, which the most junior member of the crew would have to carry topside and dump at appropriate times. In their ability to dive, submarines possessed one tremendous asset other ships did not have: when you dived, you flushed the whole outside surface of the ship.

Of course, you always did it to leeward. Thought of doing it made the need imperative, the torture unbearable. A wad of lens paper. A muttered excuse to Buck Williams, now OOD again. The starboard side, just abaft the fifty-caliber stowage. Half a dozen quick steps aft to the cigarette deck. His hands fumbled ridiculously, cold-stiffened fingers tearing at the zipper of his parka trousers, then at his belt and the oversize buttons in the fly of his woolen pants. A deep sigh of relief. He could not have stood it much longer. A long moment of slowly ebbing pain.

“APR contact, strength one and a half!” The plane was coming closer.

“APR contact! Strength two!” The question: to be detected or not detected.

Blunt was on the bridge. “What are you planning to do, Rich?”

“Get below, Commodore,” Richardson said testily. “There's a plane coming in. We've got to be clear to dive in a hurry. I'll tell you about it as soon as I can!”

The look under Blunt's shaggy brows seemed less sure of itself than
it had in previous years or even during the early stages of the current war patrol. There was almost a respectful note in his voice, along with the recently acquired querulousness, as he replied, “Okay, Rich, I'll be in the conning tower.”

Richardson punched the bridge microphone. “Plot, any sign of a convoy change to the left?”

“Negative, Bridge. Convoy course one-four-zero base course, zigzagging.”

“Bridge, control. APR contact strength three!” It was at this signal strength that ComSubPac had advised all submarines should dive. And it was adherence to this directive that had placed
Eel
under severe risk not long ago. Almost without volition, he voiced his concern.

“Lookouts, there's a plane coming in on us. We don't know what direction, most likely from aft. Keep a sharp lookout!” If the convoy would only make its last change of course now,
Eel
could submerge on its track, undetected, and might have a chance for an attack with her last precious torpedoes. If he waited too long, detection by the aircraft might cause an unpremeditated radical change in the convoy course and thus throw away all the day's work in reaching position.

Yet, if the escorts cooperated, detection of
Eel
might possibly work to Whitey Everett's advantage. Richardson had to hope both escorts, supported by the plane, would attack, not knowing there were two subs to contend with, thinking that by working together they might eliminate the single submarine pursuing them. Once
Eel
was located and under attack, the troopships would make another radical swing away from the vicinity. Doubtless they would run southwest again, possibly even nearly due west. All depended on
Eel
being detected at the right time, and
Whitefish
not; so that Whitey could submerge undisturbed in the path of the transports, now hopefully denuded of escorts or air coverage.

“APR contact! Strength three and a half!”

“Convoy course one-four-zero, no change.” Al and Keith were anticipating his requirements for information.

“Aircraft dead astern!” Cornelli shouting from the after part of the bridge. He swung aft quickly. The aircraft was well above the horizon, still at a great distance, flying relatively high. Perhaps they had already been detected. Richardson felt almost a sense of relief. This part, at least, was now out of his hands. “All right, I have him in sight,” he said.

The plane seemed hung in the heavens, almost stationary. It was approaching directly toward them. Well, if the convoy would not change course toward him, he would at least try to get on its path.
The maneuver would drive the transports more to the west, make things that much easier for
Whitefish
.

“Right full rudder,” he bawled down the hatch. “Come right to two-three-zero!” This would put
Eel
on a course perpendicular to the estimated convoy course, and it would permit her most quickly to gain position dead ahead. When the plane saw this maneuver it would evaluate it as meaning but one thing: that
Eel
was running in for an attack position on the convoy. Only a few minutes would be needed. The convoy should reverse course. But how would the plane signal to the convoy? Perhaps there was a common radio frequency, but most likely, to give
Eel
's position accurately, specifically to give it to the escorts, the plane would have to drop at least a smoke float, and probably a bomb as well.

Well, so be it. There was no doubt the plane had seen them now. It had turned slightly to compensate for
Eel
's own course change. It was the same plane which had flushed
Eel
that morning, or one exactly like it. He could see the glint of the whirling blades in the early afternoon sun and the two engine nacelles under the wings. It might be able to increase speed to four miles a minute on a run in. He estimated the range right now to be about six miles, but it would not do to run this one too close.

“Clear the bridge!” he called. Might as well get the lookouts and Cornelli below ahead of time. Thirty seconds. Yes, the plane was probably now about four miles away. With a fast dive
Eel
could get completely submerged in thirty seconds, probably even faster at the speed with which she was still racing ahead. The wind was now coming over the port bow and was considerably less unpleasant, since he could keep his back to it as he watched the airplane.

Fifteen seconds more. It would be touch and go, but this was the way it had to be. “Clear the bridge!” he shouted. “Take her down!” There was no one on the bridge but himself, but all dives should be done as nearly as possible with the customary routine. He fumbled for the diving alarm, placed his mittened hand on it, pressed twice. The vents popped. One more quick look at the airplane. It was beginning its dive, coming in at a shallow angle. Estimated range three to four miles. This would be good.
Eel
was due to catch a bomb, but except by the greatest of misfortune she would survive it unscathed. The important point was that it would give at least one of the convoy escorts a point of aim, a datum point to investigate. The involved scheme which Richardson had laboriously composed while conducting the end-around run depended upon separating the convoy from the escorts. His gloved hands fumbled for the hand rail. He dropped down the hatch, grabbed the lanyard toggle, heard the hatch click shut.

Eel
was already perceptibly angling downward in a swift, surefooted dive. “Hatch secured,” shouted Cornelli, too loudly, thought Richardson.

“Depth of water is two-five-oh feet, Skipper,” said Al from below. “I'll start taking the angle off after we pass one-hundred-seventy-five feet.”

The conning tower annunciators, both of which should have been at the “ahead flank” position, had been moved over to “ahead emergency.” Obviously Al's doing. With the full voltage of the battery discharging current almost as if there were a short circuit, the propellers for a few minutes would be turning even faster than under the drive of
Eel
's four diesels.
Eel
's deck tilted down even more. He heard Al speak imperatively to the planesmen. “Full dive on bow planes. Stern planes keep the angle at fifteen degrees. Yes, I said fifteen degrees!”
Eel
leaned even more steeply into the dive.

“Mark! Four-six feet,” said Cornelli. But he held out his hand to show that he had no stop watch. In the back of the conning tower Keith was grinning, exhibited the stopwatch with his thumb on the winding stem. “Twenty-three seconds,” he said, consulting it. “Fastest dive in the books. I almost didn't get the periscope down. When the water hit it, I thought we were going to break it right off!”

Rich nodded, crossed to the control room hatch, squatted on his heels to talk to Dugan. “We've stopped our watch up here, Al,” he said. “Did you get a watch started on the dive?”

“You bet, Skipper.” Al had one in his hand, the short white lanyard looped around his thumb. “We're passing seventy feet now. It's forty-five seconds since the diving alarm, and we're just reaching fifteen degrees down bubble.”

“What's your speed through water?”

“Still showing twelve knots. It dropped fast as soon as we opened the vents, but it's dropping a lot slower now.” There was indeed a furious rush of water around the conning tower, perceptibly shaking it, vibrating all topside equipment.

“Passing one hundred feet, Skipper,” said Al. “Do you want to change course?”

“Good. Left full rudder,” he ordered, raising his voice to the helmsman standing with his back to him alongside Cornelli. “Come left to one-four-zero.” The plane would be approaching the diving point now, would be adjusting for time late, computing the lead angle. Probably it had already dropped, since the release point for the speed and altitude would no doubt be passed long before the airplane arrived over the diving point.

“Taking the angle off now,” said Al. “The rudder helps.”

Richardson could feel the submarine's attitude returning to the normal horizontal.

“Steady on one-four-zero,” said the helmsman. Just as he said the words they were swallowed up by the roar of a tremendous explosion in the water near at hand.
Eel
's tough frame shook like a tuning fork, its component members vibrating in their own discordant cacophony, as the shock wave was converted into the innumerable frequency ranges to which the parts of it resonated.

“That was good and close,” Keith started to say, when his words likewise were engulfed in a second explosion, a ringing, high-pitched metallic
WHAM
, as though some giant outside
Eel
's hull were striking her side with a tremendous sledgehammer.

“All compartments report,” said Cornelli, grabbing a hand telephone set from its rack. He held the phone to his ear for several minutes, nodding his head briefly from time to time. “I figured they'd all be on the line, sir,” he said. “All compartments report no damage.”

“Al,” said Richardson, “you still have speed control. Get us up to periscope depth as soon as you can.”

“Periscope depth, aye aye. All ahead one-third,” called out Dugan. The annunciators clicked as the helmsman carried out the order, and
Eel
began to climb back to sixty-foot keel depth in a much less dramatic fashion than she had initially gone the other way.

Richardson had forgotten Blunt in the conning tower. Now the latter spoke. “What are you up to, Rich?” he said.

“We've got two torpedoes left, Commodore, and I want to try to turn the convoy around to give
Whitefish
a chance to get into action one more time.”

“How are you going to do that with only two fish? And even if you do get one of the ships, the escorts will keep you from surfacing. . . .”

“Yes, sir, but what if we knock off the escorts?” Richardson stared hard at Blunt. He did not want to reveal his entire scheme, for the discussion which would inevitably follow would arouse concern in the well-knit submarine crew which could only be to its disadvantage. Again Blunt looked unsure of himself. He almost replied, then evidently changed his mind, said nothing.

Several minutes later, through
Eel
's periscope, barely projecting above the tops of the waves, splashed over by some of them, Richardson had two things in view: the Japanese patrol bomber, now minus two of its limited supply of bombs, orbiting over the general area and obviously looking for his periscope; and a single escort which had appeared over the western horizon. Upon seeing it, he had directed that a white smoke candle be broken out and made ready near the
submerged signal ejector. If the bomber was not thoughtful enough to fire a smoke float for the tincan, it might be necessary for
Eel
to do it. It was a disappointment, however, that only a single escort had taken the bait.