Dust on the Sea (56 page)

The frigate's lookouts must all be blind, thought Richardson, as for the fourth time in three hours he elevated
Eel
's periscope well above the wave tops to give them every possible opportunity to see it. Sonar conditions must be abominable. The tincan swept on heedlessly, pinging loudly, surely getting a good return echo, but giving no sign of having any contact whatsoever. His intention to be discovered only while
Eel
's stern with its two loaded torpedoes was directed toward the enemy had caused him to forgo an equal number of other opportunities, when a depth charge attack might have developed from a disadvantageous bearing. Also, he had been forced to keep a close eye on the patrol bomber, which was swinging in wide circles around the general vicinty. The plane had never, however, given
Eel
an opportunity to use the smoke float; for this, it must approach close enough to the submarine's position to have plausibly dropped it. At some point the plane would turn low on fuel, having been in the air since before dawn.

It was now late afternoon. The convoy must have headed west again, and, with a four-hour head start, it was lengthening its distance every moment. Probably it had soon changed to the south once more, and would again follow the same pattern as previously, giving the latest area of contact a wide berth before finally settling down to an easterly course toward the coast of Korea.

The patrol bomber was coming in low, the first time it had come in so low.
Eel
's stern pointed nearly toward the destroyer. Distance, perhaps five miles away. He had the periscope low again, so low that every other wave either blocked his view entirely or covered the periscope with yellow water. The plane was passing fairly close, though not overhead. Its pilot could not have seen the periscope. Since it would be sunset in an hour, perhaps this was to be the aircraft's last pass through the area before heading for base.

‘Stand by with the smoke candle!”

If he could be sure the patrol plane had no more depth bombs, he might risk letting him see the periscope and drop a smoke candle of his own. But of this he could not be sure.
Eel
would be forced to go deep when evidence of a real attack run developed. Once forced deep by the plane and under persistent depth charge attack from the
Mikura
, there might never be a chance to return to periscope depth.
Eel
's own smoke candle would simulate one from the plane, but the pilot would
know he had not dropped it and—just possibly—might be able to communicate the fact to the escort skipper. The thing to do was to fire it just after the plane had passed, but without the pilot being able to see it. Richardson cursed his indecision. Twice he had run through the same debate and passed up a possible opportunity, fearing it would be too obvious. Again he watched the plane pass by, low to the water, a mile and a half or two miles away. This was the closest it had come yet. Then, gradually gaining in altitude, it flew off to the west. He waited a few seconds. This might be the moment, but there would still be time for the plane to reverse course and return to the scene if he acted prematurely. When it had diminished to a relatively small silhouette in the cloudless sky, he ordered the smoke float loaded into the ejector and fired. A feeling of almost detached curiosity as to what the results would be took possession of him.

It was almost a minute before the smoke functioned. Richardson was about to write it off as a dud, when suddenly there was a tiny cloud of white smoke blossoming on the water some distance astern.

“Sixty feet,” he ordered. This would give nearly seven feet of periscope for the destroyer to look at. He would need it, for the lengthening shadows of growing twilight were drawing near.

Signs of incipient activity on the escort. He had seen the smoke. Slowly, almost leisurely, he approached it. No doubt the destroyer's skipper was puzzled how it came to be there. He would think the plane had dropped it after all, and that perhaps it was merely delayed in going off. It would be hard to imagine it deliberately being placed there by the submarine he was looking for. Richardson could feel the tenseness of his own state of mind, his own fatigue (which he must not show), the dependence which he was placing upon this stratagem. Carefully he maneuvered so that
Eel
's stern pointed directly at the tincan's bow.

“Destroyer screws have speeded up,” said Stafford. “He's shifted to short-scale pinging! Starting a run!” Stafford's voice, as usual, betrayed his rising excitement. Veteran though he was, he would never—nor would Richardson—be able to discount the potential lethality of a well-delivered depth charge salvo.

“Make your depth six-five feet, Control.” He could hear the whine of the TDC behind him as Buck Williams set in the information, relayed from Stafford, from Keith, from himself, at the periscope.

“Gyros are three left,” said Keith. “Torpedo run is nine hundred yards. We still have to flood the tubes and open the outer doors—what's the matter, Captain?”

“We can't shoot,” said Richardson in a weary, exasperated tone.
“He's zigzagging.” With only two torpedoes left,
Eel
must fire only when there was certainty of hitting. This meant a “down-the-throat” shot with all data static: bow to bow or, as in this case, stern to bow. A sinuating, weaving course, such as the escort was now using, made the chance of missing too great. Rich motioned with his thumbs for the periscope to be dropped a foot. He squatted down with it, continuing to look through it from a stooped position. “He thinks we've gone deep,” he said. “He's coming in so slow he can't have set his charges shallow. They'd blow his own stern off. So we'll cross him up by staying at periscope depth. Range, mark!” He turned the range knob on the side of the periscope.

“Range nine-two-oh yards,” said Keith. “Torpedo run seven-five-oh.”

“Shut all watertight doors,” said Richardson. “Here he comes!” He had in the meantime directed Al Dugan to run one foot lower in the water, at sixty-six-foot keel depth instead of sixty-five. This permitted Richardson to stand with less of a stoop as he kept the periscope at the lowest possible height from which, between toppling waves, he could still see his adversary. “He's going to pass astern close aboard, but a clean miss if I ever saw one—there he goes! He's dropping now!” It was unprecedented for a submarine captain to observe his own depth charging, although it had been done (at much greater range) during depth charge indoctrination drills at Pearl Harbor. The thought did not at all occur to Richardson until much later. “This chap must be an absolute amateur. He's attacking our wake instead of a solid contact. He's made a clean miss by at least fifty yards!”

The periscope was under more than it was out of water. Richardson's view of the enemy ship was a series of fleeting glimpses rather than a steady inspection. At this close range, better perspective was provided by the periscope in low power. The tincan was new-looking—war-construction obviously—painted overall a dull gray. Her most outstanding feature was the characteristically Japanese undulating deck line—extra design and construction effort with no apparent operational payoff. The deck curved sharply upward at the bow, which was widely flared for seakeeping ability, and upon the forecastle was mounted a large, long-barreled, destroyer-type deck gun. Her hull was metal—the welding seams and characteristic “oil-canning” of the thin steel were clear to be seen—but the heavy, squat bridge structure and mast appeared to be of wood. Between waves rolling over the periscope, Richardson could see the bridge personnel, all staring aft, some with binoculars. Men on deck and around the now empty depth charge racks were also staring over the stern into the water, obviously waiting
for the depth charges to detonate. Abaft the mast was a single, exaggeratedly fat, stubby stack projecting from a low deckhouse, but no smoke or exhaust gases could be seen issuing from it. On the contrary, an exhaust of some kind was coming out from a large black opening in the side of the ship under the after portion of the main deck.

There was a sudden appearance of instantaneous immobility in the sea, and almost simultaneously a crashing roar filled the submarine. Several tremendous shocks in succession were transmitted to
Eel
's stout hide. The giant outside was wielding his sledgehammer with gusto. The periscope quivered, vibrated strongly against his eyes. Fortunately, the eyepiece was surrounded with a heavy rubber buffer, shaped partly to protect the user's eyes from stray light and partly to give him a firm ridge against which to press the soft flesh between his eyes and their bony sockets. The story would later be told how Richardson had stood at his periscope in the midst of a depth charge attack which had
Eel
resounding throughout like a tremendous steel drum, her sturdy body whipped and tortured, her machinery damaged from the heavy shocks. The fact was he had the advantage, possessed by no one else in the submarine, of seeing the depth charges dropped and knowing they were clear astern. Noisy they might be, but dangerous they were not—at least not much. And once they began to explode, the ice broken, as it were, they were only an annoyance.

But there must be some way to bring this sea dance to an end. Those depth charge racks would take some time to refill. Maybe now was the time. The tincan skipper would try to ram if he saw the submarine. Perhaps he should have a point of aim.

“All ahead two-thirds! Left full rudder—ease your rudder—amidships—meet her—steady as you go!”

“Steady on two-six-eight-a-half,” from Cornelli at the helm.

“Steer two-seven-zero.” That would make it easier on the plot and everyone concerned.

Eel
and the escort were now on nearly opposite courses. Soon the escort would turn, come back to the scene of the depth charge attack, try to regain sonar contact, look hopefully for signs of success. Range by periscope stadimeter was 1,000 yards . . . 1,400 yards. She must turn soon, was turning, with rudder hard over, listing to starboard. Increased exhaust smoke was coming out of her sides; her engines had speeded up. She came all the way around.
Eel
was making five knots; her periscope must be throwing up a perceptible feather.

“Angle on the bow, starboard ten.” The periscope was leaking. Perhaps the vibration during the depth charging had loosened the seal rings through which it passed at the top of the conning tower. A
rivulet of water trickled down on Richardson's forehead, between his eyes. Another splatted on the top of his head and down the back of his neck. “Range—mark!” he said. “Down 'scope. Get me a rain hat!”

“One-seven-five-oh.” Someone handed him a towel. Blunt. He had been standing silently in the conning tower for minutes, perhaps hours. Not a word was said. Scott passed over one of the baseball hats which a number of the crew had been wearing. It had a long broad bill—just right. He put it on backward.

The TDC was whining. “Need an observation,” said Buck Williams.

“Up 'scope—angle on the bow, port five.”

“Range one-six-five-oh,” said Keith.

“Set,” said Buck. “He must still be zigzagging. That changed the gyro from right four and a half to left three.”

Not good enough. The escort had to be on a steady course to ensure the torpedo would hit. Mush Morton in the
Wahoo
had once faced such a situation, although with more torpedoes. So had Roy Benson in an early patrol in
Trigger
. Both reported that the destroyer needed a point of aim to steady on, and they had held their periscopes up to provide one with the result that the destroyer had rushed directly at them, and was met by a salvo of torpedoes. The “down-the-throat” shot had not been at all popular with submarine skippers, however. It was undeniably risky, downright hairy. Only one of
Wahoo
's torpedoes had hit out of six fired.
Trigger
's had exploded prematurely. But torpedo performance was now vastly improved.

“We have to get this over with,” said Richardson. “This periscope has been up for a long time, and we must be making a big feather, but he doesn't act as if he sees it. . . . Control, make your depth four-two feet!” He felt water running off the cap and down the sides of his face, salt trickling into his mouth.
Eel
's deck tilted upward slightly, and he had to rotate the hand grip in his left hand to stay on the escort. He had not looked around recently. This would be the time to do it. The pressure of water against the periscope at five knots, which made it more difficult to turn, would be eliminated with the top of the shears five feet above the surface. The little rivulet of water running down the side of the periscope seemed diabolically to follow him no matter on what bearing he looked. He made two swift circles, settled back on the escort. The exercise of walking it around had brought an added dividend, a tiny modicum of relief from the overpowering weariness.

“Four-two feet, Conn,” said Al Dugan.

He felt high out of water. His eye—the tip of the periscope—was now nearly twenty-five feet above the water. Five feet of the conical periscope shears would also be exposed. The escort would see this, would
assume the submarine had been damaged, had perhaps lost control, broached, and was either trying to surface or struggling to get back down again.

“Bearing, mark!” he snapped. “What's the course for a zero gyro angle, zero angle on the bow?”

“Bearing zero-nine-three. Recommend course two-seven-three, Skipper.” Keith.

“Come right to course two-seven-three!”