Run Silent, Run Deep

by Edward L. Beach

  "Parallel, sir!" from Larto an instant later, as his eyes caught mine. Jim had either never realized that he had failed to shift to series, or was not going to let on.

  "All ahead three hundred a side!" He turned to Tom. "Make your depth four-six feet," he ordered.

  Schultz had been keeping the depth gauges rigidly at four- five feet. Jim's order would bring the boat down one foot deeper in the Water, resulting in one foot less of the periscope sticking out of water when fully raised.

  Tom had been handling depth controls for years and he knew his job. He gave a few quiet instructions to the planes- men. After a few moments the depth gauge needles gently moved from the four-five to the four-six-foot markers and remained there.

  Jim turned to Larto. "Speed through water?"

  Larto, expecting the question, had been consulting the am- meters and voltmeters as well as the shaft-revolution indicators.

  He shot back the answer immediately. "Four and-a-half, sir."

  Still too fast. Jim waited.

  Keith brought up the Is-Was, showed him the relative positions of submarine and target. Propped in a corner was another device, shaped roughly like a banjo, which — Keith, at Jim's indicated request, now picked up. The purpose of the Banjo was to give the firing bearing, or lead angle, for shooting torpedoes, The two discussed for a moment the various solutions which might be arrived at with the problem as it stood.

  Jim turned back to Larto. "What speed we making now?"

  "Three and a half knots, sir!"

  Jim motioned the Banjo back into its corner, turned toward the periscope.

  Keith ranged himself on its opposite side, facing Jim, reached for the control knob, or "pickle," hanging on its wire nearby.

  There had not been much conversation among the other members of the control party, but now the control room seemed to grow even quieter as men stood Stolidly to their stations waiting for the periscope observation.

  Larto broke the silence. "Three knots, sir!"

  Jim motioned with his thumbs upward, and Keith squeezed the pickle.

  The hoist motor brake cracked open again. Accompanied by sounds of spinning sheaves and the squeak of flexible steel cables, the periscope started up from its well.

  Jim and Keith stood there motionless. Except for the movement of the hoist cables from out of the well as they brought the periscope up, the shining steel barrel, wet and oily, might as well have been motionless too. Then suddenly the periscope yoke appeared, bolted to the ends of the hoist cables.

  Immediately below it was the base of the periscope with eye-piece, range dials, and two handles folded up at its sides.

  Jim was ready for it, stooping as before. The handles rose into his outstretched hands, were snapped down. He rose up with the periscope, before it was an the way up suddenly motioned to Keith. Keith released the button on the pickle and the periscope stopped, not quite fully raised.

  Jim was looking through it now, stooped over in an unnatural position, swinging it fast one way and then the other.

  "Can't see him," he muttered. "I'm under now, — now I'm up again-" as a wave on the surface of the sea passed over the periscope.

  This was good technique: minimum practicable exposure.

  "Where should he bear, Keith?"

  "We should have been gaining bearing on him," answered Keith, consulting the Is-Was. "He should be on the starboard beam. Swing more to the right." So saying, Keith placed his hands over Jim's on the periscope's handle, and forcibly turned it until Jim's stance showed he was looking on our starboard beam.

  Jim suddenly pushed the periscope back a trifle the other way. "There he is!" unnaturally loudly, "it's a zig! Bearing- Mark! Down scope!"

  "Zero-eight-seven, answered Keith, as the scope went sliding down. "What's the angle on the bow, sir?"

  "Starboard thirty," from Jim. "Didn't get a range, about four thousand."

  Keith was spinning the Is-Was when Jim motioned for the periscope to be raised again. "Stand by for a quick range," he said. As the periscope broke water he had his hand on the range dial, adjusted the bearing slightly as he turned it.

  "Bearing-Mark! Range-Mark! Down scope!"

  "Zero-nine-zero"

  "Three-eight-zero-zero," answered Keith, shifting his attention rapidly from azimuth ring to range dial.

  "Right full rudder! All ahead two thousand a side!"

  The ship surged ahead again as Larto twisted his rheostats.

  "What's distance to the track?"

  "Nineteen hundred yards!"

  Jim seemed to be in complete command of the situation.

  "Target has zigged to his left. We'll swing around and get him with a straight bow shot starboard ninety track as he goes by."

  In nonsubmarine parlance this meant that although the target had changed course, thus putting us on his other side, Jim was coming around toward him and would try to hit him squarely on the new side. As before, he hoped to do it with a torpedo with zero gyro angle-set to run straight ahead. The whole submarine would have to be aimed at an angle ahead of the target in somewhat the same manner as a duck hunter leads his birds.

  Jim was doing very well, aside from his initial error in running too fast and too far in one direction before taking a second look through the periscope, and fortunately Falcon's zig had taken place late enough so as not to be particularly, damaging. I was particularly warmed, also, by Keith's steady behavior as assistant.

  Jim spoke again. "What course do I come to for a straight bow shot?"

  Keith didn't answer immediately as he studied the figures on the face of the Is-Was. In a moment he said, "One-three- four," holding out the Is-Was to Jim as he did so.

  Jim consulted it briefly. "Steady on one-three-four," he directed the helmsman, and the latter called back just past my ear, "Steady on one-three-four, aye, aye! — passing zero-one- zero, sir!"

  We had to wait until the boat came around to the new course. I could not help noticing how luck had played into Jim's hands. He had actually overshot the target, but Falcon's zig had come so late that he was still in an excellent attack position from the opposite side, — a bit long-range, but nice.

  Another thirty seconds passed, S-16, like most S-boats, turned on a dime once you got her going, and we were nearly around to the intended firing course.

  "All ahead two hundred a side!" Another periscope look coming. At least Jim was not forgetting all he had learned about periscope technique. That is one of the items most closely observed in a submarine officer, and one of those most freely criticized, especially by one's Qualification Board.

  Every skipper counts himself an expert and has strong opinions about how the scope should be handled.

  One thing Jim had not yet done; at no time had he looked all around with the periscope, turned it through a full 360 degrees. Doctrine as well as technique called for this as assurance against being caught unawares by another ship or a screening vessel.

  Jim waited for our speed to come off; then directed the periscope to be raised.

  As before, he rode it up, with Keith swinging it around to the port bow as the Is-Was had predicted.

  "Bearing-Mark!"

  "Three-one-seven!" Keith was quick with his answers.

  "Range-Mark!"

  "Two-three-double-oh!"

  "Down periscope" Jim was still looking through it as Keith squeezed the pickle button and the handles and eye- piece fell away. Eleven seconds the observation had taken.

  I pursed my lips approvingly, held out my stop watch to Stocker Kane, hoping no one had noticed the failure to look all around.

  "Angle on the bow, starboard forty-five!"

  "Starboard forty-five," muttered Keith, spinning his Is-Was.

  "Distance to the track is sixteen hundred," he went on, a moment later, anticipating Jim's next question.

  "What's the firing bearing for this setup?"

  Keith dropped the Is-Was on its cord, reached swiftly for the Banjo, squatted down on his haunches with i
t on his knees.

  "Target speed, sir?" he said.

  "Use twelve knots," returned Jim.

  Keith nodded, bent over the instrument and began carefully setting up the computing arms in accordance with the tactical situation. It took a little time, — Keith, though he had learned at submarine school how to use it, was not the expert on the Banjo that Jim was. It was Jim's normal battle station as Assistant Approach Officer for me, and I could sense his impatience to get the answer. The target was moving toward the firing point; there was not much time to go.

  Jim watched, irresolute. Then he turned to Tom at the diving station to his left. "Four-six and a half feet!" he rasped.

  Tom nodded, obediently began to ease the boat six inches deeper in the water. This also took its quota of time, for the bow and stern planes had less effect at low speeds and he was anxious not to drop below the ordered depth. Since the tip of the periscope when fully extended reached only to forty- seven feet two inches above the keel, it would be very easy for a momentary loss of only a few inches, in depth to drag it entirely under and thus blind the approach officer at the instant he might most need to see.

  For an appreciable period, during which Jim tensely waited, the depth gauges did not budge. He. turned to Keith, still sliding the computing arms on the face of the Banjo, and then back again to Tom-whose depth-gauge needles had not wavered from the forty-six-foot mark.

  It had all taken only a dozen seconds or so, but Jim's temper, already strained to the flash point, steamed over.

  "God-damit!" he shouted at Tom, "I said four-six and a half feet! When are you going to get there?"

  Tom's neck settled imperceptibly into the open collar of his shirt, but he made no reply. In the next instant the gauges quivered and, by the barest perceptible movement, crept down to a point midway between the forty-six- and forty- seven-feet marks.

  Jim's attention swung across the control room to Keith, now patiently recording on a piece of paper the answers he had picked off the curved lines on the face of the Banjo. "I haven't got all day," he snarled. "What's holding you up, Leone?"

  Keith looked as if he had been struck, but his voice betrayed no emotion as he answered: "Firing bearings, four fish; three- four-three, three-four-four, three-four-four-a-half, three-four- five-a-half. Set gyros one-and-a-half right, one-half right, one- half left, and one-and-a-half left. Firing bearing for the exercise torpedo, zero gyro angle, three-four-five "Firing order normal order! Set depths twelve feet, speed high! Set gyros one-and-a-half right, one-half right, one-half left, one-and-a-half left!" Jim was all business again. As he gave the order he made a sign of negation to Quin, who functioned as telephone talker during battle stations.

  "Torpedo room! Firing order, normal order," repeated Quin, making not the slightest move toward the telephone mouth- piece mounted on a breastplate attached around his neck.

  "Set depths twelve feet. Set gyros one-and-a-half right, one- half right, one-half left, and one-and-a-half left."

  A second later Quin spoke again: "Torpedo room has the word, sir! Gyros set! Depth set!" He still made no indication that he had transmitted or received one iota of information or instruction.

  Jim now spoke again. "Set depth on the exercise torpedo thirty feet! Set torpedo gyro on zero!" There was a shade of greater urgency in his voice, and he pointed with emphasis at Quin.

  This time Quin picked up the mouthpiece, pressed the button on its top, and spoke into it. "Torpedo room," he said, "set depth on the exercise fish thirty feet. Set gyro on zero."

  The exercise torpedo was the real torpedo, the one on which depended Jim's qualification. In a moment the answer came back from the torpedo room; was relayed by the yeoman: "Torpedo ready, sir! Depth set thirty feet-gyro set on zero. Gyro spindles are still in, sir!"

  "Stand by!" snapped Jim and, seconds later, "Up periscopes The scope whirred upward, broke surface. I could see the shaft of light from the eye-piece shining out and striking Jim on the face just as he got his eye fixed to it.

  "It's a zig away!" he shouted. "Bearing-Mark!"

  "Three-three-eight!"

  "Range-Mark!"

  "One-five-double-oh!"

  "Down periscope!" As the periscope went down into its well, Jim spoke in violent tones of bitter disappointment. "The bastard has zigged away! Right at the firing point, the son-of- a-bitch has zigged away! The angle on the bow is ninety right now!" He raised his clenched fist above his head. "God-dammit!" he swore.

  At this Keith broke in rapidly. "That's no zig, Jim! The angle on the bow should be ninety! He's right on the firing point! Put up the scope and shoot him… Look!" And Keith excitedly held out the Is-Was so that Jim could see its face.

  "It's no good, I tell you! He's zigged away! We can't get him!"

  "Dammit, the hell we can't! Take another look!" I was surprised at Keith's vehemence. With his right hand he pressed the pickle to raise the periscope again-unbidden-and with his left he pushed Jim toward it for another observation.

  "Out gyro spindles!" shouted Keith, as the scope came up.

  "Stand by!"

  "Gyro spindles are out, sir!" Quin's answer came within a second.

  "There he is, sir! Right there!" Keith had pushed the periscope around another few degrees, was intently looking at the azimuth ring and the periscope hairline mark against it.

  Almost unwillingly, Jim permitted himself to be pushed into position for another look through the periscope. He grasped the handles, moved them slightly.

  "Bearing-Mark!" he said, still unconvinced.

  "Three-four-three, simulate fire ONE!" called Keith.

  "Fire ONE," repeated Quin quietly. "ONE's fired. Standing by two!"

  "What's the angle on the bow, now, Jim?" Keith had picked up the Banjo again, spoke insistently in a low but carrying tone.

  "Starboard one hundred!" answered Jim, without taking his eyes from the rubber guard around the eye-piece.

  "Okay!" said Keith laying down the Banjo. "Stay on him."

  "I'm on him," growled Jim.

  "Three-four-four! Simulate fire two!" Keith was back at the azimuth ring.

  "Fire TWO! Two's away! from Quin.

  "Stand by!"

  Quin picked up his telephone microphone for the first time in minutes. "Stand by forward," he said. "Gyro spindle out?"

  The answer seemed to satisfy him, for his report, rendered almost instantly, was simply, "Standing by forward, sir!"

  Keith's eyes were riveted on the hairline on the forward edge of the periscope barrel, where it went through the azimuth ring. Only Jim could see the vertical cross hair in the periscope field of view, but the thin line etched on the barrel of the instrument indicated the direction he was looking. When that line matched the predetermined firing bearing for the torpedo-three-four-five in this instance, or fifteen degrees on our port bow-the torpedo would be fired. The moment was a tense one. A lot more than most of us realized depended on it; how much, only I could have told.

  Jim had lost his temporary disappointment. He now carefully kept trained on the target, slowly rotating the periscope to keep up with it. With the slow precise movement of a watch, the two marks closed together. You could hear men breathing in the compartment. Keith's mouth hung partly open. His eyes elevated, right hand holding the pickle, he waited.

  "Bearing, three-four-five! FIRE!" Keith let this one out with a bellow, as though he personally could shout the torpedo out the tube.

  "FIRE!" shouted Quin into the telephone, a split second be- hind. There was a rumble from somewhere forward, and a hiss of air. S-16 quivered as her hull took up the jolt. In the immediate stillness I thought I could hear the whine of propellers starting.

  All thought of continuing with the fictitious salvo was for- gotten as Jim watched the progress of his torpedo through the periscope- I wanted to crowd up to him, take a look myself- decided not to.

  Jim suddenly spoke. "He's seen the torpedo. There goes the flag hoist."

  The instructions for tor
pedo exercises called for the target to hoist a flag signal upon sighting a torpedo or its wake. This the Falcon had evidently done, thus signifying that she would assume the responsibility for retrieving our fish. The rules, however, did not permit Falcon to deviate from her course or otherwise attempt evasion until after the torpedo had crossed.

  She would later report her best estimate of where it intersected her track. A perfect shot would be signaled as M. O. T., or Middle of Target.

  Jim still stared fascinatedly through the periscope. "Looks good! Looks perfect! I'll hit him right in the M. O. T.! He's sunk, as sure as God made little green apples!"

  I could sympathize with Jim's exuberance. I had felt the same way after my qualification approach and in fact still did whenever I had a chance to shoot a torpedo.

  "There! It's crossed the track. It's a hit! Right under the M. O. T.!" Recollecting himself-, Jim barked, "Secure from battle stations! Stand by to surface!"

  This was Tom's cue to swing into action. He gave several low-voiced rapid orders, then turned to Jim and announced: "Ship is ready to surface, sir!"

  Jim reached forward to the vicinity of the ladder to the conning tower, grasped the diving alarm handle and jerked it three times. Three raucous blasts resounded through the boat.

  "Blow safety!" ordered Tom. Air whistled into the tanks was shut off at his signal. The bow planesman at Tom's direction ran his bow plane up to the "full rise" position.

  S-l6 tilted slightly up by the bow and the depth-gauge needles began to drop.

  At the first note of the surface alarm Rubinoffski swung his lanky legs up the ladder into the conning tower. Larto turned his rheostats, increased the speed of the motors. An intermit- tent, low-pitched hiss of air-back aft in the engine room they were turning over the engines, clearing any water out. Jim was going around and around with the periscope, at last.

  "Eye-ports awash!" The call came down from Rubinoffski.

  You could feel the surge toward the surface suddenly stop as S-16 broached. The little glass portholes in the conning tower, other than our periscopes the only means of seeing out of the ship, let a stream of light into the tiny compartment as they popped out of the water. The reflected rays danced in the open. hatch and glittered on the steel rungs of the ladder below.