Run Silent, Run Deep

by Edward L. Beach

  We ran on thus for several more minutes. Jim's voice again: "Recommend course one-six-five, speed twelve."

  I gave the necessary orders without comment. No doubt that was the convoy course and speed according to more extensive plotting data.

  Several more minutes. "Captain, we've got eleven big ships, three or four smaller ones. Possibly one other astern, also small, They're zigzagging around base course one-six-five, speed four- teen knots, making good about twelve down the course line.

  We're almost dead ahead of them. Range to nearest ship, the leading escort, is ten thousand yards."

  "What's the range to the stern escort?" These fellows had come out of the Bungo, all right, and that stern escort must be nobody else but Bungo Pete himself. At least he was keeping to Bungo's old favorite position, astern, the clean-up spot. Bungo would have figured that after an attack the submarine was most apt to wind up astern of the convoy, and out of torpedoes, too until a reload could be effected. It was not a bad analysis. It would almost unquestionably be true for a submerged attack very likely so for a surfaced one as well. Captain Blunt had wondered whether any German liaison officers might have been helping him-here I caught my breath as an idea rose, full blown, in my brain: Bungo might most likely be a Japanese submariner himself! He would be one of their old-timers, no doubt, working on the problem for all he was worth and making, thereby, his own contribution to the war effort of his country! Just as Captain Sammy Sams was doing in the role relegated to him!

  As such he was doubly dangerous, though I couldn't hate him quite so much as before. And if this, indeed, was Bungo himself, cruising along in his Akikaze-class tincan behind the convoy, we were in for an interesting night of it.

  "Range to stern escort-we can hardly make him out-he's fading in and out of the radar scope-about fifteen thousand yards." Jim fell silent for a minute. "Zig! The convoy has zigged to his left. Now on course one-three-zero!"

  We followed suit. "Keep plotting and checking his zigs, Jim,"

  I said. "When we get them down pat we'll start in." I began to weigh the various factors of the problem. Bungo was astern, and he was by far the most dangerous of the many destroyers and antisubmarine escorts. Instead of turning toward the rear of the convoy, which would be the natural thing to do after shooting our torpedoes, maybe we should turn back toward the head.

  This would keep us clear of Bungo for a while. If we could count on a bit of confusion on the part of the Japs, perhaps over dependence on Bungo's sweeping-up operation, we might get away with it. One thing we would have to be careful to avoid, however, was the temptation to dive. If we dived, we became virtually stationary, and that was what Bungo Pete wanted us to do. Plodding along astern of the convoy, having had ample time to be fully alerted to our presence, he would be upon us immediately and subject us to another one of those silent, thorough, unhurried, and practically lethal creeping at- tacks, or perhaps something else, even better, which he might have thought of since. That, above everything, we had to keep away from.

  "Another zig, right, this time! Course now one-six-five!

  Recommend increase speed to fourteen knots!"

  "All ahead standards I ordered. "Sound the general alarm.

  Jim, will you come up to the bridge for a moment?"

  "We're already practically at battle stations, skipper," said Jim a second later. The musical chimes were still sounding.

  "Just a couple of men haven't taken over their regular battle stations yet." He looked at me questioningly.

  "Jim," I told him, "I want to avoid tangling with that last ship. It's no doubt a tincan, and it might even be the one that nearly sank us on our first run here."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I'll tell you all about it later. Should have before this.

  Besides that, we mustn't dive unless it's absolutely an emergency.

  I want to try to stay on the surface, and if we have to we'll take our chances with any of the other escorts. But if they make us dive, that fellow astern will come on up and take over, and we can figure on having a hell of a time!"

  My voice was clipped and short. Jim didn't bother to question further. "I've got it," he breathed.

  "Just as soon as they zig once more and give us an angle on either bow, we'll swing with them and go on in. We'll need full power, so as to have plenty of speed for maneuvering if we get into a tight spot."

  "Aye, aye, sir!" Jim disappeared.

  "Hugh," I said, "did you get all that?"

  "Yessir! " in a taut voice.

  "We might be getting gunfire on the bridge. If I order every- one below, you go too. You can be the last one down, but if we have to dive, you're our last hope. We can't take a chance on your being knocked out."

  "Yessir! " again.

  "All right. Now, have all the bridge guns mounted. Get all the twenty millimeters up, with two extra men to man each mount, and all four of the bridge fifties. Get plenty of ammunition, too."

  Hugh leaned- to the hatch to give the orders. "Bring up both BAR's also. You and I might as well have something to shoot too."

  In a few moments a veritable arsenal was handed up the bridge hatch and the lookouts busied themselves setting the guns in place. The 20's, stowed in pressure-proof containers, had to be lifted out and placed in their mounts. The 50's came up from below, were set in their sockets, and the BAR's we leaned in an out-of-the-way corner. Near each gun we made a neat pile of extra ammunition, belts for the 50's, bandoliers of clips for the BAR'S, and a half-dozen round magazines for each of the 20-millimeters. If we should have to dive it would all be lost, but that didn't matter.

  Two of the extra men were detailed forward of the OOD's platform for the forward mount, the other two aft on the cigarette deck. The 50's could be handled by the lookouts, one to each, with Hugh and me helping with the ammunition belts and firing our own BAR's in between. Preparations were completed just about the time the enemy convoy zigged again.

  "Zig, to his right! Angle on the bow, port thirty-five!" Jim's voice in the bridge speaker. It was time to make our move.

  Right full rudder! All ahead flank!" The diesels groaned with the suddenly increased load. Their exhaust spewed forth with doubled vigor. The ship leaned to port, the two port mufflers choking and splashing, and our stern skidded across the sea, half under and half over the water. Big waves leaped high on to our decks, spraying great patterns of shredded white clouds to half-conceal our stern. A semitransparent mist rose over the deck, whipped by the wind into the cloud pouring out of the starboard muffler pipes, trailed off to starboard and aft, lying low in the tossing, dirty sea.

  It was dark, lampblack dark. Only the faintest hint of gray above the water and in the sky. No telling where the horizon was-it all combined into the same dullness, the sea rising right up into the sky. It had stopped raining and the atmosphere felt oppressive, warm, humid. I could smell the odor of sweat mixed with salt spray.

  A sea mounted our bow, came straight aft, smothered the gun, and broke in a tall shower at the base of the bridge. Hugh and I ducked, got only a bucketful or two on our backs. The two men standing by the forward 20 were drenched, water streaming down from their hair and off their faces.

  "Come on back here!" I yelled. Gratefully they climbed over the bulwark separating us. "Stay here until you're needed," I told them.

  "Bridge! Recommend course three-one-zero!" That was Jim.

  I cupped my hands over the bridge gyro repeater, took a careful look, had to wipe out the accumulation of water before I could read it. We were already nearing due west, two-seven-oh.

  "Steady on three-one-zero!" I shouted down the hatch. The rudder began to come off, and Walrus straightened up.

  Now her speed increased even more, and she pitched and bucked like a wild thing. The wind whistled in my hair, the salt droplets battered my face. No longer rising to the sea, she simply disregarded it, smashed through it. Great clouds of spray were thrown to either side, rising to bridge height as we raced by. Se
a after sea rolled over her bullnose, pounded against our bridge front beneath the 20-millimeter gun with a repetitious drumming hollowness, cast more spume and water into the air.

  It started to rain again. The fresh water felt good, washing some of the salt from my face and out of my eyes. It and the spray were bad for the binoculars, though, for the droplets would mar our vision. "Hugh!" I said urgently, "Lens paper!

  Lots of it!"

  Hugh handed me a wadded-up hunk, leaned to the hatch to call for more.

  "Range!" I shouted into the mike.

  "Five thousand, leading ship!"

  "Where's the nearest tincan!"

  "Four thousand, thirty degrees on our port bow!" answered Jim.

  "How about the other one on this side?"

  "Sixty-five hundred yards, sixty relative!"

  Jim had gotten us into the best position possible. We were going in astern of the leading escort, which was maintaining station more or less dead ahead of the convoy, and were well clear and ahead of the port-flanking tincan.

  "How much farther to go?"

  "I figure to start shooting at two thousand. They're all pretty well bunched. We'll shoot a spread of six fish forward, then swing for the stern tubes, shoot them, and in the meantime reload the four torpedoes left forward. Then if we get a chance we can let go with those four. That will leave us only one fish, in the after torpedo room."

  "Good," I said into the mike. "What's the range now?"

  "Four thousand! We're all ready, except for opening the outer doors. We'll start opening them at three thousand yards!"

  I felt curiously detached and emotionless. The die had been cast the moment I directed the rudder be put right. Now it was merely the matter of riding it on out to a finish. The reload would be a problem, because of the motion on the ship, and I was glad that back in New London Keith had insisted on the installation of special pad-eyes for extra securing tackle. We had also carried out special reload drill while on the surface, against just such an eventuality as was now before us.

  The ship, of course, carried only twenty-four torpedoes in all, sixteen in the forward torpedo room and eight in the after room. Having attacked with three fish twice out of the forward tube nest and once out of the after nest, we had fifteen fish left: ten forward and five aft. It would be worthwhile to reload the four left after the first salvo forward and try to get them off, but hardly so for the single left aft.

  "What's the range now?" I had been searching for the targets, was still unable to see them. We were racing to destroy some men and some ships I had never seen. Perhaps I never would see them, I could tell their approximate bearing by looking up at the angle swept by the parabolic radar reflector whenever, from the motion of the mast behind me, I knew it was taking a bearing. They had been slightly on the starboard bow; now the leading ship bore several degrees on the port bow.

  "Three-three-double-oh! Recommend change course to two- nine-oh! We're starting to open outer doors now, with this speed it may take us a little time!"

  The newer boats had hydraulically operated outer torpedo tube doors, but not Walrus, already outdated. Ours had to be cranked open by hand, one by one, against the water pressure built up by our speed.

  "Left to two-nine-zero!"

  The rudder indicator went left a little, came back to center, Oregon's voice: "Steady on two-nine-oh!"

  Out of nothing they popped into view. "Targets!" I bawled.

  I flung my binoculars into the TBT bracket, twisted it violently both ways, taking it all in. A solid mass of ships, dead ahead and to starboard. Well to port, a single smaller vessel, the leading escort. No need to worry about him. To starboard, far to star- board, a single tiny shape-the port flanker. He would be a problem soon.

  But the ships ahead, we couldn't miss! There must be columns at least, solid black against a lowering grayness.

  Eleven ships in all, Jim had said.

  "Range, Jim!" I said into the mike. "I've got the TBT on the leading ship, looks like a tanker!"

  "Two-five-double-oh! Do you see the escorts, Captain?"

  "I see theme We're all right! Keep the ranges coming!"

  "Range, two-four-double-oh! Outer doors are open, sir! TWO- three-double-oh! Two-two-double-oh! Taking a radar sweep. clear all around-Range two-one-double-oh!"

  "TBT is on the leading ship, Jim," I said into the mike.

  "Angle on the bow is large, around port ninety."

  Hanging on to Walrus' careening bridge, I kept my binoculars rigidly fixed on the leading ship. Walrus rolled spasmodically from side to side, pitched her bows under, her bows, where six bronze warheads needed only the word from me to send them on their deadly mission. A sea roared up to the bridge; instinctively I ducked. Walrus heaved and pounded.

  It had stopped raining. Somehow the sky looked just a bit less dark, the gray less pronounced. Our targets were outlined distinctly for me now. Two tankers in the near column. Maybe more beyond. A large freighter bringing up the rear of the nearest column. All big ships, big and fast.

  "Two thousand yards!" Jim's voice carried a finality, a defiance to it.

  I risked a quick glance to starboard, the port-flanking tin- can was still clear, much nearer. We had a couple of minutes to go, to be deliberate with. Now that we had got there, as Captain Blunt used to say, TAKE YOUR TIME AND MAKE EVERY FISH COUNT!

  "Stand by forward!" Into the mike. "I'm on the leading ship, Jim! Let me know as each one goes out! Shoot!"

  "Fire!" Jim had been holding the announcing system button down as he gave the command. I felt nothing. No jolt, no jerk as three thousand pounds, a ton and a half, was expelled.

  "One's away," blared the bridge speaker. A pregnant pause.

  "Two's away!" More time. I took my glasses off the TBT, swung around to inspect the nearing destroyer. "Three's away!" Jim was shooting a spread, would need no further TBT bearings from me. "Four's away!" I looked forward, reaching out to see the white wakes, impossible in the heaving black water. "Five's away!" The oncoming tin-can was looming larger all the time.

  Wonder if he's seen anything yet? "Number six away! All torpedoes expended forward! Range to target, one-three-double- oh!"

  "Left full rudder!" I yelled the order. Walrus scudded around, the starboard mufflers roaring their choked protest.

  "Recommend course zero-nine-zero!"

  "No!" I shouted, then recollecting myself, grabbed the mike: "No good, Jim. Too close to the port-flanking tincan!" I tried to speak calmly. "How about one-seven-zero with a left ninety gyro for the stern tubes?"

  "Roger!"

  "Oregon, steady on one-seven-zero!" He had heard the colloquy with Jim, and the rudder had already eased a few degrees in anticipation. But, disciplined helmsman that he was, he had to have the order.

  "Steady on one-seven-zero! No question about Oregon's steering ability. He gently eased the rudder off and the ship lunged ahead, the lubber's line right on the marker.

  I picked up the mike, ran to the after TBT, plugged it in.

  "Stand by aft! After TBT!" I said into the mike. I had to push Pat Donnelly aside to give me a clear shot for sighting.

  The after bridge speaker: "Standing by aft! We're all set below, Captain! Range one-two-five-oh!"

  "Shoot!" I had the TBT aimed right between the first and second ships of the near column, at another ship in the second column whose black silhouette completely filled the space between them.

  "Seven's away! Eight's away!" Another look at the destroyer.

  We were running nearly right away from him, gaining, with our. temporary speed advantage. "Nine away! Ten away! All torpedoes expended, Captain! We're reloading forward."

  Ten torpedoes, we were lighter by better than thirty thousand pounds, and about seventy thousand dollars' worth of complicated mechanism was out there running in the ocean.

  And we were in something of a box, too. Any change in course would increase the approaching destroyer's chances of catching us, make it easier for him to see
us.

  "Range to the near escort, dead astern!" I called the inquiry into the mike, leaning against the periscope supports with my feet braced in front of me. In this location I could not feel the radar mast rotate, but I could sense it going around, sweeping aft. Walrus' motion was no different on the new course. Seas were still sweeping her with regularity, leaping higher than her radio antenna stanchions-higher than a man's height, splattering all over the deck aft, sometimes virtually submerging it.

  Steam, from our hot mufflers under the deck, boiled up through the wooden slats, drifted faintly away. It would be suicide to walk aft there.

  "Range to escort, one-nine-double-oh!" He WAS close!

  Something had happened in the direction of the convoy. I turned, a flash as though of light, but bigger than any light, and yellower. It lasted only a fraction of a second. Then an- other, and another! No sound-there couldn't be any sound, with all the natural noises of wind and sea going on. I looked harder. Could that be the suspicion of yet another flash in the second column? These were all torpedo hits, of that there could be no doubt, and probably from our bow salvo at that. Our stern shots would be a minute or so later getting there.

  Back to the escort: "What's the range now?" He didn't look any different, but in the dim visibility it would be hard to tell anyhow. Still bows on, still coming, no indication of having seen anything out of the ordinary.

  "Range to escort, one-nine-five-oh!" That was not good. We should be making twenty knots to his fourteen, should be pulling ahead faster than that.

  Flash! Another hit! And then, flash-flash-two, almost together.

  Some notice at last from the convoy. Now it was evident that it was breaking up. Ships were turning every which way.

  Suddenly I was no longer an entity, a constant you could think of as a single thing; it had disintegrated, almost in an instant, into eleven different ships. It was as though they were being driven by some inner compulsion. Dark form' s outlined against the slightly less dark sky seemed to be motivated by only one emotion, one heedless, reckless, awful necessity: to get away from the convoy center.