Dust on the Sea

by Edward L. Beach

  The second cup of coffee after dinner in Eel’s tiny wardroom became the occasion for a daily discussion. Near-pleading by Richardson, stubborn refusal by his superior. Twice Richardson privately cautioned Leone not to try to help. Emotion was creeping into the disputation; it would be the wrong thing to do.

  With the first landfall on Japanese-held islands due in four days, Richardson changed debate tactics, concentrated on the needs of Eel herself. Every skipper had the right and duty to satisfy himself as to the state of training of his crew. This was his responsibility, not that of the wolfpack commander. The skippers of Chicolar and Whitefish, traveling out of sight, were making such decisions for themselves. Eel’s crew must not be allowed to go stale. It was purely a matter for each individual ship. He would carry out a full day’s drill, lasting from before dawn until long after sunset. Convoy exercises were not involved. Blunt need pay no attention, could remain in the wardroom.

  It was obligatory, however, to inform Blunt that he had determined to devote a day to drilling Eel’s crew. Acquiescence was surprisingly reluctant, even for this unassailable position.

  It had never been a part of his old skipper’s previous character to oppose training or drills of any kind. Quite the reverse. There was something under cover, some syndrome of fatigue in him, which Richardson must think about and try to alleviate. The voyage across the Pacific had been more of a strain than Richardson remembered from previous patrols, but as the day’s work began, with Buck Williams on the TDC, Keith Leone as assistant approach officer, Stafford on the sonar, and Quin, the yeoman, wearing the battle telephone headset, he began to renew the confidence he had felt the last days in Pearl. Larry Lasche was assigned to the automatic plotting table in the after part of the conning tower, opposite the TDC—unfortunately with his back to Buck, with whom he was to coordinate, but this could not be helped. Young Rogers, fresh out of high school and an electronic hobbyist since childhood, was on the radar console. In the forward end of the conning tower, Scott was on the helm as before, with Oregon, senior quartermaster, on one side keeping the log, and Quin on the other.

  Immediately beneath the hatch leading to the control room, on the port side of the control room, was the ship’s diving station, where at battle stations Al Dugan held sway, assisted by Chief Starberg at the hydraulic manifold a few feet to his right. Sargent, number two in the auxiliary gang under Starberg, operated the air manifold across the compartment, on the starboard side of the control room. Communication with Dugan was through the open hatch or by telephone—or by the ship’s general announcing system.

  As the day’s drills progressed, Richardson could feel the sinews of control tighten, their cohesiveness renew itself. The sharp edge of readiness, so painstakingly instilled, had been whetted.

  During night surface approaches, the fundamental difference in stations was that Dugan and Richardson, along with a specially selected set of lookouts, moved to the bridge. Should it be necessary to dive, Richardson would drop into the conning tower, while Al Dugan and the lookouts, descending an additional level, would simply shift to the submerged condition at the diving station.

  For surface gun action, day or night, however, the procedure was very different. Certain deck hatches would have to be open. A large number of men would be on deck to serve the two five-inch guns, plus extra men on the bridge for the automatic weapons. Immediate diving would not be possible. In an emergency it would be necessary to sacrifice guns and ammunition left topside. Exercising the guns with Eel already near to possible enemy air patrols would be unnecessarily hazardous. Richardson decided against it. The guns, so seldom used anyway, would have to go with whatever residual readiness remained from the training already received.

  Deep in Richardson’s mind, underlying the strenuous activities of the day, were Admiral Small’s words about the impending operation against Iwo Jima and Okinawa. It was of maximum importance to the U.S. cause to prevent any possible Kwantung Army reinforcement of the troops already in these two islands. The day’s workout was just what Eel’s crew needed to get them fully geared up for what might lie ahead.

  Two weeks after leaving Pearl Harbor, having transited at night through the Nampo Shoto south of Iwo Jima, the three submarines separately passed north of Okinawa, timing their transit of the Ryukyu chain again for the dark hours. After a short detour to avoid a reputed mine field, they headed up on a northwesterly course into the operating area. During the entire voyage, neither ship nor plane had been seen.

  That night, after the debris of the evening meal had been cleared away, Richardson deliberately brought the conversation around to the business at hand.

  “Commodore,” he said, “Keith and I have been studying our area and reading up on the dope ComSubPac put in the operation order.” Keith produced a rolled up chart which he spread out on the table. “The two main Japanese focal points for shipping to and from China are Shanghai and Tsingtao. There is a little traffic, too, out of Tientsin, up here in the Gulf of Pohai. These three ports are pretty far apart.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Blunt, stuffing tobacco from a pouch into his pipe.

  “So it looks to us that the smart thing for the Japanese to do, considering the submarine danger, is to stay as close inshore as possible. These island chains shown here along the coast of Korea, west side and south side, practically provide an inland passage for them. There’s a beautiful one here on the west coast, the Maikotsu Suido. The track charts of subs previously in the Yellow Sea show that our boats have seldom gone after them there.

  “Any ships departing Tsingtao for Japan will most likely hug the coast of the Shantung Peninsula on a northeasterly course until they get to the narrowest part of the Yellow Sea. They’ll run across at full speed, up here near the tip of the peninsula, and then head south along the Korean coast and through the Maikotsu Suido. The shortest route is of course straight across to the southwest tip of Korea and then into the Shimonoseki Strait and the Inland Sea, but from their point of view it’s also the most foolish. The smart thing for all ships, including those from Shanghai, is to run up the coast of China and cross at the narrowest possible place. Once they know we’re in the area, they might run even farther north, into the Gulf of Pohai.”

  Keith nodded his agreement.

  Richardson dropped his voice. “Almost surely, Tsingtao will be the departure point for Kwantung Army divisions deploying to the war zone. That’s the place we should watch most closely. But we don’t want to be too obviously blockading it, because that would alert the enemy and increase the escort forces they’ll provide.”

  Blunt, using his thumb to pack the tobacco into his pipe, said nothing. After a moment’s pause, Rich continued.

  “So, what we should do is blockade Tsingtao from a distance. We should send one boat into the Maikotsu Suido right away. It will be the ideal place to start. The other two, patrolling outside to the north and south, will be in position to take care of any ships diverting outside. If we hear anything from ComSubPac, all of us will be able to reach Tsingtao very——”

  “Maybe so,” interrupted Blunt, lighting his pipe and puffing. “But we haven’t had any submarines in the Yellow Sea at all for a while. I think the Japs are probably running straight across, where there’ll be more sea room. Anyway, that’s where I want to start, where we can surface patrol for maximum coverage. Set up the regular patrol line, oriented north and south. We should be in position by morning. Something will turn up in a couple of days.”

  Abruptly he heaved himself up from the settee, drained his coffee cup, and walked out of the wardroom.

  Richardson found Keith looking at him with a puzzled expression. “What was that about?” he said. “He didn’t even listen. What’s this business about sea room? Is he ticked off about something?”

  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 befo
re 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!”