“Recommend you slow down even more, Bridge,” said Keith on the bridge speaker. “The range is closing rapidly.”
Williams had heard too. With a quick look at Richardson he gave the order. “All ahead one-third!”
Several minutes passed. The bridge speaker blared again. “Bridge, conn.” Keith’s voice again, “We have six ships. Looks like three big ones and three little ones. The three big ones are in a column, and there’s a little one ahead and on each flank. Estimated speed ten knots. Estimated course two-seven-oh. The range is now twenty thousand. The way we have them set up, they’ll pass about ten thousand yards away at the closest point of approach.”
Blunt was on the bridge. Rich was conscious of his presence even though he had not voiced the customary request to come up.
“Buck,” said the skipper, “they’re going to pass us too close aboard. Reverse course and put our stern on them.” Speaking into the microphone he continued, “Conn, this is the bridge. We’re reversing course to put our stern to the target.”
“Conn, aye aye,” from Keith.
Buck, as was his right as OOD, gave the orders. Slowly Eel swung to the right, her port side diesels muttering a little louder than before in response to the small speed increase he had directed.
“When you get around, Buck, go to all stop. We’re at a good range now. Then go ahead just enough to keep the range at fifteen thousand.”
All this had been rehearsed before. Should the range begin to decrease radically, indicating a zig toward, it would be easy to increase speed and pull off the track. Should plot indicate a zig away, now that a firm radar contact had been obtained it would be a simple matter to reverse course once more and maintain the desired distance.
“Commodore,” said Richardson, “it looks like we’re the trailer.”
Blunt seemed not to have heard. Rich waited a moment, then spoke into the bridge microphone, “As soon as we’re around and steadied on the new course, Conn, give me another reading on enemy course and speed. I want to send a message to the other boats as soon as possible.”
In a few moments Keith reported that enemy course appeared to be 260, speed ten. “Range is now seventeen thousand. Closest point of approach about thirteen thousand.”
“Better kick her ahead a little, Buck,” said Richardson.
Then to the mike, “Keith, do you have tactical communications with the other boats?”
“Yes, sir. All set.”
“Make up the contact report.”
Keith clicked the bridge speaker switch twice. In a few minutes he read the message aloud: TALLYHO X THREE AND THREE X COURSE TWO-SIX-OH X SPEED TEN X POSITION QUEEN FOURTEEN X RICH ONE X
“Let her go, Keith,” called Richardson through his microphone.
He could visualize Leone speaking into the radio microphone which had been installed in the conning tower. It must have been less than a minute before he announced, “Roger from Les, Bridge. Roger from Whitey.”
Minutes passed. Keith again, “Bridge, Conn, zig to the convoy’s right. It looks like they’re going to pass north of the closest island. New course three-zero-zero. We’re getting speed eleven now. I’ve made up another message to send to the other boats.”
“All right, Keith, go ahead and send it. What course do you recommend to maintain contact?”
“With the island shielding them, we should come in closer, Captain. Recommend we close at full speed to get around to the other side and pick them up as they come in the clear again.”
“Right,” said Richardson. He motioned to Buck. With the latter’s order, the main engines once again lifted their wild monotone. The propellers began their thrashing. Eel swung around again to the right, steadied on a course a little west of north.
During all of this Blunt had been a quiet but interested observer. Now he spoke. “Rich, why did you turn tail to the enemy when you first contacted him?”
Richardson was surprised at the question. “That was agreed procedure, sir,” he said. “We made first contact, so we have to trail and avoid getting too close ourselves.”
“It looked as if you were avoiding combat. But now you’re closing in again, and you’re getting in among the islands, too. I don’t like it, Rich, it’s too shallow. Our charts aren’t that good.”
He spoke rapidly. His voice had a nervous quality.
Richardson stared his amazement. It wouldn’t do to let Buck Williams or the lookouts hear this exchange. He crowded over toward Blunt, dropped his voice, “Commodore, this is actually the deepest place in this whole section of the Yellow Sea! Take a look at the chart. These islands are narrow pinnacles coming up out of the bottom. It’s over fifty fathoms where we are right this minute! Besides, there’s plenty of sea room around and between these islands. We can see them on radar, and we can see them with the naked eye. This is our chance, sir. Your chance to start this patrol off with a real bang!”
“We’re on the surface too close to land, Rich,” muttered Blunt. “What if a plane takes off from one of these islands to provide air cover?”
“They’ll never see us at night, Commodore. We’ll soon merge in with the land return of these islands so their radar won’t work, either!” Richardson terminated the exchange by putting his binoculars to his eyes. Fighting the ship was his responsibility, not the wolfpack commander’s. Later there might be more to discuss, even recriminations, but this was out of place now. The sweep of events was beginning to move too rapidly.
Eel was again at full speed, throwing spray from both bows. Holding the now clearly outlined bulk of a relatively steep, slab-sided land mass on her starboard bow, she raced to regain contact on the other side. In the meantime Keith was sending another message to the other two submarines. When contact was regained, the message explained, Eel would slow down again, remain close inshore, wait until the convoy had passed on ahead, and then follow from astern at a greater distance.
In between observations of the convoy the radar kept swinging about, searching in all directions. It was during one of these searches that Rich saw the wolfpack training bearing fruit.
“Radar contact!” Rogers’ boyish voice. He had relieved Quin when the tracking party was called. Rich could hear him clearly, without benefit of speaker.
“Radar contact, bearing two-zero-zero! He’s got a radar too. I think it’s the Chicolar!”
“I’ll check it, sir.” Keith. In a moment the exec reported, “It is the Chicolar, Captain. He acknowledges with his radar.”
During convoy college a means had been devised for handling the radar of two submarines for precisely this eventuality. “Now that we have him on the radar, Captain, I’ll give him a vector to the target.”
In a few moments Keith’s voice again on the bridge speaker, “Bridge, conn, tallyho from Chicolar. He’s going in on our vector, figuring to pick them up on his own radar on the way.”
This was, of course, just like Les Hartly. Richardson would never have attacked with so little information on the target. He was surprised to hear Blunt mutter approvingly.
Once out from behind the island, and again with a good radar contact on the enemy convoy, Eel slowed down, closed the island shoreline. Her diesels growling softly, she lay to in the quiet water, her stern again toward the enemy. Her radar still ceaselessly patrolled the night, and short contact reports still went out to Whitefish.
Chicolar, now in contact on her own, needed no further information except possibly early notification of any change in enemy course and speed. In any case, she would be monitoring the transmissions to Whitefish.
“Captain”—Keith’s voice on the speaker—“We’ve got the whole picture on the PPI ’scope. Chicolar is going in on their port bow, and she’s about ten thousand yards from firing position right now.”
“Commodore,” said Richardson, “why don’t you go down and watch it? I can’t because it would hurt my night vision. We’ll go to battle stations as soon as Chicolar finishes. . . .”
Blunt dropped down th
e hatch. Several more minutes passed.
“Bridge, conn! Target has zigged to his left!” This was bad. If it zigged far enough, this could put Chicolar dead ahead, and the leading escort would be upon her in a matter of minutes.
“Bridge, conn. Target course checks at two-four-five! Chicolar is now sharp on their port bow!”
Richardson had to fight the impulse to run down below to see for himself. He could visualize the situation well enough. The enemy bearing, which had steadily been drawing left for Chicolar, had suddenly stopped drawing to the left and was now steady. Because of Les Hartly’s approach technique, they were almost dead ahead of him. The target was coming directly for Chicolar, making eleven knots, and Chicolar was heading for the target at twenty knots.
He grabbed the bridge microphone, “Commodore!” he yelled. “Recommend an emergency message to Chicolar! Target is heading right for him!” Chicolar had held radar contact on the enemy such a short time that his plotting party could not yet have fully assessed the enemy’s zigzag plan. He very likely would not discover the sudden deterioration of the situation until long after Eel’s tracking party had seen it in their plot.
No answer from the conning tower. The commodore must be there. Keith, alone, would have answered immediately. If necessary he would have sent the message in name of the wolfpack commander. There was no time to lose, not even time to encode a message in their simple wolfpack code.
“Keith!” bellowed Richardson. “Emergency message to Chicolar!” No answer. Cursing, Rich shouted to Williams, “Take the conn, Buck! I’m going below!” He dashed down the ladder, rushed to the after part of the conning tower.
The commodore’s squat bulk blocked the radar. He had pushed both Rogers and Keith aside, was staring at the PPI ’scope. Its hood had been removed. In his right hand he held the radio transmitter microphone. Keith, his eyes much bigger than usual, looked at him helplessly.
“Commodore! We’ve got to warn Les!”
Blunt did not move. Peering over his shoulder at the unhooded ’scope, Richardson could take in the entire panorama of disaster at a glance: the single gleaming pip with swirling, spiral-dotted radar indications emanating from it; and only a little distance beyond, three or four miles on the radar ’scope, six pips arranged like the head of an arrow—three large pips in a column, three small ones in a triangle formation around the leading pip—headed directly for the pip that was Chicolar.
“What did Blunt say?” he hissed to Keith.
“Nothing,” whispered Keith. “He hasn’t said anything. He just grabbed the radio mike and won’t let it go.”
Richardson turned to Blunt, “Commodore, there’s barely time—he can still dive. . . .” He reached for the microphone, grabbed it. Blunt’s fingers were clenched. No time to wrestle for it. Rich fumbled for the button, leaned over, shouted into the microphone, “Les, this is Joe. Emergency! Zero angle on the bow! Get out of there! Les, this is Joe. Emergency! Zero angle on the bow!” He repeated the message twice. Still no sign from Blunt. He could feel Keith crowded against his right shoulder. Rogers, too, on the other side. The range could now be no more than three miles.
Some division was occurring in the enemy convoy. The three smaller pips continued as before, but the three larger ones, still in column, were drifting to the right. In a minute the shaft of the arrow had broken away from its head, had headed up more to the north. The three little ones, however, were converging directly upon the little pip from which the dotted sweeping wand of radar emanated.
“Captain!” Buck Williams’ voice on the bridge microphone. “Gun fire to the north!”
“All ahead flank! Right full rudder!” shouted Richardson. He broke away from the group in the conning tower, dashed to the bridge. “Buck,” he said, “I’ll take back the conn. Sound battle stations, and take your post on the TDC. Get your gun crews ready also. They’re shelling the Chicolar. We’ll have to go and help.”
“Roger, Captain. We’re lying with our head one-seven-oh, all stop, except for your last order.”
“Right, Buck. I have the conn. . . . Keep your rudder right full!”
“Can you see all right, sir? Maybe I’d better stay up with you a few minutes.”
“Okay, Buck, do that. Go ahead and sound battle stations anyway, right away.”
The pealing notes of the general alarm rang through Eel. Within seconds the report came up. “Battle stations manned and ready!”
“Conn!” Richardson shouted into his bridge microphone. “Range and bearing of Chicolar!”
There was some delay. Finally Keith replied, “Range to Chicolar, eleven thousand yards!”
“Buck!” said Richardson savagely, “I can see well enough up here! Get down there and get Blunt away from the radar!”
Williams dashed below.
“Helm!” Richardson called down the hatch to the helmsman, “make your new course three-five-zero!”
“Three-five-zero, aye.” Scott. The helm was his battle station. Richardson did not know the exact bearing of Chicolar, but 350 would do for a start. He picked up the microphone, “Conn, bridge; bearing and range to Chicolar!”
“Three-four-five, Bridge. Range eleven thousand two hundred.”
“Steady on three-four-five, helm!” ordered Richardson.
Under the thrust of four suddenly aroused diesels, Eel was picking up speed swiftly, curving to the right, straightening out on the ordered course. Up ahead Richardson could see flashes on the horizon.
Damn Les Hartly and his all out bows-on approach! This was exactly the situation which had been predicted, and now he was caught! Maybe Eel could get there in time to create a diversion, but Chicolar needed only one shell through her pressure hull to end her career. He leaned over, pressed the bridge speaker button. “All hands hear this,” he said. “Chicolar has been caught on the surface by enemy tincans. They are shelling her now. We’re going over to try to help. Gun crews stand by in the control room and crew’s mess!”
Rich was conscious that the battle lookouts, men specially designated to take lookout stations during surface action and who were also trained to operate the two bridge forty-millimeter guns and the twenty-millimeter pair, were coming up one after the other and taking their stations.
Al Dugan would be coming shortly, was there. “I’ll keep the deck, Al,” he said. “You run the routine. If we can get close enough to open fire with all weapons, maybe we can take the heat off Chicolar and they can dive.”
“What are you going to do about the convoy, Rich? Are you going to let them get away?” Blunt’s voice. He had again come on the bridge without anyone being aware of it. “Rich,” he went on, “I have a report to make about your executive officer. I want you to relieve him of duty and confine him to his room. He was insolent to me just now, pushed me, even.”
Rich could feel his eyes narrowing. He answered rapidly, “Can we talk about that later, sir? We’ve got to see what we can do to help Chicolar!”
“That’s what I mean,” said Blunt, shifting back to the first subject as though he had never mentioned the second. “We’ve got three ships now that are about to get away. They’re unescorted, too. Those are our targets. That’s what we came out here for. Leave the Chicolar. Go after them. That’s an order, Richardson!”
“Commodore, the Chicolar is worth a dozen of those old ships! She’s in trouble!”
“You heard me, Richardson! The Chicolar can take care of herself. You go after those three ships. Do I make myself clear?”
“Bridge”—this was Keith on the speaker—“Chicolar has dived.”
“Keith, what’s the range and bearing of the convoy?”
“Convoy has reversed course, Bridge. They bear zero-zero-zero, thirteen thousand yards, course zero-nine-zero, speed twelve.” In one way Blunt was correct. Unescorted, the three freighters, or whatever they were, would be easy meat.
No doubt the three escort ships would depth charge the area where Chicolar had dived. They would be out of action for s
ome time. Whatever Eel did had to be done immediately.
Raising his voice, Rich shouted into the bridge hatch, “Come right to zero-three-zero. . . . Keith,” he said into the hand mike, “give me a course to intercept the convoy.”
“Zero-three-zero looks good, Bridge!”
In the distance, far on the port beam, the flashes of gunfire had ceased. Richardson could hear the detonations of explosions. No doubt they were depth charges. Keith confirmed it. “We can hear distant depth charges below,” he reported.
Richardson’s night vision was returning rapidly. At ten thousand yards he could see the dark blobs of three ships on his port bow. With her superior speed Eel drew abreast of them, maintaining her distance.
“Conn, bridge. Target course?”
“Steady on zero-nine-zero, Bridge,” Keith responded. “Convoy is not zigzagging. Three ships in column. Speed twelve.”
Obviously they were trying to make as much distance away from the scene of action as they could. Anticipating only a single submarine in the area, they had ceased to zigzag, had probably gone to emergency speed. Rapidly Eel opened out on the convoy’s starboard bow.
“We’ll fire two fish at each ship,” Rich said to Keith. “Give me a course for a ninety track on the middle ship. We’ll shoot all fish to hit, and take them in order from forward aft.”
“Aye aye, Captain. Looks pretty good right now, sir; come on around anytime. Recommend course north.”
All this time Eel had been plying along at nearly twenty knots through a calm, motionless, almost oily sea. Richardson felt again the curious sense of detachment he always felt at just this moment. “Stand by,” he ordered. “Left full rudder. Helm, make your new course zero-zero-zero! . . . All right, Keith,” he called into the bridge microphone, “we’re making our approach now. Call out the ranges as we come in!”
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