“Smoke on the horizon, Captain. Bearing is one-five-oh. I think we see masts of two ships down there.” Richardson had deliberately used the old title of long-ago memories. “We’ve put the boat on course one-five-oh, so they’re dead ahead. I’ve just taken a look around. There’s nothing in sight on any other bearing. We’re four miles off the beach, but there’s plenty of sea room except to the east. The ship is obviously rounding this point of land. Also, we’ve sighted aircraft three times to the south this morning. It was last seen about an hour ago, evidently carrying out an antisub sweep. Estimated closest point of approach was about ten miles, and I think we’re outside the limit of his search pattern. It looks like two ships up ahead, one smoking fairly heavily. The other one is smaller and is probably an escort of some kind.”
As he spoke, Richardson had been fumbling with the dials on the Is-Was, putting the setup on it. He held it out so that Blunt could see. In the meantime Keith had slipped behind them to the rear of the conning tower, where he busied himself with setting up the situation statically on the TDC, not yet turning it on.
“The periscope is on the bearing of the target, Captain,” Rich said. “It’s been three minutes since the last observation.”
The inference was too strong, the hint too obvious, the playing of the role too natural and direct. Almost instinctively, and obviously without giving it any analysis other than that the situation seemed to call for, Blunt gave the order which was so strongly indicated. “Up periscope,” he said.
Richardson arranged himself on the opposite side of the periscope, squatting on his heels, flipped the handles down when it came out of the well, carefully kept his hands well inside the control ends of the periscope handles. Almost from reflex action, Blunt also squatted down, put his hands on the outer ends of the control handles as Rich flipped them into position, fixed his eye to the eyepiece, and rose with it to a standing position.
“Masts in line,” said Blunt. “One escort. Bearing, mark! Main target!” Swiftly he spun the periscope completely around, snapped up the handles. It disappeared into the well. “Angle on the bow zero, estimated range twelve thousand,” said Blunt. “I can just see the tops of his bridge. He’s belching occasional clouds of black or brown smoke. A single escort patrolling ahead.”
“Anything else in sight, sir?” said Rich.
“No. I took a look around. All clear. No aircraft in sight.”
“Captain, we have two fish left forward, and a full set of tubes aft. Recommend we try for a stern tube shot.”
Blunt’s face suddenly looked younger as he curtly acknowledged the information. “At fifteen knots, how long will it take them to get here?” he asked.
A ship making fifteen knots goes 1500 yards in three minutes, or 500 yards in one minute. Rich was accustomed to making the calculation. “Twenty-four minutes, Captain,” he said. “But he’s probably not going that fast, and he’s probably zigging besides. At twelve knots it will take him a half hour to get here. We’re moving toward him at two knots, however, so if we don’t maneuver, it will cut the time down by about four minutes.”
Keith had started up the TDC. The familiar whirring filled the conning tower, receded into the background of their notice. Blunt and Richardson crowded into the after part of the conning tower with Keith to look at it.
“It sure was a good idea to move this thing up here,” said Blunt. “I never did know what you fellows were doing with it down in the control room.”
“Doing our best to keep up with you up here in the conning tower, Skipper,” said Rich. “Remember those letters you used to write recommending it be moved to where the approach officer could also see it? Well, now it’s been done, and you’ve got one. Shall I sound the general alarm, sir?”
“Time since the last look?” rasped Blunt.
“Two minutes.”
“I’ll take another look first. Up ’scope.”
Rich could see the habit of command returning, the practiced skill of the consummately perfect approach officer which he had been, lying dormant all these years through disuse, now, palpably, returning undiminished.
The periscope handles came up; the same routines. “Bearing, mark!” snapped Blunt. “No zig. Down scope! Angle on the bow still zero!”
Richardson had his hand on the general alarm switch box, was looking at Blunt. This was almost like one of the old drills in the Octopus. He had done it so many times just this way. “Sound the general alarm,” said Blunt. He cranked the toggle.
As the notes of the general alarm gong resounded throughout the ship, Richardson said, “We’re pretty deep, Captain. Do you think we could get a stadimeter range if we brought her up a couple of feet?”
“Let’s try,” said Blunt. “What’s the ordered depth?”
“Six-five feet. That’s only a foot and a half of periscope out of water.”
“Very well,” said Blunt. He crossed to the control room hatch, stood aside to let Buck Williams scramble up, peered down. Al Dugan was just arriving at his station. “Make your depth six-two feet,” he said.
“Six-two feet, aye aye!”
The depth gauge needle in the conning tower began to creep upward, settled at the new depth. In the meantime men had come jumping out of their bunks, tumbling up the ladder from the control room, manning their stations. It was all so familiar to Richardson. The crews of Eel and Walrus had done it all so many times before. So had the Octopus crew. Though the locale was slightly different because Octopus was an older boat, nevertheless the action was so very much the same. “The boat is manned and ready,” he reported. “One minute since the last observation. Recommend a quick look around during the next observation.”
Blunt nodded. “Estimated range?” he demanded.
“Using fifteen knots I’m reading one-oh-five-double-oh yards, Captain,” said Keith, “but all I’ve got is an estimate to start it on. Buck is taking over the TDC.”
Richardson was glad to see Keith also falling into the scenario.
“I’ll take a quick look around, then drop the ’scope on the bearing. When I run it up again we’ll go for a stadimeter range. Are you ready, Rich?”
“Ready,” said Rich and Buck almost simultaneously.
“Very well. Up periscope!”
The Old Man will have aching leg muscles tonight, thought Richardson, but he’s spinning that thing around just the way he used to. The thought warmed him, reinforced him in the correctness of his decision. He centered the periscope dead ahead as Blunt snapped the handles up, squatted on his heels before it as it went down, watched Blunt’s face. When he saw the command in the eyes under the shaggy eyebrows, he signaled abruptly for it to be stopped.
“I can see the top of his superstructure,” said Blunt. “Use masthead height forty feet, from the tip of his mast to the top of his stack.”
“Ready,” said Rich.
“Up ’scope,” said Blunt. “Bearing, mark! It’s a zig.” Swiftly he turned the range-finder wheel. “Range, mark!” Richardson followed the indicator dial with his eyes and his finger. The periscope handles were up. The ’scope was on its way down.
“Nine-six-double-oh!” said Rich.
“Left full rudder,” barked Blunt. “All ahead standard! A zig to his right. Angle on the bow is port thirty.”
“Distance to the track is forty-eight hundred,” said Rich. “You caught him right on the point of the zig.” He was turning the dials of the Is-Was as he spoke. “Normal approach course zero-six-one,” he said. “Target bears one-five-one. Recommend we split the difference and steady on one-zero-six. Looks like he really means to hug the coast. We can’t run long on this course. Neither can he, really!”
“Make your new course one-zero-six,” ordered Blunt in a very precise tone.
“One-zero-six, aye aye,” responded Cornelli, who had taken his station on the helm.
“Was that a good range, Captain?” asked Rich.
“Yes, good range.”
Buck said, “He’s either g
oing faster, or the initial range was less. I’ve been using fifteen knots on the TDC.”
“I don’t think he’s making as much as fifteen knots. Probably the initial range estimate was too high,” Blunt said crisply. “Maybe it’s a smaller ship than we figured.”
“Using twelve knots then, sir. Recommend another observation at three minutes more for the first speed check.”
“Can’t do it,” said Rich; “we’re making too much speed.”
“I’ll take a look at six minutes,” said Blunt. “When should I take the speed off her?”
“We’ll have finished our turn, but we’ll only have been up to speed for about three minutes, Captain. If he zigs away again, that might put us out in left field,” said Rich, “but it’s not likely with him already so close to shore.” He had made the identical speech to Blunt many times during the practice approaches of years past.
“How long was he on the previous course?” asked Blunt.
“This was the first zig we’ve seen,” replied Rich. “About twelve minutes after first sighting.”
“Very well, I’ll run for nine minutes. I want to get on the track anyhow to be in shape for a stern tube shot. We’ll still be seven thousand yards off the beach. Tell the diving officer I will use a backing bell to get the way off her quickly.”
Richardson crossed to the control room hatch, squatted down, relayed the instructions to Al Dugan, who had mounted partway up the ladder. “No sweat,” said Al, “but don’t let speed drop below two knots, okay? . . . Is the commodore making the approach all the way in?” The last portion of his speech was made in a much lower tone, intended only for Richardson’s ears.
“Yes. He deserves it after all these years in the boats.” Rising, Richardson strode back to the after part of the conning tower, where Blunt had crowded in behind Buck and Keith. “Dugan has the word about backing down, sir,” said Rich; “he asks we not reduce speed below two knots so he won’t lose depth control.” Blunt, concentrating with absorbed interest upon the dials of the TDC, nodded shortly. “Should we pass the word to the ship’s company what’s going on, sir? Would you like to do it, or shall I?”
“You do it,” Blunt said, not taking his eyes away from the face of the TDC.
“Now hear this,” said Richardson into the general announcing system microphone. “We have a single ship up here with one escort. No sign of air coverage. Weather is calm, visibility excellent. Captain Blunt is making the approach, and we plan to shoot stern tubes if possible. He was my skipper on the old Octopus, which was lost just at the start of the war, and he was the man who qualified me in submarines. This is one for our old ship and our old shipmates.” He paused a moment, was about to hang the microphone back on its hook, changed his mind. “There is a single escort patrolling ahead. We will rig for depth charge, and probably go to silent running just before making the attack.” He replaced the microphone in its bracket, checked his watch as he rejoined the group behind the TDC.
“Five minutes since the last look,” said Buck. “We’re showing thirty-nine hundred yards to the track now.”
“What should the range be after nine minutes?”
Blunt was obviously making the calculations in his own head at the same time as he asked the questions. The lightning approximation of critical distances and angles was one of the most valued of submarine approach techniques, nurtured from years of practice. At the same time, one always demanded the answers from one’s approach party, partly for training and partly to guard against any possible error or misunderstanding. The two requirements had evolved into a habit cultivated by all submariners. Richardson could almost see the wheels turning inside the minds of both Buck and Keith as he also made the calculation. Nine minutes at six knots would be 1,800 yards for Eel, but since part of the time had been spent turning and speeding up, 1,400 yards would be a better estimate. Eel was making seven-tenths of that distance good toward the target: a thousand yards. At twelve knots the target had time to cover 3,600 yards, about 85 percent of it effective toward shortening the range. Say 3,100 yards, plus the thousand Eel would be traveling toward her. After nine minutes the range would be reduced by about 4,100 yards.
“About fifty-five hundred if he’s making twelve knots,” said Buck.
Keith nodded. “About the same,” he said.
“Fifty-six hundred by plot,” said Lasche.
A gratified look played about the corners of Blunt’s mouth. Richardson nodded also. “I’d make it fifty-seven hundred, Captain, allowing a little more for our maneuvers,” he said. “But not many old Jap freighters make twelve knots.”
“Well, the big ones can,” said Blunt, “and that convoy yesterday made seventeen. But you’re right. This fellow is medium size, and he’s sending up a lot of smoke. What will the range be if he’s making ten knots?”
It was almost like one of the old drills with Blunt, the skipper and at the same time the training officer, examining his younger trainees. The speed difference—two knots, or 200 yards every three minutes for nine minutes. “About sixty-two hundred yards,” said three voices at once.
“Seven minutes since last look,” said Buck, reading the timer dial on his TDC.
“All stop.” The annunciators clicked. “All back one-third.” They clicked again.
Keith was checking the “own-ship” speed dial on the TDC. “We were right on seven knots,” he said after a moment. “It’s dropping slowly now.” There was a long wait. “Six knots,” said Keith. Another long wait. Richardson could feel tension mounting. The approach was being made by the book. The tactics were exactly right, but a long run toward the track without observation was risky in case the target maneuvered in the meantime. On the other hand, they had caught her just at the turn of the zig. Most zigs lasted at least six minutes, generally longer, and the target had been observed to be on the previous leg of the zig for a much longer period than this. But one never knew what might happen up above. “Five knots,” said Keith.
“All back two-thirds.”
“Eight minutes since last look.”
The range, according to the TDC, was approaching 5,800 yards. It would, of course, be far more accurate than the mental calculations, since Eel’s own course and speed were automatically integrated into the solution. The information as to target speed and course were, by contrast, derived from observation. They were the critical factors. The machine would only solve according to the information put into it.
The drumming of water through the superstructure, of which Richardson had been only subconsciously aware, was reducing. This was always the hardest moment: to make the decisions, to be confident they were the right decisions, and yet to have to wait for them to work out; to know that while judgments were right they could easily be overturned by unanticipated events. For the second time he ran over the check-off list pasted to the side of the TDC. Keith, he noticed, had been doing the same thing. The torpedoes were ready, the depth was set, all necessary data for the patrol report was being recorded. The fathometer had been turned on for a moment, barely long enough to confirm that the depth of water was as shown on the chart. It was not yet time to fire; consequently the outer doors on the torpedo tubes were still closed. The ship had not maneuvered into the firing position, was still on the approach phase. There was much to be done before they could shoot, and a lot would depend upon what the target, unseen for nine minutes, and not yet seen at all (except the masts) by Rich or anyone except Blunt, would do.
“Four knots,” said Keith.
“Eight and a half minutes,” said Buck. “Range by TDC five-six-double-oh.”
Eel’s speed through the water was dropping rapidly now.
“Eight minutes forty-five seconds,” from Buck.
“Speed three knots.”
“All stop!” barked Blunt. He waited a moment, then ordered, “All ahead one-third.”
There were two sets of clinks from the annunciators at the forward end of the conning tower, then Cornelli’s voice, “Answered al
l ahead one-third.”
From below, up through the conning tower hatch, came Al Dugan calling, “Steady on ordered depth, six-two feet.”
“Up periscope,” said Blunt.
“Nine minutes,” said Buck. “Right on.”
“Speed two and a quarter knots,” said Keith.
“What should the target bear?” asked Blunt. He had arranged himself so that when the periscope came up he would be facing about twenty degrees to the right of dead ahead.
“Should bear one-four-three true, zero-three-seven relative.”
“Put me on it,” rasped Blunt. The ’scope was coming up. Rich grabbed the handles, swung them around to the indicated bearing as Blunt applied his forehead to the rubber buffer, rode it up.
“There they are—no zig, bearing, mark!”
“Zero-three-nine,” said Keith, peering at the azimuth circle at the top of the periscope.
“Range—use seventy feet—mark! Down ’scope.” Blunt slapped up the handles, stepped back.
Rich rode the periscope down on the opposite side, reading the dials as it went, pulling his head clear just in time to avoid being struck by the heavy yoke as it descended into the well. “Six-three-double-oh,” he said.
“That was a good range,” said Blunt. “He hasn’t zigged yet. Angle on the bow still port thirty. . . .”
“Should be thirty-three,” said Buck from his TDC.
“Good,” said Blunt. “What speed does that give us?”
“That checks at eleven knots,” said Buck.
“I make it ten and a half knots,” said Larry Lasche from his plot.
“Was that a good range, sir?” asked Rich. “Could you see his waterline?
“Excellent range,” said Blunt. “I could see his waterline clearly. He’s riding low on the water. There’s just a little of his red boot topping showing. It’s an old freighter, probably coal-burning.”
“Can we run a little deeper, sir?”
“Yes, make your depth six-four feet,” commented Blunt. “I want to catch him on the zig. He should be zigging any minute now. How long since we looked?”
Dust on the Sea Page 30