The periscope was under more than it was out of water. Richardson’s view of the enemy ship was a series of fleeting glimpses rather than a steady inspection. At this close range, better perspective was provided by the periscope in low power. The tincan was new-looking—war-construction obviously—painted overall a dull gray. Her most outstanding feature was the characteristically Japanese undulating deck line—extra design and construction effort with no apparent operational payoff. The deck curved sharply upward at the bow, which was widely flared for seakeeping ability, and upon the forecastle was mounted a large, long-barreled, destroyer-type deck gun. Her hull was metal—the welding seams and characteristic “oil-canning” of the thin steel were clear to be seen—but the heavy, squat bridge structure and mast appeared to be of wood. Between waves rolling over the periscope, Richardson could see the bridge personnel, all staring aft, some with binoculars. Men on deck and around the now empty depth charge racks were also staring over the stern into the water, obviously waiting for the depth charges to detonate. Abaft the mast was a single, exaggeratedly fat, stubby stack projecting from a low deckhouse, but no smoke or exhaust gases could be seen issuing from it. On the contrary, an exhaust of some kind was coming out from a large black opening in the side of the ship under the after portion of the main deck.
There was a sudden appearance of instantaneous immobility in the sea, and almost simultaneously a crashing roar filled the submarine. Several tremendous shocks in succession were transmitted to Eel’s stout hide. The giant outside was wielding his sledgehammer with gusto. The periscope quivered, vibrated strongly against his eyes. Fortunately, the eyepiece was surrounded with a heavy rubber buffer, shaped partly to protect the user’s eyes from stray light and partly to give him a firm ridge against which to press the soft flesh between his eyes and their bony sockets. The story would later be told how Richardson had stood at his periscope in the midst of a depth charge attack which had Eel resounding throughout like a tremendous steel drum, her sturdy body whipped and tortured, her machinery damaged from the heavy shocks. The fact was he had the advantage, possessed by no one else in the submarine, of seeing the depth charges dropped and knowing they were clear astern. Noisy they might be, but dangerous they were not—at least not much. And once they began to explode, the ice broken, as it were, they were only an annoyance.
But there must be some way to bring this sea dance to an end. Those depth charge racks would take some time to refill. Maybe now was the time. The tincan skipper would try to ram if he saw the submarine. Perhaps he should have a point of aim.
“All ahead two-thirds! Left full rudder—ease your rudder—amidships—meet her—steady as you go!”
“Steady on two-six-eight-a-half,” from Cornelli at the helm.
“Steer two-seven-zero.” That would make it easier on the plot and everyone concerned.
Eel and the escort were now on nearly opposite courses. Soon the escort would turn, come back to the scene of the depth charge attack, try to regain sonar contact, look hopefully for signs of success. Range by periscope stadimeter was 1,000 yards . . . 1,400 yards. She must turn soon, was turning, with rudder hard over, listing to starboard. Increased exhaust smoke was coming out of her sides; her engines had speeded up. She came all the way around. Eel was making five knots; her periscope must be throwing up a perceptible feather.
“Angle on the bow, starboard ten.” The periscope was leaking. Perhaps the vibration during the depth charging had loosened the seal rings through which it passed at the top of the conning tower. A rivulet of water trickled down on Richardson’s forehead, between his eyes. Another splatted on the top of his head and down the back of his neck. “Range—mark!” he said. “Down ’scope. Get me a rain hat!”
“One-seven-five-oh.” Someone handed him a towel. Blunt. He had been standing silently in the conning tower for minutes, perhaps hours. Not a word was said. Scott passed over one of the baseball hats which a number of the crew had been wearing. It had a long broad bill—just right. He put it on backward.
The TDC was whining. “Need an observation,” said Buck Williams.
“Up ’scope—angle on the bow, port five.”
“Range one-six-five-oh,” said Keith.
“Set,” said Buck. “He must still be zigzagging. That changed the gyro from right four and a half to left three.”
Not good enough. The escort had to be on a steady course to ensure the torpedo would hit. Mush Morton in the Wahoo had once faced such a situation, although with more torpedoes. So had Roy Benson in an early patrol in Trigger. Both reported that the destroyer needed a point of aim to steady on, and they had held their periscopes up to provide one with the result that the destroyer had rushed directly at them, and was met by a salvo of torpedoes. The “down-the-throat” shot had not been at all popular with submarine skippers, however. It was undeniably risky, downright hairy. Only one of Wahoo’s torpedoes had hit out of six fired. Trigger’s had exploded prematurely. But torpedo performance was now vastly improved.
“We have to get this over with,” said Richardson. “This periscope has been up for a long time, and we must be making a big feather, but he doesn’t act as if he sees it. . . . Control, make your depth four-two feet!” He felt water running off the cap and down the sides of his face, salt trickling into his mouth. Eel’s deck tilted upward slightly, and he had to rotate the hand grip in his left hand to stay on the escort. He had not looked around recently. This would be the time to do it. The pressure of water against the periscope at five knots, which made it more difficult to turn, would be eliminated with the top of the shears five feet above the surface. The little rivulet of water running down the side of the periscope seemed diabolically to follow him no matter on what bearing he looked. He made two swift circles, settled back on the escort. The exercise of walking it around had brought an added dividend, a tiny modicum of relief from the overpowering weariness.
“Four-two feet, Conn,” said Al Dugan.
He felt high out of water. His eye—the tip of the periscope—was now nearly twenty-five feet above the water. Five feet of the conical periscope shears would also be exposed. The escort would see this, would assume the submarine had been damaged, had perhaps lost control, broached, and was either trying to surface or struggling to get back down again.
“Bearing, mark!” he snapped. “What’s the course for a zero gyro angle, zero angle on the bow?”
“Bearing zero-nine-three. Recommend course two-seven-three, Skipper.” Keith.
“Come right to course two-seven-three!”
“Right to course two-seven-three—steady on two-seven-three.” Cornelli spoke loudly from the forward part of the conning tower.
Shadows were lengthening. There was a flash—orange mixed with red—from the forecastle of the escort. A gun. There was another flash. They must be shooting at the periscope. Hastily Richardson swung the periscope all the way around, searching for splashes, saw none. “They’ve seen us now,” he said. “Control, make your depth six-oh feet. Down periscope!” In a moment he would raise the periscope again, but it was a relief to wipe his streaming face. The conning tower had been darkened, all white lights extinguished. His right eye, accustomed to the much brighter, though waning, light topside, was virtually blind. The pupil of his left eye had no doubt narrowed sympathetically, for he found himself fumbling among the familiar objects and people.
“Six-oh feet, Conn.”
“Up ’scope.” He would leave it up, provide a point of aim which would irresistibly draw the escort directly for it in an attempt to ram. If the escort would stop zigzagging, the result would be a perfect down-the-throat shot. He would have to take a chance with his periscope, pray that a lucky shot would not strike it.
“We’re ready aft,” said Keith. “Torpedo run is one thousand yards. Gyro is exactly one-eight-oh. Are you on the bearing?”
The periscope vertical cross hair was bisecting the escort’s bridge, lay exactly in line with her stem and stick-mast. She looked
disproportionately—ridiculously—broad. There was another orange flash on the forecastle, hidden partially by the high raked bow, now that Richardson’s periscope-eye view had returned to a more normal six feet. She had not wavered for several seconds, no doubt had ceased zigzagging, probably had increased speed.
“Make her speed fifteen knots,” he said. “Bearing, mark!”
“One-eight-oh-a-half.”
“Cornelli”—he raised his voice so the helmsman could hear clearly—“steer two-seven-three-a-half.” He watched as his periscope cross hair drifted slowly to the right, until it was just clear of the escort’s port side. He brought it back until it lined up once again with stem and mast.
“Bearing, mark!” he said again. He could feel the pressure mounting, the taut stillness in the conning tower, the unblinking eyes staring at him, the dry throats and nervous lips which must go with their alacrity in carrying out his orders. The electric torpedoes would show no wakes. Not knowing it had been shot at, the escort would not try to avoid. If they missed, she would come relentlessly on and pass directly overhead in her attempt to ram. In any case, recognizing that the sub must be at or very near periscope depth, she would know exactly what depth setting to use on the inevitable barrage of depth charges. There had not been time for an entire salvo of charges to be made ready, but undoubtedly several of them had already been wrestled into the racks for an immediate re-attack.
“Torpedo run, seven-fifty yards!” Buck Williams’ clipped voice was not that of the irreverent youth who had disobeyed him when the Kona wave had been about to strike.
“Shoot!”
“Fire nine!” shouted Keith, Buck, and Quin almost simultaneously, the last into his telephone mouthpiece. He barely felt the jolt as a burst of high pressure air ejected the torpedo. With any speed on, ejection aft was always facilitated. He must leave the periscope up for another few seconds to keep the escort running true, headed for it, not zigzagging.
“Can’t hear the torpedo aft in the screws,” said Stafford.
“Torpedo fired electrically,” said Quin.
“Running time thirty-three seconds,” said Lasche.
“Steady on two-seven-three-a-half,” said Cornelli.
“That looked like a beautiful shot, Skipper,” said Keith quietly. “Fifteen seconds to go.”
Someone was counting the seconds in a loud voice. Larry. The escort had grown perceptibly larger. There was another flash from the forecastle. This time Rich saw the splash as the periscope went through it, a vertical column of water high enough to hide the frigate momentarily from his view. The shell must have missed the periscope barrel by only a few inches. It was fortunate that on a moving ship the gunner’s aim was probably being thrown off just a little.
“Twenty-five,” said Larry, counting from his plotting table.
Richardson could feel the perspiration on his forehead, around his eyes, on the palms of his hands. Eel was still making two-thirds speed, and the periscope vibrated gently against his right eye. Surprisingly, it was painful.
The escort was now filling the entire field of the periscope in high power, the slope of its sides barely discernible on either side. It looked curiously flat. The single eyepiece of the periscope gave no depth. Seemingly a very short distance behind its bow, although he knew it to be a full third of the tincan’s length, the square-windowed bridge of the little ship filled what was left of the field of view.
“Thirty-three,” said Lasche. “Thirty-four.”
“It must have missed,” said Keith. How could he speak so calmly!
Nothing else to do. Richardson had not intended to use both of his remaining torpedoes on a single ordinary escort. He had hoped to occupy both of the antisubmarine craft, but had failed in that as well. Now he had no choice. It was even unlikely Eel could go deep enough in the short time remaining to clear the escort’s sharp bow. No doubt it had been specially strengthened for ramming, as had the bows of American escorts. “Stand by number ten!”
Richardson lined the periscope exactly on the target’s bow. “One-eight-oh,” said Keith.
“Shoot!” He uttered the word with finality. It carried with it a sense of being the last cast of the die. Eel had nothing left to fight with. If this torpedo missed, it was a certainty that in a few more seconds her periscopes would be knocked over, the shears bent or broken off, perhaps even the conning tower ruptured.
“. . . Fired electrically,” said Quin.
“Run, four-five-oh yards.” Keith. “Running time, twenty-three seconds.”
He should start to go deep, but it would do no good. No matter what, the stern would remain near the surface for a while. Better take the blow on the periscope shears than the rudder and propellers. Ten seconds more to go. Five seconds.
Something was happening to the tincan’s bow. It shook perceptibly. The bridge structure, which had seemed so close behind the stem, had been replaced by a solid column of white water, stained by a vertical streak of blackness in its center. Simultaneously, the shock of the explosion slammed into the submarine’s conning tower, and an instant later the noise—a bellowing cataclysmic thunderclap—came in.
The escort’s stem shivered again, more slowly, then began to twist to the left and at the same time sag deeper in the water. Before Richardson’s eyes it leaned to starboard and quickly slid under water. The last thing he saw was a relatively large unbroken expense of forecastle deck, on which some kind of capstan and anchor equipment was clearly visible, as the shattered bow, torn completely loose from the remainder of the ship by the force of the explosion, swiftly disappeared.
He flipped the periscope to low power. The explosion must have taken place under the keel and just forward of the bridge, for the bridge structure could still be seen, horribly shattered, all its windows smashed, the neat square outline now buckled and twisted. The rest of the ship, too, was sinking fast. He could see her stern elevated above the top of the bridge structure, and the base of the bridge itself was already well under water. He swung the periscope around twice, swiftly. Nothing else in sight. “Surface!” he ordered. “Four engines! Here, Keith, you take the periscope!”
Men were cheering in the conning tower and below in the control room. Someone thrust a towel at him to wipe his face. Several of the conning tower crew, completely forgetting naval protocol, were pounding him on the back, shouting words in his face, grasping at him to touch him, almost caress him. Dimly he was aware of air blasts from the control room, the lifting strain of the ballast tanks. Scott handed him a foul-weather jacket, followed it with his binoculars.
“Thirty feet,” someone called. “Twenty-six feet and holding.”
“Bow’s out! Stern’s out. All clear all around,” shouted Keith.
“Open the hatch!”
Scott spun the hand wheel. It banged open with a crash. A torrent of air blasted out of it, lifting him. Richardson leaped to the bridge, ignoring the cascade of water still pouring from the periscope shears and bridge overhang. Swiftly he scanned the skies with his binoculars. Nothing in sight. “Lookouts!” he shouted. “Open the induction!” Clank of the induction valve. Gouts of black exhaust mixed with water from four main engine mufflers.
“I’ll take the deck, Captain,” said Al Dugan. “Keith gave me the course. He’s laying out the search for the convoy right now. You need some rest, sir; why don’t you go below and sack out for a while?”
Gratefully Richardson turned over the details of the bridge watch to Dugan. Perhaps he would take his advice, but for the moment he could not feel weary. His binoculars settled for a long lingering minute on the destroyed escort. She was now vertical in the water, almost fully submerged except for a small section of the stern. Men were bobbing in the water around her. Someone was standing on top of the stern itself, and as Richardson watched, made a headlong dive into the sea. Among the debris that floated around the swiftly submerging hulk were two life rafts and what looked like an overturned lifeboat. On her new course, Eel would pass within h
alf a mile of the spot. There was nothing he could do to help. He must pursue the remaining ships, endeavor to turn them back somehow, somehow bring Whitefish back into contact.
The stern of the escort had disappeared. A plume of white water burst from the spot where she had sunk. A great white mushroom boiled up, covered the entire area. The crash of the exploding depth charges stunned his ears. When the white, watery mushroom, fifty feet in height and a hundred feet in diameter, had disappeared, there was not even debris left in sight. No doubt much would rise to the surface to mark the grave of the little ship, but there could not possibly be any survivors.
All the lookouts, Scott, and even Al Dugan were mesmerized, awestricken at what they had seen.
“Mind your business, all of you,” shouted Richardson. “You lookouts get on your sectors! If there’s a plane around, he’ll be coming over to see what happened!” His own guilt at having overlong inspected the result of his handiwork was expressing itself in unnecessary railing at his crew for the all-too-human fault of doing the same thing. Guiltily, they all swung back into their proper search arcs.
“Sorry, Skipper,” muttered Dugan, with his binoculars to his eyes ostentatiously surveying another portion of the horizon. Richardson as swiftly felt remorse at his outburst. He could not bring himself to talk, squeezed Dugan’s arm by way of acknowledgment.
Al Dugan dared to put down his binoculars, turned squarely to face Richardson. “Skipper,” he said, “you’re beat to a frazzle. You’ve got to get some rest. Besides, you ought to look at yourself in a mirror. Do you realize you have a black eye?”
This too would be added to the legend. The vibration of the periscope against his eye during the depth charging, even though it had been protected by a rubber buffer, had been sufficiently strong and prolonged to bruise the tender skin. The result was a perfect black eye, a regulation “shiner” in all respects save the manner in which it was acquired. Little he could do about it, he reflected, as he washed his face at last at the fold-up wash basin beneath his medicine cabinet. He plunged his face deep into the dripping washcloth, bathed it first with hot water and then with cold, rubbed it vigorously. The fatigue lines stood out clearly. His bunk beckoned. It would be so restful to lie there, if only for half an hour! But he dared not. Another cup of coffee, a hasty sandwich, and Richardson was back in the conning tower. He must be alert the moment a message arrived from Whitefish, must supervise the search for the fleeing convoy, must show Blunt where to station Whitefish for one final effort.
Dust on the Sea Page 41