Dust on the Sea (57 page)

“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 half 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.

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B
y midnight
Eel
had covered all the possible positions of the fleeing ships, had they turned eastward anytime before 10 o'clock. Definitely the convoy had not done so. It was Richardson's second night up in a row, and somehow he had found a new source of energy, for the terrible lassitude of the early evening was less evident. Probably he should have turned in, as his officers urged. But the knowledge that part of the Kwantung Army was loose in the Yellow Sea only a few miles distant, bound for Okinawa and inadequately escorted, was a driving force which took the place of any will of his own. By Blunt's order, which he had drafted,
Whitefish
was heading south to intercept. Twice, Richardson had sent her messages reflecting what he had learned of the enemy movements. It was
Eel
's responsibility, as the submarine last in contact, to find the convoy and position her wolfpack mate most advantageously.

He spent most of the time in the conning tower poring over the charts, alternating this with periods on the bridge—it was not so dark as the previous night—and once, as he had made his custom, walking through the ship to visit every compartment to talk with as many of the crew as possible. He would have been hard put to define why this simple habit had grown so important to him, would have said it “gave him a feel” for his crew, would have totally disavowed any suggestion that it had become an important ritual to him, or that the crew also, confined to their stations in the submarine's compartments, had come to look forward to these visits on the eve of battle.