-  8  -

“Here, Nelson,” said Keith, handing the tall chief radioman an encoded message. “See if you can wake up the boys at NPM with this one.”

Nelson grinned as he took the paper. “There’s about twenty boats trying to wake up Radio Pearl every night,” he said. “It’s not their sleepiness that bothers us. It’s the competition.”

Keith returned the humorous look. “You radio girls all stick together. Anyway, this one ought to give them a little fun back there in ComSubPac.” He took the spare set of ear phones which Nelson, in anticipation of a message to be sent after surfacing that evening, had already plugged in for him. Instantly his mind was catapulted out of the surfaced submarine into a suddenly expanded geography covering the entire Pacific Ocean. Somewhere—the signal was so clear it was perhaps only a few hundred miles away—another submarine was sending a long varying note as it tuned up its transmitter. The radioman made a grimace of disparagement. Swiftly, as Keith looked approvingly, Nelson completed a few last-minute adjustments to Eel’s transmitter, finally looked over to Keith for permission to make a test transmission. Keith nodded. A few swift taps on the tuning key—Nelson was well aware of the danger from Japanese direction-finding stations—he nodded readiness.

The other boat was transmitting, using a coded call sign: “NPM v W3AU K—NPM v W3AU K.” Keith had developed sufficient familiarity with Morse code to be able to understand the repeated short message. Nelson waited, his hand poised over his own transmitter key. Much farther away, another boat was calling NPM and, sounding as though it must be at least a thousand miles away, the dim crackle of a distant transmitter could barely be heard: a fourth submarine calling Radio Pearl.

Nelson was gently fingering his receiver tuning control. Faintly, Keith could hear through the welter a dim but precise note. “W3AU v NPM 3,” it said. Radio Pearl had answered the unknown submarine whose coded call sign was W3AU, telling it that it was third in line for receipt of a message.

Keith motioned to Nelson, but Nelson had already begun tapping out, in the smooth, effortless rhythm of a practiced radioman, Eel’s own call-up. “NPM V 68TC OP K,” he repeated several times.

Radio Pearl seemed suddenly to have a surge of strength. “68TC V NPM K,” said the signal. Keith and Nelson grinned at each other. The Japanese radio station would have to use far better techniques than this to masquerade as Radio Pearl. A sub not alert to the ploy might transmit its message at a time when Pearl Harbor could not receive it, get a routine-sounding receipt from the Japanese station, and secure its transmission thinking its message had been delivered when in fact it had not. This was the simplest of electronic warfare techniques. Once, hearing a boat being taken in, a smart NPM operator disrupted his own orderly procedure to copy the unwary submarine’s message and thus foiled the Japanese station’s attempt at interference. But one could not be sure of this sort of good luck. “. . . NPM 4,” said the distant station.

“NPM v 68TC OP K,” rapped out Nelson rapidly. The Pearl Harbor operator would very likely have heard the alien station attempting to entice Eel into transmitting its message at a time when Radio Pearl was not ready to receive it, would recognize that Eel had by consequence been unable to hear all of NPM’s transmission and was asking for its repetition. He, too, transmitted more rapidly.

“68TC v NPM 4,” he sent. Keith would have been unable to read it had he not known what to expect.

Nelson pushed a button alongside his transmitting key. With a thunk, the power hum in the transmitter standing behind them went silent. Quickly he brought his log up to date on the typewriter in the well before him. Keith noted with approval that he was preparing to copy the message from the nearby submarine.

The cryptic procedure message from the Pearl Harbor radio station had signaled the unknown nearby submarine that it was third in line to be serviced. Eel was fourth. Keith stared unseeingly at the radio equipment about him. Far away in the distance, he could hear the tiny dots and dashes from a distant submarine tremulously pounding out its message. Several times it had to stop and repeat, finally received the sought-for R from Radio Pearl. Then it was the turn of another submarine, perhaps a thousand miles in a different direction, also sending in its vital information to the central gathering point, finally the submarine identified as W3AU. It was not a lengthy message, and Nelson had far less difficulty in copying it, since it was so near, than the NPM operator. Keith judged the unknown sub was not more than two or three hundred miles away. Very possibly it was the Whitefish, an identification which would be discovered when the call was broken down and the message decoded. Nelson, no doubt, could identify not only the sub but also the operator, if it happened to be one of the many whose “hand” he knew.

The next submarine to transmit would be Eel. Nelson pressed his transmitter button, had it humming and fully warmed up when Radio Pearl receipted to the nearby boat.

“68TC v NMP K,” said NPM.

“NPM v 68TC OP—RADIO PEARL FROM EEL PRIORITY ACTION REPORT . . .”

As Nelson pounded out the coded message, laboriously composed and then encoded while Eel was awaiting the time to surface, Keith could reflect that across three thousand miles of water, bouncing at least once off the ionosphere now lowered over the dark Pacific, this particular stream of rapid dots and dashes carried the news of the death of four ships and most of those on board. It told of Eel’s own escape after minor depth charging, the possibility that some other submarine, possibly Whitefish, might have been in position to pick off the lone straggler which had escaped to the west. It stated that Eel was now down to seven torpedoes, two forward and five aft, and that ComSubPac was undoubtedly correct about ships moving north and south close in to land along the west coast of Korea. On the game board in ComSubPac’s office in Hawaii, the little submarine silhouette marked “Eel” in the Yellow Sea would now have seven tiny Japanese flags attached to it. If W3AU was indeed the Whitefish, it was possible that she might have earned a second little flag added to her silhouette, if she had, as instructed, been patrolling outside the island chain directly westward of Eel.

The message sent and NPM’s R having been received, Keith nodded his thanks to Nelson, hung up his earphones, picked up his papers and the intercepted message—Nelson was certain it was indeed from Whitefish—and started back to the wardroom. There, he knew, one of the interminably long conversations with the wolfpack commander was undoubtedly taking place. He had, however, hardly moved forward into the control room when it was apparent the uneventful night he had been anticipating was not to be. Dimly, through two open hatches, he heard Al Dugan’s “Clear the bridge!” Simultaneously the diving alarm rang twice. Men came jumping down from above. “Dive! Dive!” shouted Al, nearer. He must now be scrambling through the hatch, latching it behind him. “Take her down! Take her down fast!”

Almost instantaneously the three red lights in the “Hull Opening Indicator Panel”—the “Christmas Tree”—for the three main engines in use winked off, to be replaced by green ones just below. Starberg, on watch on the hydraulic manifold, had already yanked open all the main vent valves. As the last engine exhaust valve went shut on the Christmas Tree, he slammed closed the main induction. Then, leaning aft a foot, he grabbed another lever and pulled it forward. This would start the bow planes rigging out to their submerged attitude. In the meantime, Eel’s deck tilted downward. The annunciators clicked to “ahead full” as the electricians in the maneuvering room, with hardly a pause in the rotation of Eel’s main motors, connected the battery to them and went to full speed ahead.

“Hatch secured!” shouted Al from the conning tower. Seconds later his sturdy legs appeared through the hatch as he jumped down into the control room. Glimpsing Keith, he hurriedly said, “Aircraft! Right up the moon streak! Close!”

“Last sounding was two hundred feet,” said Keith. “That checks with our posit on the chart. Better hold her at one hundred fifty feet.”

“Full dive on all planes,” ordered Al. “Make your depth one-five-oh feet. Ten degrees down angle! Come on, men! Lean into those wheels!”

The lookouts, still clothed with their foul-weather gear in anticipation of a night watch on the surface, obviously needed little urging from the diving officer. Not bothering to divest themselves of any of their bridge equipment, casting worried glances at the slowly moving depth gauges, they were trying to twist the diving plane control wheels off the diving panel.

“Rig for depth charge!” shouted Al.

Keith lunged for the speaker button on the ship’s announcing system, pulled it down, spoke into it, trying to give his voice a calm tone despite the surge of adrenalin he could feel running through his system. “Rig ship for depth charge,” he said. “Shut all watertight doors!” He could hear the watertight doors slamming throughout the ship.

Quin appeared, picked up the battle telephone headset, adjusted it on his head. “All stations report from forward aft,” he said. He listened a moment. “Ship is rigged for depth charge, Mr. Leone,” he said.

“What is it, Keith?” Richardson had apparently come from the forward battery compartment into the control room just before the watertight door was closed.

Briefly Keith explained, “We’re under now, sir,” he said, watching the depth gauges.

“That was a fast dive, Al. How close do you think the plane was?”

“Close!” said Al. “Coming right at us! We must have been silhouetted in the moon streak. It’s a good thing we had the quartermaster and two lookouts concentrating on it astern.”

“Good work, Al,” said Rich. “We’ll know soon enough if he dropped on us.”

WHAM . . . WHAM! The submarine’s sturdy hull twanged with the reverberations. The tense group in the control room could feel the deck lift under them. Bits of cork flew through the air; the electric lights, hanging on short pieces of wire from their sockets, danced crazily.

“Passing seven-oh feet, Captain,” said Al. “I think both of those went off astern.”

Richardson said, “We’d better stay on at full speed for a little while in case he comes around for a second run. He probably dropped a flare to mark our position, but with all that juice we took out of the can today we’ve got to slow down as soon as possible.” He thought a moment. “What course were you on when you dived, Al?”

“I was headed right up moon, nearly due south, Skipper,” said Dugan. “Keith said a north or south course would give us the best radio signal to Pearl. South was against the current, and minimum silhouette across the moon streak, too. Maybe this fellow came in on our radio beam. He came right up our tail, low to the water. There were no APR signals or anything!”

There had been the usual discussion before surfacing. Perhaps Richardson should not have brought up his proposal that they move rapidly northward. Blunt had almost automatically opposed it. The lack of strong countermeasures by the convoy escorts, he said, was according to a pattern ComSubPac had observed from analysis of hundreds of patrol reports. Transmitting a lengthy radio message while making high speed would alert enemy DF stations as to their intended movements. The argument was cut short by the wolfpack commander in the manner recently more and more of a pattern of his own: having delivered his dictum, he rose and left the wardroom.

Possibly the aircraft had been sent by a vector from a shore DF station, but not likely. The coordination would have had to be too good, too swift. Most probably the immediate reaction to Eel’s attack on the convoy had been to establish a night aircraft patrol. A combination of an accurate estimate as to the sub’s later movements, plus a bit of luck, perhaps even a small direction finder in the plane, had brought it overhead. The obviously hurried nature of its depth bomb attack supported the hypothesis. Now, however, perhaps the incident could be turned to advantage. Remaining in the vicinity was out of the question. But no further discussion. Seize the opportunity.

“As soon as you’re down to depth, Al, reverse course to north. Maintain full speed for ten minutes and then slow again to one-third. The current will give us a four-knot boot in the tail. The flare will of course drift with the surface current, but the wind will affect it also. It can’t burn forever. The plane’s navigation probably won’t allow for current at all, unless he’s a lot smarter than I think he is.”

Quin had been listening attentively through his earphones. Now he spoke. “All compartments report no damage,” he said.

“Well, Commodore,” said Richardson a few minutes later, “it looks as though we’ve alerted this area pretty thoroughly. That fellow was obviously out looking for us, and he darned near caught us. As it was, that was one of the fastest dives this ship has ever made, about thirty seconds.”

“Um,” said Blunt, taking his pipe from his mouth and sipping a mug of coffee. “Who have you got working on that message you picked up just before we dived?”

“We broke out Larry to do it. He was setting it up a few minutes ago, and we should have the decode any minute.”

The message said: ATTACKED TEN THOUSAND TON FREIGHTER X ONE HIT X PROBABLY SUNK X DEPTH CHARGED X WHITEFISH SERIAL TWO X SIXTEEN TORPEDOES REMAINING X

“Why didn’t he report this to me?” Blunt said.

“Maybe he tried before we surfaced, Commodore,” Rich said swiftly. “The best time to get the messages off to Pearl is right after surfacing, but we were late coming up tonight. Keith says he was on the circuit before we were. I’ll bet he’s still trying to get us on the wolfpack frequency right now.”

“Um,” said Blunt again, apparently at least partly convinced. “That’s probably the ship that got away from you. It must have been the biggest one of the lot.”

In Richardson’s opinion, the freighter was nearer to five thousand than ten thousand tons, but there was no point in bringing this up.

Surfacing the Eel was a long and careful procedure, involving thorough sonar search before coming to periscope depth, and then a long careful search for aircraft through two periscopes before tanks were blown. Once surfaced, two main engines and the auxiliary were placed on the battery charge and the remaining two main engines, to be augmented by a third as soon as the charging rate permitted it, at full power on propulsion.

A simple one-letter signal on the wolfpack administration frequency brought an immediate response from the Whitefish. The message obviously was in her radio room awaiting the call: ATTACKED ESCORTED FREIGHTER COURSE WEST SPEED FIFTEEN POSITION GERTRUDE 43 TIME 1950 SUBMERGED STERN TUBES DURING TWILIGHT FOUR TORPEDOES EXPENDED SIXTEEN REMAIN X CLOSE DEPTH CHARGE ATTACK POSSIBLE DAMAGE RETIRING TO AREA CENTER FOR EVALUATION X

“Maybe we had better do the same,” said the wolfpack commander in a thoughtful tone. “The Japs know there is a submarine in the Maikotsu Suido. They probably won’t send anything through here for a while.”

Richardson had his answer ready. “They’ve got to send their ships somewhere. Those they can send into port, or keep there, they will. A number are probably already en route, however, and so tomorrow they’ll saturate the area with air and surface patrols. The plane that bombed us proves they’ve also got night air patrols out. He’s probably already radioed in his report, giving our position and our course as south at slow speed, so if we’re lucky they may think we’re planning to stay in this vicinity. It makes sense, because that’s where we found the ships. Tomorrow, when they get no sign of us, they’ll think we’re lying low, probably heading west.”

“So why don’t we head west right now, before another plane comes out and makes us dive again?”

“Because that’s just what they’ll expect us to do. That’s where the night patrol planes will concentrate. For sure, they won’t send any convoys of ships outside the Maikotsu. Don’t forget, Whitefish got that freighter outside the island yesterday. They’ll stop what ships they can, but the rest they’ll run as close to the coast as possible, and under maximum protection.”

“What are you figuring to do? They must by now realize there is more than one submarine here.”

“They’ll concentrate all available forces here, and that means there’ll be less available for other areas. The chart we got from that patrol boat shows a place up to the north where, for a short distance, they have to round a point of land. At that spot there are no more inshore islands to run behind. It will take all the speed we have to get there, if we’re lucky enough to stay on the surface until dawn, and we’ll have to finish the run submerged in the morning. The current will be a big help. . . .” He let the sentence trail off.

Indefinably, he began to feel a surge of confidence as he spoke. Blunt was listening. There was a weariness in Blunt’s face and around his eyes, combined with something else—relief; he did not have to think; the operation of a single submarine was strictly the responsibility of its captain, so long as it remained compatible with the larger responsibilities of the wolfpack. It would be easy to let Richardson have his way. To make any speed submerged—to get the most benefit from the helping current—would require remaining well below periscope depth: a morning free from worries, free for a good long sleep. Blunt’s face showed the struggle for decisiveness. The normally bright lights in the wardroom had been turned down. The resulting shadows reflected the play in his sagging jowels. “All right,” he said.

Carefully, Rich kept his own face expressionless. “Aye aye, sir,” he replied. Too much enthusiasm might still cause Blunt to reverse the assent just given. Worse, it might jeopardize the second part of the idea he had been mulling over. Whatever convoy-control organization the enemy had would hardly permit convoys to move for the next several days, but single ships might be handled differently. They might not even be under centralized control at all. If Eel could get far enough away from the carnage of the previous day, she might find small-scale local traffic still moving, as yet unaware of the sinkings to the south. This would be the chance to restore Blunt. Richardson had convinced himself that the crux of Blunt’s problem was lack of confidence, based on never having commanded a submarine in combat. This he could, just conceivably, do something about. The total reversal in Blunt that very day, when in desperation Rich had given him the periscope, had been the clue. It would not, after all, be much different from letting Keith Leone or Al Dugan bring Eel alongside a dock, or make a submerged approach during training.

It would take careful planning, the right arguments to make to the commodore, and a considerable degree of luck to bring it off. It made no demands on anyone, except himself and Blunt, and required only a little cooperation from the enemy. It was worth a try.

Eel dived before dawn, with the outline of a peninsula and the relatively large island directly to the west of it clear on the radar. Keith had not had time for his customary morning star sights, but these were unnecessary since the radar range on land provided an accurate position. There was still some distance to go before Eel could reach the position selected: in the center and deepest portion of a small body of water, roughly defined by the peninsula to the north, the outlying island to the northwest, the coast of Korea on the eastern side and, far to the south, the northernmost island of the chain demarking the Maikotsu Suido.

Richardson had gambled on his certainty that Blunt could not resist the bait if offered in the right way. Finally, a conditional acceptance in his grasp, he had managed to talk Blunt into turning in. In a short time he, too, would lie down and seek a couple of hours’ rest. It had been an exhausting night with an exhausting day preceding. His knees and thigh muscles ached from the combined effect of the bruises inflicted by Moonface and his own rigorous stint on the periscope less than twelve hours before. There was still blood in his urine, and the yellow, blue, and purple bruises all over his body were still as vivid as ever. He gave careful instructions to Keith, Al, and Buck for running toward the selected spot and, once there, setting a periscope watch. Then at last he sat on his bunk, removed his shoes, lay back with a sigh of relaxation.

Someone was pounding on the aluminum bulkhead of his stateroom alongside the green baize curtain. “You’re wanted in the conning tower, Captain,” said the messenger. “Smoke on the horizon!”

He hadn’t expected it this soon. He was instantly wide awake, yawning nevertheless, glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. Both hands stood straight up and down. He had been asleep—or rather, totally unconscious—for at least five hours! It was good of Keith to let him rest so long. Swiftly he pulled on his shoes, knotted the strings, stepped into the passageway, through the watertight door, around the control room table, and up the ladder into the conning tower.

“What is it, Keith?” he said, as his head came up through the hatch.

“Smoke, bearing southeast,” said the executive officer. “It’s coming this way, I think.”

A quick look through the periscope showed a faint brown smudge in the indicated direction. Rich spun the periscope around rapidly, settled back to inspect the smoke one more time. Alongside him Keith said, “We’re running at sixty-five feet, with only about a foot and a half of periscope out. It’s almost a flat calm out here, as you can see. And so far this morning, we’ve seen the same airplane three times.”

Rich lowered the periscope. “What bearing?” he asked.

“To the south. Some distance away. It’s patrolling, I think.”

“Good,” said Rich. “If they’re patrolling south of us, it means they don’t think we’ve come this far north.”

“I figure the same,” said Keith. “So I let the current carry us up inshore of that outlying island. We’re about eighty-five hundred yards off the tip of the point now, but there’s plenty of sea room north and south, and to the west. The island bears southwest, but it’s out of sight unless we come up a couple of feet.”

“Good,” said Rich again. “When did you see the plane last?”

“About an hour ago. He came up from the south, turned around, and flew back.”

“Good,” said Richardson for the third time. “If we’re lucky, his coverage won’t extend this far to the north. Maybe there won’t even be any coverage over this ship if he comes up this way.”

“That’s a lot to hope for, Skipper,” grinned Keith. Then, with a more sober expression, he asked, “Are you going to try that business with Captain Blunt? Isn’t this rather soon after yesterday?”

“This may be the chance. Maybe it is a little soon, but that might just be the best way.”

Another periscope observation confirmed that the source of the smoke was approaching. Soon, several looks later, three masts could be seen.

“Send for the commodore, Keith,” said Rich, the upper part of his face still pressed into the rubber periscope eye guard. “This one is for him.”

The periscope down, Richardson gravely reached over the TDC, where, around one of the knurled knobs securing its face, the white celluloid “Is-Was” hung on a string. Only a few years ago, this and the now obsolete “banjo” had been the only fire control instruments available to a submarine. The Torpedo Data Computer had replaced it in the so-called fleet boats, of which Eel was one of the newer representatives. By consequence, the Is-Was had become primarily a badge of office for the assistant approach officer (usually the executive officer), whose duty it was to assure that all matters relating to the approach were properly carried out, that the check-off lists were executed on time, and that the submarine commander was instantly apprised of all the information required to bring the submarine into a successful attack position. This had, of course, been Keith’s function; and Richardson himself had performed it many times in drill, first for Joe Blunt and later for Jerry Watson in the Octopus.

As he passed the loop of the cord attached to the Is-Was around his head he felt a curious melting away of the years. Symbolically, with the donning of the badge of office, he had traveled backward in time.

The wolfpack commander was hurrying up the ladder into the conning tower. “What is it, Rich?” he said.

“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 going 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 all 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?”

“Mark—one minute. Ten minutes since last zig.”

The short clipped sentences must have been musical to Blunt’s once finely tuned ears. They were to Richardson’s. Everything was clicking into place. This was just the way it should be.

“Recommend another look around, Captain,” said Rich. “Also take a look for aircraft over the target.”

“I want to catch him on the zig,” worried Blunt. “Right, I’ll take a quick look around for aircraft. Stand by for an observation. Time?”

“Coming up two minutes!”

“Up periscope.” He grabbed it, spun it around quickly, steadied on the target. “Bearing, mark!” he said. The ’scope slithered away.

“Zero-three-six,” said Rich.

“No zig yet,” said Blunt. “Nothing in sight except land to the east.”

“Did you check for aircraft, sir?”

“Yes. No aircraft in sight.”

“How about the escort?”

“Escort is patrolling ahead and is well clear on the target’s far bow. It’s a small ship, about like one of our PC sub chasers.”

“Not one of those we saw yesterday?” asked Rich.

“No. Smaller. He’s patrolling on station. I’ll keep my eye on him.”

“One minute since the last look,” said Buck.

“Up periscope! Observation,” barked Blunt.

“Bearing, mark!”

“Zero-three-five.”

“No zig yet. Range”—he turned the range knob—“mark!”

“Five thousand!” said Rich as the periscope dropped away.

“How long now since the zig?” asked Blunt.

“Twelve minutes.”

“Distance to the track?”

“Two-seven-double-oh yards.”

“I’ve got to get in there,” said Blunt, “but I don’t dare run over there right now with a zig due to come any minute. Besides we’ve got to get pretty much on the track in order to swing for a decent stern tube shot.”

“There’s still plenty of time, Captain,” said Rich. “A zig must be about due. As soon as he steadies up on his new course we can put our head down and run for a firing position.”

“Right,” said Blunt. “But it will be just our luck to have an airplane show up just when I want to increase speed.”

“No need to worry about a plane seeing us under water, Captain. The sea is too dirty. All we have to be careful of is kicking up a wake at the wrong time. Dropping down to a hundred feet or so before speeding up might be a good idea if the patrol plane comes back.” Richardson wanted badly to ask for a look himself, but refrained. Such a request, a natural one from a sub skipper supervising a junior officer’s approach during training, would in this case be interpreted as an assertion of his prerogative as the real captain of the submarine. It might destroy the atmosphere he had been so successful in creating up to now. Instead, he must content himself with formation of a mental picture and with insinuating into Blunt’s consciousness, as any proper assistant approach officer should, such maneuvers as he might think necessary.

“Thirteen minutes since the zig,” said Buck. “Larry and I are getting ten knots.” No one had directed him to report the minutes, but he as well as anyone was aware of the importance of catching the exact moment of the zig. The next zig would be critical.

Blunt called for the periscope, put it down again. Another range and bearing were fed into the TDC. Richardson noted approvingly that Blunt’s periscope exposures were extremely short, as short as his own, nearly as short as they had been when Commander Joe Blunt of the Octopus, nine years ago, had so prided himself upon his ability to get a complete and accurate periscope observation in seven seconds. Intentionally, Rich had not suggested using the radar periscope. Blunt had been a past master on the attack ’scope. This approach was to be as near as he could make it to the techniques Blunt had been so good at.

At Blunt’s direction, Al Dugan increased depth another foot, to sixty-five feet. In the calm water even two and a half feet of periscope might be spotted by an alert lookout as the ships drew nearer. Stafford on the sonar had been monotonously reporting the bearings of two sets of screws with no change in their steady beat. Eel’s sonar equipment was far more acute than the older one fitted in Octopus. Perhaps Blunt had failed to realize that the first sign of a zig might be indicated by some variation in Stafford’s reports. Perhaps a subtle hint was in order.

“Keep the sound bearings coming, Stafford,” Rich ordered, crossing over to the sonar equipment and speaking loudly so that Stafford could hear him through his heavily padded earphones. “We’re expecting a zig any minute.”

Stafford nodded his comprehension, pointed to his bearing dial, shook his head to indicate no change. He answered rather loudly because of his artificial deafness, “Watch for zig, aye aye. No zig yet, sir.”

Blunt seemed not to have heard. “We’ll wait another minute,” he said. He put his hand to his forehead, shut his eyes, and spanned across the bones of his temples with his thumb and fingers. The gesture, which took only a moment, startled Richardson. The fleeting hand motion was out of character. But Blunt’s next words were the right ones, the ones Richardson had been willing him to say: “How have the sound bearings been checking?” he asked.

“Right on, Captain,” said Buck. “Lagging about a quarter degree, no more.”

Blunt appeared pensive. Rich looked at him carefully, trying at the same time not to seem overly interested in his appearance. The crowded conditions in the conning tower made this, at least, fairly easy. Blunt’s brow was furrowed, but this was certainly normal. Perhaps Richardson had only fancied that there had been an instant of weakness. The wolfpack commander crowded closer to the TDC, peering between the heads of Buck and Keith and effectively cutting off further inspection of his face.

In the best submarine fire control parties, few words are spoken except those absolutely necessary. Silence reigns, broken only by the ship noises conveying their own messages, the background whirring of the selsyn motors in the TDC, the muted murmur from the likewise silent control room. As far as possible, hand signals take the place of verbal communication. Words spoken take on added significance in consequence.

Suddenly, in Eel’s conning tower, there was nothing to do, nothing to say, nothing to check. Only the slowly creeping dials on the face of the TDC to watch, or the equally slow movement of the tiny dot of light indicating Eel’s barely perceptible progress across Larry Lasche’s plotting sheet. Despite his determination, Richardson felt himself becoming nervous. It was always like this, as the target approached, but he always had in mind, also, what he would do for each of its possible maneuvers—including the possibility of no maneuver at all. But now he could not know what Blunt was thinking.

The old Blunt of Octopus days would have seized the opportunity to describe what he intended if the target zigged in either direction or not at all. He might even have indulged in a short discussion of the various possibilities and the likelihood of each. But that was eight years ago, during peacetime training exercises, when the only actual danger was collision with escort or target. Today, with conditions so much a carbon copy of the simplest exercise approach, there were depth charges in the escort, depth bombs in the aircraft, and men trained to use them. There was a hostile shore close at hand. Collision no longer would be solely the result of stupidity and clumsiness on the part of the submarine, and inability to avoid on the part of the target. Now it was something avidly sought by all surface ships.

The enemy freighter’s zigzag pattern was such that another zig was probable any moment. Sonar would discover it by some change in the drift of the bearings or in the regular cadence of the propellers. A radical zig away, to the target’s right, might produce an impossibly long range shot, or, at least, make bow tubes mandatory. A big left zig would run the target through a perfect firing position, requiring little or no maneuvering on Eel’s part. A small zig in either direction would still allow the submarine to achieve a firing position, though a small right zig might present the greater problem. No zig at all was probably the worst of all the possibilities. Any zig carried with it at least the likelihood that there would be no further zigs for several minutes, long enough for the submarine to get in firing position and her torpedoes to complete their lethal runs.

On the other hand, if there was no zig soon, Eel would be forced nevertheless to begin the slow maneuver necessary to bring her stern tubes to bear. Nearly a complete course reversal would be necessary. But once additional speed was put on the boat and her rudder placed hard over, a zig would be harder to detect on sonar. Canceling the submarine’s maneuver and replacing it with another would be difficult if not impossible in the time remaining. Hence the waiting, the quick, rapidly repeated observations, the rising tension.

Rich could hear the sibilant sound of water as Eel patiently drove through it, the hum of the ventilation blowers down below, the gentle hiss of air coming in through the vent in the overhead of the conning tower. The ship had long since been rigged for silent running and for depth charge, but the blowers had not yet been shut off. Even so, everyone in the conning tower was perspiring freely. With the crush of people—fourteen men jammed into a horizontal steel cylinder eight feet in diameter and sixteen feet long—there was nothing that could be done about it. When the ventilation blowers were finally secured and the hatch shut to the control room, the temperature in the conning tower would shoot to 120. The perspiration would increase, and so would the moisture in the air.

“Bearing one-two-eight,” announced Stafford.

“That’s half a degree to the right, Captain,” said Keith. “It might be a zig to his left.”

“Up ’scope,” said Blunt. “Zig to his left,” he announced. “He’s still turning. Down ’scope.” He stopped the periscope before it descended very far into the well, just far enough to get its upper extremity under water, waited about fifteen seconds, motioned for it to go back up. “Bearing, mark!” he said. “Range”—he fumbled for the range knob (strange: one’s hand simply dropped to it, under the handle; Richardson had never before noticed anyone having trouble finding it), grasped the knob, turned it—“mark!”

“Three-eight-double-oh!” read Rich from the back of the periscope as it dropped away. He was suddenly conscious of beads of perspiration on his face. The range was becoming short.

“Angle on the bow is zero,” announced Blunt.

Buck said, “That puts him on course three-one-nine. Course to head for him, one-three-nine!”

“Right full rudder! Come right to new course one-three-nine!” ordered Blunt.

“No time, Captain,” said Richardson, speaking rapidly. “He’ll be here in eleven minutes. Recommend come left to zero-five-zero and pull across his track. That will set him up for a straight stern shot.”

“Guess you’re right,” muttered Blunt. There was something in his voice. Some slight hesitation. Perhaps it was embarrassment.

“Rudder is right full, sir!” Cornelli sang out loudly from the other end of the conning tower.

“How’s your speed check, Buck?” Blunt had moved over behind the TDC again.

“Ten knots, sir. Good speed check.”

“Captain,” said Richardson, speaking in a hoarse whisper, “rudder is right full!” For the second time there was the hand clutching the forehead, spanning over the momentarily closed eyes.

“I’m getting a turn count,” said Stafford. “One hundred ten rpm. Single screw.”

“That checks out, Captain,” said Rich, still speaking almost under his breath. “Ten turns per knot is about right.” Then, desperately, still in a loud whisper, “Don’t you want to put the rudder left?” His last few words were spoken in a rush, with increased emphasis, yet a deliberate downplay of the intensity he felt rising within him.

Blunt looked puzzled, but he did not answer. That hand-to-forehead gesture again. The submarine had barely begun to swing. No time to argue the misunderstanding. “Shift the rudder!” barked Rich. “Rudder should be full left! New course, zero-five-zero!” He looked sharply at Blunt, mustering in his mind the words he would use to explain his action, to convince Blunt of the need for it. To his surprise, they were not necessary. The wolfpack commander continued his grave inspection of the dials on the face of the TDC. Not a line on his face indicated concern over any matter other than the slowly developing tactical problem there displayed. He could not be unaware of the change in the intended maneuver. Yet, by every evidence available to Richardson, the incident was as if it had never occurred.

Something unreal, unexplainable, lay just beneath the surface. Rich felt he could sense it, could perhaps understand it too, if only he could have a clue. Blunt had momentarily lost the picture; Rich, as assistant approach officer, had quite properly corrected the situation. In a training approach, things would now merely continue to the normal firing point. True, had it been an approach for submarine command qualification, the observing officers might not have passed the candidate. Richardson, acting as Blunt’s assistant but actually in command, still held full responsibility for the conduct of the approach and the safety of his submarine. By correcting Blunt’s error he had asserted himself as the real commander of the Eel. He had done it with sorrow, with hesitation. He could not understand how Joe Blunt, the man with a TDC-like mind, could possibly have lost the picture so completely. Yet, he had, indisputably. More, he had somehow failed to grasp the simple solution offered by Rich until, in perplexity, it had had to be done almost by subterfuge.

Over it all lay the appreciation that the action Richardson had to take probably had ruined his effort to rehabilitate Blunt.

But instead of an explosive misunderstanding or a petulant acceptance of what Rich had done, there was no reaction at all. There was not even any change in the expression on Blunt’s face. It was as if nothing untoward had happened.

Carefully, Rich inspected his superior’s face for the second time within a very few minutes. Nothing. The oldtime zest he thought he had noticed when Blunt first took over the periscope was no longer evident—the jowls were again sagging—but nothing more. Perhaps Blunt was merely covering up. After the attack was completed there would be a postmortem. There would be private discussions. That must be it. There was no time to bandy about now in argument. Blunt was sticking to the business at hand, as he should, as Richardson also should.

Eel had barely begun to turn to starboard; now, her rudder shifted to full left, she corrected herself and was beginning, according to the TDC dials, slowly to turn to port. At this speed she would hardly get far enough off the target’s track to give the torpedoes time to arm. Surely, Blunt would increase speed. Two-thirds speed would do it. Perhaps Blunt was waiting until Eel was more nearly around to the new course, but that made little sense because the length of time wasted in turning at slow speed would still further reduce the distance the sub would be able to attain off the track. Irresolutely, Rich waited. The “own ship” dial on the TDC showed Eel had turned about ten degrees; there were forty-five degrees more to turn. No move by Blunt. Strange. Something had to be done. After all, Rich was supposed to be his assistant. He could no longer contain himself. Maybe a hint would do it. “Where’s the escort, Captain?”

“Escort is still patrolling on station about one thousand yards ahead of the target. Right now he’s still on the target’s starboard bow, but he’s beginning a swing over to the other side. He’s well clear for now.”

“At this speed he’ll be going by in about six minutes.” Rich was deliberately understating the time by a small fraction. “With this setup we could put sonar on him instead of the target. . . . Was that a hint of a nod from Blunt? He still stood where he had been for the past half-minute—did he mean for Rich to give the order? Abruptly, Rich swung away from the TDC, jostled his way past the crowded bodies in the conning tower to its forward end, where Stafford sat crouched before his sonar console. He lifted one of Stafford’s earphones, spoke briefly, pointed to a sector of his bearing dial. The sonarman nodded his comprehension.

“Sonar’s on the escort, Captain,” reported Rich as he made his way back to the TDC. “Escort is already to the right of the target and seems to be passing well clear.”

Another imperceptible nod from the wolfpack commander. With the momentum achieved, the obvious step was easy. “Recommend two-thirds speed to get us around and clear the track, sir.” This time Rich did not wait, gave the order. The clink of the annunciators and Cornelli’s report. Within seconds the “own ship” dial seemed to have taken on a bit more of life. Eel was turning faster. The slowly changing geometry of the creeping dials was now clearly becoming favorable.

“We’re all ready to shoot aft, Captain, except for the outer doors on the torpedo tubes. Three fish. Tubes seven, eight, and nine. Depth is set at fifteen. Number ten is set at five feet. Recommend we proceed at this speed for five minutes and then slow to one-third again for an observation.”

“Very well,” said Blunt.

Again the hiatus, waiting, while the dials on the TDC face slowly turned, registering what the target would be doing if its course and speed were indeed those set into the instrument, and provided there had been no undetected change. At Rich’s instruction, Stafford was giving regular reports on the doings of the escort and occasionally switching over to the main target, whose heavy single-screw beat was easily distinguishable from the higher speed twin propellers of her protector. If there were anything unexpected happening while Eel, because of her increased speed, could not use her periscope, it did not show on the sonar bearings of either vessel. The continually confirmed fact added confidence, although Richardson could not recall when he had perspired so during an approach and attack.

“Five minutes since we speeded up. Five and a half since the zig!” Williams was reading the timer built into his computer face.

“All ahead one-third,” said Blunt.

Perhaps the bad moment was over. Rich felt like cheering. “When we get down below three knots,” he said, “recommend a quick check of the target and escort, then search all around for aircraft. It’s just possible they’ll have that patrol plane up here for when the ship rounds the point.”

Blunt was looking at him. It was the first time he had done so for several minutes, since before Rich had changed the helm order. His mouth formed words, but for a moment nothing came out. Finally he spoke. “What should the target bear?”

Again there was that feeling of unreality. There had definitely been a slight hesitation in Blunt’s voice. Yet his question was eminently logical. It was what an approach officer should be asking, except that Buck Williams, at the TDC, or Keith Leone, backing him up, were those most likely to have the information at their fingertips. Furthermore, Blunt himself had just been looking at the instrument.

Richardson, simply because there was not room for more at the face of the TDC, had been standing one rank back. “About one-three-five relative,” he said. From where he stood he could not read the numbers on the dials, but from their relative positions this would be not far off. “We’re coming up on the firing bearing, Captain. We can hurry it up and shoot with a left gyro angle on a sharp track; but the longer we wait, now, the nearer it will be to a straight stern shot on a ninety track.”

Blunt nodded thoughtfully. His face also was beaded with sweat. His bushy brows veiled the deep gray eyes.

“Seven minutes since the zig. Speed three knots.” Buck, reading his TDC.

Time to put up the periscope. For a dreadful second Rich thought he might have to initiate the action as before, felt flooded with relief when Blunt gave the order.

The periscope technique was perfection. Blunt rose with the base of the tube, stopped it a foot short of full extension, took a quick range and bearing of the target, then dropped it until its base was slightly below the top of the periscope well. He remained squatting before it for a few seconds, in the meantime directing the ship’s depth increased by another foot, then motioned for the instrument to be raised again. This time he allowed it to go to its full elevation, swiftly spun through two complete circuits—the second time Rich, watching closely, could see that he had turned the motorcycle-type control handle so that he was searching the sky—he suddenly stopped spinning the periscope. “Plane!” he said. “Bearing, mark!”

“One-seven-five,” read Rich from the azimuth circle through which the periscope tube passed out the top of the conning tower. “Two-two-five true,” said Keith, swiftly converting by adding the submarine’s course to the relative bearing.

“He’s well clear for now,” growled Blunt as the periscope descended. “Looks like a patrol plane, all right, coming up from the south. He’s still pretty distant. It will all be over by the time he can get here.”

“Open outer doors?” asked Keith, once more going through his check-off card.

“Open the outer doors aft!” said Blunt. “What’s the gyro angle now? How long before he comes on to a straight stern shot?”

“What’s the escort doing, Captain?” Richardson’s question was interrupted by a loud report from Stafford. “Echo-ranging has speeded up!” In a bound, Richardson was alongside the sonarman, looking at his dials. He put on the spare earphones, listened intently for a long quarter minute. Then he rose, replaced the earphones, was back alongside Blunt. “The escort’s almost dead astern, Captain,” he said seriously, “and he’s speeded up his pinging. He may have become suspicious. He’s pinging right up our wake—I’m sure he can’t be getting a good echo!”

“Gyros left twenty. Decreasing. Seventy starboard track. Range, twelve hundred!” Buck’s concentration on the information showing on the TDC was reflected in his staccato report. “Correct solution light aft,” more quietly reported Keith. “About one minute until the gyro angles are zero.”

“Target bearing one-four-eight!” shouted Stafford. “Moving right, fast! Escort on one-eight-four, shifted to short scale! I think he has contact on us!”

Damn Stafford anyway! Why did he have to pick exactly this instant to become excited? Richardson swore to himself, forgetting that Stafford spoke loudly because of his earphones, and was doing his duty. Only the approach officer—certainly not the sonarman—could accurately evaluate the immediate significance of this information.

“Tubes seven, eight and nine ready aft,” reported Quin. “Outer doors are open, depth set fifteen feet.”

Keith was whispering something into his ear. “We’ve not yet finished the rig for depth charge,” he was saying. Richardson was grateful to him for having had the good sense not to add this item to the plethora of information and reports Blunt was receiving. “Do it quietly, by phone,” he answered.

Blunt was standing with hands at his side, head bent forward, eyes staring at the floor. Afterward Rich would recall this moment as the moment of truth, the decisive one of the entire patrol, the instant of time which, ever after, in his mind was the watershed between the past and what was to come. “Recommend final bearing and shoot, Captain,” Rich said. “Gyros are approaching ten left. Range is twelve hundred.”

Blunt raised his head, stared at Rich. “Very well,” he said. Again, there was that hint of hesitation. “Up periscope!” The incisive manner of less than a minute past was gone. His hand was at his temples again. He did not stoop to ride the ’scope out of the well, merely stood before it, let it rise to him.

“Should bear one-six-six,” read Buck from the TDC. Rich twisted the periscope around to the bearing, at the same time noted that, in accordance with Blunt’s long habit, he had left the previous range observation still cranked in on the periscope’s range finder. Hardly anyone bothered to crank the observed range off the stadimeter after using the ’scope. This took time, required the periscope to stay up a trifle longer. The experienced approach officer was not bothered by the resulting split image at near ranges; in fact, it provided an instant visual reference as to whether the target was farther or nearer, even before the range was taken, and it made it easier and quicker to measure the range when desired. The procedure was part of Blunt’s periscope technique which Richardson had adopted and in his turn had passed on to Jim Bledsoe, Keith, Buck and Al.

What was unusual was Blunt’s reaction when he put his eyes to the rubber guards. “Dammit, Richardson, who’s been fooling with the ’scope? Someone’s got the wrong range on it!”

The range on the stadimeter was what Blunt had put on it last time the ’scope was up. No one else could have reached it in the bottom of the periscope well. It was off, but only because the range had lessened. Moreover, it must be very nearly correct, even though a minute or so had passed. With the target nearly broadside to, the range could not have changed much. On a ninety track—torpedoes due to strike at ninety degrees on the target’s beam—it didn’t matter anyway. Cautiously, Rich turned the range wheel, reduced the range another hundred yards. This ought to bring the tip of the target’s mast about back to her waterline.

“Neh-mind . . . I’ll do it.” It was the first time Rich had ever heard Blunt slur his words in this way. “Range, mark!” The range dial at the base of the periscope opposite the eyepiece had not moved.

“Eleven hundred,” snapped Rich instinctively, reading the numbers opposite the pointer.

But then dismay gripped him, for Blunt, his hand still on the range stadimeter wheel, began turning it back and forth, moving the pointer over a range variation exceeding a thousand yards!

Time, which had been passing so slowly for the final minutes of the approach, now was moving with frantic speed. “Angle on the bow!” hissed Rich imperatively. “Are you on in bearing?”

“Starboard ninety. I’m on his stack. . . . What’s wrong with this damn periscope? . . .”

No one had noticed anything. Keith was watching the angle solver section of the TDC, his right hand hovering over the firing key. Buck, beside him, was poised to set in the slightest change in the final bearing of the target. The proper thing to do was to push Blunt aside and take the firing ranges himself, but on a ninety track, range made no difference. The resulting bustle would only add confusion. “Mark the bearing,” Rich said loudly. “One-seven-two!” he read off the azimuth ring.

“Right on! Set!” Buck had not had to touch the TDC.

“Shoot,” muttered Rich into Blunt’s ear. “It’s perfect! Shoot now!”

Blunt’s hand was still on the range wheel, still twisting it. He said nothing. In the split rangefinder view, the target’s masthead must be moving from his deck to an equal distance below the waterline and back.

“Shoot!” barked Richardson. Keith leaned on the firing key. Larry Lasche began to count. In the after torpedo room there was the snap of the firing valve, the air-and-water roar as the impulse bottle emptied into the torpedo tube, the starting whine of the torpedo motor, the tiny jolt—less than it would have been from a forward tube—as the suddenly started torpedo was ejected. Then the additional slap as the poppet valve opened to swallow the air before it escaped, and the burbling snore as water, flooding into the now empty tube, jammed the air back into the tube and through the now opened poppet line into the torpedo room. A heavy splash as a cascade of water followed the air and landed in the bilges.

The chief torpedoman had not needed to follow through with the hand firing key. “Number seven tube fired electrically,” the torpedoman wearing the phones reported, pushing the button on his mouthpiece.

“Number seven tube fired electrically,” said Quin in the conning tower.

Three fish would be enough, had been already decided upon. “Eight fired electrically . . . nine fired electrically,” reported Quin as the sequential reports arrived in his earphones.

“Shoot!” said Blunt, still looking through the periscope. Keith looked back, startled, inquiring. Richardson made a motion of negation.

“Down periscope!” said Rich. Gently he pushed Blunt back, folded up the handles so they would not strike the edge of the well as the ’scope dropped into it.

“How long until the first fish gets there?” asked Rich.

“Twenty-five seconds more,” responded Lasche.

“Let me know at ten seconds,” said Blunt.

Again there was silence in the conning tower. The deed had been done. His face bubbling with sweat, Blunt stood in the pose so characteristic of him, hands on hips, waiting. Richardson, equally covered with perspiration, trickles of moisture running down inside his shirt, recalled his own habit of so many years before, in Octopus’ conning tower. He picked up the Is-Was which had been hanging forgotten on its string around his neck, began setting it up for a collision course between the torpedoes and the target.

“Ten seconds to go.”

“Up periscope,” said Blunt. “She’s a beautiful ship. Take a range—mark!”

“One-oh-five-oh,” read Richardson.

“Angle on the bow is port ninety. She’s got a single tall stack, a large deckhouse, cargo wells forward and aft. Not more than six inches of her waterline is showing—probably loaded with cargo for the Kwantung Army.” Blunt had hardly finished saying the words when suddenly a thunderous roar shook the conning tower. “It’s a hit,” he shouted. “A beautiful hit! Right under the stack! Smoke and junk is blown sky high! Oh, it’s beautiful! He’s a goner for sure! He’s already listing over toward us! His back is broken!” Mesmerized, Blunt was staring at the damage. Again he had changed. The catatonic reflex had disappeared.

“What happened to the second torpedo?” he asked. Then he answered his own question. “She slowed down so suddenly with the first hit that the second fish must have missed ahead.”

A second explosion. Cheers from the men in the conning tower. On the other side of the now closed control room hatch, throughout the submarine, more cheers.

“Another hit aft!” shouted Blunt. “That was our third torpedo! Our first fish slowed him down so much that the third torpedo came in and hit him halfway between the stack and the stern! He’s broken in half! The deckhouse is already half under water, the bow is high in the air. It’s bent backward as though it might fall over on top of the stack! The stern is blown nearly off! Boy, those guys never knew what hit them!”

“What’s the escort doing, Captain?” asked Richardson. His eagerness to see the target had vanished. There was death on the sea. The grave of a tired old ship that had never had a chance. A few survivors swimming. Chunks of debris and great globules of coal dust on the sea to mark the place where she had been.

“He’s way out ahead and well clear,” responded Blunt.

“How about a look around and see if you can spot that aircraft, Skipper.”

“Oh, all right, Rich. You sure have a fixation on that airplane!” So saying, Captain Blunt began to turn the periscope in a clockwise direction, the elbow of his right arm hooked over the right handle, his left hand pushing the other. Suddenly he stopped. “By God, Rich, you’re right. I never figured he could get here this fast!”

“Bearing two-zero-two,” snapped Richardson from the azimuth circle overhead. Keith would take the hint and translate it to true bearing.

“True bearing is two-five-one,” announced Keith, reading it off the dials of the TDC.

“Well, he’s sure got something to look at this time,” chuckled Blunt, “but I guess we’d better not stick around with the periscope up.” He snapped up the handles of the periscope, motioned down with his thumbs. Its base sank swiftly out of sight. “Make your depth one-eight-oh feet,” he ordered. “What’s the best course to get out of this place?” He was wiping his sweaty hands on the hip pockets of his uniform trousers in the characteristic gesture Rich remembered so well. “That plane was a good two miles away, maybe more. There’s nothing he can do about us now. What’s the bearing of the PC-boat?”

“Escort is bearing due west, shifted back to long-scale pinging and closing the target,” responded Stafford. “Sinking ship is at two-two-four.”

“Right full rudder,” ordered Blunt. “Make your new course one-five-oh. All ahead two-thirds. . . . Rich,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder, “what do you say we secure from battle stations and send for two cups of coffee, one for you and one for me? These guys can’t lay a finger on us, and I’m just in the mood for a cup of that good java your boys make up forward.”

Rich forced a smile back at him. “You’re giving the orders,” he said. “Right now you’re still running this boat. That was the most beautifully executed approach I’ve ever seen!” It sounded pompous, even patronizing. He himself would have resented the word “beautiful” in a similar circumstance. But these thoughts barely touched the fringes of his mind. A deep despair had settled upon him. He would have to talk with Keith soon. Keith alone of all the persons in the conning tower had noticed something. He had a head on him. The burden was too big, anyway, for Rich to bear alone. Keith would have some good ideas.