-  11  -

By 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.

The only sour note in Eel’s readiness, outside of her complete expenditure of all torpedoes, was her hydraulic system. The situation had been accurately described by Al Dugan. Richardson found Lichtmann nodding on his station in the tiny, crowded pump room, where he had been valiantly trying to match Richardson’s sleepless vigil, had replaced him with Starberg, and sent him up to his bunk with a clap on the shoulder and warm words of gratitude. It was hot in the pump room, and the atmosphere was heavy with oil. Immobility made drowsiness inevitable; yet, in emergency, instant alertness was mandatory. Gravely, he elicited a promise from both men that they would exchange positions every six hours and include Sargent in the vigil as well.

All seven sets of vent valves he found alertly manned. Like Lichtmann, the men had nothing to do unless the diving alarm were to sound, but there was a man with a telephone headset at each station, and many others around in each compartment. Everyone in the ship was acutely aware of the importance of instant operation of the main vents, should the diving alarm be sounded. The pin in each mechanism was in the correct place for hand operation. Richardson was vociferously assured by all that each valve had been operated many times already, was free and easy to pull by hand. In the enginerooms, the four roaring diesels were, as always, a source of comfort and admiration. He grinned when he noted the rpm dial on each registering 760 instead of the rated maximum of 720 rpm’s. A little operation on the governor linkages had been all that was necessary, and their added speed was reflected in higher propeller rpm’s and the extra knot Eel was logging on her pitometer speed indicator.

Richardson had slipped on a pair of dark red goggles prior to leaving the dimly lighted conning tower, and for this reason no one noticed the black eye until, in the maneuvering room, the chief on watch, egged on by his watch mates, diffidently asked him about it. First carefully shutting his eyes against the light, he lifted the goggles, was rewarded by a chorus of delighted chuckles. Instantly he wished he had not done it, however, for his eyes stayed shut of their own accord when he put the goggles back in place. His head nodded. Had he not stumbled with a small movement of the ship he would have fallen asleep on his feet. He had to force himself to visit the last compartment, talk with the crew in the after torpedo room. This visit was obligatory, for it was here that that last supremely important torpedo had been watched over, made ready, and fired. But it was too hot in the submarine. The noise in the enginerooms was stupefying. Hastily he walked forward to the control room, climbed the ladder to the conning tower and then to the bridge.

It was about an hour past midnight. Radar contact had at last been made. The convoy still consisted of two troopships and a single escort. They had made a large diversion to the west and had indeed passed close to the Whitefish. But nothing happened. Whitefish had dived but been unable to close for an attack; now she too was on the surface again, driving southeast in obedience to more orders sent in the name of the wolfpack commander.

The convoy had finally once again swung to an easterly course, and Eel, under cover of the night, was maneuvering to cut the corner and get into position directly ahead. Keeping the convoy under surveillance from ahead instead of astern, Richardson had decided, would provide a better opportunity of holding or regaining contact after Whitefish had made the dawn attack which by this time he knew would be the most he could hope for. The likelihood of a night aircraft patrol was remote. The two submarines had added the better part of a day to the transports’ Yellow Sea transit, and robbed them of the intended all-daylight passage. The two remaining troopships were exposed to the night surface attack they had tried to avoid.

But tonight they were completely safe. Eel had no torpedoes, and Whitefish would not attack at night. He sat on Stafford’s vacant stool, folded his arms on his knees, leaned his head on them.

He could not have been totally asleep, for he remained aware of the muted comings and goings of the conning tower crew, Keith’s occasional advice to the Officer of the Deck, the radar reports to plot, and even the request to dump a sack of garbage. But the brownout of fatigue was claiming its due. His senses dulled, his perceptions began to drift. He was back aboard the Walrus, had just felt the depth charges of Bungo Pete for the first time, was in love with Laura, despised Joan because (he assumed) she was causing Jim to be unfaithful to Laura. But this could not be entirely Joan’s fault, for Jim had been unfaithful in Australia as well, and Rich, in his turn, had also found relief from reality in Joan’s arms. Now Rich had killed Bungo Pete, and he had been disloyal to his idealized thoughts of Laura. Bungo had returned in the person of Moonface, to claim his vengeance. He hated Moonface, but not Bungo Pete.

Joe Blunt too. He was Tateo Nakame—Bungo Pete—in American guise. The idea of the older warriors supporting the younger ones whom they had trained, who now carried the load of the combat. Now it was reversed. Now Blunt needed help, needed the support of those who had once looked to him for wisdom, skill, and judgment. Ships were everywhere, some sinking, some flying. Bungo’s Akikaze, with Blunt in command, had opened fire on Eel from the bottom of the sea. Eel could not hit her with torpedoes, for she was too deep. And now there was the escort destroyer he had just sunk, the one that had given him the black eye.

“Morning twilight, Captain. Morning twilight, Captain. Morning twilight, Captain. . . .” There was a hand on his shoulder shaking him. A disembodied hand. “Morning twilight, Captain.” Someone had lifted his head gently, was slapping his cheeks. “Here, drink this.” It was a mug of coffee. The steam warmed his nose and cheeks, reflected from his eyelids. Keith was in command of the Eel and he was in love with Joan and he was holding the cup of coffee and slapping his face.

Slow dawning. Understanding. “What is it? Did I doze off?”

“You sure did, Skipper. We don’t see how you stood it so long, as it was. Here, drink this coffee. It’s morning twilight, and the Whitefish has just dived to attack.”

“Where’s the convoy?”

“Twelve miles astern. We’re tracking them at fourteen knots, and I’ve slowed to maintain the range constant.”

Groggily Richardson wrenched to his feet. Eel lurched. He stumbled, put out his hand to steady himself. It slipped on the slick steel periscope barrel. He nearly fell, grabbed one of its hoist rods. He gulped down the coffee, then the fried egg sandwich which Keith suddenly produced from a hidden corner. It was still hot. So! His sleep, and now his awakening, had been part of a prearranged operation! Damn them all anyway! They needn’t think they could control him! His mind cleared slowly as he studied the radar ’scope. Three ships in column, the smallest the escort, leading.

“They haven’t been zigzagging,” said Keith. “Maybe they’ll start at dawn. Anyway, it looks like they’ll pass right over Whitefish. We had her right here when she dived.” He laid a pencil on a spot about halfway between the center of the ’scope and the small pip indicating the escort. “He should be shooting in about twenty minutes more.”

“Any aircraft contacts?”

“Negative. We’re watching the APR, though. Maybe somebody will come out at dawn.”

Richardson nodded. The pieces were falling into place. Whitefish had reported six torpedoes remaining, three forward and three aft. She would get only one salvo off, would have another salvo left in the other end of the ship. At best, only one of the three ships would be hit. Whatever else, it had better be one of the troopships! His efforts of the day before had largely been wasted, except that now there was only a single escort. It would have been far better had Eel somehow pressed home herself into the convoy to put her last two fish into a primary target! He had forgotten the aircraft patrol, that the plane had prevented him from submerging in an attack position, that had not Eel forced the convoy to head again to the westward it would at this moment be within the shelter of the Korean archipelago, with no further opportunity for any submarine to attack.

Richardson and Leone were still watching the radar when they realized the formation had lost its cohesiveness. The distance between the last two ships began to increase. Then the small pip which was the escort pulled aside, dropped back with the lagging large pip.

“Whitefish has attacked,” observed Blunt. He had come to the conning tower without their being aware of it.

“Yes, and the escort is looking for him. We may hear some depth charging soon.”

“The second ship in column is still heading this way,” said Keith.

“We’ll have to turn him around.” Richardson’s numbed brain was working with the details. “What’s the weather like topside?” he asked.

“Same as yesterday: cold, with a light chop.”

“Good. Call all hands, Keith. Pass the word to stand by for surface action.”

“What are you going to do, Rich?” asked Blunt.

“This transport skipper may still think the only submarine around is behind him. If the remaining escort stays with the ship Whitey has just torpedoed and the undamaged troopship comes on alone, we might have a chance to sink him with gunfire. If the tincan is with him, the tincan will head for us and the transport will reverse course. That may give Whitey a fourth crack at him.”

Richardson spoke rapidly. His voice was not normal. The weariness was showing through, even though the few hours of near-sleep in the conning tower had mightily rejuvenated him. He yawned rapidly several times. The adrenalin was beginning to pop through his veins, but his system needed extra oxygen to make up for accumulated fatigue. Deliberately he forced himself to take several deep breaths. He began to explain to Keith that it was vital he be kept informed of any change in the disposition of the three ships, then broke off. Keith knew this. No point in wasting the effort. Carrying a second mug of coffee, he made his way to the bridge.

The destroyer escort skipper must have been discouraged at losing his consort and two of his convoy, but that didn’t stop him from doing his duty. Very soon, Eel’s radar showed only two ships, one large and one small. Plot quickly confirmed that they were continuing their course to the east. And as the brilliant edge of the sun came over the eastern horizon, burning away the remaining shadows with long streamers of light leaping from wave crest to wave crest, to the consternation of the two Japanese skippers a surfaced submarine lay limned exactly against the crescent-shaped, rapidly growing orb. Moments before, there had been nothing there. Both Japanese captains had thought their erstwhile attacker to be by this time several miles astern, but the new apparition, clearly a submarine, revealed unmistakable hostile intent by opening fire with two large guns, landing one solid hit on the troopship’s forecastle and several near-misses in the water alongside.

The Mikura-class frigate dashed toward the submarine, which dived, and the merchant skipper, frantically reversing course, was happy to hear several loud depth charges astern. These signified that the escort at last had contact and was working over their antagonist. Under such conditions, he had been thoroughly and frequently briefed, a sub’s ability to assume the offensive was nil; so, as he came again in sight of the crowded lifeboats and rafts from his companion, well aware both of the risk he took and of the importance of the soldiers in the water, he disobeyed his orders by slowing to pick up the survivors. For an hour he remained in the vicinity, not without trepidation, in case the submarine being depth charged should fight its way clear and come back, while the surviving troops climbed up his cargo nets. Finally, his ship seriously overcrowded, he took up a northerly course, gave a wide berth to the area where depth charging was continuing, and once again, this time without incident, turned eastward.

The Japanese skipper would have been far less courageous had he had any way of knowing that almost directly beneath him, as he hove to, lay the submarine which had actually fired the torpedoes which had sunk his two companions. One of the depth charges dropped almost at random in the immediately ensuing counterattack had been uncomfortably close, starting a gasket in one of the internal risers of number seven main ballast tank in the after torpedo room. The result was a slight leak, and Whitey Everett had therefore set Whitefish gently on the muddy bottom of the Yellow Sea while the damage was surveyed and repaired. When heavy screws, approaching, slowing, circling, and finally stopping were reported, Everett had suspected some new and unusual tactic on the part of the enemy. He had forthwith directed cessation of all repair work and stopping of all running machinery. Not until about two hours after the heavy screws restarted and all noises on the surface had faded away did he resume normal activities.

For his first patrol in command, Whitey Everett had done well; he had sunk five ships and would bring back but three torpedoes, all in stern tubes. His officers and crew applauded his decision not to push his luck.

It was the worst of bad fortune, Richardson decided, for Eel to have this time dived in an area of the Yellow Sea where the sonar conditions were the best he had ever experienced. More, by its own good fortune—or perhaps a combination of excellent sonar equipment and an unusually alert operator—the tincan had come directly upon Eel with a firm, solid contact and an apparently unlimited supply of depth charges. Perhaps Richardson should have remained at periscope depth. He might have, had there been any torpedoes remaining in Eel’s tubes, or had not the signs of deep fatigue, discernible in the entire ship’s company as well as himself, impelled him otherwise. Perhaps, too, there was a psychological compulsion, a realization that fate could not load the dice of war entirely on one side indefinitely, that Eel had had more than her share of success recently, that the enemy too had some capability and must have his innings. In any event, Eel lost the initiative when she went deep. The depth charge attack she was now enduring was the most severe and the most deliberate of Richardson’s experience.

Were the water deeper, there would have been a greater range of uncertainty as to what setting to place on the depth charges. As it was, Eel could go no deeper than two hundred feet, and her Japanese antagonist easily remained in contact. The sound of his screws came in alternately from one side or the other, ahead or astern, but always remaining at close range. The initial flurry of charges was small in number, only six, but extremely well placed. Thereafter the tincan contented itself with dropping only one, or perhaps two, at the optimum point of each deliberate, careful approach. All were close, and all had done some damage.

Perhaps there was an unknown oil leak, or an air leak, to betray Eel’s position to the surface. Perhaps the water was clear enough in this particular area for the submarine’s outline to be hazily visible to a masthead lookout. In the Yellow Sea this hardly seemed possible. But the enemy’s ability to hold contact was uncanny. Perhaps an aircraft had come out to help him. Maybe it could see through the mud-yellow water. At 200 feet, after all, the highest point of the submarine would be only 154 feet—exactly half her length—beneath the surface.

All machinery, with the exception of the main motors, had long since been secured. The humidity of the atmosphere inside the boat had instantly gone to 100 percent and remained there, with the constant addition of moisture from the bodies of Eel’s sweating crew, as the air temperature crept steadily upward. Never again, Richardson decided, would Eel’s linoleum decks be waxed. The moisture settled upon them, lifted the wax, and the whole was stirred into a disgusting ooze as men shuffled through it. In the meantime, an accumulation of small leaks was gradually filling the bilges of the enginerooms and the motor room. Eel was slowly losing trim. To pump bilges would require running the drain pump. To pump out an equivalent amount of water from one of the trimming tanks would require use of the trim pump. Both would make noise, and Richardson refused to permit them to be run. Little by little the amount of lift required on bow planes and stern planes increased, until finally they reached their limits. It was then necessary for Eel herself to run with an up angle so that some of the thrust of her slow-moving propellers, turning at minimum speed, could be directly converted to an upward component. Precarious footing on a steeply sloping deck was thenceforth added to her crew’s discomfort.

It was the waiting, however, that was the hardest. Waiting while Stafford reported occasionally, hopefully, “Shifted to long scale”—which might indicate uncertainty as to the exact location of the submarine—and then with something like a note of despair, “Shifted to short-scale pinging.” Most difficult of all was when Stafford would announce, “She’s starting a run!” Then there would be the waiting while Richardson and Stafford, both wearing earphones at the sonar receiver console, tried to determine whether the enemy was most likely to miss ahead or astern, so that Richardson could give the order to the rudder at the best moment to increase the amount of the error. Then the escort would move off a few hundred yards and listen for betraying noises while the reverberations of her depth charges died away. Finally she would resume echo-ranging, sometimes with the successive pings in quick succession on short scale, sometimes, perhaps only for the sake of variety, more widely spaced on the long-range scale.

Late in the afternoon, following a particularly accurate attack in which a depth charge had exploded close aboard on either side, filling the interior of the submarine with dust only just settled, shaking her insides as if the various structural components were made of some flexible plastic material, Blunt climbed heavily into the conning tower.

“We can’t go on like this much longer, Rich. Lichtmann has just reported to Dugan that the last depth charging has wrecked one of the air compressors. Maybe we should just stop all machinery and lie doggo on the bottom for a while.” Blunt’s face was pale, covered with perspiration, smudged with dirt and oil. His khaki shirt was soaked through, with hardly a dry spot on it. His trousers were the same. He had thrown a towel around his neck, mopped his face and the top of his head ceaselessly as he talked. The towel, too, was dirty and wringing wet. Most noticeable about him, however, were his eyes. They were streaked with red, and they darted ceaselessly this way and that as he spoke. His face worked, his jaws and lips hung slack. His head wobbled on his neck as he spoke.

Removing his earphone, wiping the perspiration off his ears and both sides of his head with his own towel, Richardson turned two deep red coals instead of eyes—one set in a puffy black swelling—upon his superior. “No!” he said. “Once we set her on the bottom, we’ll never get her off! As soon as they find out . . .” He let the sentence trail off. Blunt would know as well as anyone what would happen once the enemy knew the submarine had stopped moving, must therefore be lying on the bottom. “All hands not actively employed have been ordered to their bunks to conserve oxygen, Commodore,” he said after a moment. “You should try to lie down and get some rest, too.” His own system had long since ceased crying for sleep. It was numb; but the near horizons of his view, the brittleness of his thought processes, presented their own warnings. Regardless of his will, his body—or parts of it—was sleeping anyway.

“You’re the one who needs some rest,” said Blunt.

It was an unrealistic comment to be addressed to a submarine skipper in the midst of a depth charging. No doubt Blunt meant it only in the complimentary sense.

Rich waved a hand in deprecation. “Where’s Keith?”

“I meant to tell you. He was in the after engineroom when the depth charges went off. He was knocked out somehow. Yancy is back with him.”

This was a blow. Keith Leone was not only his right-hand man, upon whom he had come to depend more than anyone else, he had also become his closest friend. “How bad is he hurt?”

“Don’t know yet. Several others were shaken up too, and somebody in the after room must have flipped, because he began running forward shouting to surface the boat and let the married men out. They stopped him with a wrench on the head. He and Keith are laid out together in the engineroom.”

“Shifted to short scale! She’s starting a run!” As Richardson swung around to the sonar receiving console and adjusted his earphones, he noticed that Stafford’s hands were shaking. So, nearly, were his own. He could see the pulse jumping in his wrists. Through the earphones Rich could hear the malevolent propeller beats coming closer. The rapid pings of the Japanese sonar sounded triumphant. They were exactly like those of a U.S. destroyer. He could pay no further attention to Blunt, who was standing irresolutely on the top rung of the ladder leading to the control room. The hatch was normally closed upon rigging for depth charge. Blunt had opened it to mount to the conning tower.

“She’s coming in on our port bow,” whispered Stafford tensely. The pointer indicator for the sound heads indicated the same. “No bearing drift at all! She’s coming right in on top of us!”

This was going to be a good run. The pings seemed to come right through the machine, and right through Eel’s pressure hull as well. Richardson could hear them without the earphones.

Perhaps a slight change in tactics would be in order. The tincan must be within a thousand yards. The cone of its sonar beam must have a limiting angle of depression, like American sonars. There would be a conical space beneath it where it was deaf. “Left full rudder,” he ordered.

Cornelli, at the steering wheel where he had been for twelve hours, spelled occasionally by Scott, began cranking the large steel wheel. Like all the other hydraulically controlled mechanisms, it had been shifted to hand power and now operated as a pump by which oil could slowly be pushed through the hydraulic lines and gradually move the heavy rudder rams. Cornelli had stripped to the waist. His muscular torso gleamed with sweat under the light of the emergency battle lantern above him. The wheel was four feet in diameter, with a handle which could be snapped out against a spring on its im. With both hands on the handle, Cornelli was jackknifing himself at the waist rapidly. Drops of sweat flew off his arms and shoulders as he furiously pumped the heavy steel wheel. The rudder angle indicator moved left with agonizing slowness.

“That’s well, Cornelli,” said Richardson. The rudder had not quite reached full left, but it was far enough. Cornelli was panting heavily. The oxygen content in Eel’s atmosphere was low. He was heaving deep breaths, alternately inflating and contracting his chest and stomach muscles.

“Rudder is twenty left. Thanks, sir,” he puffed.

Through the gyro repeater built into the sonar dials Richardson could see Eel slowly move left, bringing the pinging escort more nearly dead ahead. “All right, Cornelli, start bringing the rudder back to zero. Scott, you help him.” The air inside the submarine had become considerably more foul than was normal for an all-day submergence. The exertions of the crew, despite the enforced inactivity of some of them, resulted in greatly increased oxygen consumption. Cornelli was still heaving great, nearly sobbing, pants. Richardson felt that he himself was ready to do the same even without physical exertion. Blunt had been panting merely from having climbed up the ladder from the control room. After a few turns of the wheel Cornelli gratefully turned it over to Scott. “Just bring it back slow and stop on zero,” said Richardson. “We’ve got her swinging now.”

He turned, called past Blunt to Al Dugan at the diving station, “Al, we’re going to speed up. When we do, bring her up to a hundred fifty feet.”

Al Dugan also had a towel wrapped around his neck. Perspiration glinted on the ends of his close-cropped hair. He leaned back, looked up the hatch. “One-five-oh feet,” he said.

“All ahead full,” ordered Richardson. The rudder was nearing zero as he gave the command. “Commodore,” he continued, “she’s about to drop again! Please go below and shut the hatch!”

“I figure we’ve just entered the cone,” said Stafford. “We’re going to pass right under her on the opposite course.”

“I know,” said Richardson. He might have gone on to explain his reasoning, which was that once inside the cone of silence there was less chance the enemy ship would hear the sudden increase in speed of Eel’s propellers, and also a fairly good chance that she would not be able to react quickly enough to change the settings on her depth charges. Additionally, there was the factor that with the two ships proceeding on opposite courses, once Eel had passed beneath her adversary her propeller wash would thrust an increased amount of water directly toward the other ship. There might be an appreciable delay before the frigate could regain contact, since her sonar would also have to contend with her own propeller wash, as well as the water turbulence from her depth charges. Richardson said nothing, however, for suddenly it would have been too great an effort. A huge yawn racked his being. Almost with a sigh, really a deep pant by which his system subconsciously strove for more oxygen to keep it going, he asked, “Scott, when is sunset?”

“Half an hour ago,” said Scott.

“How about evening twilight?”

“About an hour altogether. It will be dark in half an hour more.”

“She’s dropped!” screamed Stafford in Richardson’s ear. Stafford was an oldtime submariner, a sonar man from way back, with many years of experience. He had been invaluable on the patrol thus far, as on the previous one. But even good men had their limits. Perhaps this was the last patrol Stafford should have to make—that is, if this were not to be the last one for other reasons.

“How many?”

“Don’t know. Two at least! Maybe more this time!”

WHAM! A tremendous, all-encompassing explosion . . . WHAM! Another, equally loud. There was a sound of rushing water. WHAM! WHAM! Two more, even louder, almost simultaneous. Something struck the side of the submarine, skidded or scraped for a moment, fell clear. Richardson felt momentarily disoriented. Stafford had been knocked off his stool in front of the sonar equipment. Richardson saved himself from falling by gripping the handrail alongside the control room hatch. Blunt, however, still standing in the hatch, had been knocked backward off the ladder and had disappeared below into the control room just as the hatch itself, sprung loose from its latch, slammed shut with a resounding clap and then bounced open again.

Quin was prone on the floor, under Scott, who had fallen upon him. Unaccountably, the light in the conning tower was suddenly dim. The main lighting circuit had gone out. Only the emergency battle lights were still burning. The cloud of dust was so great that Richardson could hardly see to the after end of the cylindrical compartment, to the TDC and plotting table, normally the battle stations of Buck Williams and Larry Lasche. In the control room, through the reopened hatch, there was a haze of dust through the likewise dimmed light. There was confusion down there too. Blunt, in falling, must have landed upon Dugan, although Richardson could not see the situation clearly enough to discern who was who in the scramble. Relief flooded through him when Dugan’s bulky figure arose from the tangle, the top of his head assumed something like its normal position. There was blood smeared on it, Richardson noted. Whether Dugan’s or someone else’s was not clear, but at least he was back on his feet.

“All compartments report!” Rich shouted down the hatch.

Quin, with his earphones, would have been the normal channel for the order, but he was still temporarily out of commission. He could see him trying to listen, however.

Suddenly Dugan leaned back. “After engineroom reports damage!” he said, speaking swiftly.

“Are they taking water?”

It could not be serious. Al Dugan had yet to feel the weight in his diving controls. There was, however, that sound of rushing water, which he could still hear. It sounded like something changed in the superstructure. There was a quality to the noise which Richardson had never heard before.

He grabbed the telephone handset. Through it Richardson could hear compartments still reporting, as they had been trained, from forward aft.

“Silence on the line!” he bellowed into the telephone mouthpiece. “After engineroom report!”

The voice at the other end of the line seemed extremely distant, weak. It stated its message of horror, baldly, matter-of-factly, without embellishment or inflection of voice. It was almost as though the speaker were too tired, or too much under shock, to place any personal feeling into what he had to say: “After engineroom is flooding!”

Richardson had been expecting something like this. Neither strong steel hull nor human flesh and blood could continue to stand up under the crushing pounding so deliberately delivered for the past several hours. Nor could vital internal machinery. This was the end. This the solution to the problems. Now he could abandon himself to the inevitable. He was so tired—so tired, WHAM! WHAM! Two more depth charges. God, would they never stop? The last two depth charges, however, seemed not quite so close as the previous ones. The destroyer had finished its pass and was now dead astern. Had not Eel speeded up, the two middle depth charges in the pattern would have fallen neatly around the conning tower instead of farther aft. Now the frigate would be turning around, beaming its sonar where its plot would indicate Eel should be. But the escort would be pinging straight up Eel’s wake, through the disturbed water of her thrashing screws, the inline disturbance of six closely spaced depth charges. Richardson could increase its difficulty by maneuvering to keep the disturbance between them. Even with full speed, however, the rapidly accumulating weight of water in Eel’s after engineroom would soon be too much to carry. He could hasten the end by ordering “all stop” and letting her sink quietly to the bottom. The men in the after engineroom could prolong their lives a little by evacuating the compartment, dogging it down tightly after them. Then everyone could rest.

The alternative was to fight it. Eel must have gained some distance on her attacker. There would be a period of some peace, some opportunity to see if it might not yet be possible to salvage the situation. What was it that old Joe Blunt used to say so many years ago when he was still the much-admired skipper of the Octopus? “When you get into firing position, take your time and do it right.” That was one of them. The other was something to the effect that no matter what happened, there would be time to do what had to be done. Only the coward gave up and let circumstances rule him.

Richardson was aware of Quin staring at him with great wide-open eyes. Al Dugan in the control room below was taking a step up the ladder to bring Richardson into clearer view.

“All compartments, this is the captain. Stand firm to your stations! I’m going aft!” Deliberately he forced himself calmly to replace the handset in its cradle. “Buck,” he called, “I’m going to the after engineroom. You’re in charge up here. You can reach me by telephone. Keep the speed on, and keep that tincan astern. I’ll be back in three minutes!”

He stepped into the hatch, placed his heels on the ladder leading to the control room. It would do the control room gang good to see him coming down in his accustomed way, back to the ladder, hands on the skirt below the hatch rim opposite. “Gangway, Al,” he said. The diving officer, standing on the bottom rung of the ladder, swung clear. “Is she getting heavy aft?” he asked Dugan in a low tone.

“A little, but we’re still holding her at this speed. I don’t think we can if we slow down, though.”

The steps he must take had almost instantaneously become clear in Richardson’s mind. First, at all costs keep off the bottom. Second, stop or reduce the flooding. Third, get Keith and all other injured persons to a place of comparative safety, leaving only able-bodied men to do what could be done in the after engineroom. “Al,” he said, speaking swiftly, “line up your air manifold for blowing number seven main ballast tank alone. If you find yourself getting out of trim, or if we have to slow down, put a bubble in it big enough to balance the weight of the water in the after engineroom. Be careful and don’t put too much air in the tank.” Dugan nodded.

“Line up the drain pump on the drain line and be ready to start it. If we can still reach the after engineroom bilge suction, I’ll open it and give you the word to start pumping. And remember, if you get too much air in number seven tank, the only way to get rid of it will be through the vent valve, and it will go right to the surface for them to see!”

As Richardson swiftly made his way through the successive compartments, opening the watertight doors, seeing they were redogged behind him, he was acutely conscious of the haggard looks with which everyone regarded him. His was the responsibility for the situation, and it was to him alone they had to look for survival.

There were two or three men peering through the heavy glass viewing port in the closed watertight door between the forward and after enginerooms. One of them had his hand on the compartment air-salvage valve above the door. They moved quickly aside for him. No water was yet visible in the compartment.

“Open the door,” he ordered. Instantly the dogging mechanism handle was spun, the door swung open. He stepped through. “Dog it and keep a watch on me,” he said crisply. “Stand by to put pressure on the compartment, but don’t do it unless I signal, or unless you see water.” Air pressure in the engineroom, a last resort to reduce intake of water, would thereafter prevent opening either door to the compartment until an airlock system was devised.

Water was coming in from somewhere. He could hear the hydrant-like spurt of it beneath the deck plates. The upper level was deserted except for Yancy, the pharmacist’s mate.

“Where’s Leone?” asked Richardson.

“He’s down below with Mr. Cargill and Chief Frank. He’s okay, sir. The other man is all right, too. He just couldn’t take any more. So I gave him a sedative, and I think he’ll be okay when he wakes up. He’s over there lying on the generator flat.” Yancy indicated the area aft of the starboard main engine.

“Good. Get some help and get him through the door forward right away, and roll him into a bunk.” He indicated the watertight door through which he had just entered, then swiftly dropped through the open hatch in the deck plates, climbed down the thin steel rungs in the ladder. He was nearly to his knees in water in an incredibly confined space between the two huge engines.

Keith, a large abrasion on the side of his head, sloshed toward him. “Looks like the sea line to this freshwater cooler is ruptured right at the hull valve,” he said. “We’ve got the hull valve shut, but it’s the valve body itself that’s broken. There’s no way of stopping the water coming in unless we can take the sea pressure off.”

“We’re getting the drain pump lined up. How fast is the water coming in? Can we reach the drain pump suction?”

“Pretty fast. It’s up nearly to the lower generator flats, but so far I don’t think any has got into the main generators. Good thing we were able to take the angle off when we speeded up. We’ll get the bilge suction open, but the drain pump won’t be able to handle it. It’s coming in too fast. We’ll have to put a pressure on the compartment.”

“Not a hundred and fifty feet worth. We’ve got to reduce external pressure too. Tell off the engineers you’ll need down here. Send forward everybody not required here or in the compartments aft. You can start pressurizing whenever you’re ready, but let me know first, and come out yourself. A few pounds will be enough, and I’m going to need you back in conn.”

Suddenly it was clear what he had to do. From the look in Keith’s eyes he understood, and agreed. “That last salvo makes sixty-five depth charges he’s dropped on us,” Richardson said quietly. “He probably has at least that many more in his locker, and sonar conditions are phenomenal. He’ll figure to keep us down here either until our battery gives out or he gets one of those blockbusters right on target. It’s time to see if those five-inchers are as good as we think they are!”

There was a hissing of air through hidden pipes. Al Dugan had begun to put air into the aftermost ballast tank to counteract the growing weight of water in the after part of the boat. With a final word to Keith, Richardson started up the ladder. He had reached the upper level of the engineroom, had just motioned to the men watching through the viewing port of the watertight door, when a change in Eel communicated itself to him. Perhaps it was the lessening of the sensation of speed through the water. Perhaps it was a gradual squashing down aft. His sixth sense—a faculty developed by all submarine skippers—told him all. The main motors had stopped!

A telephone handset was nearby for the convenience of the engine throttlemen. He grabbed it. “This is the captain! What’s happened?”

It must be the maneuvering room which answered. “Ordered all stop, sir.” There was lethargy, acceptance, in the voice. To stop the screws meant sinking to the bottom. There could be only one possible result of such a move, and only a single reason could be the cause. Some catastrophe had taken place in the nerve center of the submarine!

“Conn! Are you still on the line?”

“Yessir, Captain.” Quin’s voice. It, too, carried a hidden message. “The commodore ordered all stop, sir.”

“Who ordered?”

“The commodore, sir!”

The watertight door had been undogged. The men were swinging it open. Rich slammed the phone in its place, jackknifed through the door, ran the length of the forward engineroom. Here they had not seen him coming because the door was behind an exhaust trunk and out of the line of sight. Several seconds were needed to get it open. In the crew’s dinette, however, someone had been listening surreptitiously on the phones. The watertight door was already being undogged as Richardson raced for it.

He was panting heavily when he reached the diving station. Al Dugan’s face was working. “As soon as you went aft, the commodore went back up the ladder and had the hatch shut. A minute ago he sent word you had been injured, and he was taking command and putting the ship on the bottom. He’s flipped, sir! You can tell by looking at him” The oval-shaped hatch to the conning tower was closed. Both dogs had been hammered home.

Consternation. A knot in the gut. Neither must be allowed to show. “All right, Al. I’ll take care of this. Is your air manifold still rigged to blow number seven tank?”

“Just through the after group. The forward group blow is as was.”

“Fine. Keep her balanced, and keep her off the bottom. Use safety tank if you have to.” There was grateful relief in Dugan’s acknowledgment. Rich could guess at the quandary he had been in.

“Sargent!” The auxiliaryman responded with alacrity. “Yessir!”

Richardson spoke slowly and distinctly, so that everyone in the control room would hear and understand. “Shift steering and annunciators from the conning tower to the control room!” Sargent jumped to the forward bulkhead, rapidly began to make the shift.

“Al, get a quartermaster out of the damage-repair gang and put him on the steering station. Report when he has steering control.” To the man wearing the telephone headset Rich said, “Inform all stations that I have the conn in the control room.”

“Blow safety!” suddenly called out Dugan. The diving officer raised his right hand, palm open. Lichtmann, appearing from nowhere in Sargent’s place, knocked the air valve open. “Secure!” Dugan clenched his fist. Lichtmann spun the handle shut.

“Steering and annuciators shifted to the control room, Captain!” Sargent was reporting.

“I have steering control, sir. Annunciators too.” The new helmsman was Sodermalm, a lithe young sailor with several patrols under his belt.

“All ahead full!” Richardson still spoke portentously. This was the test, the resolution of the most immediate emergency. Sodermalm clicked over the annunciators.

“Captain says all ahead full from the control room,” he heard the phoneman say into his mouthpiece. The electricians in the maneuvering room must have been waiting for the order, for the answering signals on the two instruments were instant and simultaneous. Richardson could feel Eel responding to the additional power. Grins of approbation from Dugan and the men in the control room.

There was still more to be done. “Conn, control,” he said to the man wearing the phones—it was Livingston, the young seaman who only yesterday had mistaken a bird for a plane—“What is the latest bearing of the enemy?”

Under the steady gaze of his skipper, Livingston was intent on redeeming his spurious warning. He carefully repeated the message, afterward treasured the fleeting smile of gratitude from his superior’s strained, stubbled face when he reported, “Two-three-seven, true, sir.”

The enemy was still dead astern. The total time elapsed since the most recent salvo of depth charges had been less than five minutes. There was still a little breathing space. This would be the moment to relieve some of the tension. If the new helmsman behaved true to form, he might be the means. “Sodermalm, you don’t look big enough to steer the ship in hand power. Get some others to help you, and see if you can ease the course right to zero-five-seven.”

“Ease right to zero-five-seven, aye aye. I can handle this better than those conning tower jockeys anytime. This is no sweat. Just tell me what you want and leave it to me, sir!” Sody, as Rich knew the crew called the irrepressible little Swede, was nothing if not a self-confident sailor. Smiles appeared on several faces. Rich also grinned inwardly, and then decided to let some of it show.

Now for the most difficult problem. Access to the sonar gear and Stafford’s expertise was imperative. The tincan would be getting ready for another run soon. “Livingston, tell conn to open the hatch. I’m coming up.” Control had been wrested from Blunt with ridiculous ease. It was important for morale that it be absolutely clear there had never been a threat to Richardson’s command of the submarine. He swung himself onto the rungs of the ladder. Quin would repeat the instruction from Livingston loudly enough for all in the conning tower to hear. Blunt would realize he had been bested, would give in as gracefully as he could.

The hatch dogs moved a trifle, but then they returned to the engaged position. The hatch remained closed. Livingston gave the clue. “Quin says the commodore is standing on the hatch!” But the words were no sooner out than the dogs precipitantly turned free. The hatch sprang open. He leaped up the ladder rungs.

A scuffle was going on. Blunt, Williams, and Lasche were struggling between the periscopes. Quin staring aghast. Scott—it must have been he who had kicked open the hatch—the same. Cornelli, still braced at his useless steering wheel, rigidly keeping his eyes front. Only Stafford, padded earphones covering half his face, seemed oblivious. “Stop!” roared Richardson. “Stop it! All three of you!” The three were breathing with tremendous heaves. Rich, too, had hardly recovered from his run from the after engineroom, and was panting again from his swift ascent to the conning tower.

The wolfpack commander was the first to speak. He was sputtering with rage, the querulous note in his voice never more evident. His eyes were unnaturally wide, staring. His whole face was loose. Even his words were loose, poorly pronounced. His breath came in great, fetid wheezes. “Richardson, I took command of this ship when you left your station! Somebody has to take care of things around here! I’m charging these two officers with assault on a superior in the performance of his duty, and I want them transferred as soon as we reach port!”

“He wouldn’t get off the hatch when you wanted to come up,” said Williams, “so Larry and I pulled him off. We knew you weren’t hurt. He made that up. Maybe he was thinking of Keith—is he all right? What about the flooding aft?”

Ignoring the questions, Richardson spoke rapidly. “We’ve got to surface. Get the gun crews ready!” He turned to Blunt. “Commodore,” he began, spacing his words but speaking gently, “you’re not yourself. Please go below. The pharmacist’s mate will report to you. . . .”

“No! You can’t make me! I’ve taken charge here!” Blunt’s voice trembled.

He would have said more, but Stafford interrupted. There was excitement in his tone, combined with dread. “I think she’s shifted to short scale and started a run! She’s dead aft in the baffles! Our screws are making so much noise I can’t tell for sure!”

Were Eel to turn to clear the sonar for better hearing, her partial broadside would return a far more definite echo than the Mikura could get by pinging up her wake, as she was at the moment forced to do. For some time Rich had been considering another idea, born of what he had read of German submarine tactics. “Control,” he called down the hatch, “Al, open the forward group vents. Get ready to blow a big bubble through forward group tanks!”

“Control, aye!” A moment later Dugan leaned his head back again. “Forward group vents are open. We’re ready to blow!”

“All stop,” ordered Richardson. Cornelli reached for his annunciator controls, but the order had been called down to the control room. Cornelli had forgotten he was disconnected. He dropped his hands, helplessly looked backward.

The follower pointers still functioned, however, and clicked over to “stop” just as Al Dugan called from below, “All stop, answered.”

“Blow forward group, Al. Full blow! Half a minute!” The noise of air blowing. A different sound in the water rushing past, because full of bubbles. Eel coasted through them as they rose from her open vents and broke up into millions of tiny, sonar-stopping granules of air. A long bubble streak would form on the surface as well, but in the rapidly growing darkness this might not immediately be noticed. When it was, the tincan skipper would very likely think he had delivered a lethal blow at last. Whatever else, for a time his sonar would never penetrate the double barrier of Eel’s wake, thrown directly into his receiver, and the cloud of diffused air immediately following. He would have to proceed through the entire mess before his sonar conditions would be back to normal, and might well assume, temporarily at least, that the air bubble marked the rupture of Eel’s pressure hull; that the now flooded submarine, dead at last, was lying on the bottom under it.

Rich was looking at his watch. Eel’s speed had only begun to drop. He ordered emergency speed a few seconds before the half-minute expired, and the needle on the pitometer log indicator again began to rise. It was hardly possible the enemy tincan would recognize the change through the reverberations in the water and the blanket of air now astern. Very deliberately, Rich put on the spare set of sonar earphones. In the depleted condition of her battery, Eel could not run long at full battery discharge, but a long run was not in his mind. Depth charges were; and after a lengthy silence, during which the roaring of water rushing past and the vibration of whatever it was that had been damaged topside seemed to grow ever louder, he suddenly relaxed.

Stafford was also grinning, for the first time that day. Through the earphones, dim in the distance and masked by the tumultuous wash of Eel’s thrashing screws, there could clearly be heard the thunder of many depth charges. The tincan was depth charging the air bubble! It would be long minutes before the enemy skipper realized he had not driven Eel to earth at last.

This would be the opportunity. Richardson had given Blunt no attention for several minutes, was on the point of forgetting him when he realized he was still in the conning tower. The wolfpack commander was still breathing hard, still slack-jawed, his eyes still glaring under the bunched, bushy brows. Obviously he was still confused, still antagonistic. He would be terribly in the way. It was not possible to stop the sharpness in Richardson’s voice. “Commodore, please! I asked you to go below! We’re going to have to do a battle surface!”

“No! You can’t make me!” The identical words as before. Unreal. Manic.

“Quin, pass the word for Yancy to come up here.” Richardson waited until the pharmacist’s mate appeared on the ladder. “Commodore, unless you go below with Yancy by yourself, we’ll have to have you carried down. I really mean it, sir!” Not until later did Richardson recall his next words, wrenched from the depths of his private grief. They were expressive of all that had happened between them, all Rich had tried to do for his onetime idol; symbolic, too, of the change in their relationship, and of the onslaught of time which casts one up and at the same moment must cast another down. “I’ve come to the end of my rope, Joe,” he said. It was the first time ever that he had used Blunt’s given name.

There was something juvenile, something pitifully childish, in the stubborn refusal, the retreat into the accustomed corner under the bridge hatch. But there was neither time nor any more emotion to waste.

Quin was trying to get Richardson’s attention. “Mr. Leone is on the phone. He says the engineroom is lined up to pump, and he’s beginning to pressurize the compartment. He says he’ll have to use a lot of air if we stay down.”

Once air pressure in the after engineroom became equal to the sea pressure at the depth, water would cease coming in. When air pressure exceeded sea pressure, water would begin flowing back through the same hole through which it had entered. This would be true, of course, only so long as the water level in the engineroom covered the hole; and anyone remaining in the compartment would be subjected to the same pressure, with consequent danger of the bends if prolonged. But there was no longer any need for that worry.

He picked up the handset. “Keith? . . . Go ahead. We’ll be coming up in a very few minutes, so hold it down to ten pounds’ pressure.”

It must be quite dark topside. Eel would slow down and come to periscope depth immediately. This would greatly reduce the necessary air pressure in the after engineroom. The bubble in number seven tank would expand as the ship rose nearer to the surface, giving additional buoyancy, but of course additional buoyancy would be needed as she slowed down. Exactly how much was the problem. As the lifting effect of the stern planes became less pronounced, the whole business of balancing weights and buoyancy submerged would become more ticklish. The risk of emitting another bubble, if the buoyancy aft became too great, would have to be accepted.

Richardson paced around the periscope in the darkened conning tower, becoming readjusted to the reduced light. He could hear the repeated orders to “blow” and “secure the air”—and once or twice a quickly telephoned order to the after torpedo room to “crack the vent,” then shut it tightly again—as Dugan fought to maintain submerged trim.

There were other noises too. The bustle of breaking out ammunition, the preparation of the gun crews, the setting up of the ammunition supply parties. At one point, Richardson got on the telephone to all compartments and quietly announced his instructions to the gun crews. The gun captains and the pointers and trainers of the two five-inch guns were summoned to the conning tower for specific instructions. Their first move would be to check the bore-sight of their guns, for their telescopes might well have been damaged or knocked out of alignment. They could do this swiftly by sighting on the previously laid-out marks on deck forward and aft, using Buck Williams’ improvised bore-sight telescope jammed into the open breech. Then they were free to swing on the target, but they were not to open fire until ordered.

The six men, goggled and garbed in heavy clothing, listened gravely. This was very near to the situation for which they had trained and planned two months ago, and for which periodically, whenever they had the opportunity, they had checked out the guns. Their only chance to fire them since leaving Pearl had come briefly, some twelve hours previously, at the last troopship. Combined with awareness of the emergency, it was also clear there was a certain relish at the prospect of vengeance against their tormentor. The gun captains would wear telephones and would receive range settings from Buck Williams, who would be manning another set in the conning tower. Buck, in turn, would receive ranges from the radar and firing bearings from the bridge TBTs.

Final instructions were for Keith alone. “If anything happens to me on the bridge,” Richardson said, “do not dive under any circumstances. We’ll have to hope that water hasn’t gotten into number three and four generators—Johnny Cargill and Frank will be checking on that. The first thing to do is to damage this tincan so that he won’t be able to follow, or anyway, keep up with us.” It was characteristic of Keith that he should merely nod.

Time for all the preparations could not have taken ten minutes. The crew was working in desperate haste, well aware of the danger that the destroyer might come upon them before they were ready. In the dim visibility through the periscope, the tincan could barely be seen in the darkness. Eel’s high-speed run had gained considerable distance. Now the enemy was slowly and methodically moving up her wake. He had probably finally realized his mistake with the air bubble, but was still beset by confused echoes from his own recent depth charges and from the turbulent water left behind by the submarine’s propellers. Nevertheless, the sonar conditions would clear, and at the end of the disturbed water he must find the submarine.

The conning tower was crowded with men, nearly all wearing red goggles. All wore heavy clothing, for it would be cold topside in contrast to the atmosphere inside the submarine, which was hot, smelly, and humid. The profuse perspiration pouring down Richardson’s skin inside his own heavy jacket bothered him not at all, but the perspiration around his eyes as he looked through the periscope was more annoying than the drip landing on his forehead. Ceaselessly he wiped his face on a towel, frequently was forced to use a piece of lens paper on the glass objective lens of the periscope as it clouded up with the moisture exuding from his face.

“We’re ready below!” Dugan’s report sailed up through the control room hatch. For some minutes Richardson had been debating with himself once again whether it would be better to execute a traditional battle surface close aboard his adversary in hopes of overwhelming him with gunfire before he was able to respond. Again he put aside this alternative, although it ran counter to traditional submarine training before the war. Sonar conditions were simply too good. Eel would be detected before she was able to get close enough to execute the standard drill, and once this happened, the enemy would instantly renew the depth charging, or try to ram. Far better to surface without warning, at a greater range. This would give Eel time for several precious minutes of gunfire.

Opposed to the submarine’s assemblage of guns—two short-barrel five-inchers plus automatic weapons ranging from the lethal forty-millimeter on down—the enemy escort vessel could muster a single four-inch, backed up by an unknown number of rapid-fire guns of various calibers. It was upon his five-inchers that Richardson was depending to get in some quick, vital, damaging blows, most importantly in the vicinity of the four-inch on the tincan’s forecastle. A single hit from this gun could penetrate Eel’s pressure hull and totally eliminate her ability to dive. The Jap’s bow had undoubtedly been designed for ramming, and a single blow from it, struck fair, would surely rupture Eel’s hull and drive her under as well. Better to retain the advantage of surprise and begin the action from afar.

“Shut the lower hatch! All ahead standard!” The slam of the hatch between conning tower and control room. The clink of the annunciators, now, like steering, returned to the conning tower. “Left fifteen degrees rudder. Come left to one-eight-oh!” Richardson intended to surface broadside to the enemy so that both five-inchers could be gotten into action immediately. Too much rudder, however, might give Al Dugan trouble with depth control, riding as he was with a bubble in the aftermost ballast tank. On the other hand, the increased speed would give the bow planes and stern planes greater bite.

“Four knots, Captain.” Buck Williams, wearing a telephone headset, was reading the ship’s speed from the face of the TDC. The TDC would be used like a gunfire range computer, with radar ranges and TBT bearings set into it. Output, compensating for enemy movement, would be read off from it directly to the gun captains at each of the guns.

“Steady on course south.” Cornelli at the helm.

“Quin, tell the diving officer to start blowing!” Quin repeated the order. Instantly the sound of high pressure air flowing into the ballast tanks could be heard. Richardson could feel the lift of the emptying tanks, but there was no answering rising sensation. Al would operate the bow and stern planes to hold the submarine down as long as possible. The blowing increased in volume. “Depth six-oh feet.” Keith was reading the conning tower depth gauge for him. “Speed through water five-a-half knots.”

“Stadimeter range,” said Richardson, “mark!”

“Two-eight-double-oh,” read Keith. Angle on the bow and bearing had already been fed into the TDC. “Checking right in there!” from Williams.

The blowing continued. There was a moment of tense stillness. The next move would be Dugan’s.

“Can’t hold her! Reversing planes!” Dugan’s voice boomed loud on the general announcing speaker in the conning tower. Suddenly the submarine began to rise beneath them. Al had been directed to bring her up all flat, partly to get the main deck clear as soon as possible, partly to keep water in the after engineroom bilges from collecting in the after end and possibly, at that last moment, damaging the all-important generators.

“All back full!” ordered Richardson.

“Four-five feet,” said Keith. “Four-oh feet.” Water could be heard pouring through the superstructure, sluicing off the bridge. “Three-oh feet. Two-eight feet. Two-four feet . . . Two-four feet and holding!”

“All stop! Open the hatch!” bellowed Richardson. “Open the gun access trunk! Gun crews on deck!” The hatch banged open. There was a slight lift of air through the hatch, instantly dissipated because only the conning tower volume was involved. Richardson scrambled up the ladder, stepped clear of the horde of men following him. Instantly he was glad he had picked the port side to begin the action. The starboard side of the bridge—a large section of the bulletproof steel plating—was missing, evidently blown off by that last, closest, depth charging. Perhaps it was this which he had heard striking the side of the submarine and clattering on down into the depths. Luckily there was no further damage. No doubt the heavy plating had warded off the depth charge explosion. If so, to this everyone in the conning tower, and perhaps Eel herself, owed their lives.

Richardson was conscious of the bang of the gun access trunk hatch, the scurrying feet of many men running aft and forward. The men who had come up the hatch immediately after him had already cast loose the two forty-millimeter guns. Others pulled out the twin twenty-millimeters and hurriedly mounted them on their little stand just aft of the periscope shears, and still others mounted the three fifty-caliber machine guns in their mounting sockets on the undamaged port side of the bridge. On the forecastle he could see the round forward torpedo room hatch being lifted to the vertical and the shadowy forms of two men lifting their machine gun out, setting it in its socket to the left of the open hatch circle.

Keith’s voice from the conning tower. “Diving officer reports securing high pressure air. Shifting to low pressure blowers. Ship is riding at twenty-two-foot keel depth. Bridge speaker system is out!”

Richardson had expected this report from Dugan by loudspeaker. It was evident he had tried to make it, and that the bridge speaker system was one more casualty of the recent depth charging.

“Captain, I’m sending Quin up to relay your orders by telephone. We’ll have to take a chance on a wire through the hatch. We have wire cutters in the conning tower if we need them, and he has another in his pocket.”

Seconds later Quin was standing beside Richardson alongside the port TBT.

“I have communications with the forward and after five-inch guns, Captain,” said Quin. “They’re bore-sighting them now. Mr. Williams is giving them range: twenty-four hundred yards.”

“Good,” said Richardson. He raised his voice. “Hold fast, men!” he shouted. They had all been thoroughly briefed, but it was well to repeat the order. “Hold fast until I give the order!”

“Five-inchers and the forward-torpedo-room hatch have the word,” said Quin. A mutter of comprehension reached Richardson from all the bridge personnel.

“Bore-sight completed, forward five-inch,” said Quin. “Just a minute on the after gun—after gun bore-sight completed, Captain. Both guns, bore-sight completed. Training out on the port beam.”

“Ask them if they can see the target through their telescopes.” He heard Quin repeating the question, a moment later the reassuring reply, “Number one and two five-inch both can see the target clearly.”

Richardson was looking at the enemy ship through the TBT binoculars, never once removing his eyes from it. He thumbed the button built into the handle. The enemy must have just become aware of Eel’s sudden appearance on the surface.

“Have we got a second radar range on them yet, Quin?” he asked.

“Getting it right now, sir. Mr. Williams is getting radar range two-two-double-oh. He’s having the guns set in two-one-five-oh on their range dial.”

“Very well. All guns load.” He could hear the disciplined clatter as the five-inch shells were slammed into the breeches and the locks slammed home behind them. The forties had their clips of four rounds each already in place. One jerk back on the arming lever and a round was rammed to the firing chamber. The same with the twenties with their canned ammunition and the fifty calibers with their belts. The months of training were paying off. The first time this had been tried in drill there had been much clutter and confusion. Not this time. He had strenuously impressed upon all hands the importance of getting off this first broadside, these first few salvos, suddenly, with precision, and if possible with complete surprise.

Through his binoculars the enemy ship had been presenting a slight starboard angle on the bow, perhaps ten degrees. Now its already truncated silhouette shortened, became symmetrical. Richardson realized he was looking dead on at the enemy ship. The bridge command circuit had been rigged up. Miraculously, its permanent topside parts had not been damaged—it was a much simpler system and entirely separate from the ship’s announcing system. He spoke into the microphone hanging from its cord which he had placed between the twin eyepieces of the TBT binoculars. “Angle on the bow zero,” he said. “He’s seen us. Heading this way. Bearing, mark!” He pushed the button again.

“Williams says Mr. Leone can see him through the periscope,” said Quin. “They’re checking his speed now. They had him on five knots, but he’s speeding up, they think. They’re setting a new range at the guns, two thousand yards.”

Eel lay quietly in the water, all her way having drifted off. Fully surfaced, she rocked gently in the two-foot waves. Evening twilight had long since disappeared. Deliberately, Richardson had not ordered the main engines started. Despite the partial depletion of Eel’s battery, it was still good for about half an hour of full speed. He would rather continue to give the impression of being disabled, and at the same time retain the sudden rapid mobility afforded by the battery.

“Forties, twenties, and fifties will not shoot until specially ordered,” said Richardson, avoiding use of the word, “fire.” This too had already been thoroughly explained. The forties would be permitted to open up at fifteen hundred yards’ range. The twenties and fifties not until one thousand yards.

There was a flash from the forward deck of the approaching escort vessel. He had opened fire with his four-inch gun. This had been anticipated. The risk of a lucky hit would have to be taken. The enemy would, at least, have to shoot directly over its own high bow. Aiming would be difficult. Richardson did not even bother to search for the fall of shot.

“Buck has sent range two thousand to both guns,” said Quin hurriedly, forgetting the more formal appellation he should have used for the torpedo officer. “Range is twenty-one-fifty, closing. Speed ten knots, tracking right on.”

“Tell Mr. Leone to shoot when the hitting range is two thousand,” said Richardson. He raised his voice. “Stand by on the bridge. The main battery will be opening up in a moment.” He did not want an overly tense member of the bridge crew to waste his ammunition prematurely.

“Range two-one-double-oh,” said Quin. Richardson could visualize the two dozen rounds of ammunition laid out by each gun, the second and third shells cradled in arms of the loaders ready to be slammed into the breeches. There was another gout of flame from the foredeck of the approaching destroyer escort.

“Range is two-oh-five-oh, commence firing,” reported Quin breathlessly.

BAM BAM! The two five-inch guns went off almost simultaneously. Two brilliant flashes of orange-yellow flame on the main deck. A few seconds’ delay, then BAM BAM once more, and then for a third time the twin salvo roared out. The two guns gradually diverged in time as the gun crews vied with each other in ejecting the expended shell cases, slamming the new shells into the breeches, clearing away the hot brass from around the guns, keeping the ammunition train going. The forward gun was firing a split-second faster than the after gun, but it had a longer ammunition train and no ammunition supply scuttle through the main deck. For prolonged firing the after gun would be able to maintain a more rapid pace. At the moment, however, the two guns were firing ammunition laid out on deck. It was an outburst of frenzied action.

For a few seconds, Richardson could abandon himself to the role of spectator, watching the fall of shot, observing the enemy reaction. He could even watch the trajectory of his own five-inch projectiles by the faint glow put in the base of each to assist in spotting. The first two must have landed simultaneously; one, or perhaps both, in the water only yards in front of the approaching destroyer. The resulting splash—almost a vertical column of water—was as high as the top of her mast. It must have deluged the crew on deck around her gun. The second and third he could not see, nor the fourth and fifth, but then he began to see splashes in the water beyond, half concealed by the bulk of the approaching ship.

“Down two hundred!” he shouted to Quin. He heard Quin repeat the message to Keith. First shots were almost always short in range because of the cold gun effect. It was quite possible that one or two had hit the enemy already. With no range correction, the next shots might be over. At the short range, any splashes immediately beyond the target, as long as they were in line, must however have been from shells which had torn their way through her superstructure. He lined up the TBT, pressed the button. That would send down a deflection correction, if one was needed.

“Mr. Keith says periscope agrees with down two hundred,” said Quin. “Range is now fifteen hundred, TDC.”

Richardson seized a moment of silence while both deck guns were loading, yelled, “Forties, open fire on target’s bridge!”

This too had been rehearsed. Instantaneously the monotonous, sharp WHACK, WHACK, WHACK of the forties began, their crews racing about, jerking the quadruple clips from their racks, slamming them into their loading slides. The forties were fitted with tracers and had almost a flat trajectory. He could see them, arching only slightly, reaching toward the enemy ship. Some were exploding on contact. The others, armor-piercing, were going into the dark hull. An unearthly glow suffused the escort’s angular silhouette as they struck, or as the tracers illuminated it briefly on passing, leaving its dark bulk even blacker on the black sea. There was another flash of flame on her foredeck, only the fourth or fifth. She was not making nearly so good practice (as the old gunnery saying went) as Eel. A critical factor, of course, was that the submarine had more than double the heavy armament. Furthermore, the forties had aircraft proximity fuses. Some of their bursts were not on impact but in the air, over the deck. They must be inflicting terrible casualties on exposed personnel. So far, the enemy tincan had not opened up with any automatic weapons—undoubtedly because, coming end-on as she was, her own bridge and superstructure masked at least some of them. But now there came a series of red flashes from the top of her bridge structure. Someone had got a machine gun going up there. It was small, however, probably no larger than fifty-caliber, hardly able to reach effectively across the intervening half-mile or more to the submarine.

So far Eel had received no hits, and at the same time Richardson was certain that his five-inchers must have struck the enemy several times. Clearly, the forty-millimeters were hitting repeatedly. Several times he had heard a whistling, tearing sound, knew it to be the passage of a large-caliber shell overhead. The closest must have passed a good ten feet above the bridge. The enemy was shooting over. That was a good sign. Eel’s own five-inchers must have pumped out ten shots each by now. Surely they had already dealt significant damage.

“Range one thousand yards!” shouted Quin in his ear, screaming to be heard above the monotonous regular pounding of the forties.

“All right, men!” yelled Richardson, pounding the shoulders of the group huddled with the fifty-calibers alongside him on the bridge. His gesture took in the twenty-millimeter crew. “Commence fire! All weapons!”

It was like a jet of fire spurting from Eel’s bridge. Three thin arcs of fifty-caliber tracer ammunition, arching fairly high, dropped upon the enemy ship, as did a pair of twin tracers arching slightly less high from the twenty-millimeter mount immediately aft. Up forward, from the forward torpedo room trunk, another single arc of fifty-caliber tracers streamed out toward the enemy.

The five-inchers were methodically continuing their destructive pounding. Their pace was slower now, having used up the ready ammunition laid out in advance. The pointers by consequence were aiming each shot with careful deliberation.

“Enemy speed has slowed to eight knots,” shouted Quin. They had hurt her. If the damage was to her main propulsion plant, while Eel’s was still in full commission—assuming the men in the after engineroom had been able to get the leak under control—Eel could probably outrun her. If the damage were to her hull, so that the tincan’s skipper had been forced to reduce speed because she was taking water, so much the better. But, of course, slowing might have been for some other reason, not related to damage.

Richardson had only to give the order for the full power of Eel’s two batteries, quickly followed by the hastily started diesels, to begin escape and evasion. He could head the ship southwest. Perhaps regain contact with the last fleeing transport if Whitefish had not sunk her. Possibly, somehow, he might one more time find the means to bring Whitefish into contact for one last attack with her remaining torpedoes. Perhaps, now that the troopship was bereft of escorts, Eel might be able to sink her by gunfire in a night action. If his brain was still able to function to plan the search. If he could find her, after all these hours. Provided there was still no air cover, or that the tincan did not get to her first.

But running would only hand the initiative over to the enemy. Once the tincan skipper was released from the pressure of Eel’s fire, he could more easily cope with whatever damage he had sustained, reorganize his gun crews, and resume the pursuit. Logically, he would put his major effort into getting his biggest weapon, the four-inch gun on his forecastle, back in commission. On the other hand, Eel’s five-inch guns would have to be silenced. It would be too risky to keep gun crews on the submarine’s low, wave-swept deck at high speed, and even more hazardous to keep hatches open and ammunition trains functioning. The tincan would have unopposed target practice with his four-incher as long as he could keep the sub in range. A single chance hit could easily turn the tables a second time.

Richardson would always say he had not yet made up his mind which course to follow, when he saw the silhouette of the enemy ship broaden. There was a moment of exultation as he watched the tincan swing away, and then he realized what the enemy skipper was doing. He was unmasking his guns aft, presenting his broadside. Coming in bows-on had prevented effective use of his own gun battery. Perhaps he had also needed a little time to get it organized. Eel, after all, had had ten minutes of precious preparation time before she surfaced, and since that moment less than three minutes had yet elapsed.

But the enemy ship must have been badly hurt. The rate of fire of her four-inch gun on the forecastle had reduced greatly. It had not fired at all for nearly a minute. At 500 yards, announced by radar at about the time Richardson saw the enemy ship come around broadside-to, Eel’s automatic weapons were hitting all over her, searching out every unprotected space topside, no doubt penetrating the thin metal of her hull to seek out some unfortunates below.

There was another tearing sound overhead, higher-pitched, lighter-weight than before—and then another—and another. Some kind of heavy automatic weapon had opened up. Steady, repetitive blossoms of orange were showing amid the top hamper on deck abaft the enemy’s squat stack. In seconds they would be bringing those screaming shells down on Eel’s bridge. The hammering of Eel’s own weapons made impossible any but the most basic of communications. The three bridge-mounted fifty-caliber machine guns, clattering away alongside Richardson, had been directed to concentrate their fire on the enemy’s bridge. Best not to disturb them. This was a job for the twin twenties on their stand aft of the periscope shears, and perhaps the after forty. Abruptly, Richardson left his post alongside the port TBT, dashed around behind the periscope supports to the starboard side of the bridge, arrived amid the gun crew of the twenty. They were changing ammunition canisters. The gunner was a man named Wyatt, picked for his imperturbability and his rock-steadiness in pointing the gun. Richardson grabbed him by the shoulders, began to shout into his ear, suddenly felt the gunner’s body jerk. There was the sickening sound of a heavy, blunt object tearing through flesh, shattering bone, exploding. Wyatt’s head dropped. There was no struggle, no reflex action. The man had been there one moment, was gone the next. There was the ricochet of something striking the periscope shears, the scream of a bullet glancing off and spinning sidewise, misshapen, through the air. Richardson was conscious of several resounding smashes against the heavy side plating of Eel’s bridge.

There was no protection around the twenty-millimeter, nor the two forties. Three or four other men were down—he could not tell for sure in the darkness and the hurry. Two twenty-millimeter ammunition canisters had been replaced on the two guns. Hastily he let Wyatt slump to the deck, grabbed the charging-handles of the guns, pulled them toward him. He could feel the first shell in each gun slide home. He pressed his shoulders into the shoulder rests, grabbed for the combined triggers. Despite the heavy mount, the shock of the twenty-millimeter recoil slammed against him, driving its hard vibrations into the upper part of his body.

He was part of the fierce rhythm of the moment. The dance of death. By raising and lowering his entire trunk, swiveling from side to side, he could aim the tracer bullets. He could see them landing in the water. Too close. He stooped down a little. That elevated the trajectory. The water splashes—the Valkyries arriving—marched up to the hull of the enemy ship. The curved red trail of the tracers now terminated on the dark low-lying hull. There were no more splashes. He was hitting the side of the ship. Elevate just a touch more. On to Gehenna! Reap the vengeance of battle!

He dropped the tracers directly into the center of the orange flashes. Twitch slightly to right and left, raise up a trifle—yes, that brought some splashes into the water—bend at the waist a little more, march them up into the area where the enemy gun is shooting from. Back and forth, back and forth. Kill them! Kill them! Kill them! A mere movement of his shoulders marched the beserk arc of screaming bullets half the length of the after part of the tincan. Berserk. The demoniacal ejaculation! Suddenly he realized that he was no longer watching a tracer arc. He had fired off both canisters of ammunition. The guns were empty. With a savage motion he released the triggers, stepped back from the shoulder rests. “Reload!” he shrieked.

“We’re getting them from the dinette!” someone shouted. “The ammunition locker on deck is empty!”

That would take too long. They were probably frantically reloading empty cans in the dinette. Whatever gun had opened up on the main deck aft of the tincan, it had been silenced, but the fifty-caliber on the top of her bridge structure was still spitting. Through his binoculars he could see a group of men struggling with the four-inch gun on the forecastle. He had not noticed it firing recently, and in fact he could see—now that there was no gun firing in his immediate vicinity to blind him with its flashes—that the four-inch gun was not even trained in Eel’s direction. It must be out of commission. As he watched it, however, the length of its barrel shortened. A new crew was bringing it back into action. Eel’s own two five-inch guns were still firing away, considerably slower than their initial flurry of shots, but with telling effect. Despite the lack of visibility, there were some changes evident in the dark hull now only 500 yards away. It seemed lower in the water. The deckhouse was askew, not square; its originally angular shape was now marred. Probably splinters had played havoc in that general area.

But the tincan was still capable of doing damage. That four-inch gun needed only a single lucky hit. So far, he was morally sure it had not struck home. Eel’s after forty-millimeter gun was still spewing forth its flat trajectory tracers, slower now, in groups of four as the ammunition train raced to hand up more ammunition from the open hatch on deck immediately aft of the bridge. Two steps aft to the forty. He created an oasis of silence around him by putting his hand across the magazine loading slot. “The gun!” he shouted hoarsely. “The gun on the forecastle!” He jerked the strap of his binoculars from around his neck, handed the glasses to the gun-pointer. The man nodded nervously. In the momentary lull, six four-round clips of forty-millimeter ammunition had arrived, were being held by the anxious gun crew. “Resume fire!” he shouted.

There was a flash—orange and red—from the enemy’s four-inch gun. Eel’s own forty-millimeter tracers were striking just at its base. Another flash, and then a sharp concussion forward of Eel’s bridge. A third—another concussion. The enemy had scored at least two hits, maybe three. But then the fiery stream of tracers walked up the side of the enemy forecastle, impacted directly upon the gun and the crowded men around it. In the explosion as the bullets hit, Richardson had the impression of crumpled, shattered bodies, and in their midst the outline of the gun itself, somehow changed, not normal. Some part of it was bent, perhaps torn away. A gesture to the forty-millimeter pointer, and four screaming tracers searched out the top of the enemy bridge, putting an end to that valiant effort.

The tincan’s hull was becoming shorter again. It was turning, all silent, dark and massive, turning as a wounded animal at bay might turn, blinded, dying, yet still dangerous, still seeking vengeance, still heroically fighting. Richardson was back at the port TBT. “Quin!” he shouted. No answer. Quin was not there. The three fifty-caliber machine guns were still being served, but on the starboard side of the bridge there were two prone bodies. He felt around the hatch for the telephone cord, followed it to the crumpled, still form wearing the headset. No time to tell if Quin was dead or still living. Hastily Richardson unbuckled the telephone, slammed the earphones over his head, buckled the mouthpiece around his neck. He pressed the microphone button. “Conn, do you hear me?”

In the earphones, which felt warm and slippery, he heard Keith’s answering voice. “Conn, aye aye.”

“He’s turning toward us, Keith. He’s trying to ram!”

“Range four-five-oh yards. We’re tracking him on radar. What’s the angle on the bow?”

“Starboard ten—now it’s zero. He’s coming in!”

Richardson was holding the telephone speaker button down with his left hand, steadying the TBT binoculars with his right, as he watched the enemy bow swing, ominous and deadly, toward him. Perhaps it would not be necessary for the enemy ship to ram. The four-inch hits forward might already have done their business. An explosive, armor-piercing shell could shatter a huge hole through which the sea would pour in an impossible torrent. He half expected to feel Eel’s deck incline under his feet, her hull grow logy and slowly sink beneath him. But it had only been a few seconds since the double impact, although there might also have been one or two other hits of which he was not aware. The pressure hull, however, was well below the main deck. Much of it—nearly all of it—was below the waterline. In all likelihood it would be protected by the sea. If a shell did strike home, however, water would instantly follow.

“Main deck fore and aft. Number one and number two five-inch, are you still in commission?” He had not heard them firing in the last several seconds. To his relief, both gun captains answered, but his relief turned to despair when he heard their reports.

“Number one gun out of commission. Jammed in train. Several men hurt!”

“Number two gun out of ammunition. They can’t seem to get it up from below!”

“How many rounds you got, number one gun?”

“Four on deck.”

“Run them back to number two gun! Use the starboard side! Number two gun, set your range at zero and aim at the enemy’s waterline. Open fire as soon as you can!

“Maneuvering, are you on the line?”

“Maneuvering, aye aye!” He could imagine the avid attention with which the idle maneuvering room crew must have been following the telephone conversation which was their only link to the action topside.

“Shift your sticks into reverse. When I give the order to back emergency, put everything you can put to the screws. Give it all you’ve got, but watch your circuit breakers! Don’t blow them!” Richardson visualized the control sticks of the electric-control cubicle being placed in the position for backing, the battery readied to be thrown on the motor buses at full voltage and maximum current. It would be virtually a dead short through the main motors, and he would have to trust the good judgment of the electrician’s mates not to throw the current on so fast they burned out something.

Then Richardson had another idea. “Control, are you on the line? . . . Tell Mr. Dugan . . .”

“Al Dugan right here, Captain,” said the familiar voice in his earphones.

“Secure sending ammunition to number one gun! It’s jammed. See what you can do about breaking up the problem back aft. We need ammunition to number two five-inch!”

“I’ve already stopped ammunition forward. We’re checking on number two right now.”

“Get those wounded men on the forecastle below. As soon as everyone’s clear around number one gun, secure the gun access trunk!”

And then another thought. “Foxhole, if he hits us it’ll probably be up forward. Don’t take any chances. Get down inside and shut that hatch tight before he hits!” The enemy captain would expect Eel to try to escape by going ahead instead of astern. Astern was clearly the way to go. If there were a collision, it would be forward. Again Richardson was glad of the rigorous drill, and the careful communication setup so laboriously checked out by Keith and Buck. The enemy ship was coming in at dead slow speed, no doubt guided by some extraordinary individual still alive on the bridge, or possibly steering from an emergency steering station aft. The fifties were playing an absolute tattoo all over the large square bridge structure. No one could live under that hail of destruction. She was perceptibly lower in the water, much closer now, perhaps losing speed a trifle. Richardson could now see holes where the five-inch had entered. She was undoubtedly a shambles inside. No one could be alive in the forward part of the ship, except if well below the waterline. Only those people fortunate enough to be stationed aft of the large superstructure—which was stopping most of the automatic-weapon fire—could possibly be surviving. She must be steered from aft.

“Range two hundred yards. Speed five.” Keith’s voice steady, as always. He must be looking through the periscope at the same time he was relaying radar ranges and observed angles to Buck Williams. Amazing that he could see anything through it. Somewhere Keith must have picked up a telephone headset, for it was not in the original scheme that he also should wear one. Five knots. There had been just a shade of emphasis on the range. One hundred sixty six yards a minute. Perhaps this was why Keith had specified range two hundred yards. Rich had made all his dispositions but one. Eel’s bridge structure must not be permitted to mask her remaining five-inch gun as she backed clear.

“All back emergency!” yelled Richardson down the hatch and into the telephone mouthpiece as well. Surprisingly, he heard the click of the annunciators. There must have been a momentary hiatus in the noise level at precisely that instant. “Left full rudder!” he shouted. “Port TBT staying on target!” That would keep the gun firing on the beam, keep Eel’s bridge from getting in the way of the gun pointers. Cornelli had not had much to do for the last several minutes. He would put his full energy into getting the rudder left as fast as it ever had been done by hand. Buck would use the TBT bearings to keep his TDC lined up—though deflection angles would be of little use and even less importance at close range.

There was a burst of white water on either quarter, burbling up alongside with extraordinary speed. He could feel the acceleration jerk of 252 volts at full amperage suddenly thrown across the main motor armatures. Eel’s stern sagged downward slightly, then bobbed up as the racing propellers bit into the water. The wash thrown up by the straining screws swept high along the rounded belly of her ballast tanks on both sides, even splashed up onto the main deck opposite the silent mufflers of the after engineroom.

“Number two five-inch has ammunition, Bridge. We’re opening fire!” The announcement by telephone was almost blotted out by the roar of the five-inch gun, all the louder for having been awaited so long. At point-blank range the effect was tremendous. The shell struck the water just upon entry into the enemy bow a few feet on the starboard side of her stem, must have traveled nearly the entire length of the enemy ship before exploding somewhere in its after portion. Richardson could see water pouring through the neat round hole it had made in the bow shell plating. The fifty-caliber machine guns were coming into their own at the close range. The “foxhole,” particularly, maintained an enfilading crossfire that swept the enemy decks from a totally different direction. In the meantime, Eel’s surprise movement astern was carrying her to starboard of the enemy, curving to her own port. The second shot of the five-inch gun consequently entered the tincan’s side somewhere in the vicinity of the bridge, traveled on an angular course entirely through the ship, and detonated in the water beyond it. The splash of the underwater explosion threw up a column of spray behind the tortured hulk. It was clear now that the enemy ship would miss in its desperate charge, was, in fact, no longer manageable.

Richardson was suddenly conscious of Keith’s presence alongside of him on the bridge as the third and then the fourth devastating blows from the five-inch were dealt. Eel, in her curving reverse course, had in effect maneuvered so that the enemy remained constantly on her port beam as he staggered the last hundred yards of his final, hopeless effort. Now the Mikura-class frigate lay on the water, tired, prostrate, visibly sinking.

“All stop!” shouted Richardson. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

The silence was unbelievable. Richardson’s eardrums felt as if they had closed up in self-protection and now were having difficulty readjusting to the normal noises at sea. Gradually he became aware of a whistling sound, combined with a gurgling and a pouring of water. Eel’s own sternward motion, diminishing, was responsible for some of it; but more, he realized, particularly the whistling noise, must come from the enemy ship. Of course she had closed all her watertight doors and hatches, but she had been riddled by so many small holes, as well as the large ones made by the five-inch guns, that there was no capability left in her shattered hull to hold an air bubble. The noise was air whistling out of the holes throughout her body.

She lay flat on the water, her deck at the water’s edge, her squat bridge-deckhouse combination, splintered and shattered, standing vertically like a lighthouse in a quiet sea. Air still bubbled from within her, making a dozen ridiculous little geysers as it escaped from the now submerged hull. Eel, her sternway petering out, had traced a semicircle in the astern direction. He could see it all, though it was a dark night. The ruined bridge began leaning to starboard, and simultaneously the forward part of the little ship sank lower so that the square structure never fell into the sea, but instead seemingly quartered into it. As the steel hull which supported it slowly upended, bow first, its stern momentarily reappeared above the surface. Then the whole thing was gone.

Richardson waited a moment. The next move should be to pick up survivors, but if any depth charges had been made ready in anticipation of another attack, they would go off soon, probably about the time they reached the bottom of the sea. The wait, which seemed interminable, could not have been long. Once again, as had happened the previous day, the ocean erupted around the grave of the sunken ship. When all was quiet once more, there was no life left. Only a few shattered timbers tossing helplessly in a white canopy of foam on a suddenly uneasy sea, and tiny pieces of debris speckling it all, like pepper from a grinder on whipped cream.

As Richardson gave orders to secure all guns, ammunition, and personnel topside, and to proceed into the center of the wreckage to search for any possible survivors, he heard Yancy asking permission to speak to him.

“I’ve got bad news, Captain,” he said. Richardson waited numbly. This was bound to be the final result of his decision to fight on the surface, but there had been no other choice. The gods of war must be given their sacrifice. Doubtless all had died aboard his adversary—probably as many as a hundred men. Eel carried eighty—eighty-one, counting the wolfpack commander—and it was too much to hope that they would all escape scot-free.

“We have three men killed, sir. Wyatt, Quin, and Johnson; and ten wounded. Two fairly seriously—Thompson and Webber, and . . .” Yancy seemed to be in doubt as to how to phrase the next item. He hesitated a long moment. “The commodore is dead.”

“What!” The startled cry was the antithesis of Yancy’s carefully studied, bold statement of fact. Blunt had not even been topside during the battle. He had spoken to him only a few hours before, just before surfacing; automatically he looked at his watch, saw to his astonishment that from surfacing until this moment had been less than fifteen minutes.

“You don’t look so good yourself, Captain,” said the pharmacist’s mate. “You have blood all over your face and head.”

Still overwhelmed by Yancy’s surprise news, Richardson removed the telephone earphones and mouthpiece. “I’m all right,” he said, “I took these from Quin. This must be his blood that’s on me.” Unaccountably, Quin’s death seemed far more personal than that of Blunt, more like that of Oregon. Quin and Oregon had both followed him from the Walrus to the Eel. Quin, in fact, had been with him even before, in S-16.

Still, Blunt’s death was the big surprise, the greatest shock, because there was no reason for it. “What happened to the commodore? What do you mean, he’s dead!”

Yancy swiveled away his eyes. “We brought him to the wardroom, the way you told us, and that’s where we found him. His head was down on his arms on the table as if he was asleep. Sometimes he used to catnap that way. We were bringing some of the hurt men in there, and when he didn’t move, I looked at him and saw he was dead.”

“But my God, man! A man doesn’t just die. . . . What happened? . . . Are you sure . . .” The sentence went uncompleted, the question lost. It made no difference. Suddenly all Richardson’s exhilaration over the successful outcome of the battle evaporated. All was gall in his mouth. His eyes ached, wanted to close. He forced them open. He was so stupefied with exhaustion that he could feel nothing beyond the burning in his eyes and the overpowering need to lie down. His mind told him his body ached as much as his eyes, and would ache more after a few hours’ rest. He had proved a nemesis to so many people. Jim Bledsoe and the entire crew of the Walrus. Bungo Pete. Oregon. Quin, Wyatt, Johnson, and now old Joe Blunt, whose own dolphins, given him so many years ago, he still wore on his best uniforms.

He looked up, saw Yancy staring at him gravely. “Where is he, Yancy?”

“I got some men laying him out in his bunk, Captain. Like I said, he looks okay. There’s not a mark on him except his neck is all swelled up.”

“What do you think could have happened?”

“I haven’t really had a chance to check him. Don’t know. Maybe a heart attack. Maybe a stroke. Most likely he hurt himself falling down the hatch. He could have broke his neck and not know it. Then, maybe, walking around, bending over and all, he might have pinched the spinal cord.” Yancy hesitated. He wanted to say something more. “He hasn’t been acting normal, sir. Not for a long time. I knew when you and Mr. Leone were reading my books, and I read them too. There was something else wrong with him, sir. I’m no doctor, and it’s just a guess, but I think there was something wrong in his head. He would blow hot and cold, like, and he could never take any pressure. Maybe there was something wrong with the blood to his brain. That and a broken neck could have finished him easy.”

“Any chance that he’s just conked out and will come to a little later? . . .”

“No, sir. He’s dead.” There was a note of finality in Yancy’s voice which Richardson recognized he would have to accept.

But he could not go below just yet, and Al Dugan was waiting to make his report. There was the damage to be checked. The submarine to make seaworthy again. The rig for dive to be rigorously gone over once more. Numbers three and four main engines to be checked out, and the situation in the after engineroom itself to be considered. Could a plug be placed in the cooler intake line? If not, how could Eel submerge—or could the drain pump handle the leak so she could submerge safely to shallow depths for a short time?

What about the hydraulic system and the air compressors? Al Dugan would report on those. The periscopes. They would have to be checked carefully, not only because of the depth charging but also because something, perhaps only a small-caliber projectile, had struck the periscope shears. It might have distorted the alignment of the bearings.

Those concussions when the four-inch shells hit. Was Eel’s pressure hull still sound? Number one five-inch gun, jammed in train: that was where at least one of the enemy’s large-caliber projectiles had struck. Any shell holes in the hull would have to have temporary plugs. The gun should, if possible, be trained back fore and aft before the ship dived again.

If she could dive. If Eel could not dive, then what about enemy aircraft in the morning?

There was so much to consider, so many decisions to be made. He was so tired, and the night had just begun. The loss of life, the damage, might be worth it—could only be worth it—if Whitefish reported destruction of the last troopship. He must send Whitey a message, ask about the transport, announce that Everett was now in command of the wolfpack. . . .

“Put one and two main engines on a battery charge,” he said.