A moderate breeze came over the top of the bridge windscreen, doubtless entirely the product of Eel’s speed, for the air was as still as the sea. This time he had properly prepared himself for the cold, with boots and heavy trousers in addition to his heavy jacket. The air had a bite to its chill. He spread his mittened hands to cover as much of his face as he could, held the binoculars to his eyes, elbows resting on the little dashboard behind the windscreen, scanned the nothingness ahead. Beside him, Williams silently did the same.
Above the still figures on the bridge towered the two metal cones which were the periscope supports. During daylight the four lookouts stood on little platforms high on the side of each cone. Now, swathed in foul-weather gear, they stood at the bridge level, protected by the bulwarks, binoculars still sweeping steadily.
Above them all, impervious to fog, darkness, or weather, the best lookout of all ceaselessly rotated, sending its invisible radar beams out over hundreds of square miles of ocean surface, to show by a pip on a dial in the conning tower any unusual phenomenon on the surface of the sea.
Rich had been on the bridge approximately half an hour when, from the slight bustle going on beneath the conning tower hatch, he knew that some sort of word was coming.
“Radar contact, Bridge!” Scott, relaying the word, no doubt from Quin. “Looks like land! Port and starboard. Twenty-five miles.”
“Bridge, aye aye,” from Williams. “Those are the islands we’re expecting. Keep the information coming, but look carefully between them. We’re looking for ships, Conn.”
“Conn, aye aye,” responded Scott. “Radar has the word.”
It was perhaps another ten minutes before anything new showed on radar.
“Radar contact!” Quin’s voice, bellowing from his position at the console.
Instantly Buck pushed the bridge speaker button. “Where away, Radar? Range and bearing!”
“Zero-four-zero, Bridge. Fifteen miles! Looks like six ships, sir!”
Williams looked at his skipper. Richardson nodded. “Station the radar tracking party,” the OOD briskly called into the bridge speaker.
More bustle below decks. It could not have been more than twenty seconds before the bridge speaker blared once again.
“Radar tracking party manned and ready, Bridge.”
“Track target bearing zero-four-zero,” ordered Buck on the loud-speaking system. Then, pitching his voice to reach the helmsman down the hatch, “Steer zero-four-zero, helm. All ahead two-thirds!”
The roar of the engines eased. Eel’s bow swung slightly to the right, steadied. Richardson nodded with approval.
Putting Eel’s nose directly on the target would accentuate any discernible relative motion, enable the plotting party more quickly to determine in which direction the target was moving. Slowing down was routine — to avoid blundering prematurely into close range. Later, depending on which way the targets seemed to be moving, it might be necessary to turn around to put Eel’s stern toward them.
The TDC in the conning tower was, of course, the heart of the plotting effort. Normally Buck Williams would be operating it, but since for the time being he was occupied as Officer of the Deck, Keith would be running it for him.
Rich picked up the bridge hand-microphone which had been sent up when the radar tracking party was set. Rigged with a short extension cord, it permitted him to speak to the conning tower, control room, and maneuvering room without the necessity of fumbling for a button and leaning over to speak into the bridge speaker. Responses, of course, came as previously on the announcing system. He spoke into the mike: “Conn, this is bridge. I don’t want to get closer than fifteen thousand yards.”
“Recommend you slow down even more, Bridge,” said Keith on the bridge speaker. “The range is closing rapidly.”
Williams had heard too. With a quick look at Richardson he gave the order. “All ahead one-third!”
Several minutes passed. The bridge speaker blared again. “Bridge, conn.” Keith’s voice again, “We have six ships. Looks like three big ones and three little ones. The three big ones are in a column, and there’s a little one ahead and on each flank. Estimated speed ten knots. Estimated course two-seven-oh. The range is now twenty thousand. The way we have them set up, they’ll pass about ten thousand yards away at the closest point of approach.”
Blunt was on the bridge. Rich was conscious of his presence even though he had not voiced the customary request to come up.
“Buck,” said the skipper, “they’re going to pass us too close aboard. Reverse course and put our stern on them.” Speaking into the microphone he continued, “Conn, this is the bridge. We’re reversing course to put our stern to the target.”
“Conn, aye aye,” from Keith.
Buck, as was his right as OOD, gave the orders. Slowly Eel swung to the right, her port side diesels muttering a little louder than before in response to the small speed increase he had directed.
“When you get around, Buck, go to all stop. We’re at a good range now. Then go ahead just enough to keep the range at fifteen thousand.”
All this had been rehearsed before. Should the range begin to decrease radically, indicating a zig toward, it would be easy to increase speed and pull off the track. Should plot indicate a zig away, now that a firm radar contact had been obtained it would be a simple matter to reverse course once more and maintain the desired distance.
“Commodore,” said Richardson, “it looks like we’re the trailer.”
Blunt seemed not to have heard. Rich waited a moment, then spoke into the bridge microphone, “As soon as we’re around and steadied on the new course, Conn, give me another reading on enemy course and speed. I want to send a message to the other boats as soon as possible.”
In a few moments Keith reported that enemy course appeared to be 260, speed ten. “Range is now seventeen thousand. Closest point of approach about thirteen thousand.”
“Better kick her ahead a little, Buck,” said Richardson.
Then to the mike, “Keith, do you have tactical communications with the other boats?”
“Yes, sir. All set.”
“Make up the contact report.”
Keith clicked the bridge speaker switch twice. In a few minutes he read the message aloud: TALLYHO X THREE AND THREE X COURSE TWO-SIX-OH X SPEED TEN X POSITION QUEEN FOURTEEN X RICH ONE X
“Let her go, Keith,” called Richardson through his microphone.
He could visualize Leone speaking into the radio microphone which had been installed in the conning tower. It must have been less than a minute before he announced, “Roger from Les, Bridge. Roger from Whitey.”
Minutes passed. Keith again, “Bridge, Conn, zig to the convoy’s right. It looks like they’re going to pass north of the closest island. New course three-zero-zero. We’re getting speed eleven now. I’ve made up another message to send to the other boats.”
“All right, Keith, go ahead and send it. What course do you recommend to maintain contact?”
“With the island shielding them, we should come in closer, Captain. Recommend we close at full speed to get around to the other side and pick them up as they come in the clear again.”
“Right,” said Richardson. He motioned to Buck. With the latter’s order, the main engines once again lifted their wild monotone. The propellers began their thrashing. Eel swung around again to the right, steadied on a course a little west of north.