"Keith," I gritted, "come on up here I"
For several minutes we talked out our tactics of how to get the stern tubes to bear. The wind was howling and the sea were pounding and the water poured in buckets off us, streamed off Keith's face, off his nose, into his mouth every time he opened it. The same with me, but neither of us took any heed.
We ducked those we could, turned our backs to those we saw coming, ignored the rest.
We decided the Q-ship would not expect us to come back.
Doubtless he would realize that making a reload was virtually an impossibility unless we dived for it, which would take extra time, and he would hardly expect us to come back otherwise, He would think, at least, that he had time, and his attentions would be entirely taken up with the problem of getting Bungo, aboard. If we could hit him with all four fish, fairly high up on his side, the weather might well finish for us what we had started.
"Three thousand yards!" said Quin's voice on the conning- tower speaker. Keith swung his dripping form to the ladder, slipped for an instant on the slick hand rail, caught himself, and disappeared.
"He's not under way, bridge! Target speed is zero!" Keith was back in charge down below, on the speaker again.
I pressed the button on my mike, let the insane howl of elements make the acknowledgment for me. We were coming in at standard speed again, with our four engines on the line just in case. As the stern heaved up to a wave I could see the tip ends of four big pipes pouring out their hydrantlike exhaust. Then a smother of angry water would cover everything, and the four mufflers would be drowned, spluttering feebly, sending up little splashes which the wind instantly whipped away. On this course, chosen to bring us in to windward, presumably the skipper of the Q-ship would elect to pick up the boats to leeward-we were coasting downwind. The bow lifted as a huge sea ran under us, dropping our stern precipitantly and then racing on out beyond our bullnose; black water, streaked with white, capped with a boiling, dirty-white crest.
Our speed, which increased with a downhill sledding effect when the stern lifted, decreased abruptly when it turned into uphill. Al Dugan and I were alternately thrown backward against the periscope supports and forward against the bridge cowling-almost as though we were riding a balky horse in slow motion.
The bow disappeared in a welter of white foam as the succeeding wave came under and over our after parts. Nothing at all forward of the bridge, now. Nothing aft, either. Just buffeting, angry, noisy ocean. Our bridge was like a disembodied statue, the upper part of a submarine riding on an angry sea-cloud.
"Two thousand yards, bridge!" I would be able to see him soon. Al helped me wipe off the lens of the TBT binoculars.
We did a thorough job before I put my eyes to it.
"Fifteen hundred!" Through the flying spume and blackness I could make out the outline of a ship, a tall, stubby ship.
He was nearly broadside to and rolling violently in the furious sweep of the wind and sea; occasionally, as we neared, he steadied up for a moment under some vagary of the elements, perhaps a nullifying combination of them. These were the moments in which he would attempt to pick up Bungo and his men. Probably throw them ropes, haul them aboard one at a time. A fantastic attempt, but seamen had done more fantastic things-history is full of the tales. Normally our role would have been that of the helpful bystander, regardless of the nationality of the shipwrecked mariners. Shipwreck at sea has its own code, its own morality-a joined constant fight for life and survival against the implacable ocean, with its pitiless nether- world of death. But we were out of our normal role. There was a war, the basic immorality of which transcended temporarily the more lasting and better motives of peace. It was our job to try to prevent that rescue by sinking the rescuer.
"Twelve hundred yards!"
Of course, one did not have to think of it that way. We had the duty of sinking any Japanese ship we ran across, and this one was surely as much a ship-of-war as the biggest battleship, or the fastest aircraft carrier. Furthermore, it was a menace to our side, particularly to my own special segment of our side There never could be any argument, except on purely philosophical grounds, and war is the rejection of philosophy.
"One thousand yards!" This was the turning point we had decided on. We had to get close to give us the maneuvering room to turn around. They would find it hard to look into the scud upwind; we could reach one thousand yards from that direction with a fair degree of impunity. Even if they did see us, accurate gunfire from that pitching, rolling platform would be impossible. Only a real director system, with a gyroscopically controlled stabilized firing circuit, could handle these conditions.
Of course, there was always the chance of a lucky shot "Right full rudder! Starboard stop! Starboard back full!" It would be a job even swinging into the wind. Eel started to swing nicely enough, got halfway around before the wind really hit her. I could feel the combined force of the wind and sea as our bow rose and exposed itself freely to the effects of both We stopped dead, as though we had hit a wall of mush. The gyro-compass repeater indicated that we had actually swung back a few degrees.
"Port ahead emergency!" With both screws racing, she would have greater force to push her around. Now I regretted having reversed the starboard propeller, for doing so had killed our forward progress and removed much of the effect of the rudder. And besides this, our straining engines were having all their exhaust fumes blown right down on the enemy ship. A keen nose would detect the characteristic odor of diesels, might just have the flexibility to do something about it.
Still no good. We gained a little, then lost it as the bow came up again.
"Control!" I thumbed the button for the speaker, spoke into it. "Open bow buoyancy vent!" This would lessen the buoyancy of the bow, reduce the area the wind would have to work on.
If we could only keep the bow from coming up at all!
"All Go on down to the control room." I had to cup my mouth and hold it close to his ear to make him get it all.
"Secure the engines and shut the main induction. Put the battery on propulsion. When I give you the word, open the forward group vents, hold them open for three seconds, and then shut them again!" I gave him a shove toward the hatch.
On diving, bow buoyancy vent and all the main ballast tank vents are opened and left open until the ship goes under. The main ballast tanks are handled as two groups, a forward group and an after group, with a set of controls for each.
Opening the forward group of vents for about three seconds would not permit all the air entrapped there to escape, but would vent off a large percentage of it. We would not dive because the after group would be still holding all its air in addition to what had not had a chance to whistle out of the forward group vents.
But much of our buoyancy forward would be destroyed, and our bow would sink deeper in the water. This would reduce the sail effect of the forward section of the ship-probably eliminate it alto-ether because we would inevitably ride under all the seas instead of only some of them.
Shutting off the main engines and going to the battery was merely precautionary, so that we could close the main induction valve under the cigarette deck. Otherwise we'd pull tons of water down the huge airpipe when the bridge went under.
I grabbed the mike. "Keith, raise the night periscope and see if you can make out the target!" One of the scopes had a slightly bigger light path than the other and hence the name "night periscope." If Keith could see the enemy vessel through it, perhaps it would do to take bearing to shoot the torpedoes with, and I could repair below and do it from the relative safety of the conning tower. I waited a few seconds.
"No luck, skipper. Can't see a thing!" This might be because Watching the dials and instrumentsespecially the radar scope had cost him his night vision. We couldn't wait, however.