“I want to run at a hundred twenty-five feet during the day when we’re submerged. Periscope observation every hour. Sonar sweep before every periscope observation. No radar unless I give the order. If there are Japanese Naval ships in Tawi Tawi, and intelligence says there are, they’ll have some sharp people on watch, and I don’t want radar used without my permission.”
The days and nights passed slowly with no sign of any targets. Mike Brannon paced the cigaret deck all night long, straining his eyes through his binoculars. On the sixth night on station Brannon heard the Chief of the Watch’s voice echo in the bridge speaker.
“Radio shack says an Ultra message is coming in, Bridge.”
“Bridge, aye,” Jerry Gold answered. He turned to go back to the cigaret deck to tell Brannon and saw his Captain coming forward.
“I heard,” Brannon said. “I’ll go below and decode.”
The message was long and took the better part of an hour to decode. When he had finished Brannon went out into the Control Room and told the messenger to wake Mr. Olsen and bring two cups of coffee to the Wardroom.
“The code breakers in Pearl say there are two big battle fleets leaving a port over on the west side of Borneo, place called Brunei,” Brannon said as Olsen, his eyes bleary with sleep, sipped at a cup of coffee. “They say these two battle fleets are going to follow two different routes. One of them is going up the west coast of Palawan and then over through San Bernardino Strait to the Pacific. The Dace and the Darter are up off the north end of Palawan now, and they’ve been alerted to intercept, inform, and attack.
“The second battle fleet is headed our way, through the Balabac Strait to the west. We’ve got to get into position to observe and report and attack if possible. But we don’t attack until after we’ve sent a contact report on the task force.” He shoved a chart, dividers, and a pair of parallel rulers over to Olsen, who read the message and then busied himself at the chart.
“The course they give for this bunch we’re supposed to find and report on, they’re heading right for Leyte Gulf!” His eyes widened as the import of the message, the enemy’s course, hit him.
“They must know that MacArthur is going to land there!”
“If there’s enough Jap ships, if they’re big enough, if they get to Leyte Gulf they can steam right up the Gulf and smash the invasion force from the rear,” Brannon said dryly.
“This other bunch, the one that’s going up Palawan and then out to the Pacific through San Bernardino Strait?”
“Probably going to go after the carriers that will be offshore a hundred miles or so and supporting the invasion,” Brannon answered.
“Ain’t good, Skipper,” Olsen muttered. “We can get our ass under way right now for Balabac Strait. We’re two hundred and sixty miles away. We can be in position before they’re due to come through the Strait.”
“Give the courses and speeds to the Bridge,” Brannon said. He waited, looking at the chart, feeling the sudden vibration in his feet and legs as the Eelfish picked up speed. Olsen came back with a small tray with two fresh cups of coffee and four doughnuts. The Control Room messenger stuck his head through the green curtain at the door and held out a message.
“Just came in, sir,” the messenger said.
“Thank you,” Brannon said. He looked at the message. “Standard Fleet code,” he said and reached for the code book.
“It’s to Dace and Darter,” he said after he had decoded the short message. “All it says is ‘one to look and one to play.’
I guess that means that one has to see what that task force is and report it and the other one can go in to attack. Nice little problem in who does which, depending on the seniority of the skippers.”
“Let’s see,” Olsen said. “Dave McClintock has the Darter. Clagget’s got the Dace. Those are two pretty tough people, good submariners, good fighters. I’d bet a month’s pay that they’ll get off a sighting report and then they’ll both attack.”
The Eelfish arrived on station before daylight on the day the Japanese battle fleet was to transit Balabac on its way northeast. The Eelfish dove and slipped down to cruise at 125 feet to escape observation by scouting planes that Brannon reasoned would be out ahead of the ships as they moved through the Strait.
The hours ticked away. Every half-hour the sonar watch made a sweep, and when he reported no screws could be heard the Eelfish planed upward to sixty feet and the OOD raised the search periscope. In the middle of the afternoon watch Lieutenant Bob Lee raised the ‘scope. His hoarse cry brought Brannon scrambling to the Conning Tower.
“Ships, lots of big ships!” Lee said as he stepped away from the periscope. Brannon put his face to the big rubber eyepiece.
“Sound General Quarters!” he said as he rotated the periscope a full 360 degrees. “Down periscope.” He walked to the hatch that led down to the Control Room.
“Open all torpedo-tube outer doors. Set depth ten feet on all torpedoes. Repeat ten feet. Rig ship for silent running. Rig for depth-charge attack. Plotting party stand by.” He moved to one side of the hatch as Lieutenant Perry Arbuckle scrambled to his station at the TDC. Paul Blake relieved the watch sonar man and Booth sat down beside Blake, his notebook and pen in his hands. Bill Brosmer buckled on his battle telephone set and stood by the periscope control. The subdued whine of the air-conditioning blowers slowed to a stop. The interior of the Eelfish was silent except for the low hum of the electric motors that drove the ship and the gurgle of water outside the hull.
“All Battle Stations manned,” John Olsen said in the Control Room. “All torpedo-tube outer doors are open. Depth set on all torpedoes is one zero feet. Ten feet. Ship is rigged for silent running. Ship is rigged for depth-charge attack, all bulkhead openings closed, Conning Tower. Plot is ready.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. He nodded at Brosmer, who pushed the up button on the periscope control. The long steel tube slid upward, and Brannon went down on his knees and grabbed the handles as the eyepiece of the periscope cleared the deck level, snapped them outward, and rode the periscope upward, his eye at the lens.
“Mark!” he snapped, and Brosmer read off the bearing to Lieutenant Arbuckle who cranked it into his TDC.
“That mark is on a big battleship.” Brannon’s voice was tight. “Take this down.
“The task force is led by three very large destroyers. Followed by a big battleship. Then there’s another big battleship followed by what I think is a heavy cruiser followed by a big destroyer. Heavy air cover overhead.”
“Can you give me a range, Captain?” Arbuckle asked in a low voice.
“Range on the first battleship is… range is five thousand yards. Range to the second battleship is seven, make it sixty-nine hundred yards.”
“We’re on their port hand, sir.” Olsen’s voice came up the hatch. “Suggest we come right to zero five zero and make another observation in three minutes, sir. We can get their speed and base course down pat then.”
“Down periscope,” Brannon ordered. “Come right to new course zero five zero. Let me know when you want another look, Control.” He waited, his plump face impassive.
“Suggest you take another look, sir,” Olsen said.
Brannon rode the periscope upward and steadied on the first battleship in the line.
“Mark! That’s on the first battleship in line. Angle on the bow is one six zero port. Those people are making knots. Destroyer is coming this way. Down periscope. Close torpedo-tube outer doors. Make depth one hundred fifty feet, Control.”