Plot tells the anxious skipper that their calculations show they will get in front of the convoy well before daylight and have plenty of time for several night attacks.
Dick O’Kane and Murray Frazee, his Executive Officer, have made night attacks many times before in other submarines. It should be old stuff to them, of course, but it isn’t. In the first place, both have been rather a long time away from the war, and the unspoken worry crosses their minds that they may have lost their touch, that the life of ease and safety they have been leading back in the States may have softened them up — that, in short, they may have lost their nerve. Besides, this is Dick’s first command. He is burning with the desire to make good, and he wonders whether he really has what it takes, or whether the test will prove that Mush Morton was carrying him along. Likewise, Murray has never been an exec before. Although he has complete confidence in his skipper, and shows it in every move, he, too, has his small secret worry. And Tang herself, what about her? Is she not a neophyte? Is she not also burning with the desire to prove herself, to join the ranks of the Dragon Slayers? Or will she join the unhappy company of tired ships, who somehow never found the war?
The symphony of four roaring diesels has a hypnotic effect, to which is added the song of the waves gurgling in the superstructure and the moan of the wind sweeping across Tang’s narrow bridge. The vibration communicated to the soles of your feet sets your pulses jumping and your heart beating faster, and it all adds up to the anthem of the chase, which drums in your mind, growing ever louder and more powerful, beating in an ever-rising tympanic crescendo which drugs your senses and drives you beyond normal capabilities, which takes possession of you, wipes out all external considerations, and makes itself the undisputed master of your soul. On and on you run, an irresistible juggernaut which even you could not turn back, if you would. And as they proceed with the chase, both O’Kane and Frazee realize that things have not changed for them, and that it will always be thus.
0200. The convoy has been pretty well identified as consisting of eight ships: two large ones, a medium-sized one which might be a destroyer, and five smaller vessels, probably small anti-submarine patrols. Tang is almost in position ahead, and O’Kane is about to give the order to start in for attack, when suddenly one of the flanking escorts appears out of the night, closing rapidly. Only one thing to do — dive!
Ah-ooh-gah! Ah-ooh-gah! — The automobile horn blasts of the diving alarm resound twice throughout the submarine. Alert men in the control room swiftly open the hydraulically operated vent valves, thus releasing the air entrapped in the main ballast tanks. The lookouts tumble down from the bridge. One of them presses the button which causes the bow planes — housed against the superstructure while on the surface — to rig out, and stands by to operate the planes the instant the indicator light glows. Another takes over the stern planes, places them immediately on full dive.
In the maneuvering room, a lever in the overhead of the compartment has been pushed, causing all four engines to stop immediately by action of compressed air on the governors, and the “ampere hounds” quickly rearrange their control switches and levers to put the ship’s main storage battery on propulsion in place of the generators.
In the engine rooms the four straining engines are shut down by hand, individually, upon the first notes of the diving alarm. There is always rivalry between the machinist’s mates and the electrician’s mates as to just who caused the engines to stop in any given instance, and of course there is no answer which either side will accept. But the engines stop, and the engine crew races around the two engine room compartments, shutting outboard exhaust valves, inboard exhaust valves, and inboard air induction flapper valves. Circulating water lines and such lesser openings which do not communicate directly with the interior of the ship may be left for a moment or two, but they, too, are closed quickly.
Meanwhile the Chief of the Watch in the control room has been watching the engine indicator lights closely, and as soon as all four go green, indicating that the engines are no longer pumping air overboard through their exhaust lines, he pulls toward him a handle which operates the main air induction valve, thirty-six inches in diameter — non-closure of which was responsible for the loss of USS Squalus in 1939—and closes it hydraulically with a sharp thump. He also has been watching the depth gauge, and would have closed the valve before it went under even if there were still an engine running, on the theory — considered incontestable in informed submarine circles — that an insufficiency of air is much more to be desired than a superabundance of water.
All this while men have been jumping down below from the bridge of the submarine. The last man down is the Officer of the Deck, who is responsible for the proper closing of the upper conning tower hatch and for seeing that no one is left languishing topside. As he leaves the bridge, water is already lapping over the main deck, and he mentally checks off the thump of the main induction as he and the quartermaster of the watch dog the hatch down and inspect it.
It has taken Tang less than a minute to dive completely beneath the surface of the water, but she doesn’t stop there. If the escort has sighted her, he must mean business, and the thing to do is to put as much black water between the sub and his keel as possible. Tang is still in a headlong dive for the friendly depths when the first depth charge goes off, to be followed closely by four more.
But evidently this fellow is not sure of his contact, because he drops his five half-hearted depth charges and goes on his way — fatal error. The moment Sound reports the screws going away, up comes Tang. Free of further disturbance by this little man, she bores surely in to firing range, remaining submerged to periscope depth to avoid detection.
0300. The medium-sized ship is positively identified as a destroyer, as he moves unsuspectingly across the bow of the submerged sub. Dick withholds fire, much as he’d like to get this one, for the heavily laden freighter not far astern of him looks like the more valuable target. With so many escort vessels running around, O’Kane feels that his chances of getting off more than one shot are not too good, and his chances of getting an immediate depth charging excellent. The convoy is in rather loose formation, and the ships are too far apart for a simultaneous shot at more than one. That was one of Wahoo’s favorite stunts, and how O’Kane would have liked to start Tang off with a double bang. But wisely he figures that a sure sinking is far better than two possibles. Tang’s first salvo is going to be cold, deadly, and calculated.
0330. The leading freighter lumbers into view. Tang has already fired forty-three torpedoes in drill and the efficiency of her fire-control party has been proved. But this time every man on board feels a tightening of nerves, a tenseness of atmosphere, a feeling that these, of all fish, must be good. The range is 1,500 yards; the TDC shows that torpedoes fired now will strike the target exactly broadside on — a perfect setup. Everything is ready.
Here’s the first one, Mush.
“Standby aft!”
The men in the after torpedo room watch closely the gauges and instruments for number-seven tube, and prepare to fire it by hand if the electrical firing mechanism fails. In the control room, the diving officer motions for the chief on the vent manifold to open the vents so that any gases from a depth charge going off directly beneath would pass right through the ballast tanks, rather than being entrapped therein. It is hard enough to keep from surfacing after the sudden loss of weight when a salvo of fish are fired, without adding an entirely unpredictable factor to the problem.