Run Silent, Run Deep - Страница 51

Both of them nodded gratefully, and delaying only long enough to make the turnover of essential details to Hugh, Keith swung himself below.

Jim's voice came over the announcing system: "Captain, it's a good-sized convoy. Looks like a dozen ships, maybe more.

At least two of them are escorts-maybe more of them, too.

Course one-six-zero, speed about ten!"

"Steer one-six-zero!" I told the helmsman. Not Oregon-he would not come on until battle stations was sounded. "All ahead two thirds." Then raising my voice, "Maneuvering, make turns for ten knots!" The conning-tower messenger would relay the word to the maneuvering room via telephone. In a moment I could feel our speed pick up, a slightly more determine manner with which Walrus thrust her snout into the seas. Some of them began to come aboard over the bow, running aft on the deck, partially washing down through it, smothering our new four-inch gun and breaking in a shower of spray on the forward part of the bridge beneath the 20-millimeter gun platform.

We ran on thus for several more minutes. Jim's voice again: "Recommend course one-six-five, speed twelve."

I gave the necessary orders without comment. No doubt that was the convoy course and speed according to more extensive plotting data.

Several more minutes. "Captain, we've got eleven big ships, three or four smaller ones. Possibly one other astern, also small, They're zigzagging around base course one-six-five, speed four- teen knots, making good about twelve down the course line.

We're almost dead ahead of them. Range to nearest ship, the leading escort, is ten thousand yards."

"What's the range to the stern escort?" These fellows had come out of the Bungo, all right, and that stern escort must be nobody else but Bungo Pete himself. At least he was keeping to Bungo's old favorite position, astern, the clean-up spot. Bungo would have figured that after an attack the submarine was most apt to wind up astern of the convoy, and out of torpedoes, too until a reload could be effected. It was not a bad analysis. It would almost unquestionably be true for a submerged attack very likely so for a surfaced one as well. Captain Blunt had wondered whether any German liaison officers might have been helping him-here I caught my breath as an idea rose, full blown, in my brain: Bungo might most likely be a Japanese submariner himself! He would be one of their old-timers, no doubt, working on the problem for all he was worth and making, thereby, his own contribution to the war effort of his country! Just as Captain Sammy Sams was doing in the role relegated to him!

As such he was doubly dangerous, though I couldn't hate him quite so much as before. And if this, indeed, was Bungo himself, cruising along in his Akikaze-class tincan behind the convoy, we were in for an interesting night of it.

"Range to stern escort-we can hardly make him out-he's fading in and out of the radar scope-about fifteen thousand yards." Jim fell silent for a minute. "Zig! The convoy has zigged to his left. Now on course one-three-zero!"

We followed suit. "Keep plotting and checking his zigs, Jim,"

I said. "When we get them down pat we'll start in." I began to weigh the various factors of the problem. Bungo was astern, and he was by far the most dangerous of the many destroyers and antisubmarine escorts. Instead of turning toward the rear of the convoy, which would be the natural thing to do after shooting our torpedoes, maybe we should turn back toward the head.

This would keep us clear of Bungo for a while. If we could count on a bit of confusion on the part of the Japs, perhaps over dependence on Bungo's sweeping-up operation, we might get away with it. One thing we would have to be careful to avoid, however, was the temptation to dive. If we dived, we became virtually stationary, and that was what Bungo Pete wanted us to do. Plodding along astern of the convoy, having had ample time to be fully alerted to our presence, he would be upon us immediately and subject us to another one of those silent, thorough, unhurried, and practically lethal creeping at- tacks, or perhaps something else, even better, which he might have thought of since. That, above everything, we had to keep away from.

"Another zig, right, this time! Course now one-six-five!

Recommend increase speed to fourteen knots!"

"All ahead standards I ordered. "Sound the general alarm.

Jim, will you come up to the bridge for a moment?"

"We're already practically at battle stations, skipper," said Jim a second later. The musical chimes were still sounding.

"Just a couple of men haven't taken over their regular battle stations yet." He looked at me questioningly.

"Jim," I told him, "I want to avoid tangling with that last ship. It's no doubt a tincan, and it might even be the one that nearly sank us on our first run here."

"How do you know that?"

"I'll tell you all about it later. Should have before this.

Besides that, we mustn't dive unless it's absolutely an emergency.

I want to try to stay on the surface, and if we have to we'll take our chances with any of the other escorts. But if they make us dive, that fellow astern will come on up and take over, and we can figure on having a hell of a time!"

My voice was clipped and short. Jim didn't bother to question further. "I've got it," he breathed.

"Just as soon as they zig once more and give us an angle on either bow, we'll swing with them and go on in. We'll need full power, so as to have plenty of speed for maneuvering if we get into a tight spot."

"Aye, aye, sir!" Jim disappeared.

"Hugh," I said, "did you get all that?"

"Yessir! " in a taut voice.

"We might be getting gunfire on the bridge. If I order every- one below, you go too. You can be the last one down, but if we have to dive, you're our last hope. We can't take a chance on your being knocked out."

"Yessir! " again.

"All right. Now, have all the bridge guns mounted. Get all the twenty millimeters up, with two extra men to man each mount, and all four of the bridge fifties. Get plenty of ammunition, too."

Hugh leaned- to the hatch to give the orders. "Bring up both BAR's also. You and I might as well have something to shoot too."

In a few moments a veritable arsenal was handed up the bridge hatch and the lookouts busied themselves setting the guns in place. The 20's, stowed in pressure-proof containers, had to be lifted out and placed in their mounts. The 50's came up from below, were set in their sockets, and the BAR's we leaned in an out-of-the-way corner. Near each gun we made a neat pile of extra ammunition, belts for the 50's, bandoliers of clips for the BAR'S, and a half-dozen round magazines for each of the 20-millimeters. If we should have to dive it would all be lost, but that didn't matter.

Two of the extra men were detailed forward of the OOD's platform for the forward mount, the other two aft on the cigarette deck. The 50's could be handled by the lookouts, one to each, with Hugh and me helping with the ammunition belts and firing our own BAR's in between. Preparations were completed just about the time the enemy convoy zigged again.

"Zig, to his right! Angle on the bow, port thirty-five!" Jim's voice in the bridge speaker. It was time to make our move.

Right full rudder! All ahead flank!" The diesels groaned with the suddenly increased load. Their exhaust spewed forth with doubled vigor. The ship leaned to port, the two port mufflers choking and splashing, and our stern skidded across the sea, half under and half over the water. Big waves leaped high on to our decks, spraying great patterns of shredded white clouds to half-conceal our stern. A semitransparent mist rose over the deck, whipped by the wind into the cloud pouring out of the starboard muffler pipes, trailed off to starboard and aft, lying low in the tossing, dirty sea.

It was dark, lampblack dark. Only the faintest hint of gray above the water and in the sky. No telling where the horizon was-it all combined into the same dullness, the sea rising right up into the sky. It had stopped raining and the atmosphere felt oppressive, warm, humid. I could smell the odor of sweat mixed with salt spray.

A sea mounted our bow, came straight aft, smothered the gun, and broke in a tall shower at the base of the bridge. Hugh and I ducked, got only a bucketful or two on our backs. The two men standing by the forward 20 were drenched, water streaming down from their hair and off their faces.

"Come on back here!" I yelled. Gratefully they climbed over the bulwark separating us. "Stay here until you're needed," I told them.

"Bridge! Recommend course three-one-zero!" That was Jim.

I cupped my hands over the bridge gyro repeater, took a careful look, had to wipe out the accumulation of water before I could read it. We were already nearing due west, two-seven-oh.

"Steady on three-one-zero!" I shouted down the hatch. The rudder began to come off, and Walrus straightened up.

Now her speed increased even more, and she pitched and bucked like a wild thing. The wind whistled in my hair, the salt droplets battered my face. No longer rising to the sea, she simply disregarded it, smashed through it. Great clouds of spray were thrown to either side, rising to bridge height as we raced by. Sea after sea rolled over her bullnose, pounded against our bridge front beneath the 20-millimeter gun with a repetitious drumming hollowness, cast more spume and water into the air.

It started to rain again. The fresh water felt good, washing some of the salt from my face and out of my eyes. It and the spray were bad for the binoculars, though, for the droplets would mar our vision. "Hugh!" I said urgently, "Lens paper!