Silent Sea

CHAPTER 17

Three miles to the east of where Eelfish was being pounded by the Japanese destroyers the bridge crew of the Hatchet Fish could see the fires of the burning ships and hear the thunder of the depth charges. Captain Chet Marble leaned toward his bridge transmitter.

“Give me a radar check. I want to know how many ships there are out there.”

“I read seven ships maneuvering radically, Bridge. Range to the mass of ships is six thousand yards.”

“Very well,” Captain Marble said. His Executive Officer, a tall, lean, dour man named Abe Wilkinson, looked at his commanding officer.

“We’re going over to help Eelfish, aren’t we?”

“No,” Captain Marble said. “Captain Mealey gave us our orders. He was specific. We are to wait here and intercept and sink any shipping that comes our way.”

“I understand, sir,” Wilkinson said patiently. “But at the time he issued those orders to us nothing was said about one or the other of us being attacked with depth charges. I would assume that if we were being pounded, as Eelfish is being pounded, that Captain Mealey would come to our rescue.”

“Don’t assume,” Chet Marble said, the acid in his voice apparent to everyone within earshot on the bridge. “Captain Mealey would come to our rescue if he could see another Medal of Honor in it for him. We will follow our orders, sir.” His Executive Officer stared at him for a long moment.

“Permission to go below, sir?”

“Granted,” Captain Marble said. “Send me up a cup of coffee when you get below.” He turned and leveled his binoculars at the fires on the horizon. His Quartermaster turned his back on his Captain and stared to the eastern horizon.

On the Eelfish, twisting and turning 600 feet below the surface, the temperature had climbed to 120 degrees. The humidity was 100 percent. Puddles formed on the deck, on level surfaces, and re-formed as rapidly as they were wiped up. The continual barrage of depth charges had long since broken all the lights and most of the gauge glasses. The interior of the Eelfish was lit by battery-powered battle lanterns equipped with heavy glass fronts that could not be broken by anything less than a direct blow with a sledgehammer. The interior of the Eelfish reeked with the fetid odor of stale air and sweating men and the stench of fear.

The hours wore on. Up above, on the surface, the Japanese destroyers had established a pattern. Two of them searched for the Eelfish with sonar beams, and when they found the submarine they took up position on either side of the Eelfish, while the other five destroyers made their runs between their two sister ships, dropping depth charges off their sterns, firing them out to the sides with Y-guns.

The Eelfish responded to the attacks, speeding up when Paul Blake reported that an attack run had started, turning in half circles, changing depth upward and downward to throw off the gunners on the Japanese ships who were setting the depth-charge explosion depths. Captain Mealey stood at the gyro table, a soggy towel draped around his neck. Mike Brannon stood beside him. Mealey peered at the luminous dial of his wrist watch, barely visible in the gloom of the Control Room.

“It’s daylight up above,” he said. They’ve been at it for over eight hours.” He wiped his face with the end of the towel as Paul Blake reported that another attack run had begun.

“Right fifteen degrees rudder,” he snapped. The two men stationed at the helm grunted with effort as they turned the ship’s rudder by hand power.

“Rudder’s fifteen degrees right, sir,” one of the men gasped. He hung on the brass wheel, sobbing with his effort, gasping for air in the oxygen-depleted atmosphere.

“Very well,” Mealey said. “Seven hundred feet, Mr. Gold. Smartly, if your people can do it.” At the bow and stern planes the two Battle Stations planesmen gasped and grunted as they fought to tilt bow and stern planes downward by hand power alone. Eelfish slanted downward as the crashing explosions of the depth charges shook the submarine and twisted it in a vortex of water until the hull rivets creaked and groaned under the strain.

In the Forward Torpedo Room Steve Petreshock had organized his torpedomen and the reload crew into four groups. Two of those groups worked at the job of turning the sound heads by hand power while the other two groups rested.

“Son of a bitch can go back to hydraulic power any time he wants,” Rice grunted. “Fucking Japs know where we are anyway, so why make us do this shit, go to hand power on the helm, the planes and the sound heads?” He staggered away from the sound head shaft and sagged against a torpedo skid. “Bad enough you wear your ass out reloadin’ all the fish in this room, including that fucking Numbers Five and Six, bad enough you got to do that without puttin’ up with this shit.”

“Save your breath,” Petreshock grunted. He looked at the pressure gauge and tried to whistle and failed. “My God, we’re at seven hundred feet! What the hell does he think this damned submarine is?”

In the Control Room Mealey stared at the plot and then looked at Jim Michaels.

“What was the last contact you had with Maulers One and Two?”

“They receipted for our message that we were beginning the attack, sir. Mauler Two receipted for the message inviting them to take part in the action. Mauler One did not receipt for that message, sir.”

“Bastards!” Mealey growled out the word from between clenched teeth. “If one of them would get over here and fire at one of those tin cans up there it might help out a hell of a lot. As long as they think they’ve got only one submarine here they might stay here all day and night.” He looked at Flanagan. “How many torpedoes do we have, Chief?”

“Three, sir. One in Number Six tube forward. Two back aft. In Nine and Ten tubes, sir.”

“Three fish, seven destroyers. Bad odds,” Mealey grunted. He looked up as Paul Blake’s voice came down from the Conning Tower.

“Here they come again, Control. Three destroyers coming at us from dead ahead, sir.”

“Rudder amidships. All stop.” Mealey snapped. “We’ve been turning away from his attacks. Last three runs he peeled off on each side to catch us. We’ll see if this does any good, staying almost still.” The crew braced, hearing the thunder of the destroyer screws, wincing as a man at the sharp crack of the depth-charge exploder mechanisms going off, and then the shattering roar of the exploding charges shook the Eelfish like a rat in the jaws of a terrier. In the After Torpedo Room Fred Nelson was thrown from his feet in front of the torpedo tubes. He hauled himself erect by grabbing at the torpedo roller stand, blood gushing from his hooked nose.

“One more like that, you fucker,” he growled, “and I’m puttin’ in for a transfer from this fuckin’ submarine navy.” He moved down the length of his torpedo room, patting men on the shoulders and backs.

“Don’t none of you people start pukin’,” he said, “because I ain’t got the patience to clean up after you. Last time I looked at the depth gauge that S.O.B. up there in the Control Room had us at seven hundred feet. No wonder the damned room’s beginning to leak.”

“You want to report leaks?” the telephone talker stammered, his chin wobbling with fear.

“No I don’t want to report no damned leaks,” Nelson growled. “That S.O.B. in the Control Room has got enough on his mind without me adding my share of shit. As long as I ain’t worried about a little water comin’ in you don’t have to worry.”

In the Conning Tower Paul Blake clung to the edge of the shelf on which his gear was mounted. Lieutenant Perry Arbuckle, who was hanging on to the periscope cables for support, saw the effort that Blake was making to stay calm.

“Must be hell up in the Forward Room, turning those two sound heads by hand,” Arbuckle said, trying to keep his own voice conversational. Blake nodded and bent his head, listening. His head came up suddenly, his eyes wild.

“Control! I can hear torpedoes running, three or four of them! Control!” He cried out in pain as a tremendous noise crashed through his earphones and the hull of the Eelfish.

“Where did you hear torpedoes?” Captain Mealey was halfway up the ladder to the Conning Tower. “What bearing?”

“I was tracking a ship bearing one six zero, sir,” Blake said. “The screws I heard, very fast, high-pitched, just like our own torpedoes, sir, came from aft of that bearing. They ran right into the bearing of the ship I was tracking.”

“Left full rudder,” Mealey snapped. “Mr. Gold, don’t let this ship get one foot above seven hundred feet. I’ve got to sort this out.” He turned as the sound of two depth charges echoed through Eelfish’s hull, depth charges dropped at some distance.

“Will your torpedoes stand being fired at one hundred feet, Chief? Yes or no?”

“I Tacki-waxed the exhaust valves myself,” Flanagan said. “They won’t leak through the valves. Yes.”

“One hundred feet, Mr. Gold. Give it one big effort, men.” He joined Jerry Gold on the planes, Gold helping the stern planesman, Captain Mealey throwing his stringy muscle against the bow plane wheel.

“Set depth on torpedoes Nine and Ten at zero feet,” he called out. “Set speed at low. Repeat, torpedo depth on numbers Nine and Ten tubes at zero feet. Speed on the low setting.” He watched the black needles on the depth gauges moving toward the one-hundred-foot mark.

“Sonar! Give me an accurate bearing at the ships you have.” He waited.

“Bearing on the depth charging is one seven zero, sir.”

“Left five degrees rudder,” Mealey said. “Stand by aft.” He turned to Brannon. “I’ll shake those bastards up, when they see fish plowing toward them!”

“Targets bear one eight zero, sir,” Blake cried.

“Meet your helm. Stand by aft…

“Fire nine!

“Fire ten!”

The two torpedoes burst out of the tubes at a depth of 95 feet, planed upward to the surface, and streaked across the sunlit water, splashing and throwing spray. A siren sounded on a destroyer, ululating. The pack of destroyers scattered, their squat sterns dropping into the water, their bows rearing high as their engines went to full speed.

“They’re going off in all directions, sir,” Paul Blake reported. “All the screws I can hear are turning up very high revolutions.”

“Very well,” Mealey said. “Maintain depth at one hundred feet, rudder amidships. Now we’ll wait and see if that did any good.” He mopped his face and neck with the wet towel.

Blake reported that he had lost all the high-speed screws five minutes later. Mealey nodded and looked at the two men on the helm. Both were hanging on to the big brass wheel for support, physically exhausted.

“Shift to hydraulic power on the sound heads, bow and stern planes, and the helm,” Mealey said.

“I can hear a slow twin screw beat bearing one seven zero,” Blake reported. “Sounds like one of our submarine screws, sir.”

“Any guess, son, on how far away he might be?”

“No, sir, but he’s not too far.”

“Make a recognition signal by sonar,” Mealey ordered.

Blake keyed the sonar transmitter slowly and carefully and waited. The entire crew of the Eelfish heard the answering message beat against the hull.

“Mauler Two reporting for duty. Mauler Two reports two torpedo hits in a destroyer and observation of the destroyer breaking up. Mauler Two at periscope depth and can see no enemy. Over.”

“Tell Mauler Two many thanks and that we will surface on heading three five zero,” Mealey said. He looked at Mike Brannon, and a faint smile showed under the white mustache.

“The Lord provides when you need it most. Stand by to surface.” The surface klaxon squawked and the Eelfish surged upward in a long slant. Captain Mealey climbed the ladder to the Conning Tower and looked at Lieutenant Perry Arbuckle and Paul Blake.

“Damned fine work, you two. Damned fine.”

Eelfish burst through the surface of the water as Mealey fought his way upward through the bridge hatch, ignoring the residual water that poured in as he pushed the hatch open. Mike Brannon followed him to the bridge and jumped out of the way as the lookouts and Bob Lee came scrambling topside.

“Submarine surfacing bearing one five zero,” the starboard lookout bellowed. Brannon ran aft to the TBT and then relaxed as he saw the familiar shape of a U.S. Navy fleet submarine. Blake’s voice floated up the hatch.

“Mauler Two requests permission to close and speak to Captain Mealey, Bridge.”

“Answer affirmative,” Mealey called down the hatch. “Tell him to come up on my starboard side.” He leveled his binoculars at the Sea Chub as it slid into position barely fifty feet off the starboard side of the Eelfish.

“Hold your course steady,” Mealey called down the hatch. “Make turns for one third ahead. Start the battery charge.” He leaned his elbows on the bridge rail and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Many thanks for your attack, sir. They were a very persistent bunch.”

“We appreciate your getting them off our backs, sir,” Captain Shelton sang out in a loud voice. “We could hear those fish of yours thrashing along; my sound man thought you fired your torpedoes at a low speed setting. That right?”

“Affirmative,” Mealey called out. “We fired from one hundred feet, depth setting zero, low speed. Figured they would see them and get panicky.”

“Mauler Two reports sinking one troop transport, sir. We have two prisoners from that ship. What was your bag?”

“One small carrier, one troop ship, one tanker, one freighter, and two destroyers,” Mealey called out. “How many torpedoes do you have left?”

“Fired four at the transport. Fired four at the destroyers that were clustered over you, sir. We have sixteen fish left, twelve forward, four aft.”

“We have one left forward,” Mealey called out. “Have you heard from Mauler One?”

“Negative, sir. Advise you inspect your topside. From here it looks as if you’ve lost most of your main deck. Congratulations on one hell of an attack, sir.”

Mealey and Brannon looked at the decks. The area forward of the bridge was a mass of twisted wood and steel supports.

Aft of the deck gun on the afterdeck there was no deck at all. “They have some big sea lice in this part of the world,” Mealey yelled across to the Sea Chub. “Where did you pick up the troop transport?”

“Picked him up when we headed for your fireworks, sir,” Captain Shelton yelled back. “He came right across my bow. Stopped to get two prisoners hanging on to a life ring. Went under far enough to submerge our decks and used radar to sort out what was happening to you. Couldn’t get into your mess until you had gone under and the destroyers had established an attack pattern that we could take advantage of.”

“Took him a hell of a while to do that,” Mealey said in a low voice to Brannon. He raised his voice and faced the Sea Chub.

“Our thanks to you. Haul off now and take up position five hundred yards on my starboard beam. We’ll wait for Mauler One to show.”

An hour later Jim Michaels reported that Mauler One was requesting contact with the pack leader. Mealey looked at Mike Brannon. “I’ll talk to that gentleman myself,” he said and went down the hatch.

At the door of the radio shack he motioned to Jim Michaels.

“Ask the radioman to step out here please,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mauler One and I’d like to keep the door closed, if you don’t mind.”

The radioman closed the door after Captain Mealey had gone into the radio shack. He grinned slyly at Jim Michaels. “I don’t think my gear is going to stand up under what the S.O.B. is likely to say,” he half whispered to Michaels. “Did you see those eyes? He’s mad enough to bite the damned mike off’n the stem.”

Mealey sat in the radio shack and pushed the transmit button.

“Mealey to Mauler one. Mealey here.”

“Mauler one affirmative.”

“Report your position,” Mealey said.

“Mauler One is on station as ordered, sir.”

“Is this the Captain speaking?” Mealey asked.

“No, sir. Captain is in the radio shack. This is Harold Crippin, Chief Radioman, sir.”

“Please put Captain Marble on the microphone,” Mealey snapped.

“Marble here.” The voice was a slow drawl.

“How many torpedoes do you have left?” Mealey asked.

“Mauler One reports all torpedoes aboard, sir.”

“Were you aware, sir, that we were under heavy attack?”

“We saw your fires and heard what we took to be some depth charging, sir.” Captain Marble’s voice over the air was almost frosty. “We received no orders to contradict those you issued with commendable firmness, sir, to stay on our station.”

Mealey stared at the microphone. He drew a deep breath and thumbed the transmit button.

“Stand by to copy your orders, sir.

“Eelfish is returning to port with only one, repeat one torpedo. Mauler Two has sixteen torpedoes. Mauler One will proceed in company with Mauler Two to original patrol area. Advise Mauler One, as pack commander, that the rest of that task force is steaming back toward Manila. There is a heavy cruiser in that lot and at least six destroyers. Over and out.”

“Thank you, sir. Mauler One will assume pack leadership and proceed to original patrol area. Over and out.” The circuit went dead and Captain Mealey pushed his chair back from the radioman’s small table.

“You son of a bitch!” he whispered to himself, “you damned cowardly son of a bitch! I’ll hang you, Marble, I’ll hang you so high you’ll get airsick reading the charges!” He went out into the Control Room and climbed wearily to the bridge. Jim Michaels’s voice came up through the bridge speaker.

“Mauler Two reports reading message to Mauler One and wishes Eelfish a safe and speedy return home.”

“Tell them Godspeed,” Mealey said. He turned to Mike Brannon.

“I’d appreciate it, Captain, if you’d take back your ship, sir. I suggest you secure from General Quarters, set the regular sea watch, and have Mr. Olsen lay down the most direct course to Fremantle. I would like to see you in the Wardroom in ten minutes.” He turned and began to climb down the ladder. Brannon, watching him, wondered at the slowness of his movements and then realized, as Captain Mealey looked upward, that the older man’s face was haggard with exhaustion.