Run Silent, Run Deep Read online

  By the time we had reached our assigned exercise area, Jim was sweating freely for a different reason. The board had made him turn the deck over to Keith and take all three members through the ship while he laboriously rigged her for dive. Normally, on rigging a submarine for dive, — which means lining up all the valves and machinery in readiness for diving as differentiated from the "Rigged for Surface" condition in which she cannot dive at all, the enlisted men in each compartment actually do the work in accordance with a very thorough check-off list, and then all officers not on watch, each taking a couple of compartments, carefully check each item. Rigging a submarine for dive, though obviously of major importance, is considered so basic that it is invariably demanded of a candidate for qualification in sub- marines, but rarely of a candidate for qualification for command. The members of the board might have been hazing Jim a little, for all I knew, but of course he had to go through with whatever they asked.

  The Falcon was right behind us as we proceeded down the Thames River, a little later than usual because a full day of training submarine-school students was not before us. We passed Southwest Ledge in column and then angled slightly to starboard, heading for the area just to the south of New London Light. Having the Examining Board with us at least had given us the pick of the operating areas. With Sara's Ledge abeam to starboard we angled more to the right to head for our point to begin the exercises, while Falcon held her original course and commenced to diverge from us as she bore up for her own initial point.

  Jim was back on the bridge and had resumed the conn by the time our divergent courses had separated the two vessels by the desired distance. Besides myself, there, were only the members of the regular watch, — two lookouts, on the bridge with him.

  "Take it easy, old man," I said. "I think they may be hazing you a little, so don't let it throw you. Everything is okay so far."

  Jim commenced to shiver, the perspiration rapidly congealing on his drawn face. The air on the exposed bridge was biting cold, whirring our antenna wires and sucking the air out of our lungs as it whistled against our unprotected faces. S-18 pitched jerkily in the gray waters of the Sound, water slap- ping heavily against her superstructure and once in a while splashing on her angular, red-splotched bow. Where it hit our superstructure a film of milky-colored ice began to form, blurring her outlines. In the distance the hazy shape of the Falcon could be distinguished, still heading away from us.

  In a few moments she would turn and run toward us at an unknown speed using an unknown course and zigzag plan.

  Jim's problem, after diving, would be to determine her speed and base course, get in front of her, and then outmaneuver her zigzag so as to shoot a practice torpedo beneath her keel.

  It was something we had all done many times on the "attack teacher," beginning in our earliest submarine-school days.

  The attack teacher is a device which simulates the submarine periscope station. The trainee can peer through a dummy periscope which goes up through the ceiling to the room, above, where he sees a model ship, in the size and perspective of a real one, as though it were an actual target some miles away at sea. He then "maneuvers" his dry-land submarine, makes his approach on the target, and goes through the procedure of firing torpedoes just as he would in actuality.

  Dozens of approaches can be made, and any number of targets, from aircraft carriers to tugboats, can be sunk-or mimed-in one day. If he makes a poor approach, for instance is rammed by the target or an escort, the instructors in great glee drop a cloth over the top of the "periscope," stamp heavily on the floor above, make hanging noises with anything handy, and in general let it be known that the submarine, not to mention the embarrassed approach officer-is having a bad time.

  Having learned the technique, the student is permitted to try it with a real submarine on a real target, shooting a real torpedo, with exercise head instead of warhead, set to pass under instead of to hit. Graduation exercise in the submarine school wraps everything up in one bundle; the student is required-to make his own torpedo ready for firing, superintend hoisting it into the submarine assigned, load it into the torpedo tube and make the final adjustments himself, then go up into the control room, make the approach, fire the torpedo, and write the report resulting. And woe betide the student whose torpedo fails to run properly, who does not conduct the approach and attack effectively, or whose report does not measure up to Navy standards of thoroughness, accuracy, and brevity short of perfection befitting the commanding officer of a U. S. submarine.

  In the distance Falcon's hull lengthened. She had begun to turn around, preparatory to starting her target run.

  Jim leaned toward the open hatch, cupped his hands: "Rig out the bow planes!" he ordered between chattering teeth. Immediately the bow planes, heretofore housed flat against the S-16's bow like elephant's ears, commenced to rotate and fan out, stopping when they were extended per- pendicular to, her hull and slanted slightly downward, their forward edges digging deeply into the shallow seas.

  This was the final act in the preparation for diving. As I stepped toward the hatch the Falcon's hull commenced to shorten again, indicating that she had nearly completed her turn, and at that moment a small spot of intensely brilliant light appeared at the base of her foremast.

  "There's the light, Jim," I said. He had seen it too, and was extracting a stop watch from his pocket. When the searchlight was extinguished, after having been pointed in our direction for several seconds, this would be the official moment of the commencement of the exercise. A stop watch would be started on the Falcon's bridge, matching the one Jim would start at the same instant. The two watches would be kept running throughout, and the watch time of each maneuver recorded.

  Stopped by simultaneous signal after the run, they would provide Jim with the essential time comparison he would need when later he had to draw the tracks of target and submarine on the same chart and explain the maneuvers of both.

  The light must have lasted only a few seconds. I was only halfway down the ladder into the control room when I heard Jim order, "Clear the bridge," and a moment later the diving alarm sounded. There was just time to step off the ladder onto the tiny conning tower space to, get out of the way of the first lookout scuttling by. Immediately after him came the second one, and then Jim, holding the wire hatch lanyard in his hand.

  Bowing his back, he pulled the hatch home with a satisfying click as the latch engaged. Then, straightening up, be swiftly whirled the steel wheel in the center of the circular hatch, dogging-it tightly on its seat.

  The next second he was below in the control room, superintending the operation of diving-something else the qualification committee had insisted on observing.

  Up from the control room came the familiar noises. The venting of air, the slight additional pressure on my ears, and the quiet report, usually directed at me. "Pressure in the boat, Green Board, sir!" The noise of the bow and stern planes operating, and the calm voice of the diving officer, Jim, giving instructions to their operators. The blowing of air as regulator tank, which we used as a negative tank or a "Down-Express," was blown nearly dry and the inboard vent opened to release the pressure in it, thus, incidentally, further increasing the notice my ears were taking of the operation. The tilt of the deck, down by the bow ever so slightly, and the subsequent return to an even keel. The gurgle of water, hurly-burlying up the sides of the bridge and conning tower, the sudden darkness as the tiny glass "eye-ports" went under, and the quietness when fully submerged. Swiftly the graceless surfaced submarine, uneasily breasting the waves, became a poised, confident fish, moving with ease and certitude in her- element.

  In a moment came another signal: the clanging of the general alarm bell. Most of the crew, anticipating it, had al- ready gone to their stations, but there was a last-minute movement of a few of them below me. Then came a sharp "Klack!" as the electric brake on the periscope hoist motor released, and the whirring of the hoist cable and sheaves as Jim, relieved of the diving duties by Tom Schu
ltz, ordered the periscope raised for this first look at the target.

  Quietly I descended the ladder and took station beside the helmsman in the forward part of our crowded, dimly lighted control room. During maneuvering watches his station was on the bridge, where there was a duplicate set of steering controls, but during surface cruising, and of course when submerged, his station was in the control room. Today there seemed hardly room for him, so crowded was the tiny compartment.

  The ship's company were at their stations, ready to execute Jim's orders upon the multiplicity of equipment located here. The members of the qualification committee were here, too, having taken up positions from which the progress of not only the submerged approach but also of everything else in the control room could be observed. I was only an extra number, an observer. it had been cold topside; here it was already stifling hot, men packed closely together, body against body, breathing each other's body smells. I could feel every move of the helmsman as I stood, facing the other way, jammed hip to hip against him.

  The base of the periscope came up. Jim stooped on the deck of the control room-what extra space there was, naturally, went to him, captured the handles as they came out of the well, extended them as the base of the periscope came clear, applied his right eye to the eye-piece, and rose smoothly with it to a standing position. Once the scope was fully elevated, he spun it around twice rapidly, then ordered, "Down periscope!" stepping away slightly as the shiny tube started down into its tubular well in the deck. All three black notebooks came out of their hiding places, received comments, and disappeared.

  Jim gave me a bleak look. For three days the little black notebooks had been in and out of sight. They had got on my nerves too;. it is never pleasant for a skipper of a ship to have what amounts to an inspection party malting notes about his ship. The most serious effect by far, of course, was on Jim for whom they constituted an unexpected mental hazard.

  The Qualification Board was looking expectantly at Jim.

  Every move of a submarine malting an approach is at the sole behest of the Approach Officer; it was up to Jim to make the correct observations and give the right orders.

  "Nothing in sight," Jim said. Out came the notebooks for another moment.

  Jim waited nearly a full minute, then "Up periscope" he ordered. The scope slithered out of its well Jim facing on the eye-piece, as before, the moment it appeared.

  He twirled it around, stopped suddenly slightly on our star- board bow. "Bearing-Mark!" he said.

  A disc-shaped celluloid "Is-Was," used for matching target bearing with target course, was hanging from around Keith's neck on a string. He was standing on the other side of the periscope from Jim, watching the spot where the vertical cross hair on its barrel matched against the bearing circle on the overhead around it. "Zero-one-six," he announced.

  Jim's right hand had shifted to a small hand wheel on the side of the periscope. He turned it, first rapidly, then slowly and carefully. "Range-Mark!" he finally said.

  "Six-seven-double-oh!" said Keith, who had shifted his attention to a dial at the base of his side of the instrument.

  "Down periscope!" barked Jim, and the scope slid smoothly down. "Angle on the bow-hard to tell-looks like port thirty."

  "Port thirty," muttered Keith, spinning two of the concentric celluloid discs carefully with his thumb. As Assistant Approach Officer, or "Yes-Man," Leone was responsible for keeping the picture of the developing problem up to date on his Is-Was, for informing the Approach Officer-Jim-of the progress of the problem, the condition of readiness of the ship and torpedo battery, and in general anything else he wanted to know. Hence term "Yes-Man," as well as the unusual title of the gadget he used to keep track of the relative positions of target and submarine.

  "What's the distance to the track?"

  This was an easy one. At the instant the target has a thirty- degree angle on the bow-is thirty degrees away from heading right at you, — the distance from the submarine to the target's projected track is equal to half the range. "Three-four-double- oh!" returned Keith, after a moment's pause, — close enough.

  Keith was all right.

  "Left full rudder!" Jim had taken a little time to make the obvious move, and the three little black notebooks were halfway out of their hiding places before he gave the order.

  Crowded against the helmsman, I could feel his right fanny muscle harden as he threw his weight into the wheel.

  "All ahead three thousand a side!"

  S-16 leaped ahead with the suddenly increased thrust of her propellers, curved to the left in obedience to the helm- and three black notebooks leaped also into the hands of their owners.

  2

  Three thousand amperes to each of S-16's two propeller shafts, six thousand total out of the main storage batteries, is a high rate. of discharge in any league. For slow speeds the two main storage batteries are normally connected In parallel, and for high speed switched to series-thus doubling the voltage and halving the current for any given power requirement. In neglecting to shift to series Jim was failing to get the maximum speed possible for the discharge rate and, in addition, was to no purpose risking damage to power cables and main motor armatures from the high current and the resulting heat. Our ship's procedure was specified in the Engineering Orders: shift to series for everything over two thousand amperes per motor, and start with half the current.

  Vainly I tried to catch his eye. He knew the score as well as I, as did everyone in S-boats for that matter, but somehow, in the stress of the moment he had completely forgotten. What was even harder to understand was the fact that he had, nevertheless, ordered a discharge rate far in excess of the allowable limit. An easy thing to correct, ordinarily, but now, In the midst of his qualification approach, he was unreachable.

  Tom Schultz turned solemnly toward me from his position directly behind the two enlisted men stationed at the bow and stern-plane controls. In the after part of the control room First Class Electrician's Mate John Larto also fixed his eyes in my direction, after a quick look at Jim. No words were necessary. Both men knew that I was not permitted to interfere in any way with the approach, that if I did so because of some emergency I automatically resumed command of the ship.

  Imperceptibly the lights began to grow dimmer as S-16 picked up speed. We accelerated slowly-much more slowly than if we had been in series. Larto shot me an agonized look, reached with both hands toward the electric control board at which he was stationed. I shifted my gaze to the three other skippers, found all still deep in their notebooks, went back to Larto, and nodded ever so slightly.

  The battery circuit breakers in S-16 were in the forward starboard corner of the control room. To shift them involved pulling all power off, kicking out the parallel breakers, and putting in the series breakers, — all to the accompaniment of a snapping symphony of electrical disconnects. But Larto- was equal to the occasion.

  "Series, aye, aye! Fifteen hundred a side!" He vectored the response directly at Jim. The lights, which had been dim, suddenly grew bright again, and a cackling cacophony of noise arose from the deck plates in our starboard corner. Jim apparently took no notice. All three board members looked up at me quickly. But I was scrutinizing the back of Tom's head and could offer no enlightenment.

  Jim had been deep in consultation with Keith, and now he spoke. "Target looks like a man-of-war," he stated. "Possibly a small cruiser or large destroyer. Set torpedo depth twelve feet. I'm going to try for a straight bow shot with a port- ninety track."

  Well and good. This was more like it. Getting the target description out of the way and telling your fire-control party what you want to do were both doctrine requirements.

  For several more minutes S-16 rocketed along, her super- structure vibrating and her antennas and lifelines singing, her thrashing propellers communicating a drumming note to the body of the ship. On and on we went. Jim in consultation with Keith, seemed perfectly satisfied. One minute passed — then two-then five. Still nothing from Jim.<
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  My anxiety mounted once more. Jim had made only one observation; as a result we had been racing at top submerged speed for several minutes, heading for, a mythical point near where the target would be if it, likewise, kept steady on its course. This is the essence of the submerged approach-except that if the target zigged, Jim's tactic of running blindly would almost certainly put him out in left field. This is exactly what the zigzag system was designed to achieve. The counter to it is to make sufficient periscope observations to detect the zigs, and to govern your approach course and speed accordingly.

  But Jim had only seen the target once and as a result of that had been running for it as though no change whatever could take place in the Falcon's course. True, with such a large initial angle on the bow we had a long distance to cover — and each observation required slowing down to avoid a big periscope feather. The problem is always to outguess the enemy, but the sub skipper has no occult powers to help him guess. He has to compromise with speed, and look at the target every one or two minutes.

  But not Jim this day. One would have thought he knew exactly what to expect, judging by his lack of concern, and by the time he made up his mind to take another observation I was nearly beside myself. The Falcon might have zigged sharply just after Jim had last seen her, and the whole distance we had covered since, at the expense of around half of our total battery capacity, might have been in exactly the wrong direction.

  I tried to, project my thought waves at him, to catch his eye, lift an eyebrow, somehow make him realize he could not keep on blindly, but Jim did not even look in my direction.

  Nor was Keith any better, huddled with him beside the periscope in the dimmed light of the control room. Minute after minute dragged by. By the time the order came I was sweating, and I noticed that Messrs. Savage, Miller, and Kane were watching gravely.

  "All stop! Parallel!" The drumming stopped precipitantly, and you could feel the boat slow down.