Evans made a mental calculation. “We’re headed seventeen; that makes it thirty-two, true,” he said to himself.
They sat a moment in silence, then suddenly there came through the receivers a rapid series of dots and dashes in a peculiar high-pitched note. Both men grew tense as if struck by an electric shock. Almost instantly a small light flashed beside the operator, showing that the main radio room had heard and recognized the unmistakable note of an enemy submarine, and had opened the main antenna to enable the radio compass to function. With a rapid spin the operator whirled the coil through a large angle, stopped it and spun it back a little more slowly. The message stopped, but it was enough.
“How’s that?” said the operator, turning the coil partway back and stopping it.
“Right, as near as I can judge,” said Evans. “Let ’em have it.”
The operator called through the voice-tube:
“Bridge—thirteen.”
Evans listened a minute more, then hearing nothing, took off the head-phones and, saying, “Do your damnedest, and we’ll have this goose cooked by morning,” he slipped out of the shack and ran up to the main radio room to see how things were working there.
Ever since he left the wardroom the skipper had been conversing with the wing boats by radio telephone. Both wing boats had reported their bearings. Evans satisfied himself that enough power was being used in the transmitter to reach the wing boats, but no further. Then he went up on the bridge. Commander Fraser was at the moment talking to the other destroyers.
“Now’s our chance,” he said. “Keep the boys on the job, and on your life don’t miss any tricks.”
Fraser put up the phone. Catching sight of Evans, he said: