Evening star., 1941-04-08
3 Destroyers, Like Hounds
On a Scent Hunt Down U-Boots
And Hovering Seopone Makes Direct
Hits When Depth Charges Send Sub to Surface
Second OF a Series.)

The Wickes changes her roll to
lope. Her speed increases in
response to a call from the bridge.
We eat up the knots. More signals
Flags f1utter. The seaplane's nose
seems to tip ominously nearer the
water Our commander reads a
message handed to him by signal
man, telescope cooked Jauntily
under arm. The sound-recorders
on one of the destroyers has picked
up the unmistakable throb of SUBJ
marine engines. These sound-re-
corders are devices described as
unseen, impa lpable fingers CROP
ing beneath the surface Of the sea"
Like so many cats, the destroyers
pounce in the direction of the
sounds: then settle down - sys-
tematic hunt, first def 0ly TO
locate its position, next to destroy
1t by depth charges.
"Seven Hundred Yards to Port,"
This is the moment for which
every one aboard has been eagerly
waiting since he joined-the mo-
ment when the foe is within strik-
ing distance. Like pointers, the
f1otilla freezes. The sough of the
submarine comes in strong. The
Wickes begins to creep in on her
foe.
Seven hundred yards to port,
sirl"
Three hundred yards ahead,
sir!"
The voice from the sound-record-
er room tempos the operations.
Hands TO depth charge stationsl"
On the bridge is lever that looks
like the mandrake of an automo-
bile. A chubby looking boy from
Newcastle -on-Tyne is in charge of
it, Wrapped round his head is a
blue scarf knitted by a woman in
New Haven. Conn. One OF his pals
says: Take crack at Jerry for
me, Jim
Jim says nothing. Only grins.
The commanders hand reaches
for the engine room telegraph. The
Wickes bounds forward like hound
unslipped from the leash. A quick
command relieves the suspense:
Let go the depth charge!"
mo Contact"
The boy in the blue scarf pulls
the lever. A moment that feels
like eternity. Then a dull boom
wakes the echoes astern. The
Wickes quivers from stem to stern,
buries her nose in the spray and
shakes herself. After a quarter of
a century doing nothing in particu-
lar she has achieved in her old
age the job she was designed for
She turns about, ready to attack
again on another course.
But no sound comes from below
the surface.
mo contact" the sound-recorder
hand sings out.
Our eyes cannot pierce the mys-
terry of the depths.
Has the submarine been hit? We
don't know. No tell-tale oil smears
the surface; no hint of vreckage.
Is she lying doggo or has she
sheered of in the excitement? Has
all our effort been in vain?
"U-Boat Hit"
The f1otilla settles down again to
the monotony of the sweep-to and
fro over the darkening waters. Only
one depth charge has been released.
Sometimes as many as 10 depth
charges have been released to get
one U-boat.
We are still wondering about ours
when we receive message from the
seaplane:
"U-boat surfaced Listing badly.
Attacked Immediately. Dropped
four bombs. Observed four direct
hits. U-boat disappeared"
The Wickes was awarded the last
patrol of honor, the patrol to decide
whether, according to English Gus
tom, the destruction of the enemy
submarine might be officially listed
Without her confirmation, it could
not be counted.
Till night fell over the Atlantic,
the Wickes swept to and fro over
the area in quest of sign. But