by Peter Albano
“Any change in course?”
“Negative, sir. He’s still steaming two-one-seven.”
“Very well.” Williams scratched his cheek and stared off at the horizon on the bearing. He turned to Brent. “That’s his flank speed, XO?”
“That is correct, Captain.”
“That doesn’t make sense”
Brent was gripped with a premonition, a feeling of disquiet and unease. Things were not as they should be. It was an intangible thing, another sense a man develops after surviving innumerable battles. “I suggest battle surface, Captain,” Brent offered quietly.
“You’re right, XO.” Williams shouted down the hatch. “Communications. Sound the alarm. Battle surface!” Immediately, the alarm sent its “Bong! Bong!” ringing through the boat. There were the sounds of sea boots thumping on steel floor plates and on ladder rungs. Within minutes the battle-surface crew manned its weapons and most watertight hatches in the hull were slammed shut and dogged down. Brent jammed on his steel helmet, unlocked the Browning, and swung it from side to side as Gunner’s Mate Bowman unlatched the ready box. Crog did the same with the fifty-caliber mounted on the starboard side of the bridge. There was a clatter of steel on steel as the five-inch gun crew rammed a round into the breech. Williams took his position as OD at the front of the bridge and locked his range-finding binoculars into the TBT while the most experienced helmsman, Quartermaster Second Class Harold Sturgis, took over the helm and annunciators. The casualties and damage to the boat had forced Williams to assign the regular man at the annunciators, Seaman First Class Tatsunori Hara, to one of the damage control parties. Two new lookouts scampered up onto their perch on the periscope shears.
The usual reports flooded up through the speaker. “Forward torpedo room manned and ready, maneuvering room manned and ready, control room manned and ready, forward engine room manned and ready...” The disembodied voices droned on one after the other as they had so many times in the past. Finally, with Ensign Robert Owen’s report from the conning tower, the ship was primed and as ready as she could ever be for battle. But Chief Dunlap had reported the electric motors still off line despite the frantic efforts of his crew. Williams bashed a fist against the steel screen and cursed.
A new voice came up through the hatch. “I say, up there. Permission to come up on the bridge, if you please, Captain.” It was Captain Colin Willard-Smith. “I must say I’ve got the bugger-all to do down here, Captain, and it’s getting on my wick. I’ve got bloody-good eyes, sir. Can’t you use me up there?”
Williams’ face twitched, and for a moment Brent thought the big man would smile. “Permission granted,” he said gruffly.
Willard-Smith, dressed in Admiral Allen’s foul weather gear and with a pair of binoculars hanging at his waist, pulled himself up through the hatch. “Bloody decent of you, Captain,” he said, coming erect.
Williams waved at the horizon. “There’s a can bearing down on us like a whore after a John on Broadway on Saturday night.”
“John, sir,” the Englishman said in obvious confusion. “You mean a harlot after a mark?”
Brent and Reginald both chuckled while the enlisted men held their silence with an effort. “Coming like a demon out of Westminster, Captain Willard-Smith,” Brent added.
“Quite right, old boy,” the pilot chuckled, moving to the rear of the bridge and bringing his binoculars up. “Dash it all,” he said almost immediately. He turned to the captain. “You said our intruder was off there.” He waved airily off the starboard bow. “Then what’s that out there at ten o’clock?” He caught himself and lapsed into Royal Navy terminology in an effort to be nautical, “I mean red sixty.”
“Red sixty?”
Brent turned so quickly, his helmet flopped and the soreness came back into his neck. “He means three-hundred-degrees relative, Captain.”
“That’s jolly well right, old boy.”
A shout from the shears. “Destroyer bearing three-zero-zero, range eleven.”
A half-dozen pairs of binoculars came up and Brent found it: still hulled down but charging over the curvature of the earth were the upper works of a destroyer. It was emerging from a squall which it had obviously been using for cover. It had probably been hiding in the storm for hours. Brent came up on his toes and suddenly felt a deadly tension scrape along his spine like a gapped knife. “It’s an Arab, Captain.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“It’s a Gearing that’s been through FRAM (fleet rehabilitation and modernization) conversion. One five-inch gun house removed forward, fourteen feet added amidships for bunkerage. You can’t miss them and we don’t have any. Our escorts are all Fletchers.”
“Five-inch! Commence tracking target bearing three-zero-zero. All weapons stand by to engage.” Williams turned to Brent, “He must’ve been sneaking up on us with all of his electronics gear shut down.”
“I don’t think so, Captain.”
“What do you mean?”
Brent waved off at the still unseen friendly contact. “I think he’s been tracking Captain Fite. Probably been on lifeguard duty and was informed by one of his reconnaissance aircraft of Fite’s can closing on the combat area. Fite’s probably on the same duty and he’s looking for us, too. The Arabs think we’re sunk. And with our RAM and being so low in the water, we’re hard to track. He’s trying to surprise Fite.”
“He can’t. Fite must have him on his radar, XO.”
“He’s an Arab. They’re completely unpredictable. Fite picked him up when he came out of the storm and that’s why he went to thirty-two knots.”
“Our IFF?”
“The Arab probably couldn’t pick it up. It’s frequency jumps and transmits in millisecond bursts.”
“Right. Right, XO.” Williams thumped his head with a closed fist and spoke to himself in obvious exasperation, “What’s wrong with me? I’m forgetting everything.”
They were interrupted by a shout from the shears, “Vessel bearing zero-one-zero, range twelve.”
Brent swung his glasses. “A fighting top, Captain. It’s a Fletcher. One of ours, all right.”
Williams shouted down the hatch. “We’ll run on course zero-one-zero. There’s a hostile vessel bearing off our port bow at three-zero-zero. I’ll begin giving you bearings on the TBT in a moment. Mister Owen, crank it into the TDC. Both torpedo rooms are to stand by.” He shouted into the speaker, “Chief Dunlap!”
“Dunlap aye.”
“Give me all the speed you can without sinking us.”
“Maybe twenty-knots, sir.”
“The main shaft bearings?”
“They’re cool, Captain.”
“Well, thank God for that.” Williams turned to Sturgis. “All ahead two-thirds.”
“All ahead two-thirds, sir.” There was a clang of bells as the quartermaster pushed the two annunciators forward. Immediately the rhythm of the engines increased and the boat began to slam into the small swell. A sea ran the length of the deck and soaked the five-inch gun crew. “Up three degrees on the bow planes,” Williams shouted into the speaker. The bow came up slightly and the seas sloshed along the boat’s sides.
A shout came up from the conning tower. “Captain, the pitometer reads twenty knots, rev counter shows four-hundred-ten-revolutions on both shafts.”
“Very well.”
A shout from the shears: “She’s opened fire!”
There were flashes and twin puffs of brown smoke on the bow of the Arab. There was a rustle, and canvas ripped overhead as air rushed in to fill the vacuums left by two fifty-five-pound shells. Twin towers of water shot skyward a hundred yards beyond the submarine. “Jesus Christ, he has us in range already,” Williams shouted at Sturgis. “Right full rudder. Steady up on those splashes. We’ll chase salvos.” He glanced at the bearing repeater. “Steady up on zero-nine-eight.”
Sturgis repeated the command, glancing at his rudder-angle indicator.
Willard-Smith spoke to Brent. “We have five-
inch, too, Mister Ross. Why don’t we fire?”
Brent shook his head grimly. “Out of our range. We have a hand-loaded five-inch, twenty-five-caliber gun.” He stabbed a finger at the enemy, who was now clearly in view and almost over the horizon. “He has four five-inch, thirty-eight-caliber machine-loaded cannons. We can fire about ten rounds a minute, and he can put out over twenty-rounds per gun, per minute. He can out shoot us and outrange us. His next salvo will be short. He should try to bracket us, and then he’ll turn to bring his full armament to bear and commence rapid fire.”
“That’s over a hundred rounds a minute.”
“That’s right.”
The Englishman popped his lips and tightened his jaw. “I say, a bit of a sticky wicket, wouldn’t you say, old boy?”
There was a flash, more smoke, and a screech that faded quickly. Two green towers of water shot up fifty yards off the port quarter and well astern. “Short! Short!” someone shouted.
“We’re bracketed,” Brent said.
“Our knickers are in the bloody twist,” Willard-Smith mumbled.
“Steady on zero-nine-eight, sir,” Sturgis said.
Owen’s voice: “TBT reading, Captain?”
“Not yet. Just watch your goddamned instruments, Mister Owen.”
Shouts of “On target! On target” came from the pointer and trainer perched on their bicycle seats on the five-inch mount.
“In range, Captain,” the gun captain shouted.
“Commence firing! Commence! Commence! Rapid fire! I don’t give a shit where the stuff lands. We won’t go down like pussies.”
Flame leaped from the short tube, and a thunderclap struck the bridge as the cannon fired. Everyone rocked and groaned. Immediately there was the smell of cordite and excited shouts as another round was pulled from the ammunition scuttle and rammed into the breech. A column of water erupted short and to the left of the Gearing. Brent could hear the gun captain: “Up two degrees, right eighty yards, deflection three-zero.”
Again the gun fired and the size of the target increased. “He’s turning to starboard, Captain,” Brent shouted: “Giving us his beam.”
“Our can is ranging, sir!”
The gray Fletcher, now off Blackfin’s port beam, had heaved over the horizon, the turmoil of her bow wave a white bone in her teeth. Brent always marveled at the graceful, flush-decked beauty and grace of the class. A big number 1 was painted on her bow which slashed through the seas, hurling up sheets of blue water and spray as she ripped the sea at flank speed. Her two forward mounts were vomiting flame. More splashes appeared around the Arab. Most were short. Strangely, the enemy captain seemed to ignore the Fletcher. Instead, he seemed intent on Blackfin. His main battery went to rapid fire and the shells began to rain down.
Staring through his binoculars, Brent thought he was looking into the inferno of hell itself. The guns fired so fast, the destroyer appeared to be on fire. Brown smoke trailed her in clouds and the shells swarmed in, moaning, hissing, sighing, and ripping. The tortured sea was flung up in curtains, but most were short. Fite had forced the enemy to turn much sooner than he had intended. At best, a submarine offers very little freeboard and at long range is a terrible target. The Arab was trying to sink Blackfin with the sheer volume of his fire.
“Why doesn’t he try to boff our friend?” Willard-Smith shouted into Brent’s ear.
“Now he knows who we are. He’s an Arab. I would guess he’s out to get vengeance for Gefara.”
“Stupid. Stupid.”
Williams shouted at Sturgis, “Right full rudder. Steady up on two-six-five.” And down the hatch, “Mister Owen, stand by the TBT repeater. I’ll start giving you bearings as soon as we steady up on two-six-five. But be ready for quick course changes. I’ll want a hundred-percent spread on the fish.”
Brent was stunned by the maneuver. Williams was actually coming about to close the range on the Gearing.
This would take them into easy range of the enemy guns, but would bring all six forward tubes to bear. They would be sunk long before they reached the optimum torpedo range of twelve hundred yards or less. The captain must have a long shot in mind. A hundred-percent spread meant one at the bow, four amidships and the last at the stern. No fish aimed ahead or astern of the target. This was an ideal cluster for a long shot that might turn the Arab, upset his gunnery, and make him an easy mark for Fite. Williams had guts. Most skippers would run to the protection of their own destroyer. That was what logic and discretion dictated. But logic and discretion won far fewer victories than daring and bold, unexpected tactics. “We won’t die like pussies,” Williams had said. Obviously he had meant it.
“Open outer doors, tubes one through six,” Williams shouted down the hatch.
“Captain,” Brent said, leaning close. “I would suggest you’re opening the doors too soon, sir. At twenty-knots we can flood our torpedoes.”
Williams nodded and cursed and then shouted, “Belay that order, Mister Owen. Outer doors are to remain closed.”
Blackfin had heeled halfway through her turn when the first shell hit. It was clearly visible and Brent saw it coming. It was a defective round with perhaps a broken copper firing band. Or it might have been fired from a barrel with worn rifling. In any event, it fell short and flat instead of plunging. It skipped across the water, tumbling like a great blue bottle. Fascinated, every man on the bridge watched as death ricocheted and whipped toward them, end over end, kicking up water and leaving a trail of spreading ripples, dappled with spray and droplets.
It came over the starboard quarter and struck the base of the cannon. Every man ducked instinctively. There was a flash like an enormous photographer’s bulb, a concussion that knocked Bowman from his feet and staggered Brent. Screams and shouts of anger, rage, fear, and agony dinned in his ears. Shrapnel clanged against the three-eighths-inch steel sides of the windscreen and whined off the periscope shears, and wreckage and pieces of steel and men rained and splattered.
Shaking his head to clear the patches of darkness, Brent found Williams and Sturgis both down and the helm swinging wildly. Brent shouted down the hatch, “Steady on two-six-five, God damn it. Mind your helm. We have casualties up here. You’re supposed to back up the helm down there. What the fuck’s wrong with you? We’ve taken one up here. Corpsmen to the bridge. We have many casualties.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Yes, sir,” came from the frightened voices of a half-dozen men in the conning tower.
Williams was flat on his back at Brent’s feet, helmet askew, blood covering his forehead and streaking his shirt. The five-inch had been blown from its mount and hung precariously over the starboard side, held by only one deck bolt, swinging from side to side with the roll of the boat. Four of the crew had been blown over the side while the other two had been smashed against the bottom of the cigarette deck and back of the bridge like crushed insects. All four members of the two Orlikon crews were down and the guns wrecked. Brent could hear screams and keening sounds like those an animal makes when it is mortally injured. One of the lookouts on the shears had vanished while the other hung over the rail like a bloody mattress, blood streaming from a chest ripped down to his lungs. White ribs protruded like broken sticks. One of his legs had been blown off at the knee. Crog and his loader, Yeoman Yuiji Ichioka, were standing along with Willard-Smith, who leaned against the windscreen. All appeared dazed but unhurt. Both bridge lookouts and Humphrey Bowman crouched low in the corners of the bridge, staring at Brent with wide, frightened eyes.
“Back to your stations,” Brent roared, mustering all the command he could find in his voice. The two lookouts and the gunner’s mate came to their feet and returned to their watch with their binoculars to their eyes.
Owen’s voice: “There’s blood down here, sir. It’s coming through the vents.”
Brent knew one of the five-inch-gun crew must be hemorrhaging into the main induction valve. There was nothing he could do about it. Now the boat was actually bleeding.
“
Change in course?” Owen shouted up from his station at the TDC.
Looking around at the charnel house, Brent felt a familiar consuming heat flare like a volcano deep in his guts and spread through his veins like lava. Revenge! Vengeance! flared in his mind. Caution, fear, reason were all consumed by the primeval lust to kill. He was hungry for blood-the blood of those who had done this to his ship, his shipmates. He would kill them or be killed trying. “No change! We’re going to kill the son-of-a-bitch,” Brent roared. “Tracking party stay on the ball.”
Suddenly Hospital Corpsman Chisato Yasuda and two seaman strikers were on the bridge. Each had a kit slung over his shoulder. One of the strikers rushed aft to the cigarette deck while the other remained with Yasuda. “Clean up the main induction valve after you take care of the wounded,” Brent shouted after the man running aft.
Sturgis struggled to his feet and returned to the helm no more than dazed by the concussion. But Williams was unconscious. With the help of the men in the conning tower, the big bulk of the captain was lowered through the hatch, no longer a man Brent disliked so intently, but now a wounded ally.
There were more sharp fluting sounds like great insects passing close to their heads, and water rained down on the bridge, more shells roaring in close aboard. But the fire was slackening. Fite was turning toward Blackfin, drawing off the Arab’s fire and uncovering his entire broadside of five five-inch guns; one more than the Gearing. Now the enemy was in trouble, a five-inch shell hitting amidships and blowing a forty-millimeter quadruple-mount over the side. Two more hits started a fire amidships and a hole was blown in the forward funnel.
Brent took the OD station next to Sturgis. “You okay, Quartermaster?”
“Yes, sir. Four-oh,” the young petty officer said, gripping the wheel firmly. And then, as if to reassure his officer, “Course two-six-five, speed twenty.”
A man with chest and neck wounds and another with his left arm missing were lowered through the hatch by Yasuda, Crog, and Willard-Smith. “The rest are dead,” Yasuda said. Brent glanced over his shoulder at the horror hanging from the periscope shears. Blood was still streaming from the corpse in dribbles and gouts like strawberry jelly.
