by Peter Albano
Yasuda read his glance. “Should I send a man up after him?”
Brent shook his head. “Too dangerous. Later. Tend to the living.” The orderly and his two assistants vanished down the hatch. He turned to Willard-Smith. “We’ll need you more than ever, Captain. We’re shorthanded. I can’t take men from other battle stations or strip the damage control party.”
“I’m quite fit and ready for your orders.”
“Can you fire that fifty-caliber?” Brent gestured at the port Browning machine gun.
“Quite. We’re well acquainted, Mister Ross.”
“Very well. I may need you. Stand by.”
The Englishman ran a hand over the breech and patted the ammunition box. Gunner’s Mate Bowman lowered his binoculars and said, “Full load, sir. One hundred ten rounds.” Willard-Smith nodded and raised his binoculars.
Brent leaned against the windscreen and looked about quickly, analyzing the situation. The Arab was steaming across his bow from starboard to port at a high speed and almost directly south. He was burning, but both mounts were firing. Both of his quintuple mount torpedo tubes had been swung out. Fite was charging down on Blackfin starboard side, and if every captain held his course, DD-1 would pass astern of them while the Gearing crossed their bow. They would actually be caught between two destroyers trying to kill each other. His jaw tightened with his resolve. He”d hold course, take his chances, do anything to get a shot. The Arab would be distracted and his chances looked better.
He yelled in the speaker: “Torpedo surface. Tracking team stand by for first observation.” He glanced at a chart hanging from the windscreen and shouted into the speaker, “Height of mast one hundred twenty feet.” Then he stared into his binoculars. The Gearing was split in the middle, the left half above the right half. Thumbing the dial of the range finder, he brought the halves together, forming a coherent whole. He spoke into the speaker, “Bearing mark!”
Owen’s voice came back as he read the repeater, “Bearing zero-two-three.”
Brent read the range scale on the binoculars, “Range mark, eight-eight-double-zero,” he called out. He made an educated guess, the only alternative he had without radar. “Target course, one-five-five, angle on the bow port zero-four-two.” The target was on a southeasterly heading and forty-two-degrees from heading directly at Blackfin.
Owen repeated the data and then shouted “Set,” which meant the information had been fed into the TDC.
“Distance to track?” Brent said into the speaker, asking for the distance from the submarine to the target’s projected track.
“Five-one-zero-zero, sir,” Owen answered. “Suggest you change course to two-four-five. This will give us an approach angle of eighty-degrees starboard on the target. And I suggest you reduce speed.”
“Very well. Left to two-four-five,” Brent ordered. Sturgis put over the helm. Brent continued, “But negative on the speed change. We’d never get in a shot and we’d be too good a target ourselves.”
The data was terrible, and Brent knew they had little chance of hitting the enemy at this range unless the enemy captain changed course or slowed.
But the tide of battle was turning. There was an explosion near the stem and the Arab began to lose speed. All of his fire was now directed at the Fletcher, which was directly astern of the submarine. Hundreds of shells from both ships ripped and hissed through the atmosphere above and Brent felt he was in some invisible tunnel of death. But Blackfin continued to close on the target, almost ignored by the two combatants.
Brent took another observation and the distance to track was down to 4,710 yards. Still too far, and the Gearing’s speed made it almost an impossible target to hit. His course remained unchanged.
Fite took two hits astern and Number Five gun house fell silent, swinging idly with the roll of the ship. He began to slow. But the Arab was being punished cruelly. His forward mount took a direct hit, and one gun was blown over the side while the other pointed uselessly at the sky. At least four shells hit the superstructure, destroying the pilothouse and blowing the director into the sea. Two more hits on the bow and she began to list and her bows dipped low as she took water. Her speed dropped dramatically down to perhaps ten knots. Yet her aft mount was still firing, though without director control the rounds were poorly aimed. Brent relayed the new target speed into the speaker.
Owen answered, indicating the computer had absorbed the information, “Change made. Ready light.”
Brent exulted as he stared through the binoculars. He shouted another observation and this time the range was down to four thousand three hundred yards, distance to track three thousand two hundred. He wanted to close to twelve hundred yards, but the Arab could train his twin five-inch guns on Blackfin. At this range, even average gunners should be able to hit the submarine over open sights.
It was time to open outer doors. “All ahead one-third.”
“All ahead one-third.” The bells rang and the boat slowed. “Speed eight, one-six-oh revs, sir.”
“Set depths all six fish eight feet, speed forty-five. Fire at six-second intervals in normal order. Open outer doors,” Brent ordered.
The voice of Seaman Burt Nelson, the talker in the conning tower, came through the speaker: “Forward room reports all torpedo tube doors open. Tubes are flooded. Torpedoes are set for eight feet, speed forty-five.”
“Captain!” Signalman Todd Doran shouted. “Our can’s turning away.”
A glance aft uncoiled an icy snake in Brent’s chest. Fite was hurt and obviously out of control. His steering gear appeared to be damaged, and DD-One was swinging erratically. His shells began to spray the ocean around the Arab wildly instead of being tightly bunched. At that moment, the Gearing’s gun house swung toward Blackfin and the muzzles depressed. Now it was kill or be killed.
Brent shouted to the attack team: “My next observation will be a shooting observation. I’ll want a one-hundred-fifty-percent spread.” Brent knew with his enemy’s slow speed and broadside for a target, this spread would be most effective; one ahead, four at the hull, and one astern. With a little luck, he should get at least two hits. One should sink the damaged Gearing, which seemed unable to turn or increase speed. Her bridge had been destroyed, and she seemed out of control. She should turn. Compound Blackfin’s firing scheme. Most of her officers were probably dead, and she was plodding along as if her rudder was jammed in one position. But the five-inch shells began to drop around Blackfin. The fire was wild, rounds tearing over, falling short, others bracketing to both sides. There were some brave men in that lone gun house, and now they recognized the menace of the submarine’s torpedoes.
Brent stared into the binoculars, “Bearing mark!”
“Zero-one-zero,” Owen said.
Brent carefully adjusted the focusing knob. “Angle on the bow zero-eight-zero, range two-thousand-seven-hundred.” The destroyer’s full port side was his target and Blackfin was on a track perpendicular to the target. This was the ideal setup all submarine commanders work for and dream about.
Owen’s voice: “Torpedo run two-thousand-one-hundred — I have a solution light, Mister Ross.”
Brent almost shouted with joy, realizing a red F was glowing on the face of the TDC. Speed was of the essence because the target was crossing Blackfin’s bow from starboard to port and out of optimum firing position and his shells were sending up towers of green water all around.
“Fire one!” Brent shouted. He glanced at the big sweep hand of his wristwatch and then down the hatch at Ensign Frederick Hasse, the torpedo officer. Stiffly, the young officer reached up to the firing panel where six red lights glowed. He pulled the switch beneath the first window and pushed the round brass plate of the firing key with the palm of his hand. At the same time he started a stopwatch that he held in his other hand. It was his duty to start the watch when he heard the command “Fire” and to mark the dial and case with a pencil when he heard each torpedo explosion. In effect, he was the official timer and his data w
ould supply the exact range between the submarine and its target — if Blackfin’s torpedoes scored. In this way the entire attack plan and execution could be checked.
Blackfin jolted as if she had been struck by a whale, the huge compressed air blast driving the torpedo from the tube. Accelerating to forty-five knots, it swooshed away in a cloud of bubbles with a twenty-four-degree left gyro angle steering it on a collision course with the target.
“One fired electrically,” the talker, Seaman Burt Nelson, shouted.
“Torpedo run forty-eight seconds,” Owen said, staring at the TDC.
Hasse switched the selector switch to the Number 2 tube and waited for the six-second interval, staring at his stopwatch. He fired the second torpedo, jolting the submarine again. Then the last four torpedoes were fired and a steel-like tension filled the boat. Two shells exploded close aboard the starboard side, the submarine shuddering while shrapnel whined and ricocheted off the hull.
It was time to put distance between themselves and the enemy. “All ahead two-thirds. Left full rudder,” Brent said to Harold Sturgis. “Steady up on zero-three-zero.” He shouted the change in course and speed to the attack team. And then to Ensign Owen, “Have the aft torpedo room stand by all tubes.”
“Number Ten is out of commission.”
“Damn! That’s right!” Brent groaned, slapping the windscreen. He glanced at his watch and cursed. Number One had missed. A few seconds later, he agonized again. Number Two had missed.
Then a huge explosion amidships lifted the Gearing from the sea. Before she could settle and wallow in her spreading agony, another colossal blast in almost the same spot broke her keel, heaving her up in an inverted V. Either her torpedoes or a magazine exploded, flinging her aft mast, AA director, gun tubs, a stack, and dozens of men high into the sky on the tip of a giant yellow tongue of flame. Brent stared in awe as plates, deckhouses, and twisted wreckage weighing hundreds of tons were flung casually in a great circle like wood splinters in a gale, pockmarking the sea as they rained down in a half-mile radius.
Every man on Blackfin, from the battery-room crews to the bridge, cheered at the top of his lungs. Crog jumped up and down, pounding Brent’s back and nearly knocking the executive officer into the windscreen. Shouting, “Good show! Good show!” Colin Willard-Smith added his palm to Crog’s. Brent cheered and laughed and gripped Sturgis’s neck and shook the young quartermaster playfully. Brent saw the concussion coming, rippling across the sea like the breeze before a tsunami. “Brace yourselves!” he shouted.
The hot wind ripped past and the breeze waffled in Brent’s ear and then was gone. He turned to Sturgis. “Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third, steady up on the wreck.” Brent relayed the information to the attack team and ordered the aft torpedo room secured.
Slowly the submarine came about and Sturgis carefully steadied the bow on the center of the cataclysm. The destroyer was sinking in two distinct parts: just the very tips of her bow and stern projecting above the surface. Burning oil was spreading through the usual “dust on the sea” found after every catastrophe: planks and timbers; barrels; wooden furniture; casks; rafts, whole and in pieces; and men... always men. Swimming away from the burning oil frantically. Some had already lost the race and Brent could see them gulping in the flames, roasting their lungs, and trying to leap from the sea in their agony. Fortunately their screams could not be heard. A huge black pall of oily smoke began to stretch like a shroud overhead.
Brent felt a deep warmth spread like a hot hunger much like the anticipation he had known in Dale McIntyre’s bedroom. He stared at the destruction he had wrought and licked his lips. He felt giddy. Snickering, he murmured to himself, “Eat fire, you pricks.”
“Sir,” a lookout shouted. “Captain Fite’s astern of us at two-zero-zero.”
Brent threw a glance over his shoulder. He sighed with relief. DD-One was off their port quarter, gaining and obviously under control. The fires were out, and although the Number Five gun house was still smoking, no other damage was apparent except for a slight list to port and a blackened, burned area amidships between the stacks.
Now they were very close to the scene of the sinking. Survivors were everywhere. Some swimming, others clinging to wreckage and still others, more fortunate, sitting on large pieces of floating wreckage. One group of six had found a raft and were furiously paddling it away from the burning oil and toward the submarine.
“All ahead slow.” Brent said to Sturgis. Immediately, the rhythm of the big engines slackened and the submarine began to roll and wallow, her speed dropping to only four knots. “Do you have steerageway, helmsman?”
“Aye, sir. But a little sluggish.”
“Very well.” Brent said to Willard-Smith and Crog, “Stand by the fifties.”
Motionless, the two men looked at each other and then at Brent. “Stand by for what, old boy?” Willard-Smith asked, his voice uncharacteristically hard and suspicious.
Brent waved impatiently. “To open fire — to exterminate those vermin.”
For the first time, the Englishman’s face showed emotion. “I say, old man. That’s not sporting.”
Brent felt the blade of anger in his guts bum cold and sting sharp, and blood rushed to his face and pounded in his temples. Rage exploded from his lips. “I don’t give a shit what you think. I said stand by to open fire.” He turned to Sturgis. “All stop.”
“All stop, sir.” The rolling and pitching increased.
Willard-Smith drew himself up. His face was as implacable as stone. “Respectfully,” he said with no respect in his voice. “I refuse to be a part of bloody murder. Must I remind you, sir, I am not part of your command.”
Brent whirled on Crog, the last vestige of his control slipping. He stabbed a finger at the raft which had been paddled only a hundred yards from their starboard side. “Radioman Romero, open fire. Kill them,” he snarled.
Torn between the admiration and respect he felt for his officer and the repugnance of the order, Tony “Crog” Romero was in a turmoil. It was there on his face for all to see, his massive jaw working and his lips a pallid slash. “Under protest, sir,” he managed gutturally.
“Protest all you fuckin’ well like. I command you to open fire.”
Willard-Smith, Humphrey Bowman, and Crog’s loader, Yuiji Ichioka, stared at the big gunner. Signalman Todd Doran and the other lookout, Ben Hollister, gazed in shocked awe. Crog took a deep breath and spat his words out as if they were poisoned and he were purging his mouth. “I can’t be a party to murder. I refuse, Mister Ross.”
A silence as deep and icy as the hush at the polar cap gripped the bridge. Brent growled deep in his throat like a predator about to leap. A madness was on him; no fear, no doubts, not even conscious thought. Pushing Crog aside, he swung the machine gun down onto the raft. He could see them over the sights: six men staring at the submarine hopefully.
Raising up on his toes, he brought the muzzle down and centered the sights on the raft. Anticipating the roll of the submarine, he leveled the barrel and held it steady like a gyro. At a hundred-yards, it was almost impossible to miss even from the rolling platform. Just before he pressed the trigger, he felt a familiar hollow hunger in his guts, the almost sexual ache in his loins as if a naked woman were opening for him.
The machine gun leaped joyfully in his hands, the metallic link belt racing up from the magazine to be devoured by the breech. Splashes as tall as small saplings leaped from the sea, tracers, ball and AP rounds ripping the raft and tearing into the men. The great bullets pulverized flesh and smashed bone, tearing off limbs, ripping open torsos, and decapitating one man as he jumped over the side. The men leaped, whirled, and tumbled into the sea. Brent kept on firing short bursts at two heads that bobbed near the wreckage of the raft, not stopping until he had split them both open like shattered melons. A great red splotch began to spread.
“Bully for you, old boy,” Willard-Smith scoffed. “Good show. I’ll put you in for the Victoria Cross.�
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Filled with blood lust and growling like an animal, Brent whirled on the Englishman, fists balled. His heart was a trip-hammer and he could feel the pounding in his throat. “Sir!” Crog shouted, stepping forward. “You can’t...”
Signalman Todd Doran’s voice interrupted. “DD-One’s calling us, Mister Ross.” He leaped up onto the signaling platform and turned on the light.
“Give him a K (go-ahead,)” Brent said through rigid jaws. He glared at the Englishman, who returned his stare without giving quarter.
“Stand by to write, Hollister,” Doran said to the lookout. Hollister pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket.
Doran began to read the destroyer’s flashing light, opening his shutters for a short flash to acknowledge receipt for each group. “‘Well done. You saved my ass. I will escort you to Tokyo Bay. Greetings to Lieutenant Ross. Is he in good health’?”
Brent felt the heat of fury begin to drain away and control return as he pictured the big, burly Captain John “Slugger” Fite standing next to his signalman and dictating each word. He heard Doran roger the transmission and then the signalman turned expectantly to Brent Ross. Brent said, “Thank him and tell him Brent Ross is in good health but Admiral Allen is dead and we have many casualties and serious damage to the boat.” He rubbed his chin. “And tell him thanks for saving our ass and we will follow in his wake after...” He fixed Willard-Smith with cold eyes, “after we clean up the garbage in the water.”
While the light clattered, Brent returned to the front of the bridge. The submarine was wallowing and drifting to the south. “All ahead slow, steady on two-seven-zero,” he ordered so that his voice was heard in the speaker and by the helmsman at the same time. Sturgis acknowledged the command and rang up the order to the engine room on the annunciators. Slowly the boat picked up speed and turned her bow to the west. Immediately the roll and pitch slackened. Brent returned to the machine gun.
