“Radar. Are you sure there’s a small ship abeam to starboard in the convoy? I can’t see him at all. Take a look through the periscope to verify.”
Brannon heard the search periscope sliding upward above him and then the voice of Lieutenant Perry Arbuckle, the Assistant Engineering Officer who manned the Torpedo Data Computer in the Conning Tower, said, “Bridge, confirm a small ship close aboard the second ship in the line. He’s very close to that ship, sir.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. “Plot, give me a time at this speed when we will be abeam of that last ship in the convoy.”
“Twelve minutes, sir. One two minutes.”
“Plot a course to the enemy track, John,” Brannon said, “then turn the plot over to Mr. Lee and come up here. I need you up here for this action.”
Olsen climbed out of the hatch, his lean face beaming. “We’ve got a lot of ships out there, Skipper. All of them waltzing down the garden path just as nice as can be. How are we going to hit them?”
“I’m going to fall in behind the convoy,” Brannon said.
“I’ll give Plot time to give me a shooting setup on that Tail End Charlie back there, the last ship in the convoy. He might be an escort, and I want to get rid of him before anything else. Then I’ll set up to take the ship that will be on our port side as we go in, the second line of ships.”
“Gun crews are standing by, sir,” Olsen said.
“Good. If the convoy breaks up and scatters, as I think it will, we can add to their confusion by opening fire with the deck guns. They might discourage the escorts from getting nasty while we’re working in the middle of the convoy. Pass the word below to break out extra ammunition for the deck guns and have the ammunition party standing by to pass it topside if we call for it. This thing could get a little hairy, John, just a little bit hairy before we get through.”
“Could get a little hairy?” Olsen said to himself as he went forward to the hatch to pass the word about the ammunition party. “By my late Swedish father’s ass it could get hairy!”
“Last ship in the convoy will be abeam to starboard in ten minutes, Bridge,” Lee said from down below. “Suggest we come right to course zero nine five and make turns for flank speed, sir, twenty knots. When we reach a point astern of the convoy, sir, that will be in five minutes and twenty seconds, we can come right to course one eight zero. At that time the last ship in the convoy will be two two zero zero, repeat twenty-two hundred yards dead ahead of our position.”
“Execute the course and speed changes at the proper time,” Brannon said. He waited, feeling the vibration in the deck under his feet as the Eelfish picked up speed and began to turn to starboard, heeling sharply. A bow wave curled over the starboard side of the bow and splashed the gun sponson. Brannon felt a sudden alarm. If a Japanese lookout on one of the ships out there saw the bow wave there would be hell to pay. He gritted his teeth, watching for a searchlight signal, a star shell from the convoy, a sign that Eelfish had been seen. The convoy plodded southward without a change of course or speed, and Brannon let his breath go out in a long sigh. He bent to the bridge transmitter.
“Mr. Lee!” Brannon’s voice was sharp. “You will execute speed changes after a change of course. Repeat, execute speed changes after a change of course. We made a big bow wave and there’s some moon and starshine up here. You were given the order to change course and speed. You will do it in the future in that manner.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Lee’s voice was subdued. Eelfish rushed through the night toward the convoy’s wake. Down below in the ship the telephone talkers relayed the conversation to the people at battle stations.
“Old Man’s getting cranky,” a reload man in the After Torpedo Room said with a grin. “Chewin’ that feather merchant’s ass out in public.”
“He’s got a right to do that,” Fred Nelson said. He glared at the torpedomen and the reload crew under his charge, his fierce eyes staring from either side of a big, hooked nose.
“Old Man’s fighting this ship. You do what he says you do. You do it right, first time. Without being told to do it right. That’s what bein’ a submarine man is all about. You do things right the first time without being told how to do it.” He turned as the telephone talker raised a hand.
“Lee is asking for permission to execute a right turn and to open the outer doors in the Forward Room before he goes to flank speed,” the talker said.
“Fucker’s gettin’ smart,” Nelson grunted. “He’s the Gunnery Officer. He should know you can’t open them outer doors on the tubes in the Forward Room you goin’ faster’n ten knots. Not without gettin’ a hernia.”
“Old Man gave him an ‘execute.’ Here we go: Open doors on tubes in the After Room!”
“What doors, fuckhead?” Nelson snarled. He grabbed a Y-wrench and fitted it in place on the stud that opened the torpedo tube outer doors.
“Outer doors,” the telephone talker said.
“Do your fuckin’ job right, first time,” Nelson snapped.
“All torpedo tube outer doors open, Bridge,” Lee reported. “Steady on course one eight zero, making turns for flank speed.”
“Very well,” Brannon answered. “Give me a shooting setup on this Tail End Charlie at the after end of the convoy. He sure as hell isn’t an escort, he’s a small island freighter.
“I want to take him as we go by him at eight hundred yards if that’s okay without any big course changes.
“Keep that problem running and then give me a shooting set-up on the bigger ship that will be to our port as we come up on the second line of ships in the convoy. I’ll take Tail End Charlie as we go into the convoy, and then I’ll take the bigger ship on our port hand and after that it will be Beulah bar the door!” He drew a deep breath.
“Now hear this,” he said into the bridge transmitter. “This is the Captain. We’ve maneuvered into position astern of a convoy of five ships and at least three escorts. We’re going to run the Eelfish right up under their skirts from the rear and give them a goosing like they never had before!” He straightened up and looked at John Olsen.
“John, I want you on the TBT on the cigaret deck. You use the fish in the After Room. Shoot if you see a good target. Keep me informed. Save at least two fish in case those escorts try to run up our backsides.” Olsen nodded and ran back to the Target Bearing Transmitter, a pair of night binoculars mounted on a pelorus that transmitted the relative bearings of a target to the Conning Tower.
In the Forward Torpedo Room Steve Petreshock slapped his hand against the warhead of a reload torpedo, his face exultant.
“Hear that?” he said to the torpedomen and the reload crew. “Hear that? The Old Man’s gonna go right up their ass on the surface. He’s got the gun crews standing by in the Control Room. He’s gonna raise hell!”
“I heard what he said,” one of the reload crew said. “I heard him say there’s at least three escorts up there. Three of them Jap destroyers can make us mighty sick. Ship’s cook told me there’s only a hundred and eighty feet of water in this fuckin’ place. That ain’t enough water.”
“Knock off the shit,” Petreshock snapped. “You engine room snipes ain’t good for anything but cleaning the bilges and being in the reload crew because all you’ve got goin’ for you is a strong back. This Old Man knows what he’s doin’. He’s a fightin’ son of a bitch!”
In the Control Room Bob Lee looked down at the neat plot John Olsen had drawn of the maneuvering of the Eelfish and his own additions to the plot. It all looked so, well, school-bookish, he thought. Like a problem out of a book about how to solve the problem of firing torpedoes at an enemy. All neat and easy. Elementary. He looked at the Chief of the Boat, Chief Torpedoman Joseph “Monk” Flanagan, who was lounging against the ladder to the Conning Tower, his eyes hidden behind the dark-red night-vision adaptation goggles. Flanagan’s jaws moved constantly as he chewed on a large wad of gum. Lee bent over the plotting board as Rafferty and Jim Michaels began to feed Arbuckle and Lee
a stream of data. He heard Arbuckle’s voice in the Conning Tower.
“Bridge, you’ve got a solution on the first target. Range to the target is eight five zero yards, repeat eight hundred and fifty yards.”
“Stand by forward,” Brannon said. “Stand by ... don’t get me off course, damn it! Stand by ...
“Fire one!” Brannon yelled. He felt the jolt in his feet and legs as the 3,000-pound torpedo hurtled out of the torpedo tube, driven by a giant fist of compressed air and water, its steam turbines screaming into life as the torpedo passed down the tube. He counted down from six to one.
“Fire two!”
“Give me more speed, damn it! Give me a solution on that second target.” He heard Olsen’s voice from the cigaret deck before he heard the crumping boom of a torpedo exploding against a ship.
“Hit!” Olsen yelled. “You got a hit on the first target! Second fish missed ahead.”
“Give me a setup on the second target, damn it!” Brannon yelled.
“You can shoot, Bridge.” Arbuckle’s voice was high with excitement. “You can shoot!”
“Fire three!” Brannon yelled. He counted down to one.
“Fire four!” He spun and looked to starboard. “Target to starboard in the second row is turning away to starboard,” Brannon yelled into the bridge transmitter. “Give me a setup on that target!”
“Escort coming in from starboard, bearing one one zero!” The starboard lookout’s voice was a high scream.
“Hit!” Brannon yelled. “Hit on the second target!” He stared for a few seconds at the orange blossom of flame at the second target’s starboard bow.
“Battle stations surface!” Brannon yelled. He jumped to one side as Chief Flanagan literally seemed to bounce upward out of the hatch, and then he disappeared over the side of the bridge rail. He heard the Chief of the Boat’s voice cursing as he wrestled open the ammunition lockers in the Conning Tower fairing as the gun crews poured upward out of the hatch and went over the rail.
“Deck guns standing by and ready,” Flanagan’s voice was a bull-like roar from the deck.
“Collision!” the starboard lookout screamed. Brannon jumped in panic.
“Collision between that big ship on this side and the escort that was comin’ in,” the lookout yelled. Brannon whirled and saw the two ships locked together, the larger ship’s bow buried deeply in the small escort vessel.
“Olsen!” Brannon shouted. “Shoot at those two ships!”
“Escort comin’ in from the port side, bearing zero two zero, Bridge!” the port lookout was yelling loudly. “Son of a bitch is shootin’, Bridge!”
“Forward gun!” Brannon shouted over the bridge rail. “Take that escort under fire! Adjust fire by shell splashes!”
The deck gun boomed, and Brannon saw a column of water rise on the port side of the onrushing escort vessel. The gun roared again and a second column of water soared upward in the moonlight, close to the escort’s bow. The escort began to turn to its starboard and Brannon heard John LaMark, the Gunner’s Mate on the 1.1 quad pom-pom, yelling from the cigaret deck.
“I can hit that bastard, Bridge!”
“Commence firing, pom-pom!” Brannon yelled. He watched as the deadly “Chicago Piano” began to spit its stream of high explosive shells toward the escort vessel. As he turned away to look around he heard LaMark’s high-pitched yell: “Gotcha, you bastard!”
“Hit!” Olsen was yelling from the cigaret deck above the steady roar of the pom-pom. “Hit, dead center!”
“Plot,” Brannon yelled into the Bridge transmitter, “give me a setup on the ships up ahead, damn it!”
“We’ve lost contact, Bridge,” Jim Michaels called out. “Last time we had a contact with them they were going in all directions, sir!”
Brannon heard Flanagan’s yell from the forward deck and turned and saw the escort vessel, its bridge a burning wreck, reeling under the combined assault of the 5.25-inch deck gun and the pom-pom. He saw a sudden explosion in the escort’s hull and the ship began to roll over.
“Cease firing!” Brannon shouted. “Radar, give me a picture of what we’ve got. Olsen, what in the hell is going on back aft?”
“The target that collided with the escort is sinking, sir.” Olsen’s voice was cracking with excitement. “The escort he hit broke up and went down. The first target you shot at, back aft, has rolled over, bottom side up. Second target is down by the bow but still underway.”
“Plot,” Brannon snapped into the transmitter. “Give me a course and bring me in to six hundred yards on that second target. We’ll take him with gunfire.”
“Come right to zero zero five, Bridge,” Lee answered.
“Execute course change,” Brannon ordered. He waited as the Eelfish heeled around in a sharp turn and steadied, running toward the second target.
“Radar range to the second target is six zero zero, repeat six hundred yards, Bridge,” Lee said.
“Both deck guns, set range six hundred yards,” Brannon called out. “Commence firing!”
He flinched as the two 5.25-inch deck guns roared in unison and then settled down to a steady barrage of fire. He saw the flashes of the hits in the ship’s bridge and superstructure and then a steady series of explosions as the gunners lowered their sights and began to pound at the ship’s hull. A great gush of steam and fire exploded out of the target’s midships section, and the ship seemed to rear slightly, like a wounded animal. Then it broke in two and the bow and stern began to drift apart.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Brannon yelled. “Plot, give me some information, damn it!”
“Ships up ahead have all disappeared from the radar scope, Bridge. We can come left to course one eight five, Bridge. That will take us toward where the rest of the convoy was when we started the action.”
“Close torpedo tube outer doors,” Brannon said. “Secure the Battle Surface party. Make the course change and give me turns for flank speed as soon as the torpedo tube doors are closed.” He went to the port side of the bridge as the deck gun crews poured into the bridge and went below. When the last of the gunners had gone below Brannon bent to the bridge transmitter.
“We’ll stay on this course until we see the other targets or we’re sure they got away,” he said. “Give me a constant radar sweep until further orders.” He straightened up and looked at the luminous dial of his wrist watch, blinked his eyes and looked again. He had opened fire on the Tail End Charlie at 0130. The minute hand on his watch was creeping toward four minutes after two. Thirty-four minutes? He shook his head. It had seemed more like thirty-four hours. He felt a hand touch his arm and turned and saw Olsen.
“I got a hit, Skipper! First torpedo I ever fired at an enemy ship and I hit him right in the midships section. That ship that was all tangled up with the escort!” His face suddenly sobered. “I missed with the second fish but I hit him good with the first one, blew him apart!”
“You had a sitting duck,” Brannon scoffed. Then he reached out and found Olsen’s right hand and pumped it with his own.
“I’m kidding, John! You did a damned fine job. You covered our stern and kept me informed.” He paused. “I wonder where in the hell those other ships went? There were two of them in that front line of ships and one escort.”
“We plotted them at ten knots,” Olsen said slowly. “I guess they could make fifteen, anyway. They were a good what, twenty-five hundred yards ahead of Tail End Charlie when you started shooting. How long were we engaged?”
“Thirty-four minutes,” Brannon answered. Olsen nodded and did the mathematics in his head.
“They could have gotten about fourteen, fifteen thousand yards out ahead of us plus the distance we lost when we turned and went back to take that one freighter with the deck guns. Jim Michaels said that we picked them up at fifteen thousand yards because there were several of them together. If they scattered and were that far out in front we might not be able to make a radar contact.”
Brannon nodded and
turned to stare at the dim horizon aft of the Eelfish. “I’ve got a hunch that we’ll have company, John. The Japanese have aircraft at Tacloban, and there’s enough moon and starshine to help them if they come out to search for us. Go below and get our position nailed down and put me on a course back to the patrol area. Pass the word to stand easy on Battle Stations. Galley can serve coffee. Smoking lamp is lighted. I’ll keep the deck watch until we secure from General Quarters. Send the regular lookouts up as soon as they’re adapted to night vision.” Olsen dropped down the hatch. The regular lookouts came up to the bridge a half hour later and as the Battle Stations Surface lookouts went below Brannon patted each man on the back and murmured a “well done.”
“Contact! Aircraft bearing one six zero, Bridge!”
“Clear the bridge!” Brannon yelled. He waited until the last lookout had dropped down the hatch and then he punched the diving alarm with the heel of his hand and punched it once more. He went down the hatch, pulling the hatch cover closed behind him, and the Eelfish slid quietly under the sea.
CHAPTER 2
Edward “Doc” Wharton, the ship’s Chief Pharmacist’s Mate and the only medical man aboard the Eelfish, was loading a syringe in the Crew’s Mess. His patient, the second loader on the forward deck gun, was seated at a mess table. One man on each side of the second loader held him as he fought for breath in tortured gasps. Wharton slid the needle gently into the flesh of the man’s muscular shoulder and pressed the plunger home as Chief Flanagan walked into the compartment.
“What’s wrong with him?” Flanagan asked.
“He’s hyperventilating, Chief,” Wharton said. “He’s breathing so fast his lungs can’t get any oxygen, and that makes him black out. Excitement, that’s all. I’ve given him a weak shot of morphine, enough to knock him out for a little while so his breathing will slow down. He’ll be okay. We have to watch him until he comes back to normal, but he’s okay.”
Silent Sea (The Silent War Book 2) Page 3