“Here he comes, sir!” Cohen said suddenly. “Three ships, all on an attack run! All three coming at once!”
The telephone talkers in each compartment relayed Cohen’s words and those men who had got out of bunks to drink their coffee climbed back in, gripping the side rails of the bunks with both hands. Ginty braced himself between the torpedo tubes and stared at Dusty Rhodes, who was standing in the center of the Torpedo Room, his hands holding on to a torpedo skid.
The sound of the destroyer’s screws began to echo through Mako’s hull and then the three ships passed overhead, the thunder of their screws reverberating throughout the submarine’s hull.
“Brace yourselves!” Rhodes said in a low voice.
The thunderous explosions of more than thirty depth charges going off in a rolling attack shook Mako heavily. In the Control Room Sirocco saw the ladder that led to the Conning Tower bulge outward as Mako’s hull squeezed inward under the shock of the heavy explosions.
“Damage reports!” Captain Mealey snapped and Sirocco spoke softly into his telephone. Then he held up his thumb and forefinger, making a small circle with the fingers.
“Nothing serious, Captain. Some minor leaks, some bruises and bumps. No bones broken. Chief Barber reports that the welds around the exhaust lines have shattered and he’s taking some water in the engine rooms but nothing serious.”
“Very well,” Mealey said.
The next attack came with the three enemy destroyers running in a line. Mako reeled under the depth charges of the first ship and then bucked and staggered as the next two ships rained down depth charges. There was no longer any cork insulation to shatter and fall down. Those few lights that had survived the previous attacks were now shattered. Mako’s crew went about the job of checking for leaks and damage in the dim lights of the emergency battle lanterns. The lack of bright lights added an eerie atmosphere to the fetid smell of fear that pervaded the Mako’s hull.
The attacks came without pause as the hours wore on. Time after time Cohen reported that one or two or all three destroyers were moving to the attack. Time after time Mako’s crew shivered under the crashing thunder of the explosions. At mid-afternoon there was a sudden halt in the attacks and the mess cooks hurried to each compartment with fresh coffee and the last of the doughnuts.
“What do you think they’re doing up there?” Sirocco asked.
“They’re probably emptying out their depth charges lockers for some more attacks,” Mealey grunted. He wiped his dripping face with a towel he had hung around his neck.
The atmosphere in Mako was now oppressive. The air conditioning and all ventilation had been shut down since the attack on the battleship. The temperature stood at 110 degrees with 100 percent humidity. The long hours submerged, the heavy work of reloading torpedoes with men straining and hauling and using huge quantities of oxygen had depleted the oxygen level of the air to the point where a match that was struck would fizzle and then go out.
Mako crept through the sea at two knots, depth 700 feet. Just past 1500 hours, three in the afternoon in land time, Cohen raised his dripping face.
“Screws bearing zero one five and three five zero, sir. Single screw ships, sir.” His eyes widened suddenly.
“They’re dropping charges out ahead of us! They’re quite a way out in front and they’re depth charging!”
The distant thunder of the depth charges could be heard in Mako. Captain Mealey looked down at the chart.
“Single screw ships,” he said to Sirocco. “Those are the rest of the escort, the ships Cohen lost earlier today. What the hell are they doing dropping charges way out ahead?” He rocked back on his heels, his face grim.
“Is that son of a bitch up there trying to fence me in? Is he trying to make me turn? I’ll bet that’s what he’s up to! The bastard!” He turned to Cohen.
“Give me bearings on the ships that have been attacking us, Nate. If you can, give me an estimated range.”
Cohen nodded his head. His deep-sunk eyes stared at the Control Room, not seeing the sweating, straining men on the bow and stern planes, not seeing Lieut. Pete Simms clinging to the Conning Tower ladder, gasping for air. Cohen’s whole being was concentrated on the welter of sounds in his earphones.
“The ship that has been pinging on us and is still pinging bears one seven zero, sir. There are three others up there, all bearing from one seven zero or two one zero sir, moving slowly. I don’t know about range, I don’t know how good my ears are after all this noise but from the decibel level I’d say under two thousand yards, sir.” He stopped, listening.
“Here they come, sir!”
The three destroyers moved to the attack once more, running just fast enough to get away from the depth charges rolling off their sterns. Mako shook and shuddered under the impact of the roaring explosions, its hull twisting in the torque of the explosive force of the depth charges. Ginty, braced solidly between the torpedo tubes in the Forward Room, watched a stream of sweat running down his chest fly off in a spray of drops as the depth charges shook the ship.
“How about that?” he said. “That son of a bitch is gonna save me using my sweat rag!”
The attacking now was continual. One ship would make a run and then wheel out to one side as its sailors wrestled depth charges into position for the next run as the ship fell in behind the other attacking ships moving to the attack. The thunder of the explosions was continual, Mako’s only respite coming when the searching destroyer’s sonar was unable to find Mako in the explosive-wracked water. With the first “ping!” of re-established contact the attack would begin again.
Captain Mealey was braced, legs spread, hands gripping the edges of the gyro table, his eyes studying the plot sheet. A steady drip of perspiration fell from his chin into a crumpled towel Sirocco had placed on the gyro table. Periodically, Aaron would change the smoked card in the bathythermograph. As he did so Mealey’s eyes would look at the stylus as it traced its even curve. Then, seeing no evidence of a salt layer, Mealey’s head would drop down and his eyes would return to the plot.
At 1700 hours, three full hours from dark, Captain Mealey raised his head.
“I think I’ve had enough of this!” he said coldly. “By now he expects us to be the patsy, to take everything he hands out without hitting back! Well, I’m going to hit back!” He clutched the gyro table as a half-dozen depth charges shook Mako, the ship’s steel hull creaking and groaning in the turmoil.
“Right after those bastards make the next run I’m going up to periscope depth and get one of them! Give me the phone!”
“Now hear this, you telephone talkers. This is the Captain speaking.
“We’ve been taking it on the chin long enough! In three hours it will be dark. In three hours we might not have any battery left. So right after this next attack we’re going up to periscope depth and we’re going to sink one of those bastards who’ve been hitting us! And then we’ll come back down to this depth and continue our escape. I want all hands alert! We’ll open outer tube doors at one hundred feet! Everyone sharpen up!” He stopped as Cohen turned his head toward him.
“Here they come again, sir, all of them!”
“Here they come!” Mealey said into the telephone. “And then we’ll send one of them to hell!”
The attack was a murderous barrage of depth charges that tossed Mako from one side to the other. As the explosions roared through the ship Mealey grabbed the Conning Tower ladder.