For an appreciable period, during which Jim tensely waited, the depth gauges did not budge. He. turned to Keith, still sliding the computing arms on the face of the Banjo, and then back again to Tom-whose depth-gauge needles had not wavered from the forty-six-foot mark.
It had all taken only a dozen seconds or so, but Jim's temper, already strained to the flash point, steamed over.
"God-damit!" he shouted at Tom, "I said four-six and a half feet! When are you going to get there?"
Tom's neck settled imperceptibly into the open collar of his shirt, but he made no reply. In the next instant the gauges quivered and, by the barest perceptible movement, crept down to a point midway between the forty-six- and forty- seven-feet marks.
Jim's attention swung across the control room to Keith, now patiently recording on a piece of paper the answers he had picked off the curved lines on the face of the Banjo. "I haven't got all day," he snarled. "What's holding you up, Leone?"
Keith looked as if he had been struck, but his voice betrayed no emotion as he answered: "Firing bearings, four fish; three- four-three, three-four-four, three-four-four-a-half, three-four- five-a-half. Set gyros one-and-a-half right, one-half right, one- half left, and one-and-a-half left. Firing bearing for the exercise torpedo, zero gyro angle, three-four-five "Firing order normal order! Set depths twelve feet, speed high! Set gyros one-and-a-half right, one-half right, one-half left, one-and-a-half left!" Jim was all business again. As he gave the order he made a sign of negation to Quin, who functioned as telephone talker during battle stations.
"Torpedo room! Firing order, normal order," repeated Quin, making not the slightest move toward the telephone mouth- piece mounted on a breastplate attached around his neck.
"Set depths twelve feet. Set gyros one-and-a-half right, one- half right, one-half left, and one-and-a-half left."
A second later Quin spoke again: "Torpedo room has the word, sir! Gyros set! Depth set!" He still made no indication that he had transmitted or received one iota of information or instruction.
Jim now spoke again. "Set depth on the exercise torpedo thirty feet! Set torpedo gyro on zero!" There was a shade of greater urgency in his voice, and he pointed with emphasis at Quin.
This time Quin picked up the mouthpiece, pressed the button on its top, and spoke into it. "Torpedo room," he said, "set depth on the exercise fish thirty feet. Set gyro on zero."
The exercise torpedo was the real torpedo, the one on which depended Jim's qualification. In a moment the answer came back from the torpedo room; was relayed by the yeoman: "Torpedo ready, sir! Depth set thirty feet-gyro set on zero. Gyro spindles are still in, sir!"
"Stand by!" snapped Jim and, seconds later, "Up periscopes The scope whirred upward, broke surface. I could see the shaft of light from the eye-piece shining out and striking Jim on the face just as he got his eye fixed to it.
"It's a zig away!" he shouted. "Bearing-Mark!"
"Three-three-eight!"
"Range-Mark!"
"One-five-double-oh!"
"Down periscope!" As the periscope went down into its well, Jim spoke in violent tones of bitter disappointment. "The bastard has zigged away! Right at the firing point, the son-of- a-bitch has zigged away! The angle on the bow is ninety right now!" He raised his clenched fist above his head. "God-dammit!" he swore.
At this Keith broke in rapidly. "That's no zig, Jim! The angle on the bow should be ninety! He's right on the firing point! Put up the scope and shoot him… Look!" And Keith excitedly held out the Is-Was so that Jim could see its face.
"It's no good, I tell you! He's zigged away! We can't get him!"
"Dammit, the hell we can't! Take another look!" I was surprised at Keith's vehemence. With his right hand he pressed the pickle to raise the periscope again-unbidden-and with his left he pushed Jim toward it for another observation.
"Out gyro spindles!" shouted Keith, as the scope came up.
"Stand by!"
"Gyro spindles are out, sir!" Quin's answer came within a second.
"There he is, sir! Right there!" Keith had pushed the periscope around another few degrees, was intently looking at the azimuth ring and the periscope hairline mark against it.
Almost unwillingly, Jim permitted himself to be pushed into position for another look through the periscope. He grasped the handles, moved them slightly.
"Bearing-Mark!" he said, still unconvinced.
"Three-four-three, simulate fire ONE!" called Keith.
"Fire ONE," repeated Quin quietly. "ONE's fired. Standing by two!"
"What's the angle on the bow, now, Jim?" Keith had picked up the Banjo again, spoke insistently in a low but carrying tone.
"Starboard one hundred!" answered Jim, without taking his eyes from the rubber guard around the eye-piece.
"Okay!" said Keith laying down the Banjo. "Stay on him."
"I'm on him," growled Jim.
"Three-four-four! Simulate fire two!" Keith was back at the azimuth ring.
"Fire TWO! Two's away! from Quin.
"Stand by!"
Quin picked up his telephone microphone for the first time in minutes. "Stand by forward," he said. "Gyro spindle out?"
The answer seemed to satisfy him, for his report, rendered almost instantly, was simply, "Standing by forward, sir!"
Keith's eyes were riveted on the hairline on the forward edge of the periscope barrel, where it went through the azimuth ring. Only Jim could see the vertical cross hair in the periscope field of view, but the thin line etched on the barrel of the instrument indicated the direction he was looking. When that line matched the predetermined firing bearing for the torpedo-three-four-five in this instance, or fifteen degrees on our port bow-the torpedo would be fired. The moment was a tense one. A lot more than most of us realized depended on it; how much, only I could have told.
Jim had lost his temporary disappointment. He now carefully kept trained on the target, slowly rotating the periscope to keep up with it. With the slow precise movement of a watch, the two marks closed together. You could hear men breathing in the compartment. Keith's mouth hung partly open. His eyes elevated, right hand holding the pickle, he waited.
"Bearing, three-four-five! FIRE!" Keith let this one out with a bellow, as though he personally could shout the torpedo out the tube.
"FIRE!" shouted Quin into the telephone, a split second be- hind. There was a rumble from somewhere forward, and a hiss of air. S-16 quivered as her hull took up the jolt. In the immediate stillness I thought I could hear the whine of propellers starting.
All thought of continuing with the fictitious salvo was for- gotten as Jim watched the progress of his torpedo through the periscope- I wanted to crowd up to him, take a look myself- decided not to.
Jim suddenly spoke. "He's seen the torpedo. There goes the flag hoist."
The instructions for torpedo exercises called for the target to hoist a flag signal upon sighting a torpedo or its wake. This the Falcon had evidently done, thus signifying that she would assume the responsibility for retrieving our fish. The rules, however, did not permit Falcon to deviate from her course or otherwise attempt evasion until after the torpedo had crossed.
She would later report her best estimate of where it intersected her track. A perfect shot would be signaled as M. O. T., or Middle of Target.
Jim still stared fascinatedly through the periscope. "Looks good! Looks perfect! I'll hit him right in the M. O. T.! He's sunk, as sure as God made little green apples!"