“Bearing on the first tanker in line… Mark!”
“Three four two,” Brosmer said.
“Range…” Brannon cranked the range knob with his right hand. “Range is two thousand yards.” He swung the periscope around to his right. “The lead destroyer is way over on the other side.” He focused the periscope on the lead tanker. “Come on, you big, fat cow! Come on, baby!” He swung the periscope to the left. “Destroyer on the convoy’s starboard beam is well back. Range to that destroyer is… three five zero zero yards. Thirty-five hundred… Plot. What’s the time factor to close to one thousand yards?”
“One minute, sir.”
“We’ve got a constant shooting solution, sir.” Arbuckle’s voice was steady, calm.
Brannon watched the lead oil tanker loom larger and larger in the attack periscope’s lens. Farther back — he estimated about 750 yards — the second tanker was following in the first tanker’s wake
“Twenty seconds, sir,” Arbuckle said. “Shooting problem is go, sir.”
“I’m going to shoot two at the first tanker and then we’ll set up and try for two more at the second and two at the third… stand by…”
“Fire one!” Brannon felt the jolt in his legs and feet as the first torpedo hurtled out of its tube. He counted down from six to one.
“Fire two!” Brannon swung the periscope to his left. “Number one and two torpedoes running hot, straight and normal, sir,” Blake reported from his sonar station.
“Mark!” Brannon snapped.
“Three four six,” Brosmer said.
“Range to the second target is eleven hundred yards.” Brannon’s voice was quiet.
“We’ve got a solution to shoot,” Arbuckle said. A muffled boom shook the Eelfish.
“That was a hit!” Olsen said from the Control Room. “It timed out for a hit, sir.”
“Fire three!” Brannon barked. He counted down.
“Fire four!”
“Both torpedoes running hot, straight and normal, sir,” Blake reported, his young voice loud in the Conning Tower. Brannon swung the periscope to the right and saw the first tanker listing to starboard but still underway. He swung the periscope back to the left and saw a sudden gout of spray shoot up near the bow of the second tanker. Then he saw a huge orange flame back near the tanker’s stern that swelled and burst into a tremendous explosion.
“Hit!” he yelled. “Hit on the second target!”
“I’ve got fast screws bearing two six zero, sir!” Blake said suddenly. Brannon swiveled the periscope around and saw the destroyer that had been farther back on the convoy’s starboard beam racing toward him. He swung the periscope to the right. The first target, still listing, was underway but with no sign of smoke or fire. Brannon saw the white bow wave of a destroyer cutting across the listing tanker’s bow.
“Right full rudder,” he snapped. He swung the periscope back and forth, looking first at one destroyer and then the other.
“Down periscope!” he snapped. “Take me down! Four hundred feet! Fast, damn it, fast!” He grabbed at the bridge ladder for support as the deck tilted sharply beneath his feet as Eelfish burrowed deeper into the sea.
“Fast screws bearing two six one. More fast screws bearing three five four,” Blake reported. He was shifting on his stool, gathering his legs beneath him, his face dripping perspiration as he tried to sort out the welter of sounds in his mufflike earphones.
“Passing two hundred fifty feet, down angle fifteen degrees,” Jerry Gold said.
“Very well,” Brannon replied. “Rig for silent running. Rig for depth charge.”
The destroyer screws could be heard now, drumming through the submarine’s hull in a high, thin sound that seemed to set everything in the submarine vibrating. The sound got louder and then one ship passed almost directly overhead, the Eelfish shaking in the volume of sound.
“Rudder amidships,” Brannon ordered. He looked up as a high, sharp, cracking sound penetrated the Eelfish, the sound of a depth-charge exploder mechanism going off, and then the depth-charge explosion shook Eelfish savagely. Another sharp crack and then two more pierced through the tremendous noise of the first depth charge, and the world of the Eelfish crew became a nightmare of explosions that twisted and racked the submarine’s thin hull, twisted the ship in the vortex of underwater explosions, knocking loose everything that wasn’t screwed or bolted down. Cork insulation rained from the overhead and light bulbs and gauge glasses shattered. Shards of glass were scattered over everything.
“More fast screws, sir, I can’t tell you a bearing, too much noise!” Blake’s face, powdered with flecks of pale green paint from the cork insulation, was agonized as he tried to get a bearing on the destroyer above. He winced as the sharp crack of a depth-charge exploder mechanism sounded in his earphones, and then the Eelfish was caught again in a roaring, smashing, series of depth-charge explosions.
“Left full rudder, five hundred feet,” Brannon said. He looked upward as the drumming sound of a destroyer’s propellers filled the interior of the Conning Tower with sound. Eelfish staggered through the explosions of the sinking depth charges that twisted the long, slim length of the ship, straining the rivets and welds that bonded the thin skin of the ship to its frames, throwing men off their feet:
“Damage reports,” Brannon ordered. Olsen spoke quietly into the sound-powered telephone set that hung around his neck. He turned his face upward to the Conning Tower hatch.
“Some small leaks, sir. Nothing serious. Most of the lights are broken, using battle lanterns in all compartments. Some bruises, one bloody nose. No broken bones, sir.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. He dropped through the hatch to the Control Room and looked at the plot.
“Didn’t get a chance to shoot at the third tanker,” he said calmly. “Didn’t dare take long enough to shoot at the two destroyers. They were coming at us from two different angles.” He looked up as Blake’s voice came down the hatch.
“Two sets of twin screws aft, sir, one bearing one seven five, one bearing one six zero, sir. Both coming this way.” In the Control Room Brannon could hear the sound of the screws building to a thunder. He looked at his wrist watch.
“Right full rudder, all ahead two thirds,” he said.
The destroyers attacked as a team, depth charges rolling from their squat sterns, their Y-guns hurling the clumsy charges far out to each side. The Eelfish staggered under the attack.
“They might not stick around too long,” Olsen said in a low voice. “You blasted that second tanker. You hit the first one, I timed that one for a hit. The tankers are more important than we are to them. They might leave in a while.”
Brannon nodded and reached for a towel that Pete Mahaffey had hung from the fathometer. He mopped his dripping face and looked at the thermometer hanging near him. It read just over 105 degrees. The humidity reading on the dial just below it stood at 98 percent. He handed the towel to Olsen, who rubbed it over his face and neck.
“Here they come again!” Blake called down. “First ship bears three four five. Second ship bears three five eight, sir. Both coming fast!”
Once again the thunder of the destroyers’ screws filled the Eelfish hull. Brannon looked briefly at the plot. “Right full rudder,” he said. The helmsman strained at the big brass wheel, pulling it around by brute force.