“Right ten degrees rudder,” Mealey ordered. He saw a sudden blossom of flame near the second target’s bow and heard the roar of the explosion. Another burst of flame in the midships section of the target lit up the sky.
“Two hits in the second target!” Mealey yelled. “Reverse your helm! Steady on this heading. All ahead flank! Maneuvering, give me every turn you can.”
He stood in the small bridge space, his hands gripping the teak rail, his seaman’s eyes judging the speed of the escort that was swinging into a wide turn around the bow of the sinking ship he had hit in the second attack. He looked at his second target. He could see hundreds of men leaping from the decks into the water. “Troop transport,” he said to himself. He raised his voice.
“Brannon! Set up on that escort when he’s broadside, before he makes his turn to come down on us. Conning Tower, give Captain Brannon some help!”
Eelfish raced down the side of the sinking troop transport as the escort vessel swung wide of the bow of the troop transport. Mealey heard Brannon’s voice giving the Conning Tower the angle on the bow of the destroyer, heard him yell,
“Fire eight!
“Fire nine! Begin reload aft!”
Mealey forced himself to look away from the action astern. He searched the dark sea ahead of him, looking for his next target. Behind him he heard the familiar sound of a torpedo exploding against a ship and heard Brannon’s exultant cry.
“Hit! The destroyer is down by the bow! He’s sinking!”
In the Forward Torpedo Room the incredibly intricate choreography of a reload had begun as soon as the first torpedo had been fired at the aircraft carrier. Petreshock whirled the big Y-wrench that was used to open and close the outer torpedo tube door and shutter in a spinning arc as he closed the outer door to Number One tube. As the door slammed shut he tossed the wrench to a member of the reload crew, who put it in an upper bunk. Petreshock opened the drain valves for the tube and twisted an air valve to put pressure into the tube to blow the water in the tube down into the WRT, the Water ‘Round Torpedo tank. He counted to himself, listening with one ear to the flow of orders the telephone talker was hearing and repeating aloud. He closed the air valve and vented off the pressure in the tube, and a reload member gave him a wrench. He slammed the wrench on the stud that turned the locking bayonet joint on the inner door and heaved on the wrench. The door came open with a jolt and a stream of water poured out into the room. Petreshock struggled through the water pouring out of the tube and ducked down as the reload crew, hauling mightily on a block and tackle, began to move the reload torpedo into the tube. As he crouched below the moving torpedo Petreshock opened an air valve to recharge the impulse firing tank for the tube. He raised a hand as the tail of the torpedo cleared the forward end of the roller stand. The reload crew stopped hauling and Petreshock threw off the block and tackle and began to push the torpedo the final few inches into the tube, easing it in until he felt the guide stud on top of the torpedo come up against the stop bolt in the tube. He yanked the brass propeller guard off the torpedo’s screws and tossed it up into a bunk, then closed the door and carefully adjusted the tail buffer to make sure the torpedo was held firmly in the tube. He opened the tube vent, stooped and closed the air valve to the impulse tanks, and began to open the outer tube door. In between the tube banks Jim Rice carefully engaged the gyro spindle, engaged the depth spindle and set the depth at four feet, and disengaged the depth spindle.
“Report Number One tube reloaded, depth set four feet. Gyro spindle engaged. Outer door open.” He ducked back between the tubes to avoid being hit by the Y-wrench Petreshock was spinning as he closed the outer door to the Number Two tube.
“Right ten degrees rudder,” Mealey roared. Eelfish was twisting and turning in the midst of the task force. Ahead of him Mealey could see the dark bulk of ships moving in different directions. From one of the ships rockets were being fired to explode far overhead, bathing the ocean in an eerie red light.
“Reload completed on Number Two tube. You have Number One and Two tubes forward ready to shoot.” Flanagan’s voice over the bridge speaker was calm.
“Next target bears zero eight zero. Meet your helm right there,” Mealey yelled. He looked around swiftly. Astern he could see the bulk of the first target, lit now by a roaring column of flame that seemed to reach hundreds of feet into the air. On his port quarter the second target was down by the bow, sinking, its whistle bellowing hoarsely to indicate the ship’s plight. The destroyer Mike Brannon had hit was gone, nowhere in sight.
“I’ve got three fast ships coming at us from ahead, four from our starboard bow,” Michaels’s voice came over the speaker.
“Reload on Three and Four completed, Bridge. Reload on Seven and Eight completed.” Flanagan reported.
“Very well,” Mealey said. Ahead of him to starboard he saw the long outline of an oil tanker.
“Come right five degrees, Helm,” he yelled. “Next target is the ship bearing dead ahead and moving to our starboard bow.”
“Bearing is zero zero nine,” Olsen yelled from the battle periscope. “Range is nine hundred yards.”
“Angle on the bow is one one zero starboard,” Mealey called out.
“Solution!” Arbuckle yelled.
“Fire three!
“Fire four!” Mealey looked around quickly. He could see the closest of the four ships Michaels had reported coming at the Eelfish, a destroyer, its bow wave curling high and white in the moonlight. He turned and looked astern. In the light from the burning aircraft carrier he could see three ships coming at him, all destroyers. He turned back and saw a huge explosion of flame in the tanker.
“Hit!” he screamed. “Ten degrees right rudder. Pour on all the coal we’ve got, Maneuvering!
“Michaels. Call up Maulers One and Two. Invite them to the dance at all possible speed.” Eelfish was swinging to the right, running toward the burning tanker. Mealey looked at the closest destroyer, gauging the distance between the destroyer and the burning tanker.
“Meet your helm right there. Give me more speed, damn it!” he yelled down the hatch. “More speed or we’re going to be rammed!” He ducked instinctively as a shell from the onrushing destroyer screamed above the periscope shears.
“Get behind the damned shears, Brannon!” Mealey yelled. “That son of a bitch is going to open up with small stuff in a minute!” Brannon scrambled forward from the TBT and crouched behind the heavy steel structure of the periscope shears.
Captain Mealey stood in the center of the open bridge, judging distances, judging his speed, the slowing speed of the burning tanker and the speed of the destroyer racing toward the Eelfish. Eelfish was closing on the burning tanker, racing to cross its bow before the destroyer coming up the tanker’s starboard side could ram. Brannon, crouched behind the periscope shears, looked at Captain Mealey and saw him raise both arms and shake his fists as the destroyer raced toward Eelfish, its bow guns firing continuously. In the red glare of the burning tanker Brannon could see that Mealey’s face was set in a demonic grin.
“My God!” Brannon muttered to himself. “He’s Captain Ahab and this is his white whale!”
The Eelfish cleared the bow of the burning tanker by a scant fifty yards and heeled in a sharp left turn in response to Mealey’s barked order.
“Shoot that son of a bitch coming after us when he makes his turn,” Mealey yelled back at Brannon, who sprang to his feet and ran aft to the TBT.