“Control! I can hear torpedoes running, three or four of them! Control!” He cried out in pain as a tremendous noise crashed through his earphones and the hull of the Eelfish.
“Where did you hear torpedoes?” Captain Mealey was halfway up the ladder to the Conning Tower. “What bearing?”
“I was tracking a ship bearing one six zero, sir,” Blake said. “The screws I heard, very fast, high-pitched, just like our own torpedoes, sir, came from aft of that bearing. They ran right into the bearing of the ship I was tracking.”
“Left full rudder,” Mealey snapped. “Mr. Gold, don’t let this ship get one foot above seven hundred feet. I’ve got to sort this out.” He turned as the sound of two depth charges echoed through Eelfish’s hull, depth charges dropped at some distance.
“Will your torpedoes stand being fired at one hundred feet, Chief? Yes or no?”
“I Tacki-waxed the exhaust valves myself,” Flanagan said. “They won’t leak through the valves. Yes.”
“One hundred feet, Mr. Gold. Give it one big effort, men.” He joined Jerry Gold on the planes, Gold helping the stern planesman, Captain Mealey throwing his stringy muscle against the bow plane wheel.
“Set depth on torpedoes Nine and Ten at zero feet,” he called out. “Set speed at low. Repeat, torpedo depth on numbers Nine and Ten tubes at zero feet. Speed on the low setting.” He watched the black needles on the depth gauges moving toward the one-hundred-foot mark.
“Sonar! Give me an accurate bearing at the ships you have.” He waited.
“Bearing on the depth charging is one seven zero, sir.”
“Left five degrees rudder,” Mealey said. “Stand by aft.” He turned to Brannon. “I’ll shake those bastards up, when they see fish plowing toward them!”
“Targets bear one eight zero, sir,” Blake cried.
“Meet your helm. Stand by aft…
“Fire nine!
“Fire ten!”
The two torpedoes burst out of the tubes at a depth of 95 feet, planed upward to the surface, and streaked across the sunlit water, splashing and throwing spray. A siren sounded on a destroyer, ululating. The pack of destroyers scattered, their squat sterns dropping into the water, their bows rearing high as their engines went to full speed.
“They’re going off in all directions, sir,” Paul Blake reported. “All the screws I can hear are turning up very high revolutions.”
“Very well,” Mealey said. “Maintain depth at one hundred feet, rudder amidships. Now we’ll wait and see if that did any good.” He mopped his face and neck with the wet towel.
Blake reported that he had lost all the high-speed screws five minutes later. Mealey nodded and looked at the two men on the helm. Both were hanging on to the big brass wheel for support, physically exhausted.
“Shift to hydraulic power on the sound heads, bow and stern planes, and the helm,” Mealey said.
“I can hear a slow twin screw beat bearing one seven zero,” Blake reported. “Sounds like one of our submarine screws, sir.”
“Any guess, son, on how far away he might be?”
“No, sir, but he’s not too far.”
“Make a recognition signal by sonar,” Mealey ordered.
Blake keyed the sonar transmitter slowly and carefully and waited. The entire crew of the Eelfish heard the answering message beat against the hull.
“Mauler Two reporting for duty. Mauler Two reports two torpedo hits in a destroyer and observation of the destroyer breaking up. Mauler Two at periscope depth and can see no enemy. Over.”
“Tell Mauler Two many thanks and that we will surface on heading three five zero,” Mealey said. He looked at Mike Brannon, and a faint smile showed under the white mustache.
“The Lord provides when you need it most. Stand by to surface.” The surface klaxon squawked and the Eelfish surged upward in a long slant. Captain Mealey climbed the ladder to the Conning Tower and looked at Lieutenant Perry Arbuckle and Paul Blake.
“Damned fine work, you two. Damned fine.”
Eelfish burst through the surface of the water as Mealey fought his way upward through the bridge hatch, ignoring the residual water that poured in as he pushed the hatch open. Mike Brannon followed him to the bridge and jumped out of the way as the lookouts and Bob Lee came scrambling topside.
“Submarine surfacing bearing one five zero,” the starboard lookout bellowed. Brannon ran aft to the TBT and then relaxed as he saw the familiar shape of a U.S. Navy fleet submarine. Blake’s voice floated up the hatch.
“Mauler Two requests permission to close and speak to Captain Mealey, Bridge.”
“Answer affirmative,” Mealey called down the hatch. “Tell him to come up on my starboard side.” He leveled his binoculars at the Sea Chub as it slid into position barely fifty feet off the starboard side of the Eelfish.
“Hold your course steady,” Mealey called down the hatch. “Make turns for one third ahead. Start the battery charge.” He leaned his elbows on the bridge rail and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Many thanks for your attack, sir. They were a very persistent bunch.”
“We appreciate your getting them off our backs, sir,” Captain Shelton sang out in a loud voice. “We could hear those fish of yours thrashing along; my sound man thought you fired your torpedoes at a low speed setting. That right?”
“Affirmative,” Mealey called out. “We fired from one hundred feet, depth setting zero, low speed. Figured they would see them and get panicky.”
“Mauler Two reports sinking one troop transport, sir. We have two prisoners from that ship. What was your bag?”
“One small carrier, one troop ship, one tanker, one freighter, and two destroyers,” Mealey called out. “How many torpedoes do you have left?”
“Fired four at the transport. Fired four at the destroyers that were clustered over you, sir. We have sixteen fish left, twelve forward, four aft.”
“We have one left forward,” Mealey called out. “Have you heard from Mauler One?”
“Negative, sir. Advise you inspect your topside. From here it looks as if you’ve lost most of your main deck. Congratulations on one hell of an attack, sir.”
Mealey and Brannon looked at the decks. The area forward of the bridge was a mass of twisted wood and steel supports.
Aft of the deck gun on the afterdeck there was no deck at all. “They have some big sea lice in this part of the world,” Mealey yelled across to the Sea Chub. “Where did you pick up the troop transport?”
“Picked him up when we headed for your fireworks, sir,” Captain Shelton yelled back. “He came right across my bow. Stopped to get two prisoners hanging on to a life ring. Went under far enough to submerge our decks and used radar to sort out what was happening to you. Couldn’t get into your mess until you had gone under and the destroyers had established an attack pattern that we could take advantage of.”
“Took him a hell of a while to do that,” Mealey said in a low voice to Brannon. He raised his voice and faced the Sea Chub.
“Our thanks to you. Haul off now and take up position five hundred yards on my starboard beam. We’ll wait for Mauler One to show.”
An hour later Jim Michaels reported that Mauler One was requesting contact with the pack leader. Mealey looked at Mike Brannon. “I’ll talk to that gentleman myself,” he said and went down the hatch.
At the door of the radio shack he motioned to Jim Michaels.
“Ask the radioman to step out here please,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mauler One and I’d like to keep the door closed, if you don’t mind.”
The radioman closed the door after Captain Mealey had gone into the radio shack. He grinned slyly at Jim Michaels. “I don’t think my gear is going to stand up under what the S.O.B. is likely to say,” he half whispered to Michaels. “Did you see those eyes? He’s mad enough to bite the damned mike off’n the stem.”