“I’ve got ‘em!” the starboard lookout yelled. “Three small rubber boats bearing zero one zero, Bridge!”
“Come right to course zero one zero,” Brannon ordered. “Make turns for two-thirds speed. Rescue party to the deck as soon as we’re steady on the new course. Machine gunners to the bridge. Load and lock weapons. Mr. Ulrich, take the conn. I want to put the ship between that patrol boat and the fliers.” He watched as Ralph Ulrich maneuvered the Eelfish so the bulk of the submarine was between the listing patrol boat and the three rubber boats full of fliers.
“I thought we got a good solid hit on that son of a bitch, but he’s still floating,” Brannon growled.
“He’s got a wooden hull,” Ulrich volunteered. “They usually absorb a torpedo hit, even gunfire, better than metal ones.”
“Get those people aboard as quick as you can,” Brannon called down to Chief Flanagan on deck. Flanagan raised an arm to indicate he understood, and with Steve Petreshock and Fred Nelson assisting he hauled the fliers out of the rubber boats and up on the deck and hustled them aft to the ladder that led up to the cigaret deck.
“Welcome aboard,” Brannon said, smiling. “Who’s in command?”
“I am, sir, Lieutenant Colonel Roberts, Jack Roberts.” A tall, lean man with a sweeping mustache stepped out of the group of fliers.
“I’m Captain Brannon, Mike Brannon. All your people here? Anyone hurt?”
“We all made it, no one hurt,” the Colonel said.
“Small boat standing around the bow of the patrol boat, Bridge!” The port lookout’s voice was high, excited. “Man in the midships section of the boat is waving at us, Bridge. About ten people in the boat. The boat is under way on its own power, Bridge.”
“Let’s see what he wants, Mr. Ulrich,” Brannon said. “Gunners, stand by if he tries any funny business.”
“That’s close enough!” Ulrich yelled at the people in the small boat. “Do any of you speak English, and if you do what do you want?”
The man in the center of the boat who had been waving at the submarine raised his voice. “I speak English, sir. Can you give us a course to steer to land?”
“We’ll give you a course in a minute,” Brannon called out. “Do you need anything else, food, water, medicine?”
“We have enough water for four days. We have no food. I have two men with burns, sir.”
“Stand clear of me,” Brannon shouted back. “We’ll make up a couple of bags of canned food for you and give you some sulfa powder for your burned men. I’ll tell you when to come alongside to get the stuff. Can you tell me the name of your ship and commanding officer?”
“I am not required to do that under the rules of war, sir.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. He turned as Scotty Rudolph hauled the second of two clean garbage bags bulging with cans of food up through the bridge hatch. “We can make the transfer on the port side, Captain,” Ulrich said. “Chief Flanagan has a safety line rigged, so he can put a man down on the pressure hull.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. “What turns are we making?”
“Making turns for three knots, sir,” Ulrich said.
“That shouldn’t be too fast for him,” Brannon said. He waved his arm at the small boat. “Come alongside. When you have the food aboard steer course two seven five. You are about eighty miles from land. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir, and we thank you,” the man in the boat yelled back. “We should steer course two seven five and we are eighty miles from home.”
The boat eased in toward the Eelfish. Chief Flanagan tied a safety line around Petreshock’s waist and took a turn around the barrel of the deck gun as the torpedoman eased his way down on to the curve of the wet pressure hull, clamping the fingers of his left hand between two deck boards. Fred Nelson, crouching on the deck, handed Petreshock a bag of food. The small boat drew closer, and Petreshock could see the faces of the men in the boat, closed, without expression. He swung the bag of food back and forth, gauging the distance to the small boat.
“That’s close enough,” Flanagan shouted. The man in the boat who had done the talking to the submarine nodded and raised his right arm. Petreshock saw the sudden gout of flame, and then he collapsed on the pressure hull, legs sprawling, blood staining the sea as his body splashed into the water. Fred Nelson bellowed, grabbed the safety line, and hauled Petreshock’s body out of the water as the man in the boat fired his pistol again and again.
The stuttering roar of the twin twenty-millimeter machine guns was drowned out by Booth’s high-pitched Rebel yell. The cluster of men standing in the small boat went down under the hail of 20-mm shells. From the cigaret deck aft of the bridge the quad pom-pom also began to bark, its explosive shells ripping into the Japanese sailors, tearing at the hull of the small boat.
Mike Brannon leaned over the bridge rail. Flanagan and Nelson had dragged Petreshock’s limp body up on the deck and were moving aft, toward the ladder to the cigaret deck. Brannon bent his head to the bridge transmitter.
“Stand by below to take a wounded man.” He turned to Ulrich. “Circle that patrol boat. I want that boat sunk! We should be able to do it with the pom-pom and the twenties.” Flanagan touched his Captain on the arm.
“Steve’s bleedin’ like hell, but he’s breathing pretty good. He got it in the head, above his left ear, up in the hair. I couldn’t see how bad.”
“Very well, Chief. Get these fliers below as soon as you can. I’ll be down as soon as we get things squared away up here.” He turned as the quad pom-pom began systematically to stitch the hull of the listing patrol boat. From the gun platform below, and in front of the bridge, John Wilkes Booth was lashing at the patrol boat with the twin twenties. A sudden gush of flame erupted from the midships section of the patrol boat, followed by a dull explosion. The ship rolled over and began to sink.
“Cease fire!” Brannon yelled. “Ralph, secure the gunnery party. As soon as they’re below dive the ship. I want to go to one hundred feet while we get this mess sorted out.” He dropped through the hatch and went down to the Control Room. Lieutenant Jerry Gold nodded toward the Crew’s Mess. “Petreshock is in the Crew’s Mess, sir, with Doc. The fliers are back there also.” He turned as the diving alarm sounded and a lookout slid down the ladder and manned the bow planes.
“One degree down bubble,” Gold ordered. “They’re probably working on Steve back there, and I don’t want the poor bastard to slide off a mess table on deck.”
Brannon shouldered his way through the people crowded around a mess table where Doc Wharton was working on Petreshock.
“Far as I can tell, Captain, all he’s got is one hell of a deep slot cut in his skull. Bone ain’t broke, though. Like every other torpedoman he’s got a thick head.” He looked up as Fred Nelson, his eyes glaring fiercely from either side of his great hawk nose, growled.
“I can clean the wound,” Wharton said, “and give him a shot to put him to sleep for a few hours. When he wakes up maybe then we can find out how much damage was done, test his reactions, how he feels.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. “But if he needs more than we can give him let me know and we’ll head for the nearest friendly port.” He nodded to the Lieutenant Colonel. “If you and your officers will follow me, sir, we’ll go up to the Wardroom and get some coffee and something to eat.”
Pete Mahaffey was waiting with a platter of sandwiches and pots of coffee. Mike Brannon sipped at a cup of coffee while the fliers ate. The Lieutenant Colonel put his cup down and wiped his mustache with a handkerchief.