Foster saw Marx nudge Chief Petty Officer James and gestured toward Foster.
James walked over to the surface radar station. “What is it, Foster?”
“I picked up a skunk, right at the edge of the screen. It was gone in a flash. I mean sixty or seventy knots.”
“Switch to max-range,” James said, reaching for the bridge phone.
Foster did as he was told. The screen flickered briefly and settled into the new range setting. With the greater distance the resolution became distorted and smaller images were hard to pick out. Even larger targets at maximum range had a distinctly fuzzy appearance under the sweep of the patient strobe that swung loyally around the screen once every three seconds.
“There it is,” Foster said excitedly, but the words were barely out before Chief James had the bridge telephone off its cradle and up to his mouth.
Seaman 2nd Class Greer, Bridge Talker for the Mid-Watch, stood back against the bulkhead of the open bridge. He’d run afoul of Captain MacKay two or three times by getting in the captain’s way when MacKay paced from port to starboard wing on the cramped bridge. Greer had learned his lesson; give the Old Man room to roam. The seaman 2nd class wore the outsized helmet that concealed bulky earphones. A speaking horn rested on his chest, suspended about his neck by canvas straps. The stiff collar of his bulky kapok lifejacket made keeping the earphones and horn where they should have been difficult.
“Bridge, aye,” Greer said into the horn. He listened for a moment and then reported to Captain MacKay on the open bridge. “CIC reports surface target.”
MacKay turned, his features lost in the darkness except for the dim glow of the gyro. “Where away?” MacKay said.
“One-three-seven degrees heading oh-two-three degrees at twenty-five thousand yards. Speed,” Greer hesitated but decided to report it anyway. Those guys were supposed to know what they were talking about. “Speed, six-oh knots.”
MacKay glanced at Jake DeArmas, his executive officer. “General Quarters,” MacKay ordered Greer. “Who’s in CIC?” he asked DeArmas quickly.
“Lewis.”
“He’s too young. Get down there.” MacKay turned to Greer. “Acknowledge that report. Tell CIC to contact the convoy. Unidentified target running to port at approximately twenty-five thousand yards.…”
Greer slid his hand under his helmet and clamped the earphone against his ear. He looked up at MacKay, doing a remarkable job of containing his excitement. “Sir, CIC reports multiple targets approaching from the southwest. Same distance. Speed increased to seven-oh knots.”
“Yes?” Hardy said hovering over the brass speaking tubes. The night was clear and very cold, and he had just finished his third cup of tea. Now he had to piss.
“Bridge, W/T Southern reports multiple targets approaching at high speed from the southwest. They’ve gone to Action Stations, sir.”
“Well, then, why should we be any different?” Hardy grumbled. He turned to the yeoman stationed at the Tannoy Box. “Action Stations.”
“Right, sir,” the yeoman said. He switched on the speaking system and said, in a very matter-of-fact tone: “Do you hear there? Do you hear there? Action Stations. Action Stations.”
Hardy flipped back the cover on the speaking tube to the Engine Room. “Engine Room? Bridge here. How’s that engine?” Number Two engine had been giving HMS Firedancer fits for the last two weeks. Hardy had ordered the boilers lit off for Number Two but on standby only. The engine would not be engaged unless absolutely necessary.
“Bridge, Engine Room.”
It was Courtney, a gnomelike little officer who preferred to spend all of his time with his beloved engines. Hardy suspected that if he could, Courtney would remain in the noisy, hot confines of the engine room and never venture on deck unless ordered.
“Well, Courtney? What about it? I’ve need of Number Two.”
Courtney had been working for days trying to isolate the problem. He had reported to Hardy, layering technical difficulty upon technical difficulty until Hardy, as well versed as any Royal Navy captain on the machinery that drove his ship, had capitulated.
“Goddamn it, Courtney,” Hardy had said. “Just fix the bloody thing.” Courtney just rubbed his knuckles contentedly into the palm of his hand as if his complicated report had been a successful stratagem to bewilder the captain into leaving him alone, then returned to the depths of his engine room.
“It’s no good, Captain,” Courtney’s muffled voice came through the voice tube, accompanied by the distant roar of the machinery. The steady thump of the pistons was like a heartbeat, a rhythm that reminded Hardy that the ancient destroyer still had life in her. “It’s the engine shaft bearing. If we engage the engine she’ll seize, and then we’ll really be up against it.”
Hardy glanced to see his Number One, Edwin Land, appear on the bridge, just slipping into his duffel. Spring or not it got cold in the Channel at night. “I have some Germans out there, Courtney,” Hardy said irritably.
“Yes, sir, but if the shaft seizes there goes the engine. And you’ll be down a sight longer anyway except then she’s in the yards for a good bit of time.” Courtney’s warning was obvious — the damage to the engine might be so severe that she’d require repair work in the yards. They turned ships around quickly enough, Hardy knew, repair crews working day and night, but they did so on a priority basis and he was certain that no priority would be attached to an overaged destroyer. She would be laid up for weeks or months and his crew would be stripped of critical ratings and replaced with clumsy landsmen direct from Portsmouth. The thought caused Hardy to shiver — Firedancer in the hands of clods.
“Well, then,” Hardy growled, conceding defeat for the moment. “Stand by. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Standing by,” was Courtney’s reply, delivered much too calmly to suit Hardy.
They were escorting eight ships — two gasoline tankers and six freighters, Southern in the lead and Firedancer in the rear, down to Portsmouth at a steady if boring pace of 8 knots. Firedancer could manage that speed all right and she could be coaxed up to 15 knots without protest, but, with one engine out, she would resist anything beyond that. A part of the fight would be maneuver, and another part speed, but Hardy was denied that part so that the fight would be tipped in the enemy’s advantage.
MacKay felt a shudder run through Southern’s deck. His mind calculated the impossible. Run aground? Out here? What the hell was going on? His second officer had joined him on the open bridge of the destroyer escort and they exchanged glances. Suddenly he realized what it was.
“Flares,” he ordered. A torpedo had brushed the ship’s bottom. A torpedo whose depth had been set too deep, probably to puncture the hull of a lumbering merchantman. Southern had been given a gift by the miscalculation of an enemy torpedo man. “Signal to the convoy, ‘Under attack by E-boats to port. Remain in position.’ ” He didn’t want the merchant ships scattering. They could just as easily run Southern down in the darkness or end up being silhouetted by their own flares. If that happened they would make a lovely target for the E-boats.
“Sir,” Greer said. “CIC reports vessels approaching bearing one-three-six degrees. Speed seven-oh knots. Distance…”
The first shell hit Southern’s hull below 51 Mount just as the second series of flares burst in the darkness, filling the sky with an eerie green glow. It was a signal to start the battle. Tracers ripped through the night, red from the Americans’ guns, green from the Germans’, angry fingers searching under the pale light of the flares for a target.