Southern’s forward 5-inch gun barked, and the brilliant flash of its discharge nearly blinded the men on the open bridge. The 40-millimeters joined the fight, pumping dozens of shells at the speeding enemy boats under the feeble light of the dying flares. The long gray barrels of the twin 40-mm mounts recoiled in sequence, the shock of the discharge taken up by the heavy recoil springs that then threw the barrels back into place, ready for another round. They spoke with determination, one round every half-second screaming into the darkness, their fiery birth contained by the funnel-shaped flash depressors on the muzzles of the guns. But the targets glimpsed only as fleeting shapes were hidden by the night.
Three more shells hit the Southern, one so close to the bridge that it knocked MacKay and the others to the deck.
“What the hell was that?” MacKay shouted in exasperation as he pulled himself to his feet. “Damage report.” That couldn’t be an E-boat. Not with firepower like that. They mounted 40-millimeter and 20-millimeter but their main weapon was their torpedo. But this was a hell of a lot bigger than a 40-millimeter. What was the Southern fighting?
Hardy watched the flare float slowly toward the surface of the Channel. So far the attack was directed at the head of the column, but it might be a feint to draw the escorts away from their stations. Firedancer could not respond for that reason and because she could not move fast enough. Number One stood next to him peering through his binoculars.
“Well?” Hardy said, fuming at his inaction. “What do you see?” His blood was up and he paced the deck like a lion that sensed nearby prey.
“E-boats,” Land said, catching nothing more than a glimpse of the enemy vessels as they flashed under the soft light of the flares. “Fast boats. Very fast.”
“Wireless/Telegrapher?” Hardy called into a voice tube. “Make to Southern: ‘Shall I come up?’ Send it in plain language.” He moved to windshield, and then to the port side of the bridge, and finally back to the tubes.
He’s going to explode, Land thought ridiculously, but the frustration that Hardy felt was clear to Land. It was all very simple; the battle had been joined and Hardy was not a part of it.
Hardy turned suddenly and practically leaped at the voice tubes. “W/T? Did you send the message by pigeon? What…”
“Bridge, W/T. Message from Southern. ‘Take station midway up the column, port. Enemy E-boats and other vessels.…’ That’s it, sir. End of message.”
“Right,” Hardy said. “Right. Helmsman, port 15. Land, you will inform Guns that we expect to engage the enemy shortly. Everything to port is fair game so he needn’t be shy about shooting.” Hardy turned to the voice tubes as if they held the key to his victory. “Engine Room. Hardy here.”
“Engine Room. Courtney,” came the muffled reply.
Hardy leaned close to the tube and gripped the mount in determination. “Now see here, Courtney. I’ll have no more nonsense about engines and yard work. We’re going in now, and I must have every ounce of power out of Number Two.”
“So long as you know that she’s likely to seize at any moment,” Courtney said. “Aye, sir. You give the order and I’ll engage the engine.”
“Very well,” Hardy said with satisfaction, reassured that he controlled every aspect of his ship, as any good captain should. Engines, indeed. All Firedancer needed was a reason and she could overcome anything. Grand old girl. “Up fifty on both engines,” Hardy ordered, increasing the revolutions per minute of the screws.
“Sir,” Greer said. “Damage Control reports hits on the torpedo deck above Repair II. Aft tubes severely damaged. The mast carried away the antennas.” Greer fought to keep his voice calm; he was the Talker and it was his job to repeat what he had been told to report, and to pass on the captain’s orders. But he was scared, especially when a shell had ripped away the big 36-inch signal searchlight on the bridge wing. Southern was only 306 feet long, the smallest vessel in the convoy except for that Limey destroyer aft, and the tankers, but it seemed as if the Krauts had planned to put a shell in every foot of the destroyer escort. The worst hit had been near the waterline forward, although no one had been killed or wounded, flooding the forward 5-inch magazine. Other hits had killed sailors: hits in the chief’s quarters, Repair I, the port 20-mm mount — all six men there died, the sonar shack atop the pilot house — mostly hits topside, but dead sailors nevertheless.
It was Greer’s second battle — the first one had been against U-boats and German planes. Afterward he remembered the noise, things crashing and exploding and men shouting as if they could defeat the enemy with their voices alone. It was not that, he knew, because he was shouting as well. He was on the mid-40 mount then. He was shouting out of fear and anger and because his blood was pumping so quickly through his veins that he thought his heart would explode. Now, it was different.
It was odd. Everything seemed to have slowed down, Greer thought. He saw the signalman at the Aldis lamp, the chief bo’sun of the watch, and the other officers and men on the crowded bridge move about as if they were completely indifferent to the fury that enveloped them.
Greer was aware of noises, muffled sounds or fragments of whole sounds that crept into his brain. He heard the whir of the electric motors of the 51 Mount as it drove the turret into position and laid the gun on target. He heard the orders and responses of the men in the pilothouse — the voices of the helmsman, engine order man, the quartermaster — and that bo’sun’s mate who loved to play poker with washers. Maybe he wasn’t really hearing them speak — maybe he just thought he was.
Everything was slow. Movements, sounds — everything he saw or heard dipped in molasses and spread before with a broad knife.
The AOG exploded.
She was the USS Connery and she was smaller than the Southern, and she was aft and to starboard the prescribed distance, but when she blew up it was like she was alongside the destroyer escort.
The AOG erupted into a huge fireball, mocking the ridiculous light of the tiny flares, illuminating every ship as if it were daylight, for a half-mile around. But the triumph of the explosion was short-lived and night swiftly moved in to reclaim its dominance, leaving only the boiling fire consuming the ship as a remnant of the blast.
Hardy was beating the inoffensive speaking tube with his fist as Firedancer’s speed dropped to just under 10 knots.
“Five seconds? Five bloody seconds you give me? I haven’t gone twenty feet, you insufferable mechanical boob,” Hardy shouted into the tube.
“I gave you no guarantees, sir,” Courtney replied, his tone bordering on vindication — just a hair’s breadth from “I told you so.” “Only that at some time or other the engine would surely seize. That time was almost immediately after you asked for increased revolutions.”
“Christ in heaven,” Hardy shouted into the sky. He shook his clenched fists at nothing in particular and turned to Land. “Take her to starboard of that tanker,” he said, calming. “We’ll look for survivors. Keep her as much out of the light as you can, Number One. I don’t fancy giving those bastards another target.”
“Right, sir,” Land said. He gave the necessary orders and joined Hardy as the captain scanned the darkness through binoculars.
“Gone,” Hardy said, peering into the darkness.