“Break out small arms,” Reubold shouted as he fed a belt into the machine gun and worked the action. The American guns were chewing the hull and superstructure of the S-boat to shreds, pumping rounds into the boat’s body at point-blank range. Reubold saw two crewmen slump over as bits of the boat were blown away by the heavy machine guns. Red tracers whined just over his head as he squeezed the trigger, firing into the night.
The two boats raced through the darkness, side by side as if joined by a mutual desire to see the other destroyed even if it cost the victor its own life. The American boat kept pushing into S-205, forcing it to compensate, snapping at its heels like a despicable little terrier.
A matrose joined Reubold and was in the process of throwing a hand grenade when a stream of bullets ripped the top of his head off. The grenade fell over the side and the seaman’s body, blood spurting from the wound, slumped to the deck. Reubold screamed in frustration and tipped the muzzle of the machine gun as far over the side as he could, depressing the trigger. He saw others take their place along the side, using pistols, rifles, and hand grenades to break the deadly grasp of the American boat.
Reubold went through one belt and began feeding another belt into the receiver when he heard a blast aft. Even in the darkness he could see oily smoke boiling from the vents of the center engine room. But worse than that, much worse, he felt the boat begin to lose headway, and for the first time in many years, he felt panic.
PT-155’s starboard twin fifties roared incessantly as the aft 40mm swung as far forward as it could against its stops and fired once before a grenade disabled it. DeLong’s hat had been shot off his head and a steady stream of blood, driven into a weird pattern across his forehead and right ear by the wind, gave him the look of a madman.
Cole grabbed Edland and jerked him to a single .50-caliber machine gun mounted on a pipe stand on the edge of the day room canopy. Slapping the commander’s hands on the grips Cole said: “Hold this. Press this until it stops.” He pointed toward the E-boat’s glistening hull just feet away. “Shoot at that.”
Edland depressed the triggers on the heavy .50-caliber machine gun and the night seemed to explode. The concussion of the gun threatened to jerk the weapon out of his hands and he realized that the tracer rounds were flying high over the enemy boat’s hull. He depressed the muzzle until he saw chunks of enemy vessel thrown into the air. He wasn’t aiming; he was trying to hold the damned thing on target.
Cole chambered a round into a Thompson submachine gun, stepped back so that he could get a better shot at the E-boat’s bridge, and sprayed the enemy boat with short bursts. He felt the gun jump in his hand and he pressed the stock into his shoulder, watching sparks dance all along the superstructure.
He had no time to think of anything except bringing this monster to a halt. He saw an enemy seaman pop up, let loose a few rounds with a machine pistol, and then drop out of sight. He heard someone shout, “Grenade!” and watched as a German stick hand grenade shot far overhead. Cole took careful aim at a German sailor, fired a full burst in his chest, and saw him disappear. He heard the dull chug of the 40-millimeter and then realized that it had stopped firing. But it didn’t make any difference — the sharp crack of two 20-millimeter guns shattered the darkness.
DeLong’s shouts brought Cole back to the bridge.
“Skipper? Skipper!” The ensign nodded at the E-boat. “She’s losing power.”
Cole saw the boat begin to slow and settle. But it wasn’t giving up — the two boats continued colliding against one another, racing over the water.
“Rich!” Cole shouted. He tossed the Thompson on the deck and pulled his .45 caliber automatic out of its holster. He worked the slide, glancing around. “Murray?” He shouted. “Grab some weapons and four guys. Get ready to board that son of a bitch.”
“Board?” Rich said, shocked.
“Hell, man,” Cole said, trembling with excitement. “We’ve just begun to fight.”
The Mosquito shook violently and a blast of cold night air raced in through the shattered Perplex canopy.
Gierek kept glancing at the still form next to him — Jagello wasn’t moving.
The starboard engine was running away, alternately speeding up and slowing down of its own volition. The instrument panel in front of Gierek was virtually destroyed so that he had no idea where he was, how much fuel he had, what his altitude was, or even what direction he was flying.
“Jagello?” he shouted above the roar of the hurricane-like winds. “Jagello? Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” the bomb-aimer/navigator said in a weak voice.
“Are you all right?”
The wounded man slowly lifted his head, blood pouring from a dozen wounds in black rivulets. “Can you stop this bloody plane from shaking?”
“I’m trying,” Gierek said. He gripped the wheel as tightly as he could, but no matter what he did the plane didn’t respond. Cables had been cut, Gierek knew, and control surfaces blown away, and she had to be leaking hydraulic fluid. The Mosquito had all of the aerodynamics of a rock. He was surprised that the aircraft was still aloft. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Jagello said patiently. “I am shot. You are shaking me to death. Stop shaking the airplane.”
“I’m trying.”
They were alone in the sky, and the roar of the air through the canopy blew bits of the aircraft around the cockpit like a maelstrom. The starboard engine whined maniacally, in a wild attempt to wrench itself off the wing while Gierek tried to nurse the port engine.
Jagello slumped against the edge of Gierek’s seat as the plane began to shudder more. Gierek wondered if the bomb bay door was open or if the wheels had dropped out of their wells. He hoped not. If they reached England, he could bring her in on her belly and they might have a chance of surviving. But if the doors were open they were dead men because they would catch the ground and flip the plane over. If the wheels were down, it meant that they were down because the hydraulics had failed and they couldn’t be locked in place — they would collapse. And the aircraft would flip.
He peered through what remained of the windscreen, trying to make out anything in the darkness. He glanced at Jagello, quickly took one hand off the wheel, and shook him.
“I’m alive,” Jagello said. “How are we?”
Gierek said nothing.
“Well,” Jagello said weakly, “I have one thing to be thankful for.”
“What?” Gierek said. His hands were starting to cramp and he worked the fingers around the form of the wheel, trying to ease the pain.
“At least you’re not singing.”
Chapter 29
Edland was at Cole’s side.
“What are you doing here?” Cole said.
“I came to get that boat.” Edland said, pulling out an automatic.
“Skipper!” Rich shouted, and fired three rounds from an M-1 over Cole’s head. A German sailor screamed and fell. The other guns on the PT boat kept up a deadly torrent of fire against the E-boat’s superstructure as the boat slowed and dropped heavily into the sea. The moment that DeLong cut 155’s power Cole shouted: “Okay.”
The six men scrambled aboard the E-boat. A German sailor aimed a pistol at Edland, but before he had a chance to fire, the commander got off two rounds.