“Think that’ll fool them?” DeLong asked.
“No,” Cole said. “But it might confuse them long enough for us to buy a little time. Eckstam? Still got that pilot in sight?”
“Yeah, Skipper, but he ain’t moving. You’d think the guy would be waving or something. Jesus, I hope he ain’t dead.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Cole said. He nodded at Delong. “Okay, Randy. Give her the gas.”
DeLong picked the microphone and said: “Leo, we’re going in. Open the mufflers.”
The response crackled through the speaker mounted on the instrument panel. “Right, Mr. DeLong.”
Randy DeLong watched as the engine enunciator signaled ALL SPEED. Slipping his fingers through the throttle mounts, he pushed them forward steadily.
The 80-foot PT boat’s bow rose abruptly as the screws bit deeply into the water. The 1,550-horsepower Packard V-12 engines roared to life, driving the 60-ton craft through the waves. As she increased speed her wake swelled to twice her 20-foot beam and a rooster tail of boiling water jetted almost as high as the barrel of the 40-mm gun on her stern. The 155 boat raced forward at 40 knots and it would take only minutes to close the distance to the wreck and the Hurricane pilot. She drew five and a half feet but this close to shore that might be too much. It was a gamble, Delong knew — that the charts were right, and Cole was right, and they could get in close enough to the pilot without running aground. If they did run aground, the 168 boat could come in and give them a tow. If they didn’t rip the bottom out of the 155 boat. And if the bluffs weren’t covered in German guns.
DeLong hoped that Cole was right. He kept an eye on the three tachometers. Their needles rose steadily, piling rpm on top of rpm. Below the tachometers were the three gauges that read the engine manifold pressure. Both sets told DeLong that the Packards, well past time for rebuilding, were running smoothly.
Cole glanced astern at the low Day Room. Seaman 2nd Class Murray gave him a thumbs-up. He and Tommy Rich were ready with the life raft. “Eckstam,” Cole shouted above the engines and the waves pounding against the hull, “what do you see?”
“No movement, Skipper. Nothing on shore, either. Looks like nobody’s home.”
Cole saw the flashes near the crest of the bluffs. He barely had time to shout, “Randy,” when the shells from the shore batteries exploded a hundred yards ahead and to the left of the speeding boat.
DeLong spun the wheel and the 155 boat twisted quickly to starboard and back to port again. He let the boat run in one direction for another hundred yards before turning her again to starboard. The agile craft whipped over the ocean as her three rudders cut into the water. Cold spray splashed over her sides, soaking the deck and everyone on it as DeLong tried to throw off the enemy gunner’s aim. The wreck might have been a haven for the downed pilot, but DeLong knew that the gunners had probably been using it as a range marker for some time, setting their shell fuses based on an imaginary checkerboard laid out on the ocean’s surface. Now the 155 boat sped across the board; each space precisely marked and each component of range and deflection carefully computed by the gunners.
Cole clapped his hand on DeLong’s shoulder and shouted: “On the next turn take her in on a forty-five.” He turned aft and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Tommy, pass the word to the forty-millimeter to fire at those flashes when we turn in.”
Rich waved his understanding and made his way aft to the long-barreled 40-millimeter cannon.
Cole watched as Ewing on the 168 boat moved in closer to the beach. He would provide covering fire with his 40-millimeter and 37-millimeter guns when he got close enough, but those German shore batteries were probably securely emplaced; there was a good chance that they’d be irritated by the return fire from the little boats, but not injured. “Eckstam, is that guy moving at all?”
“No, sir,” the sailor called back. “Jeez, I hope that guy ain’t dead.”
“Is this trip really necessary?” DeLong said as he spun the wheel. Three more rounds from the shore battery landed in the ocean ahead of the boat, but much closer. DeLong steered directly into the boiling water where the shells had landed and then spun the wheel hard to port. “Here we go, Skipper.”
They were committed now, coming in hard astern of the grounded freighter.
Behind them the 40-millimeter began its steady firing, each report a dull thud as it pumped shells at the bluffs overlooking the beach. Cole tracked the hits through his binoculars, wiping the lenses of salt spray as DeLong maneuvered the boat in a wild attempt to dodge the shore battery fire. The enemy guns were well hidden and the chances of actually hitting them were practically nonexistent. It was more than Cole had a right to expect, but he’d seen stranger things happen in war. He swung the binoculars to the wreck and the downed Hurricane pilot. The life raft rose and fell with the waves, bumping against the exposed rudder of the derelict freighter. The pilot was slumped over the edge of the raft, one arm trailing in the water.
“Hell,” Cole muttered, “that guy does look dead.” It didn’t matter; they had to go in anyway. “Put me right alongside that raft, Randy.” He turned and made his way out of the cockpit, around the starboard twin .50-caliber machine-gun turret and back to the Day Room Canopy. “Belay that raft, Murray. Secure it and come forward. Rich, grab a boat hook and meet me at the forward hatch.”
“Okay, Skipper,” Rich said.
Cole quickly moved forward, stopping only long enough to shout his intentions to DeLong. “Get us next to him and we’ll pull him in with a boat hook. The minute he’s in, I’ll give you a signal and you haul ass out of there.”
When Cole got to the bow, he knelt at the Sampson Post and watched the stranded freighter grow. The enemy fire intensified as smaller caliber guns found the range and glowing green tracer rounds reached for the 155 boat. Right for my nose, Cole thought. He’d always felt that way. One night in the Mediterranean they’d run into a long silent convoy escorted by MAS boats and E-boats; things turned ugly very quickly. Later one seaman had said that he could practically read the Saturday Evening Post by the light of the tracers. Maybe, Cole had said, all I know is that every one of those little bastards was aimed straight at my nose.
Now dozens of waterspouts danced across the water; each spout the result of a falling shell — every shell aimed at the 155 boat. The eruptions were getting closer — the gunners had found the range.
As Rich joined him, holding tightly to the long boat hook, DeLong swung the boat to starboard and then quickly to port, and back to starboard again, trying to throw off the shore battery. But Cole realized that the PT boat’s goal was obvious to the German gunners, even if they couldn’t see the bright yellow life raft nudging the freighter’s stern. Shells began striking around and then on the freighter, as if the enemy was happy to confirm Cole’s fear. A large-caliber shell exploded on the ship’s superstructure, sending large pieces of rusted metal careening into the air.
“Give me that boat hook,” Cole said to Rich.
“Skipper, you shouldn’t…”
“Give me the boat hook. My arms are longer than yours. You just hold on to my belt so I don’t fall in.”
Cole laid flat on the deck, half of his long body laying over the gunnel, the slightly raised toe rail digging into his stomach. He carefully fed the boat hook through his hands. The boat hook was exactly that — a hook fastened on the end of a pole that was used to secure the dock when they pulled in, pick flotsam out of the water, or draw in life rafts filled with downed aviators. Now Cole may be using the useful instrument to secure the life raft of a dead aviator.
“Here we go,” Cole said as the boat slowed, using the freighter as a shield from the guns. It worked partially — now the air was filled with the crazy bell-like tones of the small rounds peppering the metal hull and superstructure of the ship. The larger guns added percussion to the concerto — huge explosions that shook the pitiful vessel.