“We haven’t slowed a bit,” Steiner said. “How can we hit anything at this speed?”
“We hit that destroyer,” Manthey said.
“Don’t worry about Kapitan Mahlberg,” Statz said to Steiner. “He wants Prince of Wales. He won’t waste his time with these shits. Besides, they can’t hurt us, Steiner.”
“She’s turning to port, Kapitan,” Kadow said, watching the progress of the cruiser through the narrow slits of the conning tower.
“Frey will get her,” Mahlberg said.
“Kapitan!” a Kapitanleutnant called from the other side of the conning tower. “British destroyer just clearing our bow. At ten thousand kilometers. She looks as if she’s preparing for a torpedo run.”
“Let the secondary batteries deal with her,” Mahlberg said calmly.
“Kapitan, we must prepare for evasive action,” Kadow reminded Mahlberg. It was standard procedure in the face of an impending torpedo attack.
Mahlberg put a pair of binoculars to his eyes and said nothing.
“The cruiser’s making smoke,” a Leutnant zur See said, perplexed. Cruisers didn’t make smoke.
“She’s going to turn back into that to hide after she unleashes her torpedoes,” Mahlberg said. “Except she won’t have time to fire her torpedoes or run and hide.”
A thought struck Kadow. “Where’s the second destroyer?”
“What?” Mahlberg said, lowering his glasses. “We sank her, Kadow.…”
“No. There were three.” For the first time Kadow saw a hint of concern on Mahlberg’s face.
“British destroyer,” a lookout called. “Two points off the starboard bow. Twelve thousand kilometers.”
“The cruiser’s firing,” a Leutnant reported.
“Port twenty,” Mahlberg said. “Now!”
“Destroyer to starboard is launching torpedoes,” the Leutnant said.
“We’re showing them our beam,” Kadow said. They were exposing their length to the torpedoes and fire of the cruiser. The cruiser’s guns would have little effect, but the torpedoes would have a much larger target in which to bury themselves.
“We’re bringing our secondary batteries to bear,” Mahlberg said irritably. “Neither one of those vessels can survive that. And then we’ll be on our way.”
“Yes, sir,” Kadow said. Remember, thou art mortal.
“Prometheus is going in,” Land called out. “There’s Eskimo. Prometheus is drawing fire to give Eskimo a chance.”
“They’re spoiling our shot!” Hardy railed. “By God, I can’t shoot with those two on the other side. Those glory-seeking bastards. All right, all right,” he said, calming. “We can at least give Sea Lion pause. We’ll make a false run of it. Let’s hope the mere sight of Firedancer will frighten them.”
Cole watched as the secondary batteries along Sea Lion’s port twinkled ominously. It’s going to be the other way around, he thought. Those bastards have got our range. “This is going to be close,” he said to anyone listening as he tracked the blur of the shells through the air. “Close,” he said again and then the sea exploded around them. It was worse than before. Splinters screamed through the air like banshees, peppering the superstructure and hull of Firedancer. Cole heard screams and shouts of alarm and a huge crash as the foremast fell over the side, shot completely off the ship. There was a secondary explosion as the ready ammunition of a 20mm Oerlikon exploded just below and aft of the bridge.
“Land,” Hardy said as he picked himself up off the deck, “get the supply parties topside.” He looked at Cole in horror.
Cole quickly examined himself. He was covered in blood. Am I wounded? I don’t feel anything. He tore at his clothes, trying to find the injury. His trembling hands were covered in blood and bits of flesh as he pulled away his coat.
“It’s not you,” Hardy said. “Behind you.”
Cole turned to see Dove and the other two signalmen slumped over their stations just above him. They were sliced open, their bowels hanging in bloody coils from their stomachs. Their intestines, covered in blood and strewn over the deck, glistened obscenely in the dull light.
“Check the telephone, will you, Cole?” Hardy said, his voice shaking.
Cole wiped his bloody hands over his trousers and cranked the handle of the bridge telephone. There was nothing. No sound. He tried the Tannoy system, but it was dead as well. He caught Hardy’s attention and shook his head.
“At least we have the bloody voice tubes,” Hardy said. He checked the relays for the torpedo-release buttons. “Nothing here as well. Land? Detail a man to act as runner to the torpedo stations.”
“I can do it, sir,” Cole said. “I know how they work.”
“Very well, Mr. Cole,” Hardy said. He was sober now, as if the sight of the dead men hanging from their stations had finally driven home the horror of this moment. “Go down and tell them to stand by. I don’t know from which direction we shall attack, so one blast of the ship’s whistle will be to port, two blasts starboard. If the bloody whistle works at all. You’re to report to Morrison. He’s the fellow in charge down there.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Cole said. He made his way down the narrow ladder that led to the main deck. Along the way to the torpedo stations he saw the damage that the splinters had done. There were holes punched through deck housings and Oerlikon tubs, jackstays hung over the side of the vessel, Carley floats were shredded, and her hull was caved in where the foremast had fallen and then been pulled off the Firedancer by the force of the rushing water. There were dead men too, lifeless bundles of blood and fabric, some missing arms, legs, heads. The supply parties, fire control, and damage control moved methodically over the ship, removing the dead and wounded and assessing the condition of the destroyer.
Cole saw that the forward funnel had been pierced a dozen times, smoke pouring from the gaping holes. Her antennas were down as well, the wires scattered over what remained of the rigging.
He found a seaman helping another to his feet at torpedo station number one.
“Where’s Morrison?” he asked.
“Dead,” the uninjured seaman said. “That makes me the bloody headmaster. Baird.” He looked at Cole closely. “You’re the American we fished out of the water. You’re covered in blood, sir.”
“Somebody else’s,” Cole said. “Communications are out with the bridge. So is the fire-control system. The captain sent me down here to help.”
“Fair enough, sir,” Baird said. “First you can help me get Boy Seaman Blessing to his feet. He took a sharp right to the chin from the deck there. Didn’t you, Boy Seaman?”
“When we go in for a torpedo run, one blast from the ship’s whistle means port, two means starboard,” Cole said, looking around. “Any damage?”
“Not to the gears and tubes, thank God,” Baird said. “But my compressed air is a mess, sir. Two of the hoses are sliced through-and-through and the tank for tube four had a bloody elephant sit on it. Squashed flat, she is, and no hope of resurrection. Number Two Station’s just as bad. Worse. There’s not a man back there who isn’t wounded or dead.”
“I trained on torpedoes. I can help.”
Baird slapped Blessing lightly on both cheeks, trying to get him to come around. “Do you hear that, Boy Seaman Blessing? The Yanks are here and ready as well. I’ve sent Engleman after some tools to get us up and running again, sir. A couple of spanners and a roll of tape and we should be as right as rain.”