Hardy slid the binoculars to his eyes again and said, “We’ll speak about it again when you do know how to make decisions.”
Chief Torpedo Gunner’s Mate Sandy Baird, standing next to the MK 1 Depth Charge Rail sandwiched between the two TSDS Davits at Firedancer’s stern, removed his gloves, blew on his fingertips, and examined the fuses in the six depth charges. His shivering crew, bundled in every bit of clothing that they owned so that they looked more like a band of unemployed dock workers than sailors of the Royal Navy, stood near him, awaiting orders. “‘The Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty hereby appoint you captain of His Majesty’s Ship Firedancer and direct you to repair on board that ship.’” He slipped on his gloves. “Now of course,” he continued, as the men around him tried to rub some warmth into their torsos, “everyone bloody well knows that you’ve got a case of the shakes. And everyone bloody well knows that your Jimmy the One—”
Another explosion racked the St. John, and Baird’s eyes narrowed in hatred as he watched the flames roll into the darkness. “That your Jimmy the One,” he continued, using lower-deck slang for Number One, “is sailing ‘two balls at the yardarm.’”
“What’s—” Seaman Tommy Blessing began.
“‘Not under control,’” Torpedo Gunner’s Mate Engleman said. “Sandy there knows all there is to know about our officers, Sandy does. Ain’t that right, Sandy?”
“Young Seaman Tommy has a right to know,” Baird said. “It wasn’t long ago that the lad was just a boy seaman straight off of H.M.S. Ganges, and God bless all that sailed on her.”
“You men,” Sublieutenant Morrison said, “quit your loafing and make ready in case we’re called in.”
“Right you are, sir,” Baird said sharply, and then watched as Morrison made his way along the starboard gangway to the Y-throwers. “Lord Nelson himself come back to life.”
“Sandy’s never had a kind word for anyone,” Engleman said to Blessing. “How he’s managed to stay chief torps this long is a mystery. Every P. R. O. in Andrews wants a short talk in a dark room with Torps Baird. Enemies he’s got all right. Thirty years of them.”
The deck telephone rang three times in quick succession. Sublieutenant Morrison slid back along the icy deck and barely stopped himself long enough to pick up the receiver.
“Depth Charge, Morrison.”
Baird felt a change in the timbre of the ship’s engines and a slight list to starboard as Firedancer changed course. He smiled at the others and gave them a thumbs-up. They were going after U-boats now.
Morrison laid the receiver down on the cradle, his face strangely white and pinched with fatigue. He was afraid, Baird knew, maybe not afraid of the enemy or even death, but chances there was some of that for sure. He was afraid of not doing his job and doing it properly — he was afraid of letting his chaps down. Ah, he’s a boy, Baird told himself in a brief moment of understanding, but then the chief torps realized the truth of the matter: there was no place for boys in this business. They came to Andrews all proper and polished, stiff with loyal indignation and clear faces and pressed uniforms. Boys, just boys.
“Depth Charge Party, close up!” Morrison shouted, trying to sound brave. “Captain’s orders. Spread of six at his command. Depth, 150 feet. Baird, see to it. I’ll notify the Y-mounts.”
“Yes, sir,” Baird said, digging into his duffel and pulling out the depth-charge-setting key that hung from a chain around his neck. “All right, chaps. Remove the blocks.” Wooden blocks were used to wedge the fuses in place prior to dropping the charges. It prevented premature explosion of the squat drums packed with three hundred pounds of TNT. When that happened it would be a brush and shovel job. If the explosion didn’t sink the ship, that would be the only way to retrieve the bloody pieces of the men’s bodies from the scorched and twisted stern of a smoldering hulk.
Baird knelt down, inserted the key into the tumbler, and dialed 150 feet. When he stood he noticed the others watching him nervously. They’d never been in battle before. Most where Hostilities Only and they depended on the leadership, wisdom, and just the physical presence of Active Service men like Baird, Engleman, and the others. Even Jimmy the One and Morrison were H.O. And Hardy? Hardy was Active Service and had come out of the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, but there were too many questions about him. It was said that he’d taken a corvette into some French port and had it out with German tanks but then his nerves began to fail him. No one could say for sure that’s what happened, but the fact that it was even reason for talk belowdecks over a steaming hot cup of kye was cause for concern. Baird and his chaps could forgive anything except a man on the bridge that they did not respect.
Baird forced himself to laugh. “Is it a wake you’re going to? Why, we’ll have this over in no time and then it’s Splice the Main Brace. Rum is bound to make anyone feel better. Even our own Lord Nelson.”
Firedancer rolled to starboard again and the deck danced beneath their feet as the engines increased. Then there was a quick turn to port and another shift to starboard.
“Well,” Baird said loudly with a confidence that he did not feel, “the old man has found something, all right. Maybe old George is a proper seaman, after all.”
There was an explosion a thousand yards on the starboard bow and Baird watched with amazement as a tanker disintegrated in a mass of flames. He could think of nothing else except the word volcano, although he’d never seen one or even a moving picture of one, but he’d heard talk of them and they must surely look like this. The fire was alive and feeding on the ship as if it had been imprisoned at one time within the ship’s hull and now suddenly let loose and wanted to destroy with a vengeance the thing that held it captive. It rolled and licked and boiled high into the air, over the deck and superstructure, and dripped from the ship’s scuppers into the inky water. This must be hell.
The telephone rang again and Morrison was at it in an instant.
“Depth Charge Station, Morrison.”
The others waited, watching for any hint of action from Morrison’s face.
The tanker continued to explode, showering the surrounding sea with flame.
“God help those poor sailors,” Baird heard Engleman whisper. He turned his attention back to Morrison. He could see the telephone receiver tremble in the young officer’s hand.
“Yes, sir. Right, sir. We’re ready, sir.” Morrison’s eyes found Baird’s in an unspoken plea.
Baird turned quickly. “All right, you Jack-my-Hearties, stand by. Smartly now or it’s over the side with the depth charges you go. When these splash I want six more on the rack faster than you can light a Woodbine.” He made sure that his crew was in place before turning back to Morrison. The officer replied with a tiny nod, or perhaps it was nothing more than a tremble. Suddenly his hand tightened on the receiver.
“Yes, sir,” he said and then raised his arm and shouted to the crew. “On my mark!” Baird gripped the gate release handle and rested his foot on the gate lock pedal.
“Now!” Morrison shouted.
Baird stomped on the pedal and jerked the lever back. The gate flew open and depth charges began to roll out of the rack. He heard the sharp crash of the port and starboard Y-throwers as the charges propelled the depth charges far away from Firedancer and into the darkness. The depth charges at his feet clattered down the track, a tiny train in motion, and suddenly they were gone. He knew that somewhere in the darkness below him they sank innocently, indifferent to the cold.