“Jesus, Senior, What was that?” Ensign Pickering was on the verge of losing control of his voice, a combination of shock and the filth in the air.
“Keep it down sir. Cough and spit. We've got to get out of here. Whatever that was, it's done the old girl a serious hurt. Suggest we go through the scullery and up the other side Sir.”
“If we leave, we should go back the way we came Senior, we know that way. But we haven't been given that order yet.”
“Feel the hatch sir, its heating. There's fire behind us again. And we don't know what damage that blast did. But here, sir, we're trapped. If we don't get out now we never will. At the moment we know that the scullery fires are damped down. If we go aft through the Scullery we can go up two decks then out to the sponsons. Then over the side or whatever. There's a ship plan here sir, come and look at what I mean. Sir, mind out sir look out....”
There was a soft thud in the darkness. “'Mr. Pickering sir, are you all right? You, over there. Yes you, not the person you hope is behind you. Mr. Pickering's been hurt, slipped on the deck and hit his head. He's out cold. I need three volunteers to help get him out of here. You, you and you. The rest of you get ready to break into the scullery. Firefighters at the front and sides, others in the middle. Get the Handy Billy running. We're going to have to fight through the fire in there if we're going to get out of here. Now move!”
Bridge, USS Far go CL-106. Position 46.8 North, 4.6 West.
Captain Mahan was a happy man. A good ship, a well trained crew and a difficult operation going smoothly. What more could a cruiser Captain want? He was tucked in under the port bow quarter of Shiloh, his fantail level with the side elevator opening to the hangar deck. He'd got his X and Y turrets trained to starboard, partly to clear as much space on the fantail as possible but also so that the heavy armor on the turret faces was protecting the casualty station set up behind them. His missile handling crew had managed to rig the crane aft so that its winch could be used to power the transfer system bringing casualties over from the Shiloh. The wounded were now loaded into the gurneys at the first aid station on Shiloh and attached to a looped endless cable running through pulleys. Start up the crane winch and the whole lot came straight over. Beat painfully manhandling the men over any day. Trouble was, casualties had come in faster than his crew could absorb them. Even with the helicopter shuttle taking the worst injured over to Kittyhawk there were still too many casualties coming in.
Still the fires were almost out now. The last damage control report from Shiloh had the fires on the hangar deck out, only one of the five hangar deck sections had burned, the armor doors had stopped the fires and smoke spreading further forward. Below decks, the fire had been pushed right back so only the original area, the scullery, galley and bakery were still red-listed. Even there, Samoa had poured so much water into the hull that the fires were damped down. It was just a question now of getting men in there to finish the job and secure the compartment. With a little luck, the rate of casualty transfer would slacken off now and they could get ahead of the job.
He didn't expect the explosion. A big one, deep inside Shiloh, well below the waterline. Even as he watched, the big carrier lost her starboard list and started to roll to port, bringing her flight deck down onto Fargo 's superstructure.
With a grinding and crushing of metal, Fargo's foremast with its powerful air search radar doubled and crashed down, taking the TBS antennas with it. Fargo was in irons now, trapped against Shiloh \s side, her funnel wedged against the underside of the carrier's flight deck. A tractor and a jeep rolled off the flight deck, onto Fargo's bridge, endangering ship control before they slid off, taking a port bridge wing down to the main deck and into the sea.
The two ships moved against each other, each roll and switch inflicting more damage on the cruiser. The starboard side of the bridge was nearly demolished, the wind shield had gone along with the pelorus stand, flag bag, and lookout seat. Captain Mahan looked aft; casualties were still coming out of the elevator opening in the hangar deck side but the pulley system was much closer to being level. Before it had run steeply downwards. Even as he watched, he saw his crane crew manipulating their controls to keep the transfer system running.
He had to do something to save his ship. “Starboard screws full emergency aft, port screws full emergency forward, right full rudder now”. Fargo started to pivot on her axis, her bows swinging to starboard to crash against Shiloh's hull. But, that way they were acting as a lever, forcing her stern out from under the flight deck that threatened to crush her. Even as Mahan watched, the starboard bridge bulkhead and watertight door buckled and started to cave in, the flying deck railings were crushed and the main deck boat davits started to be bent out of shape. Already the big single funnel was starting to bend at the base and its welds at main deck level were starting to give.
Mahan could feel his cruiser's powerful engines forcing her away from the carrier. All along the starboard bows, the lifelines and stanchions were giving way and the shell plating was starting to buckle up to six inches inboard. Then, suddenly, Fargo broke free from the grip that was threatening to crush her. It cost her, the aft main battery director was crushed, even the machine shop lathe was knocked from its mountings. But break free she did, her stern arching away from the carrier so that the two ships were moving apart. Even more important, they were swinging at an angle so that Fargo was steadily turning her bows towards Shiloh.
“Signal from Admiral Theodore Sir. Reads Bravo Zulu Sir”
Mahan nodded and looked aft across the shambles of the aft superstructure. Incredibly his crane crew had managed to save the casualty transfer rig and now a line of wounded were crossing the steadily-widening gap between the two ship. Looking back towards the stricken carrier, Mahan saw another explosion, this one was all internal, it was more like the sight of a snake swallowing its prey, a great gray lump running aft along the ship's side, a mixture of black, gray and white smoke erupting in its wake.
Through his binoculars he could see Surgeon-Commander Stennis and Chaplain Westover surrounded by smoke and wreckage yet still frantically getting the litters carrying the wounded attached to the transfer rig. The Chaplain was dragging the men over while the Doc was getting them attached to the transfer system. While Mahan watched, two, three, four litters started the ride over to Fargo. Then, Mahan lost sight of the two men in the burgeoning smoke cloud yet still the litters carrying the wounded came out of the elevator port. Then the world exploded.
The blast was terrible, a small volcano that tore apart the whole of Shiloh's forward port quarter the forward elevator erupted out of its housing and was thrown over 2,0000 feet into the air, flopping and turning like a giant pancake before crashing back into its well. A shower of wreckage scythed across the water towards Fargo, one piece of hangar side crushing the forward five inch mount like an eggshell. Other fragments splattered the whole forward part of the ship, much as grapeshot had hammered ship in the days of sail. Yet, as he picked himself up from the deck, Mahan realized it could have been much worse. If he had still been broadside on, the carnage among his men gathered on deck would have been appalling. As it was, that last minute break-away had meant they were protected by the bulk of the ship. There were dead and wounded, that would be for certain, but nothing like the butcher's bill that could have resulted from that dreadful explosion