“Change course to 310, Mr. Cooley,” Sam said, and then, to the Y-range operator, “Mr. Walters, give me a range as soon as you can.” Eleven knots. That sure sounded like a lumbering British freighter. He couldn’t think of any other kind of ship likely to be in these waters right now.
After a couple of more climbs to the crest, Walters said, “Sir, range is about six miles.”
“Thank you,” Sam answered. In good weather, the target would have been easily visible. Of course, for the limeys to bet that the weather off Newfoundland in November would be lousy gave odds a hell of a lot better than putting chips down on double-zero at the roulette table.
Before too long, the freighter did come into sight: a big, lumbering tub not much different from what Sam had expected. At his order, the wireless operator sent more code groups.
“Come up alongside, Mr. Cooley,” Sam said. “I think we’ll need to put a prize crew aboard.”
The Josephus Daniels was a tub herself, but she seemed all sharklike grace alongside the freighter. Sam handled the blinker himself, signaling, WHAT SHIP ARE YOU? HEAVE TO FOR BOARDING AND INSPECTION.
WE ARE THE KARLSKRONA. WE ARE SWEDISH. WE ARE NEUTRAL, came the reply.
“Fat chance,” Sam said. He signaled, HEAVE TO FOR BOARDING AND CONTRABAND INSPECTION. He called to the forward gun turret: “Put one across her bow if she doesn’t stop.”
She didn’t. The shot rang out. LAST WARNING, Sam signaled. Sailors ran across the Karlskrona’s deck. For a couple of seconds, Sam thought it was panic. Then, suddenly, he didn’t: it was too well organized, too well drilled.
“Sink that ship!” he shouted at the same time as Pat Cooley yelled, “She’s got guns!”
Ever since taking over the Josephus Daniels, Sam had concentrated on gunnery. His men hadn’t been the best then. They were now. He would have matched them against the gunners from any other destroyer escort in the Navy.
And they needed to be. He and Pat Cooley both exclaimed in horror when the armed freighter opened fire. The size of the spout that miss kicked up… “She’s got six-inchers!” Cooley yelped.
“Uh-huh,” Sam said grimly. The enemy outgunned his ship, and they weren’t far from point-blank range. A couple of hits could sink the Josephus Daniels. “Flank speed and zigzag, Mr. Cooley. Let’s not make it easy for them.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Cooley swung the wheel hard to port, then just as hard to starboard. Another great gout of water rose, this one closer to the destroyer escort. The limeys were getting the range.
But the Josephus Daniels’ gunners already had it. Both turrets were firing, and the ship’s violent maneuvers fazed them not a bit. “Hit!” Sam yelled, and then, “Hit!” again. He whooped after the second one-it was near the bow, where the freighter carried one of her guns. The destroyer escort’s twin 40mms opened up, too-they were close enough for them to reach the foe. He felt as if he’d fallen back in time to the War of 1812, when ships went toe to toe at short range and slugged away at each other till one surrendered or sank.
One of those big shells-the damn freighter had a light cruiser’s firepower-burst much too close to the Josephus Daniels’ stern. Shrapnel howled through the air. That one would cause casualties even if it was a miss. If the burst was close enough, it might spring hull plates, too, and make the destroyer escort’s seams leak. But it wouldn’t hurt her badly.
And she was chewing up the freighter. Her four-inch guns threw shells that weighed only a third as much as the enemy’s, but she fired much faster and she fired much straighter. “She’s on fire!” Pat Cooley yelled, and then, half a minute later, “She’s struck her colors!”
Sure enough, the freighter’s ensign came down, and a white flag of surrender went up to replace it. “Cease fire!” Sam ordered. The turrets stopped at once; the men at the antiaircraft guns needed a few seconds to get the word-or maybe they just didn’t want to hear it. That went against the rules, but not against human nature. “Approach to pick up survivors, Mr. Cooley,” Sam said. He told the men at the gun turrets what the destroyer escort was doing, and added, “If you see anybody going near her guns, open up again.”
But the freighter-Sam didn’t suppose she was really the Karlskrona-had no more fight in her. Her men were taking to the boats-which, in the North Atlantic, was no joke. Sam ordered nets lowered to let the British sailors come up the Josephus Daniels’ side. His own crew, armed with a couple of submachine guns, rifles, pistols, axes, and even some big wrenches, looked like a nineteenth-century boarding party as they took charge of the prisoners. The pharmacist’s mate had groaning wounded men to deal with.
Sam went down to the deck for a closer look at the vanquished enemy. The British skipper, a weary and bedraggled man with a horsy face and bad teeth, recognized him for the destroyer escort’s captain at once. “Well fought, sir,” the limey said, saluting. “Thought we might surprise you, but you maneuvered well-and those bloody guns! Damn me if I think you missed even once.”
“You gave us a nasty start,” Sam said. “You were loaded for bear, all right.” That probably made him sound like Daniel Boone to the Englishman, but he didn’t care. If the freighter’s gunners were better… But the best gun crews were bound to be in the Royal Navy. Little jaunts like this would have to take whoever was left, and whoever was left hadn’t been good enough.
“Kind of you to take us aboard, all things considered,” his opposite number said.
“If you’d fired after the white flag went up, I’d’ve sunk you,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “Short of that, though, I wouldn’t leave a ship’s cat in an open boat on the North Atlantic. I’ve been in the Navy better than thirty years. I’ve seen a few things I’d rather not see again, or think about, either.”
“I believe you, sir. I’m grateful all the same,” the Englishman said.
“Gratitude is worth its weight in gold,” Sam said, and the limey flinched. Sam went on, “You and your men are POWs now. We’ll take you back to the USA. When the war’s over, you can go home. For now…” For now, he thought, you didn’t blow me to hell and gone. I’ll take that.
Irving Morrell looked up into the western sky. A snowflake hit him right between the eyes. “By God, the bastards weren’t lying,” he breathed, and his breath smoked as if he had a cigarette in his mouth. Just this minute, he didn’t, though a pack sat in his pocket.
For once, the weathermen had hit things right on the button. They’d said this early snowstorm would get here now, and they were right. He’d gambled and held up his attack three days to wait for it, and his gamble looked as if it would pay off.
Meadville, Pennsylvania, lay in the foothills of the Alleghenies. Morrell stood on the grounds of Allegheny College. The Georgian and Greek Revival architecture told of timeless elegance and dedication to scholarship. But Confederate bombs and artillery had turned some of the buildings to ruins-not that the Greeks hadn’t wrecked masterpieces in their own wars. And the barrels snorting on the yellowing lawn were not in perfect keeping with an academic atmosphere.
Only a few blocks away stood the world’s biggest zipper factory. Morrell wondered if button manufacturers cursed Meadville whenever they thought of it. That wasn’t his worry, though. He aimed his curses at Jake Featherston, and before long he’d aim them through the barrel of a gun.
He scrambled up into the closest barrel, which was his to command. When the fighting started, he intended to lead from the front. Generals who stayed in back of the line soon lost track of what was really going on. Generals who didn’t stay back of the line often got killed, but Morrell refused to worry about that.