“Range is two-oh-five-oh, commence firing,” reported Quin breathlessly.
BAM BAM! The two five-inch guns went off almost simultaneously. Two brilliant flashes of orange-yellow flame on the main deck. A few seconds’ delay, then BAM BAM once more, and then for a third time the twin salvo roared out. The two guns gradually diverged in time as the gun crews vied with each other in ejecting the expended shell cases, slamming the new shells into the breeches, clearing away the hot brass from around the guns, keeping the ammunition train going. The forward gun was firing a split-second faster than the after gun, but it had a longer ammunition train and no ammunition supply scuttle through the main deck. For prolonged firing the after gun would be able to maintain a more rapid pace. At the moment, however, the two guns were firing ammunition laid out on deck. It was an outburst of frenzied action.
For a few seconds, Richardson could abandon himself to the role of spectator, watching the fall of shot, observing the enemy reaction. He could even watch the trajectory of his own five-inch projectiles by the faint glow put in the base of each to assist in spotting. The first two must have landed simultaneously; one, or perhaps both, in the water only yards in front of the approaching destroyer. The resulting splash — almost a vertical column of water — was as high as the top of her mast. It must have deluged the crew on deck around her gun. The second and third he could not see, nor the fourth and fifth, but then he began to see splashes in the water beyond, half concealed by the bulk of the approaching ship.
“Down two hundred!” he shouted to Quin. He heard Quin repeat the message to Keith. First shots were almost always short in range because of the cold gun effect. It was quite possible that one or two had hit the enemy already. With no range correction, the next shots might be over. At the short range, any splashes immediately beyond the target, as long as they were in line, must however have been from shells which had torn their way through her superstructure. He lined up the TBT, pressed the button. That would send down a deflection correction, if one was needed.
“Mr. Keith says periscope agrees with down two hundred,” said Quin. “Range is now fifteen hundred, TDC.”
Richardson seized a moment of silence while both deck guns were loading, yelled, “Forties, open fire on target’s bridge!”
This too had been rehearsed. Instantaneously the monotonous, sharp WHACK, WHACK, WHACK of the forties began, their crews racing about, jerking the quadruple clips from their racks, slamming them into their loading slides. The forties were fitted with tracers and had almost a flat trajectory. He could see them, arching only slightly, reaching toward the enemy ship. Some were exploding on contact. The others, armor-piercing, were going into the dark hull. An unearthly glow suffused the escort’s angular silhouette as they struck, or as the tracers illuminated it briefly on passing, leaving its dark bulk even blacker on the black sea. There was another flash of flame on her foredeck, only the fourth or fifth. She was not making nearly so good practice (as the old gunnery saying went) as Eel. A critical factor, of course, was that the submarine had more than double the heavy armament. Furthermore, the forties had aircraft proximity fuses. Some of their bursts were not on impact but in the air, over the deck. They must be inflicting terrible casualties on exposed personnel. So far, the enemy tincan had not opened up with any automatic weapons — undoubtedly because, coming end-on as she was, her own bridge and superstructure masked at least some of them. But now there came a series of red flashes from the top of her bridge structure. Someone had got a machine gun going up there. It was small, however, probably no larger than fifty-caliber, hardly able to reach effectively across the intervening half-mile or more to the submarine.
So far Eel had received no hits, and at the same time Richardson was certain that his five-inchers must have struck the enemy several times. Clearly, the forty-millimeters were hitting repeatedly. Several times he had heard a whistling, tearing sound, knew it to be the passage of a large-caliber shell overhead. The closest must have passed a good ten feet above the bridge. The enemy was shooting over. That was a good sign. Eel’s own five-inchers must have pumped out ten shots each by now. Surely they had already dealt significant damage.
“Range one thousand yards!” shouted Quin in his ear, screaming to be heard above the monotonous regular pounding of the forties.
“All right, men!” yelled Richardson, pounding the shoulders of the group huddled with the fifty-calibers alongside him on the bridge. His gesture took in the twenty-millimeter crew. “Commence fire! All weapons!”
It was like a jet of fire spurting from Eel’s bridge. Three thin arcs of fifty-caliber tracer ammunition, arching fairly high, dropped upon the enemy ship, as did a pair of twin tracers arching slightly less high from the twenty-millimeter mount immediately aft. Up forward, from the forward torpedo room trunk, another single arc of fifty-caliber tracers streamed out toward the enemy.
The five-inchers were methodically continuing their destructive pounding. Their pace was slower now, having used up the ready ammunition laid out in advance. The pointers by consequence were aiming each shot with careful deliberation.
“Enemy speed has slowed to eight knots,” shouted Quin. They had hurt her. If the damage was to her main propulsion plant, while Eel’s was still in full commission — assuming the men in the after engineroom had been able to get the leak under control—Eel could probably outrun her. If the damage were to her hull, so that the tincan’s skipper had been forced to reduce speed because she was taking water, so much the better. But, of course, slowing might have been for some other reason, not related to damage.
Richardson had only to give the order for the full power of Eel’s two batteries, quickly followed by the hastily started diesels, to begin escape and evasion. He could head the ship southwest. Perhaps regain contact with the last fleeing transport if Whitefish had not sunk her. Possibly, somehow, he might one more time find the means to bring Whitefish into contact for one last attack with her remaining torpedoes. Perhaps, now that the troopship was bereft of escorts, Eel might be able to sink her by gunfire in a night action. If his brain was still able to function to plan the search. If he could find her, after all these hours. Provided there was still no air cover, or that the tincan did not get to her first.
But running would only hand the initiative over to the enemy. Once the tincan skipper was released from the pressure of Eel’s fire, he could more easily cope with whatever damage he had sustained, reorganize his gun crews, and resume the pursuit. Logically, he would put his major effort into getting his biggest weapon, the four-inch gun on his forecastle, back in commission. On the other hand, Eel’s five-inch guns would have to be silenced. It would be too risky to keep gun crews on the submarine’s low, wave-swept deck at high speed, and even more hazardous to keep hatches open and ammunition trains functioning. The tincan would have unopposed target practice with his four-incher as long as he could keep the sub in range. A single chance hit could easily turn the tables a second time.
Richardson would always say he had not yet made up his mind which course to follow, when he saw the silhouette of the enemy ship broaden. There was a moment of exultation as he watched the tincan swing away, and then he realized what the enemy skipper was doing. He was unmasking his guns aft, presenting his broadside. Coming in bows-on had prevented effective use of his own gun battery. Perhaps he had also needed a little time to get it organized. Eel, after all, had had ten minutes of precious preparation time before she surfaced, and since that moment less than three minutes had yet elapsed.