In the earphones, which felt warm and slippery, he heard Keith’s answering voice. “Conn, aye aye.”
“He’s turning toward us, Keith. He’s trying to ram!”
“Range four-five-oh yards. We’re tracking him on radar. What’s the angle on the bow?”
“Starboard ten — now it’s zero. He’s coming in!”
Richardson was holding the telephone speaker button down with his left hand, steadying the TBT binoculars with his right, as he watched the enemy bow swing, ominous and deadly, toward him. Perhaps it would not be necessary for the enemy ship to ram. The four-inch hits forward might already have done their business. An explosive, armor-piercing shell could shatter a huge hole through which the sea would pour in an impossible torrent. He half expected to feel Eel’s deck incline under his feet, her hull grow logy and slowly sink beneath him. But it had only been a few seconds since the double impact, although there might also have been one or two other hits of which he was not aware. The pressure hull, however, was well below the main deck. Much of it — nearly all of it — was below the waterline. In all likelihood it would be protected by the sea. If a shell did strike home, however, water would instantly follow.
“Main deck fore and aft. Number one and number two five-inch, are you still in commission?” He had not heard them firing in the last several seconds. To his relief, both gun captains answered, but his relief turned to despair when he heard their reports.
“Number one gun out of commission. Jammed in train. Several men hurt!”
“Number two gun out of ammunition. They can’t seem to get it up from below!”
“How many rounds you got, number one gun?”
“Four on deck.”
“Run them back to number two gun! Use the starboard side! Number two gun, set your range at zero and aim at the enemy’s waterline. Open fire as soon as you can!
“Maneuvering, are you on the line?”
“Maneuvering, aye aye!” He could imagine the avid attention with which the idle maneuvering room crew must have been following the telephone conversation which was their only link to the action topside.
“Shift your sticks into reverse. When I give the order to back emergency, put everything you can put to the screws. Give it all you’ve got, but watch your circuit breakers! Don’t blow them!” Richardson visualized the control sticks of the electric-control cubicle being placed in the position for backing, the battery readied to be thrown on the motor buses at full voltage and maximum current. It would be virtually a dead short through the main motors, and he would have to trust the good judgment of the electrician’s mates not to throw the current on so fast they burned out something.
Then Richardson had another idea. “Control, are you on the line?… Tell Mr. Dugan…”
“Al Dugan right here, Captain,” said the familiar voice in his earphones.
“Secure sending ammunition to number one gun! It’s jammed. See what you can do about breaking up the problem back aft. We need ammunition to number two five-inch!”
“I’ve already stopped ammunition forward. We’re checking on number two right now.”
“Get those wounded men on the forecastle below. As soon as everyone’s clear around number one gun, secure the gun access trunk!”
And then another thought. “Foxhole, if he hits us it’ll probably be up forward. Don’t take any chances. Get down inside and shut that hatch tight before he hits!” The enemy captain would expect Eel to try to escape by going ahead instead of astern. Astern was clearly the way to go. If there were a collision, it would be forward. Again Richardson was glad of the rigorous drill, and the careful communication setup so laboriously checked out by Keith and Buck. The enemy ship was coming in at dead slow speed, no doubt guided by some extraordinary individual still alive on the bridge, or possibly steering from an emergency steering station aft. The fifties were playing an absolute tattoo all over the large square bridge structure. No one could live under that hail of destruction. She was perceptibly lower in the water, much closer now, perhaps losing speed a trifle. Richardson could now see holes where the five-inch had entered. She was undoubtedly a shambles inside. No one could be alive in the forward part of the ship, except if well below the waterline. Only those people fortunate enough to be stationed aft of the large superstructure — which was stopping most of the automatic-weapon fire — could possibly be surviving. She must be steered from aft.
“Range two hundred yards. Speed five.” Keith’s voice steady, as always. He must be looking through the periscope at the same time he was relaying radar ranges and observed angles to Buck Williams. Amazing that he could see anything through it. Somewhere Keith must have picked up a telephone headset, for it was not in the original scheme that he also should wear one. Five knots. There had been just a shade of emphasis on the range. One hundred sixty six yards a minute. Perhaps this was why Keith had specified range two hundred yards. Rich had made all his dispositions but one. Eel’s bridge structure must not be permitted to mask her remaining five-inch gun as she backed clear.
“All back emergency!” yelled Richardson down the hatch and into the telephone mouthpiece as well. Surprisingly, he heard the click of the annunciators. There must have been a momentary hiatus in the noise level at precisely that instant. “Left full rudder!” he shouted. “Port TBT staying on target!” That would keep the gun firing on the beam, keep Eel’s bridge from getting in the way of the gun pointers. Cornelli had not had much to do for the last several minutes. He would put his full energy into getting the rudder left as fast as it ever had been done by hand. Buck would use the TBT bearings to keep his TDC lined up — though deflection angles would be of little use and even less importance at close range.
There was a burst of white water on either quarter, burbling up alongside with extraordinary speed. He could feel the acceleration jerk of 252 volts at full amperage suddenly thrown across the main motor armatures. Eel’s stern sagged downward slightly, then bobbed up as the racing propellers bit into the water. The wash thrown up by the straining screws swept high along the rounded belly of her ballast tanks on both sides, even splashed up onto the main deck opposite the silent mufflers of the after engineroom.
“Number two five-inch has ammunition, Bridge. We’re opening fire!” The announcement by telephone was almost blotted out by the roar of the five-inch gun, all the louder for having been awaited so long. At point-blank range the effect was tremendous. The shell struck the water just upon entry into the enemy bow a few feet on the starboard side of her stem, must have traveled nearly the entire length of the enemy ship before exploding somewhere in its after portion. Richardson could see water pouring through the neat round hole it had made in the bow shell plating. The fifty-caliber machine guns were coming into their own at the close range. The “foxhole,” particularly, maintained an enfilading crossfire that swept the enemy decks from a totally different direction. In the meantime, Eel’s surprise movement astern was carrying her to starboard of the enemy, curving to her own port. The second shot of the five-inch gun consequently entered the tincan’s side somewhere in the vicinity of the bridge, traveled on an angular course entirely through the ship, and detonated in the water beyond it. The splash of the underwater explosion threw up a column of spray behind the tortured hulk. It was clear now that the enemy ship would miss in its desperate charge, was, in fact, no longer manageable.
Richardson was suddenly conscious of Keith’s presence alongside of him on the bridge as the third and then the fourth devastating blows from the five-inch were dealt. Eel, in her curving reverse course, had in effect maneuvered so that the enemy remained constantly on her port beam as he staggered the last hundred yards of his final, hopeless effort. Now the Mikura-class frigate lay on the water, tired, prostrate, visibly sinking.