In the After Torpedo Room Billy-Joe “Spook” Hernandez, Torpedoman First Class, narrowed his large brown eyes as the telephone talker in the After Room repeated the conversations in the Control Room.
“Son of a bitch has heard us!” Hernandez said. “Nineteen years in this fucking Navy, twelve years in submarines and now I’m gonna get depth charged for the first time!” He moved suddenly and snatched one of the big Y-wrenches used to open the torpedo tube outer doors from an empty lower bunk. He handed it to an engine room oiler who was lying in an upper bunk.
“Make love to this son of a bitch, hug it, don’t let it hit nothin’ and make a noise if that Jap bastard drops charges on us! Listen to that son of a bitch come!”
The sound of the Fubuki’s twin screws was drumming at the Mako’s thin hull as the destroyer neared. Captain Hinman gripped the edge of the chart table in his hands, his eyes turning upward.
“He knows we’re here or he doesn’t,” he said in a low voice. “And we’re going to find out damned soon!”
The sound of the destroyer’s screws increased until it was a deafening roar and then began to recede.
“Mr. Cohen says the destroyer did not drop any charges!” the telephone talker said suddenly.
“How in the hell would he know in all that racket?” Hinman muttered. “But if he did drop we’d know it by now.” He turned to the chart and the plotting board.
“He must figure there’s more than one of us here,” Hinman said to Brannon. “He’s going to gather up his one sheep he’s got left and get it the hell out of here with one of his other tin cans, I’d guess. Then he’ll come back and try to find us. So let’s go back to where we came from. He shouldn’t guess we’d do that.
“Work out the course and give it to Mr. Simms.” He moved to one side so Brannon could work at the small chart table. Hinman and Brannon turned as the telephone talker cleared his throat.
“Mr. Cohen reports that the ship that went over us has slowed and there’s a lot of pinging bearing one seven zero.” Hinman nodded.
“Mr. Cohen says one ship is pinging and that he has three sets of screws on a course zero one five relative, and they’re moving away from us.”
“He’s formed up with his tanker and one of his tin cans and left one can to search for us,” Hinman said. He grinned suddenly. “We guessed right!”
Brannon nodded. “That Nate Cohen is one hell of a man on the sound gear, Captain.”
“I don’t have to be told the capabilities of my officers, Mike,” Captain Hinman’s voice was low. He turned and went through the water-tight door to the Wardroom.
The Mako crept silently through the sea, blind at 150 feet but able to hear. In the Forward Torpedo Room sweating men worked in the stifling, close heat to turn the two big sound heads that projected beneath Mako’s hull by hand.
“Son of a bitch doesn’t care if we all get a hernia,” Ginty grunted to Dusty Rhodes. “Fucking Kike officer on them earphones ain’t heard shit for an hour. Why the fuck doesn’t the Old Man go back to hydraulic power?”
“He thinks you need the exercise,” Rhodes said. “Stand clear and let me have a turn at that back-breaker. Take five.”
“Fucking Jap could hear me puffing for air if he’d listen,” Ginty grunted and slumped against a torpedo rack. “You wait, when the Old Man does give the order to belay this heavin’ around and go back to hydraulic power he’s gonna want the fucking tubes reloaded and I’ll bet a case of beer that he’s gonna want that done without making any noise! How the fuck do you reload four fish up here without making no noise?”
“You do it quietly,” Rhodes grunted.
Another two hours crept by with the team of Lieut. Nathan Cohen, USNR, and Billy Stratton, Radioman Second Class, USN, listening to the sounds picked up by the slowly turning sound heads and finding nothing of interest to report. Cohen looked around at a touch on his shoulder.
“Still getting nothing, Mr. Cohen?”
“Nothing of interest, Captain. There’s a lot of shrimp on the bottom but they’re not causing us any trouble. I heard a whale a while ago, blowing on the surface. That might be a sign that the surface is clear of ships. Whales are generally pretty shy.” Hinman nodded and turned away. He went over to the chart table and looked at the ship’s track Brannon had drawn in. He looked at his watch.
“It’s been three hours and five minutes since we had any sound of the other ships. Let’s go back to hydraulic power, Mr. Simms. Pass the word to stand easy at Battle Stations but maintain silence about the decks. Galley can serve coffee to each compartment. I’ll give you the word on breakfast a little later. I want a report from Sound every five minutes. Mike, bring your charts into the Wardroom.”
Lieut. Peter Simms issued the orders he had been given and turned to the Torpedo and Gunnery Officer, Lieut. Don Grilley. “That’s one hell of a man, that Captain!”
“Depends on your definition of a man,” Grilley said softly. “He’s efficient. He knows his job. But there are times when he turns as cold as a dry hole in an oil field. Hard man to figure out. If that makes him a hell of a naval officer I won’t argue. I’m just an unemployed geologist.”
“And a damned Reservist, a feather merchant!” Simms said. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. Grilley took in his aggressive stance and grinned.
“I’ll say one thing for the Old Man,” he said, his own smile hardening. “We gave him good fish and exploders that worked and he’s one hell of a good shot!” He turned his back on Simms and took a cup of coffee offered to him by one of the watch standers.
Mike Brannon spread his charts out on the Wardroom table and smiled his thanks at Tommy Thompson, the Officers’ Cook, who had put a cup of coffee in front of him. He spooned sugar into the coffee and poured canned milk into it until the liquid turned a creamy yellow.
“We’ll be back at our submerged patrol line along the coast in two hours and ten minutes, Captain,” Brannon said. Hinman nodded and reached for the sound-powered telephone on the bulkhead.
“This is the Captain speaking,” he said softly to the talkers manning the telephones. “I want to see the Chief of the Boat in the Wardroom.”
Dusty Rhodes pulled aside the green baize curtain that served as a door to the Wardroom and stepped into the Wardroom and stood at attention.
“At ease, Chief,” Hinman said. — How long will it take to reload the tubes in both rooms? I want it done with no noise.” Rhodes thought a moment, his eyes half-closed.
“Twenty minutes, sir. Give or take a couple of minutes.”
“Can we do both rooms at once or would you rather do one at a time with you in charge of each operation?”
“Both at once, sir. Spook is a good man back aft. If I tell him no noise he won’t make any noise.”
“Ginty?”
“Ginty is touchy but not the way Hernandez is. If I go up forward and heave around Ginty will think he’s in charge but with me there he won’t holler and stomp and yell at all hands.”
Hinman nodded and reached for the telephone.
“Control Room. This is the Captain. Tell Mr. Simms that we’re going to reload four tubes forward and two aft. When he’s made his weight compensations ask Mr. Simms to tell the Chief of the Boat to start the reload.” He turned to Rhodes.
“Control Room will give you the word when to start. Do it as quickly and as quietly as possible.”
Eighteen minutes later Rhodes knocked softly on the bulkhead of the Wardroom, pushed aside the curtain and stepped in. He was panting and his shirt was black with sweat.