Both forward and aft the sailors crouched, watching the boatswain mate on the Stevens. There was nothing to hide behind unless you were on the bridge.
The monkey fist on the end of the gunline was halfway across before the shotgun sound reached the Squallfish. The line crossed over the aft deck, splashing into the starboard-side waters. The Squallfish sailors pulled the line from the water. Then, hand over hand, they began pulling the line from the Stevens as sailors on board the DE played it out. Across the narrowing curtain of water separating the two warships, the larger phone and distance line— PD line, it was called — followed the gunline.
Shipley watched as the first of the distance flags started its transit across the narrow distance between the two ships, now traveling alongside each other at four knots. The Stevens took the wind on its starboard beam. Green, red, yellow, blue, and white flags decorated the distance between the submarine and the surface warship. Each flag represented 20 yards of separation. The second red flag emerged as the first green flag reached the Squall-fish. About 120 yards of separation. Never forget how far away a ship is from colliding with you, Shipley thought.
Along with the distance flags trailed a sound-powered telephone line beneath them. When it reached the Squallfish, one of the sailors disconnected part of the phone line, raced over to the tower, climbed up it, and quickly handed the telephone to Shipley. He pressed the talk button and discovered the commanding officer of the Stevens, Commander Hewitt Stewart, on the other end.
Shipley looked over at the Stevens. The sailors were pulling in the distance line. The red flag was back aboard it with the green flag, marking 100 yards, seemingly inching back aboard the Stevens.
After the obligatory greetings and exchanges, Stewart informed Shipley he was transporting a young lieutenant and two photographer mates with him. During the conversation, Shipley leaned down to the hatch and ordered rudder shifts to keep the Squallfish and the Stevens at about 120 yards of separation.
As the two commanding officers talked, the Stevens lowered a motor whaleboat, and within minutes the team of three was aboard. The young lieutenant saluted Shipley before Squallfish sailors hustled them down the aft hatch. Movies from the Stevens followed, and his own movies went into the motor whaleboat. Ships at sea exchanged movies seen or movies hated whenever they chanced upon each other in the oceans or in foreign ports. Much to annoyance of the Navy film librarian — several of whom the Navy had had quit in frustration trying to keep track of the films.
Shipley lifted the telephone to his ear as the motor whaleboat started its trip back to the Stevens. A gust of wind nearly took his watch cap off his head, causing him to slap his hand up to hold it down. The earlier, taut distance line between the two vessels dipped suddenly. Sailors on board the Stevens were hurrying to pull the distance line in, but as Shipley watched, he saw the blue flag marking 80 yards pass over the transom of the warship, and the line was still dipping. The wind was pushing the Stevens toward the Squallfish.
“Captain,” Shipley said, “thanks for the movies and the personnel. The wind is pushing you toward us. I’m going to cast off.”
“Good sailing to you, sir,” Stewart replied. “The Stevens will be on station near this location until you return. It’s all in the packet sent over with Lieutenant Logan. You got him now. I wish you the best,” he finished with a chuckle.
Shipley dropped the sound-powered phone over the edge of the bridge to the sailor below.
Ames lowered the telephone and shouted down to the boatswain mates on the deck of the Stevens. The Stevens’s sailors picked up the pace of hauling the line back aboard.
Shipley watched for a few seconds as the Squallfish chief directed the playing out of the line. The line lay in a loose coil on the deck. If they shoved all of it into the water at one time instead of waiting until it reached the bitter end, there was a risk of the line wrapping around the shaft and propeller.
A couple more minutes and they would be free and safe. The yellow flag marking 40 yards dipped and went into the water. A stronger gust of wind whipped across the bridge. The stern of the Stevens turned toward them. Stewart disappeared into the bridge. The wake of the Stevens showed that the destroyer escort’s skipper was putting over a hard right rudder.
The smallest of the antisubmarine warships in the U.S. Navy looked awfully big as it closed the distance between them.
Too late to be concerned about the shaft and propeller. The submarine was in danger. He leaned over the tower stanchion, shouting, “Chief, shove the line into the water! Now! Get the men belowdecks!”
The coil of line hit the water. There was no more physical contact between the two ships and no danger to the sailors manning the line.
Squallfish sailors were hustling down the aft escape hatch. Shipley bent down to the hatch. “XO! Immediate left full rudder! All ahead ten knots!”
“Aye, sir; left full rudder, helmsman!” came Arneau’s muffled command. “Increase speed ten knots!”
The Stevens was still bearing down on them. Shipley shouted through the hatch, his eyes on the destroyer escort, “XO, all head full!”
His view was blocked by dark gray of the Stevens. The yellow flag was being pulled aboard the Stevens. On board the warship towering above them the sides were manned by sailors watching the two ships fight to avoid collision. The bow of the World War II DE edged to starboard, but the World War II steam engines of the warship responded slower than the diesels of the Squallfish.
The boatswain mates on board the Stevens pulled the last of the line on board, the bitter end banging against its side as it cleared the water. Water dripped from the black telephone receiver.
The diesels kicked in as the submarine raced to full speed. The Squallfish tilted to port as it pushed away from the destroyer. The stern of the Stevens whipped toward the stern of the Squall-fish. Shipley braced for the collision, gripping the stanchion with one hand as the other reached for the collision alarm. His finger was on the red button, but at the last instant the vintage destroyer’s propellers churned the water, throwing up a huge wave that washed across the aft end of the submarine. The wave caught two of his sailors, throwing them to the deck and pushing them toward the smooth side of the submarine. He watched, unable to do anything, as the two fought for handholds on the metal deck of the submarine.
The chief leaped toward them. As the chief hit the deck prong, another sailor grabbed his legs, sticking his boondockers into the narrow ridges between the wooden planking of the deck. The chief managed to grab both sailors by the arms as they slid toward the icy North Sea.
The stern of the Stevens opened the distance between them. When Shipley looked back, the two sailors were being hustled belowdecks. Their faces looked blue from the drenching. He knew that once below, in the relative warmth of the submarine, they’d quickly recover. Knowing they were entitled to medicinal brandy would also help them recover.