“Execute the course and speed changes at the proper time,” Brannon said. He waited, feeling the vibration in the deck under his feet as the Eelfish picked up speed and began to turn to starboard, heeling sharply. A bow wave curled over the starboard side of the bow and splashed the gun sponson. Brannon felt a sudden alarm. If a Japanese lookout on one of the ships out there saw the bow wave there would be hell to pay. He gritted his teeth, watching for a searchlight signal, a star shell from the convoy, a sign that Eelfish had been seen. The convoy plodded southward without a change of course or speed, and Brannon let his breath go out in a long sigh. He bent to the bridge transmitter.
“Mr. Lee!” Brannon’s voice was sharp. “You will execute speed changes after a change of course. Repeat, execute speed changes after a change of course. We made a big bow wave and there’s some moon and starshine up here. You were given the order to change course and speed. You will do it in the future in that manner.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Lee’s voice was subdued. Eelfish rushed through the night toward the convoy’s wake. Down below in the ship the telephone talkers relayed the conversation to the people at battle stations.
“Old Man’s getting cranky,” a reload man in the After Torpedo Room said with a grin. “Chewin’ that feather merchant’s ass out in public.”
“He’s got a right to do that,” Fred Nelson said. He glared at the torpedomen and the reload crew under his charge, his fierce eyes staring from either side of a big, hooked nose.
“Old Man’s fighting this ship. You do what he says you do. You do it right, first time. Without being told to do it right. That’s what bein’ a submarine man is all about. You do things right the first time without being told how to do it.” He turned as the telephone talker raised a hand.
“Lee is asking for permission to execute a right turn and to open the outer doors in the Forward Room before he goes to flank speed,” the talker said.
“Fucker’s gettin’ smart,” Nelson grunted. “He’s the Gunnery Officer. He should know you can’t open them outer doors on the tubes in the Forward Room you goin’ faster’n ten knots. Not without gettin’ a hernia.”
“Old Man gave him an ‘execute.’ Here we go: Open doors on tubes in the After Room!”
“What doors, fuckhead?” Nelson snarled. He grabbed a Y-wrench and fitted it in place on the stud that opened the torpedo tube outer doors.
“Outer doors,” the telephone talker said.
“Do your fuckin’ job right, first time,” Nelson snapped.
“All torpedo tube outer doors open, Bridge,” Lee reported. “Steady on course one eight zero, making turns for flank speed.”
“Very well,” Brannon answered. “Give me a shooting setup on this Tail End Charlie at the after end of the convoy. He sure as hell isn’t an escort, he’s a small island freighter.
“I want to take him as we go by him at eight hundred yards if that’s okay without any big course changes.
“Keep that problem running and then give me a shooting set-up on the bigger ship that will be to our port as we come up on the second line of ships in the convoy. I’ll take Tail End Charlie as we go into the convoy, and then I’ll take the bigger ship on our port hand and after that it will be Beulah bar the door!” He drew a deep breath.
“Now hear this,” he said into the bridge transmitter. “This is the Captain. We’ve maneuvered into position astern of a convoy of five ships and at least three escorts. We’re going to run the Eelfish right up under their skirts from the rear and give them a goosing like they never had before!” He straightened up and looked at John Olsen.
“John, I want you on the TBT on the cigaret deck. You use the fish in the After Room. Shoot if you see a good target. Keep me informed. Save at least two fish in case those escorts try to run up our backsides.” Olsen nodded and ran back to the Target Bearing Transmitter, a pair of night binoculars mounted on a pelorus that transmitted the relative bearings of a target to the Conning Tower.
In the Forward Torpedo Room Steve Petreshock slapped his hand against the warhead of a reload torpedo, his face exultant.
“Hear that?” he said to the torpedomen and the reload crew. “Hear that? The Old Man’s gonna go right up their ass on the surface. He’s got the gun crews standing by in the Control Room. He’s gonna raise hell!”
“I heard what he said,” one of the reload crew said. “I heard him say there’s at least three escorts up there. Three of them Jap destroyers can make us mighty sick. Ship’s cook told me there’s only a hundred and eighty feet of water in this fuckin’ place. That ain’t enough water.”
“Knock off the shit,” Petreshock snapped. “You engine room snipes ain’t good for anything but cleaning the bilges and being in the reload crew because all you’ve got goin’ for you is a strong back. This Old Man knows what he’s doin’. He’s a fightin’ son of a bitch!”
In the Control Room Bob Lee looked down at the neat plot John Olsen had drawn of the maneuvering of the Eelfish and his own additions to the plot. It all looked so, well, school-bookish, he thought. Like a problem out of a book about how to solve the problem of firing torpedoes at an enemy. All neat and easy. Elementary. He looked at the Chief of the Boat, Chief Torpedoman Joseph “Monk” Flanagan, who was lounging against the ladder to the Conning Tower, his eyes hidden behind the dark-red night-vision adaptation goggles. Flanagan’s jaws moved constantly as he chewed on a large wad of gum. Lee bent over the plotting board as Rafferty and Jim Michaels began to feed Arbuckle and Lee a stream of data. He heard Arbuckle’s voice in the Conning Tower.
“Bridge, you’ve got a solution on the first target. Range to the target is eight five zero yards, repeat eight hundred and fifty yards.”
“Stand by forward,” Brannon said. “Stand by… don’t get me off course, damn it! Stand by…
“Fire one!” Brannon yelled. He felt the jolt in his feet and legs as the 3,000-pound torpedo hurtled out of the torpedo tube, driven by a giant fist of compressed air and water, its steam turbines screaming into life as the torpedo passed down the tube. He counted down from six to one.
“Fire two!”
“Give me more speed, damn it! Give me a solution on that second target.” He heard Olsen’s voice from the cigaret deck before he heard the crumping boom of a torpedo exploding against a ship.
“Hit!” Olsen yelled. “You got a hit on the first target! Second fish missed ahead.”
“Give me a setup on the second target, damn it!” Brannon yelled.
“You can shoot, Bridge.” Arbuckle’s voice was high with excitement. “You can shoot!”
“Fire three!” Brannon yelled. He counted down to one.
“Fire four!” He spun and looked to starboard. “Target to starboard in the second row is turning away to starboard,” Brannon yelled into the bridge transmitter. “Give me a setup on that target!”
“Escort coming in from starboard, bearing one one zero!” The starboard lookout’s voice was a high scream.
“Hit!” Brannon yelled. “Hit on the second target!” He stared for a few seconds at the orange blossom of flame at the second target’s starboard bow.
“Battle stations surface!” Brannon yelled. He jumped to one side as Chief Flanagan literally seemed to bounce upward out of the hatch, and then he disappeared over the side of the bridge rail. He heard the Chief of the Boat’s voice cursing as he wrestled open the ammunition lockers in the Conning Tower fairing as the gun crews poured upward out of the hatch and went over the rail.