“Deck guns standing by and ready,” Flanagan’s voice was a bull-like roar from the deck.
“Collision!” the starboard lookout screamed. Brannon jumped in panic.
“Collision between that big ship on this side and the escort that was comin’ in,” the lookout yelled. Brannon whirled and saw the two ships locked together, the larger ship’s bow buried deeply in the small escort vessel.
“Olsen!” Brannon shouted. “Shoot at those two ships!”
“Escort comin’ in from the port side, bearing zero two zero, Bridge!” the port lookout was yelling loudly. “Son of a bitch is shootin’, Bridge!”
“Forward gun!” Brannon shouted over the bridge rail. “Take that escort under fire! Adjust fire by shell splashes!”
The deck gun boomed, and Brannon saw a column of water rise on the port side of the onrushing escort vessel. The gun roared again and a second column of water soared upward in the moonlight, close to the escort’s bow. The escort began to turn to its starboard and Brannon heard John LaMark, the Gunner’s Mate on the 1.1 quad pom-pom, yelling from the cigaret deck.
“I can hit that bastard, Bridge!”
“Commence firing, pom-pom!” Brannon yelled. He watched as the deadly “Chicago Piano” began to spit its stream of high explosive shells toward the escort vessel. As he turned away to look around he heard LaMark’s high-pitched yelclass="underline" “Gotcha, you bastard!”
“Hit!” Olsen was yelling from the cigaret deck above the steady roar of the pom-pom. “Hit, dead center!”
“Plot,” Brannon yelled into the Bridge transmitter, “give me a setup on the ships up ahead, damn it!”
“We’ve lost contact, Bridge,” Jim Michaels called out. “Last time we had a contact with them they were going in all directions, sir!”
Brannon heard Flanagan’s yell from the forward deck and turned and saw the escort vessel, its bridge a burning wreck, reeling under the combined assault of the 5.25-inch deck gun and the pom-pom. He saw a sudden explosion in the escort’s hull and the ship began to roll over.
“Cease firing!” Brannon shouted. “Radar, give me a picture of what we’ve got. Olsen, what in the hell is going on back aft?”
“The target that collided with the escort is sinking, sir.” Olsen’s voice was cracking with excitement. “The escort he hit broke up and went down. The first target you shot at, back aft, has rolled over, bottom side up. Second target is down by the bow but still underway.”
“Plot,” Brannon snapped into the transmitter. “Give me a course and bring me in to six hundred yards on that second target. We’ll take him with gunfire.”
“Come right to zero zero five, Bridge,” Lee answered.
“Execute course change,” Brannon ordered. He waited as the Eelfish heeled around in a sharp turn and steadied, running toward the second target.
“Radar range to the second target is six zero zero, repeat six hundred yards, Bridge,” Lee said.
“Both deck guns, set range six hundred yards,” Brannon called out. “Commence firing!”
He flinched as the two 5.25-inch deck guns roared in unison and then settled down to a steady barrage of fire. He saw the flashes of the hits in the ship’s bridge and superstructure and then a steady series of explosions as the gunners lowered their sights and began to pound at the ship’s hull. A great gush of steam and fire exploded out of the target’s midships section, and the ship seemed to rear slightly, like a wounded animal. Then it broke in two and the bow and stern began to drift apart.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Brannon yelled. “Plot, give me some information, damn it!”
“Ships up ahead have all disappeared from the radar scope, Bridge. We can come left to course one eight five, Bridge. That will take us toward where the rest of the convoy was when we started the action.”
“Close torpedo tube outer doors,” Brannon said. “Secure the Battle Surface party. Make the course change and give me turns for flank speed as soon as the torpedo tube doors are closed.” He went to the port side of the bridge as the deck gun crews poured into the bridge and went below. When the last of the gunners had gone below Brannon bent to the bridge transmitter.
“We’ll stay on this course until we see the other targets or we’re sure they got away,” he said. “Give me a constant radar sweep until further orders.” He straightened up and looked at the luminous dial of his wrist watch, blinked his eyes and looked again. He had opened fire on the Tail End Charlie at 0130. The minute hand on his watch was creeping toward four minutes after two. Thirty-four minutes? He shook his head. It had seemed more like thirty-four hours. He felt a hand touch his arm and turned and saw Olsen.
“I got a hit, Skipper! First torpedo I ever fired at an enemy ship and I hit him right in the midships section. That ship that was all tangled up with the escort!” His face suddenly sobered. “I missed with the second fish but I hit him good with the first one, blew him apart!”
“You had a sitting duck,” Brannon scoffed. Then he reached out and found Olsen’s right hand and pumped it with his own.
“I’m kidding, John! You did a damned fine job. You covered our stern and kept me informed.” He paused. “I wonder where in the hell those other ships went? There were two of them in that front line of ships and one escort.”
“We plotted them at ten knots,” Olsen said slowly. “I guess they could make fifteen, anyway. They were a good what, twenty-five hundred yards ahead of Tail End Charlie when you started shooting. How long were we engaged?”
“Thirty-four minutes,” Brannon answered. Olsen nodded and did the mathematics in his head.
“They could have gotten about fourteen, fifteen thousand yards out ahead of us plus the distance we lost when we turned and went back to take that one freighter with the deck guns. Jim Michaels said that we picked them up at fifteen thousand yards because there were several of them together. If they scattered and were that far out in front we might not be able to make a radar contact.”
Brannon nodded and turned to stare at the dim horizon aft of the Eelfish. “I’ve got a hunch that we’ll have company, John. The Japanese have aircraft at Tacloban, and there’s enough moon and starshine to help them if they come out to search for us. Go below and get our position nailed down and put me on a course back to the patrol area. Pass the word to stand easy on Battle Stations. Galley can serve coffee. Smoking lamp is lighted. I’ll keep the deck watch until we secure from General Quarters. Send the regular lookouts up as soon as they’re adapted to night vision.” Olsen dropped down the hatch. The regular lookouts came up to the bridge a half hour later and as the Battle Stations Surface lookouts went below Brannon patted each man on the back and murmured a “well done.”
“Contact! Aircraft bearing one six zero, Bridge!”
“Clear the bridge!” Brannon yelled. He waited until the last lookout had dropped down the hatch and then he punched the diving alarm with the heel of his hand and punched it once more. He went down the hatch, pulling the hatch cover closed behind him, and the Eelfish slid quietly under the sea.
CHAPTER 2
Edward “Doc” Wharton, the ship’s Chief Pharmacist’s Mate and the only medical man aboard the Eelfish, was loading a syringe in the Crew’s Mess. His patient, the second loader on the forward deck gun, was seated at a mess table. One man on each side of the second loader held him as he fought for breath in tortured gasps. Wharton slid the needle gently into the flesh of the man’s muscular shoulder and pressed the plunger home as Chief Flanagan walked into the compartment.