Malloy had long since ceased bracing himself for each salvo from the guns.
Keeping one arm wrapped around a bracket, he stayed close to the 21MC intercom speaker and concentrated on dodging the increasingly accurate shell bursts.
After a little more than ten minutes, they’d closed another six miles on the target, dropping the range to about thirteen and a half miles. His guns grew more accurate as the range decreased, but the enemy’s accuracy was improving as well. A shorter range meant a smaller time of flight, less dispersion in the fall of shot, and even reduced error in the range-finding equipment.
The Wisconsin’s guns fired again, and Malloy ordered another course change, this time back to a starboard “tack.” The trick was to get the ship’s rudder over and steady up quickly. The turret crews were reloading while the guns pivoted to the opposite side, and if everything went by the numbers, rate of fire wasn’t affected in the slightest.
Another line of shell bursts tore up the ocean, close aboard, just off the port side. A fraction of a second later, the water on either side of the Wisconsin vanished in tower columns of yellowish spray. The ship shook violently as a ball of black smoke and orange flame cloaked her forecastle. They’d been hit!
Malloy leaned forward, peering out through the bridge windows. He couldn’t see the damage. Even with the wind created by the battleship’s speed, the shell smoke streamed astern only slowly.
As if to reassure him, all three turrels fired on schedule, and Malloy ordered a change in speed and direction almost by reflex. When the gun smoke cleared, the site of the shell hit was visible-a small, ugly hole forward of the Wisconsin’s Number One turret, slightly to port.
It was a solid hit, and he shuddered to think of the damage their escort destroyer, the Scott, would have suffered from that impact. The
Wisconsin, though, had three armored decks. The top deck, the one penetrated, was three inches thick. A second right below the first was twice as thick. All told, nine inches of solid armor had easily stopped the force of the 155mm, exploding shell.
But not all of his ship’s vital areas were so well protected. Malloy could only hope there wouldn’t be many more like that.
TABLE MOUNTAIN
Sergeant Skuller listened to the news with incredulity. The A Gun had taken a direct hit on its gun shield. The impact had pushed the thirteen-ton artillery piece twenty meters back down the tunnel, killing its crew instantly and mixing them with their weapon in an unholy tangle of metal and flesh.
Another enemy salvo shook C Gun’s tunnel. The mountain could absorb a lot of punishment, thank God. The little bit that reached them was bad enough.
“Calling C Gun. Are you all right?” Lieutenant Dassen sounded shaken.
Skuller waited a beat as Hiller pressed the firing switch. The gun’s breech leapt backward. Even when wearing protective earphones the noise was almost deafening.
“We’re fine here, sir.”
“D Gun is out of action. A shell in that last salvo collapsed the tunnel on them.”
D Gun was right next door. Skuller’s eyes leapt to the rock ceiling above them. The rough surface was covered with air
ducts, water pipes, and electrical cables. He scanned the ceiling for any sign of damage. Nothing was visible.
Another salvo from the American battleship hammered the mountain above them. Skuller was too busy readying his gun for its next shot to notice the network of fine cracks spreading through the ceiling overhead. They’d been invisible when he looked before, more weaknesses in the rock crystal than actual cracks. But the sledgehammer pounding created more and more fractures. Every linked crack weakened the overhead rock’s ability to support its own weight.
Skuller continued to listen on the headphones and report to his crew while he supervised the gun’s firing. Dassen, in his observation bunker, was calling the fall of shot, making adjustments, and informing his surviving crews of the results. Isolated in rock holes, with only a small sighting telescope for each gun, they needed the big picture to do their best.
The picture wasn’t improving. Dassen had reported three hits, so far, and several near-misses, but without visible effect. The Afrikaner gun crews were beginning to realize the power of the floating fortress that had decided to attack them.
Another salvo from the battleship rocked the mountain, and Skuller heard a scream on the line.
“We’ve lost E Gun.” Dassen didn’t elaborate further.
The cracks in the ceiling continued to grow. They were clearly visible now, if only Skuller had taken the time to look up.
Forty seconds later, nine more shells arrived, streaking in at more than 1,900 feet per second. Each an nor- piercing projectile weighed 2,700 pounds and bored thirty feet into the hard rock before exploding. Adding to the tremendous kinetic energy already possessed by each shell, 4,500 pounds of
TNT detonated in nine separate explosions, sending pressure waves surging outward through the rock.
One shell slammed into the cliff just ten meters away from C Gun and almost directly overhead. The shock was strong enough to rattle the gun on its rails. Without the locks holding it in place, the G-5 would have leapt off and smashed into one of the tunnel walls.
Thrown to the floor by the pounding, deafening impact,
Skuller and his men scrambled to their feet and raced forward to check their weapon for damage. But as the sergeant bent over C Gun’s delicate sighting mechanism, a small piece of rock pattered off his shoulder. As he looked up at the ceiling, reacting to the impact, a second chunk rattled off the gun barrel, followed immediately by a third. Realization came, and on its heels, panic.
He ripped off his phone set.
“Out! Get out, now!”
But as he looked up to see how much time they had, the web of cables and pipes overhead was already falling-torn from the ceiling by man-sized chunks of rock. Skuller managed just two steps before his head and chest were crushed. Only Private Hiller made it to safety to report on the fate of C Gun and its eight-man crew.
USS MSCONSIN
“Sir, the gunnery officer reports no firing from the mountain for five minutes now.”
“Very well. Cease fire.” A rolling blast from the battleship’s three gun turrets punctuated Malloy’s order, and the talker quickly relayed his command before the guns were reloaded.
The last wisps of gun smoke trailed away, and Malloy took a deep breath.
It would be a long time before the acrid powder smell was out of his nose, or his clothing. But he had other things to worry about right now.
He turned from the bridge windows.
“Navigator, course to the mountain?”
“Zero eight three, sir.”
“Helm, steer zero eight three. Indicate flank speed. Director, keep mounts one and two trained on the target. ” Malloy wasn’t going to give
Table Mountain’s defenders a chance to surprise him. He planned to run in fast. The Wisconsin would take station ten thousand yards off the beach. If anyone on the mountain fired again, he’d give them all nine guns at point-blank range.
Besides, his job wasn’t finished yet.
Malloy looked away from the gyro repeater to see Craig
studying the mountain. Dust and the smoke of fires started by their bombardment still obscured most of its heavily scarred surface. The Navy captain raised his own binoculars to the area.
Men and vehicles were visible between the columns of smoke, advancing slowly up the mountain along winding roads-Taylor’s Cape Province infantry were making their assault.
There were still defenders up in the tunnels and bunkers, though. The
Cape troops were moving slowly-pinned down from time to time by heavy machinegun and rifle fire. Even without its heavy guns, Table Mountain would be a tough nut to crack.
“Sir, lookouts report aircraft approaching from astern.”
