on patro.
Two nights later it was our turn. We sighted a cloud black smoke against the eastern horizon, shortly before mc rise, and took off after it. A couple of hours later the smoke had turned into two ships proceeding in company, about a mile apart. This time the radar produced a range of four miles as its initial offering, showing that it was working better, or that the ships were bigger, or both. We tracked them for a short time, got their course and speed, twelve knots, due north, zigzagging. There was no escort.
We chose a position ahead of the two ships and slightly on their starboard bow, waited for the next zig. As soon as it came, our own rudder went over too, and the increased power-song of the diesels back aft sounded choked off as the heel-to-starboard drove two of their mufflers underwater. It was, as usual, clear, calm, and warm. Stars twinkled over- head, millions of them. The moon was now well up, its glow reflecting off the somber black sides of our targets. The horizon to the north was blackest, which was where we were coming from. But visibility all around was entirely too good to take any chances. We had to come in fast and get it over with.
We kept our bow turned exactly on the leading ship, changing course to keep it so as he came into torpedo range, and we increased our speed to 'full' — not everything wide open, but close to it. We would shoot three torpedoes at the first ship, three at the second, and save the four in our stern tubes for whatever might develop during the ensuing confusion while we retired.
Swiftly the three ships approached each other. We, the hunter, already carrying a scar where their protectors had drawn first blood; they, the hunted, trapped in their turn.
Swiftly we drew closer, rapidly they grew larger in my binoculars. I could feel my pulse racing, my nerves tighten- ing up. We were fully committed now-they were as big and broad as a bam, bigger than a barn. I could see them clearly: standard merchant types, not very different from the Q-ship of two nights ago; every detail etched itself in my mind. Just a little closer, get in close, so close you can't miss, here's the leading ship, old-style tall-stack freighter making lots of smoke… he's nearly broadside to, now, surely they can see us 'Range!'
'One-five-double-oh!' Fifteen hundred yards. I had my bin- oculars in the TBT bracket, was holding a dead bead on the vertical stack, had been for several long seconds.
'Shoot!'
'Fire!' I could hear. Jim's bellow from the conning tower, and the sea was calm enough to let me feel the slight jolt as the fish went out. Three jolts. Three fish. Their white streaks stretched relentlessly, reaching for the first target.
'Shift targets!' I swung the TBT to the rear-most vessel.
'Shifting targets, aye aye!' I could picture Keith setting in the new bearing, turning the crank as fast as the cramped space would permit his arm and hand to move. Since course and speed were the same as for the first target, he needed to change only bearing and range. 'Set!' came from Jim.
But we were not set at all. The second ship was too far away, too far astern of the leading one. 'Left full rudder!' I shouted the command down the hatch to the helmsman and into the mike at the same time. We swung rapidly to the left, leaving our torpedo tracks running on to their destiny in a long, thin fan. There were about thirty seconds more to wait.
'Rudder amidships'
' as our swing approached the best attack course for the new target. 'Steady as you go!'
'Steady as she goes!' echoed Oregon up the hatch. He put the rudder a little right to stop the swing, caught it, centered the wheel. 'Steady on two-two-eight!'
'Let her go two-three-oh!'
'Two-three-oh, aye-aye!'
At a sharp angle we raced toward the second ship. It was so far behind that our attainment of a perfect firing position for the first had brought us much too fine on the bow of the second. But there was nothing to do but ride it on through.
I was suddenly conscious of the breeze whistling in my ears and the swish of the water as we tore through it. Walrus pitched gently. Far up ahead she drove her snout down toward a small roller, stopped before she got under it, lifted her bow again with a gentle, tantalizing withdrawal, lowered it softly once more. The slats of her wooden. deck were clearly outlined by the white water washing over our pressure hull, several feet below, alternately black, solid-looking, the next moment ephemeral, etched black-on-white in delicate detail, every fore-and-aft plank precisely lined out, each thin steel crossbeam an interlocked solidity which had neither depth nor length. The pulsing roar of the diesel exhaust was the pounding beat of my heart as, rolling just a little from side to side, we careened onward.
This was infinitely more dangerous than the attack on the, first ship. All, this one had to do was turn only a little toward us, only thirty or forty degrees, and we would be in a bad way. It would be bow to bow, then, and we would have to expose our own broadside to sheer off.
'A light!' Tom Schultz and the starboard lookout were both shouting, pointing to the first ship. We were broad- side to broadside, just past each other on opposite courses.
There was a light on his deck, about the size of a flashlight, pointed over the side. I looked hard-our torpedoes should have reached there-sure enough, there were their wakes.
Three up to it, one only going on beyond. As I looked I could see some kind of disturbance in the water, as if something were thrashing alongside. Another flashlight joined the. first, and then a clearly visible cloud of steam issued from the forward edge of his stack. A moment later we, heard the whistle.
I cursed aloud. Damn the torpedoes! Damn them and their designers to bloody bell forever! Why couldn't they build an efficient torpedo? Why did we have to carry the thing all the, way into energy waters to prove it wouldn't work! A consuming fury possessed me.
'Jim,' I said bitterly into the mike, 'we got two hits; good shooting. None of them exploded.'
An answering whistle from the other ship, our pres6nt tar- get, and now the situation was critical indeed. I watched him narrowly, suddenly tense. With our ineffective torpedoes, if he should see us, turn toward to Tam us But he didn't. He turned away, presented a perfect target, and we fired everything left in the forward tubes at him. It looked as if all three hit, and at least-one exploded-right under his stack. His steel hull folded up like paper, bow and stern rising high, center going under water, stack still vertical in the middle, rising now out of roiled-up water.
We put our rudder left again, then right and circled by him. I called Jim and Keith up to see and together. the four of us stared at what we had done. He was gone beyond help, no doubt of that, even if help could have reached him. As we looked, the broad V became sharper. The sides rose, became more vertical, they folded up completely together, forecastle to poop deck with the stack crushed between, and sank from sight. The bow half was several feet shorter than the stern half, and the last thing we could see as the wreck took its final dive was the big bronze propeller, framed in the rudder bearings, still spinning slowly.
Seconds later a heavy explosion came resounding through the water.
'What's that?' cried Tom.
'Dunno,' muttered Jim. 'Maybe it's his boilers letting go when the cold water reached them.'
'The boilers should already have been flooded, from where we hit him,' I ventured. 'Maybe it's some compartment collapsing from the increased pressure.'
'Not with all that noise!' Jim looked incredulous. 'That was an explosion!'
'Maybe an explosion inward. Ever blow up a paper bag and pop it?' But we were arguing from ignorance, and more important matters needed our attention. A muffed reverberation from somewhere ahead called them to mind. Gunfire.
'That's the other ship!' Jim spoke before anyone else. 'He went off to the northeast'
It made sense that he should carry a gun, but under the circumstances it might have been smarter of him not to have fired it. Jim and Keith raced below-again, the former to plot our interception course, the latter to superintend reloading and checking of torpedoes forward.
We made a long run of it, keeping well out of sight of the fleeing ship, closing in only occasionally for a radar check of his latest position, guiding ourselves by the sporadic booming of the gun on his forecastle or stern. The moon having risen higher, it was now even brighter then before, shedding an all-pervading radiance which, to our night-adapted eyes, seemed as bright as day. Since the target had been alerted and would doubtless observe maximum precautions, these two factors combined appeared to rule out any chance of our getting close enough on the surface to make an attack. It would have to be done submerged.
