After three hours of chase, having attained a satisfactory position on the fleeing freighter's bow, Walrus quietly slipped beneath the waves. We had obtained a fair solution of the zigzag plan, now much-more, radical than the previous one, and needed only the last-minute refinements. One thin we had decided, however, based on the five bits we had obtained on the two ships previously and the single explosion resulting: We would make sure of him this time. We would shoot four torpedoes, all aimed to hit, and we would hold the- two left forward as well as the four aft in reserve for a quick second salvo if the first also proved a dud.
The night was dark enough to make one thing unnecessary raising and lowering the periscope for frenetic moments of observation., I kept it up, its tip only a few feet above. the waves, and waited for the zigzagging freighter to cross our bow. It was just as Captain Blunt had said, a long time ago: 'After you get in front of him, anyone ought to be able to hit the target. The problem is getting in front.'
We had gotten in front, and we bided our time until his zigzag threw him right across our bow. We had opened the outer doors on only four torpedo tubes-at the last possible moment, 'Shoot!' I said, watching the huge bulk of the ship glide past.
'Fire!' Jim. 'One's fired, sir!' Quin. I could feel the torpedo going out. Someone was counting out the seconds. Up to ten. I shifted the periscope cross hair from the target's stack to his forecastle.
'Shoot!' I said again.
'Fire!'
'Two's away, sir!' Periscope wire now on the stern, bisecting the deckhouse there. 'Shoot!' The jolt of the third fish crosshair on the stack for the last one. 'Shoot!' Four white streaks in the water, only a thousand yards, half a mile, to go. The first one looked like a sure bull's-eye, right under the stack. The white streak of bubbles, clearly visible against the gray-black of the uneasy sea, drew unerringly to the point, got there. I could see the white froth where the side. of the ship intersected it, held my breath for a frozen second, let it out with a sigh. This was exactly the way it had looked during all these many years of training in Long Island Sound or off Pearl Harbor. This would have been scored a bull's-eye all right; the torpedo would have been recorded as passing exactly where aimed, under the target. There was no difference, and I could feel the unreal 'time reversed upon itself' sensation, which I had experienced upon entering Pearl Harbor, lying dormant, just under the surface.
'Time for Number Two fish, skipper.' Jim spoke quietly, into my ear. I swung the 'scope slightly.
White froth at the bow also. Plus something else. A splash- a small geyser of water and spray rose halfway to the target's deck. Something had exploded, not the warhead, however, or at least only a small fraction of the TNT supposed to be inside it. Seconds later we heard the sound of it, clearly audible in the conning tower. 'Puwhuuung'- the same sound we had heard some months before in AREA SEVEN.
'Jim,' I said furiously, 'make a note in the log. Low-order explosion. Possibly air flask!'
'Aye, aye, sir! Time for the third torpedo, skipper.'
This one would be aft. I swung the scope to the right, caught the torpedo wake' going into the rudder and propeller declivity in the counter stern. This time it exploded; there was a flash of light from right out of the water, accompanied by a cloud of white spray, so fine that it resembled steam.
The freighter shuddered under the impact. The stern was partially obscured by the cloud of mist, though there was no high-rising column of water such as some of the patrol reports had described-. I had an instantaneous impression of great force being contained within the sides of the ship, al- most as though the stern itself had been beaten in.
'WHRANNGG!' There was no mistaking this noise. It was a combination explosion, unlike a depth charge, for it in- cluded the smashed sheet-metal sound of crushed and crumpled steel.
'It's a hit! We've hit him!' Jim's excitement was plain to hear. I braced myself for the blow over my shoulders. It did not come, however; instead there was Jim's voice again: 'Can I have a look, sir?'
'Wait a minute,' I growled. 'How about the fourth fish?'
'Time right now-mark!'
It should go right into the area under the stack, like the first one. I looked for the wake, found it. It terminated just forward of the stack, between the stack and the bridge structure.
It, too, looked exactly like a drill torpedo, set to run under.
But it made no difference for as I watched in astonishment the bow of the ship suddenly swooped into the air. The stern had already disappeared under water, and the weight of the submerged portion had lifted the bow of the freighter right out of the water. It could not have taken ten more seconds before the ship was vertical, straight up and down; She had gone so fast that I was certain I could still see some forward momentum to the up-and-down hulk. Things, gear, debris of all kinds, fell from the bridge into the sea in a cascade of junk. At least two items were human, and they moved as they fell.
'Let me see, please!' Jim was beside himself with eagerness, almost pushing against me.
'Here!' I relinquished the periscope.
'Stand by to surface. Surface!' I shouted. The whistle of air, the upward heave of Walrus hull, and she started up.
A shout from Jim. 'She's sinking! God-look at her go!'
Keith had slipped away from his TDC, was standing alongside Jim. With the conning, tower darkened for better periscope visibility I could not see his expression, but his very stance communicated eagerness to see, too, I gave Jim a gentle above. 'Here, let Keith look too.'
'She's going fast!' Keith spoke rapidly, echoing Jim.
Suddenly he jerked-back, grabbed Quin by the arm, propelled him to the periscope. 'Take a look, quick!' The Yeoman jammed his face to the eye-piece. Keith gave him a few seconds, pushed him away, turned the instrument over to Rubinoffski who was hovering eagerly nearby. Jerry Cohen was next, and even O'Brien, the sonarman, received a split-second glimpse.
In the meantime the familiar sounds of coming to the surface could be heard, and finally the voice of the Diving Officer started shouting out the depths from his control-room depth gauges. 'Twenty-six and holding!', He called at last.
'Open the hatch!' I rasped at Rubinoffski. Instantly he whirled the hatch hand wheel, snapped the latch back with almost the same motion. The heavy bronze hatch slammed out of his hands, crashed against the side of the bridge. released air inside the boat howled out, firing four torpedoes builds up a not-inconsiderable air pressure-and the Quarter- master was lifted bodily off his feet and began to sail up the open hatch. Years ago the old Salmon had lost a man over- board in just this manner. It was at night, too, and they had never found him. I barely managed to grasp Rubinoffski around one ankle as he went by, hung on for dear life with my other hand and my own toes hooked under the ladder rungs.
Bits of debris, dirt, cork chunks from behind some of our instruments, pieces of paper, and even someone's carelessly stowed white hat went shooting by past us, and then the storm of wind subsided. We leaped up the remaining ladder rungs, got our binoculars to our eyes within seconds.
There was nothing to be seen. Fearful that I had somehow gotten disoriented, I swung the glasses all around through a full circle, but there was still nothing.
'Nothing in sight, Captain! I can't see him, sir!' It was less than two minutes of the time that our torpedo had struck.
Our lookouts boiled up to the bridge, followed by Tom and Jim. 'Where is he? Where is that son-of-a-bitch?' The excitement of battle was in Jim's voice. I tried to make my own calm and dispassionate: 'Gone, Jim. He's already sunk!'
Jim was bubbling over. 'How about that!' he shouted, pacing around the confines of the undamaged part of our bridge, staring over our port bow, which was the last observed bearing of the vanished ship.
A cry from the port forward lookout. 'Something in the water, sir!' He pointed.
In the intermittent hollows of the shallow sea could be seen several dark masses clustered together. Wreckage, perhaps a boat or raft or two. 'Where are they?' Jim rushed forward, aimed his own glasses briefly in the indicated direction, dashed below. In a moment he had reappeared with a bandolier of ammunition slung around his shoulder and one of the ship's two Browning automatic rifles clutched in his hands.
'Just in case we need it,' he explained carefully. He drew one of the previously prepared twenty-cartridge clips from the bandolier, fitted it to the magazine of the gun.
Walrus wallowed in the ocean, making barely steerageway, the turbo-blowers just beginning their whining lift to seaworthiness. A few hundred yards away the group of wreckage could now be more clearly seen, still black and
