Arch worked his way around a complex of steam and fuel oil pipes. “Any chance I could join you?”
“Sure. Don’t you want to go home?”
“When I’m unattached? Not if I can help it. Mother will try to attach me to the daughters of all her acquaintances. Silly snobbish girls who talk of nothing but redecorating the parlor and their troubles with the help.”
Jim followed his friend. “Middle-class women can be superficial too. So can men, by the way.”
“I know.” Arch rubbed the back of his neck. “But I want more.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of bright, down-to-earth ladies in your society.”
Arch sent him a wry look. “If there are, the ladies hide it well.”
“Well, you’re more than welcome in the Avery home. Plenty of room.”
“Plenty of people too. I don’t know how you keep them all straight.” A huge smile lit his friend’s face. “But thanks. I can’t handle my parents right now.”
“I under—”
The alarm clanged general quarters.
A sailor stationed at the engine telegraph turned and shouted, “Sound contact. Increase to flank speed.”
“See you.” Jim clapped Arch on the back and headed out at a brisk pace for the gun director. He followed the mass of men moving in a calm deliberate pattern to their battle stations. All motion went forward and up on the starboard side and aft and down on the port side to prevent sailors from crossing paths and jamming passageways and ladders.
Durant required the men to wear their life vests at all times in a combat area, but Jim checked his anyway and felt for the sheath knife and whistle on the lanyard around his neck and the flashlight in his left trouser pocket. He pulled his gloves from his right trouser pocket and put them on since he’d be out in the elements.
Some of the men were tempted to be lazy and leave their survival gear in quarters, but you never knew when a torpedo could come out of the blue.
TheAtwoodpicked up speed, jolting over the waves, but Jim had his North Atlantic sea legs and scampered up the ladder to the deck and forward to the bridge superstructure.
A cold clear night, a half-moon, moderate wind, fair seas—a good night to patrol. And maybe to hunt down a U-boat. No American ship had sunk an enemy sub, and the men longed to avenge the loss of theReuben Jamesand the damage to theKearny.
The destroyer made a sharp turn to port. Jim braced his legs to keep his balance. What was going on? They never deviated from course when chasing a sound contact.
Men shouted and pointed to starboard.
Something pale and phosphorescent streamed toward theAtwood.
Torpedo!
Jim grasped the lifeline and watched in horror and fascination, willing the ship to turn faster, harder, to swing the bow out of the way.
But a slimy green feeling filled his stomach. Every calculation of vectors and speed told him they’d fail.
“Hold on!” he shouted. “Brace yourselves!”
The torpedo slammed into the bow below the number one gun mount.
With a sickening shudder, the ship heaved up, settled down. Jim gripped the lifeline, set his feet wide, his heart hammering.
An explosion pummeled his eardrums. A ball of orange fire lit the sky.
“The magazine!” The torpedo must have hit the ammunition stash for the forward guns. “Oh, Lord. The men.”
Flames ripped through the bow area. The ship’s bell sounded rapidly, and the bugle sounded “fire quarters.”
But every man on board already knew they’d been hit.
