Vince Banning shouted orders to the damage control party over the roar of fire, the hiss of water, the sizzle of water hitting flame.
Jim sidled past a pair of men guiding a fire hose. “Mr. Banning! Any word on the men in number one?”
An orange glow danced on the executive officer’s features, and he pointed to a taut line stretching into the door to the gun mount, now at a precarious 45-degree angle. “We’ve got a man in there right now.”
The line jerked, and two beefy sailors drew it up.
A man hauled himself out of the door and collapsed on the deck, coughing. Soot blackened his face. “All dead. All of ’em.” Then he cussed the Nazis with words as black and orange as the smoke and flames.
“Oh, dear Lord.” Jim’s mind reeled. Seventeen men.
But nothing could be done for them. He had to think of the ship, of the number two gun.
A retort sounded to aft, a starboard K-gun firing. Jim grabbed a hanging tackle for support. A circle of light flashed on the surface of the sea, water gushed up, and the destroyer lifted from the water and pounded down again.
Jim set his feet beneath him and climbed the platform to the number two gun. He squeezed his way into the gun compartment. Homer Udell called out orders. His crew, ten Negro stewards, set a powder case and a projectile into the loading tray of the gun, slammed the breech shut, and rammed the projectile into firing position.
“How are things, Udell?” Jim asked.
The gun captain rubbed the stubble on his weathered cheek. “Bad but manageable, sir. We lost director control and power, so we converted to manual. But my men are ready. If that U-boat shows its ugly face, we’ll blow it right off.”
“Reinhardt said you took casualties.”
“Three men injured in the handling room. They refuse first aid, want to stay at their stations.”
“Good men, but let’s get some replacements sent down.” Jim borrowed Udell’s headset, flipped the switch to talk to conn, and asked the bridge to send three replacements.
Udell put his headphones back on. “Any word on number one?” he asked in a low voice.
Jim glanced around at the men hard at work in the cramped compartment, men who knew the crew of that gun like brothers. He sucked his lips between his teeth and shook his head, sharp and short.
Udell squeezed his eyes shut, dipped his head, and swore under his breath.
“I see her!” Hank Gillis, the pointer, peered through his telescopic sight at the front of the compartment, and he cussed. “The U-boat. Coming right at us and mighty fast.”
Udell cupped his hand over his headphone. “Captain says fire at will.”
Hank cranked his hand wheels, depressing the gun barrel, while the trainer turned his hand wheels, rotating the giant base of the gun on its ball-bearing ring.
“Range?” Jim shouted, stepping out of the way of the gun.
“Range?” Udell paused, listening. “Range five-double-oh and closing fast.”
Jim grimaced. Five hundred yards. She probably meant to fire one more torpedo from her bow tube before turning the deck gun on theAtwood.
A muffled roar, and the ship shook. Numbers three and four guns must have opened fire.
“Both shots over,” the pointer said.
“Adjust range to four-five-oh,” Udell called.
“Aye aye.” Hank cranked his hand wheels some more. “Range set.”
“Bearing set,” the trainer said.
Udell made a knifing motion with his hand. “Fire!”
Jim clapped his hands over his ears. The huge gun roared, blasted out its projectile, recoiled, snapped back into position.
