Jim’s breath froze. “What if they don’t speak English?”
Two more men jumped in and swam toward theAtwood. Vince Banning marched down the deck. “Drop the cargo net. Now!”
The deck gang sprang to work and heaved the net over the side. If only the men in the water could make it to the ship in time. If only the whaleboat could be lowered more quickly.
“Hurry, hurry,” Jim muttered.
The alarm clanged, and Jim whipped around to face the bridge. What now?
“General quarters” blasted on the bugle. “Man your battle stations.”
They must have made a sound contact.
“Oh Lord, not now!” Jim stared at the three men in the water, swimming, each stroke slower than the last in the icy water. The whaleboat hovered just off the gunwale, nowhere near the surface.
“Haul in that boat,” Banning shouted. “Now!”
Everything in Jim wanted to scream his protest. A few more minutes and they might save those men.
But in a few minutes, they could be pierced by a German torpedo. Those three men—and all two hundred men aboard theAtwood—could die.
“Throw them a life raft,” Banning called, but defeat hollowed his voice.
The American naval life rafts were large rings with netting in the center. They kept men afloat but didn’t get them out of the water. They wouldn’t drown, but they’d die of hypothermia.
The destroyer’s engines rumbled, propelling the ship away, smothering the cries of the dying men. Jim squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of three outstretched hands, three panicked faces burned into the backside of his eyelids.Lord, be with them.
Durant had to make a speedy decision. He had to be bold. And he’d made the right choice for the greater good. Nehemiah had done hard things too, rebuking those who did wrong and tossing out those who violated God’s law. Neither man was afraid to be unpopular.
Jim ran down to the stern for the depth charge attack. Could he be like Durant? Like Nehemiah?
“Range five-double-oh,” the talker called out. “Ready charges.”
Five hundred yards. Jim’s breath curled in the air. The destroyer drove forward at about twenty knots. At that speed they’d reach the sub in about two minutes. “Everyone ready?”
“Clear the racks,” Hill called. “Charges ready to roll from the forward to the after detent.”
“Just a second.” A sailor leaned into the narrow space between the smoke generator canisters and the starboard depth charge rack, his arm down through the triangle formed between two depth charges and the lower rack rail. “Dropped my wrench.”
“Get out of there, Ozzie! Now!” Hill grabbed the hem of the man’s mackinaw and yanked.
A click, and the depth charges rolled to the end of the rack.
Ozzie’s scream punctured the air.
Jim leaped forward. “What happened?”
“His hand.” Hill cussed. “It’s caught.”
Ozzie screamed, swore, writhed.
Jim dashed to the other side to get a better look. One of the 600-pound steel drums had smashed two of Ozzie’s fingers against the vertical bar supporting the rails. Blood dripped from tears in his gloves.
Still cussing, Marvin Hill flipped the release lever to manual control, overriding control from the bridge. “Everyone! Roll back the charges. Step to it!”
“Range three-double-oh,” the talker called.
Jim’s lungs filled with lead. Only a minute left to roll back all five depth charges on the rack and free Ozzie’s hand—what remained of it.
