Through Waters Deep (23 page)

South of Iceland

Jim climbed into the gun director, where six men worked hard.

Lieutenant Reinhardt barked orders into his microphone. “Lay for star-shell spread to starboard.”

Reinhardt acknowledged Jim with a nod. “Good to see you, Mr. Avery. No response from number one. Number two took casualties and damage, lost director control. Go check both guns.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Jim made his way back down to the deck.

The aft guns fired in a roar. Star shells soared high and hovered by their parachutes, showering light on the dark sea.

Toward the bow, the flames provided plenty of illumination, but a demonic orange sort. Jim pressed forward, careful not to interfere with the damage control party's work. Heat assaulted his face. Men trained fire hoses on the inferno and guided the wounded farther aft for first aid, black figures silhouetted by the flames, by the orange-gray smoke drifting to port.

Jim passed the number two gun mount and stopped
short. The bow was gone, and the number one gun tilted into the breach, mangled. His quarters were gone. Simply gone. Thank goodness Arch was amidships in the engine room.

He shook off his shock. Once they closed the watertight compartments, the destroyer could sail without her bow, although slower. But the number one gun? The seventeen sailors who manned the gun and its handling room? They'd been directly over the magazine that exploded.

And the sound room lay forward of the magazine. All the sonar operators . . . gone.

A stench rose, the sickly sweet smell of fuel oil and burning flesh.

Bile filled Jim's mouth, but he swallowed it. He had work to do.

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 the
Atwood
.

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.

The loading tray opened. The hot case man reached in with giant leather gloves, snatched out the spent powder case, and pitched it out the hatch in the back of the compartment. As soon as the old case was removed, the powder man loaded a new case and the projectile man loaded a new projectile.

“Shot fell short,” the pointer said.

“Keep 'er at four-five-oh,” Udell said. “And Mr. Avery, sir? Mr. Reinhardt wants you in the director.”

“Tell him I'm coming.” Jim clapped the man on the shoulder and squeezed out the tiny door.

To starboard, a sleek dark shape raced toward the
Atwood
, its bow wave white on either side, eerie in the light of the star shells.

An actual U-boat. His first sight of the enemy. Jim's breath
locked in his chest. With the bow gone, the destroyer had lost much speed and maneuverability. What chance did they have?

The aft guns thumped out a greeting, followed by the rat-a-tat of the .50-caliber machine guns.

Jim continued on his way to the director. Three mess attendants approached at a fast pace. The replacements for the wounded men. “Head to number two handling room. Udell will tell you what to do.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

A shout rose, and Jim wheeled to starboard.

A torpedo track, a burning white spear, plunged toward the
Atwood
's stern.

Lord, save us!
Jim cried out and grabbed a ladder. “Brace yourselves!”

The destroyer jerked from the impact, bounced high, landed hard. Jim fell to his knees, one hand gripping the ladder, his shoulder wrenched.

How bad was the hit? He couldn't see that far aft, past the bridge and the funnels, but another orange fireball mirrored the earlier one at the bow.

The
Atwood
drifted to a stop. Swell, they must have lost the propellers. They'd be dead in the water. And above the propellers on the far end of the stern? The depth charge racks. The sailors who manned them. How many more had died?

“Lord, make it stop.” He massaged his sore shoulder and climbed up to the director, but why? The ship settled lower, listed several degrees to starboard.

A new sound from the direction of the U-boat, a low thudding, popping sound. The deck gun?

Jim burst into the gun director. Commotion.

Reinhardt met his gaze, wild-eyed. “Number four's in bad shape. Three took damage.”

The talker pressed his hand over his headphone. “Udell says number two took damage from the deck gun.”

Jim couldn't move. Dead in the water. All four guns out of action. It was over.

Reinhardt swatted Jim's arm. “Check on two, see what can be done.”

“Aye aye.” A formality, but until the captain ordered them to abandon ship, he'd do what he could.

As he climbed out onto the signal deck, another star shell lit up the sky and gunfire sounded aft.

An American destroyer!

“Thank you, Lord!” Jim clung to the rail.

On the U-boat, black ants of men scrambled down the hatch. They'd submerge and flee and leave the
Atwood
to her fate.

The ship's alarm bell clanged, and the bugle sounded “abandon ship.”

Jim's blood went as cold as the waters beneath him.

Durant's voice came over the loudspeaker. “All hands prepare to abandon ship. Another destroyer is on its way to aid in rescue. Do not enter the water until necessary. Repeat, do not enter the water until necessary.”

He didn't need to tell Jim twice. Not only would the frigid water kill a man in less than twenty minutes, but the other destroyer would attack the U-boat with depth charges deadly to men in the water.

Sure enough, the second destroyer charged past, leaving a string of explosions in her wake.

But that destroyer couldn't rescue the men of the
Atwood
. Her primary job was to sink that sub. Same as when the
Atwood
had abandoned the men of that sunken Norwegian freighter.

Jim worked his way down to the deck. The ship settled lower and lower, listed to ten degrees.

“Ahoy!” a sailor shouted.

On the port side, a third destroyer dashed toward them in the strange bright light of the star shells.

“Thank you, Lord!” Jim headed toward the number two gun but found the deck too crowded to pass.

Men tossed lines and cargo nets over the side and lowered the life rafts. Sailors assembled at their embarkation stations, aft and forward, port and starboard.

The
Atwood
groaned, rolled slightly to stern.

“No time to waste!” Reinhardt jumped to the deck behind Jim. “Abandon ship.”

Since the gunnery officer was in charge of embarkation on the port side, everyone sprang to action. Men climbed over the side and down the lines and nets.

Jim paused. His earlier order had been to check conditions in the number two gun mount, but his station at the abandon ship drill was to aid Mr. Reinhardt. That overrode the first order.

He peered through the thicket of men, straining for the sight of any of Udell's crew. “Lord, help them.”

Jim pushed through to the lifeline and started helping sailors over the side. “One at a time, men. Leave plenty of room. Watch the fellow beneath you.”

One by one, the men climbed down into life rafts and pushed away from the sinking destroyer.

About one hundred feet away, the third destroyer pulled alongside, heaving nets and lines and rafts over the side.

Jim helped a man down onto the net. “Make for the other ship as fast as you can, men. Get away from the
Atwood
.”

He glanced around. His station was cleared.

“Mr. Avery!” Reinhardt climbed over the side. “Abandon ship.”

“Aye aye.” Jim prayed for strength, slipped under the lifeline, and nestled his feet in the ropes of the net. Since the ship listed to starboard, the drop to the water on the port side was greater now.

He glanced down at the black water, slick with fuel oil,
and found a life raft to aim for, half a dozen men inside beckoning to him.

Just aft, Reinhardt worked his way down the net, with Durant above him, the log book clamped in one arm.

“Help! Somebody help!”

Jim glanced up.

A dark face leaned over the lifeline, eyes frantic—Mack Gillis, one of the replacements Jim had sent to the number two gun mount. “Captain! Sir! Men is trapped in number two. Doors is jammed. Can't get out.”

Jim's heart seized, and his hands contracted, pulling him up the net again to help.

“I'm sorry, son,” Captain Durant said in a low, firm voice. “No time. Abandon ship. That's an order.”

Mack twisted his head toward the gun, back to Durant. “Please, sir. They's my friends. My brother.” His voice cracked.

“Abandon ship, Mack,” Durant said. “That's an order.”

Mack's brother Hank was the pointer. What would Jim do if Dan were trapped? Rob? His two little brothers?

Durant continued down the net. He was too fair a man to base his decision on the color of the men's skin. He'd made a difficult, strong decision based on the safety of the entire crew. Any men who formed a rescue party could also be lost.

“Mr. Avery?” Mack called down, his voice pleading.

Jim glanced away, to the dark water below, to the men filling the life rafts, paddling toward the rescue ship, bobbing in the water, climbing nets and lines on the other side, the sailors from the other ship dangling from the side to help them aboard.

He'd been ordered to abandon ship, to abandon Udell and Hank and the others to certain death. He could be bold and strong and ignore the tugging at his heart and follow Durant.

Or would the bold decision be to disobey the captain in
the slim chance he could save a few lives? Or would that be merely suicidal?

“Mr. Avery!” Durant shouted. “Don't even think about going back. You've been given a direct order too. Abandon ship!”

Jim squeezed his eyes shut.
Lord, help me
decide. Which is the bold action? Which is floating?

Maybe that was the wrong question to ask. Maybe it didn't matter whether he charged into action or floated into it. Maybe what mattered most was to do the right thing.

What was the right thing? Durant's list of questions ran through his mind. Yes, he could die if he went back. Yes, he might save a few men if he went back. But whichever way he went, the fate of the
Atwood
was sealed. And the war effort? It hardly depended on the life of one ensign.

Mary's sweet face flashed in his mind. If he went back, he might never see her again. But if he didn't go back, how could he face her again?