his primary mission. âIâm keeping right on his bowlâ he growls. âAngle on the bow is zero! You can get a bearing any time!â Occasionally he twirls the periscope range knob, and a new range is fed into the TDC. All is silentâexcept for the muttered bearings and ranges of the quartermaster, and the Captainâs terse commands, and the hoarse breathing of the ten men in the conning tower, and the creak of the hull and the murmur of water slowly passing through the superstructure. OâKane becomes conscious of a drumming sound and realizes that it is only the racing beat of his own heart.
âOne five double oh yardsââfrom the quartermaster. Paine looks inquiringly at his skipper. Surely he must fire now!
Mortonâs jaw muscles bulge, and his face assumes even more vividly that prize-fighter expression which was to become well knownâand even fearedâby his crew. But his mouth remains clamped shut.
The dials of the TDC whirl around: 1,400 yardsâ range!â1,350 yards!â1,300!â1,250!
As the range reaches 1,200 yards, the Captainâs lips part at last, and a roar bursts from him, as if pent up within him until there is no containing it.
âFIRE!â
Wahooâs fifth torpedo starts its trip toward the rapidly approaching enemy. The men in their cylindrical steel prison feel a tightening of the suspense; the tension under which they are all laboring rises to a nearly unbearable pitch. But OâKane is still giving bearings, and the TDC dials are still racing. Torpedo run for that fifth fish should be about thirty-two seconds. Morton waits a full ten seconds.
âFIRE!â
The sixth and last torpedo leaves its tube.
Dick OâKane continues to watch at the periscope. A curious feeling of relief, of actual detachment from the whole situation, wells up within him. He now has the role of spectator, and there is nothing he or anyone else can do to change the outcome of events. He makes a mental reservation to pull the âscope down if the torpedoes miss, so that the destroyer will not break it off passing overhead.
Two white streaks almost merged into one in the murky water, swiftly draw themselves toward the onrushing Jap. Twenty seconds since the first one was fired. Dick notices much activity on the bridge of the destroyer. He starts to heel to port, as his rudder is evidently put hard a-starboard. The first white streak is almost there nowâis there, and goes on beyond, evidently a miss by a hairbreadth. But the second white chalkline is a little to the left of the firstâit is almost there nowâit is there. My God, weâve missed! What?âWHAM! A geyser of dirty water rises right in the middle of the destroyer, breaks him exactly in half, holds him suspended there like a huge inverted V, his bow slanted down to the right. The white-clad figures crowded all over his top-sides are tumbling ridiculously into the water, arms and legs helplessly flailing the air. A cloud of mingled smoke and steam billows out of the broken portion of the stricken hull, rises hundreds of feet into the air, a continuation of the original geyser. Then, swiftly, the halves separate, and each slides drunkenly beneath the once-smooth surface of Wewak Harbor, now roiled up by the force of the explosion and the splashes from hundreds of particles of metal and other pieces of gear from the doomed vessel.
Within Wahooâs thick steel hull the force of the explosion is terrific, something like a very close depth charge, as heavy a blow as if the destroyer had actually succeeded in completing his run upon her. Some of the crew, in fact, do believe they have received the first of a series of such depth charges. But in the conning tower there is wild exultation. Always kept ready for an opportunity such as this, the camera is broken out, and several pictures are made of the bow of the enemy vessel which, for a moment, remains to be
âOne five double oh yardsââfrom the quartermaster. Paine looks inquiringly at his skipper. Surely he must fire now!
Mortonâs jaw muscles bulge, and his face assumes even more vividly that prize-fighter expression which was to become well knownâand even fearedâby his crew. But his mouth remains clamped shut.
The dials of the TDC whirl around: 1,400 yardsâ range!â1,350 yards!â1,300!â1,250!
As the range reaches 1,200 yards, the Captainâs lips part at last, and a roar bursts from him, as if pent up within him until there is no containing it.
âFIRE!â
Wahooâs fifth torpedo starts its trip toward the rapidly approaching enemy. The men in their cylindrical steel prison feel a tightening of the suspense; the tension under which they are all laboring rises to a nearly unbearable pitch. But OâKane is still giving bearings, and the TDC dials are still racing. Torpedo run for that fifth fish should be about thirty-two seconds. Morton waits a full ten seconds.
âFIRE!â
The sixth and last torpedo leaves its tube.
Dick OâKane continues to watch at the periscope. A curious feeling of relief, of actual detachment from the whole situation, wells up within him. He now has the role of spectator, and there is nothing he or anyone else can do to change the outcome of events. He makes a mental reservation to pull the âscope down if the torpedoes miss, so that the destroyer will not break it off passing overhead.
Two white streaks almost merged into one in the murky water, swiftly draw themselves toward the onrushing Jap. Twenty seconds since the first one was fired. Dick notices much activity on the bridge of the destroyer. He starts to heel to port, as his rudder is evidently put hard a-starboard. The first white streak is almost there nowâis there, and goes on beyond, evidently a miss by a hairbreadth. But the second white chalkline is a little to the left of the firstâit is almost there nowâit is there. My God, weâve missed! What?âWHAM! A geyser of dirty water rises right in the middle of the destroyer, breaks him exactly in half, holds him suspended there like a huge inverted V, his bow slanted down to the right. The white-clad figures crowded all over his top-sides are tumbling ridiculously into the water, arms and legs helplessly flailing the air. A cloud of mingled smoke and steam billows out of the broken portion of the stricken hull, rises hundreds of feet into the air, a continuation of the original geyser. Then, swiftly, the halves separate, and each slides drunkenly beneath the once-smooth surface of Wewak Harbor, now roiled up by the force of the explosion and the splashes from hundreds of particles of metal and other pieces of gear from the doomed vessel.
Within Wahooâs thick steel hull the force of the explosion is terrific, something like a very close depth charge, as heavy a blow as if the destroyer had actually succeeded in completing his run upon her. Some of the crew, in fact, do believe they have received the first of a series of such depth charges. But in the conning tower there is wild exultation. Always kept ready for an opportunity such as this, the camera is broken out, and several pictures are made of the bow of the enemy vessel which, for a moment, remains to be
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