“Laying a nice pattern,” McFee called, as he held fast to the little railing at the periscope well.
“That would get us if we were higher,” March said. “They probably figured we’re at about two hundred feet.”
“They don’t dare go any lower in their subs, usually,” McFee said, as he braced himself for the next series of charges which shook him.
March looked around the control room. Everyone was holding fast, but looking very calm. He phoned forward to the torpedo room to ask how everything was up there.
“All fine, sir,” reported Pete Kalinsky. “And nice shootin’, sir.”
Room after room reported everything all right. “Just a light filament busted from that last one in here,” said the machinist’s mate from the engine room.
March saw that one of the men at the controls was steadying another while he lighted a cigarette. He smiled, and then looked up sharply as a figure appeared in the door at the forward bulkhead. It was Scoot, hanging on groggily and looking angry.
“What’s goin’ on here, anyway?” he demanded loudly. “Can’t a guy sleep in peace?”
March ran to him, but a depth charge—the closest yet—sent him sprawling to the floor. McFee picked him up, holding fast to the bulkhead while doing so. Then, between explosions, they got Scoot back to his bunk, where they strapped him in place. The young flier went to sleep again peacefully.
On the way back to the control room March and McFee stopped to look at the Skipper. Sallini was with him, and he smiled.