Gold From Crete by C.S. Forester Page B

torpedoes head-on, therefore. That was the best way to receive a torpedo attack - a destroyer is ten times as long as she is wide, and, consequently the chances of a blind shot missing were ten times as great. There was nothing to be done except wait.
    The messages were still coming in, even during that two and a half minutes.
    ‘Gone to ground,’ said Rowles, ‘on the bottom. It’s his best chance, I suppose.’
    Lying absolutely silent and still on the bottom, the submarine would give no indication of its position to the hydrophone listeners and precious little to the sonic apparatus. And the Italian captain had taken this action while there was still plenty of time, while the English still were not absolutely sure of his position, and while there was a chance that the arrival of his torpedoes might distract his enemies, throw them off their course and upset their calculations. If he pinned much hope on this, however, he did not know the grim little group that was sitting round the chartroom table plotting his doom. The stopwatch hand was creeping inexorably round. Suddenly the Apache stopped as if she had run into a brick wall, throwing them all across the chartroom, and then she reared and then she plunged, standing almost up on her stern and then crashing down again, with the lights flickering spasmodically, while the memory of a tremendous crash of sound echoed in their ears. Crowe had been flung against the bulkhead and the breath driven from his body; it was pure instinct that carried him out onto the bridge; as his eyes were accustoming themselves to the darkness he could feel the Apache heeling and turning sharply. A black ghost of a ship whisked past their stern, missing them by a hairsbreadth - that was Navaho , which had been following them. The officers and ratings on the bridge, flung down by the explosion, were only now picking themselves up.
    ‘Hard-a-starboard there!’ roared Hammett
    ‘She won’t answer, sir!’ came the helmsman’s reply. ‘Wheel’s right over!’
    The Apache was turning sharply in defiance of her helm.
    ‘Bow’s a bit twisted, I should say,’ said Crowe, peering forward into the darkness, alongside Hammett: he could feel now that the bows were canted sharply downward as well, but in the utter darkness he could form no estimate at all of the amount of damage. The only thing that was certain was that the Apache was not on fire; a destroyer full of oil fuel, hit by a torpedo, can sometimes in a few seconds be changed into a blazing volcano.
    ‘Midships!’ said Hammett to the quartermaster, and then busied himself with the engine-room telegraph before explaining to Crowe, ‘I thought I’d let her complete the turn, sir.’
    ‘Go astern with the starboard engine as she comes round,’ said Crowe, and was promptly annoyed with himself for interfering with Hammett when the latter was doing perfectly well.
    There were voices to be heard forward now as the stunned members of the crew picked themselves up and the emergency party reached the seat of the damage. The Apache was completing her turn, having lost a good deal of her way.
    ‘Hard-a-starboard!’ said Hammett again to the helmsman, and the ship trembled with the vibration of the starboard propeller going astern.
    From forward there came a tremendous cracking as rivets sheared; the bows of the ship rose perceptibly, she lost her list and drifted on her original course as Hammett stopped the engines.
    ‘We’ve broken something off,’ said Crowe, and a moment later the reports began to come in from for’ard, confirming his suggestion. The torpedo seemed to have hit almost squarely on the bows of the ship and had blown the first ten feet of the ship round at right angles to the rest. It was that which had forced the ship into the turn and which had now broken off. Number 1 bulkhead was holding, however, and the water, which was pouring in was no more than the pumps could deal with adequately.
    ‘Get that bulkhead shored