Two hundred miles southwest of Reykjavik, U.S.S. Greer knifed through the cold and grey Atlantic. As on every U.S. warship in those waters her men were standing special watches, with crews at guns, depth-charge and torpedo stations. The men of the Greer were going through the fatiguing routine of taking the mail to Iceland.
Then suddenly it happened. To the old 1918 destroyer refurbished for a new war the thing had happened, the thing for which the whole U.S. Navy had waited breathlessly with infinite vigilance. There was no time to think now what it meant.
The white wake of a torpedo was...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
