by James Barlow
He had to swim or stumble to the proximity of the escape hatches through a flooded chaos of pipes and steps, bulbs, safety rails, gauges and dials with unbelievable reading, compressors . . . Patches of oil were burning, although the air was now so poor that the chances of an explosion had diminished.
He had done his duty. He could not be expected to know or care that the port propeller had buckled and the shaft had broken as the result of excessive pitching and rolling which had brought the propellers clean out of the water, and that the port turbine was only saved from overspeeding by an overspeed control valve . . . Nor was he to know that the bearing wear (caused by overheating) had in turn caused a change in the radical position of the port turbine rotor and resulted in decreased tip clearances, in fact resulted in the rubbing of blade tips against the casing, which at 5,000 revolutions a minute . . . Or that the collision had allowed air to get into the turbine casing because the shaft glands (which kept steam in and air out) had been jolted . . . Or that the port double-reduction gears were now churning oil at the bottom of the gear case into emulsion and causing the lubricating pumps to lose suction . . . Or that some of the teeth of these giant gears were no longer meshing even adequately and some had broken . . .
The port engine was finished – from furnace to propeller – but he had saved the ship, prevented the massive power from being used against the Areopagus.
But there was a huge volume of steam still trapped and there might be ruptures through which it could escape. It was terribly dangerous and frightening. Hundreds of thousands of cubic feet of steam of a heat four or five times that of boiling water. Any failure – and there must be some – could annoy the steam, trap it, divert it in the wrong direction, or release it . . . As far as e knew he had bottled it up and it would cool to impotence. But he fled before its potential now, wanting steel between himself and this place.
The water was higher than his body and he had to swim. A line of oil burned as it floated. He had to swim under it, but a little clung to his clothes around his legs and buttocks . . . He screamed in pain.
He saw a face, two eyes shining in terror, Keith floating away to die.
Oh, God, save my friend, he petitioned inside his head. Not once did he alter his plea to God, save me –
He trod water and pulled the boy behind the neck, not certain of the exact technique for propelling another person.
It took what seemed like an hour to reach the bulkhead of steel, where vertical rungs could be climbed to the watertight escape hatches, and it tired him completely. He wanted to weep, he was so weak. He desired rest but had to be active to save Keith, who was thrashing about, albeit feebly, in panic.
There were two men there, but they were old, tired, and their oil-stained, scalded faces and burned eyes faced his way in hope. He would do something. They had not the strength to do anything further.
Dimitrios flinched as seventy-five feet away, red and vicious, a tongue of flame licked upward. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and whole seconds later did its short travel again. His exhausted, terrified mind told him that this was the result of the collision now aggravated by the flare-back. There were removable panels in the casing of the boiler, built in for inspection, cleaning and repair. The joints between sections of the boiler were made airtight by means of asbestos gaskets between the flanges. But even these were not expected to survive thirty years of wear and a collision . . . He understood the rhythm of the great belch of fire. It, like the water, went with the pitching of the ship . . . He wondered if the air-setting cement in the horizontal and vertical seams between insulating bricks would stand for all this violence of motion and temperature. Had anchor bolts been shaken loose? If there was an exit for the furnace flames to roar out of, they were doomed. Flames would eat air. About 225 cubic feet of air per pound of oil were required for normal combustion in the furnaces.
The energy of panic urged him into action. Keith’s fingers fought his as he released them, but after a while Keith, half conscious and dazed and almost bereft of strength and will, realized that Dimitrios had curled his fingers around a steel rung. He had not the strength to climb to higher rungs, but knew that all Dimitrios asked was that he should hold on.
Dimitrios, meanwhile, climbed fifteen rungs, his own hurt body and saturated clothing a great burden. In a few moments, if they had the strength to climb the rungs, these other three would escape . . .
He then saw in black despair that this was not so. The wheel spanners for removing the clips of the watertight escape hatches had been jolted free on impact and had dropped to the deck. They might be anywhere in a radius of ten feet, seven or eight feet under water.
He knew then that he was going to die.
It so weakened him that he nearly dropped. A flicker of rage passed through his body. The injustice of it, the malice of it! He had saved the boiler room from explosion and earned the right to live with the passengers up there. It was cruel, it was Greek . . .
Never again to delight in arrival, see the skyline of ships and harbour buildings and the mountains behind Priaeus, or feel the Greek sum burning on his back. Nor to stroll the seedy twisted streets and alleys of Plaka. Never to smell coffee roasting or drink rough wine. Never to stand outside his father’s cottage and stare at stone valleys divided into tiny farms, nor to hear sheep bells. Old women in black siphoning water into jugs from a well. His mother, ageless but always old, wise, mellow, charitable, nothing of value in the world of Hong Kong and San Francisco, standing in a kitchen which had a wood-burning stove and nothing else, smiling her pride at her son who had gone to sea, achieved something . . .
Steam was escaping somewhere. It was inevitable.
He saw it gathering in hot clouds, filling the great volume of the boiler room above him. It touched him, enveloped him, and he began to scream and retreat down the fifteen rungs to Keith and the two old men .
Oh, God, he petitioned, save him. He has done nothing to merit this . . .
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Burstons lay taut on their bunks in cabin A73, fully dressed and with the lights on. Marion couldn’t misrepresent the situation to her children – there was a storm and it was nasty. The kids couldn’t be expected to sleep if their parents weren’t able to. There was some comfort in being able to see and to be dressed ready – for what? She wondered.
The cabin was L-shaped. Marion’s lower bunk was at right angles to the hull of the ship, right under the porthole, and Stella’s was above her. Mike and Patricia were around the corner of the L by the door, and Bumble was in a cot in the middle space near to them. At Mike’s feet, at the junction of the L, was the entrance to the tiny bathroom. Marion, then, could hear the ferocious slap of tumultuous spray on steel inches from her ears. All of them felt bodily the weight of the sea as it thumped against the Areopagus, shook her at will. The sensation was distinctly that the liner was nothing, a toy made of paper running in a millstream during rain . . .
They were all rather silent, waiting for the storm to end; their fingers clung absurdly to the rims of their bunks and their arms stiffened to prevent themselves rolling off.
Patricia pleaded wretchedly, ‘How long’s it going to last? I’m scared, Mum.’
Marion reassured her, ‘It’s been on for two hours and we haven’t sunk yet, kiddo, so I guess we’ll survive.’
‘Its gone cold,’ countered Patricia.
Bumble was mercifully asleep.
Stella was still in party dress – they’d allowed her to go to that. ‘Fancy paying money for this!’ she contributed. ‘We must be crazy.’
Marion sat up abruptly and cried, ‘I forgot the washing’ – like someone who’d left a gas burner on.
Mike snickered. ‘I’m not in need of a clean shirt right now!’
She disputed – to her it was important, a duty – ‘I’m going to get it.
’
Mike argued loudly, surprised, ‘Don’t be crazy, kid. You won’t be able to walk that far. You’ll fall down he steps.’
‘They’ll pinch it,’ she declared.
‘What, in this?’
‘A woman had a line of nappies stolen. They’re mean, some of them.’
‘Forget it,’ he insisted.
‘Mike, we can’t afford to lose clothes. Bumble’s only got two changes of vests.’
He saw that she meant it, and was shocked. Didn’t she feel frozen to the bunk with apprehension? ‘I’ll go,’ he offered.
‘You wouldn’t know which is their stuff.’
He was really alarmed, ‘Kid, this is rough. It’s a typhoon or something.’
He had said it aloud, admitted what they all feared.
‘It won’t take a minute,’ Marion ventured.
‘Oh, let her go and break her leg,’ said Stella cynically.
‘Why don’t you go?’ he shouted, and this was the last Marion heard as she shut the door of the cabin.
She turned left and ran five paces to the main passageway which ran fore and aft along this port side of A Deck. She clung to the rail and realized that Mike was right. Looking aft she saw the corridor rise to a terrifying angle – about forty-five degrees and then the dip attempted to drag her away. God! She thought, and the first notions of disaster touched her. But she had a streak of sullen obstinacy. Nobody was going to pincher washing. As the Areopagus levelled and then began to rise up the next mountain of water she want aft, almost ‘weightless,’ to the next turning, fifty feet away, and there turned left.
On the starboard aft side of this passage athwartships was a small opening where a spiral staircase descended to B Deck. It had none of the grandeur of other stairways; it was strictly functional, with a descending diameter of perhaps ten feet.
B Deck itself was a little grubby. There were only a few cabins fore and after, most of them single cabins without facilities. It had no carpeting, only linoleum, and there were the smells of oil and lavatories.
Nevertheless, the drying room was useful to Marion. Always very hot and dry, it aired clothes in an hour or less.
Marion realized now as she took down the clean dry clothes that if she were to carry them she needed both hands and wouldn’t have a hand free to grasp rails or prop herself on bulkheads. Still stubborn, she decided she could manage, and she did indeed have a good sense of balance.
She had just gathered a bulk of clothing, and was holding it in front of her chest, when the Areopagus and Seattle Doll collided. She heard the long blast of the Areopagus’ siren, but it meant nothing to her.
She was thrown to the deck, but was fortunate. Her head missed steel by two inches and the soft dry washing cushioned her body.
All lights went out and she was in darkness so absolute she couldn’t see her hands or the white of the towels she’d washed.
Being on the starboard side Marion didn’t realize, despite the concussion of steel, that the Areopagus had hit something, and being on the lowest passenger deck she heard no cries or shouts or breakages . . . She was just badly startled and unable to see. She was sure that if she could get out of the drying room she’d find light. She gathered the clothes together by touch, fell over while on her knees searching, and was angry with the liner which was always blowing irons or failing in its public address system.
She struggled out of the drying room and found total darkness. Even then she only thought in terms of electricity failure. Typical! She condemned, and sought her way to the spiral staircase and ascended it. Once she had to cling with a hand, and lost some of the clothing.
At the top of the staircase she paused, not able to go further until there was some light.
She heard shouting distantly, and then an explosion, and at last realized with a shock that something very unpleasant had happened. In the same moment she could smell smoke and identified the position of anxious voices above her on Metaxas Deck.
Marion dropped the washing and loped over to where she thought the corridor along the port side would be. She was sure she’d found it, yes, because here was a handrail. Her hands ran along the rail guiding her. The sensation of movement suggested that she was correct, going forward. And then the rail ended and her body collided with steel. They’d closed the watertight doors and she couldn’t get back to the cabin, to her kids and Mike. Fear crystallized into this one objective, with everything else of lesser relevance.
She shuffled back along the rail until she had returned to the junction. She went left and left again to the stairs which led up to Metaxas Deck, and went up, with the intention of going forward and then descending somewhere and finding the cabin.
Someone was shining a flashlight at the next junction.
Marion asked in the direction of the flashlight, ‘What’s happening?’
An agitated elderly voice said in complaint. ‘There was a fire along there. It was terrible. I can’t get back to my cabin . . . It’s not good enough.’
The flashlight waved about in emphasis and Marion, breathing smoke, saw in the beam of light that here, too, she was thwarted: a fire-resistant screen had been dropped. She also saw a steward, who grinned and suggested optimistically, ‘Open soon.’
There was nothing to stop her going up to Attica Deck. It was easy because of the guiding rail and steps.
She was still on the port side and groped forward along Attica Deck. It was a luxury deck and here and there small corridors ran athwartships with portholes at their endings. Incredibly, light shone faintly through the first one she encountered. Light was shining from outside.
Marion had to go and look, and in perplexity and horror she saw a ship burning. Half a ship? She wasn’t sure. The vessel went out of sight at intervals, and when observed rose and fell unbelievable measures. Marion obtained some idea of the dimensions of the sea that they were in the grip of.
It was not more than urgent to reach Mike and the kids. It was desperate.
She reached another junction of Attica Deck and descended to Metaxas, but encountered the metal of a second fire-resisting door. And here the area was flooded with water, and behind the screen of steel was fire. She knew because she could its red outline at the bottom of the metal screen. Men were in there shouting and fighting the fire.
It meant that they had isolated the fire, but in doing so had isolated the central parts of Attica, A and B Decks. Mike and the kids were in that middle third of the ship below a fire. She was not.
There must be a way to get to them.
She decided to go higher and then farther forward. It wasn’t logical, but by now logic was being left behind, instinct was taking over.
Up one deck, at a similar junction, she ran into a crowd who had some flashlights. They were senseless with panic and she was absorbed, swept along. Voices were angry with fear and the curious logic of panic:
‘They’re abandoning ship –’
‘The crew have gone.’
‘There was an explosion –’
‘We’re on the wrong side; they’ll never launch boats from this side –’
‘That’s my lifebelt –’
‘Where’s Arthur? We can’t go without Arthur.’
‘Go where, for Christ’s sake?’
‘They said to go to the Aegean Lounge.’
‘Who said?’
‘The man.’
‘What man?’
‘Come on! He wouldn’t have said it if –’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘You’ve got to.’
‘In a little boat? I can’t. I’d get pneumonia.’
‘I’ve hurt my back,’ a woman cried out with great fear and bitterness. ‘Oh, my God, I’ve broken my back.’
She evidently expected som
eone to do something about her back, but no one did.
A child began to scream like a drill, and Marion felt the terrible communication of panic. It stopped the blood, emptied the head, yet the heart accelerated. She forgot absolutely where she was, lost all sense of orientation. Her mind fought hard against the crowd sensation which told her to flee senselessly. Panic poured into her stomach like hot soup. She resisted it with the mental instructions: Get back to Mike. Kids must have lifebelts on. Warm clothing. Orders. Wait for orders. From an officer or the public address system. If it works . . .
But the crowd wasn’t interested. Terrified people carried Marion upward, the crowd gathering others, and somewhere above a man was shouting in pure panic and bitterness: ‘The boats! They’ve taken to the boats!’
Hands pushed her aside, to get past her, to hurry: they were more important, must be saved. ‘Damn you!’ she shouted into someone’s face, and he or she made no objection. They’d reached the Parade Deck, and here was utter pandemonium, a great shouting, cold air roaring in from the sea, the crush of unseen elbows and shoulders, higher than hers. A terrible fear came to Marion. Had she missed some instruction? Had the rest of the family heard it and gone to the boats? Were they here in this mess? Had the kids got their lifebelts on? She could see through a window of the library (not that she identified per position) that boats were in fact being lowered. Fire somewhere gave sufficient illumination to see this. But Mike and the kids surely were trapped in that central third of the ship, contained by watertight and fireproof doors and unaware of a fire one deck above them.
The motion of the ship knocked Marion over and in the same instant someone shouted, ‘The Greeks are deserting us!’ and the crowd shouted, too, and stampeded. They trampled over her; shoes trod on her hands; someone fell violently and moaned, and Marion glowed with animal satisfaction. She fought with fury and loathing to get to her knees, bruised and breathless, afraid of suffocation.