by Ruskin Bond
I shall never know how I accomplished this. Deafened, half blinded, fighting for breath, frozen to the bone, I moved one foot after another, inch by inch, slowly, laboriously, painfully. The edges of the struts to which I was holding cut into my bare, cold fingers.
In perhaps three minutes, or a little more, I found myself alongside the rear cockpit, from which the pilot watched me gravely through his goggles.
I took a new grip of the strut with my right hand, and with my left grasped the rip-cord ring of the parachute.
So hanging on perilously by one hand and one foot, at one hundred miles an hour, exposed to the fierce slipstream along the fuselage of the machine, I knew I could not remain there more than a few seconds. If I did not jump I should get blown off.
I caught the pilot's eye and drawing a deep breath, nodded. He nodded in return, and momentarily held the plane. As his engine slowed down to a feeble splutter, he leaned over the side.
'Right!' he shouted; 'good luck!'
I turned my face to the distant ground, let go the strut and jumped.
The next instant is a brief gap in my life which I shall never be able to fill in. I remember turning slowly head over heels though, while a mighty wind jostled me violently. The plane had disappeared, utterly and completely.
I had no sensation of falling in the ordinary sense. It felt rather as though my extremities were trying to fly off at angles from my body.
In those four or five seconds I fell several hundred feet, but I did not suffer any serious discomfort. I remember thinking, 'I must be well clear of the machine by now,' and with that I pulled the rip cord.
The ring came away easily in my hand, and a second later there was a sound like washing being shaken very vigorously. My progress ceased to be meteoric—as though a great hand had reached down and arrested my flight—and I found myself floating gently in mid-air.
'This,' I thought, as the world drifted lazily beneath me and the sun broke momentarily through the clouds, 'is distinctly pleasant.'
And I waved to the pilot of one of the other planes which was swooping in circles and following me towards the ground.
For a very brief time I thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of descending by parachute. Then I passed through another small bank of clouds and discovered, to my consternation, that the aerodrome was nowhere in view. Moreover, I was travelling backwards and partly to one side, while a bewildering succession of woods and valleys, roads and fields, cottages and farms, hurried beneath me.
The thought that I could not see where I should strike the earth, crossed my mind, and I strove desperately to turn in my seat. Suddenly there appeared the dull grey outline of the Thames, and I realised the danger of falling into the water. The envelope of the parachute would 'blanket' over me and defeat any attempt I might make to reach the bank. I should be imprisoned, helpless, and certainly drowned.
My one hope was to reach the other side. The wind was too strong for me to land this side of the river, and the danger lay in a row of tall trees on the opposite side.
There was nothing I could do. I hung in mid-air while the river slid beneath me, and the trees beyond rushed up to reach me. At the last moment I strove to avoid them, but in vain.
My feet struck the upper foliage lightly enough, but as I plunged downwards my fall was abruptly broken by the branches. For a few moments I dropped in short, jerky stages, and the canvas of the parachute dragged after me. And then suddenly everything gave way, and I saw the ground a full thirty feet below. Before I could act or think, it had rushed up to meet me, and I landed full on my two feet on the side of a grassy bank.
Somehow, very swiftly, I had a sensation of relief But this was indeed short-lived. The shock of hitting the earth was terrific, and my body was jolted from head to heels. There came a sound like cracking twigs from my legs, and I collapsed on the wet grass, almost fainting with pain.
When my head cleared I saw, with one glance—because my foot hung limp—that I had broken my left leg, while the pain in my right leg assured me of some injury.
I will not dwell upon that incident. It remains that I did not walk again for six months, although I took the opportunity of flying again within a few weeks. Yet, in looking back and considering all the circumstances, I was fortunate not to have been killed, not once, but several times.
And there's a thrill in the mere knowledge that you have risked your life—and escaped.
ESCAPE FROM A SUNKEN SUBMARINE
T.C. Bridges and H. Hessell Tiltman
The courage and fortitude with which all these men, in the practical darkness of the slowly flooding compartment, faced a situation more than desperate, was in accordance with the very highest traditions of the Service.
hese words are quoted from a report received by the Admiralty from the Commander-in-Chief of the British Fleet in Chinese waters, with regard to the loss of the submarine Poseidon, and the whole report was read by the First Lord of the Admiralty before a crowded House of Commons on a day in July, 1931. The First Lord added, amid cheers, that suitable recognition of those concerned was under consideration by the Admiralty.
The Poseidon, one of the large and powerful P Class of submarines, was built in 1929 by the firm of Armstrong-Vickers. She was two hundred and sixty feet long, had a surface speed of 17.5 knots, and was fitted with eight 21-inch torpedo tubes. Her displacement was one thousand four hundred and seventy- five tons.
With her three sister ships, Perseus, Pandora, and Proteus, she was commissioned at Barrow on March 20,1930. She was manned equally from Portsmouth, Devonport, and Chatham, and the four submarines left Portsmouth on December 12, 1930, on a fifteen thousand mile voyage to the eastern seas, where they were to replace vessels of the L Class. In old days submarines were always escorted on long voyages by surface ships, but these four P Class submarines were considered powerful enough to look after themselves, and voyaged without escort.
The voyage was marred by a mishap, for, when only five days out, the Proteus and the Pandora came into collision. They were, however, only slightly damaged, and were able to reach Gibraltar, where repairs were effected. The flotilla then proceeded to Chinese waters, and made its way to Weihaiwei, the naval and coaling station on the north-east coast of the Chinese province of Shantung.
On June 9, 1931, manoeuvres were being carried out, and at midday the Poseidon was about twenty-one miles out from port and some distance from the rest of the squadron when she was rammed by the steamer Yuta. The Yuta was a British-built ship of about two thousand tons, but owned and manned by Chinese.
The Yuta struck the Poseidon on the starboard side with such terrible force that her heavy bow drove right through the steel side of the submarine. The force of the collision rolled the submarine over, flinging every one in her off his feet, and drove her almost under water. As the Yuta reversed her propellers and drew clear the sea poured into the breach in the Poseidon's side, and within two minutes the submarine had disappeared.
At the time of the collision the submarine had been running on the surface, so fortunately her conning-tower was open and twenty-nine of the crew, including five officers, managed to scramble out, and fling themselves into the sea. These were all picked up by boats lowered by the Yuta.
The rest, trapped helplessly in the bowels of the ship, were most of them, drowned at once. The exceptions were six men, who at the time of the accident were in the forward torpedo flat. These were Petty Officer Patrick Willis, who was torpedo gunner's mate, Able-seaman Locock, Able-seaman Holt, Able-seaman Nagle, Leading-seaman Clarke, and a Chinese steward. Ah Hai.
Their feelings may be imagined when they were all flung off their balance by the deadly shock of the collision, and when they heard the screech of torn steel all knew what had happened.
From a distance came the echoed shout, 'Close watertight doors,' and all picked themselves up and sprang to obey. The bulkhead was buckled by the force of the collision, the door stuck, and it took the combined efforts of al the men to force
it back into position. Willis took charge. 'Stick to it,' he told them; 'it may save the ship.' But within a few moments all knew that there was no chance of this, for the submarine lurched heavily to starboard, and she shot to the bottom with terrible speed.
It was a moment of absolute horror for the six men in that low-roofed, air-tight compartment. They were far out to sea, they knew the water was deep, but none knew exactly how deep. To make matters worse the shock of the collision had cut off all electric lights, and they were in black and utter darkness.
With a slight jar the submarine struck bottom and settled on the soft mud, luckily in an upright position. For a few moments there was complete and deadly silence; then a beam of light cut through the blackness. Willis had found an electric torch and switched it on. His first care then was for the bulkhead door. A small amount of water was leaking through, but not enough to cause alarm. The danger was from suffocation. The air in this confined space would not last six men for very long.
Willis knew that although every effort would be made to reach them by the surface ships, which included the aircraft carrier Hermes and the cruisers Berwick and Cumberland, a considerable time must elapse before divers could descend, and he was aware that if their lives were to be saved all must depend upon their own efforts.
There was just one hope. The Poseidon, like all modern submarines, carried the Davis rescue gear. This consists of a sort of gas-mask with a coat that slips over the head. It is provided with a cylinder containing enough oxygen to last the wearer for forty-five minutes. When the tap of the oxygen cylinder is turned, the garment expands like a balloon. Wearing this apparatus, a man can rise to the surface from any depth where the pressure is not sufficient to crush him.
Then why not step out at once and go up to the top is the question which will occur to a good many of our readers.
It seems simple enough, but in point of fact the difficulties of escaping from a closed steel shell, such as that in which Willis and his companions were imprisoned, are very great. The submarine lay at the bottom of water more than one hundred feet deep, and the pressure on the hatch, which was their only way out of the compartment, was enormous. The combined muscle power of a score of men could not have lifted that hatch a single inch, and, as Willis knew, the only way in which to open it was to equalize the pressure.
Some of the men knew this as well as Willis, but others did not fully understand, so as they stood there in the thick, stuffy darkness, Willis carefully explained it to them. Then he hesitated.
'We're in a pretty tight place. Hadn't we better say a prayer, lads?' he suggested. Nods gave consent, and as all stood with bared heads Willis uttered a brief prayer for divine help, and the others responded, 'Amen.'
Then Willis took command.
'We've no time to waste,' he said. 'I'm going to open the valves and flood the compartment.' Some one suggested that if he flooded the compartment he would drown the lot, for the water would rise over their heads, but Willis had already thought that out, and directed two of the men to rig a hawser from one side to the other, so that they could all stand on it. The Chinese boy did not understand how to put on his escape gear, so Seaman Nagle showed him the way of it. Nagle backed up Willis all the way through, and did his share toward keeping up the spirits of the rest of his companions.
The valves were opened, and water began to pore in. The six took up their positions on the hawser below the hatch and waited. Since they had but one torch and no refill Willis switched it off so as to save light, and there they stood in Stygian blackness while the water bubbled in and rose slowly over the floor beneath them.
The air grew more and more stuffy, and after a time the man next to Willis whispered to him that he thought the oxygen in his flask was exhausted, for he could no longer hear it bubbling. Willis tested his own, and found that it, too, was empty. But he had no idea of allowing that fact to be known. Anything like panic would be fatal at this juncture.
'It's all right,' he answered, lying valiantly; 'you can't hear anything in mine, but there is plenty left.' The minutes dragged by, each seeming like an hour. It was not only the darkness but the intense silence which strained their nerves to the uttermost. Now and then Willis switched on his torch, and glanced down at the water, which, owing to the air pressure, rose very slowly. After two hours and ten minutes had passed the water had risen above the hawser and was up to the men's knees, then at last Willis decided that the pressure must be pretty nearly equal, and that it was time to go.
All right, boys,' he said, 'we'll try it now.' He looked round. Two of the men, Lovock and Holt, were clearly in a bad way, and he decided that they should go first. The next thing was to open the hatch, and this was a more difficult matter than Willis had anticipated. The pressure was not yet equalized, and it was all that he and Nagle and Clarke could do, between then, to open it. Lovock and Holt were pushed through, they vanished one after another into the dark gloom, then down came the hatch again, held like iron by the outside pressure.
Darkness again, and the water rising slowly. It reached their waists, it crawled up their chests. They shivered with cold.
At last it had reached their shoulders, and only their heads were above it. All the air left was just that contained in the narrow space between them and the low roof, and this highly compressed air was almost unbreathable. They had now been imprisoned for more than three hours.
Willis gave the order to open the hatch. Imagine their feelings as with numbed fingers and muscles weakened by the long and terrible strain they tried to force up the steel door. They all knew that if it would not open they were drowned.
It did open, and the compressed air rushed out, for the moment staying the inrush of the sea. The Chinese boy went first, then the others one after another, Willis himself remaining to the last. Exhausted by the long suspense and by breathing bad air, none of them had much recollection of the upward rush toward the surface, and not one had the strength left to keep himself afloat. Happily boats were waiting, and each, as he appeared above the surface, was quickly picked up, and with all speed taken to the hospital bay aboard the Hermes.
Willis's first inquiry was for Lovock and Holt, and he was saddened to hear that Lovock had come to the surface unconscious, and died almost immediately. Holt, in a state of exhaustion, had managed to support Lovock's body until both were picked up.
Willis recovered rapidly, and reftised to remain in hospital a day longer than was necessary. At the beginning of September he arrived back in England, and was drafted to the torpedo training school at Portsmouth. Then he began to suffer from sleeplessness. Night after night he lived over again those agonizing hours in the black gloom of the flooded chamber at the bottom of the muddy Chinese sea. He made no complaint, but neurasthenia developed, and he was sent to Netley Hospital.
Meantime a London newspaper started a shilling subscription for the purpose of buying a home for the brave fellow. The response was immediate and generous. Money came from all parts of the country and all parts of the Empire, and a house was bought at Merton, in Surrey, and well equipped and furnished. There Patrick Willis, with his young wife and baby daughter Julia, has made his home.
Willis has left the navy and found employment in civil life. He is physically fit again, and no doubt in time his nervous system will recover from the strain to which it was subjected.
We began this chapter by quoting from the official report on the Poseidon disaster. We cannot end it better than by repeating the last sentence of that same report:
The coolness, confidence, ability, and power of command shown by Petty Officer Willis, which, no doubt, was principally responsible for the saving of so many valuable lives, is deserving of the very highest praise.
ESCAPE FROM AN ICE FLOE
FA. Beaumont
ith every movement of its screw, the S.S. Chelyuskin shuddered as if from the blow of a giant. Rivets loosened, joints sprang under the repeated shocks. The little Russian steamer was fighting its way through the
ice floes of the Arctic Ocean. And slowly, inexorably, the immense white broken barrier was closing in on her, piling up in great ridges of dangerous pack.
One hundred and three people were on board, including ten women and two babies—one of them born during the voyage.
Since the time of King Alfred, the conquest of the Arctic Ocean has been one of the dreams of mankind. Adventurers without number have perished in the attempt to reach the Pacific Ocean by a northern route.
Their ships were found years later, trapped in the icefields, the crews frozen in their bunks. Or they disappeared without trace, battered and sunk by ice floes which can crush the strongest vessel like an eggshell.
After being frozen in for two hundred and ninety-four days, near the mouth of the river Lena, Nordenskjöld, the Swedish explorer, passed the Bering Strait in his tiny ship, the Vega, on July 20, 1879, and joyfully declared, The Vega is the first vessel to penetrate by the north from one of the great oceans to the other.'
Amundsen and Vilkitski each repeated Nordenskjöld's feat in later years. But all three explorers spent the winter on the way.
In 1932, the Soviet ice-breaker Sibiriakov, under Professor Otto Julius Schmidt, was the first vessel to navigate the northeast passage in a single season. She was the sturdiest ship that could be found for this purpose, and was specially built to withstand the attacking ice, which, nevertheless, nearly overwhelmed her.
Encouraged by this success, Schmidt set out on August 8, 1933, with a new expedition in the S.S. Chelyuskin. His aim was to discover if ordinary cargo vessels could voyage through the north-east passage and back in a single season.
The Chelyuskin reached Wrangel Island and took off a party of Russian scientists who had been left there to study Arctic conditions some months before. Then, assailed by blizzards, storms, and fog, the vessel steamed eastwards through hundreds of miles of pack ice.