Run Silent, Run Deep

by Edward L. Beach

  Jim left the periscope, motioning to Keith to lower it, and leaped for the ladder, climbing rapidly up. Surfacing is not quite as critical an evolution as diving, but during the period that the boat is barely awash all hands must stand fast to their stations. Only the skipper and the Quartermaster go to the bridge, and the ship remains ready for instant diving.

  "Eighteen feet, sir, holding steady," Tom Schultz passed the word up the hatch.

  "Crack the hatch!" I could hear Jim's command to Rubinoffski.

  The Quartermaster grasped the handle of the hatch, turned it rapidly several times. I heard the familiar whistling sound as the slightly increased air pressure in the submarine commenced to vent out.

  "Put the low-pressure pump on the main drain-shut the Kingstons. Line up ballast tanks for pumping! The routine orders from Tom were a backdrop to the sudden rush of air past me as Jim ordered the bridge hatch flung open. In a moment came the call: "Lookouts to the bridge."

  The two planesmen, no longer needed at the bow and stern planes, had hastily donned submarine jackets upon surfacing, buttoning them, over the binoculars which they had also slung about their necks. Now they raced up the ladder to join Jim.

  In a little more than a minute the submerged routine had been terminated and surface condition established; S-16 plowed through the choppy waters of the Sound along the track which Jim's torpedo had taken, and as the engines were started, a frozen blast of air poured into the control room from the now-open passage to the bridge. When Jim sent for Keith to take over the bridge watch, I followed him up, the vague feeling of uneasiness which had grown during the previous hour still permeating me.

  The Quartermaster was just receiving the tail end of a semaphore message from Falcon when I arrived topside. "HIT TEN YARDS FORWARD MOT X, TORPEDO IN SIGHT BT."

  Jim was delighted. He slapped Keith on the back. "What do you think of that, hey? I knew that was a hit the minute I let her go! That old Falcon out there is sunk colder than hell. I guess that's all, hey? I guess that showed the Board, — turn her around and head for the barn."

  Keith seemed as happy over the successful shot as Jim, but at the latter's last words I could sense his question. It was hard to tell whether Jim meant it as a command or was merely expressing his feelings.

  "Easy, old man," I said. "The rules don't let you go back to port until Falcon picks up your fish."

  "Ah, hell, skipper," Jim grinned unabashed, "they're practically alongside of it already. Let's at least start back."

  It was true. The Falcon had turned as soon as the torpedo passed under her and had followed its wake. S-16, not having changed course since firing, had been proceeding all this time in the same direction, gradually increasing her speed as her ballast tanks went dry. Up ahead the Falcon still had the two flag hoists signifying "torpedo in sight' at her yardarm, and several ship lengths ahead of her we could see the splashes as the torpedo, its exercise head having blown dry, expended its last few ounces of fuel and air before coming to a stop.

  I knew what Keith was thinking. Our squadron orders required that the Torpedo Officer of the firing submarine see the torpedo out of the water before departing the area. Later, after our return to New London, Keith would likewise have to inspect the torpedo with the Falcon's Torpedo Officer and sign the torpedo record book.

  "We'd better stick around just a bit longer, Jim," I said easily. "Might as well do it right, you know. Besides, don't forget the Board down there is watching everything you do.

  They might not agree with your shoving off so soon."

  Jim shot me a startled look for a split second, then relaxed with a short laugh.

  "Guess you're right at that." Then he turned to Keith.

  "Close on in to the Falcon until you can see them hoist the fish out of the water."

  "Aye, aye, sir," answered Keith, taking the measure of the Falcon through his binoculars.

  Strangely enough, I had begun to notice that not once on this day's operations had Jim called me "Captain" or used the word "Sir" in our conversations. A little friendly colloquialism is not unexpected in submarines, and it was not anything definite that one could lay a finger on. It was, however, almost always customary to call one's skipper, "Sir" or "Captain."

  Nobody else in the ship used titles in normal address, nor was it customary for the skipper to do so in speaking to officers or crew. It was noticeable also that apparently by tacit under- standing both Keith and Tom had on this day, contrary to their normal habit, used the word "Sir" in official conversation with Jim. Perhaps I was imagining things, but I could not quite decide whether Jim's omission had any significance.

  It was now nearing noon. We had been under way since shortly after eight o'clock. The day, instead of warming with the sun, had turned even more chilly during our short sub- mergence. I buttoned the top button on my coat and turned the collar up to protect my ears. A few moments ago I had been too hot and had been perspiring. Now I was shivering.

  Jim and Keith, too, had already buttoned themselves up. They had put their hands in their pockets and were shielding them- selves as well as they could from the biting wind whistling over the bridge. Occasionally several health problems resulted from the rapid changes of temperature and pressure experienced by submariners, but they certainly made for a maximum of discomfort all the time, I reflected, as I sought the leeward side of the periscope standards.

  Falcon now slowed down and we gained on her rapidly.

  We could see the torpedo, its yellow head bobbing in the water a few yards on her port beam. Keith gave the order to decrease our speed.

  Men were leaning over Falcon's rail with pieces of line in their hands, one man in particular with a grapnel or hook on the end of a pole. Her long hoisting boom on the afterdeck was swung over to the port side, and you could see that hooking the torpedo would be a mighty tricky business, even with the relatively small sea that was running. With no way on, Falcon rolled mightily; every time she rolled to port the end of the boom splashed in the water. In calmer days they would have put a man on the boom, or even lowered him to pass a line through the ring on the nose of the torpedo. Today it would have been suicide.

  With the Falcon rolling violently and the torpedo bobbing up and down, they had their work cut out for them. As I watched, the man with the grapnel leaned way out over the rail, made a stab-and was drenched from head to foot with solid green water which suddenly rose up under Falcon's counter just as he was reaching. For a moment I thought he must have gone overboard, but the wave receded and he was still there, doubled over the bulwark and clutching it with both hands, a heretofore unnoticed line leading from his waist inboard. There was no sign of his pole, and I thought it gone until I noticed another man hauling in on another line trailing astern, and in a moment he had returned the first man's equipment.

  He made several more stabs, each ineffectual, until Jim directed Keith to bring us close aboard on the other side of the torpedo so as to make a lee for it. For fear of drifting down upon it, the Falcon had had to come up to leeward of the torpedo, leaving it to windward and thus making it most difficult to lasso. The interposition of the lower-lying and slower- drifting S-16 to windward created a lee of comparatively smooth water and made the difference. Within minutes after we had moved up we saw the torpedo in the air being hoisted onto Falcon's capacious afterdeck.

  "Good thing we waited, hey, Keith," said Jim.

  Keith had no opportunity for reply, for at this moment a voice beneath us spoke up.

  "Permission to come on the bridge?" It was Roy Savage.

  "Permission granted," rejoined Jim, with a glance at me.

  It had been crowded before on S-16's cramped little bridge, bundled as we all were against the cold, and the addition of a seventh person made it a very tight squeeze indeed.

  "How'd the torpedo look?" asked Savage.

  "Fine, sir," replied Jim. "Hit ten yards forward of the M. O. T."

  "I mean the torpedo itself, when they picked it up," insi
sted Savage.

  Keith, who had been inspecting the Falcon through his bin- oculars, spoke up. "It looked all right, Captain. No dents that we could see. Propellers and rudders looked okay. They got it aboard without hitting the side."

  "Good," rejoined Savage. Then he turned to Jim. "Signal the Falcon to return to base."

  Rubinoffski, being not more than two feet away, had heard also. Jim nodded to him and the Quartermaster leaped lightly on top of the periscope supports, bracing himself with one foot on the bridge rail against the wind, as he unfurled his semaphore flags.

  Savage was talking to Jim: "We want to go through a few emergency drills before returning to port. After you, get the message off to Falcon get clear of her and dive. We'll spring the emergencies on you after you get her down."

  "Aye, aye, sir," answered Jim, and Roy Savage disappeared below again. As he did so, Jim turned to me, his face contorted. "Good God! What more can they want? They saw me hit with the torpedo, didn't they? And they've worked me over for three days besides."

  The feeling of uneasiness with which I had come on the bridge, and which had remained and intensified during the minutes prior to the recovery of the torpedo, became stronger yet. I beckoned to Jim, crowded over with him in the after corner of the bridge.

  "Jim, old man," I said in a low tone. "That wasn't a very good approach."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Look, Jim, you were just plain lucky. You ran for over five minutes at high speed without making a single observation.

  If the Falcon had zigged during that time instead of at the end, you would never have got close enough to shoot."

  "Nothing so lucky about that, when she flashed the light she was on one course, and when I finally got a look at her through the periscope she was on another one. So I knew she had already zigged, and wouldn't zig again for a while!"

  "Well, okay," I said, "though that's not a very realistic way of doing it. Another thing: not once during the entire approach did you look around with the periscope. If there had been another ship in the area, or if the target had been escorted, you might have got us in serious trouble."

  "But there weren't any other ships anywhere around! I knew that. I took a good look all around before we dived.

  "That's not the point, Jim. There are plenty of unrealities in the whole thing, among them that the target flashes a light at us and runs toward us. What if the Falcon had gone the other way, headed out through the Race toward Montauk Point? Then you'd not have had an approach at all. But the worst thing was that at the very end of the approach, at the firing point, you obviously lost the picture. Keith saved the approach for you."

  Jim's face became a mottled red. "The hell he did!" he al- most shouted. "Who put the ship in firing position? Who aimed the torpedo? He was my assistant, wasn't he, it's his job to back me up!"

  I still spoke in a placating tone. "I know you did, Jim, but remember when you said he had zigged away? Keith knew he had not zigged. You announced the angle on the bow as ninety, which is about what it should have been. Frequently when the target passes at close range just at the time of firing, it looks like a zig, and you fell for it. You wouldn't have fired at all if Keith hadn't made you."

  Jim's jaw muscles bulged. "What are you telling me all this for? Don't you want me to be qualified? Are you for me or against me?"

  "I want you to be qualified just as much as you do Jim,"

  I said steadily, "but what I am trying to say is that the Qualification Board has probably picked up these same points I'm telling you about."

  Jim muttered an obscenity. "Damn this whole thing, anyway," he mumbled.

  We would have talked further but there came a voice from the conning tower.

  "Commander Savage wants Mr. Bledsoe in the control room!"

  Jim swung away abruptly without another word and went below.

  The Falcon, with our torpedo secured on deck, had already started on her way back to port. Keith in the meantime had turned the ship around and was heading back toward the point where we had previously dived. He looked at me inquiringly, bowing his head against the stiff breeze which on this new course whipped straight across our bridge. There was nothing I could tell him about what had just gone on.

  "Keith," I said, "you know what you're supposed to do. As soon as Jim passes up the word, go ahead and dive."

  "Aye, aye, sir," answered Keith. "We're still rigged for dive, but the hatch has not been checked yet."

  "Hasn't it?" I asked, surprised.

  "No, sir. We were crowded up here, and Jim said not to bother because we weren't going to dive again." Our ship's orders required that the bridge hatch be inspected while rigging the ship for dive, and again after every surfacing. This involved closing it, and if we were under way the skipper's as- sent was therefore required. "I'll ask Jim for permission to check it as soon as you get below," said Keith. Ordinarily, of course, I would have given the authority, but today was Jim's show. Even with Jim and Roy Savage below, however, there was hardly any room to spare on the bridge, and Keith evidently wanted to spare me the contortions necessary to allow him room to shut it.

  "Very well," I answered, and dropped down the hatch in- to what passed for a conning tower in an S-boat, hardly more than an enlargement of the hatch down to the control room. It contained a built-in desk, used by Jim and the Quartermaster for some of their navigational work, and some signaling equipment. It was not like a fleet boat's conning tower, however, nor really a "conning tower" at all, in the strict sense, for the ship could by no means be conned from there.

  Set into the steel walls on either side were two tiny round windows, or eye-ports made of thick glass. Occasionally some member of the crew would watch a dive from there or seek some of the mysteries of the undersea from this vantage point.

  In the floor was a hatch identical to the bridge hatch, thus permitting complete isolation of the compartment should it be- come necessary. Like the bridge hatch, its weight was counter- balanced by a large coil spring, — too much so, as a matter of fact and now that it had become "worn in" a bit the hatch, during the last few days, had developed an unpleasant tendency to resist being closed or to fling itself open when undogged.

  As I reached for the hand rail preparatory to continuing below, Jim appeared, standing on the control-room deck framed in the open hatchway.

  "Bridge!" he shouted.

  "Bridge, aye, aye!" answered Keith from above.

  "Take her down!" Jim shouted. "Course two-seven-oh!"

  Looking upward, I could see Keith's face as he leaned over the hatch opening, cupped his left hand to his mouth.

  "Permission to check the hatch first, sir!" he answered.

  The light from the hatchway was in Jim's face and I knew he could not see me. Keith already had hold of the hatch, had swung it part-way shut. "It'll just take a minute, Jim" he yelled. "-okay?"

  The past four days had been hell for Jim, and I could most strongly sympathize with his feelings at this point. Even so, his next action was unwarranted.

  He shook his head in an impatient negative. Hands gripping the ladder rails and head thrown back, he shouted imperatively up the opening, "Take her down, I said!"

  Keith had no further choice. "Clear the bridge!" he called in answer. A moment later came the two blasts of the diving alarm.

  I stepped clear of the lower hatch, drew back into the recess of the conning tower near the eye-ports. Watching through them as our narrow slotted deck went under and the sea rose up to meet us had always been irresistibly fascinating to me, and I was never tired of an excuse to do so.

  With the diving alarm still reverberating, one lookout and then the other appeared, scurrying down the ladder. Both continued straight on through the lower hatch to the control room below. Next came Rubinoffski, and then Keith. In the mean- time from the control room there were sounds of air escaping as the vents went open.

  The first intimation of something wrong was the noise made by the hatch as Keith pulled it
to. Instead of the satisfying thud of the latch snapping home and the gasket seating on the rim, there was a peculiar, arresting clank to it.

  Keith's face went dead-white. I leaped to his side as he struggled with the hatch dogging mechanism. A glance disclosed the trouble. Somehow the dogs had not been fully retracted when the hatch had been opened the last time, and now, by the narrowest fraction of an inch, one of them was caught between the hatch and its seat!

  Nor was this all. The latch, having enough slack in it to latch easily, had entered its slot and engaged. Try as we could, Keith and I could not push it free, nor could we budge the dogging mechanism. The hatch was locked in its present position, with daylight showing all around the edge by a matter of an inch or so. Jammed as it was, the only way of clearing it was with a maul and a heavy screwdriver or chisel.

  I could sense, rather than feel, S-16 settling beneath us as my mind encompassed the significance of our situation. There was no maul to be had in the conning tower, nor any time to work on the hatch if there were. Our only hope lay in stopping the boat from diving.

  "Stop the dive!" I yelled down the hatch at my feet. "Hatch jammed!" in an effort to let the control room know what was wrong. Our "hull openings" indicator, or "Christmas Tree," might still be showing red for the bridge hatch, though there was a strong possibility that since the hatch was nearly shut, it might have gone green.

  In answer there came a whistling noise from below, and air commenced to escape through the partly open hatch. With a groan I realized the control room had not heard my order and was carrying out standard diving procedure, admitting high pressure air into the boat as a test for tightness. If the barometer went up and then held steady after the air was shut off, it indicated that the hull was airtight, hence watertight. A good test under leisurely circumstances, but worse than useless in this instance because the boat was not watertight, and it was already diving. Not until the control room shut the air valve in order to check the barometer would the ship's in- ability to hold air become evident. In addition, until then the noise made its personnel unable to hear anything we might shout down the hatch from the conning tower above.