Number Four line came snaking in. "Starboard back two thirds! Left full rudder!"
We slowly began to gather sternway. Hugh stood on the side of the bridge looking carefully at the dock and our motion alongside of it and at the Number One line taut to the cleat at its head.
"Slack One," Hugh said to Quin, standing with the ubiquitous telephone headset under the overhang of the bridge.
Quin spoke into the mouthpiece. Number One line sagged.
"Take in One," said Hugh. Quin spoke again. Number One line came aboard.
Adams reached for a toggle handle nearby, tugged on it A piercing foghorn blast roared out from beneath the bridge.
He held the toggle for several seconds then released it; the foghorn stopped abruptly.
A shrill whistle. Rubinoffski standing in the after part of the cigarette deck had a policeman's whistle clenched in his teeth. The colors, which had been flying from the flagstaff on our stern, were taken down by one of our men who had been standing there waiting for the signal. Likewise, up forward the Union Jack was taken down and furled.
Simultaneously, Rubinoffski reached down beside him, grasped a short flagstaff with a flag rolled around it, jammed, it into a socket at the end of the cigarette deck bulwark, unrolled it to the breeze.
Walrus backed nicely out into the Thames River, twisted to align herself with the channel, and started downstream. We were on our way to war at last; down the familiar, often traveled river; through the railroad bridge and the highway bridge which, side by side, had to open simultaneously for us; past the Electric Boat Company where Walrus had been con- ceived and born, and where the hulls of her sisters were taking shape; past the baroque old Griswold Hotel with its green-stained shutters and Victorian facade; past Southwest Ledge and New London Light; through the Race-that narrow channel between the eastern and western parts of Long Island Sound; past Cerebus Shoal buoy. Finally, late in the afternoon, with Montauk Point abeam to starboard, we set our course due south.
The manner in which we would make the southward passage from New London had been a matter of considerable thought and discussion. For the sake of a fast passage we would run all the way on the surface, except for occasional short dives for drills and once a day to check our computed trim. The big worry was the Possibility of encountering a German submarine on patrol off our East Coast. We were a new ship, in transit, more vulnerable than any surface vessel.
A submarine has so little buoyancy reserve on the surface- none at all submerged, of course-that it can never hope to survive a torpedo hit. But the main thing was that we were new, untried, and inexperienced; true, we had trained faith- fully, but any German we might meet would have the inestimable advantage of weeks of constant alertness off a hostile shore, perhaps the knowledge that he had already been tried in the crucible of war, certainly the superior position of being at leisure on a station through which we would have to pass hurriedly.
For maximum concealment at night the ship was kept completely blacked out topside. Our running lights had not only been turned out but entirely disconnected, their glass lenses removed. The exterior of the ship was a dull black all over, including the once-bright brass capstans and other stray bits of shiny metal which, by the slightest reflection from moon or stars, might betray us. The only light permitted top- side was a tiny red one in the gyro compass repeater for the Officer of the Deck, and the dim glow, also red, which came out of the open hatch at his feet.
Our topside watch consisted of four lookouts, one assigned to each of four sectors around the ship; the Quartermaster of the Watch, who normally stood on the after part of the bridge; and, of course, the Officer of the Deck. An six bridge watchers were equipped with binoculars. Instructions to all six were to use them constantly and to maintain the utmost vigilance for low-lying, dark hulls and suspicious streaks in the water which might be made by torpedoes. Of course we zigzagged, and, knowing that the best defense of a lone ship on the high seas is speed, we held our four sixteen- cylinder Winton diesel engines at maximum sustained power.
Only a few hours away from the safety and comfort of New London, everything now seemed entirely unreal. It was hard to believe that we had progressed so quickly from safety into mortal danger.
The first Might out was uneventful, but I could not sleep.
Ceaselessly I roamed the ship from forward torpedo room to after torpedo room, telling people off watch to be sure to get plenty of rest against the time when they would be needed, assuring myself that all was well with those who actually were on watch. Jim, I saw, was doing likewise. Evidently he could not sleep either, and by the time morning came we had succeeded in exhausting ourselves. It was a good thing the German submarine happened not to choose our first night at sea, or the day following, to make his attempt upon us.
Having had access to some of the reports of German — sub- marine exploits m the Atlantic, we were well aware of the danger they presented. They had been built for service in the narrower ocean, had a shorter cruising-range requirement, and were consequently smaller than our boats, lay lower in the water, and were harder to see. The German Type-7 boat, apparently their favorite for the transocean patrols, was hard- ly half the size of Walrus. But it had nearly equal speed and packed an equally lethal wallop, torpedo for torpedo-though, of course, less than half the total war load we could carry.
It was no doubt one of these which attacked us in the early morning of our third night out of New London. We were still running south, zigzagging and making full speed.
Tom Schultz had the watch on the bridge and I had just stepped below for a few minutes. It wag a dark night, without a moon. We were in the Gulf Stream and the weather was clear, still, warm, and muggy, with myriads of stars studding a pitch-black sky. A moderately heavy sea was running from astern and what wind there was also from the north.
The four exhaust plumes, two from either side, appeared to rise almost straight up, and the moist, incenselike odor of diesel fumes pervaded the bridge. The motion of the ship was gentle, a slight pitch and an occasional deep roll as a quartering sea came in.
My nightly peregrinations had taken the form of periodic inspections below decks, with the rest of the time on the bridge ready for whatever action circumstances might bring forth. I had already made two such inspections and had barely reached the control room on my third descent when suddenly that sort of sixth sense which somehow grows within all ship captains twanged a warning note to my brain. Perhaps 'it was that the rudder went to full right and remained there, not easing off shortly as the zigzag plan would normally have required. It might have been the change from 'full' speed to "flank," although it was my later impression that Tom had not yet called for more speed. At any rate, I had leaped to the conning tower and was halfway through it when the collision alarm sounded.
There is nothing more eerie at sea on a black, unfriendly night than to have the collision alarm sound unexpectedly.
Somewhere out in the dark someone is trying to put the finger on you. He has seen you first-may already have killed you, only you don't know it yet. The collision alarm, in a vessel at war, is like a ship screaming in fright.
I don't consciously remember pulling myself up to the bridge, but I was there beside Tom before the alarm had stopped ringing, just before the hatch to the bridge went closed. Below decks the watertight doors were banging shut and everyone below knew this time it was no drill. It was like one fairly drawn-out simultaneous bang. The collision alarm could not have been silent for more than fifteen seconds be- fore a rapid voice on the bridge speaker announced, "Ship rigged for collision!"
Tom pointed off on our port beam. "There he is," he whispered. "He was broad on the bow when I saw him!"
I raised my binoculars still hung around, my neck, looked long and hard in the direction Tom pointed-nothing. Even though the control room had been "redded" out, that is, darkened, with only dim red lights for visibility-I had reduced my night vision by going there, even if for only a second.
&
nbsp; "I can't see him, Tom." For no particular reason I also whispered.
"I can all right! Can't see much of him though. We are fine on his bow."
I was subconsciously swinging my binoculars aft, trying to keep in the same line of vision as Walrus turned under us.
"Put our stern right on him, Tom," I said.
"Aye aye, sir!"
I kept trying to see and suddenly there he was, surprisingly near, and surprisingly small. A little gray boat plunging deep in the sea; a square shadowy conning tower rising amidships.
About the size of the S-16, I would have guessed, although it was hard to compare.
"Wonder if he's seen us?" I muttered. "N6 telling that "God!" Tom grasped my arm so hard it hurt. He pointed to, the water alongside and to starboard. Not fifty feet away a white streak suddenly appeared on the surface of the water parallel to our course. Swiftly it came alongside and passed ahead. I leaped to the other side of the bridge, leaped back again.
"Do you see any more?"
Tom did not answer.
I ran to the other side once again, looked once more.
There came a scream from the forward starboard lookout.
"Torpedo wake!" he yelled.
Startled, I looked up, followed his outstretched arm with my eyes. It was the wake Tom and I had just seen.
"Torpedo!" The after starboard lookout was screaming, too, pointing farther aft. I swung around quickly, hoping my night vision was coming back. Nothing there. Merely the waves and wind slicks on the water.
I had been unconscious of the weather, except for its slight oppressiveness. Now suddenly it intruded itself upon my mind. The sea was neither calm nor rough but in that betwixt- and-between condition that is bard on small vessels and, not even an annoyance to large ones. The wind, because of our radical course change, now came from our starboard bow, sweeping across our decks and whistling in our ears. The now rolled slowly and heavily, farther to port than to star- board, and occasional seas swept over our after deck. It was dark-a good night for murder. I looked back at the German submarine. She was still there, closer, if anything.
"What do you think, Tom?" I tried to speak calmly, but my voice must have betrayed the racing beat of my heart "Do you think he is chasing — us?"
Tom might have been about to answer when there came a loud cry from the port after lookout.
"TORPEDO, PORT QUARTER!"
This time there was no doubt. Another torpedo coming up on the other side. Close.
"Right full rudder!" shouted Tom.
"Belay that!" I screamed, right on his heels. The bridge rudder angle indicator wavered, then remained as it was.
"Tom," I said savagely, "nothing doing. That's what he wants us to do. As soon as we are broadside to him," I let that thought finish itself.
"Sorry, skipper," Tom muttered.
Seconds ticked by. Tom spoke again: "Maybe if we manned the gun and opened fire…"
"No. Too risky down there on deck." Then I had an idea, pressed the bridge speaker button. "Control," I called, "load and fire three green flares." Perhaps if the flares went up close alongside the German, or overhead, the glare might blind him to our position or scare him or otherwise dissuade his pursuit.
The torpedo coming up on the port side looked even closer than the first one, but, since we were stern to, it had to run parallel to us.
"Lookouts," I shouted. "The only torpedoes that can hurt us are the ones that come right up the stern. Keep a sharp lookout."
I had not given much thought to how they would be able to distinguish a torpedo wake in the wash of our propellers but perhaps they might, especially from the advantage of their height. Another idea struck me.
Tom, I'm going up on top of the periscope shears. Tell control not to raise either of the periscopes. Listen for me from there."
I climbed swiftly up to the top of the periscope support!
Three successive pops of high-pressure air came from same- where below as I climbed up, and when I reached there Tom called up, "Captain, three green flares away." Swinging my leg over the top of the steel towerlike structure I bestrode the top of the periscope shears like a man backward on horseback just in front of me was the bronze-lined bearing for the after periscope and immediately behind me was the round hole through which the forward periscope would pass.
Should the control room by accident raise either periscope I would find myself in a most uncomfortable position, if not indeed impaled by the blunt end of the instrument. In my exposed perch the wind whistled and tore at my clothes, and I was flung from side to side as the ship pitched and rolled. I grasped the periscope supports with my knees. Back aft four plumes of exhaust smoke spewed forth with a shower of spray, spattering water over our dock and onto the heaving black sea which would periodically rise up to submerge them.
I raised my binoculars. There he was, all right. I could see more of him from my high location. No doubt he was chasing us but we were making full speed, and were, fresh out of dry dock. We should be able to outrun him, although so far there seemed to be little indication that we were doing so.
Less than a mile away, nearer to fifteen hundred yards, the sharp-angled gray shape, low, broad, and sinister, plunged along in our wake throwing a cloud of spray and spume to either side. I could only see his deck in flashes as he plowed along, but the squat, square structure of his conning tower remained visible all the time.
The main thing, of course, was the possibility of more torpedoes and I searched the water between us. Running directly away from the German we presented a very difficult target.
Nevertheless there was always the possibility that a lucky shot might come our way. Two he had already fired, if one discounted the possibility of others we had not seen. He would not be likely to waste more without a better chance of a hit.
Conceivably we could fire one at him, though with no greater chance. It. looked like a stalemate. The German was hanging on, hoping, no doubt, that we might make a false move. If we were to submerge, he could be practically on top of us for an easy shot during the minute it would take us to get under. if we turned either way and presented our broadside, a torpedo would be coming instantly. Time crawled painfully while I clung with one hand and both legs to my precarious perch. The wind seemed laden with salty moisture and my dampened shirt clung around my ribs. My right hand ached from holding up the binoculars and my left one was numb from holding onto the ship. Walrus swayed drunkenly from side to side, reaching me now far over to starboard, now even farther over the water to port.
More time dragged on. Surely; a minute must have passed since Tom gave me the word that the flares had been fired!
It was supposed to take them one minute to function after being ejected, surely they all could not have failed to function, and then I saw it: a brilliant green star burst directly above and in front of the German submarine, lighting up the surrounding water and reflecting the gray sides of the German boat with an almost dead-white color. The flare descended slowly, brilliant beyond all measure. Then there were two of them, and before the first flare has touched the water the third had exploded in the air so that three brilliantly lighted green stars in echelon formation were suspended above the enemy submarine.
I had thought of turning away or diving, or both, when our flares went off, but neither action was necessary. I could, see the enemy boat clearly, every detail etched sharply against the black water, and as I watched she seemed to slow down; then her bow dipped and she was no longer there.
I climbed down to the bridge again, rejoining Tom.
"We'll keep going on this course for at least an hour, I said, "then turn south again. He can't catch us submerged."
Then the reaction set in and I found my hands shaking.
6
Our vigilance was intensified by our escape from the German submarine, and for a time our lookouts thought they saw torpedo wakes or enemy submarines in every whitecap.
But aside from several false alarms during the ne
xt day and night, the rest of our trip was uneventful and two mornings later we sighted the high tree-covered slopes of Santo Domingo rising majestically above the horizon. Some distance to the left, lower-lying and not yet in sight, lay the shores of Puerto Rico. Mona Passage, the waterway between, was reputed to be a favorite hunting ground for German submarines; logically enough: a large percentage of the traffic to and from the Caribbean Sea had to funnel through it.
I could visualize two or three wary U-boats lurking at periscope depth in the approaches. The bottom of the ocean on both sides, Caribbean and Atlantic, was already littered with the shattered hulls of our merchant vessels.
We went to the last notch of our speed, "All ahead flank," on the annunciators, the throttles jammed wide open, till the pitometer log dial in the conning tower registered twenty and a half knots. And as we neared the passage we stopped zigzagging and arrowed for it to get through as rapidly as possible.
Perhaps our stratagem was successful, perhaps it made no difference. Perhaps there were no German submarines there. At any rate, hugging the shores of the one-time Pearl of the Antilles, we roared into the deep blue, transparent Caribbean Sea, the storied highway of the Spanish Plate Fleet, and of Drake, and Morgan-and Captain Blood.
The Caribbean Sea is one of the loveliest bodies of water in the world. It is warm, usually calm and peaceful, always beautiful, seldom roiled by bad weather, but able to produce, almost in minutes, the most violent and unpredictable hurricanes.
Thus far in the war it had already proved a profitable operating area for German submarines. Somewhere, probably in one of the briefings just before leaving New London, I remembered having read a description of a proposal to convert it into an Allied lake. All the entrances: Yucatan Channel, Mona Passage, Windward Passage on down through the Lesser Antilles to Trinidad and the coast of South America, were to be closed off by nets, mine fields, and heavily armed patrols. A mammoth project, but the destruction the Germans had already wreaked during half a year of war in its freely accessible waters was also mammoth.
Run Silent, Run Deep Page 13