Pigboats

by Ellsberg, Edward

  In the forward passage, just below the still dripping ventilation valve, lay Tom Knowles, pulling his scattered wits together, trying to get on his legs again. Running feet were trampling him, stepping on his arms, kicking his chest. As he strove to rise, the torpedo gang shot through the door from forward, groping toward the C.O.C. and what little chance of safety it might offer. The prostrate quartermaster struggled up, gripped a dog in the door frame over him. A flying foot drove into his side, sprawled him out again, left him panting for breath. As he rolled over, the humour of it struck him, grim as it was.

  “Lucky their shoes are off or I’d have a couple o’ busted ribs,” groaned Tom to himself as another figure, rushing past, pressed in his stomach. A brief interval came between the hurtling bodies, he dragged himself erect, staggered back again into the C.O.C.

  In the glimmer from the flashlight, Tom saw the little room packed with men, staring fixedly as the ring of light swung round, came to rest shining against the mass of machinery on the port bulkhead. In the centre of that feebly lighted circle was the depth gauge. All eyes focused on it as if to read their fate from its shining face. And there was the needle, swung all the way round, jammed up against the pin which marked the limit of its travel — 300 feet!

  A groan as the doomed men read the gauge; then an unearthly silence fell on the group as its meaning sank in. A hundred feet at least deeper than the boat was designed for; how much more than that, who knew? No one spoke.

  At last Tom broke the spell.

  “Let’s know the worst.” Leaning over the diving wheels while Randolph held the flashlight for him, he gripped the brass rim of the depth gauge, unscrewed the cover. With his thumb nail he lifted the point of the needle. As it cleared the stop pin, it shot from his fingers, flew round the dial, brought up against the back side of the pin on the zero mark. Another gasp in the semidarkness from the seamen watching him. The gap between the two pins was the equivalent of 40 feet more on the regular scale!

  Again Tom flicked the needle with his thumb nail, lifted it over the zero stop pin. It spun up the dial, quivered briefly, came to rest on 11.

  “Well, there she is, boys, 351 feet. Not so bad.” Tom tried to speak encouragingly, but he knew it was useless. The crew were mostly old submarine men; they knew the facts. An undamaged boat had once bottomed at 302 feet and come up successfully. Tom tried to remember what she was designed for — 300 feet probably, some of them were. But undamaged! That meant everything.

  Lieutenant Rolfe pushed through into the beam from the flashlight, took the light from Randolph, faced his crew.

  “Back on your diving stations, boys. And move slow from now on. We want to go easy on the air.”

  The situation numbed all conversation. There were no replies, no comments, only the slight splashing of bare feet as the trapped sailors padded slowly away in the faint light, casting grotesque shadows that darted in and out through the maze of pipes and valves covering the semi-circular hull arching the C.O.C.

  Rolfe swept the light over the little group remaining in the compartment, stopped on Randolph. Like the others, the chief electrician’s dripping clothes clung tightly to his body. His cap was gone, his tousled hair matted queerly over his white face. He shivered noticeably in the beam illuminating his figure, the feeble light flickering unsteadily from the brass buttons on his jacket as he shook.

  “The water’s cold all right, old boy.” Tom placed a sympathetic hand on his quivering shoulder. “We’ll all be O.K. as soon as we dry out a little. But right now, we’ve got to find out what ails the switchboard, chief,” and ignoring the knowledge that Randolph was patently shivering from something far different from a drenching in cold salt water, Tom squeezed between the periscopes, pushing Randolph ahead of him.

  From the port side, Rolfe trained the flashlight on the switchboard.

  “The lights came on for a second or two, just after we hit bottom,” he said. “Somebody knocked me down and stood on my neck but he got a light someway. Who did that?”

  “Guess I did, captain,” answered Knowles briefly.

  Rolfe hesitated a moment, then waded through the water toward them.

  “Well, let’s see if you can do it again.” He squeezed out of the darkness between the wheel and a housed periscope, joined Randolph and the quartermaster in the faint light at the switchboard. “Leave out knocking me down again though. What else did you do?” questioned Rolfe.

  “Nothing but close the main circuit breaker, sir.”

  The light swung across the board, rested on the breaker. It was wide open, the carbon breaker blocks several inches apart.

  Randolph, a little calmed, looked at it.

  “I closed her, and got the lights, but she kicked right out again and I didn’t bother anymore,” added Tom.

  “Why not?” asked Rolfe, “we sure needed light.”

  “I got all the light I needed. One look at where that water was coming in was enough for me.”

  “Did you stop that?” asked Randolph.

  “Yeh, I stopped it,” replied Tom briefly.

  Rolfe looked at Knowles curiously, a vague wonder in his mind. He dropped it suddenly, turned again to the switchboard.

  “Now, about this circuit breaker,” continued Rolfe, “she kicked right out again? How about that, Sparks?”

  “It’d take a heavy short to blow that breaker, cap’n,” answered Randolph. “Must be in the circuits to the main motors.”

  “We certainly can’t afford to burn anything out now, chief, but we’ve got to have those lights. This lantern’s giving out. What can we do?” asked Rolfe.

  “Pull all the switches on the board except the lighting circuits; we kin chase down that short in the other circuits afterwards,” responded Randolph briefly.

  In the uncertain rays from the bull’s-eye lantern, flickering dimly over bright copper contacts gleaming against an ebony background, Randolph’s dripping arms worked over the board, opening switches on the main propelling circuits, the pump circuits, even the gyro compass circuit, pulling switches by the dozens till finally the board bristled with ebony handles projecting inboard and only two circuits were still knifed in on the contacts.

  “O.K., captain. Nothing live on the board now but the lighting circuits.”

  Rolfe turned to the quartermaster at his side, barely visible in the feeble light reflected from the switchboard.

  “Try your luck again, Knowles.”

  Tom stooped, seized the circuit breaker handle, pressed it down. The lights flashed on; from bow to stern the sailors, eyes dilated trying to see by the few rays of light filtering through the blackness from the C.O.C., blinked in the sudden radiance.

  Light! As it flashed on, death seemed suddenly farther away. A cheer rang through the boat, died abruptly at the recollection of the microphones. For an instant everyone stopped in his tracks, listened tensely for that merciless droning which had haunted them for hours. No sound; either the destroyers were gone — or they were too deep to get the vibrations. Too deep! The probability of the latter reason struck everyone. Hope vanished again, shoulders drooped, men slouched down on bunks, on torpedoes, on compressors, on anything. Too deep! No need for quiet any more. No one would ever hear them again.

  Rolfe regarded the flashlight in his hand, shined the bull’s-eye into his face. In the new brilliance of the room it was hard to tell whether the little bulb was lighted or not. He flicked off the button, carefully hung the lantern again on the bulkhead over the compass.

  “That’s that,” he announced. “Now we’ll get set to come up tonight.”

  Tom rolled his dripping trousers up over his knees, threw away his soaked socks, looked round the C.O.C. From the angle of the housed periscopes, they must be heeled about 10° to port. At least that; it was an effort to stand without sliding into the port bilges; if his bare feet were not gripping the deck tightly he would certainly have had to hold on to something.

  And the water! Lapping the base of the switchbo
ard, it spread in a sheet to port, nearly covering several manifolds there. Sanders at the diving wheels was standing in it over his knees.

  A new fear gripped Tom. If salt water got to the batteries and mixed with the sulphuric acid in them, a cloud of chlorine would soon pour out to gas them. He sidled along the sloping deck, his bare feet ploughing through the water toward the battery room, looked through the little door at the battery deck. A sigh of relief. It was dry. The water in the C.O.C. was at least a foot deep in the passage, but it was still some inches below the high coaming in the bulkhead forming the door frame.

  Tom felt someone pressing, against him. Turning he saw Rolfe just behind, gazing at the flapper valve in the ventilation main, which he had closed. A slight dribble of water was still coming through.

  Rolfe saw Tom watching him. Jerking his thumb upward, he asked:

  “That it?”

  “Yes, that’s the valve.” Tom felt his side. “I was nearly trampled to death closing it!”

  “What’s that?” queried the puzzled captain.

  “Nothing much. Just Biff and his gang coming through that door. They treated me like the door mat.” He rubbed his side tenderly. “I guess Biff himself made his mark here.”

  “Well, you can’t blame ’em, the only escape in these boats is through the C.O.C. and out the conning tower.”

  “Nobody’s blaming ’em, captain,” muttered Tom, “but if they’d used their beans, it might have struck ’em that there’s no rush about escaping through the conning tower when you’re on the bottom.”

  Tom bit his lip, wished he had held his tongue as Rolfe’s jaw dropped and he turned away silently. No use now bellyaching about their fate.

  Rolfe turned to inspect the dripping valve. A ventilation valve. Nothing but air should come through that.

  He racked his brain recalling the piping arrangement. One of the ventilation mains led outside the strength hull through the non-water-tight superstructure to cool the recirculated air when they were running submerged. That must be it. Explosions had collapsed the pipe, allowed the sea free passage through the open valve into the C.O.C. Till Knowles had closed it. Lucky they had gone down stern first, making the water run aft. If it had gone forward into the battery room, that much water would have done more than form gas. The batteries would be completely neutralized, dead. And that would mean no light, no power, no hope. Their finish.

  Well, maybe it was anyway. 351 feet! Why didn’t the boat crush? She was only designed for 200 feet. There must have been a husky factor of safety in that design. If he ever met the naval constructor who designed her he’d sure thank him.

  Rolfe took a long look at the battery deck to reassure himself, then waded aft through the water in the C.O.C., and squeezed by the periscopes. Abaft them was the compass bowl. Casually he looked at it. The gyro was still running. Queer. The juice had been off a long time. A long time? How long? It seemed ages since they had gone hurtling downward. Thirty minutes, perhaps. Anyway the compass reading meant nothing now. What difference which way they headed in the mud?

  He passed the radio room. Cobb was still there, his feet in the water, sprawled listlessly over his little table. His headset lay on the board, disconnected.

  Cobb looked up sullenly as his captain peered in, nodded at the headset.

  “Don’t need ’em any more, cap’n. It’s all quiet. The Germans’a shoved off. Figure the job’s done, I guess.” He sprawled over his desk.

  Again Rolfe said nothing, pressed his lips tightly together. He had got his crew into this, there was no answer he could make.

  Two more steps aft, he peered through into the engine room. Here and there, engineers leaned against the diesels, toyed meaninglessly with the throttles on the dead engines. Not so much water as in the C.O.C. Plenty though. It was over the crankcases, nearly up to the gratings on the narrow walk between the engines.

  Rolfe squeezed through into the machinery space. A strong odour of oil pervaded it. He looked round. No apparent damage. Walking aft between the diesels, he passed the silent engineers. They moved slightly, crowding themselves against the cylinders to let him ease by. A few floor plates were missing from the gratings, lost in the bilges. He stepped cautiously across, gripping the angle bars below with his bare toes, dinging to the cam shaft of the starboard engine which leaned far out into the passage. At the after bulkhead, he glanced through the little door into the motor room.

  On the port side, the water was over the floor plates, the port propelling motor was nearly submerged. The motor casing was supposed to be water-tight. Still it might have leaked. The short circuit was probably right there. Rolfe drew his head back, worked his way slowly forward to the C.O.C. again.

  Gathered round the air manifold was a little group of his petty officers, earnestly arguing. At the slight splashing as he stepped through the bulkhead door and waded into the room, the discussion ceased abruptly. The men scattered a little, looked at him a moment inquiringly. Biff Wolters broke the silence.

  “Wot are you goin’ to do now, cap’n?”

  “Just one thing we can do, Biff. Stay right here. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning; even if we came up, it’s broad day and we’ll get sunk. It’ll be dark at four o’clock; we’ll come up then.”

  “I don’t see nuthin’ in that,” replied Biff. “Sparks sez he can’t hear ’em anymore; they must be gone. And besides, this bucket’s gonna fold up like an accordion any minute fer all we know.”

  Rolfe shook his head.

  “She’s stood it so far, she’ll hold out a few hours more.”

  “See here, skipper.” Rolfe turned to face Arnold. The chief machinist’s mate’s pale complexion was whiter than usual; his grease-stained fingers twitched spasmodically over the valves of his manifold as he spoke. “I done what you said about the pump, cap’n, an’ I asked no questions when Tom here was protestin’. An’ here we are. That’s over. Nobody’s sayin’ nuthin’ about it. But we’ve got a right to talk now, and we’re tellin’ ye. We’re gonna die down here any second if sumthin’ let’s go; the boat ain’t built fer this pressure.” His twitching fingers left the manifold, waved convulsively in Rolfe’s face. “An’ get this straight. The Germans is the least o’ our worries now. We’ll think about them if we get up. You start now if ye know how. If ye don’t we’ll tackle it ourselves.”

  Rolfe listened in amazement, a dull flush spreading over his face. Arnold talking mutiny! Arnold the silent, always obedient machinist! And though it was a small thing, it kept ringing through Rolfe’s mind. Arnold had said, “if” we get up, not “when.”

  He looked at the group, found no support in their eyes. No use to force matters, he would be reasonable with them.

  “We’ll wait, boys. If we come up now, it’ll mean either surrender or get sunk.”

  Wolters broke in gruffly:

  “We’re sunk already, and as fer surrenderin’ I wisht we wuz where we had a chanst. 351 feet! If we’re gonna get out o’ here, we’d better start. Look at that!”

  Rolfe looked. A thin jet of water, squirting from beneath a rivet, shot like a shining thread of steel straight into the bilges.

  “Look around,” continued Biff. “You’ll see lots o’ rivets leakin’. We’re fillin’ up, ’n the longer we stay, the heavier we get.”

  “They’re right, skipper,” added Tom. “We’re done for if we wait.”

  Rolfe thrust his hand into the tiny jet of water, hurriedly jerked it away. His palm stung as if a needle had been jabbed into it. A lot of water could come in under that pressure. He gave in.

  “O.K. boys, we’ll start now.”

  Rolfe moved up to the high pressure air manifold. The gauge showed 1500 pounds pressure, only three-quarters of their full charge.

  “What’s the matter here, Arnold? I thought the air banks were fully charged before we dived?”

  “They wuz, but mebbe you remember we’ve fired a few torpedoes since then,” answered the machinist’s mate.

 
Rolfe flushed. He had forgotten their attack. It seemed years before.

  “You’re right, Bill. We did.” He turned to the men behind him. “We’ll lighten up by blowing all the main ballasts. That’ll bring her up.”

  He examined the manifold, then moved to his post near the number one periscope.

  “Diving stations!” In spite of an attempt to speak with his old authority, something was lacking in the perfunctory way his men responded. He thought they failed to move with their former unquestioning faith.

  They moved, however. Once more the little group spread round the C.O.C., Sanders at the diving wheels, Arnold at the blowing manifold, Mullaney at the Kingstons. Randolph took his place at the controllers, Knowles gripped the wheel. Forward and aft, seamen moved again to their valves, their engines, looked expectantly toward the C.O.C. In a thick atmosphere of bad air, tinged with oil vapours and the sharp sting of acid fumes, the crew took their stations, waited for orders.

  “Mullaney, got all the main ballast Kingstons open to the sea?”

  Mullaney, his slow-moving mind still in a daze, looked at his levers. Their lower ends, with the locking gear, were all submerged, only the handles pierced the sheet of water in which he stood. He looked at them, they all lay to port, their closed position. Pete seized the lever for the forward main ballast tank, released the latch, yanked it inboard. It refused to move. Pete pulled harder, but without result. He started to curse as he braced his feet in the water and heaved back with all his might.

  Sanders, watching him a moment, left the after diving wheel, and after squinting down the line of levers, whispered to Pete,

  “Vast heavin’, mate, ye’re only usin’ up the air. Them valves is open already. She’s got a heavy list to port, that’s why they don’t seem to be leanin’ inboard.”