Crash Dive

by Martin H. Greenberg

  Careless, Miller decided. They’re all so confident and . . . Then he quickly changed his opinion. The nearest ship had men in the rigging, with spyglasses trained toward the open sea. And when he squinted and looked past that closest ship and to the next, he saw another man high on the mast. They were being diligent about the blockade after all. He prayed that the Hunley, so low in the water, would remain unnoticed.

  Miller climbed to the far side of the aft hatch, dipping his head to grin at Simkins before he slipped into the water. It felt slightly warmer than the air, and it smelled strongly of salt. A river boy, Miller had never been out to sea, and the taste of the water in his mouth almost made him gag. He tugged the knife from his belt and placed it between his teeth, then he swum to the rear of the Hunley and sucked in a breath. The line dragging the torpedo indeed had become wrapped in the propeller. The thin rope was tangled badly and chewed, and Miller knew it wouldn’t take too much work to cut it away. The problem was, it had pulled the torpedo to within a few feet of the submarine, and the waves were bringing it dangerously closer.

  Miller trod water, one hand touching the Hunley. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the fore hatch, from his vantage point seeing only the silhouetted head and shoulders of Lieutenant Dixon. He couldn’t see the man’s face, and he couldn’t risk calling to him asking for advice. He could swim to the fore section of the submarine and whisper. But that would take precious moments, and the waves were still nudging the torpedo.

  Could Lieutenant Dixon see what was happening? What would he want me to do? Didn’t matter, Miller instantly decided, interposing himself more firmly between the torpedo and the aft end of the Hunley, the tangled rope brushing against his left arm, the torpedo being nudged toward his chest now. That mule was sitting squarely on him again, hurtfully so and making it hard to breathe—even though there were no walls and no flickering candle, plenty of air everywhere.

  God, it felt like he was suffocating all over again!

  He could make out no details on the torpedo, but he’d seen it this afternoon. It looked like a small water barrel, though made of hammered copper. One end was tapered, and there was some mechanism on this end, near the rope, with prongs sticking out of it. Simkins had explained that if the prongs connected with something hard, they’d depress, setting off the charge of explosives. Ninety pounds of explosives. The intent had been to drag the torpedo close to a ship, submerge beneath, and let the explosives catch against the enemy’s side and detonate.

  Biting down hard on the knife blade and feeling its edge against his tongue, Miller stretched out his right arm, just below the surface of the water. He slammed his eyes shut, prayed to God, and waited.

  What would it feel like? Being blown to pieces by the explosives that were crammed in that copper barrel? Would he feel anything? Would the torpedo kill the men inside the Hunley, too?

  A moment later he felt the underside of the torpedo bump against his palm and he felt the furnace in his chest being rapidly stoked. His breath was ragged, and despite the coolness of the breeze against his face he was sweating furiously. He stopped treading and felt himself sinking.

  “Miller?” The word was a whisper, barely heard. “You be quick about this, then come back to us. Miller?”

  “ ‘M all right,” he answered, a little louder than he intended. He opened his eyes and started moving his legs again to keep himself afloat, the material in his trousers threatening to tangle him like the rope had tangled up the propeller. Miller tried to calm himself and slow his breathing, neither effort being successful.

  With his right hand still against the torpedo, cupping it just under what he considered its nose—inches from where the mechanism would be—he held it an arm’s length from the Hunley.

  “ ‘M all right,” he whispered to himself. “All right. All right. All right for the moment anyway.” He brought his left hand up until it wrapped around the rope. Then he slowly turned until the torpedo was against his right shoulder and that hand was free. How close was his shoulder to that mechanism? And if the prongs brushed against him, was he a hard enough object to set off the charge? Miller suddenly felt much older than his sixteen years, older than the nineteen he’d lied about to the lieutenant. He took the knife from his mouth and tried once more to futilely stop his heart from hammering so. “ ‘M all right.”

  “Miller?”

  “You can toe the mark, Too Tall,” he whispered to himself. “You ain’t no Sunday soldier, no kid-glove boy.” In fact, there wasn’t any boy left in him. He was as much of a man as any one of the soldiers sitting inside the Hunley. “You can do this.” A deep breath and he started carefully cutting the line, each slice oddly in time with the shushing of the waves and the beat of the Union men’s song, and each so slight and gentle so as not to jostle the torpedo and risk striking the mechanism. He was cutting the tangle of line free from the propeller first, making sure all of the rope was away from the blades, then nudging the blades to make sure they could turn. Then he worked on the last snag, trying to leave some rope still attached to the torpedo.

  “Miller?” Lieutenant Dixon’s whisper again.

  “Fine,” he said softly. “But them damn mudsills won’t be much longer if I have anything to do about it.” Miller contorted around so he could sheath his knife, keeping his left hand firmly around the length of rope still tied to the torpedo. The remaining rope was little more than two feet long, not near long enough to suit him. He swam slowly and awkwardly with it, and figured he looked a bit like a frog. He didn’t glance over his shoulder to the Hunley, though he wanted to know if Lieutenant Dixon was still watching or if he was moving the submarine farther away. He couldn’t hear Dixon or his fellows. All he heard was the Union men singing and the sloshing of the water. And all he could do was pray that the torpedo would not blow up while he was attached to it.

  Miller wasn’t sure how long it took him to frog-swim from the Hunley to the nearest Union ship. It was long enough that his legs and arms felt on fire from the effort, and that he was breathing so deeply that he feared the men on deck would hear him. They weren’t singing anymore, but they were talking. He could pick out only a few scattered words: Charleston, wallpapered, and greenbacks. And after a few minutes: “Tom caught the quickstep.” He faintly heard the creak of the deck, someone walking across it, and the groan of wood from the mast.

  Then he was up against the hull, laying the torpedo parallel to it—not having the courage or a large enough dose of foolishness to ram the mechanism against the ship and destroy it and kill himself in the process. Lieutenant Dixon had told him to come back to them, after all. Sixteen years was not old enough to die, he thought.

  But how old were the men on that ship?

  Miller thrust that thought from his mind. He didn’t know all the intricacies of the war—what precisely had started it, what all was being fought over. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It was more than about slaves and about this blockade, and maybe one day he would study about it. He’d only involved himself because of this submarine. He was more caught up in the inventions.

  Of the war . . . the Davids, the Pioneer, the American Diver, and his precious Hunley . . . the North’s hot air balloons . . . and even the North’s pitiful attempt at their own submarine. The Alligator they called it, Miller remembered from some obscure newspaper clipping. Men were at their best inventing things, he knew, and they were on their worst behavior by waging war against each other.

  Miller realized he was at his best, too, finding courage he didn’t know he had and volunteering to do this damn fool thing. He’d pushed off from the Union ship, swimming quickly and not worrying about any splashing he might make. He wanted only to be away from the torpedo, which the waves were forcing up against the enemy’s hull. Miller barely spotted the Hunley, so low and black against the dark water. The sliver of moonlight briefly revealed the silhouette of Lieutenant Dixon. Every muscle screamed for rest, but Miller picked up his pace, pushing the ache in his limbs to t
he back of his mind and focusing only on that silhouette.

  With every stroke he expected to be discovered and to hear an explosion. Neither happened, not even by the time he reached the Hunley and had to be practically pulled up its side by Dixon. He felt like a discarded rag doll, but the lieutenant slapped him on the back—that lone gesture giving him the strength to follow Dixon inside. The submarine was no longer listing.

  The men were congratulating him, Becker’s voice the loudest. Miller nodded politely, as he folded himself onto his seat.

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Miller said, waving his fellows to silence. “I put that torpedo against that ship. All of that bumping with the waves . . . I thought it would have exploded by now. How could . . .”

  Dixon didn’t reply, raising himself again through the fore hatch and peering at the closest Union ship, then returning below. “There’s British ships nearby, so Beauregard’s sources say. That’s why we’re out here. They’re sitting somewhere out there and waiting for a break in the blockade. And I told Beauregard we’d give them that break. It’s all about guns, gentlemen. Those ships are bringing guns that we need, and we’re to give them the cotton that they treasure and make their captains rich men.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Miller began. “I should’ve shoved that torpedo against that ship. I should’ve . . .”

  “You did more than I expected,” Lieutenant Dixon cut back. “The torpedo just hasn’t hit the hull at the right angle, that’s all. Maybe all we have to do is get that ship to turn.”

  “And how can we do that?” This from Wicks, who was waving for the piss jug.

  In the light of a new candle, Dixon gave his men a rare smile. “Why, we get that ship to notice us, gentlemen. We get her to turn and chase us. Then we’ll see if we can get that torpedo to work.”

  “Too dark,” Miller said. Those two words threatened to erase Dixon’s smile. “This submarine sits so low in the water. Everything’s too dark. I could hardly see the Hunley, sir. And that was only ’cause I knew where to look. I could barely see you. We ain’t got a sail or anything to catch their notice.”

  Lieutenant Dixon stroked his chin and glanced down the row at each of his men. His eyes came to rest on Becker. “Your slouch hat, Arnold.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’ll use it for our sail.” Dixon waggled his fingers at the man.

  With a frown and a shrug Becker reached behind him, tugging free his “Stonewall” hat and passing it down the line to the lieutenant.

  “That long wrench, Wicks.”

  Wicks was quick to comply.

  Then the Lieutenant was up the fore hatch again, raising his arm high—the wrench held in it and the slouch hat on top of that. “Sing, Becker!” Dixon hollered. “Sing as loud as you can. And get your hands on the bar, gentlemen. We’ll be needing to move quickly.”

  In the belly of the Hunley Becker cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the bar to set the rhythm.

  Away from Mississippi’s vale

  With my ol’ hat there for a sail

  I crossed upon a cotton bale

  To the Rose of Alabamy.

  Oh brown Rosie

  Rose of Alabamy!

  That sweet tobacco posey

  Is the Rose of Alabamy.

  “The Rose of Alabamy” ? Miller thought. Becker knows more than one song after all. He coughed to clear his lungs of the salt water he’d gulped down, then he joined in: “Away from Mississippi’s vale/With my ol’ hat there for a sail . . .”

  “Louder!” Dixon ordered. “Sing it much, much louder!”

  The men complied, their craggy voices bouncing off the iron walls of the Hunley and finding their way outside the submarine and drifting with the breeze.

  “It’s working!” Dixon shouted. He was waving the wrench, slouch hat catching the scant moonlight and the attention of the men on the deck of the Union ship. “Louder!”

  A flapping sound faintly registered, and Dixon said it was sails being raised. “She’s coming at us, gentlemen!”

  “Bully!” Becker cheered.

  Dixon was ducking down, Simkins, too, both men sealing the hatches.

  “Miller?”

  The young man was quick to work the ballast tanks. “Taking the Hunley down, sir!”

  The submarine hadn’t wholly submerged when it was pitched wildly by an explosion.

  “Bully!” Becker and Wicks shouted in unison.

  Dixon stood and peered through the window. “I see fire, gentlemen. Good work, Miller. Good work, indeed!”

  They took the Hunley farther out to sea, past the blockade, then brought her up so they could better see the carnage.

  The night was lit up by the burning ship, and the air was filled with the desperate cries of men. The Union vessel was listing dangerously, and after a few minutes Dixon announced that it had begun to sink.

  “That’s what submarines were made for,” Miller said. “To sink ships.”

  “Stonewall Jackson’d be right proud of us!” Becker said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Wicks chimed in. “Stonewall’d be right proud.”

  The other Union ships were moving closer and searching the water, looking for whatever had brought down the doom, and looking for men who’d jumped overboard. It would be days before Dixon and his men learned that in the commotion two big British ships were able to slip past the distracted blockade, riding low in the water because of the guns, ammunition, and other much-needed supplies riding heavy in their holds. And no one would ever know the Hunley was responsible, General P. T. Beauregard wanting to keep this night’s activities quiet so the ploy could be used again.

  The Hunley waited at a safe distance, cloaked by the black water, Dixon and Simkins describing the ship slipping below the water and the efforts of the Union men to save as many of their brethren as possible.

  “Sir?” Miller asked after several minutes. “I was wondering if. The rest of his words were drowned by a yawn.

  “How do we return to the Cooper now?” Becker finished for him. “They’ll be watching.”

  “We don’t go back.” The smile spread clear across Dixon’s face now. “At least not for a while. That’s why I asked you to bring an extra shirt, gentlemen. We’re going south, along the Georgia coast. Slip in and get some more torpedoes, see if we can break another part of the blockade. Though we’ll see if we can use the torpedoes properly this time. Then we’ll come back home and see what else General Beauregard has planned.”

  And then I’ll go home and visit my father, Miller thought, tell him what I did. I think—like Stonewall Jackson—he’d be right proud of me.

  Excerpts from the songs “Stonewall Jackson’s Way” and “The Rose of Alabamy,” were used in this tale. Although this story of the Hunley’s exploits is fictional, on February, 17, 1864, the real H. L. Hunley became the first submarine to sink an enemy ship. She rammed her spar torpedo into the Union sloop Housatonic, an ironclad. The Hunley, herself, was believed to have sunk shortly thereafter, perhaps damaged in the blast and unable to surface. Divers and archeologists are currently working with the crew’s and the submarine’s remains.

  History books show her crew consisted of Lieutenant George Dixon, of the Company E 21st Alabama Volunteers; James A. Wicks; C.F. Carlson; Arnold Becker; F. Collins; C. Simkins; Ridgeway, of the Confederate Navy; and Miller.

  The Prize Crew

  DOUG ALLYN

  Doug Allyn is an accomplished author whose short fiction regularly graces year’s best collections. His work has appeared in Once Upon a Crime, Cat Crimes Through Time, and The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories, volumes 3 and 4. His stories of Tallfer, the wandering minstrel, ave appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Murder Most Scottish. His story “The Dancing Bear,” a Tallifer tale, won the Edgar award for short fiction for 1994. His other series character is veterinarian Dr. David Westbrook, whose exploits have been collected in the anthology All Creatures Dark and Dangerous. He lives with his wife in
Montrose, Michigan.

  A SITTING DUCK. Centered in the periscope crosshairs, range twelve hundred meters, the ancient freighter was broadside to the U-boat, plunging and plowing through heavy seas on a southerly heading.

  “Who is she, Walli?” Kapitän Kurt Bronner asked quietly. His submarine, U-233, a Type VIIC, wasn’t feeling any effect from the weather at all. It was beyond reach of the waves, ten meters below the surface in the Amazon River basin just south of Ilha Caviana. Bronner’s favorite hunting ground.

  The Amazon basin offered U-233 perfect cover. Submerged in the murky waters, she was invisible from the air, her camouflaged periscope passed for flotsam, and the great river’s constant rumbling rendered Allied sound detection devices useless.

  With no German aircraft within 2,500 miles, Bronner was forced to improvise. He’d solved the problem by putting Kriegsmarine lookouts ashore on Ilha de Marajo. If the seamen heard aircraft or spotted the smoke or stacks of an approaching ship they signalled U-233 by walkie-talkie, giving the sub plenty of time to submerge.

  From below, Bronner could choose to attack. Or let the target pass. The Brazilian sea lanes were busy. There would always be other ships. But U-233 was a lone wolf. A single mistake by an officer or crewman could be fatal. So far, they’d avoided that mistake. But for how long?

  They were tired. They’d been fighting in foreign seas so long that Germany seemed like a memory. And yet they fought on. Not to win. For honor, duty, and country. And survival.

  Hunting in Brazil’s coastal waters was more like a game of hide-and-seek than classic submarine strategy. But most of the battle tactics Bronner learned at Breda Academy in ’37 were obsolete now.

  When U-233 arrived off the coast of New York in December of ’41, she’d been a werewolf among lambs. Despite Pearl Harbor the Americans still kept their cities lit up like Christmas trees at night, silhouetting ships in the harbors, perfect targets for a U-boat’s eighty-eight millimeter deck gun firing out of the dark. U-233 sank a dozen freighters in the first weeks without wasting a single torpedo.