CHAPTER THREE
FIFTY POUNDS OF PRESSURE
Things really did start the next day for March! In the morning he had aphysical examination that made all his previous examinations look likequick once-overs. Eyes, ears, lungs, heart, stomach—they went overMarch’s body so thoroughly that he felt not a microbe, not a bloodcell, had escaped their detection. But he knew, without waiting for thereport, that he had no difficulty in meeting all the requirements.
In the afternoon there was the official call on the Commandant, whichwas not the stiff and formal ceremony such Naval customs often are, butan interesting and heart-warming experience. The “Old Man” really tookthe time to talk informally and in very friendly fashion with the newofficers who came to the school.
March met the new officers who were just beginning their work at theschool with him, got his schedule of duties for the next few days, andmanaged to work in a letter to his mother in the evening.
The next day, when March learned that he had passed his physicalexamination with flying colors, he also learned that one of the doctorsexamining him had been a psychiatrist.
“That’s the smartest thing yet!” he muttered to Ensign Bigelow, anothernew officer-student who had just come from a teaching assignment at oneof the Navy’s technical schools. “Usually the psychological examinationis separate. You know you’re going to be questioned by a psychiatristwho will ask you all sorts of strange questions about how you get alongwith girls and what you thought of your fifth-grade teacher, and—”
“And what your dreams are like,” added Bigelow.
“Sure, and you’re self conscious,” March went on. “A smart doctorprobably sees through that and gets the real dope as to what makes yourpersonality tick, but it has always struck me as a sort of sillybusiness.”
“Same here,” Bigelow agreed. “Even though I know those Navypsychiatrists have been right about ninety-nine percent of the time.”
“But this was wonderful!” March exclaimed. “I just thought those threedocs were all looking at blood pressure and listening to my heart andsuch things. Sure, one of them was especially friendly and talked to mea lot, but that was just natural. And, come to think of it, he talked alot about what I did when I was on the _Plymouth_, and how I liked itsSkipper, and where I’d gone to school.”
“I remember now,” Bigelow said, “that he asked me about my leave beforeI came here. Mentioned big drinking parties. I didn’t go in for any andsaid so. I thought he must be a heavy drinker from the way he talked,but he was just finding out whether _I_ was or not.”
“He pulled the same line on me,” March said, “and I just thought it wasmaking talk—you know, the way a dentist does before he does somethingthat hurts, to take your mind off what’s happening.”
“Well, that won’t be the end of the psychological tests,” Bigelow said.“I understand that a psychiatrist is always there when we make ourfirst dives, and he’s just happening to be around in the escape-towertests. He’s keeping an eye on us all the time.”
“Some people might not like that idea,” March said. “I suppose theywouldn’t like the idea of having somebody looking them over to spottheir bad reactions to everything that goes on.”
“Like a guilty conscience,” Bigelow added.
“Always on hand,” March grinned. “But I don’t think it’s a bad idea.After all, it’s for our own protection. They’ve got to try to weed outthe guys who will crack at the wrong time. And nobody thinks he will,so you can’t find it out just by asking. If I’m that kind, then youdon’t want to find yourself out in the Pacific undergoing adepth-charge attack with me alongside you, suddenly going nuts inside avery small submarine.”
“I should say not,” Bigelow said. “And it’s nothing especially againsta fellow if he can’t stand this particular kind of strain that he getsin a sub. Maybe he’s got a kind of claustrophobia—fear of being shut upin small places—without knowing it. Maybe he’d make a swell aviator orbombardier or the bravest PT-boat Skipper in the world! It’s just thatsubmarining takes certain qualities, that’s all. You’ve either got ’emor you haven’t.”
“And those docs find it out before you go out,” March agreed.
March spent the evening with Bigelow and began to like the red-headedyoung man more as he got to know him better. Stan Bigelow was a chunky,broad-shouldered fellow who looked so hard that a tank could not bowlhim over. A broken nose, covered with freckles, added greatly to hisappearance of toughness, even though it had come, as he told March,from nothing more pugilistic than a fall out of a tree when he wassixteen years old.
“Landed just wrong on a pile of rocks,” he said. “Didn’t hurt a thingbut my nose. I was at a summer camp and the doc there didn’t fix it upright. By the time somebody tried to put it back into a decent shapethe bones had set too well.”
Despite Stan’s look of a waterfront bruiser, he was really aserious-minded student. He had graduated from one of the country’stop-flight engineering schools just before going into the Navy, andthen had attended one of the Navy’s technical schools. Diesel engineswere his specialty and he felt sure that this knowledge would quicklyget him into submarine work where he wanted to be. But his work at thetechnical school had been so brilliant that they kept him on as aninstructor despite his pleas for transfer to New London. Finally, aftera year of teaching, he had been recommended for submarines by anunderstanding commanding officer.
“So here I am,” he concluded. “And right now I’m scared to death thatit won’t make any difference how much I want to be a submariner or howmuch I know about Diesels. If I get jittery in the pressure tanktomorrow—out I’ll go!”
“You don’t even need to get jittery,” March laughed. “How do you knowwhether you can stand pressure or not? Even in perfect physical shape,some people just can’t, that’s all. I don’t mean because they’renervous. Maybe their noses bleed or their ears won’t make the rightadjustment or something.”
“Well—we won’t know until we try it!” Stan exclaimed. “I’m just goingto keep my fingers crossed.”
After breakfast the next morning March and Stan Bigelow, along with theother new officer-students, reported to the little building at the baseof the tall escape tower. They were joined by the new class of enlistedmen who were to undergo the same tests. During preliminary training,there was no difference between officers and men in the examinationsand work they had to undergo. Only later, when actual classes of studybegan, did they separate—for the enlisted men to learn their particulartrades in reference to submarines and for the officers to get thehighly technical studies and executive training they must have.
March saw Scott, the radio petty officer, and the others who had riddento the sub base on the same bus with him. He called a friendly hello tothem as they all stood waiting for the Chief Petty Officer in charge tocall the roll.
After roll was called all the students were instructed to strip to theswimming trunks they had been instructed to wear, eyeing the pressurechamber suspiciously all the time.
“Looks like something to shut somebody up in if you never wanted him toget out,” Stan Bigelow said, nodding at the huge gray-painted cylinderwith its tiny portholes and small hatch-like door.
“Anyway, we can look out,” March said, “even if the portholes are tiny.”
“I wonder if that psychiatrist will be peeking in one of thosedeadlights at us,” Stan mused, “making notes about every flicker of aneyelash.”
But then the grizzled old Chief Petty Officer opened the small door tothe chamber and ordered the new men inside. Stooping as he stepped in,March saw that the sides of the chamber had long benches, about twentyfeet long, on which the men were to sit. The compartment was brightlylighted, and March noticed a fan in one corner.
“I guess it gets a little warm,” he told himself, “with so many peoplein a small closed space like this.”
Stan Bigelow sat beside him on the bench, and the other student
s filedin after them. March saw that Scott, the radioman, sitting oppositehim, looked a little frightened, and he wondered if he appeared thesame to the others.
“Funny how this gets you,” Stan said in a low voice. “There’s not athing to be afraid of, of course.”
“No, the most that can happen is that your nose will bleed or somesmall thing like that will show you can’t stand pressure,” Marchagreed. “But some of the older guys around here have had a lot of fun,particularly with the enlisted men, building up some fancy pictures ofwhat the pressure tank and escape tower are like. They say you getweird sensations in your head, feel flutters in your heart.”
“Oh—just a little bit of subtle freshman hazing,” Stan laughed. “Well,I think the reason I’m nervous is that I don’t want anything to happento toss me out of submarines.”
They looked toward the door of the compartment as the Chief PettyOfficer stepped inside and tossed a bunch of robes on the seat near thedoor.
_They Filed into the Pressure Chamber_]
“Wonder why the robes?” March muttered. “If anything, it’s going to betoo hot in here—that’s why there’s a fan.”
“Maybe this is a combination test,” Stan said with a grin. “They wantto see if we can stand pressure—and heat.”
The CPO closed and fastened securely the door, and they all heardsomeone on the outside testing it to be certain it was tightly shut.
“You’re goin’ to be out of here pretty fast,” the officer said to thestudents, “so don’t fret. We get fifty pounds of pressure in here,that’s all.”
His tone was casual and reassuring, but none of the men sat back inrelaxed positions, even though they tried to appear completely at easeand even unconcerned. They almost jumped when the CPO banged his fistlustily against the end of the chamber as a signal to the man handlingthe valves outside.
They jumped again as a hissing sound filled the small compartment. Theair was pouring in, and the men sat listening to it in silence. Marchsaw that the Chief had his eyes on a dial at the end of the chamber andhe looked there, too. Stan noted the direction of his glance, and inanother moment every student was staring at the hand that moved upslowly to indicate one pound of pressure, then two pounds, then threepounds....
The CPO banged on the side of the chamber again. The hissing stopped.Everyone looked up in surprise, wondering if there was something wrong.March glanced around quickly. Was one of the students too jittery? Hada nosebleed started already? But everyone looked all right, except foran expression of worry.
“There’s only three pounds pressure now,” the Chief said. “Even fifty’snot really a lot, but three’s almost nothing. Still, just to give youan idea that air pressure is real pressure and not just something likea billowy cloud, I thought I’d tell you that we couldn’t possibly openthat hatch now. You see—when I say three pounds of pressure, that meansper square inch. There’s about a ton and a half of pressure on thatdoor right now. Figure out how much there is on _you_.”
With another bang the hissing of the inrushing air began once more andthe hand on the dial began to creep around again, passing the figurefive, then the figure ten, then fifteen. March began to feeluncomfortably warm, and then he saw that most of the other men werebeginning to sweat. Stan leaned over and put his lips close to March’sear so that he could be heard over the sound of the air.
“Air under pressure gets hot,” Stan said. “Remember your physics? It’sthe whole basis of a Diesel engine, incidentally, but the pressure isconsiderably greater. The temperature in a cylinder gets up to about athousand degrees.”
“Around a hundred in here now, I’d say,” March replied in a loudwhisper, and Stan nodded in agreement. Then he swallowed with somedifficulty, and smiled in some surprise afterward.
“My ears popped when I swallowed;” he said. “Feels better.”
“That’s right,” boomed the CPO, who had apparently noticed what Standid. “Everybody try swallowing a few times if your ears feel funny.”
March swallowed and then almost laughed as he saw the two rows ofstudents earnestly swallowing. Then he realized he had not looked atthe pressure dial for some time. He was startled to see it atthirty-five pounds. It was a good deal hotter now and everyone wassweating profusely. March looked around at the others carefully,forgetting his concern about himself in his interest in the others.
There seemed to be less tension now than at the very beginning. A fewof the men talked to each other, comparing their reactions, laughing atthe way their ears popped, expressing surprise at the increasing heat.Suddenly there was another banging on the wall of the chamber, and thehissing stopped. Everyone’s eyes went to the pressure dial, and saw thehand standing at fifty pounds.
So this was it! Well, it wasn’t so bad. March felt that way himself andsaw the same feeling spreading to all the others, who smiled slightlyas they knew they had withstood the pressure test successfully.
“So far, anyway,” March told himself. “Some things happen occasionally,I guess, when the pressure is reduced.”
Already the hand on the dial was moving downward again, as the air wasreleased from the chamber by a man handling the valves on the outside.March began to feel cooler, and in a few minutes he shivered suddenly.
“Better put on the robes,” the Chief said, tossing the robes to the menon the benches. “The temperature was up to a hundred and thirty for awhile there, and it drops just as fast as the pressure drops.”
“Feels good!” Stan said, as he slipped into the robe.
“Sure, but I’d like a couple of blankets, too,” March replied, feelinghis teeth begin to chatter.
They heard another pound on the wall and saw that the dial hand stoodat ten pounds of pressure inside.
“We’ve got to stop it here for a while,” the CPO explained. “There’s aregular rate at which a man’s got to come out of pressure to keep fromgetting the bends. You probably know something about the bends—everysailor does—but here’s the idea. Your blood’s under pressure in thearteries and veins, too, just like the rest of you, and there’s oxygenand other things carried in that blood. When pressure is reduced toomuch too suddenly, some of the gases in your blood form bubbles—justlike a kettle boiling. And those bubbles in your blood can cause plentyof trouble.”
Stan turned to March. “Sure,” he said. “Remember those experimentseverybody has in first-year chemistry? Making water boil when you putit on a cake of ice? The water’s under pressure in a closed container,and cooling it condenses the steam vapor so that pressure is reduced.So the air forms bubbles which escape when pressure goes down.”
“I remember,” March said. “They’ve got the bends licked now, though,since they know just how fast to reduce pressure.”
More air was let out until the dial showed five pounds of pressure fora while, and then it was reduced to zero. The door was swung open bythe Chief and the men stepped out of the chamber with smiles on theirfaces.
“One test passed,” March said. “What’s next?”
“The escape tower,” Stan replied. “Tomorrow.”
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March Anson and Scoot Bailey of the U.S. Navy Page 4
