And none too soon either, it swiftly turned out. Hardly had I cleaned up a few other matters in my office, which took about an hour, and was preparing to return to my pontoons on the quay over in the commercial harbor for the rest of the morning, than my phone rang and Mrs. Maton, answering it, looked up at me to announce,
“Colonel Sundius-Smith wishes to speak to you, Captain Ellsberg.”
Colonel Sundius-Smith commanded all the British Forces in Massawa, a very fine officer. I had had from him a most sympathetic personal letter the month before on the occasion of the death of Horace Armstrong. What, I wondered, did he want of me now?
I swiftly learned. In a very grieved voice, Colonel Sundius-Smith regretted he had to call my attention to something that pained him greatly. Six large gasoline tanks had disappeared suddenly from the airfield and it had been reliably reported to him that at that very moment, those identical gasoline tanks were in possession of my men down on the commercial quay, miles away from where they belonged. While, of course, the colonel admitted that he didn’t own the tanks, still he knew very well that I didn’t either, and they certainly were British property, as prizes of war. As senior British officer on the spot, it was his duty to see that such things did not go on in His Majesty’s occupied territories. Much as it hurt him to say so, I must return those tanks to the airfield at once and he would overlook my dereliction.
I felt almost like the heroine in the melodrama, who is cut loose and dragged off the railroad tracks just as The Limited roars by. In the most innocent manner possible, I replied:
“Why, Colonel, you don’t mean to imply you think I’d have taken those, tanks without official permission, do you? Of course, I have it. Those tanks were in the custody of the Shell manager in Asmara as representative of R.A.F. headquarters in Cairo. I have the Shell manager’s official permission to take those tanks. I’ll see you get a copy of his official authorization for your records.”
Colonel Sundius-Smith apologized handsomely for ever having given such a vicious insinuation about a brother officer the slightest credence. Yes, just so nobody else, if he were away, bothered me again over the matter, he’d be glad to have a copy of my official permission for his files. And with more profuse apologies, which I accepted, he hung up.
I wiped the sweat off my brow. Saved in the nick of time, by the grace of God! My salvage job could proceed!
I got up to leave my office.
“Mrs. Maton,” I said, “as soon as that Shell man’s permission comes down tomorrow from Asmara, you see that Colonel Sundius-Smith gets a copy of it immediately!”
She smiled a Mona Lisa smile, and it struck me suddenly that she very much resembled that woman. What was Mrs. Maton thinking of behind that enigmatic smile, I wondered? After all, she was the wife of the Royal Navy’s intelligence officer in Massawa. How long were all the scandalous goings-on amongst us Americans going to remain asecret from the British?
CHAPTER
52
HOWEVER, I DIDN’T GET OVER TO THE commercial harbor that morning, nor that day either.
It appeared that Captain Reed, before going over to the sunken crane that morning, had, as usual with him, paid a routine visit to the Gera to check on conditions aboard her. The Gera, for want of a better berth, now that both the Liebenfels and the Frauenfels had the only decent moorings for large ships inside the naval harbor, was temporarily tied up alongside the starboard side of the large Italian dry dock, there to await the day when I had workmen enough in Massawa to dry-dock and repair her.
On my way down to the Naval Base pier to get my boat for the trip to the commercial harbor, I met Captain Reed on his way up to my office. He looked very grave.
“Captain,” he informed me, “I was just going up to get you. You’d better come out to the Gera right away. I think we’re in danger of losing her!”
Naturally on that I went double time to the pier, as did Reed. I told Galvln to make knots with his boat for the Gera. Then I asked Reed what was the matter.
“That patch McCance and his limeys put on her side forward, looks to me as if it’s likely to give way any minute. The upper part of it’s only wood covered with canvas; she was on the bottom so long after they got the patch on before they raised her, that the teredos must have eaten most of the wood up. Anyway, the leak through it has been increasing the last few days. This morning, she’s leaking so bad, a six-inch pump can hardly keep up with it. I took a look at that patch; it looks to me as if it might fall to pieces and let go any minute. If it does, the Gera’ll sink right alongside the big Eytie dry dock and we’ll have to salvage her all over again!”
When I boarded the Gera, I found what Reed had said was so; to save the Gera from possible foundering, it was necessary to dry-dock her immediately, whether I had any mechanics to work on her or not. There was no help for it.
We had a British armed supply ship on the Persian dry dock, but at noon she would be finished and the dry dock flooded down to undock that vessel. The dry dock would then be clear. I sent word over to Spanner, the dockmaster, that instead of taking the next supply ship waiting in the outer harbor, the Gera would be docked instead. But because of the enormous amount of cement McCance’s men had poured into her port side to form the lower parts of their patches, and also because of about 500 tons of rock ballast he had heaved into her holds during his futile attempts to make her stand up, the Gera was drawing quite a lot of water. The Persian dock would have to be flooded down more than normal to dock her at all. I would let Spanner know later just how far he would have to flood down to permit the Gera to come on.
Meanwhile, Reed was starting up salvage pumps in every hold, both as a precaution and to get her as dry and as light in draft as possible for going on the dock. While that was being done, my boat was hastily dispatched to the commercial harbor to come back with Lloyd Williams and all the salvage mechanics there. At the same time, every salvage man working on the Italian dry docks was rushed aboard the Gera to help stand by the pumps in case of trouble.
Water was pouring through that worm-eaten patch like a sieve, two pumps in that hold were now running all out to hold the water down. I could only hope nothing worse happened over the next couple of hours till we got the dry dock cleared and the Gera on it.
Another hour went by. I had a sizeable gang of my salvage men aboard the Gera by then, all stationed for trouble. The Persian dock was being flooded down. Lieutenant Fairbairn came into the naval harbor with his tugboats to take the supply ship out. I waved him alongside the Gera and advised him to come back aboard the Gera, the moment he had the other vessel through the wrecks at the harbor entrance, and to bring back his tugs also for an emergency docking—the Gera was in precarious condition. He waved his acknowledgment.
Soon, the supply ship was freely afloat and Fairbairn was taking her out. On deck of the Gera, we began singling the hawsers holding her alongside the big dry dock, so that the moment Fairbairn got back with his tugs, we could quickly cast off and depart for docking.
Bob Steele had already been around the Gera in a skiff, checking at bow and stern the draft marks on her. She was going to cause us plenty of trouble in docking. She was drawing, by far, more water than any vessel we had ever taken on the Persian dry dock; considerably more, in fact, than that dry dock was built to accommodate. To drag the Gera into that dry dock clear of the keel blocks, the dry dock would have to be flooded down two feet deeper than it was designed to go, even more than I had taken it down when I had docked the listing Liebenfels.
Still, there was no help for it. A little of the dry dock, not much, would yet remain showing above water—so little, it might raise anybody’s hair to look at it. But by now I knew that Persian dry dock well. I was sure I could get away with it without losing the Persian dry dock, and it was either taking a chance in doing that, or be sure of losing the Gera. Already, there were wrecks enough on the bottom without adding to their number. So I sent Bob Steele over to inform Spanner of the bad news—as soon as the
other ship was clear, he was to flood the Persian dry dock down two whole feet more than normal and await the Gera. I would myself direct the docking of the Gera from aboard her, as I dared not leave her. If her patch let go and she started to founder before we succeeded in getting her on the dry dock, I wanted to be aboard her for what fighting chance my salvage men, Captain Reed, and I might have to keep her afloat, even though we could no longer dry-dock her immediately.
Steele had gone to convey the message and for some time since had been back with me. Fairbairn had taken the other ship out and now with three tugs, was coming in to haul us away and line us up for going on the dry dock.
I looked over toward the Persian dock, only a hundred yards off to starboard. I could see it still lacked a foot of being flooded down far enough for the job.
“Bob!” I ordered Steele. “Take my boat and get over to that dry dock at once. Tell Spanner to take her down that last foot immediately. We’re about to start for the dry dock!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Steele slid down the Jacob’s ladder from the Gera’s deck into my boat and shoved off. A tug came alongside, Fairbairn clambered aboard us to pilot us out, we began taking hawsers from the tugs. In a few minutes, the tugs were secured, Fairbairn was shrilling out signals to them on his whistle, and we had cast loose. The Gera was underway, to be dragged toward the harbor entrance, swung about there to point her bow for the dry dock, and then towed up to it.
I begged Fairbairn for once to throw his usual prudence to the winds and hurry; our case was desperate and every minute might mean the difference between success and disaster. If the Gera’s patch let go while we were maneuvering in front of the dry dock, she might founder there, blocking the only approach to the dock and putting it out of commission for weeks till we could repatch and salvage the Gera again. He must hurry. Fairbairn agreed.
And then at that moment, when we had drawn well clear of our mooring, my boat ran back alongside the Gera and looking down into it, I could see Bob Steele waving frantically up at me. I leaned over the Gera’s bridge rail and asked:
“What’s the matter?”
“Spanner won’t take the dry dock down any farther!” Steele shouted up at me to make himself heard amidst the puffing of the tugs. “He says it’s too dangerous!”
Too dangerous! I was getting sick of those words. First, from my Amerigan salvage captain, now from my English dockmaster! Didn’t they realize there was a war going on, and danger for everybody was part of his job? But, whereas with Brown on the Brenta and her mine, I could afford to be diplomatic and take a little time to iron out the situation, with Spanner and the dry dock I couldn’t afford to waste a minute. The Gera was underway for the dry dock. In twenty minutes, she would be coming on it. The dry dock by then had to be low enough to take her aboard or catastrophe would overwhelm us all.
Savagely, I shouted down to Steele so there might be no misunderstanding of what I meant:
“Get back aboard the dry dock at once! Tell Spanner I shouldn’t leave the Gera and I don’t want to! But tell him if he doesn’t take that dry dock down another foot instantly, I’m coming aboard that dry dock personally to heave him overboard! Then, I’ll take the dock down myself! Don’t wait for Spanner’s answer, Bob. Come right back here with the boat so I can have it if I need it. I don’t need to know his answer. I can see from here whether he obeys or not. I want that boat back immediately for my use in case he doesn’t! Shove off now, and see Spanner doesn’t misunderstand me!”
Steele waved he understood and Glen Galvin raced away with him over the short stretch of water to the dry dock, from which the Gera now was steadily drawing away as the tugs dragged her out toward the harbor entrance to wind her about for a proper approach. Through Fairbairn’s binoculars, I saw Steele climb aboard the upper deck of the dry dock, which required only that he step from the gunwale of my boat directly onto the deck—the flooded dry dock was already so low in the water—and start talking to Spanner. Steele, I knew, I could rely on to make my meaning clear.
Steele wasted little time on it. I saw him turn abruptly from Spanner, jump back aboard the boat, and start back for the Gera. I could see through the glasses, Spanner standing in indecision a moment or so, then start for the dry dock control house where the flood valves were operated. I dropped the glasses. My boat was nearly back now, but I shouldn’t need it. It wasn’t going to be necessary for me to heave Spanner overboard. The dry dock started slowly to sink down that last all-important foot, leaving hardly any of her side walls still visible above the sea. I could keep my attention on the Gera.
As swiftly as the tugs could do it, Fairbairn wound the Gera end for end as water from the pumps below battling the leakage poured overboard, straightened her away on the approach to the dock. The Hsin Rocket puffed mightily ahead of her to drag her up to it.
The bow of the Gera nosed up to the entrance, we picked up a headline from the dry dock, and the Hsin Rocket sidled off to port to get clear, while the two tugs astern kept shepherding us to hold the ship properly in line as slowly our bow was dragged in between the two side walls of the dry dock.
Looking down from the Gera’s bridge, where I then took over from Fairbairn, now that the ship was entering the dry dock, I could see what little of my Persian dock remained above the surface—what there was of it resembled two long but almost awash rafts stretching ahead to starboard and to port of me. There wasn’t more than 300 tons of reserve buoyancy in that dry dock left showing above the sea. If anything went wrong now to put any load on that dry dock before we could pump her up again, the Persian dry dock would suddenly go down those last few inches like a rock, to become a salvage job herself.
Slowly, carefully, I directed the Hindoos, the Persians, and the Eritreans on those dry dock walls as they handled the hawsers to drag us forward and to help keep us centered along the line of unseen keel blocks beneath us. The Gera was a wide beamed ship, as well as a deep draft one. There wasn’t much clearance on the sides as she dragged ahead through the water into the dock. To make matters worse, that patch on her forward, which McCance’s men had clumsily put on and which was the cause of our present troubles, protruded underwater three feet from the port side, widening her beam by that much, and giving us next to no clearance at all between that patch and the port side of the dry dock as we came on.
With infinite care, I took the Gera into the barely afloat dry dock, praying that nothing might happen to that patch till we got her in position and the dry dock pumps started. For now, if the patch carried away for any reason, it would be worst of all. Over 1000 tons of water would pour instantaneously into the number two hold. Even if we managed to keep the Gera from sinking altogether, that sudden extra load would bring her down on the keel blocks, now only inches clear of her keel, and sink the dry dock right from under her, with the Gera most probably ending up by sinking completely herself squarely on top of it—a terrible mess to have to salvage, one wreck atop another.
Hardly daring to breathe, in which sad state I knew all my salvage men aboard the Gera and the dry dock crew were, as well as I, I maneuvered the Gera cautiously ahead. I had her three-quarters entered with everything going well when, for no apparent reason at all, she ceased moving forward. I ordered Spanner on the dry dock to heave just a bit harder on the headline, not much.
He did. The ship didn’t move. Evidently that patch to port had caught on something below water inside the dry dock, either at the side or underneath. I dared not heave hard ahead for fear of tearing loose that decrepit patch, least of all now when it would do the most harm, so I ordered the headline slacked off to relieve any possible strain on that fouled patch.
Then for the next hour I went through hell as gingerly I struggled to clear that disintegrating patch of the unseen obstruction below without using any force which might collapse it. By hand only now on all our lines, we struggled as if we were walking on eggs, to haul the ship to starboard, to haul her a little astern, to get the patch clear of whatever it was hung
up on. There was no obvious reason why she should have caught on anything there; already that patch had cleared three-quarters of the length of the dock. But stuck it was, and obstinately stuck it remained in the face of what trifling force I dared use to free it.
Nobody said a word. Every order I gave was instantly obeyed. Even Spanner on the port drydock wall, who must have considered this the verification of all his fears, struggled manfully and whole-heartedly to help free the recalcitrant Gera of whatever it was that was holding her and us in that terribly dangerous position.
Suddenly, at the end of that agonizing hour, with no reason any more apparent for her going than for her stopping before, the Gera moved slowly ahead once more. Breathing a prayer of thankfulness, I dragged her forward the last hundred feet into the dry dock, hurriedly centered her over the keel blocks, and waved to Spanner to start up all the dry dock pumps full power.
It took but a few turns of those powerful pumps to float the dry dock up enough to bring the keel blocks into contact with the Gera’s keel. In a few more minutes, the Gera was herself slowly rising from the water while we ran in the side spur shores, hauled the side bilge blocks in under her hull for side support, and wedged up a few extra shores from the dry dock walls to the Gera’s sides to make sure she did no listing on us while she rose.
In another hour, we had the dry dock and the Gera in her both high up out of water, all danger of any nature over. I looked at that exposed salvaged wreck as she rode there on the keel blocks, her two patches to port ready now to be torn away and repaired permanently with steel plating. I felt as if the dry-docking of that wreck had taken ten years off my life.
Under the Red Sea Sun Page 53
