No Banners, No Bugles

by Edward Ellsberg

  The incoming water had already flooded her up to the lower engine room gratings and was steadily rising, all running to port, of course, where it was constantly increasing her heel. How much more of that could she stand before she suddenly rolled over on us? Who knew?

  I swung my light around in the utter blackness, scanning the rising water to port, the leaks aft, the dead machinery all about me. She was a diesel-driven ship—no steam, no boilers. All the way over to port against her heeled-down side, I could see a small room, door open, housing an auxiliary diesel-driven electric generator. The water had already flooded through the door into that room; the generator was useless.

  But to starboard, the high side of the ship, the thin shaft of light from my torch showed a similar room and a similar diesel-driven generator. The water hadn’t risen high enough yet on that side to flood in there, but it would before too long. If we could start that diesel, we could get power enough to give us light all over the ship; an inestimable boon for working. And if I could get a pump going down in that engine room to get rid of the water already there and also what was coming in, preferably before it flooded out the starboard generator also, we could save her from capsizing on us.

  And if I could do that, it would give us time to empty at least some submerged compartments aft and keep her from sinking. And we’d save her.

  But first, some light. I turned to the Pozarica’s junior engineer beside me. Could he and his seamen start that starboard diesel generator, throw in the proper circuits, and light up the ship amidships and forward, so we could work? And dispel the soul-chilling darkness in which we were shrouded?

  He could. He and they promptly did, too. In a few minutes, that starboard diesel was throbbing, electric lights flashed on all about us, the dying Pozarica seemed not quite so nearly dead. From up on deck, we heard a cheer. Things began to look a little hopeful. At least, if now we died far down inside the Pozarica, it wouldn’t be in darkness. There was some comfort in that.

  Now to get rid of the water in the engine room which shortly would be the death of her unless ejected. Could we start a ship’s pump next, I asked her lieutenant? We couldn’t; her pumps were all flooded out there beneath our feet and useless, every one of them.

  Well, there still were those two portable army fire pumps up on deck. Could they do the job, I wondered? I glanced upward. It was certain they couldn’t. The engine room was so deep from the floor plates to the entrance door far above us, that no pump set on the deck outside that door could possibly suck water up that high; the laws of Nature just wouldn’t permit it. And as for getting one of those fire pumps down into the engine room close enough to the water where it could pick up a suction and then push the water up and overboard, that was impossible also.

  My heart sank as I realized that both of those gasoline-driven army fire pumps were so bulky, even if we took the wheels off their carriages, that they could not possibly be squeezed through the narrow door in the steel bulkhead into the upper engine room, let alone ever be got far enough down those steep ladders so they could suck. Those pumps were built for use in the wide outdoors where there was plenty of elbow room; not for inside the close confines of any ship. If they were set on deck and used on some of the flooded after compartments, they might perhaps save her from sinking immediately.

  Still, what good would it do us to save her from sinking now or later, if she capsized on us meanwhile, as assuredly she would before long if we couldn’t cope with the water rising in the engine room and heeling her farther and farther over? It all seemed hopeless; every man of us, sailor or soldier alike aboard the Pozarica, was risking his life for no gain. It began to look as if her skipper were right in washing his hands of her.

  I racked my fuddled brains for an answer. There must be one; my experience in salvage had taught me there always was some way out, unconventional though it might seem. All that was necessary usually to find the answer was a little imagination and no inhibitions.

  The answer came to me. The answer was the L 06, that near by shattered warship I’d passed not long before on my way out from Bougie. The L 06 was a British destroyer, even though she was now only the after half of one. And British destroyers, as I’d learned on the Porcupine, all carried a beautifully compact portable electrically driven centrifugal pump! And there to starboard of me on the Pozarica was the electricity—that is, it was there provided I could get a pump down and going before the water rose high enough to flood that generator also. All I needed now was the electric pump—fast! The L 06, blasted in half herself, was going to furnish the wherewithal to save her sorely stricken big sister—if only I could move fast enough.

  Telling Ankers to do what he could aft with the Royal Engineers’ fire pumps while I was gone, I went flying up those dizzying, greasy ladders out of the engine room, raced out on deck. I grabbed six of the nearest soldiers, ordered them to follow me, shot down the scramble net to the MTB alongside. There was no time to waste.

  “The L 06, four bells!” I gasped, completely out of breath from climbing. “Shake a leg!”

  The MTB skipper was a good lad. We were underway in no time, threading a path again in the night amongst other wrecks. In a few minutes we were alongside the after half of the L 06. She was absolutely black and silent. I couldn’t see a soul on her deck anywhere.

  However, not bothering about that, I leaped aboard her stern from the MTB, telling the soldiers to wait where they were. I went up her deck, peering with my torch into her after deckhouse. I found inside a very sleepy quartermaster, the only man not turned in on that wreck. Where, I asked of him, was the Officer of the Deck?

  It appeared that he was it; all hands (those yet alive, that is) were thoroughly knocked out from what they’d been through. The captain’d given everybody permission to turn in. That was all right with me; all I wanted of the quartermaster was first a little information, then maybe to be led to the captain. As for the information; had they had a portable electric pump on the L 06 and where had they kept it stowed?

  They had, and thank God, they’d always kept it stowed amidships! It was on the part of the L 06 which was still there.

  That was fine, I said; now take me to the captain. He did. We found the captain dead to the world, stowed away in a cabin still intact under what was left of his bridge. With very great difficulty, we managed to get the captain half awake. I told him what I wanted; why I needed it; could I have it?

  I doubt if the skipper half realized what was being asked of him; he was too far gone in utter exhaustion. Without even rolling over to face me, he mumbled I could have anything I wanted on the ship so long as it didn’t involve turning out any of his crew to get it, and for the love of God, not to bother him again—nor his men either.

  That was still all right with me; I’d brought my own crew. I certainly sympathized with his desires—no one, even in the darkness, could look at the forlorn remnant of his destroyer and not heartily agree with him.

  I ran aft for my six soldiers. In a few minutes they were struggling to get that heavy cylindrical pump down out of the midships skids where it was stowed, and aft aboard our MTB. It took all six of them to lug it.

  Meanwhile the quartermaster was helping me with the special electric cable for it and with the special hoses, without which it would be useless. I demurred over the hoses—there wasn’t enough; only one short length of suction hose and one fifty-foot length of discharge hose. We had nothing on the Pozarica which would fit that very special pump. Didn’t the L 06 have any more hose for their pump?

  The quartermaster assured me that was all there was; there had been more once, but no longer; what I saw was the whole story. I had to be content with that. In another few minutes our MTB was plunging through the night again, threading its way back to the Pozarica.

  By now I had a slight knowledge of the inside layout of our cruiser, but the knowledge gave me little comfort. Six husky soldiers, three on each side of that pump, had had trouble enough lugging it along the level ope
n deck of the L 06. On the Pozarica there were no level wide decks; we should have to lug that pump aft along a very narrow lower deck passage where there wasn’t room for men to walk abreast and where the decks had a crazy rake that made you seasick just to try to walk on them. And then those terrible ladders down into the lower engine room, on which a man could hardly hold himself, let alone help manhandle down over a quarter of a ton of pump!

  We had a pump, all right, small enough to go through the engine room door. But how were we ever going to get it to that door in time, to say nothing of getting it below afterwards where it might do some good? It was a labor to baffle Hercules himself. How I was going to get that pump below in time, I couldn’t figure out.

  We ran the MTB this time in alongside the heeled-down side of the Pozarica, her low port side. There at a spot where the height of the MTB’s deck just matched the gunwale of the cruiser, we skidded the heavy pump across onto the cruiser’s deck; that wasn’t too bad. Nor did we have too much difficulty till we had the pump down inside her on the lower deck passageway and started aft. Then trouble hit us with a vengeance.

  I watched gloomily as first with soldiers alone, then with sailors substituted for some of them, the straining men struggled to get aft with the pump. Time was running out on me; the list on the Pozarica was decidedly worse than when I’d left her to get the pump. The men just couldn’t do it; there wasn’t room in that narrow passage to get alongside the pump and take a grip on it. When they changed their tactics, using three men at each end instead of any alongside, the men at the front end of the pump were unable all at the same time to keep a grip on the pump, walk backwards, and hold any footing on the inclined deck—they fell all over each other. The pump crashed to the deck.

  I sent a sailor up on the topside to see if he could find a block and tackle anywhere on that deserted wreck; perhaps we’d have better luck trying to drag the pump with the line, and later we’d need the block and tackle anyway to lower the pump below. But the sailor was dubious; after all, he was in the engineer force, not a seaman. Where the lines might be kept on the ship, he didn’t know; neither did any of his mates. But he’d try to find one. He left.

  I started almost to sweat blood. Every second counted now. I urged the men left to try again. They did; the results were terrible; there just wasn’t room enough to work for all the men it took to lift the front end of that pump.

  Ankers was behind me in the passage. As well as I, he knew the need for haste. He did something about it.

  “Get the hell out of the way!” he ordered the three sailors struggling a third time at the front end of the pump to get a grip on it. “Let me at that pump!”

  Before they even realized what it was he wanted, he sent them all flying down the passage clear of the pump end, seized it himself, lifted it clear of the deck! I gazed at him, awestruck. Over an eighth of a ton at least on that end, and he was holding it all alone. Here was Hercules himself going into action to save the Pozarica. Thank God, I had brought a giant along with me!

  “Come on now, men!” he sang out to the three British soldiers, all huskies, holding up the other end of that pump. “Let’s get cracking!”

  They got underway, Ankers going backwards, the other three forward. In very little time, the pump moved a hundred feet aft along that cramped passage, came opposite the door leading below to the engine room. They set the pump down again.

  Inside the door were those impossible ladders. Now we’d have to wait for the block and tackle. Even with that, it would be very dubious. But there was no other way. I looked at the sickening angle of the bulkheads. Would that sailor never get back to us with the lowering tackle? Or had he finally decided it was more prudent, now that he was there, to stay up on the topside where he had a chance at least? The seconds dragged away.

  Ankers lost patience.

  “To hell with the blocks, Captain! We can get it down without them. Come on, lads!” He picked up his end of the pump again, the soldiers obediently picked up theirs, he went backwards through the engine room door to the head of the topmost ladder, set the pump down, went a few rungs down the ladder, gripped the pump once more.

  “For God’s sake, don’t try that, George!” I sang out to him. “You’ll get killed, sure!”

  But George Ankers said nothing. Perhaps he felt he might as well get killed while doing something as while doing nothing; I never knew. He merely clenched his teeth, took a firmer grip on the lower end of the pump, motioned with his head to the soldiers above to lower it away to him.

  The next few minutes were the most agonizing of my life as I watched that pump going down those crazy ladders, almost wholly supported from below by Lieutenant Ankers, with the three straining soldiers above, their neck muscles standing out like flutes on a column, clinging grimly to their end lest the pump weight they were supporting get away from them to knock clear and to crush the man perilously balancing himself on the ladder beneath.

  First down one ladder, then down the second, finally down the third, went that pump. How Ankers ever managed it on those terrifying engine room ladders without smashing the pump, let alone himself, I don’t know yet. But he did.

  And hardly had he finally landed the pump safely just clear of the water lapping over the lower gratings, than he was bending over it, feverishly starting to couple up the suction hose while I coupled on the discharge hose and the Pozarica’s lieutenant, together with one of his men who was an electrician, began to couple up the special electric cable to drive it. In another minute the pump was running, sucking up water hardly a few inches away from it. And none too soon either. The water had risen almost to the doorsill of the room housing that starboard generator on whose continued running everything depended.

  But I swiftly discovered we weren’t out of the woods yet. We were pumping out water, all right, but to no purpose save to make matters worse. The soldier on the top grating who had had orders to run the other end of the discharge hose up on deck and overboard, shouted down to me,

  “The bloody hose ain’t long enough, Captain! It won’t reach the open deck! Y’re only flooding the passage up here!”

  That was bad. Free water high up in a ship is even more dangerous to her stability than the same water low down in her bilges; it helps to make her topheavy and more likely to capsize. And the Pozarica needed very little encouragement in that.

  I scrambled up to the ladders to cure the situation. If the hose (of which I could get only one length from the L 06) wasn’t long enough to get up on deck with the water we were pumping, I’d open a lower deck airport near by and shove the end of the hose out that.

  But I found I couldn’t. There weren’t any airports. The side of the Pozarica was armored all the way up to her main deck; there wasn’t a single airport in her side, near or far! And already I was standing in that lower deck passageway in deepening water that we were pumping up from below! Now we were up against it!

  In a frenzy, I rushed up a hatchway to the main deck lest I be too late. There a little aft of me in the open were those two army fire pumps, sucking away through an after hatch on some compartment just below where Ankers had placed them. Near by on deck was that Royal Engineer lieutenant.

  “Quick, Lieutenant!” I ordered. “Get one of your pumps up here!” I indicated the hatch through which I’d just come.

  The lieutenant, his sergeant, a few soldiers, all seized the pump, still running, yanked up its suction hose, rolled the pump up the steeply sloping deck to the new location (not too hard a task since it was on wheels). Then they dropped its suction hose down to the deck below into the lake of water there coming up from the engine room. In a moment, it had caught suction and was picking that water up out of the passageway to push it overboard in fine style. We were using two pumps in tandem to do the job of one, but thank God, we had the two pumps!

  I wiped my sweating brow, sagged back against the carriage of that fire pump. Now the situation was at last in hand; the Pozarica wasn’t going to get a chance t
o capsize on us. We could finally proceed in some order to keep her from sinking. The worst was over. I looked at my watch. It wasn’t so late; we’d hardly been aboard her an hour yet. But I felt as if I’d lived nearly a whole lifetime in that hour.

  We slaved all the rest of that night, all the next day, all the second night, and well into the third day on the Pozarica. We saved her.

  When the third day dawned at last on a completely bleary-eyed, gaunt, and utterly worn out little company of soldiers and sailors on the Pozarica, she was no longer in danger. All her list was gone; she stood erect, heeled neither to starboard nor to port; she would never capsize. And we had emptied enough of her flooded stern compartments so that we had brought her after gun and part of her after deckhouse above the sea and reduced her trim sufficiently to put her bow once more into the water and make her keel invisible. She was safe from sinking.

  Her deck aft was still under water; she still had such a trim by the stern as to cause any seaman looking at her to open his eyes wide in astonishment; but she was safe. Ninety-eight per cent of H.M.S. Pozarica was intact, undamaged, and wanting only dry docking to get rid of the remaining water aft and the rebuilding of her rudder, her propeller shaft, and a bit of her fantail to make a fighting ship of her again.

  With the cruiser in that condition, her captain who had helped us not at all to save His Majesty’s Ship Pozarica, came back (with most of the rest of his crew; a few had drifted back sooner) to take command again of his vessel. As I had no authority to deny it to him, he took command.

  Early in the afternoon, under his command and once again wholly manned by her own crew, the Pozarica started in tow the last few miles into Bougie harbor. I rode as a passenger, but I soon wished I hadn’t. Going through the wide gate between the harbor nets, her skipper managed to keep too close to the starboard side of the channel, tangled his bent propeller shaft in the nets there, and went into the harbor dragging with him half the net defenses of Bougie.