Pigboats

by Ellsberg, Edward

  PIGBOATS

  Commander Edward Ellsberg

  © Commander Edward Ellsberg 1930, 1931.

  Commander Edward Ellsberg has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1931 by Dodd, Mead & Co.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  To

  L. K. B

  Skipper of the

  Green Submarine

  1917-1918

  CHAPTER I

  Three blasts of a deep-toned whistle echoed over Manila harbour, rattled the windows in the Hotel España. The whistling ceased, a siren shrieked out its wailing note. The Dutch steamer Willemstad, lazily churning up the water, headed out for Batavia.

  Sprawled on the bed in a room on the harbour side of the España, Thomas Knowlton, Lieutenant, U.S.N., stirred slightly as the windows rattled under the first blast, then relapsed into a stupor. The repeated rattling of the windows stirred him again. Subconsciously the whistle seemed to penetrate into his drunken sleep; to wake in him a vague reminder that his place was on deck when a ship was getting underway. He rolled over, stared aimlessly about the unfamiliar room. The siren shrieked. Its piercing note cut through his numbed senses, brought him staggering to his feet.

  Knowlton clung uncertainly to the bedpost, stared out the window, with an effort focused his eyes on the clock in the distant cathedral. Ten minutes of two. He brushed his free hand across his eyes, trying to sweep away the mist that fogged his brain. Afternoon! And at seven in the morning, he should have been steaming out of the harbour himself with the C-3 and her sisters of the second flotilla for submerged manoeuvres!

  Vaguely he considered that. Missed his ship. Tough break. That new flotilla commander was hell on discipline. The pigs had been too free and easy. Commander French was just waiting to hang someone to bolster up the morale in the force. Missed his ship. And the old man was just aching for a chance to yank someone up before a court.

  Knowlton let go the bedpost, struggled across to the washstand, poured out a glass of water, gulped it down. Unsteadily he filled the basin, soaked his aching head in it. Missed his ship. What in hell had he been doing? Why was he here?

  With an effort, he recalled a little, looked vacantly at the rumpled bed. Where was Erhardt? His eyes wandered around the room, searching. Nowhere. And yet he remembered vaguely that Erhardt had accompanied him to this room, suggested that they take it for the night instead of going back to their ships.

  Well, he’d been a fool. It was all right for Erhardt to drink like a fish, but he should have known better. Erhardt didn’t have to go to sea. His ship was anchored out there off Cavite for keeps, — well, anyway until the war ended. What difference did it make to Erhardt how much he drank? It had been two months now since, with the shells from a British cruiser exploding round her stern, the Cormoran had barely escaped into neutral Manila, and Erhardt and his ship had been interned. Damn lucky for them too. The limeys or the Japs had sunk all the other German raiders in the Far East. No neutral ports handy for the Emden to intern in when the big cruisers finally got her within range. A rusting wreck she was, out on Keeling Island.

  Lieutenant Knowlton looked hazily through the window.

  Yes, there was the Cormoran, swinging idly at anchor, the white and black Imperial insignia fluttering at her staff, her brightwork glistening against the dull grey of her war colour. He remembered — he had had dinner there with Erhardt last night, friendly little dinner, just Lieutenant Knowlton, skipper of the U.S.S. C-3, and Herr Lieutenant Hans Erhardt, captain of S.M.S. Cormoran, unfortunately interned in a neutral port and a prisoner of the United States till the war ended — if it ever did. Knowlton remembered how Erhardt had chafed at that — interned with the war only four months old. Since October 1914. And his shipmates in the High Seas Fleet straining behind the minefields at Helgoland, preparing for Der Tag, near now, when they should surge forth and, with gun and torpedo, wreak havoc on the hated British Fleet. And here was he, Herr Lieutenant Erhardt, till the war ended, interned in the Far East! Was it not too bad? Another drink, my friend. Hoch! Had not the British always been their enemies? Drink again! Possibly America would join Germany to fight again for the freedom of the seas? Another glass. If so, then America would release his ship; Lieutenant Knowlton would be his brother in arms! Hoch der Kaiser! Hoch President Wilson! Boy, another bottle of champagne! What, his friend shook his head? America would not join in the battle to overthrow England’s tyranny, baffle her attempts to keep Germany from her rightful place in the sun? Too bad. With sword and submarine Germany would be victorious anyway. Hoch! Boy, more wine!

  Somehow Knowlton remembered they had come ashore in Erhardt’s gig, they had had other things to drink. He had protested, he must take his boat out for manoeuvres, one must be careful when there is the responsibility of a submarine to operate. What had happened to his will? Erhardt had dragged him from club to bar, from bar to club, and finally had suggested this room in the España for the night, so that Lieutenant Knowlton might have a rest and be well prepared to take his boat out for manoeuvres in the morning.

  In the morning! Here it was two in the afternoon and a court-martial to face. Knowlton looked dizzily for his companion.

  No use. He was certainly alone. Erhardt had left. Probably back on the Cormoran. Damn him! What difference did it make to anybody when Erhardt got back to his ship? He had no manoeuvres to take part in, no flotilla commander to face.

  But Lieutenant Knowlton! He shook his head wearily, soaked it again in the washbasin. He might as well face the music. Tough. The C-3 was his first command. Probably lose it, go back as second on a tiny spit-kid a thousand miles up some God-forsaken Chinese river.

  He staggered back to the bed, sat down heavily on it, looked around for his clothes. There they were in a heap on a chair near the door. He measured the distance uncertainly, then cautiously worked his way around, leaning first on the bed, then on the wall.

  With an effort, he put them on, found a little difficulty in buttoning the jacket, clapped on his cap. The jacket pinched his arms, the cap seemed to perch on top of his head. It must be an illusion, he told himself; his head couldn’t possibly have swelled that much, no matter how it ached. To reassure himself, he looked in the mirror over the washstand, then sank back on the bed, thoroughly befuddled. Those were not his clothes; that was a German naval cap, a set of German shoulder marks. He fumbled again with the buttons — German. This was Erhardt’s uniform!

  Knowlton rose, cursing violently. Erhardt was gone, his uniform was stolen, he began to see a light. Rising from the bed he maneuvered cautiously round to the window, stared out over the harbour.

  There, just disappearing beyond Cavite was the Willemstad, a Dutch ship bound for a Dutch port. And aboard her, in the guise of an American naval officer, was Erhardt in his clothes, escaping from internment on the first leg of his way back to Ge
rmany.

  Lieutenant Knowlton slumped back on the bed, discouraged. Another specification for the court-martial to hang him on — aiding the captain of an interned man-of-war to escape internment and engage again in hostilities against nations with which the United States is at peace. He could hear the judge-advocate reeling it off at the court. Guilty or not guilty? Viciously Knowlton knocked off the German cap, buried his head in his hands, gazed occasionally at the rapidly fading ship.

  Slowly the minutes went by, the Willemstad cleared the harbour. Knowlton collected his thoughts with an effort, wondered what had happened when Commander French from the C-1 ordered the flotilla to get under way and the C-3 reported no skipper to take her out. He could imagine. Ensign Baker, his “makee-learn” second, a mighty nice boy. Just five months out of the Academy. Didn’t know much about subs yet, but a very loyal assistant. Baker’d wait till the last minute, giving him every possible chance to get aboard before his absence had finally to be reported. Tough on Baker, having to report his own skipper. And Commander French! Knowlton could see him working up the charges in his mind, even while he ordered the other boats to get under way, leaving the C-3 behind.

  The unfortunate officer groaned aloud. He dropped his arms, rose painfully, looked out toward the anchorage off Cavite, trying to make out the C-3. His bloodshot eyes were unable to see clearly that far. He might as well start back. His eye fell on Erhardt’s cap, white against the dirty matting on the floor. No, he couldn’t go back in those clothes. Bad enough without that. He fumbled in the pockets, drew out some bills, pawed over them clumsily. Nothing missing. At least Erhardt had left all his money.

  A racket in the street below. Knowlton shoved the money back into his trousers, leaned out the window. The shrill cries of newsboys, dashing wildly down the street, pedestrians eagerly buying papers. Shouts. Something lost! Well, what of it? He drew back.

  What’s that? Submarine lost!

  As if jolted by an electric current, Knowlton stiffened up, seemed to sober suddenly. Hatless he ran for the door, dashed down into the street, tore a paper from a. newsboy.

  SUBMARINE C-3 LOST WITH ALL HANDS! Knowlton’s glazed eyes scanned the details. C-1, C-2, C-3, C-4, out for flotilla manoeuvres submerged. The other boats had started back, the C-3 had failed to rise. No answers to signals. The tenders were dragging over a spot where a stream of bubbles was rising. Very deep water there. About three hundred feet — too much pressure for a boat like the C-3. All hands were undoubtedly dead. Commander French, flotilla commander, had already cabled the names of the lost crew to the Navy Department.

  The paper dropped from Knowlton’s nerveless hands. First on the list, LOST WITH THE C-3, was Thomas Knowlton, Lieutenant, U.S.N., Commanding Officer!

  CHAPTER II

  In a cheap waterfront lodging house, Lieutenant Knowlton pored over a stack of soiled newspapers. Gone were his uniform, his military smartness. A much-crumpled linen suit clung to his drooping figure, a crushed Panama hat lay on the bed. A half-emptied quart of whisky stood at his elbow, cigarette ashes covered the table, empty bottles littered the floor. The reek of alcohol, the stench of stale cigarette butts, filled the room. For three days, except to replenish his whisky or his cigarettes, Knowlton had not left the room. Unshaven, unkempt, whisky-soaked, he pawed over the papers, saw his worst fears confirmed as the days drifted slowly by and reports came back from the ill-equipped salvage forces. His shipmates were dead. Gunner’s Mate Hilton of the C-2, going down the stream of bubbles, deeper than any diver had ever gone before, had found the C-1, her hull crushed, lying in 304 feet of water. There was no hope of salvage. In Manila there was nothing to salvage her with; in any port it would have been an impossible job, regardless of their equipment.

  But how had it happened? Knowlton read for the hundredth time the testimony of Gunner’s Mate Hilton, the findings of the Court of Inquiry which had that day listened to all the evidence available, considered the diver’s report. There it was, signed by Commander French, by the other officers of the court, by the judge advocate.

  “We find that the United States Submarine C-1 was lost due to the culpable negligence in submarine navigation of her commanding officer, Lieutenant Thomas Knowlton, U.S.N. From the testimony of Lieutenant Bartlett, commanding officer of the U.S.S. C-2, it appears that shortly after he rose, a vast quantity of air came to the surface, evidently discharged from the C-1. Gunner’s Mate, first class, John Hilton, the only diver who succeeded in descending to the wreck, reports that he found the vent valves in the tops of the ballast tanks wide open.

  “From the facts before us in this case, it appears that an unknown emergency arose in the C-1, making it necessary for the commanding officer to blow the water from his ballast tanks and come up to save his boat, but the vent valves at the tops of the tanks not having been previously closed, the compressed air admitted to the ballast tanks promptly blew out into the sea through the open vent valves, and the submarine, instead of rising, continued to sink until the sea pressure crushed in her hull.

  “It is the finding of this court that Lieutenant Thomas Knowlton, U.S.N., commanding the U.S.S. C-3, was responsible for the loss of his vessel and the deaths of the ship’s company, in that, it being his duty as commanding officer to see that all ballast tank vents were closed and the boat placed in proper condition to meet emergencies while navigating submerged, he did fail to cause the said ballast tank vents to be closed in the customary manner, and, as a direct result of his culpable negligence, the U.S.S. C-3 sank to a depth greater than she was designed to withstand and was lost with all hands.

  “It is the opinion of this court that no means exist of salvaging the U.S.S. C-3, nor of rescuing from her the bodies of her crew, since up to this time, no diver has ever before reached the depth, 304 feet, at which she lies. Gunner’s Mate Hilton, at grave risk and with unusual skill and bravery, managed to reach the hulk for inspection, but no diving work can be accomplished on her.

  “In view of the fact that Lieutenant Thomas Knowlton, U.S.N., the only person in the naval service to whom blame attaches for this accident, was lost with his crew in the accident to the C-3, it is the unanimous recommendation of the Court of Inquiry that no further proceedings be taken in this matter, and the U.S.S. C-3 be stricken from the Navy list.”

  Knowlton poured out half a glass of whisky, took the stiff drink at a gulp. He was responsible all right, but not the way the Court of Inquiry thought. For three days he had been drinking incessantly, trying to drown out the vision of his lost crew. Baker had tried to protect his skipper by not reporting his absence; had taken the boat to sea without saying anything to the flotilla commander. Poor Baker, he hadn’t been in the subs long enough to learn the fine points in the game; he had slipped up on ordering the vents closed, in the excitement of diving the boat. And when something else went wrong, that slip cost the lives of the whole crew.

  It had been bad enough through the long hours when Knowlton could only surmise what had happened and blame himself vicariously. It was worse now that he knew. The boat was lost, the crew dead, not as a result of an unavoidable accident, but through a blunder that any experienced submarine officer would have avoided. And he was to blame that the boat had gone out without an experienced officer. Baker, a good kid, dead trying to save him a court-martial; his crew, dead, because they had gone out with Baker, when a kick from any one of them would have stopped it — and gotten their skipper a court.

  A bitter rage grew in Knowlton’s heart against Erhardt — Erhardt who was the cause of his missing his ship, Erhardt who had deliberately set out to get him drunk and steal his uniform, Erhardt who had tricked him, Erhardt who was the murderer of his eighteen shipmates. Knowlton’s head sank to the table, he wept as he thought of Baker, of each man in the loyal little crew.

  Despondently he sat up, gulped more whisky. His bleared eyes fell again on the Court’s findings, “In view of the fact that Lieutenant Thomas Knowlton, U.S.N.,…was lost with his crew in the accid
ent to the C-3 — ”

  He rubbed his eyes. He was dead. Officially Lieutenant Thomas Knowlton, U.S.N., lay at the bottom of the sea inside the C-3 with the rest of his crew. He was dead, all right. Better that way. No court-martials, no explanations. What was the use? They were all dead. His fault too. No, Erhardt’s, by God! If ever he got his hands on him, Erhardt would pay for his shipmates, for himself. Until then, it was all over. He swept the newspapers off the table, seized the bottle alongside, drained it, sent it crashing to the floor with the other empties. What did it matter? His shipmates were all dead. He was dead. He sprawled out on the table.

  Early next morning, the mate on a tramp steamer just sailing for Yokohama, sorting out the motley lot of sailors the crimps had rounded up in the boarding houses along the waterfront and dumped into his forecastle, turned Knowlton over with his boot, regarded the crimp dubiously.

  “Never saw anything claimin’ to be a sailor as drunk as this. Chances are by tomorrow he’ll be ready to sew up in a hammock and shoot overboard. Toss him into a bunk, ’r take him away. Same to me. Here’s the money fer the rest; damned if I’ll pay anything fer this’un.”

  CHAPTER III

  “C’mon, boy!”

  A red-hot rivet shot through the air, landed with a clatter in Pete’s bucket. Swiftly Pete gripped the sparkling rivet with his tongs, pushed it up through a hole in the steel deck over him, leaned against it with a heavy sledge. A preliminary rap from the upper side of the deck, then the staccato rattle of a rivet gun burst out.

  The glowing rivet shrank under the blows of the flying die, its colour faded as it spread and filled the countersunk hole in the deck plate. A pause in the rattle of the gun, then another outburst of the din as Pete shifted his sledge back against the head of the adjoining rivet while his mate overhead hardened down and smoothed off its now cold point.