Pigboats

by Ellsberg, Edward

  A dull roar forward. The foremast, burned away at its base, crashed down in a shower of sparks; the glowing bridge deckhouse collapsed under the shock and the ship sagged away forward. Not much longer now till the fire reached the magazine and ended everything.

  Tom watched the thick haze of hot gas pouring from the after stacks; the boilers were steaming up again. He could wait no more. Reaching over, he grabbed a bell pull alongside the wheel, jerked it once. The stern quivered under him, the sea began to churn into foam as the Walton’s propellers turned over, gathered a little speed. Tom felt the ship, still wallowing in the trough, start slowly ahead.

  Gently he eased the wheel to port, threw the ship’s head into the sea. Delay was dangerous. The blistered quartermaster jerked the engine bell viciously — four bells — full speed ahead!

  Below, Austin yanked his throttle open. The Walton shook violently and drove the stump of her bow headlong into the waves. With the increased speed, green seas started to break heavily over the remnant of the bridge. Rivers of blazing oil streamed past each side, joined in a fiery wake astern. A series of dull thuds shook the destroyer as the flat magazine bulkhead forward smacked the waves.

  Grimly Tom clung to the wheel, held his wrecked craft dead to windward. With thumping heart he noted his scheme working — the waves dashed higher and higher as the Walton raced along; water in solid sheets swept the ship forward like a giant fire extinguisher. The effect on the blaze was startling. The flames died down, the red-hot plates grew black again. Soon the flames vanished, but clouds of steam still hissed aloft as the water hit the hot steel. Another hundred yards and the steaming ceased. There, in between the cataracts of green water pouring off after every wave, could be seen the twisted and tangled wreckage where the explosion had wrenched the ship in two.

  For a mile, Tom drove his ship into it, praying that his bulkheads would stand against the battering of the seas till her plates were so cold the oil could not ignite again.

  And so it happened. The patches of oil drifting down the sides no longer blazed; the smoke and steam ahead vanished; the danger of magazine explosion was over. Tom slowed down to ease the strain on the panting bulkheads, and then made a wide circle to bring the sea astern while he headed back to pick up his drifting shipmates.

  It was a thankful gang of seamen, wet, cold, half-drowned, who clambered up the trailing lines as the scorched remnant of the Walton nosed her way close aboard the over-loaded life raft. They clustered round the after deckhouse, hoarse voices cheered the quartermaster whom they had watched, one hand on the wheel, the other on the bell pull, manoeuvring his awkward craft to their rescue.

  “Some bean y’got, kid. Great stunt, usin’ the ocean fer a fire hose.” The dripping boatswain’s mate, climbing up the platform, clapped Tom heartily on the back. “You sure saved her!” He paused. “Wot’s left o’ her, I mean. We wuz lookin’ for her to blow up any second.”

  “Thanks, Boats,” answered Tom, painfully clinging to the wheel with blistered hands, “but belay the cheering. Muster the crew and see who’s left, while I look her over. We’re in a bad way. For all we know, the rest of this tub’ll sink like a rock any minute.”

  A hasty inspection showed their condition precarious. The weakened bulkhead had given way under the pounding and the magazine was flooded. It could never explode now. But only the fireroom bulkhead was left intact forward; if that opened up and flooded the first fireroom, they could hardly hope to stay afloat.

  Knowles climbed back to the after wheel.

  “Engine room!” he sang out into the voice tube.

  Austin answered him.

  “Stand by down there, Austin! We’re getting under way again.”

  “All ready below, quartermaster. She’s steamin’ fine now.”

  Tom jerked the bell three times, the sea foamed up, and the crippled Walton, going astern, started to back ninety miles to Queenstown!

  It was a thoroughly exhausted crew that night when, with decks crowded by survivors from the Rolland, they dragged the wreck of the Walton, stern first, through the cleft in the rocks into Queenstown harbour and, under the glare of the searchlights, pushed over the sill into Haul-bowline drydock at last.

  CHAPTER VI

  “Shure, an’ it’s a shame the price they’re payin’ th’ byes down there fer that job!”

  Perched on the stone coping of the dock, Mullaney watched idly while below him the dockyard riveters drove up the keel plates for a new bow on the Walton. The torn and twisted bridge was cut away, the smashed sides removed, and a set of angle frames like gaunt ribs rose from the keel blocks in the dock, a new skeleton for the Walton's bow.

  “I suppose so, Pete.” Tom looked carelessly down. “If we were driving ’em up at Fore River, we’d get paid twice as much.” He watched the gang below as the familiar rattle of a riveting gun floated up. “And we’d do just about twice as much work, so I guess it’s even all around.”

  “’Tis a long while yit before the boat’ll be fighting the Huns again. An’ ’tis forbid we are to go to Cork.” He heaved a sigh. “You wid a grand medal an’ yer new chief’s uniform! Shure an’ the gurls in Cork’d all be dyin’ to kiss ye!”

  “Belay that, Pete. Kissing the girls in Cork may come natural to you, but I’m not so handy with a shillalah and if I’m going to do any kissing I’d better wait till we’re back in the U.S.A.”

  Mullaney laughed. “Quit foolin’ yerself, me lad. Whin Admiral Bayly wuz pinnin’ that Navy Cross on yer jumper, I cud see the gurl wid him smilin’ kindly on ye. ‘Shure, ’tis a fine-lookin’ lad he is,’ she’s sayin’ to herself. An’ wot wuz ye blushin’ yerself fer, I ask ye? Fer Admiral Bayly? Divil a bit!”

  “Aw, cut it out, Pete. Admiral Martin’s daughter! And she with her old man commanding a squadron in the Grand Fleet! A lot of attention she’ll waste on any gob, limey or yank!”

  “I’m not disputin’, Tom, but I’m tellin’ ye, ’tis a queer effect the war do be havin’ on the gurls. Ain’t I seen it in Cork? An’ will ye be tellin’ me ye ain’t looked at her agin in that hut on the quay?”

  “I’m not telling you anything, Pete. You know too damned much already.”

  “Is it blind ye think I am? Shure, I’ve been watchin’ ye like a brother. Iv’ry night now, who is it’s helpin’ the gurls in the canteen straighten up the place after the last gang o’ drunken gobs has shoved off? Shure, ye’ve got nuthin’ to do, wid yer own ship lyin’ in pieces in the dock, but don’t be tellin’ me that ye’ll be waitin’ till we’re back home to be kissin’ the gurls.”

  Tom laughed.

  “No wonder those Irishmen in Cork tried to kill you. I’ll bet you’ve kissed every thirty-second cousin your Maggie’s got in Ireland.”

  “An’ why not? Ain’t a sailor’s life hard enough widout tryin’ to kape the gurls from smilin’ at him whin he’s ashore at the ind o’ his cruise?”

  “It’s tough enough, Pete, but all the same, we shipped to chase U-boats, not dames. I’d a damn sight rather be at sea again than hang around Queenstown any longer.

  “It’ll be a couple of months yet before the Walton’s fixed up.” Tom looked vindictively at the skeletonized bow. “We’re in the wrong game at that. Here we chased U-boats in the Walton for six months without ever seeing ’em, and finally when we’re lucky enough to catch one on the surface, she dives and we’re the ones that get plunked. No more of that for me. Let’s go in for the pigs ourselves.”

  “A fine idea ye have, Tom, but how’ll ye git away wid it?”

  “It’ll be a cinch, Pete. The L-20’s sailing tomorrow and they’re looking for men. Her electrician told me half her gang’s in the hospital since the last cruise, and they’ll take nearly anybody.”

  “Half of ’em’s in the hospital, ye say? An iligant prospect fer us. Wot’s ailin’ ’em?”

  “Oh, nothing much, he says — pneumonia, flu, from bum air and exposure. Most of ’em’ll get over it.”

  “An aisy life it
must be in thim subs. An’ ye’re wishin’ fer me to go wid ye? Ain’t the destroyers bad enough?”

  “Yes, but this is a submarine war, Pete, and I’m going to get into it. If we stick to the Walton, chances are the war’ll be over before we sight another German, and we’ll be S.O.L. I’ve got to get another crack at that U-38. Come on, Pete, they’ll take us.”

  Knowles lifted himself from the stone coping of the dock, straightened out his new chief petty officer’s coat, and beckoned his shipmate.

  A hundred yards out, the Melville, mother ship to the destroyers and the submarine flotilla, swung to her anchor with several submarines alongside like suckling pigs.

  Tom hailed a bumboat; they scrambled into the stern sheets and bobbed across the harbour, with the native boatman tugging slowly at the oars, regarding them speculatively. American sailors, millionaires, all of them.

  The bumboat bumped alongside the rounded hull of the L-20, heeled outward as she scraped along. Pete leaped out, grasped the rungs welded to the side, and scrambled up to the low deck, followed by Tom, who tossed a shilling to the boatman.

  CHAPTER VII

  In the darkness, Tom peered at the dimly lighted binnacle, housed in a heavy water-tight casting jammed up in the forward end of the little chariot bridge. A signalman squeezed through the conning tower hatch at his feet and hauled himself to a perch on the periscope shears above.

  A voice floated up through the open conning tower hatches from the Central Operating Compartment below:

  “Bridge there!”

  Tom turned slightly from the binnacle, looked down. In a white circle of light cut from the darkness of the deck by the open hatch, he saw the face of Randolph, chief electrician, staring up at him from the C.O.C.

  “What d’ye want?” asked Tom.

  “We’re all set in to shove off in the C.O.C. Has Lieutenant Carpenter shown up yet?”

  “Naw.”

  “Well, it’s damn funny. Orders to sail at ten p.m. and we ain’t had a skipper fer a couple o’ weeks. When’s he comin’ back?”

  “How should I know? I’ve never seen him.” Tom turned away, scanned the high side of the mother ship rising dimly like a cliff alongside; a few vague forms moved in the darkness on the narrow decks of the submarine.

  Overhead Tom saw two figures clamber through the Melville’s rail, and climb cautiously down the rope ladder to the sub’s deck. They disappeared behind the conning tower, climbed the rungs up its side; in a moment they squeezed into the little chariot bridge beside him.

  Tom turned with difficulty, caught a hazy glimpse. Some lieutenant, probably the new skipper; and a three-striper, the flotilla commander.

  The lieutenant leaned forward, asked:

  “All ready, quartermaster?”

  “All ready, sir,” answered Tom. “Charging connections all cast loose, nothing left but singled mooring lines now.”

  The flotilla commander spoke.

  “All right, Rolfe, you’re O.K. here on the L-20 and we’ll have your own boat straightened out when you get back. Sorry I had to shift you out of the L-18. Couldn’t wait any longer, I had to get some boat out on this patrol. Damn queer the way your boat kept breaking down.”

  “Too much machinery in ’em, captain,” suggested Lieutenant Rolfe.

  “Yes, I know, but the L-18 must be lots worse than the others, then. As soon as we got one thing fixed on her, something else would let go. That’s that for the present. You’ll have to take Carpenter’s place here on the L-20 for this cruise, and I’ll have the L-18 all fixed up on your return.”

  The quartermaster turned his head a little, listened carefully. That voice sounded familiar. He turned a little more, looked aft. The beam of light shining up through the open hatch illuminated their faces grotesquely, but there was no mistaking. Commander French was at his elbow! Tom started. That Court of Inquiry at Manila, Commander French finding him guilty on the C-3! Would he be recognized? Tom saw himself breaking stone at Portsmouth, while Erhardt roamed the seas. He shrank away instinctively. No use. No room to move. Cautiously Tom turned his head away, kept his face out of the glow from the hatch.

  Unconscious of the perturbation he was causing, Commander French moved aft past Rolfe, shook his hand warmly, then climbed down the outside of the conning tower. In a moment his swaying figure was clambering up the rope ladder to the Melville. With a sigh of relief, Tom turned again to the binnacle.

  The flotilla commander gained the rail, crawled through it. Someone handed him a message, a flashlight gleamed a moment while he read it, he leaned down towards them.

  “Sub there!”

  Rolfe looked up.

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “The mine sweepers have just radioed in that they’ve got the channel clear out beyond Daunt Rock. They exploded four mines in the channel; the Huns got wind you’re going out and laid a few eggs out there. Stick to the swept channel till you’re well clear.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “Good-by, Rolfe, and good luck!” A glint of gold lace above in the moonlight, the figure vanished.

  Tom’s heart throbbed. Once outside the harbour and everybody was their enemy. Submarine? Shoot first and investigate afterward! Long months of vigil on the Walton had taught him that. And now he was on the submarine. And for a start the enemy had laid a mine field out there in the blackness, waiting for them.

  “Let go forward!”

  Tom’s thoughts came suddenly back to the bridge. Up in the bow there was a brief tussle with a hawser, then a splash as the eye came clear and went overboard.

  “All Clear forward, sir!” came back through the night.

  “Hard left, quartermaster!”

  Tom threw his steering lever over, watched the rudder indicator inside the binnacle till it showed 35° left. It seemed queer to steer with a lever instead of a wheel.

  “Rudder hard left, sir!”

  Rolfe leaned over his shoulder, called down the voice tube:

  “One third ahead starboard, full astern port!”

  A dull whir sounded from below as the electric motors started up. A swirl of white foam showed against the black water astern, the bow of the L-20 swung to port away from the tender. The submarine pivoted on her stern line for a moment then:

  “Let go aft!” yelled Rolfe.

  The line was slacked off on the Melville, the eye lifted free and tossed overboard, the L-20 moved slowly away into the night.

  The motors were put at half speed ahead. Tom headed for the lights that marked the harbour entrance. The high cliffs faded into the darkness astern, the submarine started to pitch to the ocean swells. In blackness, except for the faint gleam on the compass, the little vessel nosed her way E.S.E., carefully following the course which the trawlers had just cleared for them.

  Tom felt the skipper’s form pressing close against him as the latter searched anxiously ahead with his night glasses. But nothing happened to break their silent vigil, and one hour out they headed north through the Irish Sea.

  At midnight, Knowles turned over the steering station to his relief and squeezed down through the conning tower into the boat.

  The pounding of the diesel engines burst full blast on his eardrums as he dropped down the ladder and landed on the control room deck. The submarine throbbed from bow to stern from the vibrations of the pulsating engines. A strong smell of oil permeated the air. In the brightly lighted interior of the control room, valves, gauges, manifolds, switchboards, seemed everywhere; hardly an inch of bulkhead or side that was not hidden under a maze of pipe or conduit.

  The tired quartermaster slipped forward through the cramped space abreast the periscopes and ducked through the little water-tight door into the battery room.

  In a dim blue gleam from the solitary hooded light there, Tom skirted the solid mass of bunks filled with sleeping men. Three high, the metal bunks rose from deck to ceiling; three wide, they spread from starboard to port, leaving a narrow passage only to starboard, down which Tom p
ushed his way with difficulty. The heavy breathing of the packed-in sailors mingled with the whir of the motors ventilating the huge storage battery cells beneath the deck; a new odour, the sharp sting of acid fumes from the batteries, mingled with the oily smell from aft.

  Slowly Tom wormed his way forward to his own bunk, pulled off his shoes, and hauled himself up.

  Edging in sidewise, the worn quartermaster pulled a grey blanket over himself. A few inches above his head, the spring of the topmost bunk sagged under the weight of a slumbering seaman, the mattress bulging down through the square meshes of wire that formed the bunk bottom, and nearly rubbing his nose. Above, below, from the sides, came the sounds of heavy breathing from the close-packed sleepers, mingling with the whir of the fans, the dull pounding of the diesels, and the constant slap of the waves against the thin steel hull just a couple of feet from him. And as his bunk rose and fell gently in the seaway, Tom closed his tired eyes, and drifted into a sound sleep.

  Morning came, Tom blinked to find the battery room brightly lighted. All around, men were tricing up the bunks to clear away for breakfast. Dressing was simple — he rolled out sidewise and put on his shoes. Like the others, he triced up his bunk, folding it inboard against the stanchions holding the middle tier. A little aft, a couple of mess tables were unrigged, suspended in place of some of the bunks; jammed together elbow to elbow, the crew off watch squeezed in for chow.