Pigboats

by Ellsberg, Edward

  A bell rang. Tom leaned over, answered the tube, relayed the message.

  “Torpedo room reports all ready, sir!”

  Rolfe looked out again.

  “Closing fast now! House periscopes!”

  He threw one switch, Tom threw the other. The periscopes sank down six feet, vanished beneath the surface. No telltale wake was left to betray them to the lookouts on the enemy vessels; nothing showed above the waves as the L-20 swam toward its prey.

  Stopwatch in hand, Rolfe watched the seconds go by.

  He turned to the men at the diving controls.

  “Steady now at 40 feet.”

  A tense “Aye, aye, sir,” answered him.

  He looked at Tom.

  “Hold her dead on 80!”

  Knowles, his eye glued to the compass card, called back:

  “Steady on the course, sir!”

  The grinding of the periscope hoists broke in on the stillness; Rolfe raised the periscopes barely above the surface. Eagerly Tom looked out again. The leading ship was a little on the starboard bow, still not quite on the crosswires. With his eye glued to the rubber eyepiece, Rolfe, clutching the firing button in one hand, sang out into the voice tube:

  “Torpedo room! Stand by, starboard upper tube!”

  In the periscope, the lead-coloured ships, looking like toy vessels heaving on tiny waves, crept slowly across the marks etched on the lens. Gradually the bow of the Derfflinger approached the cross hairs.

  “Steady on your course, Knowles?”

  “Steady, sir!”

  Where sea and sky met in the little circle, the bow of the Derfflinger touched the cross hair.

  “Fire!” Rolfe pressed his trigger.

  A dull rumble forward, the bow of the boat lifted slightly, a little froth showed on the surface, then lengthened into a trail of bubbles showing white in the grey waves.

  “Stand by, port upper tube!”

  The bow of the second ship came on the cross wires.

  “Fire!”

  Another rumble, another streak on the waves.

  “Stand by, both lower tubes!”

  An interval, the third ship came on, Rolfe pressed his trigger twice in quick succession, two more torpedoes sped on their way.

  “Ten degrees right rudder!”

  “Ten right, sir!” Tom put over the wheel, the ship heeled and turned sharply away from the enemy. From forward came the clatter and bang of chain hoists, the rattle of torpedo tube doors, as Biff Wolters and his torpedomen strove frantically to reload their tubes. As the submarine turned away, Tom swung his periscope to port, watching. It would take two minutes for the missiles to reach the enemy line; at the mile range at which they were forced to fire, the chances of a hit were slight. Too much opportunity for the cruisers to manoeuvre if they spotted the wakes.

  At full speed the L-20 headed south, Tom, watching the seconds tick off on his watch, scanned the enemy line. One minute, the first torpedo was half way there. The silent squadron steamed on, broad on the port beam now. Three shiplengths of open water between cruisers, one chance in four of making a hit — if the torpedoes ran straight and the enemy held their course.

  A minute and a half, five hundred yards more to go. With his eyes jammed against the lens, his heart thumping violently, Tom watched, then swore:

  “Damnation!”

  A wisp of white streamed from the forward stack of the nearest destroyer, swelled suddenly to a fleecy cloud of steam. A siren there was shrieking warning; the torpedoes had been spotted as they passed under the destroyer screen!

  In dismay, Tom saw the startled cruisers sheer out of formation, some heading toward him, others away; all turning to present the smallest target to their rapidly approaching peril. Ten seconds yet. And as he watched, Tom saw the chances of hitting suddenly shrink to one in twenty-four — instead of the long broadsides, there were only the sharp bows or sterns of the battle cruisers left as targets.

  “Smart manoeuvring,” he gritted admiringly, started to look at his watch.

  No need. In quick succession, two columns of water rose above the sea, enveloped the stern of the third ship. For an instant a rainbow shone in the mist.

  Like huge mushrooms, two geysers of water rising suddenly from the waves, flattened and widened at the top, then trembled a moment, and slowly settled back into the sea as the superstructure of the cruiser again took shape through the thinning cloud of smoke and spray.

  “We hit ’em!” cried Rolfe exultantly.

  The enemy squadron had broken up in confusion.

  The three undamaged cruisers, completing a 180° turn, were steaming south at high speed, headed for port. The wounded ship, stopped, down by the stern, and listing noticeably to starboard, lay dead in the water, her forecastle covered with excited men, while circling close to her bow, trying to take position ahead of her, was one of the destroyers, evidently engaged in passing a tow-line to the stricken ship. Two other destroyers were zigzagging back and forth at full speed to protect the operation. Tom looked carefully at the cruiser. Her quick manoeuvring had saved her. The torpedoes had smashed her stern and put her out of action, but the damage was not in a vital spot, and in spite of her list, she seemed in no danger of sinking. Tom turned his periscope slightly, scanned the fleeing cruisers already half a mile off and racing homeward.

  “That raid’s over, captain!” He trained his periscope aft, focused again to examine the torpedoed warship, but rapidly housed the tube instead. Bearing down toward the L-20, the waves foaming white under their sharp bows, were the three remaining destroyers. In the last fleeting glimpse before his periscope housed and blotted out everything, Tom caught the flash of a gun, a puff of white smoke, a red tongue of flame leaping toward him and then a splash as a shell struck the water near at hand and ricocheted past his periscope, wobbling badly as it bounced from crest to crest.

  Involuntarily he ducked, then straightened up sheepishly. At least they were safe from shell fire.

  Through the grinding of the cables as both periscopes housed, Rolfe’s voice cut sharply.

  “Hard dive!”

  The control wheels spun round, the boat took a sudden trim by the head, and the submarine planed deeper. The depth gauge needle moved more and more rapidly across the dial, 50-60-80-100 feet. They must put as thick a blanket of water as possible between themselves and that squadron of pursuers. 120-140. Tom swept the C.O.C. hastily; his shipmates were bent tense, motionless, over their controls.

  “Level off at 180 feet!”

  The diving wheels moved back a little, the angle of the boat grew less. 160-170. The wheels turned again, the gauge moved more slowly. 180. A last whirl of the bronze spokes, the submarine’s bow lifted a trifle, once again she rode on an even keel.

  “Hard left, Knowles!”

  Tom spun the spokes, looked inquiringly at the skipper as the boat listed. Rolfe saw the unspoken question in the quartermaster’s eyes, answered sharply:

  “Hard left! Never mind the list. We’ve got to get away from this spot!”

  Over went the wheel till the rudder brought up against the stops. The boat heeled sharply as she came around, it was impossible to stand on the sloping deck. Tom clung tightly to the wheel to keep from sliding into the bilges; the dividers, the parallel rulers, all Rolfe’s navigating equipment shot off the chartboard, disappeared under the drainage manifold. Everywhere seamen were clutching at periscopes, valve wheels, controllers — anything to hang to.

  From the torpedo room roared an angry voice:

  “Wot’s got into you back aft? Straighten ’er up before one o’ these warheads hits somethin’ and blows us all to hell!”

  Tom imagined the scene — Biff Wolters reloading the tubes, one of his torpedoes, suspended from a chain fall, swinging violently, with Biff and his gang acting as buffers, trying to keep the detonator from striking anything.

  “Never mind that, hold her over!” barked Rolfe.

  Leaving the torpedomen to look out for themsel
ves, Tom held his wheel over as the L-20, far down in the ocean depths, scuttled away from the spot where she had vanished.

  As their bow headed west, Tom eased the rudder, the boat straightened up again by degrees, and steadied finally on a course NTW., which ought to take them over soundings north of Helgoland. The crew let go their holds, settled down again at their stations.

  Smoothly the L-20 swam along. Gone were the pitch and roll of operating on the surface, the irregular heaving motion imparted by the waves even at forty feet down. Here in the deep sea, all was silence, solid water, — no waves, no currents. The boat seemed to have grown strangely quieter — no working of the hull in the seaway, no noise from the strained men inside, only the whirring of the blowers, the drone of the propelling motors.

  A dull shock. The boat rocked a little, the electric lights overhead flickered momentarily.

  The first ashcan. Not very close. For the moment, their trail had not been picked up.

  A little shakily Rolfe spoke:

  “One third speed, Randolph.”

  At the switchboard, the chief electrician rotated his controllers. The ammeter needles surged suddenly toward “0,” oscillated a moment, then settled at 700 amperes. The noise of the motors decreased, the boat slowed down sharply.

  Rolfe turned to the depth gauge. The pointer there was wavering, the depth gradually decreasing foot by foot. The captain watched it a moment, then cautioned the diving rudder men.

  “We’re a little light, boys. Now that we’ve slowed down, it’ll take more angle on the diving rudders to hold your depth. Watch it!”

  Another thud, the boat quivered noticeably, the floor plates rattled underfoot. The second ashcan was closer. More shocks, none very violent, some closer, some farther away, as the first destroyer laid a pattern of depth charges over the spot where they had disappeared. The men looked at each other uncomfortably.

  Except for Knowles at the steering wheel, holding the ship’s head northwest, and the two men at the diving rudders maintaining the depth, no one in the control room had anything to do save strain his ears listening for the next shock, wondering when it would come, whether it would show the searching destroyers any nearer.

  The explosions ceased. For the ensuing minutes the suspense of waiting with nerves keyed to the breaking point, momentarily expecting the next shock, was almost unbearable. Then gradually the strain eased, the crew relaxed over their controls, looked at each other wonderingly. What was the enemy up to?

  The chief quartermaster watched a moment the “hunting” of his gyro compass card as it oscillated slightly under the lubber’s mark. They were steady on their course northwest. Holding his wheel with one hand, Tom turned. Rolfe was nervously watching the depth gauge.

  “Doesn’t he know what to do next?” muttered Tom to himself angrily, looking at his commanding officer. Rolfe stood motionless.

  “Skipper,” Tom whispered.

  Rolfe, jumpy and shaken, whirled suddenly forward as if struck, then caught himself.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “The Germans. They’ve stopped bombing. They’re listening for us!” whispered Tom fiercely.

  “Well, I’ve slowed down, haven’t I? What else can I do?”

  “They won’t slow, they’ll stop their engines altogether to listen for our propellers. Play the same game. Listen in on them! Stop our propellers when they stop theirs, and they’ll never find us!” breathed Tom.

  Rolfe suddenly brightened up, left the periscopes, squeezed himself past Mullaney and his battery of Kingston valve levers, and moved down the little passage into the cubby hole which was the radio room. With difficulty he edged in on the bench alongside the operator, and plugged in an extra headset on the microphones. A low-pitched hum came to his ears, rose in volume, decreased suddenly, then swelled out again — the vibrations of the destroyer propellers above.

  Rolfe listened carefully, his eyes fastened on his watch, occasionally scribbling on a radio blank. The hum faded out suddenly; he noted the time. Again it became audible; he jotted down the interval of silence, then the period elapsing till once again it ceased. Cobb, the radio man, checked his time.

  “They’re making a group search, Cobb,” said Rolfe at last. “Probably they’re fanned out 400 yards apart, all listening for us.” The humming in the earphones died down. “They’re working together on signals from the flotilla leader. They’ve all stopped their engines, listening for our propellers. They’re trying to get a ‘fix’ on us, then heading two minutes in our direction, then stopping engines to try again.” He listened a moment, jotted down the time. “They’re under way again. Interval is one minute to stop and listen, two minutes to run at slow speed toward us. And they’re getting closer!”

  For the next hour, the submarine played hide and seek with her enemies, turning first to starboard then to port, dodging back and forth through the ocean, trying to throw the searching pack off her trail.

  Taking his cues from them, Rolfe listened on his own microphones, stopped his own propellers when the destroyers stopped, started again when they started. His own propeller and motor noises were lost in the roaring in the microphones which the destroyers themselves caused while they were under way; when they stopped their own engines so they could listen, Rolfe promptly as possible stopped his and for a while kept his enemies from getting very close, but soon found to his dismay that he was steadily losing depth.

  He could not balance off his boat so exactly in weight as to float at rest; either it would be too heavy and sink, or too light and float. Only with his diving planes could he maintain his set depth and for the planes to be effective, he must maintain headway through the water. Each time the propellers stopped, the boat floated up nearly ten feet; in the brief runs at slow speed between stops they were unable to gather headway enough to do more than barely hold their own and check the rise momentarily.

  Rolfe watched his depth gauge gloomily as he alternately stopped and started the motors, endeavouring to keep the destroyers from hearing him. 82 feet. They had floated up nearly a hundred feet since the search started. At that depth, even the distant ashcans jarred them considerably.

  “No more stops, Randolph,” he called to the electrician. “Another half hour like this and we’ll break surface.” He looked at the chart still tacked to the board; their pencilled track ended with the course on which he had attacked; he had been too busy since to look in the bilges for his lost instruments and plot their further manoeuvres.

  “How’ve we been heading most of the time, Knowles?”

  “It’s been generally northwest, captain,” answered Tom.

  Rolfe examined the soundings on the chart in their approximate position.

  “Ninety fathoms around here. Not so good.”

  Tom figured that out rapidly. Ninety fathoms. Five hundred and forty feet. The L-20 was designed to stand a pressure of two hundred feet only. Probably could stand about three hundred feet before she collapsed. Might leak a lot though at three hundred.

  The skipper turned from his chartboard, his face drawn and wearied. He rang a voice tube bell.

  “Torpedo room, there! That you, Wolters? Lay aft to the C.O.C.”

  A moment later a brawny chest thrust itself through from the battery room door; Biff Wolters squeezed by the little wardroom and stopped in the narrow space alongside the conning tower ladder, just in front of the steering wheel. Wolters saluted clumsily, shoving his knitted cap still more over his left ear.

  “Wanna see me, cap’n?”

  Rolfe nodded.

  “You all loaded again?”

  “Yeh, the tubes’r all loaded; no thanks to the lubber that was steerin’. We damn near blew ourselves up fer fair,” and he threw a malevolent look at Tom.

  “Can that, Biff!” said the skipper sharply. “I wasn’t going to take chances of hanging round the spot where we submerged when Fritz’s ashcans started raining down.”

  Biff grinned at Tom.

  “Al
l right, chief, you ain’t no lubber, anyhow,” but Rolfe interrupted him.

  “We’re in a bad way. If there were only one destroyer up there, I’d risk coming up and fighting it out with him, but three of ’em — ”

  “Wot do we hafta come up fer?” asked Biff. “Course the torpedoes’r all ready if y’re gonna fight, but why don’t we pick out a nice spot on the bottom ’n lie still till night comes ’n we kin beat it in the darkness?”

  “I’d like to try that, Biff, but the water right here is ninety fathoms,” Biff whistled, “and we’ve got a two hour run at slow speed before we get inside the thirty fathom line around Helgoland. We’re headed for that, but if Fritz gets too close with his ashcans before we make it, we’ll have to come up and fight. We can’t do any more stopping or dodging, the batteries’ll go dead on us before long. You stand by to let ’em have the tin fish if we come up.” Biff nodded. “And cast loose those last four torpedoes in the racks, so you can load ’em fast.”

  “Aye, aye, cap’n.” Biff turned away, his gaily decorated back disappeared forward.

  “We’ll have to go the limit, I guess,” muttered Rolfe to himself. “Stop all the blowers, Randolph.”

  On the switchboard, the chief electrician hastily pulled half a dozen switches. The whirring of the fans ceased, the blowers stopped, the noise inside the boat grew suddenly softer. Only the low hum of the propelling motors was left.

  “Dead slow on the motors, chief,” cautioned Rolfe; Randolph moved his main controllers down to the lowest notch, the motors slowed still more, became hardly audible.

  “They’ll have to have mighty good microphones to hear that,” thought Tom, “but there’s other noises here.” He leaned over toward the skipper, whispered in his ear. A dubious look crossed Rolfe’s face, then he saw the point, nodded briefly. Even the slight ring of their heels on the steel decks must be eliminated.

  “All hands take off your shoes!”

  Letting go his wheel, Tom stooped with the others and rapidly unlaced both shoes, kicked them off, and seized the spokes again. The boat had swung off a little; gently he eased her back on the course.