Pigboats

by Ellsberg, Edward

  The engine room. He wobbled through the little door, descended the three steps to the level of the engine gratings, clambered aft between the diesels. He clung to cams, springs, throttles — anything to keep erect on that oily footing as he worked aft between the badly tilted engines.

  The last bulkhead, another narrow door. He squeezed through. The motor room at last. Feverishly his eyes roamed over the motors, scanned the array of machines jammed in the little room. Yes, there above that lathe. An emory wheel.

  He seized a hammer from the tool rack to starboard, jerked the emory wheel from its peg, slipped it over the horn of the anvil at the work-bench. A rap of the hammer, the wheel broke into half a dozen fragments.

  The sharp ring of steel on steel rang through the boat, as, one by one, Tom beat the fragments of the wheel to dust. He gathered the emory powder in a little heap on the bench beneath the anvil, swept the mound at last into his coat pocket, and staggered forward again through the engine room, clinging to the diesels.

  The noise of hammering had roused the crew. In a little knot his companions were massed in the control room, their haggard faces peering through the bulkhead door at the source of the racket. Pete, stronger than the others, was half way down the engine room passage, haltingly struggling toward him.

  “Yer all right, Tom?” he asked anxiously. Tom nodded, dragged himself past another cylinder.

  “Fer the love o’ Mike, thin, what’s the use o’ hammerin’? Who’s goin’ to hear?”

  Tom, husbanding his strength, ready to collapse after his exertions, did not answer, but motioned Pete to go ahead, to get out of his road. Exhausted, barely able to lift one foot after another, he reached the tiny open space forward of the engines, and crawled rather than climbed the iron steps to the level of the control room deck.

  Spectral eyes followed him, gaunt faces tinged a yellowish green turned hopefully as the silent chief quartermaster struggled through the opening in bulkhead, made his way toward the diving station.

  Biff Wolters edged in behind him; Sanders, Mullaney, two oilers, a gunner’s mate, Cobb the radio man, looked on eagerly as Tom seized the clutch lever.

  “Wotcha gonna do, Tom?” asked Biff in a faint whisper, the muscles in his throat swelling painfully as he struggled to make the words audible.

  “I think I’ve got the answer this time, Biff. We’ll make that liberty yet.” Tom threw back the lever, worked it in and out a few times to gauge the clearance between disks and the point at which the clutch snapped home.

  “Let’s have the juice on this motor again,” he ordered as he disengaged the clutch finally, wholly absorbed in his task.

  No one moved.

  “Shake it up, Sparks. We’ve got to hurry.” Tom, gripping the lever, ready to shove it home, looked impatiently round at the switchboard. “Oh!” he gasped, suddenly remembering. Randolph was in the wardroom with the skipper. Knowles looked anxiously over the little group behind him.

  “I guess I know the board.” Cobb, the radio electrician, shuffled through the water, found the circuit, closed the switch.

  A dull explosion, a vivid flash and darkness. A strong smell of burning insulation filled the room. Feeble curses, a few groans, then Tom’s voice cut sharply through the darkness:

  “Yank that switch out, Cobb!”

  A moment of fumbling in the darkness, then,

  “She’s open again.”

  “All right, throw in the circuit breaker now.”

  A brief delay followed while the radio man located the breaker, then a click, and the lights flashed on. A sigh of relief went up. But not for long. A cloud of white smoke was rising from behind the switchboard, spreading slowly through the thick atmosphere; the stench of burning rubber became sickening

  Despairingly Cobb looked at the board.

  “The son-of-a-bitch. The water’s got inside that cable, and the circuit to that pump’s got a bad ground. She blew her fuses as well as the breaker!”

  Sanders looked at the curling smoke then drew hopelessly away.

  “I thought I could stand anything by now, but this God-damned rubber’s too much. I’m through, boys.” He choked, staggered feebly forward, poked his head into the wardroom. The green baize curtains fluttered a moment as he clawed futilely over the cold bodies inside. A pause, he thrust his head out again, looked wildly aft. “Say, Biff, where’s that gun Randolph had?”

  Wolters shook his head, whispered hoarsely:

  “I dunno. Mebbe he took it along with him.” Sanders glared at him, then vanished again into the wardroom. Biff looked significantly at Tom while the sounds of splashing echoed from the little wardroom. Sanders was pawing round, seeking the lost pistol.

  But Tom hardly noticed him. This final blow had dazed him for the moment, left him with a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. With the possibility of making the pump work at last, the motor had gone dead on them. He stared down at the pump, at its driving motor. The water had not yet reached it. The ground could not be in the motor, it must be in the circuit itself, somewhere between the switchboard and the motor terminals. But in the mass of wiring behind the board and the thousands of wires running through the C.O.C. they could never trace that circuit, clear the short. And meanwhile in the thick clouds of acrid smoke, his eyes smarted, his overwrought lungs seemed lined with fire. Minutes were precious now.

  “Cobb,” Tom snapped, “quick, a new circuit. Get some wire!” His eyes roved over the ceiling, searching. There was an armoured cable leading into the galley. Hurriedly he traced it. Yes, it fed the galley range. They could spare that.

  “Pete, Cobb, tear that out!” He pointed. A twist of a wrench and the circuit was torn loose from the range; a few more yanks, and thirty feet of wire was hanging free of its clips. Good. That circuit ran overhead from the board, it was bound to be free of shorts.

  A blow of the hammer on the shorted cable where it ran down the side of the ship into the water, and the wire parted, leaving a severed end a foot long to the motor.

  Cobb’s knife, his trained fingers, quickly skinned the terminal wires and spliced them to the substitute cable. He staggered through the smoke to the radio booth, leaned over Arnold, pulled a roll of tape from the table drawer. A few turns around the splices, the circuit was ready again. Feverishly Cobb ploughed through the water to the switchboard. He looked back at Tom.

  “Ready?” he inquired.

  The little group of survivors looked at him anxiously through the haze.

  From forward came curses, the splashing of water, the noise of Sanders searching under the wardroom table. A dull thud, a heavy splash, something fell off the table, hit the deck.

  “You lucky stiff!” Sanders’ shrill voice cut through the haze to the silent group round the manifold. “You got out of it easy; you’ve been dead half the night. But wot in hell did ye do with that gun?”

  Tom looked at Cobb.

  “Ready,” he answered. Cobb closed the switch to the galley range.

  A whir, the motor started up. The tension in the room relaxed a trifle, Tom breathed again. At least they had the motor once more.

  Again he worked over the manifold while the motor whirred, setting the valves to the high-pressure pump, suction from the bilges, discharge to the sea. He straightened up panting, to feel Mullaney crowding in against him, the others in a little circle just behind, leaning on each other for support. He glanced hurriedly round. The fog rising from their breath as it struck the chill air, the gas, the smoke of the insulation — all made a thick murk through which he could barely make out the periscopes. Cobb, a shadowy figure beyond, clung to the switchboard, peering intently toward him. Tom called to him,

  “Stand by to trip that switch again, Cobb, if she won’t take the load.”

  A brief, “Aye, aye.”

  Knowles faced the pump, reached into his pocket and clutched a fistful of the emory dust. Slowly he pushed over the clutch lever till the disks were nearly engaged, flung a handful of powder down b
etween them, jammed the clutch home.

  The motor suddenly slowed as the load came on, then the grinding of the gears and the pounding of the pistons filled the room. Fascinated, the half-suffocated sailors watched as the clutch leathers slipped round a little and the emory cut into the smooth disks. A few revolutions and the roughened leathers caught, the slipping ceased, the overloaded motor groaned as it spun round. Not daring to breathe, the men stared a moment longer, then turned. The ghost of a cheer rang out. In the centre of the room, a strong vortex whirled in the pool of water on deck. The high-pressure pump was at last forcing the water overboard!

  Faces brightened, backs suddenly straightened up. The waterline in the room receded. The splashing in the wardroom stopped. Sanders, on his hands and knees, poked out his head, demanded:

  “Wot’s happenin’ to this water?” The noise of pumping struck him; he eyed the vortex, then sat suddenly down in the water and started to cry.

  The pump groaned on. Biff leaned over the manifold, watched it fondly. The sharp note of the spinning motor echoed through the long-silent boat; the surface of the water was covered by myriad little ripples as the sub vibrated to the labouring pump; the gears whined, the pump rods pounded as they bucked the sea.

  “Ain’t that the sweetest music you ever heard?” Biff Wolters’ cracked smile beamed on Tom, invited the others to take a closer look.

  In twenty minutes the control room was dry; Tom switched the suction connections, poured a little more emory into the clutch. There was no need — the slipping was over.

  Another hour dragged by, the few survivors silently watching the sea vanish from the engine room, wondering whether they could hold out till the pump caught up with the leakage. One by one they dropped to the deck, eyes popping from their heads, tongues protruding, gasping for air. And all the while, Tom clung to the drainage manifold, feverishly watching the motor. It was heating up. The ammeter showed it was drawing a two hundred per cent, overload. The minutes ticked away, the water went out, the motor grew so hot you could not touch it, its windings started to smoke. Would it burn out?

  “Nothing we kin do except hope,” muttered Cobb, leaning weakly against the switchboard, eyes glued to the ammeter. “Lucky fer us now, it’s cold down here; in an ordinary room she’d a’ burned out long ago.”

  At last the pump gurgled, sucked air. The engine room was dry. Again the manifold valves were shifted, the pump started to draw from the motor room. A small compartment that. A few minutes there sufficed. A brief pull through the bilge suctions to the sealed-off battery room, then suction was put on the last compartment, the torpedo room forward.

  No one stood any longer — no one could. On the slippery canvas, gripping the nearest object to keep from sliding down the heavily listed deck into the port bilges, the remnant of the crew lay sprawled out helplessly, gasping like fish out of water. The pump pounded on. Dying men listened to it with dulling ears. Would it never finish its task?

  And then a strange thing happened. The port list gradually decreased, the tilted periscopes came upright again, little streams of water ran from the port bilges, spread in thin sheets over the deck. The boat was righting herself, resting lightly on an even keel on the bottom as her negative buoyancy lessened.

  But so imperceptibly did this movement take place that no one in the crew even noticed it till Biff Wolters, clinging to the binnacle, gradually relaxed his grip as the need to hold on vanished, and not till he started to take a fresh grip on the binnacle, did he awaken to the fact that he was lying on a level deck.

  “She’s moved, Tom!” he murmured in a hoarse whisper, “she’s getting light!” But except Tom, no one responded among the motionless forms lying round the deck.

  Knowles dragged his weary body across the slimy deck, pulled himself up on the manifold. His glazed eyes looked through the fog. Biff was right, the periscopes no longer leaned drunkenly to port. The sub could have only slight negative buoyancy left.

  Again the pump gurgled, pounded irregularly. It was no longer getting anything from forward. Tom struggled with the valve wheels for the last time, screwed closed the suction to the torpedo room, with a superhuman effort sprung open the connection to the adjusting tank, then fell limply over the manifold.

  Unable to move, his eyes watched the water gradually dropping in the sight glass as the pump pulled on the adjusting tank. 1900 pounds, still half a ton negative. Slowly the waterline fell to 1500 pounds, then to 1000. They were approaching their standard condition for operation submerged.

  The pump pounded steadily on. The L-20 quivered slightly, her bow lifted a trifle. Tom’s heart throbbed violently as he felt the motion. They were tearing free!

  With increasing speed, the bow started to rise. The limp forms on the deck slid aft, bumping the periscopes, the compass. The angle grew worse; tools, deck plates, men, everything portable rolled in a tangled heap.

  Faster and faster the bow rose, the sub seemed almost vertical. With a jerk, the stern broke from the mud, and at a steep angle the L-20 hurtled upward. Swifter and swifter she rose, while Tom clung to the manifold. The rattle of falling tools rang through the boat. Then, in a cloud of spray, the bow plunged through the surface, lost buoyancy, and rapidly levelled off as the tapering stern of the submarine pivoted about her surging bow. The conning tower burst through the waves, the vessel seesawed ponderously, first her bow showing, then her stern, and finally settled down to her awash condition, with only the conning tower above water.

  The violent uprush was over. The L-20 rolled aimlessly in the trough of the sea, pitching irregularly as the waves swept by.

  Inside the heaving vessel, Tom Knowles let go his hold on a valve wheel, laboriously drew himself erect, called out triumphantly:

  “We’re up, boys!” But only a scarcely audible whisper left his lips, and in that mass of bodies piled aft in the control room, not one moved. Had they come up too late? Heartsick, Tom watched them a moment, then staggered toward the conning tower ladder.

  Air! They must have air!

  His head swam, he gasped violently as he struggled forward. Worn and wounded, his legs gave way under him, he fell in a heap on his side. For a moment he lay, sliding first into the switchboard, then toward the Kingston valves as the ship pitched under him. Finally he contrived to roll over on his stomach and crawled slowly through the exhausted air toward the foot of the ladder. He must get the conning tower hatch open. Outside that hatch was air, life. Tom clutched the sides of the ladder, feebly hauled himself erect, attempted to climb. His numbed legs slid off the rungs, refused to bear his weight. Despairingly his weary arms strained to pull his leaden body up the ladder. His strength was gone, his numbed legs dangled heavily. Inch by inch his weakening muscles dragged his body up. He fought grimly for each rung, pausing, when he had made it, for an instant’s rest before commencing the battle for the next. The lower hatch loomed over him at last. His aching fingers clutched the coaming, with a desperate effort he dragged his shoulders through, lay panting in the little trunk, staring with glazed eyes at the bronze hatch overhead. The tripping lever hung down a foot, tantalizing in its closeness. So near now. But his strength was gone, his senses numbed, his tortured body craved only sleep. The hatch, the tripping lever, danced before his eyes, unreal, distant. What did they matter? He wanted only to close his aching eyes, and rest. But somehow he felt that he must not. Why not? He was terribly tired. He remembered. Yes, he must rise. Erhardt had left him once, sprawled drunkenly out that night in Manila, and his shipmates had died as a result.

  Erhardt! What, go to sleep and let that devil beat him again!

  With a final effort, Tom reached up, grasped the signal flags dangling from the rack abaft him and dug his fingers into their woollen folds. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself into a sitting position, tried to focus his eyes on the tripping lever. It seemed as inaccessible as a distant star. Again he struggled up, clinging to the signal rack itself now, till at last he stood erect, huddled against the meta
l wall of the conning tower, clutching the signal rack with one hand, a voice tube with the other, striving to keep upright as the plunging submarine wallowed in a heavy sea. In front of him projected the releasing latch, now here, now there, as the conning tower swayed and he swayed with it. Knowles’ dimming eyes watched the latch tensely, gauging its erratic motions as the ship rolled. He would have only one trial. He must not miss.

  The L-20 yawed violently, fell away into the trough of the sea and hung poised an instant. Tom let go his hold, plunged forward as his legs tottered under him, clutched wildly at the latch with both hands, knocked it free. A click, the heavy spring flung back the cover. A dash of spray, mingled with a current of cold air poured through the open hatch into the fog below.

  CHAPTER XV

  The whir of ventilating fans hummed through the L-20, drawing in streams of fresh air while the exhaust fans pushed out the murk and the smoke. The mist in the control room was practically gone; only a trace of the biting tinge of chlorine was left; the odour of oil, of burned rubber, of dead air, was rapidly fading.

  But even so, no living person moved inside the boat. The door to the battery room, sinister and silent, still was closed; the green baize curtains over the wardroom entrance, fluttering in the breeze of the fans, still masked the tragedy behind them; on the floor of the control room, a few bodies lay stretched out stiffly, bare feet, clenched hands, distorted faces, standing starkly out against the dripping blue of clinging uniforms.

  But in the darkness of the chariot bridge, five figures huddled round the binnacle, clinging weakly to the railing, gulping the free air of heaven in huge drafts, faces turned to windward, eyes aloft, drunk with the glory of the stars, intoxicated by the swash of the waves burying their low hull, the sheets of salt spray driving into their wan faces. Overhead glittered Orion, and the brightness of Sirius in the crisp night, seemed to the men below as fair as the midday sun. The cold wind drove by, the L-20 yawed and plunged aimlessly, the spent storm waves broke heavily over her forecastle, drenched her bridge. And still no movement from the men on the bridge, nothing but the sharp intake of hurriedly sucked in air, the heaving of tired chests, the sibilant noise of men revelling in breathing.