An unusually large sea shook the conning tower. Knowles tore his gaze from the Pole Star, and looked at his companions, ranged in a pitiful group round the periscope shears — Wolters, Mullaney, Cobb, Arnold. Five men left of the crew of thirty. And the L-20 with her storage batteries practically discharged, her air banks emptied, her torpedoes useless — and inaccessible besides.
“I guess it’s time to lay below and get under way, boys. We’ve had our spree up here. This is damn close to Helgoland; if the enemy spots us in the daylight around here, we’ll be S.O.L. We can’t dive, we can’t fire our torpedoes, we haven’t got enough of a crew to man the ship and fight our gun. And if we tried to surrender, we’d probably get sunk anyway. Fritz’d think it was some new frightfulness we were trying to pull on him.”
“You’re the skipper, Tom,” answered Biff. His brawny chest bulged mightily as he gulped more air. “Wot you say goes. But I could stay out here all night, just leanin’ back ’n drinkin’ in this air ’n them stars.” Arnold’s drooping shoulders shook, a coughing fit racked his lungs. His grey hair stood faintly out against the blackness, bobbing spasmodically as he strove to choke back his rasping cough. At last he quieted, a little blood oozing from his lips, his face ghastly even in the starlight.
“O.K., Tom,” he laboured out. “Whatever you want. Should I start the engines?”
“Yes, Bill. We’ve got to get away from here p.d.q. You man the switchboard, Cobb, and turn the diesels over with the motors for Bill till he gets them started.” Cobb dropped down the hatch, followed by Arnold. Tom looked at his old friend shivering in the chill wind. “How’re you feeling now, Pete?”
“Fer a man that’s been dead onct, Tom, I’m feelin’ fine. But how did ye ever bring me to?”
“Just a few pokes in the ribs, Pete, and the fresh air did the business. Then you started talking about Maggie before you even opened your eyes.”
“Yis, an’ I’m half sick wid worryin’ over it. Shure an’ me Maggie’ll niver be wantin’ to marry a man that’s been dead. What kin I do, Tom?”
“Well, marry someone else then,” replied Knowles heartlessly. “Her cousin Rose, for instance. But right now, Pete, to tell you the truth, the only thing that worries me is how fast we can get the hell away from here.”
“Me too,” added Biff. “This ain’t no place to be moonin’ about the dames. C’mon, Pete. The only time fer a sailor to be thinkin’ about skirts is when he’s on the beach.” Biff’s legs slid through the hatch. The light from below was completely eclipsed as his body scraped through, then gleamed faintly out again lighting Mullaney’s features as he stared down into the hull of the L-20, shrinking back as from a morgue. His lips moved silently, he stood a moment motionless, then his fingers twitched across his breast, he crossed himself swiftly, and followed Biff down.
In a maze of unfamiliar valves, oil lines, mufflers, and switches, the unskilled seamen struggled under Arnold’s direction in the engine room to get oil to the diesels, to open the muffler stops, to clutch in the propelling motors to act as starters for the main engines. Everything must be right, there was little juice left in the batteries, they could not afford to spin the huge engines uselessly.
Finally they were ready and took their stations — Arnold at the throttles, Wolters and Mullaney at the main motor clutches, Cobb at the controllers, and Tom at the steering wheel.
“Stand by!” called Tom, then nodded to Cobb. Down went the controllers. A dull rumble aft, the motors whirled and amid the clatter of the valve gear, the silent diesels started to turn over. A few uneven coughs, the floor plates rattled as the huge cylinders churned against compression, and both engines commenced their steady pounding. Tom heaved a sigh of relief, they could mote.
Cobb released his controllers. Mullaney and Wolters hurriedly secured their clutches, and the L-20 started ahead on her diesels. The thankful chief quartermaster, clinging to his wheel to support himself, headed the ship to starboard to get her out of the trough and stop the heavy rolling.
Mechanically he glanced at the gyro repeater. It was useless. The juice had been off too long. It would take at least an hour for the spinning gyro wheel, even after it came up to speed, to swing to the north and stay there. Until then, he must use the stars.
The throb of the engines grew louder, their speed increased. Tom looked at the clock. Three a.m. Four hours more of darkness. They must make the best of them.
Hesitantly he eyed the hatches to the bridge. It would be cold up there in the December wind. And he had no windbreaker, no sweater, just the soaked blouse in which he stood. All his winter clothing lay sealed up in the battery room beyond that forbidding door. Dismally he looked round the C.O.C. Valves, levers, bulkheads, — cold metal everywhere, except — his gaze rested on the three crumpled figures on the deck aft. He shuddered. He couldn’t rob the dead. Oh, yes, those curtains. He left the wheel, deliberately averted his gaze from the interior and ripped the green baize hangings from the wardroom door.
“Here, Cobb, lend a hand!” With Cobb’s aid, Tom managed to wind the curtains round his body, over his arms. And so protected, he crawled up through the conning tower, out on the chariot bridge again, and seized the steering lever there.
Polaris glittered a little on the starboard bow. He turned to port till the star bore broad off the beam, then headed westward. The wind was from the east, dead astern; it whistled in through the after end of the chariot bridge, past the periscope shears, whipped up the loose ends of Tom’s improvised peajacket and froze his damp trouser legs into stiff folds that crackled as he moved. The L-20 drove before the seas, rising and falling monotonously as crest followed trough down her round hull.
An hour went slowly by, the L-20 drove steadily westward. Tom huddled, back against the periscope shears, seeking what little protection that afforded from the biting wind. The even pounding of the diesels, the throbbing of the hull were music in his ears, taking his mind off his numbed fingers, his freezing legs. He was running without lights; so also would any other vessels in these waters. He peered forward into the blackness of the night, watching anxiously for any looming shadow. Occasionally, he glanced up to check his course, shifted his rudder a little to hold the Pole Star on his beam. Finally his gyro repeater ceased oscillating, steadied down on the true meridian, and “hunted” only a fraction of a degree under the lubber’s mark. The weary chief quartermaster checked it roughly against his guiding star, then dropped down the hatch. He could steer from below, out of the wind.
But inside the boat, the chill was practically as bad. A strong current of air came down the open hatch and swept through the control room to the main intakes of the pounding diesels. At the quartermaster’s directions, Cobb soon corrected that by opening the main ventilation valve, thus giving the engines a direct pull through their own air supply line from the outside of the conning tower. The draft through the control room vanished, the chill persisted.
“Wot’s the nearest port?” asked Biff, who with Mullaney, had come forward. Only Arnold, at the throttles now, remained in the engine room.
“Harwich,” answered Knowles briefly, “we’ll make for that.”
“Shure an’ where’s that, an’ whin’ll we git there?” Pete questioned anxiously.
“It’s on the east coast of England, Pete, and we’ll make it tomorrow — that is if we’re lucky and nobody sights us.”
“How far off is it?” inquired Cobb.
“About three hundred miles. It’ll take all day and all night if we keep going on the surface.”
“Yeh, but wot’ll happen if we run into some o’ these enemy destroyers? We can’t do nuthin’ then,” growled Biff.
“I’ve been thinking about that, but we’re in a tough fix. What we ought to be doing right now is lying dead in the water, charging batteries for the rest of the night, and running our air compressors on the air banks, so that we’ll be in condition to submerge again if we have to. But if we do that, we’ll be right abeam Helgoland at dayli
ght, and that’ll mean with what little juice we can get in the batteries by then, that we can’t go far submerged, so we’ll have to pick a shallow spot and lie on the bottom till night time, and after — ”
“Belay any more o’ that lyin’ on the bottom, Tom! Another twelve hours o’ that ’n we’ll all freeze to death, unless” — Biff looked at one of the crumpled bodies on the deck — “we all go nuts like Sanders there ’n go lookin’ fer that Colt he couldn’t find. No more fer me fer awhile. We stay on the topside the rest o’ this cruise, so far’s I’m concerned. Lend a hand, Pete, an’ we’ll get up some ammunition fer the three inch gun. If anybody sights us, we’ll fight it out with that, ’n if we get licked — ” he shrugged his shoulders. “But I’ll be God-damned if I’m gonna do any more lyin’ on the bottom with this bunch o’ stiffs we got aboard! I’m goin’ over the side first!”
Knowles nodded sympathetically.
“O.K., Biff, I don’t feel like it any more than you, We’ll keep on as we are, and by daybreak we’ll be off the Dutch coast. It’s not likely we’ll meet any German warships that far south.” Tom shifted the helm, heading southwest for Terschelling. “We’ll keep just outside the three-mile limit from then on.” He paused to steady the ship on her new course. “And with that ahead of us, I guess we’d better arrange the watches. Cobb, you and Arnold’ll stand watch and watch on the throttle.” Tom peered aft into the engine room where Arnold stood under the throttles, clinging to the port forward cylinder as if hugging it for warmth. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t caved in already. He was the last one of this crowd to come to and I’d just about given him up with Sanders and those oilers when the air finally brought him round. Say, Cobb, you lay aft and relieve Bill right away.”
Cobb vanished aft. In a moment Arnold, too tired to make himself heard above the noise of the throbbing engines, was explaining to Cobb in pantomime how to operate the throttles and provide the fuel oil to the high-pressure oil pumps.
Meanwhile Tom was lining up the other watch standers.
“Biff, you and Pete will stand alternate watches with me at the wheel. And since there’s only three of us, I guess the watch will have to be stood on the bridge so the helmsman can act as lookout too. It’s cold up there, and none of us have got any heavy clothes, but we can’t afford to be running blind.”
Arnold shuffled through from the engine room, slipped into the radio booth and slumped wearily down on the bench.
“I’m all dressed for it,” continued Tom, looking at the curtains draping his shoulders, “so I’ll take the first watch on deck. Biff, you’ll have the second one, and Pete’ll relieve you. By that time it’ll be daylight, and all right for Pete to try steering.” Tom left the wheel and started for the ladder. “Both of you turn in now, and I’ll call you in an hour, Biff.” He started painfully up.
Biff took the wheel a moment, held it steady till the quartermaster reached the bridge, then started aft.
“Me fer my bunk on top the galley range. Where you calkin’ off, Pete?”
Pete’s blue eyes rolled round dismally. Bill Arnold was sprawled loosely out in the radio booth, practically covering the little table. Pete looked at the deck but recoiled at the sight of the figures there. “There ain’t no place here, Biff.” He crawled through the door to the engine room, then shouted back through the din, “Ye’ll find me aft on the workbench, Biff, wid that anvil fer a pillow!” He worked his way between the engines, whirling cams, and clanging valve rods, and disappeared into the motor room.
The submarine steamed on through the night, a haggard figure on her bridge peering intently into the darkness, listening anxiously through the swashing of the waves for the roar of the blowers that betokened enemy destroyers. And below, in the brightly lighted hull, the engines pounded steadily, driving the L-20 homeward with her silent crew, living and dead alike.
CHAPTER XVI
A long line of gun carriages stood on the quay. The jingle of traces, the stamping of impatient hoofs broke roughly in on the fervent prayer of the chaplain: “And now may the peace of the Lord, which passeth all understanding, be with them forevermore. Amen.”
In the stillness which followed, the quavering note of a bugle, plaintive, sorrowful, rang out over flag-draped coffins, floated past the half-masted colours of ships in the harbour, surged across the deck of the L-20, echoed perhaps through the narrow compartments where the silent men strapped on those caissons had short hours before suffered and died. Taps. The last wailing note swelled out, faded away. A rattle of musketry, three volleys roared in final salute, and the restless horses were off at last.
With tear-stained faces, with clenched fists, the little remnant of the ship’s company watched the cortege move off and vanish in the winding streets of Harwich. Their friends, their shipmates, practically the whole crew of the boat — gassed, suffocated, or suicided. All — except one.
The rumble of the gun carriages died out; the last caisson disappeared. And not till then did the tall, spare figure standing nearby drop his hand from salute.
From a little distance, a crowd, mostly of women and children on the quay, eyed him curiously — the American Commander-in-Chief. His dark sleeves glittered with the broad gold stripes of an admiral, a pointed grey beard set off his sombre face. He leaned over to his medical aide.
“Terrible,” he murmured. “These men have been through hell. What do you think about the survivors, surgeon?”
“I think they’re over the effects of the gas, admiral, but pneumonia’s likely to get them all. My recommendation is you ship the lot of them to the Royal Naval Hospital at Greenwich for observation and treatment till we’re sure that danger’s past.” He nodded slightly toward Arnold who leaned dejectedly against the bollard which held the L-20’s stern line. “Anyway you’d better send that chief machinist’s mate over there; I’m surprised an old man like him came through with all those tough youngsters passing out down there.”
“I’ll send them all, surgeon. We won’t take any chances with them now.” He turned toward Tom.
“Quartermaster!”
Tom moved closer, saluted. His companions edged slowly nearer.
“Knowles,” said Admiral Sims, “I’ve decided to send you all to London for a rest in the hospital. How’ll that suit you?”
“I don’t care much for hospitals, but I’m all in, admiral, and my right leg’s pretty stiff, so I guess that will be best.”
“All right. How about you, Wolters?” The admiral’s grey eyes scanned Biff’s sturdy figure, glimpsed the tattoo marks on his neck and wrists, threw a fleeting glance at the rating badge on his right sleeve. “You’re the torpedoman, eh? Congratulations!” He seized Biffs hairy paw, shook it warmly. “I've had a lot to do with torpedoes myself, Wolters, and it takes a good torpedoman to get a straight run and a hit on the range you fired at. Some shooting, my lad! What can I do for you?”
“Gimme a week in that hospital, admiral, so's I kin just calk off seven days solid without no watchstandin'!” Biff looked up at the sympathetic eyes watching him beneath the gold-braided visor. His courage grew. “Then lemme have a week's liberty in London. If the war's still goin' on when that's over, I'll be ready to go to sea again in any tub that floats.”
Sims' eyes twinkled.
“You're a sailor after my own heart, Biff. I see you came from the old navy. We can fix that easily. And I have no doubt that Her Majesty the Queen will be inviting you to call at Buckingham Palace before you go to sea again.”
Biff's jaw dropped, he looked at the admiral sheepishly. “Aw, tell that to the marines; I bin goin' to sea too long to fall fer that one, admiral. Me callin' on the Queen!”
Admiral Sims laughed.
“Well, Biff, the King's a sailor himself, and the Queen's partial to gobs. Don’t forget, now.” He turned again to Tom. “I'll have the captain of the port post a ship-keeper and some marines on your boat till the Melville can get a fresh crew here from Queenstown. You and your shipmates stow your bags, an
d Barber here,” he indicated his aide, “will see you're given transportation to Greenwich. And, Knowles, I want to tell you how proud I am of you for your wonderful work in getting the L-20 up. Be sure you come to see me in London after you’ve had a rest. Our headquarters are in Grosvenor Gardens.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Tom saluted, and, followed by the others, descended the stone steps of the quay to the little gangplank leading to the L-20’s deck. Admiral Sims stood a few minutes, examining curiously the war-coloured hull of the submarine, streaked with salt, the freeing ports in her stern still plastered where its sudden plunge had buried it in the blue clay of the ocean floor.
“Remarkable men, Barber, remarkable,” he muttered to his aide at last. “Three hundred and fifty-one feet!” With the surgeon, he entered a waiting car, leaving his aide on the dock. The bobbies opened a path through the mob of urchins swarming round, and the machine, a four-starred blue flag whipping on each running board, moved rapidly off toward London.
CHAPTER XVII
A little stiffly, leaning awkwardly on an unfamiliar cane, Tom Knowles hobbled up from the tube at Charing Cross station and emerged shortly onto the broad slope of Trafalgar Square. In quiet grandeur, from his lofty column, Lord Nelson looked down, oblivious of the roar of traffic streaming by, four huge bronze lions majestically guarding the symbol of Britain’s power and glory on the seas.
Nelson! Tom looked up reverently. The dashing sailor, the skilful strategist, who had dared throw tradition to the winds and overwhelm the enemy fleets by his unorthodox tactics, his unexpected attacks. Tom wondered as he gazed. This was the hour of Britain’s greatest peril on the seas. What would Lord Nelson do now? The Nelson touch! Enemy fleets had but to show themselves to be overwhelmed by Nelson’s dazzling manoeuvres. But against an enemy which fought without showing itself — which never intended to show itself near any warship — would Lord Nelson now be helpless? Or would he, as at Trafalgar, be a step ahead of his bewildered antagonists? Tom gazed at the lions, at the fluted column, at the figure of the great admiral above, moved slowly on.
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