In a green muffler, wound several times round his neck and shoulders, the master leaned over the lee rail of his bridge, puffed reflectively away on his pipe, and watched the sunset gild his foaming wake.
Against the huge red disk of the sun, magnified as it hung astern just above the horizon, the six-pounder gun on his poop cut a sharp black cross, and far beyond the point where his wake was lost in the tumbling seas, a fiery path ran westward across the water to meet the sinking sun.
A sardonic grin spread over Lieutenant Erickson’s features as he contemplated the glowing path down his wake. A favourite means of approaching its victim unawares was for a submarine running awash to come down the flaming path across the water from sun to ship; rarely could a lookout detect it in that glare. The master gazed absorbed at his boiling wake and with difficulty made out occasionally a glint of metal in the spray some fifty yards astern. A U-boat coming down that path toward him would meet a strange surprise.
The sun sank lower, vanished altogether. The brief winter twilight, then darkness. And with the coming of night, the calm around the Galway immediately disappeared. Her engines stopped; the voyage toward Cardiff came to an abrupt end; the decks were covered with active men. Astern, a dark mass appeared in the broken water; the L-20 burst through the surface. A hatch was flung open and a swarm of cramped figures streamed out on the wet decks. A line splashed free from the Galway’s stern, a hoarse voice called through a megaphone:
“Submarine there, take in the towline!”
On the L-20, a hidden winch beneath the forecastle wound round; the towline snaked in through her bull-nose. The submarine quivered; two clouds of white smoke rolled out the grey sides near her stern, her diesels started to pound. The engine telegraph clanged once, the L-20 moved slowly ahead till she was abeam the Galway and about a hundred feet off on her lee side.
The Galway’s master seized his megaphone and bawled out:
“What’s your program?”
“Double back tonight, change your rig, and head in again for Liverpool in the morning!” Tom paused for breath, then put his megaphone to his lips again. “There’s a convoy due along tomorrow. When they pass, trail them about fifteen miles astern as if you were straggling!”
Erickson waved his megaphone in acknowledgement. Bells clanged, the Galway came slowly about and headed west, with the L-20 about a hundred yards off on her port beam, running on the surface.
Meanwhile, on the freighter, the deck force was busily engaged. The cargo booms had been carried triced up; now, to the groaning of the winches and the rattling of wire falls, they were lowered away and restowed in a fore and aft position. With this done, a dummy stack for the donkey boiler (the actual donkey boiler stack was inside the main smokestack) was hastily unrigged from the forward side and erected abaft the real smokestack; and then like magic, the deck load of pit props suddenly vanished. The seemingly heavy piles of pit props consisted only of a few timbers spiked to vertical supports showing over the rails; a few blows with a sledge at their inboard supports and the deck cargo collapsed, lashings and all, below the bulwarks like so much scenery in the grip of the stage hands.
In thirty minutes it was over. S. S. Galway, bound in for Cardiff with pit props, had vanished; in her stead, an entirely different tramp was hurrying westward to take up her position for the next day’s run where, as S. S. Hendon Castle, bound for Liverpool with general cargo, she would strive desperately (and unsuccessfully) to keep up with the convoy far ahead.
On the L-20’s bridge, a few figures huddled down below the rail, seeking a little shelter from the wintry Atlantic wind.
“Careful now of that distance, quartermaster. Don’t close any, and don’t lose her in the darkness.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
Lieutenant Knowles stepped back, dropped his legs into the open hatch, and descended to the control room. His eyes blinked a moment at the brightness, then he threw back the hood of his heavy submarine coat and started to unbutton the thick felt jacket. The whirring blowers, the throbbing engines, filled the boat with noise; she heaved unsteadily beneath his feet as she ploughed along through the seas.
Tom rubbed his chilled nose, worked his frozen fingers back and forth several times to limber them up, then stepped forward into the wardroom and pressed the buzzer for the messboy.
Inside the submarine, the tense atmosphere of patrolling was gone. Men lolled in their bunks, breathing deeply of the streams of cold air that the blowers were sucking from above. On the hanging mess tables, still rigged abaft the tiers of bunks, two games of acey-deucy were going on to the click of rolling dice and the coarse humour of sailors crowding round watching the play. A shiny copper pot swung from the ceiling behind the mess tables; the aroma of hot coffee floated out and mingled in the battery room with the odour of oil and the acrid bite of the gases thrown off by the batteries which were floating on the line, getting a booster charge to hold them up to voltage.
In the torpedo room, Mullaney, wrapped up to his neck in a grey blanket, sat gloomily on a diddy box and watched Biff Wolters as the latter carefully removed his spare warhead detonators from the ready rack abaft the tubes and stowed them again in wood boxes. Biff, in a chief torpedoman’s uniform now, gingerly fitted the fulminate of mercury charges into the receptacle, and gently closed down the felt-lined cover. Pete breathed a sigh of relief when Biff finally stowed the box in a locker outboard of the S.C. tube receiver, and sat down on a diddy box opposite him.
A loud laugh echoed from the battery room; voices cut through the whir of the fans, “That’s right, Doggy, talk to ’em. Another roll with them trained dice an’ ye got ‘im!”
Pete looked glumly aft.
“How kin they do it, Biff? Whin I think back a month ago to what the inside o’ that room wuz like whin we got to Harwich at last an’ opened the door from the control room!” He crossed himself. “Shure, an’ I kin hardly bring meself to sleep in there now, let alone play!”
“Aw ferget it, Pete. The frogs has got the answer. Shrug yer shoulders, an’ say ‘C’est la guerre’ Just like that. You don’t wanna go to the bug-house, do ye? Well, quit thinkin’ about that day on the bottom ’n concentrate on somethin’ pleasant. Like that day we went to Buckingham Palace ’n called on the Queen.” A reminiscent smile spread over Biff’s broad face. “Kin ye beat that,
Pete? Honest, I thought Admiral Sims wuz stringin’ us when he first sprung it. Me invited to meet the Queen! When most o’ them millionaire dames in the Four Hundred back home just spend their whole lives eatin’ their hearts out wonderin’ how kin they finesse a presentation at Court!”
Biff grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Pete, wait till the war’s over ’n the fleet’s back in Newport. Say, ye ever bin in Newport?”
“No. I seen Fall River, but that’s as dost as I bin. Me an’ Maggie wint there onct to visit her sister-in-law.”
“Fall River!” Biff looked at him scornfully. “Say, Fall River’s no more like Newport than — than — ” He groped futilely for a proper simile but finally gave up in disgust. “Pete, you sure got lots to learn yet,” he growled. “Fall River! Well anyhow, when we git back to Newport ’n the admiral’s givin’ a tea on the quarterdeck o’ his flagship ’n some o’ these fat dowagers that’s at the tea — ye see they alluz like to come to tea on a battleship, Pete; I dunno why it is, mebbe becuz a battleship’s one o’ the few things their money won’t buy ’em — well anyway, when one o’ these dames starts to talk sort o’ casually about Baron de Blanc who she had as her house guest only last week — ye know they’re alluz entertainin’ sumpin’ like that, it’s queer the way these society dames gets all hopped up over them counts — well, Pete, that’ll be our cue.”
Mullaney drew his blanket up more tightly, and leaned back against the lower starboard torpedo tube. He stared at Biff uncomprehendingly.
“Our what?” he blurted out finally.
“Our cue, our turn to talk, to do our stuff. We’ll je
s’ stroll down the port side o’ the quarterdeck as if we wuz lookin’ fer a stray torpedo’r sumpin’, ’n when we’re within easy hail o’ this dame, you sez, careless like, ‘Biff, d’ye think Queen Mary wuz lookin’ as well as usual the last time ye called?’ Then I’ll stop, shift my quid ’n think a minute, ’n I’ll say, ‘Well, Pete, she wuz as cordial as ever, but come to think of it, Her Majesty did look a bit under the weather. She wuz probably worried coz the King’d bin out late the night before. But after I’d shook hands with the King, I saw he wuz as fit as a fiddle, so when I got a chanst, I draws the Queen aside a little’n I sez to her, “Lady, the King’s a sailor like the rest o’ us, ’n ye kin take it from me, who’s seen all kinds, this worryin’ over a sailor when he’s on liberty don’t get ye nowheres.”’’N that’ll be yer cue agin, Pete. You say, ‘’N wot’d she say to that?’ ’N I’ll say, ‘She wuz like all the rest o’ ’em, Pete. Her Majesty dabs her handkerchief to her eyes ’n bursts out cryin’. “Yes, I know, Biff, I try hard not to, ’n I try to feel glad that he’s stowed away his scepter ’n his crown ’n he’s jes’ out havin’ a good time with his shipmates; but it ain’t no use, Biff, when it’s yer own husband, even if he is a King, ye jes’ can’t help worryin’ till he’s safe home in the palace agin.”’”
Wolters shot a stream of tobacco juice into the spit-kid alongside the torpedoes; a far-away look came into his eyes.
“That’ll get her. I kin see her now — a fat dowager raisin’ her lornyet — ye know Pete these dames alluz uses lornyets; they can’t see nuthin’ like a gob without they use a magnifyin’ glass — she’ll raise her lornyet and look us over ’n ask:
“‘Admiral, wot does these gobs think they’re doin’ here — puttin’ on a vodevil act or sumpin’?’
“’N with that, the admiral, who nacherly ain’t been payin’ much attention, ’ll look up ’n see who it is, ’n then answer careless like:
“‘Oh, that’s only Biff ’n Pete. I s’pose they’re jes’ bullin’ about the last time Her Majesty had ’em out as her house guests in Buckingham Palace. Biff wuz quite a comfort to the Queen; she asked him out again on another house party to meet a couple o’ her nieces, some duchesses I mean, but then the war ended ’n we sailed fer home so sudden the Queen couldn’t pull the party ’n Biff had to tell her to give his regrets to the duchesses.’
“That’ll be too much fer an old dame that’s jes’ been blowin’ about some bush league count. Her lornyet’ll hit the deck ’n she’ll go overboard in a faint. There’ll be lots o’ excitement, ’n mebbe you’ll have to restrain the admiral from jumpin’ overboard to save her, Pete, but that’ll be all right. You do it, ’n don’t pay no attention to his strugglin’. There won’t be any danger. Them dames is all too fat to sink. I’ll jes’ reach over the side with a boathook and spear her through her rope o’ pearls — they alluz wears a priceless rope o’ pearls to tea, Pete — ’n that’ll be all there is to it.” Another stream of tobacco juice shot by Pete’s legs into the spit-kid.
Pete gazed wide-eyed as his shipmate finished.
“What a Blarneyed tongue! No wunner ye’re at home wid the gurls from Tokio t’ Tipperary. If I hadn’t seen wid me own eyes the Queen shakin’ yer han’ an’ tellin’ ye how proud she wuz to meet such a brave sailor, I’d swear ye wuz the biggest liar in the Navy.”
“Well, Pete, ye don’t think I’m relyin’ on havin’ you round all the time to back me up, do ye?” Biff rose, fumbled a moment in the diddy box he had been sitting on and pulled out a newspaper clipping. “Look, I clipped that outa the ‘Court Circular.’” Pete took the clipping and read:
“Their Majesties were pleased to receive at Court yesterday Lieutenant Thomas Knowles, U.S.N.R., commanding officer, and the following enlisted ratings of the United States Submarine L-20, — Chief Torpedoman A. Wolters, Radioman 2nd class, R. Cobb, and Seaman P. Mullaney.
“The presentation was made by the American Commander-in-Chief, Admiral W. S. Sims, U.S.N., and was in recognition of special valour displayed in a successful attack by the L-20 on the enemy battle-cruiser squadron off Helgoland.
“At the gracious invitation of Her Majesty the Queen, Admiral Sims, Lieutenant Knowles, and one enlisted rating, Chief Torpedoman Wolters, remained at Buckingham Palace as Their Majesties’ guests for the night.”
“It don’t make no mention there,” explained Biff, “o’ nuthin’ but our ‘valiant ’n successful’ attack — that’s fer the Kaiser’s consumption — but I sure raised the hair on the King’s head with the plain yarn o’ what went on inside o’ that boat after she sunk. I’ll bet he didn’t sleep fer a week afterwards.”
“Shure an’ the King kin spake fer himself, but I’m tellin’ yez, Biff, I ain’t really slep’ meself fer a month. Whin they wuz signin’ on the new crew an’ givin’ out the bunks, the boatswain’s mate, he looks at me, an’ he sez, sez he, ‘Wuzn’t you on this boat last cruise,’ an’ I answers, ‘Yis, the worse luck.’ So he sez, ‘We gotta favour yez thin. I’ll give yez a good convanyant bunk this cruise. Here,’ he sez, ‘this lower bunk’ll be yers; it’s close to the mess tables.’ So I looks at the bunk, an’ Hiven help us, Biff, it’s the wan that Randolph used to have. ‘No, thank ye kindly,’ I sez to him, ‘convanyance be damned. I’m superstitious an’ I’ll jes kape the wan I had before, top row an’ all, even widout no convanyances.’ But it’s damn little slapin’ in it I bin doin’ all the same, Biff.”
“That’s one o’ the drawbacks to these pigboats, Pete, but I don’t see no help fer it.”
“It’s bin goin’ from bad to worse wid me since I shipped. Cornin’ over in the Walton, I heaved me guts up, an’ I knew there cudn’t be nuthin’ worse’n thim destroyers. Thin I goes to the L-20 an’ shure a destroyer’s as stidy as the State House compared to wan o’ these pigboats. So I filt that I’d come to the worst at last, an’ that whin me insides got used to that, I cud stan’ anything. But shure, I wuz wrong agin. The L-20 on her last cruise wuz solid comfort along what we’re doin’ now. Here we go all the blessed day, hangin’ submerged on the end of a towline like a hooked mackerel; we’re not on the surface so we ain’t got no stability to stidy us, an’ we’re not submerged dape enough to miss the rollin’ o’ the waves, an’ there we go, rollin’ along like a drunken fish, an’ ivry time the Galway gets a strain on the towline she jerks the deck right out from under our feet. How kin a man ivir learn to stan’ that, I’m askin’ ye? It’s better to die an’ be done wid it. We’re not sailors any more, we’re — we’re — we’re poor fish, that’s what we are!” he blurted out at last.
“Well, Pete,” announced Biff, rising and starting to unrig his bunk, “I gotta disagree wit’ you.” He cast loose the hook, swung his bunk out, away from the closely spaced steel ribs which encircled the torpedo room, and secured the chains which left the bunk suspended horizontally over the port torpedo rack. “Say, gimme back my blanket.”
Mullaney pulled himself awkwardly up, and unwinding Biff’s blanket, tossed it across the room. The torpedoman caught it, started to spread it over his mattress, then paused in dismay.
“Say, look’t that, she’s soaked through. You should’a had more sense, Pete ’n to lean back agin the side; she’s alluz so wet from sweatin’ ye might as well put the blanket in a bucket o’ water in the first place.”
“Nivir mind, Biff, I’ll lind yez mine. I’ve got the watch mesilf till midnight, an’ by that time, I’ll git this wan dried somehow. I dunno but I’ll get the cook to put it in the oven fer a few minutes.”
Pete took the wet blanket and lurched aft between the shining torpedoes. In the battery room, he jerked his own blanket off his bunk, tossed it to Biff who had followed him, and then, still clutching the soaked woollen cover, squeezed through the after end of the crew space, past the spectators round the acey-deucy games, and into the control room toward the galley.
The submarine pounded steadily on through the night. For a week now she had plied back and forth along the trun
k route to the Channel, four hundred miles out from
Cardiff; during the day towing submerged astern the Galway with only her periscope showing; at night hurrying back over the route with her consort to get into position at daybreak to repeat the operation. Through a telephone cable stopped to the towline, the Galway kept them informed as they dragged along submerged, of what went on over the wide sweep of the sea visible from the high bridge of the tramp. But except for other freighters passing — some going east, some west — they had seen nothing except an occasional bit of floating wreckage.
In the tiny wardroom, Tom Knowles, skipper now, pored over a chart of submarine movements as shown by the latest Admiralty reports. For the moment, they were in a dead area. The only active U-boat which the reports showed was working through the Bay of Biscay. Yesterday it had shelled and sunk a Spanish freighter a hundred miles north of Santander. Tom traced its course with his pencil. It would probably turn north now; in perhaps three days, it might pass through his area on its way home, west of Ireland. If it still had any torpedoes left then, it might attack them. Tom shook his head. Not much hope from that sub; when it left the Bay of Biscay it would probably have used up all its ammunition and be anxious only to get home as soon as possible.
The other tracks on the chart were even less encouraging. No active submarines had been reported off the Channel approaches for three days; apparently the boats were either on their way home from or else not yet arrived on their hunting grounds. And of course, with no attacks being made, it was much more difficult to place the U-boats accurately; it would have been quite impossible to place them at all had not the Admiralty’s radio direction finders been able to work on the streams of radio conversations that invariably burst out when night fell and the U-boats, coming to the surface, started to gossip with each other over the wastes of water which separated them. A dangerous habit, and the U-boat skippers must have known it, but drifting in the darkness on the broad Atlantic, loneliness overcame caution, and the U-boat radio sets always opened up.
Pigboats Page 19
