Pigboats

by Ellsberg, Edward

  Cold fear gripped the master’s heart. Mr. Mate was gone — overboard no doubt. No one aft to unshackle, and the stern was fast going awash. He looked wildly astern. Already the water was washing over the lee rail around the poop as the ship rolled drunkenly; there was no time to lose.

  The navigator popped up from the chartroom ladder.

  “Ready to toss over your hat, skipper, so’s I can abandon ship?”

  Erickson looked at him with relief, spoke out rapidly:

  “Never mind the cap, Willis. The mate’s gone from aft, dead, I guess. No one there to cast loose the L-20. Get aft, out of sight if you can, and knock free that towing shackle. There’s a sledge right there. Quick, for God’s sake!”

  The startled navigator nodded, disappeared down the ladder, and darted aft along the low side of the deck, crouching low beneath the rail. Anxiously Erickson watched him go, weaving in and out among wounded men rolling helplessly in the lee scuppers, struggling to hold his footing on the steeply inclined deck. He reached the poop, vanished through the starboard door.

  A long minute went by, an agonizing minute for Lieutenant Erickson as he watched the stern settle, with each roll the water rising higher against the poop. Beneath him, maimed seamen struggled with the boatfalls. Over all rose the shriek of escaping steam, whistling up from burst mains in the boiler room, drowning out the cries of the men fighting round the boats. And a little way off, rolling sluggishly, the U-38 lay awash, calmly surveying the havoc.

  Erickson pressed the telephone headset tightly over one ear, jammed his other ear hard against the voice tube, listening. At last came a call, rumbling indistinctly through the tube:

  “Hello, captain! I can’t cast loose. The shackle’s submerged, the poop’s flooded for two decks over it, no way of getting to it. What? No, even a diver couldn’t get through the hatches to it now.”

  Erickson lifted his ear from the tube, peered aft over the bridge rail. Yes, Willis was right. That shackle was secured just above their normal waterline; it must be fifteen feet underwater now. And his ship was sinking with the L-20 firmly shackled to his stern. A little sick, Erickson fitted the telephone receivers over both ears, pressed in the transmitter contact.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Inside the L-20, Lieutenant Knowles, receivers to his ears, chafed as he waited impatiently for the word that the towline was clear. The U-38 at last, Erhardt delivered into his hands! Ensign Baker, all his shipmates on the C-3, he would avenge their deaths now; Erhardt would pay for his own three years of suffering and torture!

  Knowles glanced at his depth gauge. 40 feet. No headway on the Galway now, they must be a little negative, the L-20 was slowly sinking. He squeezed the receivers more tightly against his ears, listened tensely. Why was Erickson so damned slow about casting off? 45 feet. They must lighten a bit. He turned toward the drainage manifold.

  A loud click in the receivers. Instinctively he leaned forward, cut in his own transmitter. All around the control room men listened eagerly.

  “Hello. Yes, Knowles.” Tom started violently. “You can’t let go?” He knitted his forehead, pressed the rubber receivers closer against his ears. In staccato phrases Erickson explained, while Tom’s head whirled as the gravity of their situation sank in.

  “All right, I got it. Let me know what else you see.” Tom released the contact, dropped his transmitter hopelessly, tried to think. Fate seemed always against him with the U-38; it was so on the Walton, it was so now’.

  Here, with his enemy unsuspectingly decoyed within easy torpedo range, the Galway could not release him.

  But that was not the worst. The Galway was sinking. And there was that heavy wire towline, linking his bow to her disappearing stern. In spite of any lightening up that he could do, it would inevitably drag the L-20 to the bottom when the Galway sank.

  Tom Knowles looked round at the men clutching the controls, watching him for the signal for action. He had been on the bottom once with a crew like that — who now was with him? Mullaney over there, Wolters in the torpedo room, Cobb. The others? A memory of that long line of flag-draped caissons on the Harwich quay, the bugle sounding “Taps.” This time there would be no coming up for anyone when that hawser dragged them down.

  He might rise while still he had a chance, try to let go the steel cable at his end. Could they? Probably, still with no shackles on his end, they must cut the wire itself. But when he broke surface, the game would be up. There was the U-38 watching; Erhardt would understand then what the real menace was; if he got away with that knowledge all the U-boats would be warned; the element of mystery, of unknown scientific horrors to be faced would be gone; the submarine campaign against the U-boats would suffer the same decline that had befallen the mystery ship method.

  Tom’s heart sank. A terrible penalty to pay, now that they had the U-boats at their mercy, sinkings of merchantmen falling off rapidly, frightened U-boat captains afraid to come within effective range for torpedo action.

  But perhaps the Galway might not sink; her timber cargo was intended to keep her up even if torpedoed. He could, in that case, by alternately pumping and flooding his adjusting tank, stay hidden somewhere between twenty and fifty feet down. Helpless, truly; and the U-38 could depart at leisure, unless she tried first to finish the job with shells or more torpedoes; still the Galway had but to call and destroyers would soon come hurtling over the horizon to drive the U-38 off. Erhardt would escape again in either case; Tom nearly wept with rage at the thought. Still, next time they might catch him. He bit his lip. Next time, — it was always next time with Erhardt.

  He looked at his depth gauge. 50 feet. Something had to be done.

  Lifting the transmitter, he punched the button viciously.

  “Hello, Erickson!” A moment, a click, the master of the Galway answered.

  “No hope. We’re going down! The first boat’s away, I’m going in the next one.”

  “Won’t that timber keep you up?” asked Tom in agony.

  “Not this time. She hit us on a bulkhead, flooded us amidships as well as aft. And worst of all, the torpedo tore the after hold wide open; the timber is floating out as we go down and we’re losing what little buoyancy we have astern. We’re going faster all the time now. If you can do anything for yourself, for Christ’s sake, don’t wait.” A pause while Tom listened horrified, then:

  “The bow’s lifting, we’re going awash on the bridge now, good — ” A click in the receivers, the buzzing ceased. Tom listened a second. No use, the line was dead. He jerked off the headset, tossed it aside. He must act.

  “Mullaney!”

  Pete left his Kingstons, ran to the captain’s side.

  “Pete, run aft to the work bench, get a sledge and a couple of cold chisels. Quick!”

  Knowles turned to the voice tube, rang the forward bell.

  “Biff, lay aft to the C.O.C. on the double!”

  Hurriedly Tom faced the air manifolds, ordered crisply:

  “Doggy, stand by to blow the safety tank when I give the word.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Doggy, square-jawed, bull-dog faced, hunched over the bronze casting, started setting his valves.

  A clink. Pete squeezed in from the engine room, a short-handled ten-pound sledge in one hand, some chisels in the other. As he twisted his way past the periscopes, Biff Wolters ducked through the forward door. They looked at their skipper inquiringly. Tom spoke swiftly:

  “Boys, the U-38’s torpedoed the Galway. She’s sinking fast. Her stern’s under already and she can’t unshackle our towline!”

  A low whistle came from Biff; Tom felt the men around him shiver as the meaning sank in. He continued hurriedly:

  “There’s only one out for us — we’ve got to cut that towline at this end. And the U-38’ll sink us while we’re trying it if we’re slow!” He glanced over his shoulder.

  “All ready there, Doggy?” he asked.

  “Aye, aye, cap’n.”

  Tom pointed to the drainage manifold.


  “Shift half a ton of water aft!” he cried, then turned again to Biff and Pete.

  “Listen, boys, we’re coming up. I’ll blow the safety tank to bring the conning tower out, and we’ll ride awash so that we can submerge again in a hurry. The forecastle will be just under; I’ll trim down the stern a little, to bring her bow just above the surface so you can get at that hawser. Now, Pete, you man the sledge, Fore River style again, boy, you remember?” Pete nodded.

  Tom looked at Biff.

  “And you hold the chisel on the wire, Biff, while Pete swings that sledge. A strand at a time, Biff; don’t get ambitious and hash it up trying to cut the whole thing at once. Understand?”

  “Aye, aye, skipper, we’ll go through it like it wuz cheese,” answered the sturdy Biff.

  “Good. Pete, give Biff the chisels, you keep the sledge. Both of you, up in the conning tower now, and when we break surface, out you go and beat it for that hawser. No more orders!”

  They turned to the ladder, climbed up, disappeared through the lower hatch into the conning tower, Pete first, then Biff. Tom reached up, closed the hatch under them, turned the dogs. The conning tower was sealed off in case any shells from the U-38 crashed through while it was exposed.

  The groaning of the trim pump stopped.

  “Half a ton o’ water shifted aft, cap’n,” announced

  Doggy. Tom looked at the bubble in the trim indicator. They were two degrees high at the bow. Good. He moved to the forward periscope and trained it a little to starboard.

  “Silence in the boat!” No need for that, every man was regarding him intently.

  “Blow the safety tank!”

  Doggy opened the last valve; compressed air started to rush into the tank under the C.O.C. deck; the water there blew overboard. Tom watched the gauge.

  50, 40, 30 — the needle dropped rapidly as the boat rose. He glued his eye to the periscope, waited. Another instant, the periscope lens shot through the surface, Tom looked forward. Across a narrow strip of sea covered with wreckage and floating timber, he saw the camouflaged bow of the stricken Galway high in the air, her smokestack pointing toward him, the water washing around its base. The rest of the ship had completely disappeared beneath the waves.

  Tom started to swing his periscope. Just clear of the Galway’s side, a tangle of blocks and boatfalls dangled above a cutter trying to shove free of the badly listed freighter. The little boat bobbed up and down as the seas broke, banging the steel side as it rose to the crests, swinging away as the troughs rolled by, while the crew strained desperately at the oars, struggling to drag themselves clear of the wash when their doomed vessel took its final plunge. Farther off lay the first lifeboat, drifting idly, the men lying on their oars.

  A jolt, the L-20’S conning tower burst through the surface; the submarine surged up and down a moment as the buoyancy of the conning tower disappeared, then settled down to a slow heaving motion in the seaway. Tom looked forward through the periscope. His gun, the rails, about fifteen feet of his deck near the bow were exposed. The fatal hawser, glistening like a snake as the water dripped from its shining strands, ran forward over the black deck, passed out the bullnose and disappeared into the sea, leading tautly down to the point beneath the surface where it entered that hawse pipe in the now-vanished poop of the Galway.

  A clatter of metal above. Through the lens, he saw Biff and Pete pop through the upper hatch, disappear from his field of view a moment as they clambered down the sides of the chariot bridge, then flash into sight again abreast the gun, knee deep in the water washing over the hull, running forward through the waves. He gazed a moment at his two friends scrambling up the deck, at the sledge in Pete’s hand, at the chisels bulging from Biff’s pocket, as they splashed awkwardly toward their task. Then he swung his periscope round to starboard.

  Tom’s heart sank. The apparition of a submarine astern the sinking ship had galvanized the U-38 into sudden life. On her bridge, he could see arms wildly pointing in his direction, Erhardt looking him over through his binoculars, sizing up the strange emergence of an enemy in that location, scanning the queer section of wire leading from his stem toward the sinking ship. A brief scrutiny evidently satisfied him. He dropped his binoculars; the men with him vanished; a second later Erhardt himself followed them. The bridge of the U-38 moved slowly ahead while at the same time it started to sink beneath the waves. In less than a minute, only a thin trace of spray, an occasional glint of sunlight against the tapered eye of her periscope, marked the course of the U-38 down the starboard side of the Galway. Tom's heart throbbed violently as he watched. Erhardt was moving in, full speed, to attack with torpedoes. He would not use his gun.

  What chance to escape? Tom opened the lower conning tower hatch, scrambled through to his bridge, looked forward. Biff Wolters was lying outstretched on the stem, face down, clinging to the net cutter, legs dangling in the water, adjusting a cold chisel just clear of his head, on the strands of the towline where it lay hard down against the steel bullnose casting. Straddling Biff’s prostrate body, one foot on Biff’s back so he could get close enough up in the tapering bow, Pete stood, bending forward a little, balancing unsteadily as the boat rolled, the sledge gripped tightly in both hands, poised over his shoulder.

  Down swung the sledge past Biff’s head. Even amidships, Tom heard the sharp ring of metal on metal as the hammer landed on the chisel. Just beyond Biff’s ear, he saw the severed strand spring out from the hawser, unwind a turn or more, while the broken wires in the strand suddenly opened out like the quills on a startled porcupine.

  Pete lifted the sledge again, rebalanced himself while Biff shifted his chisel, seeking another solid resting place on the wire. He found it, down came the sledge again, more broken wires spread round the bullnose.

  Another blow. The unsteady motion threw Pete off balance, the sledge glanced off the head of the chisel, crashed down on Biff’s fingers. Biff’s legs flew up suddenly, a volley of oaths burst out, then he gripped the chisel again in his bloody hands, once more jammed it down on the wire.

  “C’mon, Pete, fer Christ’s sake, hit it! Wotcha waitin’ fer?” roared out Biff. Pete poised his sledge, struck home, parted another strand. The wire was half gone.

  Tom’s eyes left them and swept the sea to starboard. A quarter of a mile off, he picked up a wisp of spray, a tiny wake sweeping in a wide circle in toward him, heading now almost straight for his side. The U-38 was nearly in position to fire, certain of an easy hit. He heard again the ring of the hammer, the fourth strand part. Only two more left.

  Tom poked his head down the hatch, yelled out:

  “Below there, stand by to dive!” then looked hurriedly forward again as Pete parted the fifth strand.

  A wave washed over his low bow, soaked both men. It swept on. In its wake, Tom saw Biff clawing with torn and bleeding hands in the mass of jagged wires, cursing luridly, trying to get the chisel down on the last strand, while Pete stood over him, tense, silent, his sledge raised for the last blow.

  Tom turned away, with anguished eyes sought out the wake of that dread periscope. It cut through a wave not four hundred yards off, a glint of sunlight flashed from it. Then a mass of foam shot up just ahead, a white streak of bubbles started for him. Erhardt had fired!

  Tom, looking forward, saw Biff still struggling with the chisel, screamed out:

  “Torpedo! Biff, Pete! Come in!”

  A gruff oath answered him, Biff shouted back:

  “To hell wit’ it! We gotta cut this wire!”

  No time to argue. Tom dropped through the hatch, slammed the cover after him, shot downward into the C.O.C., shouting as he dropped:

  “Crash dive! Full ahead, both motors!” He sprang for Mullaney’s station at the Kingstons and yanked wide the floods to the safety tank. Ahead of him, men savagely spun the diving wheels to full depression; to starboard, Ingram threw his motor controls to the full out notch.

  The L-20 jumped ahead violently, planed downward like a ro
ck. Tom leaped for his periscope, looked out. His bow, everything, had disappeared; in a swirl of foam he saw a flurry of arms and legs shooting by the periscope. Biff, Pete — his shipmates — abandoned overboard. A dripping head gazed into the periscope. Tom closed his eyes in anguish as it shot by. No choice, they — or the ship. Perhaps both anyway.

  Water washed over his lens, blotted out the surface. They were rapidly sinking as they drove ahead, gathering speed. Tom pulled himself together again, hoisted the periscope to full elevation, brought the lens above the surface, trained it abeam. That streak of bubbles was very close, racing for his periscope. He looked at the gauge. 40 feet, 45 feet. His lens went suddenly grey, flooded once more. 50 feet. They were below periscope depth.

  The seconds ticked away, the crew waited silently, clinging to their controls. Would the torpedo strike them, tear their fragile boat to bits? A quarter of a minute went by, here and there fingers relaxed their grips, the tension eased. That torpedo at least they had dodged, it must have passed them by. But had the enemy fired another, perhaps set to run deeper? At any rate they were deep enough.

  “Level off at 70 feet!”

  The diving wheels eased, the depth gauge slowed in its movement, then steadied, as the submarine swam smoothly through the depths.

  A sudden jerk shook the boat; the bow dropped sharply, swung round to starboard, and then, at a steep angle, the L-20 started sinking rapidly. Thrown off his feet, Tom shot forward against the helmsman, clutching wildly for support. He grabbed the conning tower ladder, stopped himself, whirled to look at the board, 100 feet and going fast! What was happening?