Pigboats

by Ellsberg, Edward

  Bow first. That was the answer. The Galway had sunk at last, was on her way to the bottom, and the L-20, like a hooked fish, was being dragged down with her! There was still one strand left uncut on that hawser. Could he break it?

  Clinging to the ladder, he shouted at Ingram who was hanging on his controllers,

  “Full astern, both motors!” and then struggling across the deck to Doggy’s side he breathed fiercely:

  “Blow all the main ballasts! Blow everything!” Doggy started opening valves; the L-20 trembled as the propellers reversed and began to strain against the line hauling them down. Tom caught a glimpse at the gauge — 150 feet now. The bow was much lower than that; their trim by the head was terrible and was rapidly increasing. Everything portable was clattering forward. They would be nearly vertical in a moment. What else could he do? Oh, yes, there were the diving wheels.

  “Hard rise, bow and stern planes!” He must get all resistance possible against that strand.

  The shrill scream of high-pressure air whistling from the banks through the reducers to the ballast tanks filled the boat; in the control room, in the torpedo room, in the engine room, men were frantically opening valves, blowing overboard drinking water, fuel, lubricating oil, ballast — anything they could get rid of to lighten their sub, to break that line before the sinking Galway dragged them beyond their depth.

  200 feet on the gauge, at least 250 at the bow. Tom watched the pressure shooting down on the air banks. Emptying all his ballasts would give him over eighty tons buoyancy, that and his engines should certainly break what Biff and Pete had left of that cable — provided he could get the buoyancy before they went too far. Below 300 feet, he could not hope to empty his tanks.

  The screaming of the air died away to a softer pitch; against the greater pressure it was not going through so quickly now. But the L-20 seemed to be going faster, she shook more violently.

  Tom visioned the scene — the shattered hulk of the Galway gathering speed as it plunged, stern first, into the deep, the trim submarine dragging by its bullnose at the end of a taut wire, fins set to rise, propellers churning madly astern, like a hooked trout straining to tear free the fisherman’s barb.

  Why not imitate the fish? A sudden snap might do what a heavy strain could not accomplish. 275 feet. Not much margin left.

  “Ingram, full ahead, both motors!”

  The chief electrician, startled, looked at the skipper, then from force of habit obeyed the crazy order. Over went his controllers; the trembling ceased as the motors stopped, then the needle on the depth gauge wildly leaped for the 300 mark as the boat shot down with the motors pushing her. An instant passed, the towline slacked, the trim decreased a trifle. Now!

  “Full astern, both motors!”

  Ingram heaved the controllers round, the motors stopped, spun into reverse. With a hard jolt, the L-20 took up the slack, jerked the towline taut. The boat quivered under the shock, then the bow lifted suddenly, started to rise. The last strand had snapped!

  “Level off!” ordered Tom hoarsely. “Ahead again, Ingram, full on both motors! Stop blowing the tanks, Doggy!”

  They were light, badly out of balance now from the excess buoyancy gained by blowing ballast overboard; nothing could stop their rapid rise. The depth gauge needle fairly spun round the dial toward zero as they shot up; at the diving planes the rudder men fought to level off, helped a little by the driving propellers. Tom struggled to his periscope, clung to the handles as the boat whirled drunkenly upward. He smiled grimly as he pressed against the rubber eye piece. The U-38 would get another surprise.

  The L-20 hit the surface; her tapering stern shot halfway out, propellers racing in the air, then fell back with a tremendous splash. Hanging to the periscope, Tom peered through to see the ocean frothing and boiling all about them, churned to a milky foam by the vast quantity of air blowing from their tanks, now that the weight of the deep sea no longer held it compressed. For a moment the sub plunged about like a bucking broncho; then the men inside, torn from their stations by the sudden stop, dragged themselves out of the machinery and staggered back to their posts.

  Ahead in the waves danced the Galway’s boats. Tom saw oars wildly waving, pointing astern of him. All around was a mass of floating timbers. Hastily he walked his periscope around the horizon, searching, especially aft. But the U-38 was not on the surface. Where was she? He could not afford to stay exposed, fully afloat, a splendid target for the U-38, while he searched out her periscope. His motors were still running ahead. Tom noted automatically an irregular thumping as they drove forward; his bow was ploughing through a sea of half-submerged pit props, tossing them aside like matchsticks.

  “Stand by!” called Tom. The shaken crew gripped their controls again.

  “Hard dive!”

  Open went the air vents, down went the diving rudders. A dull roaring in the boat as the ballast tanks flooded, the air in them whistled out the vents. The boat started to settle, plane under again. Hurriedly Tom looked round the room. Mullaney’s post at the Kingston valves was vacant, Wolters was gone from the torpedo room. A crisp order, a machinist’s mate came scurrying from the engine room to man the Kingstons; a brief word through the voice tube and a torpedoman, second class, was promoted to command the torpedo gang.

  They were at forty feet again. Cautiously the L-20’s captain hoisted his periscope, the shining metal tube rising from the floor practically to full elevation, before the tiny eye at its upper end burst through the waves.

  To the right were the lifeboats, standing out clearly against the horizon from his low observation point. Tom swung his periscope astern, searching carefully the area that the Galway’s survivors had indicated by their waving when he had so unexpectedly emerged. But he saw nothing there, nor anywhere, save bits of wreckage, water-logged timbers, a few broken spars. The U-38, submerged, was not showing enough of her periscope for him to pick up.

  “Steady on this course,” cautioned Tom, “and hold her depth.” He pulled the periscope down five feet, the L-20 swam along invisible.

  Hurriedly Knowles moved aft to the radio room, squeezed into it.

  “Hear anything, Cobb?” he anxiously queried.

  “Nothing definite,” replied the radioman, listening again carefully while he pressed his earphones tightly against his head, “just a dull rumble, might be our own propellers.”

  Lieutenant Knowles leaned out and called to Ingram:

  “Stop both motors!”

  The propellers ceased churning. Cobb listened intently.

  “A faint whir somewhere.” He swung his dial, listening first to the starboard then to port. “Sounds louder to port, captain.”

  “I’ll swing her, Cobb,” said Tom briefly. “You try to spot it whenever I stop the motors.” He went back to his station, started ahead on his motors, meanwhile heading slowly to port, and stopping the motors every half minute to give Cobb a chance to cut in his microphones. Gradually the sound, when Cobb was able to catch it at irregular intervals, sounded in equal volume on each side of the boat. The U-38 was somewhere ahead of them.

  Tom poked up his eyepiece, hastily surveyed the water ahead. Nothing in sight. He pressed the switch; the tube dropped. For the next twenty minutes, the L-20 played hide and seek beneath the waves with her enemy, coming up to forty feet occasionally, exposing her periscope for a few brief seconds while Tom searched the surface, then plunging hurriedly to sixty feet, lest a hurtling streak of bubbles catch her unawares. In the bow of the L-20, torpedomen stood rigidly by their tubes, ready to launch their deadly missiles at the word; in the little radio room, at the microphones, the ears of the submarine, Cobb listened in silence, directing the ship, now to starboard, now to port, groping blindly through the sea for their prey, as the U-38 twisted, turned, doubled back on her trail, suddenly speeded up and as suddenly slowed again, trying to shake off her pursuer, but never once, so far as Tom could see, showing her periscope, even for a brief second, above the surface, not once giving
him a mark at which to fire, slight though his chances would be of hitting such a target.

  Then suddenly the twisting ceased; the sounds in their microphones held dead ahead, swelled in volume, bore steadily to the east.

  For half an hour the L-20 swam eastward at increasing speed, following the sounds of the U-boat’s propellers, sometimes veering a little one way, then the other, keeping the noise directly ahead, at irregular intervals making a swift search, then housing the periscope. But they saw nothing.

  Tom began to worry. He was apparently not catching up with the enemy submarine, though he was now making practically his full submerged speed. And that he could keep up for less than an hour more, when his batteries would be practically discharged and he would have to slow down radically or come up. But so also would Erhardt.

  He puzzled over the U-38’s actions. That Erhardt was heading now for shallow water in which he could safely bottom till nightfall was obvious. But at that speed, submerged, he could never hope for his batteries to last till he covered the twenty miles to the fifty-fathom curve. What were the Germans trying to do? And why had Erhardt so persistently kept below the surface, acting like a hunted beast, never exposing his periscope, never becoming the hunter himself, never attempting to make another torpedo attack on the L-20 as the two boats circled and dived over the grave of the Galway? Why?

  Tom looked at the switchboard. Four thousand amperes going to the motors. At that rate, his batteries could not last much longer. And his storage cells had been fully charged that morning; till the attack there had been no drain on them, as the Galway had dragged them along till she sank.

  “And then nearly dragged us the rest of the way,” muttered Tom to himself. But Erhardt must be worse off, he had had to use up something in his submerged attack on their decoy. Whose batteries would give out first?

  Cobb poked his head from the radio booth and called out sharply:

  “They’re on the surface, captain. I can hear their diesels now!”

  Hastily Knowles shoved up his periscope. There, a little on his port bow, was the U-38, black smoke pouring from her exhausts, water gushing from her freeing ports as her black hull rose from the sea. Rapidly Tom estimated the range — half a mile at least. And with his quarry headed dead away from him, her narrow stern offered no sort of a target for a torpedo.

  “Hard rise!” snapped out Tom, and then swiftly, “Blow all your ballast tanks, Doggy!” Leaning over, he gripped the engine telegraphs and swung them to “Stand by.” Bells clanged in the engine room; the machinists leaped to their throttles.

  The bow of the L-20 began to rise; under the C.O.C. deck the low-pressure blower started to hum as it forced air into the ballast tanks.

  “Man the gun!”

  From the battery room, four seamen and a gunner’s mate rushed aft, crowded up the ladder into the conning tower. A flash of sunlight gleamed through the eyeports there; the conning tower had broken surface, A click, the hatch flew back; the gun crew clambered out on the chariot bridge and scrambled down on the deck as it lifted clear, swiftly unlimbered the water-tight breech plug housing and removed the cap from the muzzle of their gun.

  More bells clanged in the engine room, the muffler exhausts started to spit smoke aft, the diesels coughed and sputtered for an instant, then settled into a steady roar, and the L-20 was pounding along full speed on the surface, hardly sixty seconds after she commenced her rise.

  The covers of the ready ammunition storage in the conning tower sides flew open; a brass cartridge case was jerked out, shoved home, the breech plug slammed. Eyes glued to telescopes, the gun pointer and the trainer moved their wheels; the black muzzle wove a sinuous path against the sky as gun, pointer, and trainer, alike, swung slowly back and forth across the narrow deck, pointer and trainer striving to hold their crosswires on, in spite of the yawing and pitching of the unsteady submarine.

  A roar, the breech recoiled nearly to the deck, then shot back to battery. Tom, in the chariot bridge now, watched the smoke of the tracer as the shell whistled across a thousand yards of water and plunged into the sea a little wide of its mark. At the speed they were making, their submarine was a very lively platform, the gun pointers were going to have difficulty in getting any hits. Two more shells went screaming after the U-38, only to burst in the waves nearby, one very close alongside her bow.

  Tom regarded the fleeing ship dubiously. The Germans led the world in building diesels. Could he hope to match the U-38’s speed? Evidently Erhardt thought not, or he would never have showed himself on the surface and trusted to his engines to escape in a stern chase.

  The U-38 offered a negligible target, especially for the inaccurate gun of a speeding submarine. And the course Erhardt had taken, a little north of east, was dead to windward; the L-20, fighting her way through the head seas, was swept by breaking waves, the gun crew on her low-lying forecastle were drenched constantly, their telescope sights continually obscured by flying spray, their chances of hitting practically nothing.

  Anxiously Knowles watched his shells falling around the chase, splinters and spray marking each burst. So far as he could see, he was holding his own; the U-38 was not gaining; the range was nearly steady. By the laws of chance some of his shells were bound to strike home soon, unless Erhardt did something to throw them off; and it would be strange if he continued fleeing and made no counter-attack on them.

  Tom remembered the Walton’s meeting with the U-38. There, in spite of ashcans and torpedoes, damaged already by gunfire, Erhardt had not hesitated to turn on his pursuer and blow the Walton out of the water with his first torpedo. And a destroyer was far more deadly for a U-boat to face than another submarine. What had happened to Erhardt’s nerve that he now let them chase him like a hunted rat, and never struck back? Could it be that his torpedoes were all gone?

  That must be the answer! Tom nodded vigorously. It must have been his last torpedo that Erhardt had fired at them while they lay helpless astern of the Galway, struggling to get free of the towline to the sinking ship. That must be it. And with his underwater missiles gone, there had been nothing left for Erhardt to do against another warship but to hide. And with that other warship a submarine, as well able as himself to steal quietly through the blue, listening, unhampered by the slap of the waves, the pounding of the seas, for his propellers, and hanging mercilessly to his trail, there was no escape but darkness, or shallow water. And with night still hours away and batteries failing, there was no alternative left but to rise to the surface and run for shallow water. And there he was, fleeing for the coast of Ireland.

  But not defenceless.

  The U-38 suddenly yawed; the target ahead unexpectedly widened out. Instead of the narrow deck and the low tower above it, the surprised men on the L-20 found themselves looking at the U-38’s broadside, her gun swung aft clear of her conning tower, rapidly training on them. Almost before they knew it, the roar of exploding shells enveloped them, drowned out the noise of their engines; splinters rattled on their decks; columns of water spouted in geysers around their forecastle. And then, as suddenly as she had yawed, the U-38 straightened on her course; their target shrank to its former size; Erhardt raced away again toward the fifty-fathom curve.

  Lieutenant Knowles looked forward. His gun was firing again; hot cartridge cases clattered overboard, shone an instant in the brine, sank hissing down their wake. But abaft the gun, the first loader lay clutching his chest, a broad streak of red staining the wooden deck.

  He rose, feebly reached for a brass cartridge case protruding from the ammunition hoist, endeavoured to shove it home in the yawning breech as the plug swung open.

  “Below there, grab that man!” shouted Tom.

  Too late. The first loader collapsed against the port rail, slid under it as the heaving submarine rolled, and plunged downward, futilely clawing the rounded steel side as he slipped into the sea.

  Tom whirled, seized a life ring from the periscope shears and hurled it toward him. But only a limp arm,
clutching feebly, showed once as their panting hull drove by. The white cork buoy floated off aimlessly, quickly vanished astern.

  The gun barked again; another shell screamed toward the U-38. The crippled gun crew, every man wounded by splinters from the German fire, were crouching behind the breech, firing as rapidly as possible.

  Tom felt a touch on his shoulder. He turned. The man on the little signal bridge between the periscopes above was pointing aft.

  “Look!”

  On the horizon astern of them a black smudge of smoke stood distinctly out against the sky. Tom lifted his binoculars, examined it. A destroyer coming up with a bone in her teeth from the spot where the Galway had sunk. Erickson had no doubt succeeded in getting off an SOS before his ship went down. Now the ship was racing after them. Ten miles off, she should catch up in twenty minutes. And then Erhardt must submerge or surrender. If he submerged he could hardly escape, with the L-20 chasing him below the surface and the destroyer dropping ashcans above. No, they couldn’t try that, the destroyer was just as likely to drop her ashcans on the L-20. He would have to stay on the surface himself and help in the search there.

  A roar, a shower of spray drenched the bridge, Tom ducked involuntarily with the rattle of flying splinters drumming against his hull. The U-38 had yawed again, brought her gun into action, was sending shell after shell at her pursuer. But this time Knowles sheered sharply off to port at the first shot, and none of the remaining bursts came close enough to throw fragments aboard.

  The U-38 resumed her course. But as her firing ceased and she headed away from them, Tom noted a slender finger rising above her superstructure, rapidly getting higher. A periscope? No use for that on the surface. He raised his binoculars and examined the object. Two fine lines seemed to run fore and aft from it. The radio mast!

  Erhardt had sighted the smoke, he was not going to trust to his escape to get back to Germany the information he had long been seeking. He was unlimbering his radio.