lunch. “They really put us to work this morning.”
The classrooms and laboratories of the officer-students were in the
same building as those of the enlisted men. Officers and men alike had
gone through the same preliminary tests, but now their paths separated.
March saw the men regularly, of course, in the halls and around the
grounds. He stopped and chatted once in a while with Scott, the
radioman, who struck him more and more as a pleasant and serious young
man ideally suited to submarine work. He saw the pharmacist, Sallini,
and also Marty Cobden, the fellow who had gone to pieces at the
fifty-foot level in the escape tower. He was going at his studies like
a demon, as if to make up in some way for his one failure to date.
March and Stan saw them that very afternoon again, when they reported,
according to instructions, to one of the Chief Petty Officers at the
sub base below the school buildings.
“Wonder what’s up?” Stan said. “Something for officers and men alike,
whatever it is.”
“There’s only one thing left of that sort,” exclaimed March happily.
“That’s our first pigboat ride! Come on, Stan!”
Stan noticed that there were only about a dozen enlisted men gathered
together rather than the whole class.
“Why only some of them?” he wondered.
“Sub won’t hold many more, in addition to the regular crew,” March
said. “And now these boys are really beginning to team up. You know how
we’ve had it drilled into us already that teamwork is the most
important part of submarining? Well, they’ve started to put their teams
together. This bunch is a diving section—just enough men for one shift
on a sub to handle everything that needs to be handled. They’ll work
together all through the course, get to know each other, to work well
together.”
“What if one of the men fails the course?” Stan asked. “There’s Marty
Cobden, for instance. If he doesn’t manage to overcome that fear of the
escape tower he’s through.”
“Then they’ll have to replace him,” March said. “But that will be just
one man out of the section—or maybe two at most will not be able to
make it. Well, the majority of the team is still intact. The new man
can fit into a well-functioning team pretty fast.”
“Will they eventually go out on duty together?” Stan asked.
“Probably,” March replied. “When a sub gets three diving sections that
have trained together, then it’s got a real crew. Of course, they
usually try to put in just one new section with two old ones, men
who’ve been through the ropes. The new section, already used to
teamwork, fits in with the experienced men well, and learns so much
from them that they’re veterans after one patrol.”
“What about us officers, though?” Stan wondered. “Maybe there’s a
chance we’ll go on the same sub.”
“Maybe,” March agreed. “They may put two new officers on a sub with
three or four veterans. Probably no more, though. Look, here comes the
Chief!”
In a few minutes they were all walking down toward the docks where the
old O-type submarines used as trainers lay bobbing gently in the waters
of the Thames River. March saw that some of the crew were busy about
the deck of one of the subs, to which a narrow gangplank led from the
dock. As they walked, the Chief Petty Officer was talking to the
students.
“When it’s in the water,” he said, “you can’t see much of a sub. The
flat deck is just a superstructure built up on top of the cigar-shaped
hull. You can see part of the hull itself where the superstructure
sides slope down into it. But most of it’s under water, where it ought
to be on a pigboat.”
March’s eyes were going over the long slim craft swiftly, not missing a
detail. He saw the fins on the side at bow and stern, folded back now,
but able to be extended so as to make the planes which could guide the
ship up or down. He noted the looming conning tower which served as a
bridge for the officers when the pigboat traveled on the surface. From
there, he knew, a hatch led down into the center section of the ship.
He saw, too, that the fore and aft hatches were open, one leading down
into the torpedo room and another into the engine room.
“Look at the deck gun,” Stan said. “Wicked looking little thing.”
[Illustration: _They Watched From the Dock_]
He pointed to the 3-inch gun mounted on the flat deck forward of the
conning tower. It was tightly covered with what appeared to be a canvas
cover. March knew that the crew could have that cover off and the gun
in action in a matter of seconds.
March and Stan walked across the gangplank and looked up at the officer
on the bridge of the conning tower. Saluting, they reported, and
received a welcoming smile and the words, “Come on up!”
They scrambled up the ladder and found themselves on the crowded bridge
with two other men.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Sutherland,” said the man who had greeted
them, “Executive Officer.” He turned to the other officer on the deck.
“Captain Binkey—Lieutenant Anson and Ensign Bigelow reporting.”
The Captain smiled as he returned their salute and then lapsed into his
customary informal role.
“Glad to have you aboard,” he said. “First ride, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” March and Stan replied, feeling at ease at once in the old
veteran’s presence.
“Sutherland will show you around after we get started,” the Skipper
said. “I imagine you’ll want to stay up here till we’re under way.”
Sutherland turned to them. “You probably know from your studies what
most of this is about,” he said. “Just a matter of seeing and feeling
it to be at home. I know I don’t have to tell you every little detail
the way the Chief down there is pointing out every steel plate to those
ratings.”
March and Stan glanced down to see that the Chief had led his enlisted
men on to the deck of the submarine, where they were mingling with the
regular crew who were preparing to cast off when the Captain ordered.
“Whenever you want to know anything,” Sutherland went on, “just ask me
and I’ll try to give you the answer. I imagine we’ll be casting off in
a minute.”
They saw the Chief Petty Officer leading his students down the
torpedo-room hatch to the interior of the submarine, and for a moment
March wanted to join them.
“That will come later,” he said. “It’s important to see them cast off.”
And that operation came without delay. At a word from the Captain, the
executive officer began barking orders to the crew and to the enlisted
men who stood at the controls on the bridge. The gangplank was taken
away by men on the dock, the electric motors began to turn in the ship
far below them, and lines were cast off. Slowly, trembling slightly
beneath their feet, the pigboat slid back into the river away from the
shore, churning up the water only slightly as it moved.
Then suddenly, with a roar, the Diesels caught hold and white smoke
poured from the exhaust vents on the sides of the boat. Stan grinned as
he heard them, and March said, “Makes you feel at home to hear them,
doesn’t it?”
“Oh—is he a Diesel man?” Sutherland asked.
“He dreams about them,” March replied. “I think he’s going to marry a
Diesel some day!”
The pigboat was now in the middle of the river and swinging about to
head downstream. On the deck below there remained only a few men of the
regular crew needed for duties there. March looked around, feeling the
thrill of pleasure that always came when a ship set out. The cool
breeze fanned his face, and he looked at the shore slipping by, then
the buildings of the city. It seemed only a short while before they
were in the choppy open water of the Sound. Here there were almost no
other ships, and the waters were deep. Soon they would dive!
Below, he knew, the regular crew were at their stations, with the
students looking on—each specialist observing the work he would one day
do himself. Engine men were in the crowded engine room, peering eagerly
at the huge Diesels which powered the ship on the surface. Scott, the
radioman, would be standing beside the regular radioman, and Sallini
would be going over supplies and equipment of the regular pharmacist,
while keeping his eye out for everything else he could learn, too.
Every crew member had his special duties, but every one had to be able
to take over the duties of any other in an emergency. That was one of
the reasons they all liked submarine work, officers and men alike. They
learned so much, in so many different fields, in such a short time!
“Rig ship for diving!” said the Captain quietly, and Sutherland, who
served also as diving officer, spoke the order into the interphone on
the bridge. Throughout the ship below, March and Stan knew, men had
sprung to their stations in every compartment. The cook was “securing”
the sink, stove, pots and pans. Men at the huge levers controlling the
valves of the ballast tanks tested them. The diving planes were rigged
out. Below on the deck, the last of the crew slid down the hatches and
made them fast from the inside.
Then the reports began to come back over the phone that all was ready
inside the boat. An officer in the control room below heard the
different rooms of the submarine check in one by one.
“Torpedo room rigged for diving!”
“Engine room rigged for diving!”
When all rooms had reported, the officer below phoned to the Captain on
the bridge that the ship was rigged for diving.
“All right, Mister Anson and Mister Bigelow—down you go!”
March quickly moved to the opening and slid down it, his feet reaching
for the steps of the straight steel ladder. He was followed at once by
Stan and then by Sutherland. Next came the enlisted man who had stood
at the controls on the bridge, and finally the Captain himself. The
hatch was made fast behind him and everyone was inside the boat.
March glanced around him quickly. And despite the number of drawings
and pictures he had seen of the control room of a submarine, he gasped.
Never had he seen such a myriad of instruments and wheels and levers
and dials! Everything in the entire submarine was really controlled
from this one central room. Beside him, in the middle of the room, were
the two thick steel shafts which he knew were the periscopes. Their
lower ends were down in wells in the deck and would not be raised until
after they were submerged and the skipper wanted to look around.
Facing the bow of the ship, March saw the forward bulkhead of the
control room. Yes, there was the huge steering wheel with the helmsman
holding it lightly. It seemed strange for a helmsman to be looking at a
wall, or instrument panels on a wall, rather than at the open sea over
which he steered. March knew that the controls were electrically
operated by the wheel and thus easy to handle. But every man was made
to steer it by hand on occasion—and that took real strength!—in order
to be ready for that emergency that might come when the electric
current failed.
Forward, also, were the wheels controlling the angles of the diving
planes. There was the gyro-compass dial, and near by the little table
at which the navigation officer sat.
“Some day that’s where I’ll be,” March said to himself.
He didn’t have time to look carefully at the many other dials against
this wall, but he knew they showed the ship’s depth under water, the
pressure, and other essential data. Along the sides were still more
dials showing the amount of fuel in tanks, the number of revolutions
per minute being made by the propellers. He recognized the
inclinometer, which showed just exactly the angle of tip assumed by the
boat in diving or coming up.
On another side were the long levers and wheels controlling the big
Kingston valves which flooded the ballast tanks with sea water when the
ship was to dive, the air vents, the pumps, and other equipment used in
diving and surfacing. The regular crew stood tensely at their posts
without a word, and the students who stood near by were completely
silent.
March glanced at the Skipper and saw that he was looking at a huge
panel on one wall. Yes, this was the “Christmas Tree!” It was a large
electric indicator board covered with red and green lights. It showed
the exact condition of every opening—hatches, air induction vents, and
all—into the ship. Everything having anything to do with diving had its
indicator there on the board. March saw that most of the lights were
green, but many were still red. He knew that every light had to be
green before the ship could dive.
“Stand by for diving,” said the Skipper in a quiet voice.
Sutherland, standing behind him, sang out, “Stand by for diving!” The
telephone orderly repeated the order over the interphone to all parts
of the ship and March jumped as the klaxon horns blared out their
raucous warnings. For a moment their sound reverberated in the small
steel room, and then Sutherland barked new orders.
“Open main ballast Kingstons!” March saw the men move the levers as he
repeated the order, and a few lights turned to green on the “Christmas
Tree.”
“Stop main engines!” The order was repeated over the phone to the
engine room. March felt the trembling of the ship stop as the Diesels
were shut off and the electric motors switched on again, taking their
current from the huge banks of storage batteries under the deck of the
ship. At the same time other lights turned to green on the board.
“Open main ballast vents!” called Sutherland.
One after another the necessary orders were called by the diving
officer, they were carried out with precision and reported back at
once. Finally, the last red lights on the board winked out as the main
air induction valves were closed. Then Sutherland ordered, as the last
test, that air be released from the high-pressure tank into the
interior of the ship. March watched him look at the dial indicating air
pressure within the ship. The hand moved up a little, then held steady.
This showed that there was no leakage of air from the boat.
Sutherland turned to the Skipper. “Pressure in the boat—green light,
sir.”
“Take her down!” said the Captain with a nod.
When the diving officer repeated the order the klaxons blared again
their final warning before the diving officer called out one order
after another. March had been able to keep close track of everything up
to this point, but suddenly, just at the crucial moment, there was too
much going on. He heard an order that sounded like “Down bow planes!”
and felt the ship tip forward slightly. But at the same time he heard
the roar of water as it rushed into the ballast tanks between the inner
and outer steel hulls of the ship, the rush of air forced out of the
vents by the inrushing water, and the whine of the electric motors.
Sutherland gave an order about the trim tanks which March did not
catch, then heard the Skipper say, “Steady at forty feet.”
As the order was repeated, March found the dial which indicated the
ship’s depth and saw the hand approach the forty mark. There the ship
leveled out again. The sound of rushing water and bubbling air had
ceased and the only sound was the steady hum of the motors.
“We’re down!” Stan muttered, almost to himself. March had almost
forgotten his companion’s existence, but now he turned to him.
“That’s right!” he said. “I was so intent on what was happening I
almost forgot about that. There’s nothing special about it, is there? I
mean—being here in this room where you can’t see outside—it doesn’t
make much difference whether you’re on top of the water or underneath
it.”
“Only when I heard the water rushing into the ballasts,” Stan answered.
“Then I had a little sensation of going under water. It was fast,
wasn’t it?”
“So fast I couldn’t keep track of everything,” March replied. “I wonder
how long it took from the time the Captain ordered the dive until we
leveled off at forty feet.”
Sutherland overheard him. “Just sixty-eight seconds!” he said.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER SIX
A REAL SUBMARINER
“Scoot Bailey never will have an experience like this as long as he
lives!” March said to himself. He was peering through the periscope of
the submerged pigboat, looking over the tossing waters of the sea.
When the Captain had called “Up, periscope,” the long shaft had moved
up by electric motor until the eyepiece and handles were at convenient
height. The Skipper had a look around, and March noticed that he turned
the handles to adjust the focus.
“Here, have a look, Mister Anson,” he said, standing away.
So March had fitted his eyes against the rubber cup and looked. He saw
water, a long stretch of open water with nothing on it. It was not
completely sharp so he turned one handle slightly, saw the image fuzz
up, turned it the other way until it came sharp. Next he moved the
periscope around, stepping with it as he did so, looking over the
horizon in a sweeping arc.
Then he saw something! It was the shore of Long Island, almost two
miles away. He stepped back and said, “I saw the Long Island shore, I
think. How far can one see through the periscope, sir?”
“About two and a half miles,” the Skipper replied. “Have a look, Mister
Bigelow.”
Stan stepped forward eagerly to look through the ’scope. He swung it
around in a different direction from which March had moved and suddenly
exclaimed, “A ship!”
The Captain took over for a look, then said, “Yes, small freighter.
Just think how easily we could sink her!”
March looked at the ship. “Looks as though I could knock her down with
a BB gun,” he said.
“On later trips we’ll simulate attacks on some of the ships in the
Sound,” the Skipper said. “So you’ll get a chance to practice something
a little more powerful than a BB gun.”
For fifteen minutes the pigboat traveled under the water. Sutherland
took Stan and March around the control room, explaining the various
instruments and levers, answering their questions.
“What beats me, sir,” Stan said, “is the number of different things you
have to remember! I just can’t conceive of doing all that so fast and
not forgetting a thing.”
“It seems like that at first,” Sutherland said. “But after you do it a
few times, you get used to it. Just think—driving a car is pretty
complicated if you’ve never even seen a car before. You’ve got to see
the emergency brakes are on, that transmission’s in neutral, then turn
on ignition, step on electric starter, perhaps choke it a little to
start, then push back choke, step on foot throttle, warm up engine,
release emergency brake, push in clutch, move gearshift lever, let in
clutch, step on throttle, shove in clutch, take foot from throttle,
move gearshift lever in another direction, let in clutch and step on
throttle for a time, then shove in clutch, take foot from throttle,
move gearshift lever, let in clutch, step on throttle again. And all
this time, steer the car where you’re going, watch out for pedestrians,
for traffic lights, for cars behind, for cars on side streets. Why,
there are dozens of things you have to do, but when you’ve driven a car
a little while, most of them are almost automatic.”
“I’d never though of it that way,” Stan said. “But it must take quite a
while of handling a dive to get used to it.”
“Not so long as you think,” Sutherland said, “if you’re any good at
all. If not, you wouldn’t be here. And don’t worry—before you leave
this school you’ll be able to take her down—in three or four different
ways—without worrying about it for a second.”
The executive officer then led them through the rest of the boat,
giving them a quick once-over of the entire ship during their first
trip. Stepping over the high door edges of the bulkhead doors leading
from one compartment to another, March realized that a fat man would
have difficulty getting around on a submarine. He noted how the doors
could be fastened watertight and airtight so that any compartment could
be sealed off from all the others.
They saw the engine room, with its two banks of heavy Diesels, now
quiet and at rest as the ship traveled under water. Stan would have
stayed there for the entire trip, talking to the engineers and looking
over the power plants, but they moved on to the motor room where the
whine of the two electric motors was loud and high-pitched. March knew
that the motors could be switched to act as generators driven by the
Diesels when the ship surfaced, charging the batteries.
The battery room did not hold their attention for long, although the
two banks of huge cells were impressive, but the torpedo room
fascinated them. Here was the real reason for the existence of the
entire ship, which was nothing more than a vehicle to get the deadly
TNT charges into the side of an enemy ship. It was almost the largest
of the rooms they had seen, perhaps seeming so because of the
additional clear space in the middle. There had to be plenty of room to
swing the big torpedoes into position before their tubes.
First March and Stan saw the two racks of torpedoes along the walls.
The long cylinders, twenty-one inches in diameter and about twenty feet
from end to end, looked deadly. March noted the chain hoist by which
they could be swung from their racks into position for loading into the
tubes.
The tubes—there were four of them—stuck back into the room a little
way, and March and Stan knew they were about twenty-five feet long
altogether, their openings at each side just back of the bow of the
boat. The tight-fitting doors closed the tubes, and the sub was ready
to fire its charges at any moment.
“It must take a terrific blast of air to start these babies on their
way,” Stan said, running his hand along one of the big torpedoes.
“Yes, it does,” Sutherland replied. “But the air doesn’t have to move
it far. It just expels it from the tube, where there are trigger
catches which trip switches here on the torpedo to set its own
machinery going.”
“Wonderful piece of mechanism, aren’t they?” March mused.
“Yes, they’re really little submarines with an explosive charge instead
of a crew,” the executive officer agreed. “And the TNT takes up only a
small space, really. Half the length is compressed air to drive the
torp. It’s got to move pretty fast, you know, to get to the target
accurately. There’s about four hundred horsepower packed into that
little fellow there—from compressed air, heated by an alcohol flame,
blowing like fury against two trim little turbines turning the
propellers.”
“The aiming devices must be very accurate,” Stan said.
“Wonderful!” Sutherland exclaimed. “You probably know there’s a little
whirling gyroscope that keeps the torp on the course which can be set
by the operator in advance of firing. Then there’s the compensating
chamber and pendulum to keep it at its proper depth. It can’t very well
get off course.”
“But don’t you have to aim chiefly with the sub itself, sir?” March
asked. “I mean—doesn’t the sub have to be aimed right at the target for
the torpedo to get there?”
“Not at all,” Sutherland replied. “The sub doesn’t have to be any
closer than sixty degrees in facing its target. You set the proper
course on the torpedo itself and the automatic devices put it on that
course right away—and keep it there!”
“Then the important thing,” Stan said, “is for the skipper to get the
course right, not necessarily to line up the sub with his target.”
“That’s right,” the older officer agreed. “The skipper must determine
the course to his target and call it out. If he’s good, he gets his
ship.”
With a last look around the torpedo room they turned to go back to the
control room.
“Later,” Sutherland said to them as they stepped through the bulkhead
door, “you’ll have target practice with special torpedoes that don’t
blow up what you’re aiming at. As a matter of fact, there won’t be
anything you can’t do by the time we get through with you.”
[Illustration: _They Inspected the Torpedo Room_]
In the course of the next few weeks, March remembered that statement
often. He went on countless trips in the training subs, until he felt
as much at home in them as he did in his own quarters. For the first
few times he observed. Then he took over one position after another and
executed its duties.