better time on top. But keep a sharp lookout for other surface craft.
Can’t see very far in this fog.”
March took over his regular watch that afternoon on the bridge. He had
on a heavy sweater and waterproof hood and jacket, for the moisture in
the air, even if it were not rain, soaked everything inside of fifteen
minutes. Two crew members were on lookout, in addition to the man at
the controls. March listened to their regular calls of “All clear” and
stared ahead into the blanket of fog.
Then, suddenly, he saw it—just as the lookout shouted.
“Freighter on port bow!”
March shouted the alarming news into the interphone, ordered the man at
the controls to reverse engines full-speed and put her over hard
starboard. The big freighter loomed so large out of the mist that March
knew they might crash. The freighter had just sighted them and hadn’t
even slowed down. So, without another thought he shouted the order,
“Rig for crash dive!”
The klaxon blared through the boat below and March knew that men were
leaping to their posts, that Gray was struggling out from his bunk or
from behind the wardroom table. Would he come up to the bridge? March
knew there might not be any bridge—or any conning tower—by the time he
could get there, no matter how fast he moved.
He glanced at the deck hatches and breathed a sigh of relief when he
saw they were already closed, for the rolling seas were washing over
the decks and none of the crew men had wanted to come up for fresh air
on a day like this. In a few seconds only the word came back to him,
“Boat rigged for crash dive!”
He had already motioned the lookouts down into the hatch, and the
control man was securing his gear on the bridge.
“Take her down!” he ordered, as the control man slid down the hatch. He
heard the bubbling hiss of air from the main ballast vents, the roar of
water as it rushed into the tanks through the huge Kingston valves.
With a last glance, he saw in a flash many details on the freighter.
Most of all, he saw that it looked tremendous, that it seemed almost on
top of him, although he realized that its size in comparison with the
half-submerged sub made it look closer than it really was. He saw
officers on the bridge shouting orders, and men rushing to man a
three-inch gun on the forward deck. Then he slipped below, swung the
hatch shut after him and dogged it down before slipping on down into
the control room.
[Illustration: _The Big Freighter Came Head On_]
The Diesels had stopped their roar, and the electric motors were
whining a high-pitched song as they drove the boat with all their
power. He glanced at the “Christmas Tree” and smiled to see nothing but
green lights. Every opening, every vent, was closed and the boat was
tight. The inclinometer showed them close to a fifteen degree angle of
dive, the maximum that was safe before the acid in the batteries would
spill out.
Only then did he notice Larry Gray and Ray Corvin and McFee standing
motionless, tense, in the middle of the control room. They were
listening, waiting. And March listened and waited too, expecting any
moment the rending, tearing sound of a steel bow crashing through their
superstructure, through their outer hull, through the inner pressure
hull—and then, the deluge as the ocean poured in upon them.
One second—two seconds—three seconds—four seconds passed, and then
March relaxed.
“All right now,” he said. “She’d have hit now if she were going to. She
was that close.”
He saw a few of the men relax a bit and begin to breathe again. But
most of them remained silent and tense. They did not share his
confidence, or have confidence in his judgment. He glanced at the depth
gauge and saw it at fifty-five feet. Well—it all depended on how much
water that freighter was drawing. Maybe it would still knock a few
pieces off the conning tower, at least.
But then he heard the soundman say, “Propellers passing over.”
“How close?” Gray asked sharply.
“Just about kissing us,” came the answer. “But passing over—past now.”
Then everyone _did_ relax. The crewmen began to talk a bit among
themselves. Scotty looked at March and grinned, wiping a hand over his
brow as if to brush away the sweat of fear, and then clasped both hands
in a congratulatory signal. March just nodded.
“Nice work, Anson,” Gray said quietly. “That was a close one. Let’s
have a cup of coffee. You probably need it.”
They turned toward the wardroom together, and March felt the eyes of
all crewmen on him.
“Steady at a hundred feet,” the Skipper ordered before leaving the
control room, “and keep on course.”
“Steady at one hundred,” came back the order. “Yes, sir.”
Then the officers went into the wardroom and sat down just as Stan
appeared at the door.
“What in blazes happened?” he asked.
“We just about got run down, that’s all,” the Skipper smiled. “Not an
uncommon occurrence in submarining, Bigelow. Your friend Anson here
took us down in a big hurry.”
“Were _you_ on the bridge, March?” Stan asked.
“Yes, if you’d known that,” March laughed, “you would have been twice
as scared, wouldn’t you?”
“Wow, we went down in a big hurry, all right,” Stan said. “Did you have
to—to miss it?”
“Guess so,” March said. “Anyway, they were unlimbering a gun the last
thing I saw and would’ve been shooting at us if we’d still been in
sight.”
“Yes, you did the right thing, all right,” Gray said. “And without much
time to think about it.”
“But the crew was marvelous,” March said. “I got the call back that the
ship was rigged almost before I got the order out of my mouth. It’s a
good feeling to know a crew can act like that, isn’t it, Gray?
Especially when a third of it is brand new.”
“Yes, mighty satisfying,” Larry agreed. “And just as satisfying to know
the same thing about your new officers. I’m going to feel pretty
confident when we suddenly have six Jap destroyers pouncing on us all
of a sudden.”
“Say, I just thought of something,” Corvin said. “Those poor guys in
that freighter are probably still looking frantically for signs of a
periscope and sitting there biting their nails waiting for a torpedo to
blast them to kingdom come.”
Gray looked at his watch. “They’re just about getting over that by
now,” he said. “They’re just concluding that we _are_ an American sub
and not a German. And they’re thanking their lucky stars.”
“Just like us,” McFee added.
In a few minutes the Skipper went out and ordered the sub up to
periscope depth, had the ’scope run up and took a look around.
“Not a thing in sight,” he announced. “Down ’scope.”
As the big shaft slid down into its well in the deck, the Skipper
ordered the ship to surface once again, and up she came. Gray was the
first man up on the bridge, and the other officers quickly followed
him. Lookouts and controlmen took their posts, and the _Kamongo_ went
steadily ahead on her course.
Corvin took over the watch on the bridge and in a little while the
others went below. The crew had settled down and once more everything
was serene and quiet.
More days went by, but without the excitement of even a sight of ship
or plane. After they had passed into the Caribbean Sea, the Skipper
ordered them to hold up for two hours before proceeding.
“We’re a bit ahead of schedule,” he explained, “because of the extra
speed we made on the surface. Coming into Panama, we’ve got to surface
and run exactly on schedule and on course. Patrol craft and planes are
expecting us and they’ll bomb us out of sight if we’re five minutes off
schedule or two degrees off course.”
When they resumed speed, on the surface, March checked the boat’s
position regularly to make sure of their course. The first time a big
Martin PBM-1 shot out of a cloud ahead of them, March felt his throat
grow dry. If they were _not_ exactly where they should be at that
moment, he knew what would happen to a beautiful new sub and about
sixty-four good men of Uncle Sam’s Navy.
But the patrol plane just circled low overhead, gunned its motors and
flew away. He knew that its radio reported the sub’s position to other
patrol craft, and that they would be checked up on regularly.
Two other planes came over for a look on their way in toward the Canal,
and for the last twenty-five miles they were sighted by half a dozen
surface ships.
“Are we to go right on through without stopping?” March asked the
Skipper.
“Stop long enough to take on the Canal pilot,” he replied. “Nothing
else.”
The Skipper was on the bridge, along with Corvin, as they ran alongside
the jetty leading to the first locks. As they tied up at the dock below
the locks, Corvin stepped ashore. He came back shortly with a
gray-haired man who would pilot them through the Canal. The weather was
clear and the sun beat down warmly, so half the crew were lined up on
the deck, and all hatches were open. All officers were on the bridge,
except McFee, who stayed below in charge. Even Stan left his Diesels
long enough to come up for a look at the Canal, for all the submarine’s
engines were off as they were pulled through the locks by the little
donkey engines running on tracks alongside.
The Canal pilot came aboard and climbed to the bridge. Lines were cast,
cables attached fore and aft to the donkey engines on both sides, and
they began to move forward on the pilot’s orders. Ahead March saw the
huge steel doors into the first lock. Slowly and steadily the pigboat
moved into the chamber, and the great doors swung silently shut behind
them.
Then water rushed into the lock and the boat gently moved upward as the
surface of the water rose. Soon they were level with the water in the
next lock and the gates ahead of them swung back against the walls.
They saw, in the lock next to them, a battered destroyer heading the
other direction.
“She’s been through something, all right,” Gray commented. “Going home
for repairs.”
The crew on the destroyer waved to the men on _Kamongo_ and for a time
there were shouts back and forth. Then they had moved out of the second
lock into Gatun Lake, as the destroyer sank down in its lock toward the
level of the ocean.
Sailing through the lake was like a pleasant excursion trip on a lake
steamer. The thick jungles were unlike anything most of the men had
seen before and they looked about them with curiosity.
Through the locks at Pedro Miguel and then at little Lake Miraflores,
and they were once more at sea level—this time at the level of the
Pacific.
They dropped the pilot at the edge of the long breakwater and then
headed out to sea, looking back at the lights of the city of Panama
which were beginning to twinkle in the growing darkness.
“Not much time for sightseeing when you’re on submarines,” Stan said,
as he and March climbed down to the control room.
“Not when there’s a war going on, anyway,” March said. “We’re in the
Pacific now, Stan. How does it feel?”
“Just like the Atlantic,” Stan said.
“Not to me,” March mused. “This is the ocean we’re going to do our
fighting in. This is the ocean where I’ve already done a fair amount of
battling Japs. But this time, I think I’m going to do a lot better.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER ELEVEN
UNDER WAY AGAIN
In San Francisco, Stan and March had two days for a little of the
sightseeing they had looked forward to, but they both spent most of
their time at other tasks. March passed several hours at a telephone
stand trying to get through a call home.
When it finally went through he talked for five minutes with his mother
and gave her his San Francisco address. She sounded cheerful and not at
all worried, and asked him if he might see Scoot Bailey.
“Scoot’s address is San Francisco, too,” she said.
“I know,” March laughed, “and the address of quite a few thousands of
other sailors and soldiers. I think he must have got out of Frisco
before this, unless he was held up here for lack of transportation. I
might as well try to find out, though.”
“Maybe you’ll see him out where you’re going,” his mother said.
“I doubt it very much,” March said. “Even though we did have a joke
about how my submarine would probably have to save him from the Japs
out there.”
When he finished talking to his mother, he decided he might as well try
to find out if Scoot were still in town. He had probably arrived two or
three weeks before. It wasn’t likely that he’d still be around, but
sometimes men were held up that long.
“If Scoot _were_ held up that long,” March said to himself, “he’d be
just about crazy. I think he’d start swimming to get out to his carrier
or plane or base or wherever he’ll be.”
March spent most of the afternoon trying to find out about Scoot. Each
office said it didn’t have the information or couldn’t give it to him,
until he finally reached the right place and learned that Scoot had
left San Francisco by plane for his “destination” twelve days before.
He met Stan for dinner, after which they went to a movie. The Skipper
had given them leave until a few hours before they were due to sail.
After the movie Stan and March went back to their ship to find that Ray
Corvin had suddenly been taken sick. Just as they came up, the
ambulance was taking him away to the Naval Hospital.
“Burst appendix, I think,” Gray said. “And if that’s it, I don’t know
what we’ll do. I’m hoping it’s nothing more than an acute indigestion
that’ll pass in a day or two. But Sallini felt sure it was the appendix
and so did the doc that came. That’s why they rushed him right off to
the hospital.”
“Anything we can do?” March asked.
“No, just keep your fingers crossed,” Gray said. “Ray’s a mighty good
man to have aboard a submarine.”
“Why, we couldn’t go without him, could we?” Stan asked.
“The Navy doesn’t wait around for an officer to get over appendicitis,”
Larry said. “We’re scheduled to pull out of here at dawn day after
tomorrow morning, and that’s when we’ll pull out, with or without Ray
Corvin.”
“What about his family?” March asked. “Didn’t he say he lived near
here?”
“Sure—about fifty miles away,” the Skipper replied. “He had just phoned
them before he got this attack. I had to tell them he couldn’t come
down as he’d planned. I got in touch with the Commandant here and he
has sent a car down there for Ray’s wife and daughter. They’ll see him
at the hospital.”
In the morning they learned that Corvin’s appendix _had_ burst and he
had been operated on. Larry Gray had spent a good part of the night at
the hospital.
“He’ll pull through all right,” he said wearily. “But it will be weeks
before he’s up and around. We’re really lucky, I guess, that it didn’t
happen when we were at sea. If it had to happen, it couldn’t have timed
itself better. In port near a hospital—and not far from Ray’s home. He
can go there to convalesce.”
“What about us?” Stan asked. “It’s a shame we can’t have him with us.
He’s a swell guy.”
“And a fine officer,” Gray said. “He ought to have a command of his
own, really. Well, I’m not sure what we’ll do. The Navy can probably
find us another officer in a hurry if we demand it, though it’s not
easy to find a good sub man just like that who isn’t already occupied.”
He shook his head as he turned to his quarters. “I’m not sure just what
we’ll do,” he said, “except that we’ll get under way on schedule.”
At the door, he stopped. “March, will you and Stan help Mac oversee the
loading? I’ve got to have a little rest.”
There wasn’t much to come aboard. Ammunition and torpedoes were still
intact, so they had to take on only oil and water and food, plus some
special medical supplies for use in tropical climates. Stan had ordered
a few more spare parts for his engines and motors. With his little
repair shop, he felt able then to take care of almost anything that
might happen in his department.
It was late that afternoon that the Skipper called March to his
quarters.
“Sit down, March,” he said. “I’ve decided what to do about another
officer, but I think I ought to talk it over with the rest of you first
to see if you agree.”
“Whatever you say is all right with the rest of us, Larry,” March said.
“You know that.”
“Perhaps,” Larry replied with a smile. “But this involves a little more
work for everybody and I want you all to agree that it’s best. You see,
I think we’ve got a good crew here—men and officers alike. We get
along. We know our business. Getting along together is mighty important
in this work, and I don’t know how another officer would fit in even if
we could get one.”
“I know,” March agreed. “You can never tell until you’ve lived in each
other’s laps for a while, as we have.”
“So I want to skip getting—or trying to get—another officer to replace
Ray,” the Skipper went on. “Plenty of subs this size have operated with
four officers and so can we. But we’ll have to split up Ray’s work.”
“Okay with me,” March said at once. “What can I take on?”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you alone first,” Gray said. “I want
_you_ to take over Ray’s job, really.”
“You mean as diving officer,” March said, with a thrill.
“Yes, and as executive officer, too,” Larry said.
March started to say something, and then he realized exactly what Gray
had said. On his first real patrol, he was asked to serve as second in
command of a new submarine! It was unbelievable!
“But—Larry,” he said. “Do you think I can handle it?”
“If _you_ think so,” the Skipper said with a smile, “then I think you
can, too. I think you can handle just about anything on a submarine
that you want to handle.”
“What about McFee?” March asked. “He’s been out before—been with you
before. He’s had more experience.”
“No—not McFee,” Larry said. “Mac’s a wonder at his job, and he could
take over just about any other submarine job in an emergency. But—well,
Mac knows this as well as I do—he’s just not quite enough of an
executive to handle this. I know that he just wouldn’t want the job. He
doesn’t like to tell people what to do. He wouldn’t like to be a
general manager, and that’s what an executive officer is, really.”
“Well, you know him well,” March said, “but won’t he feel a little
funny about having a raw recruit, so to speak, put over him?”
“Not Mac,” Larry answered. “He’s not like that. Anyway, how about it?”
“Well—I’m mighty pleased that you’ve got enough confidence in me to ask
me,” March said. “And I surely ought to have as much confidence in
myself as someone else has. Okay, Skipper, you’re on.”
“Swell, March,” Gray said with a broad smile. “I don’t feel so bad
about not having Ray now. We’re going to do a job in _Kamongo_.”
“I just hope I can navigate and dive and exec,” March said, “all at the
same time.”
[Illustration: “_I Want You to Take Over Ray’s Job!_”]
“Well, I never did think a navigating officer had enough to do just
navigating,” Gray said, laughing. “And you’re never busy navigating
when you have to dive. As for being an exec, a well-run sub with a good
crew doesn’t need much general managing, you’ll find. Anyway, Mac and
Stan will help you out in that department if you need any help. And
don’t forget that there is, after all, still a Skipper on the boat who
ought to do a little work once in a while.”
Later, in the wardroom with Stan and Mac, Larry told them all the new
setup, and March was happy to see how obviously pleased with the
arrangement McFee and Stan were.
“I was worried,” McFee said. “I was afraid you’d get another officer
and he’d turn out to be a guy who pulled puns or was a bridge fiend or
something terrible like that. And we wouldn’t have time to find it out
before we got under way, so we’d have to drown him at sea.”
“Well, I’d better go report to the Commandant and tell him the
arrangement,” Larry said. “The Navy likes to know about these things,
even if they do leave most decisions up to a ship’s captain.”
After Gray left, March stepped into the control room. Scotty rushed up
to him and shook his hand vigorously.
“Congratulations, Lieutenant!” the radioman cried. “Gee, it’s swell!”
“Thanks, Scotty,” March grinned. “But how on earth did the crew ever
learn this so fast?”
“Didn’t you ever hear that the crew always knows the important things
before the officers on a sub?” Scott said with a laugh.
“It must be, it must be,” March replied, with a shake of his head.
When Larry Gray returned from seeing the Commandant, March thought he
noticed a sparkle in his eyes and a smile on his face that he was
trying not to show.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Larry replied, looking a little embarrassed. “I just
reported and he said okay. Everything set for dawn?”
“Everything set,” March replied.
“Oh, by the way,” Larry said, as if trying to change the subject. “You
move your stuff into Ray’s quarters. Then you and Stan can both have a
little more room to move around in.”
“Okay, Skipper,” March answered. “Could we see Ray before we leave?”
“No, no more visitors,” Larry said. “His family is there, and they let
me see him for a minute to say goodbye and good luck from all of us.
He’s feeling pretty lousy with drainage tubes in him, and worse than
that because he can’t go along with us. If they’d let him, he’d try to
get up and come along right now. He says he could recuperate faster in
a sub, anyway, than on dry land. He highly approved of your
appointment, by the way.”
It was an hour later that March learned the reason for the Skipper’s
hidden smile and slightly embarrassed look. Noticing a new large sheet
of paper on the bulletin board in the crew’s quarters he paused to look
at it.
“Scuttlebutt Special!!!!” it read. “The brass hats have seen the light
at last and promoted our Old Man to Lieutenant Commander! It’s about
time!”
March walked quickly back to the wardroom where he found Larry Gray and
McFee smoking and talking.
“Well, I was told that the crew knew everything important before the
officers,” he said. “But why did you want to keep it secret?”
Larry almost blushed.
“Oh, so you found out?”
“It’s on the bulletin board!” March exclaimed.
“Oh, my golly! These sub crews!” Larry exclaimed. “They can even read
your thoughts!”
“Say, what’s all this about?” Mac cried. “Let me in on it!”
“Go read it for yourself,” March said. “The Skipper made me find it out
the hard way.”
As Mac squeezed out from behind the little table and hurried down the
companionway, March put out his hand and shook Larry’s.
“Congratulations, Skipper,” he said.
“Thanks, March,” Gray said. “Some of the crew on shore liberty must’ve
run into it up at headquarters somehow. They don’t miss a thing.”
They not only missed nothing, but they did not miss a chance to do
something about it. After mess a delegation from the crew appeared and
asked for an audience with the Skipper. He sensed what was coming and
met them in the control room.
Pete Kalinsky, Chief Petty Officer in the torpedo room, was the
spokesman.
“Lieutenant Commander Gray, sir,” he said. “Your crew is very happy to
see you gettin’ up where you belong, though they’ve got to come through
a few more times before it’s okay with us. We knew you wouldn’t bother
about such things, but the _Kamongo’s_ captain ought to do himself
proud, so on behalf of the crew I give you these.”
He coughed, acted as if he were about to add something else, then said
“Sir,” lamely, and backed up.
Larry took the small packages Pete had handed him and undid them with
fingers that shook slightly. First came a set of three gold stripes,
two wide and one narrow, for his blue uniform. Then the same in black
for his work uniform. Then shoulder insignia and finally two gold
oak-leaves for pinning on his shirt collars.
March, who stood behind Larry, felt a lump in his throat. He knew how
Larry must be feeling and wondered how he could keep the tears out of
his eyes. There was a long silence, and March knew that Larry was
waiting for his voice to get under control before he spoke. Everyone
was looking at him as he fingered the marks of his new rank which had
been presented to him by his crew. Not only had they got the news
almost as soon as it had happened, but somebody had taken up a
collection and rushed downtown, during his last hours of shore leave,
to buy these things for him.