*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76811 ***


Crash Dive

[Illustration: The men in gas-masks working on a ship almost on its
head, was a sight to haunt one.]




Crash Dive

by Claude C. Vickrey

Illustrated by L. R. Gustavson

	    An American submarine officer tells a vivid story of
	    his dangerous service.


“Rig ship for diving!”

Having just come from the submarine school at New London, I had yet to
make my first “crash” dive, as the old-timers so aptly call it when you
slam a submarine down and out of sight with full diving rudder, as if
the enemy had suddenly come upon you in a fog.

The other officers on the ship, who had been “in the boats” for years,
didn’t seem to be much excited. Bud Tyler the executive, and Jack
Lansing the engineering officer, were arguing away just as if they were
discussing something important.

Their arguments usually had three stages—an extravagant statement by
Bud, a flat contradiction by Jack, and a bet. Apparently, they had
reached the third stage, so I joined them to act as judge.

“Any bet yet?” I asked.

“Yes, and I want you to bear witness that Bud bets me the first day’s
duty at Pensacola that the division commander will pester us with more,
‘_Why did you not do so and so?_’ messages on this trip south than,
‘_Cannot understand why you did so and so’s._’”

“Does that include semaphore signals as well as radio?” I wanted to get
the bet straight. “For we join the division commander and the other
submarines after we finish our engineering runs, don’t we?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “it means all messages from the time we left New
London until we arrive in Pensacola.”

That afternoon we “rigged ship for diving.” As I wanted to learn all I
could, I decided to make the rounds with the “chief-of-the-boat” to
acquaint myself with the details—and there were a surprising lot of
them. The chief-of-the-boat is, more or less, a sea-going top-sergeant.

The diving-log was consulted to check up on the weights that had been
added to, or taken aboard since the last dive. Any change of weight was
compensated for by blowing out of, or flooding water into, special
tanks designed for this purpose. The trim or balance, fore and aft, was
also inspected and adjusted. All hatches and outboard openings, except
those necessary for ventilation purposes, were closed and secured;
batteries were charged, and air-tanks filled with compressed air for
blowing water out of tanks.

“Ship rigged for diving, sir,” reported the chief-of-the-boat.

The Captain decided on a “slow dive,” as he wanted to accustom all
hands to their stations, since the ship had been in the Navy Yard for
some time being overhauled. Moreover he wanted to check the diving trim
under actual diving conditions before making a crash dive.

At three o’clock the general alarm was sounded. The Diesel engines were
stopped and the engine clutch thrown out. We then shifted to our
electric motors, which are always used for the submerged run. All
outboard openings, such as the engine exhausts and ventilating systems,
were closed. The conning-tower hatch was closed and secured. The
Kingston sea-valves were opened, flooding the six ballast tanks, and
the ship slowly submerged.

We were then in a state of approximate neutral buoyancy—that is,
neither heavier nor lighter than water.

The Captain, who was at the periscope, keeping an eye out for any
approaching vessels, gave the order: “Depth twenty-eight feet.” The
diving officer, noting that more “rise” than “dive” rudder was being
used, ordered four or five hundred pounds of water pumped from the
adjusting tank to sea. This helped, but we were still a little heavy
forward. By pumping water from the extreme forward tank to the extreme
after tank, a proper balance or trim was obtained.

She now held her depth easily. But to get a fine check, it was
necessary to slow down to a very low speed, so that after a few more
small adjustments of water, the ship would almost hang at any depth
with very little rudder.

As soon as the Captain saw that the diving officer had his trim, he
lowered the periscope and ordered different depths and speeds to give
the diving-rudder men practice at depth-keeping.

Finally we reached one hundred feet. Everything went smoothly, so the
Captain decided to come up. As we had been considerably below periscope
depth for some time our motors were stopped and the hydrophone man
trained his listening tube all around to see if there was any propeller
noise from ships in the vicinity. Hearing none, the ship was brought
rapidly to the surface by blowing the water from the ballast tanks, and
soon we were cruising ahead again on our engines, Pensacola-bound.

[Illustration: The ship was brought to the surface, and soon we were
cruising ahead again, Pensacola-bound.]

Word was passed shortly before eleven next morning to “rig ship for
diving.” We had just about completed our full-power engine run and were
preparing for our full-power run submerged. According to the rules, the
dive on this run must be a crash dive, with a penalty applied against
our yearly engineering standing if we did not get our conning-tower
under water and out of sight in less than sixty seconds after the
diving siren was sounded. A good diving crew could make it in
considerably less time, but even with sixty seconds, each man had to
know his job and do the right thing at exactly the right time.

The ship was rigged for diving; the crew was standing by diving
stations, and all was in readiness for the diving alarm which was to be
sounded at eleven sharp.

There was a feeling of alertness in the air. Everyone kept glancing at
the clock.

The chief-of-the-boat, an old-time chief gunner’s mate with years of
submarine service, was standing by the “main induction,” which he was
to close upon diving, and after that keep an eye on the other stations
in the control-room, ready to supervise and help in any emergency.

                 *       *       *       *       *

In order to understand what happened, it will be best perhaps to
explain that the main induction is a large air-intake or ventilating
line, one part of which runs aft to the engine-room and motor-room,
assuring a supply of air for the engines; the other leads forward to
the torpedo-room, furnishing air to the forward part of the ship. These
two parts join amidships in the control-room—which, as the name
signifies, is where the ship is controlled when submerged—and forming
an inverted T, pass through the upper part of the hull to the open air.
The main induction must be closed before submerging, but should not be
closed until the Diesel engines are stopped; for if by accident the
conning-tower hatch were also closed, the engines would use up all the
air in the boat in four or five revolutions. Should this occur—and it
has occurred on some submarines with almost fatal results—everyone in
the boat would drop as if shot, from collapsed lungs. So you can see
that the chief’s station was an important one.

As the hands of the control-room clock moved to eleven and the second
hand came to zero, the order rang out: “Sound diving alarm.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” came from the officer-of-the-deck, and the siren
shrieked its call for action throughout the ship.

Men jumped to their tasks. Air was hissing; sharp orders were given; a
dozen things were being done at once. A single mistake, and the results
might prove fatal to us all.

The watch on the bridge slid down the hatch, the quartermaster staying
in the conning-tower ready to close the conning-tower hatch the instant
he heard the engines shut down. The chief-of-the-boat had his hand on
the stop valve ready to close the main induction. The diving-rudder men
had “Hard dive” on the diving planes. The Kingston sea-valves were
being opened, flooding the six ballast tanks, three on each side of the
ship.

A slight list to starboard developed which rapidly increased to the
point of danger. The chief-of-the-boat, seeing that the man at the
Kingstons was having trouble opening the valves on the port side, so
that water was flooding in the tanks on the other side only, thus
tilting the boat heavily to the flooded side, jumped to help get the
port valves open.

Were my premonitions coming true? Or was this just one of those
emergencies that submarine life is full of?

While all this was happening, the engines had been shut down, the ship
was going ahead on the electric motors, the conning-tower hatch was
closed, the diving rudders were at “Hard dive,” and we were going down,
down, down—with the main induction wide open and forgotten, all
attention being focused on the other danger.

With the chief-of-the-boat’s help, the port valves were soon opened,
and with the water now flooding in the port ballast tanks, the ship
began to right the big list to starboard. What a relief!

All of this had happened in the space of a few seconds.

The Captain, seeing that the dangerous list was rapidly correcting
itself, quickly looked around to make certain that the main induction
had been properly closed and secured—and saw it was wide open to the
sea! He sprang to close it. The chief seeing his action, suddenly
realizing what he had forgotten, shouted “My God, the main induction!”
and rushed to help the Captain, but at that very instant—a split second
too late—a telltale stream of water hit them in the face—an
insignificant stream, just leakage around the valves; but it meant that
the hull was below the surface and water was rushing through the big
leads to the torpedo-room forward and the engine-room aft.

The Captain and the chief—both powerfully built men—struggled with the
valve, but it was instantly apparent that they would never get it
closed against the great pressure of the inrushing water.

[Illustration: The chief shouted, “My God, the main induction!” and
rushed to help the Captain—but a second too late.]

“Surface!” ordered the Captain.

This is an emergency order. Water is blown from tanks; diving-rudder
men use “Hard rise” rudder; the motors go ahead full speed; the
bow-buoyancy tank is blown to lift the bow. Normally these extreme
measures will make the ship shoot to the surface.

“Close watertight doors!” was the next order—scarcely a second after
the first.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Realizing the almost certain disaster that was upon us, I rushed to the
torpedo-room, while Bud made a dash for the engine-room. Each had the
same thought—to get the stop valves at the ends of the main induction
closed, if humanly possible.

When I got to the torpedo-room, with my heart pounding as if it would
jump right out of my chest, I saw that already the water was filling
the bilges. The torpedo-men were striving with all their strength to
get their stop closed, but it was the same story again—the pressure of
the inrushing water was too great to overcome.

As the water was pouring in so rapidly, it was only a matter of seconds
before it would be too late to get the watertight door between
compartments closed, and moreover, salt water might get into the
batteries in the next compartment, which would cause chlorine gas and
consequent strangulation, so I ordered everyone out of the
torpedo-room.

Realizing that we did not have much time to spare before the water
would be rushing through and prevent our closing the door, we could
hardly wait for the last man to wade through before we slammed it shut.
But one of the “dogs,” or metal clamps, was turned the wrong way, so
that the door would not close tight enough to be “dogged down.” A
little detail like this, which should have been noticed when we “rigged
for diving,” had turned out to be a possible matter of life or death,
for the dog seemed jammed and would not budge an inch. The water had
risen up to our waists, submerging the jammed dog before we gave up,
and since it was then too late to get the door closed, we worked our
way aft monkey-fashion because of the steep diving angle, hoping that
the control-room was not flooded, and that we could find safety there.

The big diving angle caused by all the extra water forward turned out
to be a great advantage, for although the forward part of the
compartment was flooded, the after part was not, and after some of the
fastest work I ever expect to see, we had the control-room door
undogged—it had been closed by those in the control-room—and rushed
through it, closing it behind us just as water began lapping around the
bottom of the door. Thank God, the control-room wasn’t flooded!

Just then the bow of the ship hit the bottom of the ocean—a rather
cushioned blow. Must have been mud bottom. The motors had been backing
to break the speed of the crash to the bottom as much as possible. This
had been done when the Captain saw that all efforts to stop the dive
and get to the surface were hopeless.

Fortunately, we had not dived in mid-ocean, for nothing would have
stopped our dive but the bottom. If we had been in over one hundred
fathoms of water, our hull would have been crushed like an eggshell.

I saw the engine-room watertight door was open—the first thing I looked
for when I rushed back to the control-room; and this meant that the
engine-room gang had by some miracle managed to get their end of the
main induction closed. Temporarily we were saved. But to what end?

The deck of the control-room was so wet that it was necessary to hold
on to something to prevent slipping. As luck would have it, just as we
took on our big angle, a mess-cook had been passing through the
control-room with a big tureen of soup and an armful of dishes. He was
thrown off his balance by the sudden change of diving angle, with the
result that hot soup and broken dishes were sprayed all over the deck,
adding to the general confusion; nearly everyone in the control-room
was thrown by the heavy lurch, and upon trying to regain their feet,
slipped on the wet deck and went down again. All this was unfortunately
timed so that it occurred at exactly the wrong psychological
moment—just when all hands were frantically trying to “surface” the
vessel, and every man was needed to do his part.

When we hit bottom, we all expected to see the hull crushed by the
impact, and the water rushing in; but the soft mud had saved us—for
perhaps a much worse death.

The motors were stopped.

The ship gradually came to rest with the bow on the ocean bed at an
angle of about thirty degrees. The depth-gauge showed one hundred
thirty-two feet.

“Bowers,” said the Captain to the chief-of-the-boat, “have all the men
go to the engine-room. Tell them there is nothing to worry about—that
we will have the boat up in a few hours.”

The crew gathered in the engine-room. Although there were several very
scared-looking faces, still they were taking it well with no signs of
anyone breaking under the strain—as yet.

When Bowers joined the officers in the control-room, a conference that
I’ll never forget was held.

“I guess you all realize what we are up against,” said the Captain.
“There’s one thing certain, and that is that we will have to come to a
quick decision, and it will have to be the right one the first time.
Past submarine disasters have shown us that, for we probably won’t have
time to try out more than one plan of saving ourselves.

“First, let’s size up the situation: With all that water forward, we
have too much negative buoyancy to get to the surface, even with tanks
blown dry.

“Second, there’s no possible way to get that water out.

“Now then, as to the length of time we can live on the air we
have—that’s problematical. We have two bottles of oxygen, and plenty of
air in the air-tanks—at least for breathing purposes—and as a last
resort we could flood the ballast tanks again, which would force the
air now in those tanks back through the vents into the boat. Still,
what good would a fresh supply of air be, unless we could get rid of
the old carbon dioxide given off when we breathe? We might be able to
take care of that when the time comes by starting the air-compressor,
sucking the bad air out of the boat and storing it in one of the empty
air-tanks. Something may happen to our electrical power by that time,
in which case we might be able to turn the air-compressor over by hand.
Thus, if we can take care of the carbon dioxide, we may have enough air
to last a week. Unfortunately, we have no soda lime, or we could get
rid of the carbon dioxide that way.

“The question is—can they find us in a week? And if they do find us,
can they manage to rescue us or get fresh air to us before our
air-supply gives out?

“Our orders were to dive ‘at discretion.’ Hence, they don’t know when
or where we dived. We won’t be missed for another twenty-four or even
forty-eight hours, for they’ll naturally assume, if they don’t hear
from us, that our radio set is out of commission again. Fortunately we
got through our eight A. M. position-report. Even so, they don’t know
how soon afterward we dived. Our oscillator was put out of commission
by the crash, so it looks as if our chance of being located before our
air gives out is too slim to bank on. However, we shall try to devise
some means of getting word to the surface, in the hope that some stray
vessel may pick up our message; but we can’t rely on any such long
chance.

“If we expect to come out of this alive, it looks as if we are thrown
absolutely on our own resources.

“Since we can’t get rid of that water forward, we will have to take
that handicap and make it work to our advantage.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

“Go on, Skipper,” said Bud, who could not keep quiet any longer, the
strain being too much for him. “I think I’ve got the same idea you
have.”

“Yes, old man, I guess we all have. But can we do it? Can we make this
old boat stand on her head, so that the stern will stick out of the
water far enough to cut a hole in the hull and get out, or at least
assure us of an indefinite supply of fresh air?

“It’s a big gamble! To accomplish it, we’ll have to use up a lot of our
previous supply of air in the air-tanks, because to get her at a big
enough angle, it will be necessary to use up a lot of that air to blow
overboard all our fuel, fresh water and lubricating oil, all of which
is carried far enough aft so that when blown overboard it will tend to
raise the stern.

“I don’t think the electric pumps will last long, because when we begin
to get her at a little greater angle, the electrolyte will probably run
out of the batteries, or the water will get to them, and even if this
doesn’t cause a fire from short-circuits, or an explosion of the
hydrogen gas, it will put our electrical power-plant out of commission.
And the hand pumps are too slow for the enormous amount of water we
have to handle, so it looks as if we will have to use a lot of our air.
I think standing her on end is our one and only chance. Our lives
depend upon the decision we are about to make. If any of you have any
other ideas, let’s hear them.”

“I have some plans for getting messages to the surface,” replied the
‘Exec,’ “but I think we had better go ahead with the stern plan without
losing any time. We want to get our hole in the hull before nightfall,
if possible, as we may be able to flag a passing ship. We can go ahead
with my plan after we get the other job started.”

The engineering officer said he had some plans about the oil slick that
would be made on the surface by our fuel and lubricating oil, but that
also could wait.

                 *       *       *       *       *

As neither the chief-of-the-boat nor I had much to add to what had been
said, we decided to go ahead with the up-ending of the boat without
further delay. We all agreed to gamble our vital supply of fresh air
and fresh water against the possible chance of getting the stern to the
surface. If we failed in that, it probably only meant that the end
would come sooner. We had hopes of outside help, but when we thought of
the tragedy of other salvaging attempts, we knew how vain such hopes
must be.

“Good submariners may be down but never out. Now let’s hop to it,” said
the Captain.

And the struggle to beat a lingering and tortuous death was on!

The pumps were put on all the tanks aft of the torpedo room, with the
Exec in charge of operations. The Captain and I got out the ship’s
blueprints. We had to know the exact distance from the bow to the point
aft where we wanted to cut the hole in the hull.

Next, we had to figure what the actual depth was, for although the
depth-gauge showed one hundred thirty-two feet, that was merely the
depth amidships. With the boat at an angle of thirty degrees by the
bow, the real depth was greater.

With the distance from the bow to the point on the stern where we were
to drill the hull as the hypotenuse of a triangle, and with the
computed depth as the second side of the triangle, we found that the
ship had to be raised to an angle of at least seventy-seven degrees to
get the stern above water.

Now we knew exactly what we had to do! Could we do it? In the first
place, was it possible to get the ship at that great an angle, and in
the second place, would there be time? All hands were working
feverishly. Men not used at the pumps and valves were put to work
carrying loose articles from the after part of the ship to the forward
part. We even planned to dismantle the engines, everything that could
be loosened from the deck and hull—anything that would get heavy
objects farther forward.

As each agonizing hour went by, the angle-indicator showed an
ever-increasing change, but such a heart-breakingly small change that
we began to have our doubts as to whether we would make it or not. The
electric pumps went out of commission shortly after we passed the
sixty-degree mark. Then the electric lights went out, throwing the
whole ship in absolute darkness. This meant that the batteries had gone
dead, as we had greatly feared they would.

Although we had several flashlights—one big one in each compartment and
several smaller ones—the effect of the darkness on the morale was very
soon felt.

It was easy enough to keep up courage as long as we had plenty of
light, but when that went, hope seemed to go with it.

Moreover the salt water had apparently seeped through the deck in the
battery-room and reached the batteries, probably causing them to go
dead, but what was much worse, it was forming chlorine gas. This gas,
which is so deadly that it was used during the war for gas attacks, was
finding its way into the control-room through small leaks around
supposedly watertight fittings in the battery-room bulkhead. Faint
whiffs of this gas began to be noticed, both by its pungent smell and
by the effect on the throat, which caused dry hacking coughs. While we
might fight the carbon dioxide and live for a week, the chlorine gas
was a much more serious matter. It cut down our breathing limit from a
possible week to two days at most.

The Captain was everywhere, encouraging the men. His leadership and
resourcefulness were an inspiration to us all. In the face of the
coming horrors which hour by hour were stealing in on us, he was
somehow able to imbue us all with that “never-give-up” spirit which
accomplishes miracles.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Some time after the lighting system failed, the Captain called the
officers together to discuss possible ways of getting some message to
the surface. He tried to keep us from seeing how discouraged he was,
but we sensed it in spite of his efforts. The Exec advanced a theory
that we might shoot out some calcium—obtained from the torpedo
torch-pots, a few of which were in the magazine. This could be done
through the submarine signaling device which was used in wartime for
sending secret smoke signals to the surface to make friendly but
overzealous vessels stop trying to sink you with depth mines. This
calcium, when ejected, would form gas which upon rising to the surface,
and coming in contact with the air, would burst into flame. In this
way, the oil which we had blown out might catch fire and thus attract
the attention of any passing ship, particularly at night. It seemed
rather a far-fetched theory, but we had reached the stage where we had
nothing to lose by trying it.

Then escape through the conning-tower was considered. As a last resort
we could try that! But as the Captain put it: “At this depth, I’m
afraid that the pressure would get us, for with a pressure of two or
three tons per square foot, our lungs would probably collapse, in which
case we would sink instead of rise. If we did get to the surface alive,
we would probably get the ‘bends’ or lose consciousness from the
pressure, and drown. Life preservers wouldn’t prevent that, and we only
have a few aboard anyway. That gives me an idea, though! We might roll
up a kapoc mattress lengthwise, cut our message into that piece of
oilcloth I saw lying around here, and sew it around the mattress. We
could shoot that through the conning-tower escape hatch; the air
bubbles would carry it to the surface, and as kapoc floats, it might be
picked up by some ship, particularly if by that time they were looking
for us. We will need a volunteer for this, for someone will have to
manipulate the conning-tower hatch, and that man, to have any chance of
withstanding the pressure, must be one of the strongest among us.”

“When you’re ready, Captain, I want to be that man,” spoke up Bowers,
“for I can probably stand the pressure better than anyone else, as I’ve
had some deep-sea diving experience. What’s more, I caused all this.”

“All right, Bowers,” said the Captain, visibly moved, “when the time
comes, if I don’t take on the job myself, your offer may be accepted.
But I don’t want to try that yet, for it would mean draining a lot of
water into the boat, just making us that much heavier; and I don’t want
to do anything that will jeopardize our chances of getting our stern to
the surface, for I have not given up hope of that by a damn’ sight and
won’t so long as this chlorine gas allows us to keep moving weight
forward.”

                 *       *       *       *       *

The calcium ejection was tried out, and was to be tried again that
night. The results, of course, we unfortunately could not tell.

The hydrophone listener reported that he thought he detected a ship
passing about five o’clock that evening. It was encouraging to know
that ships did occasionally pass, but they couldn’t help us yet for we
had no way of letting them know where we were, unless they passed
almost over us, in which case we might attract their attention by the
oil slick, or blowing out big bubbles of air through the tanks.
However, the Captain used the news to encourage the crew as much as
possible.

[Illustration: Just as we took our big angle, a mess-cook, passing
through the control-room, was thrown off his balance; soup and broken
dishes were sprayed all over the deck.]

All through the night we worked—with no thought of sleep. Most of the
flashlights had gone out. The men, in relays, worked at the hand pumps,
pumping away in the darkness, hoping against hope that they would live
to see the light of day.

The chlorine gas in the forward, now the lower part of the ship, had
become almost too much to work in. Fortunately, we had a few gas-masks
left over from our war allowance which were used by those whose duties
kept them working forward. There were not enough to go around, however,
as part of our allowance was kept in the flooded torpedo-room.

The futuristic effect of men in gas-masks, working their way up and
down in a ship almost standing on its head, with the occasional flicker
of a flashlight, was a sight to haunt one in one’s dreams.

The uncertainty of our fate made the suspense almost unbearable, and
the chlorine gas wouldn’t let us think of anything but a terrible end.

At six the next morning—to think that meant glorious sunshine to those
sailing tranquilly above us!—we had finally, by superhuman effort, got
all after tanks dry, and nearly all movable weights forward. And our
angle was only seventy-three degrees!

If we moved all hands forward and then could not get our angle, we were
probably doomed, for it would take days to break down the heavy engine
parts and move them, all in darkness; time would defeat us, as it has
in other cases we all remembered but too well.

So we played our last card.

Forty-two men dragged themselves forward—that meant down into the
chlorine gas—one man remaining aft in case of emergency, while the
Captain watched the angle indicator with one of the two last remaining
and fast-dimming flashlights.

We had done it! We had made her do what we wanted her to do, and with a
little to spare, for she settled just a hair above seventy-eight
degrees. At last we could commence cutting the hole in the hull. This
hole, to be above water, had to be way aft where the ship tapers to
almost nothing, and as all such corners are utilized for special
fixtures, storage, etc., the working space was very cramped. Then too,
this now being the top part of the ship, the air was so foul that a man
could only work ten or fifteen minutes before he would become exhausted
and have to be relieved.

Twenty-five hours after our crash dive, the cold chisel—for we had to
use hand tools—finally pierced the hull, and brought daylight!

Four hours more of body-racking work before we had a hole big enough to
stick the head through.

No ships in sight!

                 *       *       *       *       *

A long pole made by joining several sections of the pipe-frames of the
crew’s bunks together with a mattress cover painted with red lead tied
on the end, was, after some trouble, finally forced through this hole.
The slight roll of the ship from the ground-swell caused our distress
signal to wave back and forth. We also tried to give it additional
motion by sliding it up and down as much as our cramped quarters would
allow. From time to time the signal was pulled in to look for ships.
Just before sundown the Captain took a final look. Again nothing in
sight! It looked like another night in hell, perhaps several more, if
we could live that long.

He had just pulled his head in when he thought he heard a steamer’s
whistle. Were his senses deceiving him? The thought came to him that he
must be losing his mind. Now even his eyes were deceiving him, for
there certainly seemed to be a ship out there where none had been
before—and not more than a few hundred yards away. Could it have
approached at such an angle that the projection of the stern kept it
out of sight until close aboard?

                 *       *       *       *       *

It turned out to be a Coast Guard destroyer which had seen the flag,
thought it looked suspicious—some rum-runner’s trick—and had come over
to investigate.

Well, we were soon out of our death-trap, thanks to some good
seamanship on the destroyer’s part in keeping our stern up with her
anchor-chain, while they quickly enlarged the hole so that we could be
pulled out, many of our crew being half-dead from gas, strain and
exhaustion.

As the Captain, the last to leave the ship, climbed exhaustedly up the
side of the destroyer, grimy, oily, unshaven, weary in mind and body,
with throat and lungs raw from the chlorine gas, he was handed a radio
from his Division Commander which had been intercepted by the
destroyer, asking: “Why do you not make position reports?”

He turned to his officers, who were waiting to see that he got aboard
safely, and handed them the message. “Here, one of you answer this for
me. My brain won’t work any longer; I am dead on my feet. Seems to me
you had some sort of a bet on these messages, anyway.”

“That’s right, we did,” said Bud, as he glanced at the radio, and out
of force of habit, was about to turn to Jack Lansing and start in on
who had won the bet, but he too was so exhausted he could not remember
just what the bet was about—and what’s more, decided he did not care.

“All right, Captain, I’ll attend to it for you. Shall I give the
Division Commander the whole story?” he asked.

“Hell, no! Get some sleep. Just reply ‘Position Vertical!’”


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 1929 issue of Blue
Book magazine.]



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76811 ***