From deep inside of him, something like a sob forced its way to the surface. Only about a minute ago everything had been normal! He had been standing on the bridge of his ship, supervising the normal surfacing procedure. Now he knew not what unimaginable disaster could be occurring to Eel, submerged beneath him. All depended upon whether or not it had been possible to get the main induction valve shut. This could be done by hand power, but it was a long and tedious procedure during which incalculable amounts of water would be taken into the ship. If Al Dugan had not been swept away from his station in the control room, he would have signaled the engine room to stop the engines. This would have caused the men also to shut the large air flapper valves in each engineroom on the two inboard ends of the huge air-induction line. Possibly, realizing the boat had submerged from the way the engines would be laboring, certainly when solid water came in through the overhead air line, the machinist’s mates on watch would secure their compartments of their own accord.
Since the accident to the submarine Squalus, some five years earlier, the air-induction lines of all submarines had been redesigned so that their safety valves in the enginerooms snapped shut on a spring when the latching mechanism was triggered, instead of having to be closed by laboriously cranking, as in Squalus. In each engineroom, the releasing device for the spring was located some distance away from where the pipe debouched its air — and in case of casualty, water. At the first gout of seawater through the main induction pipe, the engineroom people on their own should yank the quick-release toggles, slam their engine throttles to “stop,” and shove the hydraulic control to shut the engine exhaust valves. Simultaneously, they would frantically crank closed the hand-powered exhaust valves which backed up the hydraulic ones.
If they had acted quickly, as they had been trained, there was hope that Eel had not been seriously damaged or put out of action. In such case, she might indeed be able to resurface in a short period, and if so would immediately come back to look for him and Oregon.
On the other hand, much more might have gone wrong. Eel might at this very moment be lying flooded throughout her length, or, as in Squalus’ case, half her length, on the bottom of the Yellow Sea. Certainly, her crew would have much to do before they could consider worrying about him, even assuming they were able to resurface at all. All he could do was to try to remain afloat and wait for rescue, if rescue was to come.
Now he blessed the caution which, stemming from his New London days, had made it an inflexible requirement that people going on the bridge during the surfacing procedure, and at any time in enemy waters, should wear the standard rubber inflatable life belts with which all ships were equipped. He felt again for the toggles and squeezed them. Instantly there was additional pressure around his middle. Evidently one of the carbon-dioxide cylinders had previously not been punctured. His body immediately rose nearly chest-high out of the water. The belt pressed around him comfortably. It had slipped upward to just beneath his arms. Keeping afloat, at all events, was not a problem.
The water somehow felt warm. The air was colder. He had not noticed it before, wondered how long he could last in these conditions. He had read that in the North Atlantic in the winter a man could live only minutes in the water before his body temperature became so far reduced that his vital forces simply came to a halt. Here it was not so bad. Maybe he could last until morning, perhaps even longer if he were lucky. Surely the Eel would come back soon!
Paddling with his hands, he turned completely about, searched in all directions. His binoculars still hung around his neck. He shook them as dry as he could, tried to use them. They were little help. Although the sea had seemed nearly calm from the deck of the submarine, there was, in fact, a small swell which effectively prevented his seeing more than fifty or a hundred feet in any direction. He debated taking the leather thong from around his neck and allowing the binoculars to sink in the water, decided not to. He might be able to use them after dawn broke. That was, however, nearly twelve hours away.
He thought he heard something, a distant hail, a voice shouting something. Again he turned around, paddling with his hands, tried to determine the direction from which the voice came, listened intently.
“Ahoy!” the voice shouted. He turned toward it.
“Ahoy!” he yelled. He could see nothing. “Ahoy!” he yelled again.
“Here! Over here!” the voice said.
He began torturously to swim, encumbered by his clothes and the life belt around his middle. He had not even removed his shoes, feeling that the maximum protection he could get against the ultimate cold of the seawater would be to his benefit.
He swam several minutes, stopped, and listened. He was making progress. The voice was louder. Soon he was able to recognize it. Oregon, also floating in the sea, also supported by a life belt.
“Jee-sus, Captain! When I saw the ship go under with you perched on top of the hatch under the bridge overhang, I never thought you’d make it out again!”
“What happened, Oregon? What did you see?”
“Nothing, sir. I fell in the water, and when I got up I saw you trying to get the hatch shut, so I started climbing up the periscope shears. She went down like a rock, sir. I could hear water going into the main induction. That must have made her really heavy, and when the periscope shears went under I just floated off the top. After a while I started yelling, figuring if you came up maybe you’d hear me, and anyway, the Eel should come back looking for us. They’ll be up pretty soon, don’t you think, sir?”
“Any minute now, I think,” reassured Richardson, but he wondered if he could believe his own words. With the hydraulic system out of commission, whatever the cause, the main vents somehow open — though they could, with difficulty, be closed by hand — and with the main induction system flooded, Eel would be having many problems.
But how could the vents have been opened in the first place? Especially without hydraulic power? The explanation, the only possible explanation, was that the last time the vents had been cycled they had not properly closed. Cycling the vents — opening and shutting them — was customary once or twice a watch while submerged, to release any air that might have leaked into the ballast tanks. If they did not close properly, the fact should have been evident on the red-and-green “Christmas Tree” light panel; but it might have escaped attention. When goggles were worn in a redded-out, darkened compartment, green lights could not be seen at all. Without goggles, they were so brilliant as to hurt the eyes, which then, somehow, could not separate the reds. Understandably, the absence of some green lights might not have been noticed!
If so, if this was what had happened, the fault for the casualty could only be one of command. He should have noticed that Eel was not floating normally, that her freeboard was decreasing as the air blown into the tanks leaked out through the partly open vent valves. It would have been so easy for Oregon and him to step quietly inside the hatch again! He could blame no one but himself. Dark shadows descended on his mind. His own incompetence, his failure to keep his mind on his job, had brought his ship and his crew to this disaster!
Sensing Richardson’s mood, Oregon too was silent. Side by side the two men floated in the Yellow Sea. Several minutes — a quarter of an hour — passed. Rich aroused himself. He still owed a duty to the one member of his crew destined to share with him whatever the uncertain future held. “Oregon,” he said, “I shouldn’t try to kid you about what shape Eel might be in. Even if they do make it back up in a short while, there’s no telling if they’ll be able to find us with the kind of visibility we’ve been having around here. Do you have any line on you? We should lash ourselves together. We may be floating here a long time.”