The stab wound to my bicep appeared to be something that a bit of antibiotic and several sutures would fix. At first they didn't see the leg injury, but when they cut the suit away, the leg was filled with blood, and they quickly discovered that the Russian's knife had severed my femoral artery. Things happened pretty fast after that.
Sergyi strapped a tourniquet around my upper thigh, while Jack crashed the outer lock to the Can's depth, hoping he wouldn't rupture my eardrums in the process — a painful, but not life-threatening process. At the same time, Doctor Bollinger and Doc Branson were rushed to the Can where they pressed down in the entry lock. In three minutes, the doctor was examining my leg. He had no option. His only choice was to open the wound and attempt a repair to the artery. There was no time to decompress me — the job needed to be done immediately, or I was going to lose my leg or even my life.
Conditions for the operation were way less than ideal, but Doc sterilized my leg, and created a kind of clean space around the wound using sterilized cloths and alcohol wiped stainless wire that the guys rigged. Doctor Bollinger performed a miracle inside that cramped, overcrowded, pressurized tin can. A half-hour later, he and Doc removed their surgical masks and gave the camera a thumbs-up. A helium distorted cheer rose from the occupants of the Can.
Since we still had at least a half-day of decompression, the doctor decided to dress and suture my other stab wound. With that done, he attended my slashed left hand. Ham described his meticulous closure of the four-inch plus slash, and the thirteen careful stitches. During the entire procedure, Sergyi sat quietly out of the way, but paying close attention to everything that was happening. I found out later that the guys had told him the only reason he was alive was because of me, and the proud Ukrainian figured he owed me.
By the time the doctor had completed his third task, Jack had already locked back into the sub, going through a staged decompression, with a ten minute stop at fifty feet, a ten minute stop on pure oxygen at thirty feet, and a five-minute 02 stop at ten feet. Jimmy was none the worse for his experience, and locked out next. By the time Doctor Bollinger was ready to leave, the Can was at seventy feet, and he was able to leave with just a five-minute stop at fifty feet and ten minutes of 02 at ten feet. Doc stayed with me. The next day everybody surfaced, and they got me out.
In the meantime, the crippled Whiskey Skipper had panicked when his divers failed to return. Apparently the Soviet commander put his remaining diver in the water from the after deck on a tether. We knew this because our Skipper had initially deployed the Basketball to observe our activities. I didn't know about this because everything happened so fast that no one remembered to tell me, and once we were outside, there was no way to let us know, short of nudging one of us with the Basketball, and that just didn't seem like a good thing. So, from a distance through the Basketball the Skipper and everybody who could find a monitor watched our disabling of the Whiskey, saw Jimmy's predicament, observed my actions that ultimately saved his life, and then they watched in fascinated horror my silent pantomime — my death dance with the two Russian divers.
Once the divers were secure, including me, the Basketball returned to its observations for a few more minutes while we got ready to move back into our secure position underneath the trawler. We — that is everyone but me — watched the third diver discover the mess around the screws, and watched him pull the hawser out of the torpedo tube door. As for the blocked inlet, when the Whiskey shut down its diesels, the ragged patch must have fallen away. It would have floated for sure, and would have been easily spotted had it surfaced orange side up. Most likely it displayed the black side, because the Whiskey did nothing unusual to retrieve anything in the water.
Once I was safely inside the Can and it was clear that the Whiskey was disabled for a while at least, the Skipper retrieved the Basketball and maneuvered us back under the trawler, which had taken the opportunity presented by the disabled Whiskey to move away smartly at six knots. Within a few minutes we were back in place, with Sonar basically maintaining our position with the thruster controller while we made turns for six knots, or whatever the trawler was doing at any given moment.
As the trawler moved through the Fourth Kuril Straight, the U.S. Navy warships several miles to the north put up such a sonar racket that neither the Victor nor any of its fleet mates could hear themselves, let alone detect us creeping along beneath the Trawler. The Four-five-four apparently came to the aid of the Whiskey, but we learned later that the Whiskey had to dry dock at Petropavlovsk to have its shaft seals replaced. This meant the Whiskey had to be taken in tow by somebody up the island chain, along the outer coast, and ignominiously into the protected harbor at Petropavlovsk.
But that was all five days ago.
Ham happily informed me that we were somewhere in the vast North Pacific, trundling along at 600 feet, and making six and a half knots. Some higher-up had decided that we would bring our haul all the way back to Mare Island, which was fine by me, because that meant I would have a bit more time to get acquainted with our prisoner, and my personal savior.
I still was pretty weak, but I was healing, and Doctor Bollinger told me my femoral artery had knitted back together without a hitch. He wanted to keep me off my leg as long as possible to facilitate the healing process.
That afternoon, Sergyi showed up with a chessboard, and proceeded to teach me a thing or two about the intricacies of the game that I thought I already knew how to play. Over the next three weeks, he spent virtually every waking moment hovering near me, attentive to my every wish. At first it annoyed me a bit, but then I began to realize that he was profoundly grateful for having his life, and was trying to communicate this to me in the only way he knew how. When I tried to tell him that his actions on my behalf had evened the score, he would have none of it.
"If not Sergyi, then Jack or Jimmy," he said. "You no be lost. But if not El-Tee, Sergyi be lost for sure!"
There was no arguing with him. In his mind the picture was crystal clear.
As the days passed, Sergyi began to ask me about America and about my home. I told him general things, how I had come up through the ranks, and how we ran our military in a genuinely free and democratic society.
Sergyi expressed astonishment when I told him how I got my commission. "El-Tee sailor first, then officer… now Sergyi know why El-Tee damn good officer!"