civilian work clothing, some in naval uniform, one showing the four broad stripes of a captain. Behind them a dozen old submarines were moored to heavy wooden pilings. Serried ranks of gray had faded to a ghostly white. The rounded hulls were streaked with dirt and rust, and rubbing scars showed where the paint had scraped off against the pilings. In two groups of six each, they floated so high that the curve at the bottom of each bow, where it turned aft to join the keel, was visible above the water. Torpedo tubes, normally below the surface, were totallyexposed, bow and stern. The effect was incongruous. If submarines could fly, this was how theyâd look just before lift-off.
Prominent on the deck of each of the submarines was a large silver dome about six feet high with a thick, stubby projection on one side and curved vertical ribbing intersecting at the top like longitude lines on a global map. This was the protective covering over a mothballed deck gun. One submarine displayed two such domes, one forward and one aft of the bridge. With a pang of sentimental attachment, Richardson recognized the Eel . This was where she had been left, abandoned, fifteen years before. This was exactly the spot, unchanged, except that now there seemed to be fewer ships of all kinds around. Eel was fourth boat out in a nest of six, exactly as she had been. She had been carefully prepared for the mothball fleet. All deactivation instructions had been meticulously, even lovingly, carried out. Her machinery files were complete; her spare parts were as up to date as they could be, with requisitions to fill deficiencies already prepared. Her batteries, ammunition, torpedoes, fuel and provisions had been removed, her propellers detached from their shafts and securely stowed on deck. Her interior compartments had been scrubbed clean, painted where necessary, at the endâjust before the dehumidifiers were turned on and the hatches locked.
Her crew had gradually been diminished during the deactivation period, until only a few were left. Then these also departed, leaving Eel , covered with gray preservative paint, tethered with heavy lines through bow and stern chocks, floating a full ten feet above her normal waterline. And there she lay, now, exactly where she had been waiting all these years.
Could inanimate hulls that once were living ships have a personality, could they think in fact as sailors are accustomed to credit them in fancy, Eel might have spent the intervening years grieving for the masters she had once served. The thought was maudlin. Richardson had felt no compulsion to revisit his old ship. Yet now, the first time back, the forgotten emotions were with him, as if they, too, had lain dormant awaiting his return. He recalled that he himself, citing the tradition that the captain must be the last to leave his ship, had shut the last hatch, been last man over the side, on that final day of abandonment. It had been done as a matter of course, not with any show of emotion,but symbolic nevertheless. Eel was not, after all, to be done away with. She was not, like the Walrus , gone forever. She would someday be returned to the active fleet, to resume the glory of a free being in the limitless sea. And yet, there had been a feeling of abandonment. He had imagined her crying not to be left alone. There was the memory of a lump in the throat, a voice not quite ringing true, a hand secretly caressing the bridge rail and periscope supports as he took his final leave.
Much had happened since then, but he had not been back. Until now; and suddenly it was all alive again.
The man wearing the four-striped uniform came around the car to Richardsonâs side as Rich stepped out the door. âCaptain Richardson?â he asked, dubiously eyeing the civilian suit. âIâm Jim Boggs, reserve fleet commander. This is sure good of you. I can appreciate why you wanted to do this, and it solves a problem for us, too. Great idea, but why
Prominent on the deck of each of the submarines was a large silver dome about six feet high with a thick, stubby projection on one side and curved vertical ribbing intersecting at the top like longitude lines on a global map. This was the protective covering over a mothballed deck gun. One submarine displayed two such domes, one forward and one aft of the bridge. With a pang of sentimental attachment, Richardson recognized the Eel . This was where she had been left, abandoned, fifteen years before. This was exactly the spot, unchanged, except that now there seemed to be fewer ships of all kinds around. Eel was fourth boat out in a nest of six, exactly as she had been. She had been carefully prepared for the mothball fleet. All deactivation instructions had been meticulously, even lovingly, carried out. Her machinery files were complete; her spare parts were as up to date as they could be, with requisitions to fill deficiencies already prepared. Her batteries, ammunition, torpedoes, fuel and provisions had been removed, her propellers detached from their shafts and securely stowed on deck. Her interior compartments had been scrubbed clean, painted where necessary, at the endâjust before the dehumidifiers were turned on and the hatches locked.
Her crew had gradually been diminished during the deactivation period, until only a few were left. Then these also departed, leaving Eel , covered with gray preservative paint, tethered with heavy lines through bow and stern chocks, floating a full ten feet above her normal waterline. And there she lay, now, exactly where she had been waiting all these years.
Could inanimate hulls that once were living ships have a personality, could they think in fact as sailors are accustomed to credit them in fancy, Eel might have spent the intervening years grieving for the masters she had once served. The thought was maudlin. Richardson had felt no compulsion to revisit his old ship. Yet now, the first time back, the forgotten emotions were with him, as if they, too, had lain dormant awaiting his return. He recalled that he himself, citing the tradition that the captain must be the last to leave his ship, had shut the last hatch, been last man over the side, on that final day of abandonment. It had been done as a matter of course, not with any show of emotion,but symbolic nevertheless. Eel was not, after all, to be done away with. She was not, like the Walrus , gone forever. She would someday be returned to the active fleet, to resume the glory of a free being in the limitless sea. And yet, there had been a feeling of abandonment. He had imagined her crying not to be left alone. There was the memory of a lump in the throat, a voice not quite ringing true, a hand secretly caressing the bridge rail and periscope supports as he took his final leave.
Much had happened since then, but he had not been back. Until now; and suddenly it was all alive again.
The man wearing the four-striped uniform came around the car to Richardsonâs side as Rich stepped out the door. âCaptain Richardson?â he asked, dubiously eyeing the civilian suit. âIâm Jim Boggs, reserve fleet commander. This is sure good of you. I can appreciate why you wanted to do this, and it solves a problem for us, too. Great idea, but why
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