spin the periscope around for a look at the destroyers. Oh, oh! Here they come, and pul-lenty mad! Take her down!
We are up to fifty-six feet when finally we start back down. Back to sixty feet, and now we can plainly hear that malignant thum, thum, thum, thum again. Down she plunges, seeking the protection that only the depths can give. THUM, THUM, THUM, THUMâWHAM!âWHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! and so on for forty-seven consecutive bullâs-eyes, no clicks at all! It seems inconceivable that any machine, made of man, can withstand such a vicious pounding. The air inside the Trigger is filled with fine particles of paint, cork, and dust. Ventilation lines and pipe lines vibrate themselves out of sight and fill the confined spaces with the discordant hum of a hundred ill-matched tuning forks. Everyone is knocked off his feet, clutches gropingly at tables, ladders, pipes, or anything to help regain his footing. A big section of cork is bounced off the hull and lands on the deck alongside the auxiliaryman; as he stoops to pick it up and drop it in a trash can he is knocked to his hands and knees and the trash can spills all over the cork. The lights go out, but the emergency lights give adequate illumination. The heavy steel-pressure bulkheads squeeze inward with each blow and spring out again. Deck plates and gratings throughout the ship jump from their places and clatter around, adding missile hazard to our troubles. The whole hull rings and shudders, whips and shakes itself, bounces sideways, up and down.
Two hundred feet, and still the agony continues, the rain of depth charges, if anything, increases in fury. How can man, made of soft flesh and not steel, stand up under such merciless, excruciating pounding? But stand it we do, with dry lips and nervous eyes.
We are scared, but fear leaves our brains clear, our bodies quick and sure. As usual, the temperature soars, 120 degrees or better. We reach 300 feet, but cannot stop sinkingfor we are heavy. Forward torpedo room bilges are full of water taken in when we fire the torpedoes. Stern tube packing leaks at this depth, and motor room bilges are filling up. Pump room and engine rooms are taking water more slowly through tortured sea valves and fittings. Besides that, the compression of the hull due to the great depth decreases our buoyant volume. We are heavy by about three or four tons, and we dare not pump, because it would make too much noise, especially bucking sea pressure at this depth.
The depth charges cease, but we can hear the angry screws buzzing around overhead. Maybe theyâve temporarily lost us. If we can keep silent, creep away, we have a chance of evading. But we sink slowly, although we run with a fifteen-degree up angle. We dare not increase speed over the silent speed, and thus increase our chances of being heard. Absolute silence. The auxiliaryman and trim-manifold man have their tools laid on the deck instead of in their usual racks. Some men take off their shoes. The bucket brigade bails water silently from the motor room bilges and silently pours it into the after torpedo room bilges. All hands talk in whispers. The bow and stern planes and steering have been put into hand operation instead of hydraulic, and brawny sailors sweat profusely as they turn the huge wheels. They must be relieved every five minutes, for they gasp for breath in the foul air.
Weâve been breathing this same air since early morning, and now it is night again. Eighty-five men use up a lot of oxygen, especially when doing hard physical work. We test the atmosphereâ2½ per cent carbon dioxide. Three per cent is the danger lineâcan knock you out. Four per cent will kill you, if you canât get out of it. So we spread Co 2 absorbent, and release oxygen from our oxygen bottles. That helps. But the heatânothing can be done about that. You simply sweat and eat salt tablets. Your clothes and shoes are soaked.
We are up to fifty-six feet when finally we start back down. Back to sixty feet, and now we can plainly hear that malignant thum, thum, thum, thum again. Down she plunges, seeking the protection that only the depths can give. THUM, THUM, THUM, THUMâWHAM!âWHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! and so on for forty-seven consecutive bullâs-eyes, no clicks at all! It seems inconceivable that any machine, made of man, can withstand such a vicious pounding. The air inside the Trigger is filled with fine particles of paint, cork, and dust. Ventilation lines and pipe lines vibrate themselves out of sight and fill the confined spaces with the discordant hum of a hundred ill-matched tuning forks. Everyone is knocked off his feet, clutches gropingly at tables, ladders, pipes, or anything to help regain his footing. A big section of cork is bounced off the hull and lands on the deck alongside the auxiliaryman; as he stoops to pick it up and drop it in a trash can he is knocked to his hands and knees and the trash can spills all over the cork. The lights go out, but the emergency lights give adequate illumination. The heavy steel-pressure bulkheads squeeze inward with each blow and spring out again. Deck plates and gratings throughout the ship jump from their places and clatter around, adding missile hazard to our troubles. The whole hull rings and shudders, whips and shakes itself, bounces sideways, up and down.
Two hundred feet, and still the agony continues, the rain of depth charges, if anything, increases in fury. How can man, made of soft flesh and not steel, stand up under such merciless, excruciating pounding? But stand it we do, with dry lips and nervous eyes.
We are scared, but fear leaves our brains clear, our bodies quick and sure. As usual, the temperature soars, 120 degrees or better. We reach 300 feet, but cannot stop sinkingfor we are heavy. Forward torpedo room bilges are full of water taken in when we fire the torpedoes. Stern tube packing leaks at this depth, and motor room bilges are filling up. Pump room and engine rooms are taking water more slowly through tortured sea valves and fittings. Besides that, the compression of the hull due to the great depth decreases our buoyant volume. We are heavy by about three or four tons, and we dare not pump, because it would make too much noise, especially bucking sea pressure at this depth.
The depth charges cease, but we can hear the angry screws buzzing around overhead. Maybe theyâve temporarily lost us. If we can keep silent, creep away, we have a chance of evading. But we sink slowly, although we run with a fifteen-degree up angle. We dare not increase speed over the silent speed, and thus increase our chances of being heard. Absolute silence. The auxiliaryman and trim-manifold man have their tools laid on the deck instead of in their usual racks. Some men take off their shoes. The bucket brigade bails water silently from the motor room bilges and silently pours it into the after torpedo room bilges. All hands talk in whispers. The bow and stern planes and steering have been put into hand operation instead of hydraulic, and brawny sailors sweat profusely as they turn the huge wheels. They must be relieved every five minutes, for they gasp for breath in the foul air.
Weâve been breathing this same air since early morning, and now it is night again. Eighty-five men use up a lot of oxygen, especially when doing hard physical work. We test the atmosphereâ2½ per cent carbon dioxide. Three per cent is the danger lineâcan knock you out. Four per cent will kill you, if you canât get out of it. So we spread Co 2 absorbent, and release oxygen from our oxygen bottles. That helps. But the heatânothing can be done about that. You simply sweat and eat salt tablets. Your clothes and shoes are soaked.
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