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Sea Dogs of the Atlantic
Author Unknown (circa 1943)
Jensen closed his eyes and fought the primal dread. Contradictions battered his brain. He clung to a handle on the submarine bulkhead while the boat plunged into the black icy depths, fleeing deadly depth charges launched by an enemy seemingly possessed of a demonic accuracy. The steel was cold and dripping with condensation against his fingers, but the stale air was stifling and hot. It seemed thick and difficult to drag into his lungs. With eyes closed, Jensen's brain had only his inner ears for orientation, and he felt the boat rushing down, down horrifyingly close to crush depth, reeling and rotating sickeningly through echoes of shock waves from the too-close explosions. The moaning of tortured metal rang in his ears like a cracked church bell ringing a death knell.
He hauled his eyelids open with a gasp, adrenaline chilling his feet, still rooted to the deck. Red emergency lights dimly painted the gray painted corridor. The boat was unusually quiet. "Silent running" was the order. Jensen gritted his teeth and swallowed his fear with a supreme inner effort. He forced his legs to move as quickly and quietly as possible to his station in the forward torpedo room.
On the bridge, Captain Morgan Smith was working on an insane plan. All his training and every manual on the boat said it was not only impossible but patently stupid. However, he was out of options. He would fire a torpedo up toward the surface in the desperate hope of destroying the implacable German enemy. Torpedos were designed to travel horizontally, even the kind the sub carried which were made to be fired under water. Even if they could stop their dive; flood the rear ballast tanks to raise the bow; and somehow fire almost straight up... the torpedo's own internal gyros might turn the fish to swim parallel to the surface where it would explode harmlessly, not even making a ripple on the surface at this depth.
Smith had sent a runner down with a note containing instructions for the Chief. The note had been written neatly and carefully two weeks before, with a prayer it would never be used. Smith knew the Chief would obey without question. He was a good man, maybe the best Smith had encountered in sixteen long years in the service. He would have the boys quietly load tube number one with the special fish; the trackless Mark 18 painted red and stored off the loader in maintenance clamps. Smith smiled grimly, remembering the Mark 18 was based on a stolen German design. He would send it home with a few changes of his own. This fish would swim straight up like a rocket, or at least that was the theory. It had never been tested. He stole a last look at the creased photograph in his shirt pocket; his wife and son. He couldn't really see them in the dim bridge lighting, but he knew every bit of that image by heart. So close... in just a few weeks he would be been relieved permanently, promoted and retired with an officer's pension at just age 34, young enough to go back home and take that job in his father's business.
Smith set his jaw and slid the picture carefully back in his pocket. He wasn't dead yet, and even though this was a million-to-one shot, he had to take it. It was the only chance to bring the boys back alive from this damned bottomless trench. Despite the pounding, the Christmas tree was still green. Depth was 560 feet, fifteen degree down bubble. The time for action was now or never. He laid his hand on the shoulder of the seaman manning the left wheel and carefully gave his final orders.
Jensen was happy to be busy. Nothing was worse than the waiting with nothing to do; waiting for the teltale ticks that preceeded the explosion that would decompress and flatten the boat. It was no consolation at all to be told that death would come so fast there would be no time for pain. And how the hell did they really know that anyway? The Chief had picked him and three other guys to load the tube. Jensen spun the lock and checked the seal. He gave the Chief the high sign with a hopeful grin. The Chief nodded back just as the boat changed direction with a lurch. The Chief was hanging on to a handle next to Fire Control. He had armed the fish and flooded the tube already and had his palm ready to strike the button.
The boat yawed crazily as the Captain reversed the props, cranked the bow planes, blew the forward ballast and flooded the aft tanks, violating every rule in the submariner's book all at once. The moans from the hull rose into shrieks as stresses instantly peaked beyond all engineering limits. Any man without a handhold slid and scrambled helplessly down the deck toward the aft bulkhead. Nobody yelled out. Even near-panic did not countermand their orders to remain silent. The Chief held fast at Fire Control, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead as he waited for his Captain's signal.
At that moment, the watertight door that had been held shut by the stored Mark 18 torpedo burst open. Out rushed a marauding herd of carniverous warthogs (being transported to Norfolk for questioning) which devoured every last brave member of the submarine crew, men and officers alike.
And a good meal was had by all.
