Hymns to Neptune III, continued
[Continued from previous post]
“Five oh feet, sir.”
“Five oh, aye. Secure blowing
aft!”
“Secure aft, aye!”
Silence aft now. Silence throughout
the boat. The voices in control room
seem louder in the quiet.
“After group secured, sir.”
“Very well.”
“All main ballast blown and secured,
sir.”
“Very well.”
“Four oh feet, sir.”
“Four oh, aye. Zero bubble.”
“Zero bubble, aye.”
Harry’s feet come level with his head
again. Surface turbulence begins to
reach down and sway the rising hull
now.
“Zero bubble, sir.”
“Very well.”
Gentle silent coasting upward, with
now the beginning of gentle swaying
surface motion all in silence. Harry
hears water sighing against the metal
skin of the hull.
“Three oh feet, sir.”
“Very well.”
“Two five feet, sir.”
“Start the low-pressure blowers.”
“Start the blowers, aye.”
A whining low rumble fills the submar-
ine. The low-pressure blowers force the
remaining water from the ballast tanks,
but they also take air from inside the
boat. Harry’s ears protest. He holds his
nose and blows.
“Conning tower is out of the water, sir.”
“Very well!”
“Light on the hatch?” “Red, sir.”
“Light on the hatch?” “Red, sir.”
“Light on the #$%*! hatch?” “Intermediate, sir.”
“#$%&*!” “Blowers are pulling a vacuum in the
boat, sir.”
“Call up there and ask ’em what
their %*$%! trouble is!”
“Green light on the upper hatch!”
“Crack the lower hatch!”
“Well?”
“Too much vacuum, sir. She’s
sucked shut.”
“Stop the %$*! blowers!”
“Secure the blow, aye.”
Momentary and absolute silence.
“Blow’s secured.”
Then:
“Bleed air!”
“Air, aye!”
Harry feels it before he hears the loud
roar, the brutal assault on pummeled ear-
drums, and through it the tinny distant
voices shouting.
“Pressure?”
“Equalized.”
“Secure the air!”
“-ure the air, aye!” Abrupt silence
“Now open that damn thing.”
“Hatch . . . is . . . open!”
Again the ears and now the nose pro-
test. Fresh sea air whooshes into the
atmosphere. It smells peculiar and
somehow sickly thin because it is devoid
of engine oil, perspiration, cigarette-
smoke and batterygas. The submarine
pitches and rolls, nodding obliquely into
the sea. Waves slap the hull near Harry’s
head and over it, for on the surface he is
still beneath the water line. He drowses
in the dark motion. His body responds
gently to the gentle rolling caress of the
surface. He burrows into his blanket
in darkness. He knows where he has
been: he has been on watch. He knows
where he is going: he is going back on
watch. But not for another two hours.
He does not know why they have sur-
faced and he does not really care (he is
too sleepy with the pleasant ache of
work accomplished). He does not know
if it is day or night (there are too many
more important things to keep track of
even in his sleep).
Ah-oo-gah! Ah-ooo-gah!
Dive! Dive!
He must have been sleeping because
now he wakes again. He hears the metal
sound of scrambling feet descending, lis-
tens hard for the punctuation, hears it:
the distant hard clang! of the upper
hatch slamming shut. He lets go a little,
waiting in complete and lonely dark-
ness for the routine pressure test, wait-
ing so hard with his ears they begin to
hurt with the strain.
“Bleed air!”
“Bleed a-!” Air roars under heavy
pressure into the sealed hull and stops
abruptly, leaving in its wake a strangely
twisted silence and the musty smell of
steel flasks.
[Continued in next post]