Of Ice and Steel

It died as quickly as it had come. Shuddering, moaning steel quieted. The roar of the furious wave faded into silence. Becker opened his eyes into complete blackness. His head felt as if solid lead had replaced his brain, his body rigid, and every muscle coiled and sore. The Captain strained and grunted as he slowly lifted his chest off the chart table. He craned his neck, but could see nothing in the inky dark. Ghostlike moans and whimpers filled his ears. With great effort Becker forced himself upright. His rubber boots slipped on the damp deck. He found a hand-hold and moved his foot forward. The boat listed to port.
A ballast tank has ruptured, he thought. Becker heard a curse as an arc flashed blue-white from behind the main control room lighting panel. Grudgingly, lights glowed till they peaked to a sickening yellow. Once his eyes adjusted, Becker glanced around at charts, logbooks, broken dishes, spare parts, clothing and men lay everywhere. Bundles of red, black and green wire lay in a tangle, along the deck, or dangled from broken panels. Thick black cables hung from the overhead, as if the very guts of the submarine lay strung out.
A reeking stench of bilge water, sweaty men and rotting food filled Becker’s nose. He shook his head to clear the dizziness in his skull. “Get me Damage reports!”
Men stirred and struggled to their feet. Their breath came in pants.
Becker carefully pulled himself to the depth gauge. Where are we? He thought. His memory came back in a rush. I ordered us to dive. If the vents opened, we could be falling beyond crush depth.
Becker scanned the depth gauges again then at the main gauge with its plate-sized white dial. His brow wrinkled. The thin black needle indicated zero.
“Chief,” Becker turned, almost losing his boot’s grip on the tilted deck. “Where is Edel?”
“Here, sir.” Edel wedged himself up using the silver periscope barrel for support.
“I need a full report.”
“Yes, sir,” Edel mumbled as he limped aft.
Becker noticed his men with their eyes blank, mouth open taking in the foul cold air. Becker recognized that vacant look, the look that always preceded panic. “Okay, let’s get this sty back in order,” he bellowed. “Come on men, nap time is over.” Becker clapped his hands. “Frimunt,” he called.
“Sir” a weak voice answered.
“Frimunt, where are you?” Becker saw boots lying behind the barrel like gyrocompass. The boots moved. Frimunt rose to his knees. A trembling hand reached for the top of the compass. Frimunt groaned and with effort, as he pushed his shaking frame upright. “Sir …” He staggered a step, his legs wobbly. Jarman, the control room electrician, dropped his tools and stepped up the sloping deck just as Frimunt’s legs collapsed. Jarman put his chest into the Lieutenant’s, holding him up. Frimunt’s head slumped over the smaller man’s shoulder.
“Help here,” Jarman pleaded.