## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Crash dive

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Title: Crash dive

Author: Claude C. Vickrey

Illustrator: Lealand Gustavson

Release date: September 4, 2025 [eBook #76811]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago, IL: Consolidated Magazines Corporation, 1929

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRASH DIVE ***

# Crash Dive

The men in gas-masks working on a ship almost on its head, was a sight to haunt one.

Crash Dive
by Claude C. Vickrey
Illustrated by L. R. Gustavson

> An American submarine officer tells a vivid story of his dangerous service.

“Rig ship for diving!”

Having just come from the submarine school at New London, I had yet to make my first “crash” dive, as the old-timers so aptly call it when you slam a submarine down and out of sight with full diving rudder, as if the enemy had suddenly come upon you in a fog.

The other officers on the ship, who had been “in the boats” for years, didn’t seem to be much excited. Bud Tyler the executive, and Jack Lansing the engineering officer, were arguing away just as if they were discussing something important.

Their arguments usually had three stages—an extravagant statement by Bud, a flat contradiction by Jack, and a bet. Apparently, they had reached the third stage, so I joined them to act as judge.

“Any bet yet?” I asked.

“Yes, and I want you to bear witness that Bud bets me the first day’s duty at Pensacola that the division commander will pester us with more, ‘Why did you not do so and so?’ messages on this trip south than, ‘Cannot understand why you did so and so’s.’”

“Does that include semaphore signals as well as radio?” I wanted to get the bet straight. “For we join the division commander and the other submarines after we finish our engineering runs, don’t we?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “it means all messages from the time we left New London until we arrive in Pensacola.”

That afternoon we “rigged ship for diving.” As I wanted to learn all I could, I decided to make the rounds with the “chief-of-the-boat” to acquaint myself with the details—and there were a surprising lot of them. The chief-of-the-boat is, more or less, a sea-going top-sergeant.

The diving-log was consulted to check up on the weights that had been added to, or taken aboard since the last dive. Any change of weight was compensated for by blowing out of, or flooding water into, special tanks designed for this purpose. The trim or balance, fore and aft, was also inspected and adjusted. All hatches and outboard openings, except those necessary for ventilation purposes, were closed and secured; batteries were charged, and air-tanks filled with compressed air for blowing water out of tanks.

“Ship rigged for diving, sir,” reported the chief-of-the-boat.

The Captain decided on a “slow dive,” as he wanted to accustom all hands to their stations, since the ship had been in the Navy Yard for some time being overhauled. Moreover he wanted to check the diving trim under actual diving conditions before making a crash dive.

At three o’clock the general alarm was sounded. The Diesel engines were stopped and the engine clutch thrown out. We then shifted to our electric motors, which are always used for the submerged run. All outboard openings, such as the engine exhausts and ventilating systems, were closed. The conning-tower hatch was closed and secured. The Kingston sea-valves were opened, flooding the six ballast tanks, and the ship slowly submerged.

We were then in a state of approximate neutral buoyancy—that is, neither heavier nor lighter than water.

The Captain, who was at the periscope, keeping an eye out for any approaching vessels, gave the order: “Depth twenty-eight feet.” The diving officer, noting that more “rise” than “dive” rudder was being used, ordered four or five hundred pounds of water pumped from the adjusting tank to sea. This helped, but we were still a little heavy forward. By pumping water from the extreme forward tank to the extreme after tank, a proper balance or trim was obtained.

She now held her depth easily. But to get a fine check, it was necessary to slow down to a very low speed, so that after a few more small adjustments of water, the ship would almost hang at any depth with very little rudder.

As soon as the Captain saw that the diving officer had his trim, he lowered the periscope and ordered different depths and speeds to give the diving-rudder men practice at depth-keeping.

Finally we reached one hundred feet. Everything went smoothly, so the Captain decided to come up. As we had been considerably below periscope depth for some time our motors were stopped and the hydrophone man trained his listening tube all around to see if there was any propeller noise from ships in the vicinity. Hearing none, the ship was brought rapidly to the surface by blowing the water from the ballast tanks, and soon we were cruising ahead again on our engines, Pensacola-bound.

The ship was brought to the surface, and soon we were cruising ahead again, Pensacola-bound.

Word was passed shortly before eleven next morning to “rig ship for diving.” We had just about completed our full-power engine run and were preparing for our full-power run submerged. According to the rules, the dive on this run must be a crash dive, with a penalty applied against our yearly engineering standing if we did not get our conning-tower under water and out of sight in less than sixty seconds after the diving siren was sounded. A good diving crew could make it in considerably less time, but even with sixty seconds, each man had to know his job and do the right thing at exactly the right time.

The ship was rigged for diving; the crew was standing by diving stations, and all was in readiness for the diving alarm which was to be sounded at eleven sharp.

There was a feeling of alertness in the air. Everyone kept glancing at the clock.

The chief-of-the-boat, an old-time chief gunner’s mate with years of submarine service, was standing by the “main induction,” which he was to close upon diving, and after that keep an eye on the other stations in the control-room, ready to supervise and help in any emergency.

In order to understand what happened, it will be best perhaps to explain that the main induction is a large air-intake or ventilating line, one part of which runs aft to the engine-room and motor-room, assuring a supply of air for the engines; the other leads forward to the torpedo-room, furnishing air to the forward part of the ship. These two parts join amidships in the control-room—which, as the name signifies, is where the ship is controlled when submerged—and forming an inverted T, pass through the upper part of the hull to the open air. The main induction must be closed before submerging, but should not be closed until the Diesel engines are stopped; for if by accident the conning-tower hatch were also closed, the engines would use up all the air in the boat in four or five revolutions. Should this occur—and it has occurred on some submarines with almost fatal results—everyone in the boat would drop as if shot, from collapsed lungs. So you can see that the chief’s station was an important one.

As the hands of the control-room clock moved to eleven and the second hand came to zero, the order rang out: “Sound diving alarm.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” came from the officer-of-the-deck, and the siren shrieked its call for action throughout the ship.

Men jumped to their tasks. Air was hissing; sharp orders were given; a dozen things were being done at once. A single mistake, and the results might prove fatal to us all.

The watch on the bridge slid down the hatch, the quartermaster staying in the conning-tower ready to close the conning-tower hatch the instant he heard the engines shut down. The chief-of-the-boat had his hand on the stop valve ready to close the main induction. The diving-rudder men had “Hard dive” on the diving planes. The Kingston sea-valves were being opened, flooding the six ballast tanks, three on each side of the ship.

A slight list to starboard developed which rapidly increased to the point of danger. The chief-of-the-boat, seeing that the man at the Kingstons was having trouble opening the valves on the port side, so that water was flooding in the tanks on the other side only, thus tilting the boat heavily to the flooded side, jumped to help get the port valves open.

Were my premonitions coming true? Or was this just one of those emergencies that submarine life is full of?

While all this was happening, the engines had been shut down, the ship was going ahead on the electric motors, the conning-tower hatch was closed, the diving rudders were at “Hard dive,” and we were going down, down, down—with the main induction wide open and forgotten, all attention being focused on the other danger.

With the chief-of-the-boat’s help, the port valves were soon opened, and with the water now flooding in the port ballast tanks, the ship began to right the big list to starboard. What a relief!

All of this had happened in the space of a few seconds.

The Captain, seeing that the dangerous list was rapidly correcting itself, quickly looked around to make certain that the main induction had been properly closed and secured—and saw it was wide open to the sea! He sprang to close it. The chief seeing his action, suddenly realizing what he had forgotten, shouted “My God, the main induction!” and rushed to help the Captain, but at that very instant—a split second too late—a telltale stream of water hit them in the face—an insignificant stream, just leakage around the valves; but it meant that the hull was below the surface and water was rushing through the big leads to the torpedo-room forward and the engine-room aft.

The Captain and the chief—both powerfully built men—struggled with the valve, but it was instantly apparent that they would never get it closed against the great pressure of the inrushing water.

The chief shouted, “My God, the main induction!” and rushed to help the Captain—but a second too late.

“Surface!” ordered the Captain.

This is an emergency order. Water is blown from tanks; diving-rudder men use “Hard rise” rudder; the motors go ahead full speed; the bow-buoyancy tank is blown to lift the bow. Normally these extreme measures will make the ship shoot to the surface.

“Close watertight doors!” was the next order—scarcely a second after the first.

Realizing the almost certain disaster that was upon us, I rushed to the torpedo-room, while Bud made a dash for the engine-room. Each had the same thought—to get the stop valves at the ends of the main induction closed, if humanly possible.

When I got to the torpedo-room, with my heart pounding as if it would jump right out of my chest, I saw that already the water was filling the bilges. The torpedo-men were striving with all their strength to get their stop closed, but it was the same story again—the pressure of the inrushing water was too great to overcome.

As the water was pouring in so rapidly, it was only a matter of seconds before it would be too late to get the watertight door between compartments closed, and moreover, salt water might get into the batteries in the next compartment, which would cause chlorine gas and consequent strangulation, so I ordered everyone out of the torpedo-room.

Realizing that we did not have much time to spare before the water would be rushing through and prevent our closing the door, we could hardly wait for the last man to wade through before we slammed it shut. But one of the “dogs,” or metal clamps, was turned the wrong way, so that the door would not close tight enough to be “dogged down.” A little detail like this, which should have been noticed when we “rigged for diving,” had turned out to be a possible matter of life or death, for the dog seemed jammed and would not budge an inch. The water had risen up to our waists, submerging the jammed dog before we gave up, and since it was then too late to get the door closed, we worked our way aft monkey-fashion because of the steep diving angle, hoping that the control-room was not flooded, and that we could find safety there.

The big diving angle caused by all the extra water forward turned out to be a great advantage, for although the forward part of the compartment was flooded, the after part was not, and after some of the fastest work I ever expect to see, we had the control-room door undogged—it had been closed by those in the control-room—and rushed through it, closing it behind us just as water began lapping around the bottom of the door. Thank God, the control-room wasn’t flooded!

Just then the bow of the ship hit the bottom of the ocean—a rather cushioned blow. Must have been mud bottom. The motors had been backing to break the speed of the crash to the bottom as much as possible. This had been done when the Captain saw that all efforts to stop the dive and get to the surface were hopeless.

Fortunately, we had not dived in mid-ocean, for nothing would have stopped our dive but the bottom. If we had been in over one hundred fathoms of water, our hull would have been crushed like an eggshell.

I saw the engine-room watertight door was open—the first thing I looked for when I rushed back to the control-room; and this meant that the engine-room gang had by some miracle managed to get their end of the main induction closed. Temporarily we were saved. But to what end?

The deck of the control-room was so wet that it was necessary to hold on to something to prevent slipping. As luck would have it, just as we took on our big angle, a mess-cook had been passing through the control-room with a big tureen of soup and an armful of dishes. He was thrown off his balance by the sudden change of diving angle, with the result that hot soup and broken dishes were sprayed all over the deck, adding to the general confusion; nearly everyone in the control-room was thrown by the heavy lurch, and upon trying to regain their feet, slipped on the wet deck and went down again. All this was unfortunately timed so that it occurred at exactly the wrong psychological moment—just when all hands were frantically trying to “surface” the vessel, and every man was needed to do his part.

When we hit bottom, we all expected to see the hull crushed by the impact, and the water rushing in; but the soft mud had saved us—for perhaps a much worse death.

The motors were stopped.

The ship gradually came to rest with the bow on the ocean bed at an angle of about thirty degrees. The depth-gauge showed one hundred thirty-two feet.

“Bowers,” said the Captain to the chief-of-the-boat, “have all the men go to the engine-room. Tell them there is nothing to worry about—that we will have the boat up in a few hours.”

The crew gathered in the engine-room. Although there were several very scared-looking faces, still they were taking it well with no signs of anyone breaking under the strain—as yet.

When Bowers joined the officers in the control-room, a conference that I’ll never forget was held.

“I guess you all realize what we are up against,” said the Captain. “There’s one thing certain, and that is that we will have to come to a quick decision, and it will have to be the right one the first time. Past submarine disasters have shown us that, for we probably won’t have time to try out more than one plan of saving ourselves.

“First, let’s size up the situation: With all that water forward, we have too much negative buoyancy to get to the surface, even with tanks blown dry.

“Second, there’s no possible way to get that water out.

“Now then, as to the length of time we can live on the air we have—that’s problematical. We have two bottles of oxygen, and plenty of air in the air-tanks—at least for breathing purposes—and as a last resort we could flood the ballast tanks again, which would force the air now in those tanks back through the vents into the boat. Still, what good would a fresh supply of air be, unless we could get rid of the old carbon dioxide given off when we breathe? We might be able to take care of that when the time comes by starting the air-compressor, sucking the bad air out of the boat and storing it in one of the empty air-tanks. Something may happen to our electrical power by that time, in which case we might be able to turn the air-compressor over by hand. Thus, if we can take care of the carbon dioxide, we may have enough air to last a week. Unfortunately, we have no soda lime, or we could get rid of the carbon dioxide that way.

“The question is—can they find us in a week? And if they do find us, can they manage to rescue us or get fresh air to us before our air-supply gives out?

“Our orders were to dive ‘at discretion.’ Hence, they don’t know when or where we dived. We won’t be missed for another twenty-four or even forty-eight hours, for they’ll naturally assume, if they don’t hear from us, that our radio set is out of commission again. Fortunately we got through our eight A. M. position-report. Even so, they don’t know how soon afterward we dived. Our oscillator was put out of commission by the crash, so it looks as if our chance of being located before our air gives out is too slim to bank on. However, we shall try to devise some means of getting word to the surface, in the hope that some stray vessel may pick up our message; but we can’t rely on any such long chance.

“If we expect to come out of this alive, it looks as if we are thrown absolutely on our own resources.

“Since we can’t get rid of that water forward, we will have to take that handicap and make it work to our advantage.”

“Go on, Skipper,” said Bud, who could not keep quiet any longer, the strain being too much for him. “I think I’ve got the same idea you have.”

“Yes, old man, I guess we all have. But can we do it? Can we make this old boat stand on her head, so that the stern will stick out of the water far enough to cut a hole in the hull and get out, or at least assure us of an indefinite supply of fresh air?

“It’s a big gamble! To accomplish it, we’ll have to use up a lot of our previous supply of air in the air-tanks, because to get her at a big enough angle, it will be necessary to use up a lot of that air to blow overboard all our fuel, fresh water and lubricating oil, all of which is carried far enough aft so that when blown overboard it will tend to raise the stern.

“I don’t think the electric pumps will last long, because when we begin to get her at a little greater angle, the electrolyte will probably run out of the batteries, or the water will get to them, and even if this doesn’t cause a fire from short-circuits, or an explosion of the hydrogen gas, it will put our electrical power-plant out of commission. And the hand pumps are too slow for the enormous amount of water we have to handle, so it looks as if we will have to use a lot of our air. I think standing her on end is our one and only chance. Our lives depend upon the decision we are about to make. If any of you have any other ideas, let’s hear them.”

“I have some plans for getting messages to the surface,” replied the ‘Exec,’ “but I think we had better go ahead with the stern plan without losing any time. We want to get our hole in the hull before nightfall, if possible, as we may be able to flag a passing ship. We can go ahead with my plan after we get the other job started.”

The engineering officer said he had some plans about the oil slick that would be made on the surface by our fuel and lubricating oil, but that also could wait.

As neither the chief-of-the-boat nor I had much to add to what had been said, we decided to go ahead with the up-ending of the boat without further delay. We all agreed to gamble our vital supply of fresh air and fresh water against the possible chance of getting the stern to the surface. If we failed in that, it probably only meant that the end would come sooner. We had hopes of outside help, but when we thought of the tragedy of other salvaging attempts, we knew how vain such hopes must be.

“Good submariners may be down but never out. Now let’s hop to it,” said the Captain.

And the struggle to beat a lingering and tortuous death was on!

The pumps were put on all the tanks aft of the torpedo room, with the Exec in charge of operations. The Captain and I got out the ship’s blueprints. We had to know the exact distance from the bow to the point aft where we wanted to cut the hole in the hull.

Next, we had to figure what the actual depth was, for although the depth-gauge showed one hundred thirty-two feet, that was merely the depth amidships. With the boat at an angle of thirty degrees by the bow, the real depth was greater.

With the distance from the bow to the point on the stern where we were to drill the hull as the hypotenuse of a triangle, and with the computed depth as the second side of the triangle, we found that the ship had to be raised to an angle of at least seventy-seven degrees to get the stern above water.

Now we knew exactly what we had to do! Could we do it? In the first place, was it possible to get the ship at that great an angle, and in the second place, would there be time? All hands were working feverishly. Men not used at the pumps and valves were put to work carrying loose articles from the after part of the ship to the forward part. We even planned to dismantle the engines, everything that could be loosened from the deck and hull—anything that would get heavy objects farther forward.

As each agonizing hour went by, the angle-indicator showed an ever-increasing change, but such a heart-breakingly small change that we began to have our doubts as to whether we would make it or not. The electric pumps went out of commission shortly after we passed the sixty-degree mark. Then the electric lights went out, throwing the whole ship in absolute darkness. This meant that the batteries had gone dead, as we had greatly feared they would.

Although we had several flashlights—one big one in each compartment and several smaller ones—the effect of the darkness on the morale was very soon felt.

It was easy enough to keep up courage as long as we had plenty of light, but when that went, hope seemed to go with it.

Moreover the salt water had apparently seeped through the deck in the battery-room and reached the batteries, probably causing them to go dead, but what was much worse, it was forming chlorine gas. This gas, which is so deadly that it was used during the war for gas attacks, was finding its way into the control-room through small leaks around supposedly watertight fittings in the battery-room bulkhead. Faint whiffs of this gas began to be noticed, both by its pungent smell and by the effect on the throat, which caused dry hacking coughs. While we might fight the carbon dioxide and live for a week, the chlorine gas was a much more serious matter. It cut down our breathing limit from a possible week to two days at most.

The Captain was everywhere, encouraging the men. His leadership and resourcefulness were an inspiration to us all. In the face of the coming horrors which hour by hour were stealing in on us, he was somehow able to imbue us all with that “never-give-up” spirit which accomplishes miracles.

Some time after the lighting system failed, the Captain called the officers together to discuss possible ways of getting some message to the surface. He tried to keep us from seeing how discouraged he was, but we sensed it in spite of his efforts. The Exec advanced a theory that we might shoot out some calcium—obtained from the torpedo torch-pots, a few of which were in the magazine. This could be done through the submarine signaling device which was used in wartime for sending secret smoke signals to the surface to make friendly but overzealous vessels stop trying to sink you with depth mines. This calcium, when ejected, would form gas which upon rising to the surface, and coming in contact with the air, would burst into flame. In this way, the oil which we had blown out might catch fire and thus attract the attention of any passing ship, particularly at night. It seemed rather a far-fetched theory, but we had reached the stage where we had nothing to lose by trying it.

Then escape through the conning-tower was considered. As a last resort we could try that! But as the Captain put it: “At this depth, I’m afraid that the pressure would get us, for with a pressure of two or three tons per square foot, our lungs would probably collapse, in which case we would sink instead of rise. If we did get to the surface alive, we would probably get the ‘bends’ or lose consciousness from the pressure, and drown. Life preservers wouldn’t prevent that, and we only have a few aboard anyway. That gives me an idea, though! We might roll up a kapoc mattress lengthwise, cut our message into that piece of oilcloth I saw lying around here, and sew it around the mattress. We could shoot that through the conning-tower escape hatch; the air bubbles would carry it to the surface, and as kapoc floats, it might be picked up by some ship, particularly if by that time they were looking for us. We will need a volunteer for this, for someone will have to manipulate the conning-tower hatch, and that man, to have any chance of withstanding the pressure, must be one of the strongest among us.”

“When you’re ready, Captain, I want to be that man,” spoke up Bowers, “for I can probably stand the pressure better than anyone else, as I’ve had some deep-sea diving experience. What’s more, I caused all this.”

“All right, Bowers,” said the Captain, visibly moved, “when the time comes, if I don’t take on the job myself, your offer may be accepted. But I don’t want to try that yet, for it would mean draining a lot of water into the boat, just making us that much heavier; and I don’t want to do anything that will jeopardize our chances of getting our stern to the surface, for I have not given up hope of that by a damn’ sight and won’t so long as this chlorine gas allows us to keep moving weight forward.”

The calcium ejection was tried out, and was to be tried again that night. The results, of course, we unfortunately could not tell.

The hydrophone listener reported that he thought he detected a ship passing about five o’clock that evening. It was encouraging to know that ships did occasionally pass, but they couldn’t help us yet for we had no way of letting them know where we were, unless they passed almost over us, in which case we might attract their attention by the oil slick, or blowing out big bubbles of air through the tanks. However, the Captain used the news to encourage the crew as much as possible.

Just as we took our big angle, a mess-cook, passing through the control-room, was thrown off his balance; soup and broken dishes were sprayed all over the deck.

All through the night we worked—with no thought of sleep. Most of the flashlights had gone out. The men, in relays, worked at the hand pumps, pumping away in the darkness, hoping against hope that they would live to see the light of day.

The chlorine gas in the forward, now the lower part of the ship, had become almost too much to work in. Fortunately, we had a few gas-masks left over from our war allowance which were used by those whose duties kept them working forward. There were not enough to go around, however, as part of our allowance was kept in the flooded torpedo-room.

The futuristic effect of men in gas-masks, working their way up and down in a ship almost standing on its head, with the occasional flicker of a flashlight, was a sight to haunt one in one’s dreams.

The uncertainty of our fate made the suspense almost unbearable, and the chlorine gas wouldn’t let us think of anything but a terrible end.

At six the next morning—to think that meant glorious sunshine to those sailing tranquilly above us!—we had finally, by superhuman effort, got all after tanks dry, and nearly all movable weights forward. And our angle was only seventy-three degrees!

If we moved all hands forward and then could not get our angle, we were probably doomed, for it would take days to break down the heavy engine parts and move them, all in darkness; time would defeat us, as it has in other cases we all remembered but too well.

So we played our last card.

Forty-two men dragged themselves forward—that meant down into the chlorine gas—one man remaining aft in case of emergency, while the Captain watched the angle indicator with one of the two last remaining and fast-dimming flashlights.

We had done it! We had made her do what we wanted her to do, and with a little to spare, for she settled just a hair above seventy-eight degrees. At last we could commence cutting the hole in the hull. This hole, to be above water, had to be way aft where the ship tapers to almost nothing, and as all such corners are utilized for special fixtures, storage, etc., the working space was very cramped. Then too, this now being the top part of the ship, the air was so foul that a man could only work ten or fifteen minutes before he would become exhausted and have to be relieved.

Twenty-five hours after our crash dive, the cold chisel—for we had to use hand tools—finally pierced the hull, and brought daylight!

Four hours more of body-racking work before we had a hole big enough to stick the head through.

No ships in sight!

A long pole made by joining several sections of the pipe-frames of the crew’s bunks together with a mattress cover painted with red lead tied on the end, was, after some trouble, finally forced through this hole. The slight roll of the ship from the ground-swell caused our distress signal to wave back and forth. We also tried to give it additional motion by sliding it up and down as much as our cramped quarters would allow. From time to time the signal was pulled in to look for ships. Just before sundown the Captain took a final look. Again nothing in sight! It looked like another night in hell, perhaps several more, if we could live that long.

He had just pulled his head in when he thought he heard a steamer’s whistle. Were his senses deceiving him? The thought came to him that he must be losing his mind. Now even his eyes were deceiving him, for there certainly seemed to be a ship out there where none had been before—and not more than a few hundred yards away. Could it have approached at such an angle that the projection of the stern kept it out of sight until close aboard?

It turned out to be a Coast Guard destroyer which had seen the flag, thought it looked suspicious—some rum-runner’s trick—and had come over to investigate.

Well, we were soon out of our death-trap, thanks to some good seamanship on the destroyer’s part in keeping our stern up with her anchor-chain, while they quickly enlarged the hole so that we could be pulled out, many of our crew being half-dead from gas, strain and exhaustion.

As the Captain, the last to leave the ship, climbed exhaustedly up the side of the destroyer, grimy, oily, unshaven, weary in mind and body, with throat and lungs raw from the chlorine gas, he was handed a radio from his Division Commander which had been intercepted by the destroyer, asking: “Why do you not make position reports?”

He turned to his officers, who were waiting to see that he got aboard safely, and handed them the message. “Here, one of you answer this for me. My brain won’t work any longer; I am dead on my feet. Seems to me you had some sort of a bet on these messages, anyway.”

“That’s right, we did,” said Bud, as he glanced at the radio, and out of force of habit, was about to turn to Jack Lansing and start in on who had won the bet, but he too was so exhausted he could not remember just what the bet was about—and what’s more, decided he did not care.

“All right, Captain, I’ll attend to it for you. Shall I give the Division Commander the whole story?” he asked.

“Hell, no! Get some sleep. Just reply ‘Position Vertical!’”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 1929 issue of Blue Book magazine.
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