CHAPTER XV

THE HUMAN TORPEDO

“Looks as though we were up against it,” remarked Executive Officer Cleary to his chief as the Dewey’s engines died down into silence.

Lieutenant McClure, his youthful face wrinkled in deep thought, looked up apprehensively.

“A very serious situation,” he mumbled.

He spoke with marked gravity now, and there was no response from the executive officer, nor from Navigating Officer Binns, as they stood quietly and rigidly at attention, awaiting orders.

Inquiry in the engine room brought the information that the batteries had been greatly depleted by the tremendous exertions of the Dewey.  The supply of “juice” certainly could not last much longer.

What next?  Instinctively every man aboard the doomed ship was asking himself the question.  It was only too manifest that the Dewey had run hard aground.  The best that could be hoped for now was that the shifting currents of the sea might wash the submarine free before death overwhelmed her imprisoned crew.

“Make yourselves as comfortable as possible; we are not done for yet—–­not by a jugful,” essayed McClure bravely as he sauntered into the torpedo room where Chief Gunner Mowrey and his men were assembled in hushed discussion of the Dewey’s plight.

Immediately “Little Mack” was surrounded by his men.  They asked him all manner of questions.

“Remember first, last, and always that you are Americans and members of the United States Navy,” continued their commanding officer.  “We have air supply in the reserve tanks sufficient to stay here for many hours yet without danger of suffocation; and in the meantime quite a number of things can happen.”

Despite their commander’s cheery remarks there was little comfort in his words.  Trusting implicitly their gallant chief, every man aboard the stranded submarine was keenly alive to the seriousness of the situation and mentally figuring on the possibilities of escape from the prison ship in case it was found at last impossible to float the vessel.  The boys knew their dauntless commander, in a final extremity, would resort to heroic measures of escape rather than allow his men to be suffocated and overwhelmed by a slow death in their trap of steel.

It was now more than twelve hours since the Dewey had submerged after the exciting events of the preceding night and the air supply was still sufficiently impregnated with oxygen to enable the imprisoned crew to breathe free and normally.  The boys knew that the Dewey could continue thus for at least thirty-six hours before her officers would commence drawing on the reserve oxygen tanks.

In an atmosphere of suspense the long afternoon dragged into evening.  Every effort to free the vessel had been tried, but to no avail.  Evening mess was served amid an oppressive silence varied only by the valiant efforts of bluff Bill Witt to stir a bit of confidence in his mates.  Another and final effort to get away was to be tried at midnight with high tide.  And then—–­if nothing availed—–­the boys knew full well that with the morning Lieutenant McClure would resort to some drastic measures.