The Watch Below

UNDERSEA SURVIVAL
"What the blazes d'you call this?" Dick-
son yelled suddenly.
"We're trapped in a sinking ship. We're
deep! The whole damn hull could cave in on
us at any minute. What bigger emergency
can you have than that?"
"If we were here long enough," Radford
broke in harshly, "I can think of several . . ."
THE WATCH BELOW
A Classic Science-Fiction Novel of
Indomitable Courage
Incredible Suspense
and
Invincible Destiny
Also by James White
Published by Ballantine Books:
MAJOR OPERATION
ALL JUDGMENT FLED
MONSTERS AND MEDICS
DEADLY LITTER
THE DREAM MILLENNIUM
LIFEBOAT
HOSPITAL STATION
STAR SURGEON
TOMORROW IS TOO FAR
THE ALIENS AMONG US
THE
WATCH
BELOW
James White
A Del Rey Book
BALLANTINE BOOKS * NEW YORK
To
JOHN CARNELL
Friend, Agent, Slave-driver
With Thanks
A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1966 by James White
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by
Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New
York, and simultaneously in Canada by Ballantine Books of
Canada, Ltd., Toronto, Canada.
ISBN 0-345-27691-4
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: February 1966
Third Printing: October 1978
Cover art by Michael Herring
I
From space the Earth was a serene and beautiful world circling a young
and relatively cool sun. The great ice caps, the tremendous, stretches
of ocean, and the dazzling white carpets of the cloud layers were blurred
both by distance and atmospheric haze, so that outwardly it was a planet
of great beauty and peace. It would have required a telescope of fantastic
power and definition to resolve the tiny sparks on the night side which
were torpedoed ships or bombed and burning towns, and on the sunlit
hemisphere the disturbances caused by the waging of World War Two were
also of too minor a nature to register over interstellar distances.
It was February 3, 1942. . . .
Eleven days out of St. Johns, its ranks thinned to begin with by the
unceasing attacks of the wolf packs and then scattered in disorder by a
storm which was bad even for the North Atlantic in winter, the remnants
of Convoy RK47 were in the process of reforming in the area of Rockall
Deep prior to entering the relative safety of the Irish Sea. Most of the
ships were within sight of a few others, but there were lone stragglers
as well, and one which apparently had the ocean all to itself was the
converted tanker Gulf Trader.
The Trader was unusual in that she was an oil tanker not carrying oil.
Originally designed as a fleet oiler for the United States Navy,
and then converted to commercial operation between the Gulf of Mexico
and South America because the powers-that-were had thought that the
world in 1938 was too peaceful a place for the Navy to need another
fleet auxiliary, she was now in the process of being converted into
something which might be an answer to the U-boat menace. There was no
certainty about this, of course, but any idea which might conceivably
help against the wolf packs had to be tried.
For behind Gulf Trader lay the memory of five sinkings. One, a sister
tanker, had vomited blazing fuel over half a mile of sea before going
down and leaving a torch in the wake of the convoy which had burned all
that night. And there was the munitions ship which had gone so suddenly
that seconds later all that was left was a blotchy green afterimage of
the flash and the dying echoes of that savage, crashing detonation. The
other ships had died less dramatically, with the sounds of the explosions
lost in the screaming wind and the blazing upperworks seen only as a dull
glow through the driving snow and spray. Despite the long dogleg to the
north the convoy had not been able to shake off the wolf packs. Only the
storm had been able to achieve that feat, forcing them to seek shelter
in the depths where their fragile pressure hulls would be safe from the
hurtling mountains and avalanches of water above.
But now, after five raging days of it, the storm was dying. The sky had
cleared and the sun was melting the unnatural streamlining of frozen spray
and snow from Trader's superstructure. The sea was still mountainous,
but its slopes were smooth now and the valleys were no longer filled with
spray. Yet, the improving conditions meant that enemy reconnaissance
aircraft would be seeking out the scattered convoy and directing their
U-boats towards it, and that Allied aircraft would be spotting and,
where possible, trying to sink the enemy submarines.
In the wheelhouse of Gulf Trader Captain Larmer sagged a little more heavily
against the strap which, except for a number of unavoidable absences
totaling not more than two hours, had held him in an upright if not
always wakeful position on his stool for the past three days. He was
looking at the signal which had just been handed to him and, although
the words were printed boldly and legibly, for some reason their meaning
was taking a long time to reach his brain. It was as if fatigue had
surrounded him with a thick, invisible cocoon which slowed and deadened
everything trying to pass through it, but finally the marks on the flimsy
surrendered their meaning and Larmer said, "Two subs have been reported
in this area. How about that! We're advised to maintain maximum vigilance
and proceed with caution!"
Beside him Lieutenant Commander Wallis nodded stiffly but did not speak.
There were times, Larmer thought tiredly, when trying to be pleasant to
Wallis hardly seemed worth the effort. Anyone would think that Captain
Larmer was going to take over the ship from Wallis when they reached
Liverpool instead of vice versa. Between the storm and the U-boats it
had been a very unpleasant trip, and the presence of the Royal Navy on
board had not added to the social atmosphere of the ship.
Traditionally there had always been a certain difference of opinion
between the merchant service and the Navy proper, for having to work
harder under much stricter discipline for less pay it was natural
that the Naval ratings felt superior to their sloppily dressed and
overpaid colleagues. The filthy weather, the general tension, and the
chronic lack of proper rest all played their part in aggravating the
situation. At the same time Larmer was sure that the ratings engaged in
modifying the tanks could have tried a little harder to conceal their
feelings of superiority, that his own chief and the engineer lieutenant
who was familiarizing himself with Trader's engine room could have
conversed without giving the impression that they were on the point of
committing mutual and bloody murder, and that the lieutenant commander
could speak just a few words which were not shop. So far as Larmer
could see the only exception among the Naval types was Radford, the
surgeon lieutenant who was to be attached to the ship when she became
H.M.S. something-or-other. Radford was not a very friendly type either,
but he had been kept too busy in his professional capacity during this
trip to arouse anything but admiration. This train of thought brought
him back to the signal in his hand and the few hopelessly inadequate
precautions he could take regarding it.
He said, "I hate to break up the party that Dickson and your doctor
must be having with those girls, but under the circumstances it might be
better if we moved them up top. What I mean is, they've been torpedoed
once this trip already. . . ."
While Lamer had been talking Wallis had climbed off his stool. He said,
"The doctor will object to moving them. Especially the burn case and
your Mr. Dickson. It might be better if I explained the reason for moving
them in person. . . ."
"Sooner you than me," said Lamer to Wallis's disappearing back.
The ship had picked up more than the usual share of survivors this trip.
The poop and upper decks aft, where engineer officers and apprentices,
the seamen, and the firemen-greasers all had their quarters, had been
forced to accommodate thirty-five R.N. ratings and petty officers together
with upwards of fifty survivors from three torpedoed ships. By itself the
overcrowding would not have been too bad, but the storm had been such
that anyone who was not in a hammock or tied solidly into his bunk was
liable to grievous bodily harm -- First Officer Dickson being a case
in point. As for the bridge deck amidships, the navigation officers,
apprentices, and stewards had been crowded out by the additional number
of injured survivors who had overflowed from the sick bay.
An added complication had been the fact that the survivors refused to be
moved to the more roomy and comfortable tanks below, where the rolling
and pitching of the ship was much less violent, and some had refused even
to let themselves sleep in case they were torpedoed again. All things
considered, Larmer thought they had a point. But the case of Dickson and
the two Wren officers was different. They had been in no fit condition
to have opinions one way or the other; so the doctor, whose views tended
to be medical rather than psychological, had decided for them. But the
doctor was a very difficult man to order around, especially when the orders
touched adversely on the welfare of his patients. The only thing, in fact,
that would make him do as he was told, sometimes, was the few extra grams
of gold braid on Wallis's sleeve.
The ship dug her bows into another mountainous wave and the entire
forepeak disappeared beneath a solid wall of water which roared along
the weather deck, exploding into clouds of spray against the catwalk
supports and guardrails until, with most of its energy expended on the
deck gear and pipelines, it rolled almost gently around the base of
the bridge and tumbled over the side. Watching it Larmer felt a little
sorry for the lieutenant commander. As well as having to face an ogre
called Radford he would have to negotiate between the bridge and the
aft pump room a catwalk, which was the only means of entering the tanks
where, amid the tangle of oxyacetylene gear, packing cases, and cargo,
the doctor had opened a branch of the ship's hospital. Conditions aft
would be somewhat better than those forward, of course, but there was
still a strong possibility that Wallis would get his feet wet, that he
would get them wet even if he walked all the way on his hands.
There were times, Larmer thought as the foredeck struggled into sight
again only to disappear seconds later into another watery mountain,
when Gulf Trader acted as if she had delusions of being a submarine.
The first torpedo struck a few minutes later just as she was digging her
nose in again. If it had waited for another second it would have passed
clean over the momentarily submerged fo'c'sle, but instead it hit just
below deck about twenty feet back from the prow, and it tore open the
deck as if it had been a bomb rather than a torpedo. Several hundred
tons of water in the shape of a wave which was then breaking over her
bows enlarged the opening, peeling back the deck plating as it if were
so much tinfoil and pouring into the underlying forward pump room and
storerooms and the big forehold. This time the bows did not rise again
and the wave crashed into the bridge with its full force, and at that
moment the second torpedo struck the stern.
From the engine-room phone there came a shrill, raucous sound composed
of shouts and screams and escaping steam. Larmer broke contact knowing
that he could neither give nor obtain help there, and glad suddenly of
the tiredness that was deadening his feelings at the moment. The ship,
holed fore and aft, was settling rapidly on an even keel. Underfoot the
wheelhouse deck was disquietingly stable now, the reason being that Trader
was going through the waves instead of riding over them. The fo'c'sle
was completely under, as were both the fore and aft catwalks, so that the
navigating bridge and the boat deck aft seemed to be the superstructures
of two different ships. Yet she was in no immediate danger of sinking --
tankers were incredibly buoyant. But the sea was running high. She had
lost way and was beginning to drift broadside to the waves. That could
play hob with lowering the boats. . . .
Larmer unstrapped himself and climbed off his stool, then headed slowly
towards the radio room while issuing the only order possible for him
under the circumstances. Like his steps, Larmer's voice was slow and
deliberate -- but not, he told himself wryly, because he was brave or
cool-headed or anything like that. It was simply that he was too tired
to shout and run about as some of the others were doing. Too tired even
to feel really afraid.
Some time later he watched Gulf Trader go down, fighting stubbornly every
inch of the way. Several times he was sure that she had gone, only to see
part of the superstructure heave itself into sight for a few seconds and
disappear again. But finally it seemed that even the ship had accepted
the fact that she had died and must therefore stay down, and she left the
cold and furious ocean to three crowded lifeboats and about twenty rafts.
From one of the rafts, which he shared with the radio officer, Larmer
counted heads as best he could and came to the conclusion that nearly
everyone had been able to get away. He turned to the other man on the
raft then and began instructing him on the necessity of staying alive
until they were rescued. The very soonest that they could expect to be
picked up was shortly after midnight, he said, and there was no point in
surviving a disaster if one did not stay alive afterwards. They had to
keep themselves alive, keep exercising their minds as well as their bodies
so as to fight loss of consciousness as well as loss of circulation;
they had to move their arms and legs, slap each other, tell jokes, sing.
He tried not to think about Dickson and Radford and the lieutenant
commander, and the two girls whose names nobody knew.
. . . The main thing, be told the shivering radio officer grimly, was
to stay alive until the last possible minute.
II
Seemingly without motion the ship hung like a tiny, metal bubble in a dark
and limitless sea, all alone, apparently, and helpless. But the vessel was
neither motionless nor alone; it was simply that its velocity relative to
the nearest stars was too minute to be easily discernible and the multitude
of its companion bubbles were too widely scattered to be seen at all.
And within this lonely bubble the years and days were numbered from a
historical event and based on a period of rotation which were not that
of Earth.
Senior Captain Deslann -- senior because he was warm, awake, and
theoretically in possession of all his faculties while the other captain
was none of these things -- looked around the control room and tried to
goad his not-quite-thawed-out brain into producing a remark which would
sound pleasant, authoritative, and not too stupid. Except for Gerrol the
room was empty, the others having left tactfully so as not to embarrass
him while he gathered his wits, or having been ordered to do so by the
astrogator for the same reason. The wall displays showed nothing in six
different directions and Astrogator Gerrol floated respectfully in the
center of the control room, also saying nothing.
"If I didn't know better," Deslann said at last, "I'd say we were lost."
A pleasant enough remark, he thought;
but stupid, definitely stupid.
. . .
"We aren't lost, sir," said Gerrol, obviously humoring him, "everybody else
is. . . ." He hesitated, then went on, "There can be an awful lot of
deviation in ten years, sir."