Микки Спиллейн: Primal Spillane: Early Stories 1941-1942

In the longboat, Dickie was almost beside himself with anxiety. His pals, on board, were in danger, and he could do nothing about it. This third attack seemed to stun the monster and he withdrew, lay on the surface a short distance from the boat. “It’s now or never,” Dickie thought. “We have to do something!”

If the whale charged again it would mean certain destruction for the Capital City and her crew. Already she was beginning to list. He knew that there were no other dories on board, and the men were not in position to cast harpoons from the deck. So, he decided to act.

The oars of the longboat dipped into the water, and the boat slid along silently. The least noise would probably arouse the giant creature. On the Capital City the men were strangely silent, sensing what Dick was about to attempt.

“Get on him from behind, kid,” one called guardedly.

“Don’t bump him before you get the barb in him or he’ll get you!” called another. Dick waved to let them know that he’d heard them, and pulled at the oars. The whale was blowing now, a stream of spray shooting skyward. Fortunately, the sea was choppy enough to conceal the longboat. The little pig-eyes of the whale were submerged just below the wave crests. Looking back, Dick could see that the men on the ship had already shifted the ballast to keep the leaks in the side above water. A battle to the death was imminent. It was either the whale, or the men of the Capital City, that would survive.

Before he knew it, the shadow of the monster was on his bow. Dick slipped past the flukes and followed the curve of its side until he was directly aft of its head. Here was a vital spot. If he could drive the harpoon into this spot the whale would be finished! But, other men had tried it, and weren’t successful. Could a fifteen-year-old boy finish this gigantic killer?

Dick hefted the harpoon, straightening the lines. He planted his feet firmly, then let the spear fly. It whipped through the air, and struck home. Startled, and mortally hurt, the whale threshed about then flashed ahead. The line at Dickie’s feet squirmed shake-like as it followed the harpoon. Dick tightened up, and the longboat moved in the wake, gathering speed with each stroke of the great fins. He fastened the rope, then crawled to the rudder oar. If the whale should dive now it would be all over.

They made huge circles in the sea, the whale trying to get away, from his tormentor, and Dick hanging on for dear life. The oar twisted under his hands, but he dared not let go. The least side motion would turn him over, and the killer would charge! But, if he could stay directly behind, he could see it to the end! The water sprayed from the bow, the stinging stream nearly blinding him. The boat was bouncing and pitching like a thing alive. The two of them, boy and monster, raced about. In one desperate attempt the whale dove for the bottom!

But it was his last dive, for the final spark of life left him, and he floated to the surface. The longboat coasted to a stop. Dick sat motionless for a minute or two because of sheer nervous exhaustion.

That night Dick was the hero. He sat next to the captain at dinner with the eyes of the men on him. Captain Ludlow stood up and addressed him.

“Dickie, today you saved this ship and gave us a full hold of oil. The pumps will hold back the water from the leaky seams until we make port and I just want to tell you that from now on, when the hunt starts you’ll be in the number one boat!”

Dickie’s eyes filled, and the cheers of the men left him speechless as he realized his ambition was fulfilled!

The ocean was slick as a lake, and the tiny time-rusted tramp steamer, plugging westward, was the only thing to be seen on the huge bowl of blue. To all appearances, the “Elsie K” was one of the many vessels steaming to England with the fruits of American labor. The crew was in dirty whites and dungarees, and while some slept on the hatch covers, others worked listlessly about their tasks.

It was a strange sight, for in these waters operated the new giant submarine, the U-900, pride of the Nazi underwater fleet. Repeatedly she had attacked convoys and lone steamers, bagging an ever-increasing number of boats. She was such that she could come to the surface and fight it out with a destroyer, and this she had done, her two six-inch guns saving her from many an armed surface raider out to sink her. So, for the sloppy “Elsie K” to sail along unconcerned was indeed odd. True, on the stern deck was mounted a gun, but it was so small that it could hardly be of any use at all.

The sun was setting when the lookout on the tramp shouted a warning. On the port side was a white ripple, and coming up slowly, the black eye of a periscope. “Submarine to port!” There was a wild scramble as the “black gang” at the furnaces rushed to the deck to be free of a torpedo burst. Those on deck rushed to the rail.

No one even bothered to man the gun. Evidently the U-boat didn’t think the “Elsie K” worth a torpedo, and started to come to the surface to sink her with shell fire. Slowly the submarine rose out of the sea, until those on the ship’s rail gave a shout. Clearly marked on the conning tower was “U-900.” Men poured out, stood by the huge six-inchers. A warning shot across the bow and the “Elsie K’s” engines stopped. The captain of the sub shouted through a megaphone.

His guttural tone came to the steamer, “What is your cargo?”

MacDonald, skipper of the tramp smiled grimly. He’d waited many months for this moment, and now it was here!

“Butter, eggs and meat,” MacDonald shouted back, “but you’ll not get a bit of it.”

A yell went up from the U-boat when they heard this for they had been at sea nearly nine weeks, eating out of cans, and they howled in anticipation of a feast.

The U-900’s commander lifted his megaphone to his lips. “If you scuttle your ship, I’ll gun every man of you. Stand by for a boarding party.”

Over the side of the sub went a rubber boat, and the men paddled to the “Elsie K.” The crew, looking glum, said nothing but threw a ladder over the side, and the sub men climbed aboard. Captain MacDonald stepped forward.

“You dirty Huns —” But that was as far as he got, for one of the boche slammed him with a rifle butt. He turned to the crew.

“Show me your hold.” Under threat of the guns, they led the way down the ladder to the hold, with its precious contents. The Germans came back grinning. They could hardly wait to sink their teeth in the stolen meat after so long a diet of beans, fish, and tinned beef. The sailor in charge signaled to the U-boat, and slowly that great monster of modern warfare swung about and came along side the steamer. The crew of the “Elsie K” gasped when they saw it up close. It was bigger than the tramp by fifteen feet at both ends, and the conning tower was flush with her deck! The two guns were snouts of destruction, and a catapult meant they must even have a small scouting plane inside that fish hull! The U-900’s commander came up the ladder and laughed at MacDonald, sprawled on the deck, and bleeding from the head.

The skipper looked up, his eyes flashing fire. “He laughs best who laughs last.”

“Not this time, Captain,” he said curling his lip. “Tell your crew to take to the boats. My men will unload your cargo.”

“I hope you choke on it!”

The sub’s officer kicked MacDonald viciously in the ribs.

“Hurry,” he roared, “I do not like it to be kept waiting!”

THE skipper climbed painfully to his feet. His crew was mad and the sub men sensed it. Then the commander looked at them. “I don’t advise anything rash, pigs — I would gladly shoot you all, but since you are making me a present of such a fine dinner, Von Hultner is feeling very merciful. Take to your boats, dogs! I give you three minutes to be away!”