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flooding compartments and loading the wounded into the
whaleboat and life rafts. It would take time to gather the
wounded, time Mitchell was sure they didn't have.
Bitton yelled through the smoke, "Have Kelso send out a
distress signal. It's imperative that he radio CinCPac our
position." He handed a key to the duty quartermaster. "Take
all the logs and publications from my cabin safe and throw
them overboard in weighted bags. Move it, man!"
185
The Lonely War
by Alan Chin
The twenty-degree list slanted the deck so that it was an
uphill climb to port. One engine room still operated, pushing
the ship ahead at five knots. The weight of the incoming sea
smashed through the auxiliary bulkheads, flooding one
compartment after another. Men abandoned the wounded
below decks and scrambled to save themselves.
Mitchell climbed the ladder to the radio shack and ordered
Kelso to send a distress signal. Kelso shook his head he had
no electrical power. There was nothing he could do.
By the time they made their way to the main deck, the
ship had lost nearly all forward speed and thousands of
gallons of fuel oil spewed from the ruptured hull, creating a
poisonous blanket astern. The Pilgrim now listed thirty
degrees, and a whirl of chaos unfolded as sailors raced down
the sloping deck and into the sea's embrace.
Amidships, Baker and five sailors wrestled the whaleboat
into the water while others freed the life rafts. The Pilgrim
slowed to a crawl, guns pointed at queer angles. An
incendiary shell hit the fantail, spewing fire all along the aft
deck. Above the slanting crow's nest, visible in the fire's light,
the Stars and Stripes waved defiantly over the havoc below.
Mitchell smelled the nauseating stench of burning fuel oil,
rubber and human flesh. The ship shuddered beneath him as
three explosions ripped in rapid secession throughout the
interior. He sprinted to Baker's side and looked around. Most
of the crew were mustered at abandon-ship stations or were
already in the water, but he didn't see the captain anywhere.
"Chief, where's the skipper?"
"As far as I know, he never left the bridge, sir."
186
The Lonely War
by Alan Chin
Mitchell dashed forward, taking the stairs three at a time.
In the wheelhouse, Bitton lay sprawled on the deck,
unconscious. Firelight flickered across his soot-blackened
face. Mitchell grabbed him by an arm and a leg and draped
the man over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He climbed
through the hatchway to the starboard bridge-wing. The ship
now listed at thirty-five degrees, but even with the weight of
the captain on his shoulders, he easily stepped onto the
railing and leaped over the side, clearing the deck and
splashing into the sea.
He landed in a dimension that had no bottom, bobbing in a
sphere of weightlessness. He struggled to maneuver the
captain around and pulled him through the water with an arm
around his neck. He swam harder than he had ever done in
his life, terrified they would not get beyond of the vortex
when the vessel sank.
Another explosion sounded within the ship. At the same
time, a shell smashed into the navigation bridge. The stern
reared high in the air, one propeller still turning like a lazy
windmill. With her proud bow underwater, she slid into the
blackness with a high-pitched hiss as the main deck
disappeared below the surface.
Mitchell turned in time to see the conning tower slide
under. The enemy ships ceased firing. Then, only the
agonized screams of the wounded disturbed the silence as he
wondered how many men had been caught below deck.
In a flash, his universe changed. A horrifying suction drew
him and Bitton towards the ship pulling, pulling until they
were wrenched under the surface.
187
The Lonely War
by Alan Chin
Mitchell was no longer in the world of men and sky and
sound, a place of light and darkness. There was only the black
water and the suction that dragged him down. He kicked and
clawed at the water, but Bitton's dead weight towed him
deeper. The awesome speed of their descent spread goose
bumps over his scalp, and the growing pressure felt like a
vice crushing his skull.
My God, he thought, I'm going to die.
Forced to release Bitton, he slashed towards the surface.
His lungs burned. They felt as if they were bursting. Then, at
last, he blasted back into the world of sound, and his lungs
felt the sweet relief of new air rushing in.
He shrieked, partly from fear and partly from the loss of
Captain Bitton.
As his senses returned, he took notice of his surroundings.
The sea was littered with floating crates of vegetables,
shredded clothing, silent dead bodies and screaming live
ones, and everything was covered with foul black fuel oil.
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