It didn’t refer to him, of course, but he obeyed it, curiosity getting the better of sleepiness. There was a sound of rushing air and water as the tanks were blown. He tumbled out of the bunk and stole to the door, doing the last few steps uphill as the submarine began its climb toward the surface. He was sensible of increased speed. There was a new man at the depth gauge, a gunner’s mate, and he was calling off the depths in a gruff voice:
“Forty!... Thirty!... Twenty!...”
Every instant the boat rolled more and more and Nelson clutched the side of the bulkhead to keep his feet.
“Raise Number Two periscope!”
“Ten!... Five!”
“Surface!”
Instantly a terrific jar and clatter broke forth as the Diesels took up the task. The submarine wallowed and plunged and quivered. The sudden change from silence to pandemonium was nerve-shattering and appalling. Nelson could hear the seas thunder down on the steel deck and rush off, leaving the submarine staggering. The air already reeked of oil. The first officer hurried up the ladder to the conning tower, followed by a seaman. The captain, who had been peering into the eye-piece of the periscope, swinging it to all points of the compass, turned away.
“Conning tower hatch,” he ordered.
A response came from above, and an instant later Nelson felt the refreshing air that blew down into the foul depths. The first officer descended again, a precarious proceeding with the little craft trying her best to turn upside down.
“Wind about forty, I think, and a bad sea. I could see nothing up there.”