The Iron Porpoise (standard:action, 4837 words)
Author: Robert Hughes	Added: Apr 09 2002	Views/Reads: 3429/2215	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The Iron porpoise is a story that takes place during the civil war. One cold night off the Charleston Harbor, on the 17 of February, 1863, the confederate submarine the Hunley, is making rounds about an enemy war ship. Lt. george Dixon is the comander of

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the battle field infected me with their pain. What seemed to be an hour 
was only fifteen seconds; then it stopped. There I was, lying on my 
back, feeling no pain except for a bruised , purple lump that protruded 
out of my torn shirt. Lifting my self upon my right elbow, I drew my 
left leg closer to my body. I pulled my knee up, and rested the crook 
of my arm on it. I looked down to see my torn, ripped breast pocket. 
The main part of the cloth was sagging heavily, tugging at my shirt, 
pulling it lower to the dirt. A dull, golden hump was bulging out of 
it, smoking and hot. My eyes swelled with tears. I pulled the golden 
coin out of my breast pocket, and the led ball that had lodged itself 
in dropped on to the ground. From the impact of the bullet, the coin 
was now shaped like a bell. Still, I am surprised at how the coin 
withheld the impact, considering that gold is such a soft metal. 

Looking down, holding the coin in my hand, the back drop of the blood
stained dirt dissipated into the damp air, leaving the cold blue metal 
ground of the Hunley behind my hand. My breath is caught in my throat; 
I cannot gasp a breath of air. Eyes wide, gaging, my legs crumble 
underneath me and I fall to the ground. Lying on my side, I wrap my 
arms around my abdomen. My eyes were swelled and flooding with tears, 
and I only see a blue shimmer. On the floor, I pull up my knees to my 
chest and form a ball. My chest is heaving, and I can't regain control 
of my body. Tearing myself open like an orange peel, I sprawl out onto 
my back, soaking in the cool water, then I see a faint figure standing 
in the way. 

"Sir?" the crewman asked.  As Dixon's vision became clearer, he
recognized George, a young, mildly handsome, and stubborn shipmate."Are 
you ok, sir? Because from over there it looked like . . ." 

Dixon grunted, then sighed, "I'm fine George, I just slipped." George
eyed him strangely. "Well it's wet." 

"I don't mean to show any disrespect, captain.  All I wanted to do was
help" 

Dixon got to his feet.  Looking behind George he saw the leakage had
stopped. He knew what George was doing, but had to ask. 

"What were you doing out of your station?" 

"Well," 

"Well what?"  Dixon could tell that he was struggling to even answer. 

"I looked over towards, um . . ." 

"Who?" Dixon glowered. 

George started "Jimmy. He . . was . .I mean . . is stationed at the 4th
man hole . . .at the propellers. He told me to go ff . . .fix it. 
Swear."  Dixon knew that George was scared, but had to toughen him up. 

"Also, Jimmy's real mean, and big and . . ." 

Dixon yelled, "Does it look like I give a shit?" George nodded
vigorously, and became wide eyed at the realization of what he had just 
done. The back of Dixon's hand shot up across his face. Dixon's short 
temper often resulted in unnecessary violence. The creaking and 
cranking of the sub absorbed the cries that were coming from George.  
Any men would laugh at the tears of a young man - not Dixon.  He sought 
to make every incident, no matter how minor, into an opportunity to 
teach power and confidence. 

Dixon placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Like coming out of a
daze, George winced at the lightest touch of him. His face slowly rose. 
Eyes red and watery, tears streaming, Dixon knew that there was no 
getting through to him. 

Dixon let out a long soft sigh, "It's all-right." 

Inhaling, George responded, "I'm . .ugh . .sorry."   He was starting to
relax now. "I was just trying to help." 

"Listen, the way you can help me, is to stay at your station. Your
posted at the ballasts, right?" 

"Yes."George felt immodest for messing around when he shouldn't have
been. 

With a smile of reassurance on his face, Dixon began to chuckle, " You
see, you're probably the second most important man on board. But if 
that U.S.S. Housatonic were to spot us, and we had to commence in a 
full decent, but couldn't because you weren't at your post; if we even 
survived, I would see to it that you were hung. Hell, I'll even make 
the rope and tie the noose if I had to," Dixon was glaring, face red. 
His voice sounded harsher as he proceeded.  "Just NEVER . . .leave your 
post again." 

George stood there, with both hands at his sides. His lower lip began to
quiver.  Dixon didn't have to be that hard on him, but Dixon didn't 
understand how a man, as old as George could be crying over such a 
small remark. A section of Georges profile suddenly came to mind.  It 
was highlighted and it read: " . . .At the age of eight, Mr. and Mrs 
Gumm were hung on the account of conspiracy to rebel against the state 
of South Carolina . . ." 

"George, I'm sorry. As god as my witness, I'm sorry."  Dixon felt like a
real dick. 

George fell to his knees, put his hands over his eyes, sobbing
uncontrollably, "George, go to . . ."  He decided to stop, knowing what 
pain he was feeling. Dixon excused him. Slowly, he got up, turned and 
with the aid of both hands made his way to where he wanted to go. When 
he got there, he sat down, leaned too the right to hide himself. 
Without seeing his face, Dixon could tell that George was crying. His 
shoulders were jumping, and chest was heaving. 

Alone, Dixon turned on his heal and started for the command deck, where
he would wait to take down the Housatonic . 

Steam hissing, cranks turning and the splashing of water from his feet
was now all familiar due to the excessive hours waiting, pondering and 
fearing when they will meet with the Housatonic. 

"This won't happen to me. Not me." He said to himself, with a smirk on
his face. 

Part 2 

The taste of his blood was bitter in his mouth.  His head hurt like
hell.  It throbbed, boiled, and stung at the touch. He squinted his 
eyes as blood was flung with thick mats of water. He was wet and cold 
as he lie on his back. Lifting his hand, he touched his head and felt a 
thick opened wound.  It was wide, and tender. Again it throbbed and 
stung.  He yanked his hand away only to bring it back again. The swamp 
of a gash poured out blood.  With great effort, he brought his hand 
back to the wound, knowing what pain it would bring.  Nothing.  It 
feels numb and cold.  With two fingers, he explored the wound until his 
hand came upon what felt like stone.  He picked at it continuously.  
Scraping and ripping flesh apart; he stops.  His skull.  Dixon rose to 
his feet and started towards the corridor. Not even ten strides, he 
changed his mind and headed for his captains chair. 

He turned the crank on the small door four revolutions.  It screeched
and hissed as it lazily swung open ending with a loud crack.  The noise 
it made was like thunder, that sent an echo through out the Hunley. 

Dixon stormed into the small, cluster phobic room, hitting his shoulders
on pipes as he did so.  The angry look on his face soon faded away when 
he saw everybody looking at him.  They were all crooked in their 
chairs, all at their stations.  They were looking at his large opened 
wound.  He rolled his eyes up and wiped away the excess blood.  It had 
stopped bleeding, but still hurt.  "Don't mind this," he pointed to his 
wound.  "I've had worse." 

"Sir, what happened to- . . .?" 

He cut him off.  "What the hell was that?" 

"The Housatonic sir, they've spotted us, and we think that they dropped
bombs in response to our presence.  It caused a concussion that blew 
out one of our ballast tanks.  It's probably the cause of your head 
injury." 

"How could they have spotted us?  Were black as pitch."  Dixon said
confused. 

"I don't know sir." 

"What time is it?" Dixon eyed every man in the room. 

" ‘Bout 200 hours.  I've been keep'n track of the sun . .er . .the time
ever since we left the harbor.  I would count all day . ." 

"No," he confirmed, " the moon."  They were all confused at what he was
talking about, so he started to explain. " The moon is starting to set 
and we were quickly spotted by them." 

"How?" one asked, " we couldn't have been seen if the moon had set." 

"No," he corrected, " We were silhouetted against the moon as it was
setting.  We were more than vulnerable; we were bait. 

The frustration and disbelief of what had just happened was felt by
Dixon, and all of his crew.  Slowly with authority, Dixon walked up to 
his captains seat.  Standing, he looked about his crew.  His heart was 
pounding with his slow, steady breathing. With great effort, he ordered 
all men at their stations to stay quiet and prepare to dive. 

~ 

Hardly louder than a whisper, Dixon said, " Three knots.  Connect . ." 
He looked around, searching for the person he was giving the order to.  
Throbbing, the pulse under his jaw poured stinging sweat down both 
sides of his neck.  His temples throbbed, too, shooting pains to the 
gash.  He found the person who he was searching for to his right.  He 
continued, " . . the fuse cable to the line." 

"Eye eye sir." 

"Wait." 

The man looked puzzled. " Captain?" 

He sighed, then said, " That will have to do." Dixon, at the wheel
asked, " How far?" 

Someone hesitated to answer, then said, " Fifty meters." 

"Good, we have time."  It was a great deal of time before Dixon excused
himself.  "I need to take care of some business," Then he shouted,  
"Second in command will be George. Gumm."  He look at George, while he 
said to the crew,   "If nobody likes it, don't ask me," he had a smile 
on his face, aimed towards George, "consult George hear."  Dixon called 
to George.  "Carrie out the orders to ram those Union sons'a bitch's."  
Walking out, a man in the corner said something soft to Dixon. Dixon 
lowered his head in understanding.  He turned on his heal and was out 
the small door.  Gently, the door closed with the faint sound of 
footsteps following after.  The crew were wondering why Dixon had this 
mood change.  Nobody was going to bring it to his attention, though.  
Then, they all continued with their obligations. 

~ 

One tear streamed down the left side of his face, the corners of his
mouth curled up.  He was now concluding the letter that Michel asked 
him to write.  The tears in Michel's face were faint.  He told Dixon to 
write to his family if he does not make it.  He told him that his wife 
has had a mild case of cancer for a little over two years.  Since then, 
it's gotten worse.  She's dying, and they have two children.  They are 
the age of four and six.  They are to young to be with out their 
parents.  They couldn't take in the death of both parents.  So he asked 
him to write that he loves them all, and all of the above.  Lastly, he 
wrote, 

Sincerely, Lt. George Dixon. 

That single tear rolled off his cheek and hit the paper below.  The
sound was carried out with the metal incasing of the Hunley.  While 
fetching another paper to write his coarse of events, the echo was 
shortly drowned out by cries of desperation.  All the cries were 
painful.  Clearing his throat, he shook his head to see if he was 
hearing correctly.  The noise stopped.  After giving himself a mental 
shake, he got back to his business.  He began to put in that they are 
close to breaking the Union Blockade so that they can get their goods 
from the French.  The sound of rippling blood yanked his attention. 

A voice from far in the distance.  " Holgp . . .ugh . . .mbe . . ugh .
."  The gurgling made it harder to under stand.  The voice was 
scratchy, and high pitched.  It was George. 

Dixon had no knowledge of where he was.  He was following his ears.  The
intoxicating aroma of death filtered the hall of the Hunley.  The blur, 
the hard breathing was all familiar.  I felt the bruise on my chest as 
I was running.  Then, for some reason, I was lying down. 

The dirt was damp with blood.  I got to my feet, reaching for the sword
in my scabbard.  The brass feel was cold and comfortable.  The raised, 
steel shape of the rose pressed into the palm of my hand as I gripped 
it tightly.  As I rotated my thumb around, it slipped into a pit and 
stopped at the knuckle.  It was wedged in an oval shape circle that 
shouldn't be there.  I slid my hand down of what I thought was my 
sword, but was not.  I did not find the outstretched, steal bars that 
would normally be on the hilt if my sword.  Nothing.  Terrified, eyes 
wide, I jerked my head up, down, then up again  to see a man running 
towards me.  I looked over my shoulder to find my sword, towering over 
my foot print.  I scamper around, walking backwards, while my body 
still faces the man.  Trying to find my footing over thick, tangled 
roots, I reached out my right hand, limply searching for my sword.  The 
man was getting closer, I didn't have my sword.  What was I to do?  I 
ran faster, stretching out my hand even further.  I gripped the sword, 
yanked it out of the ground, leaving a trail of dust to follow behind.  
Tangled roots followed the blade.  I  brought my sword up, then swung 
it down in an arc, piercing the mans left side.  He stopped in his 
tracks.  My sword stopped a couple of times going through, so I gave it 
a sawing motion.  The sound of ripping meat was gruesome.  The hilt of 
my sword pulled away from me, so I cut even harder.  Blood was trailing 
down the mans leg, spiting out on to the ground in front of the man, 
and in back.  The sound of a pop, then rushing liquid, filled my ears 
as the mans intestines emptied out completely.  He was starting to 
slump down on his left side, shifting his weight until the only thing 
holding him up, was the blade.  The mans face was hurtful, painful, and 
expressionless.  It was all in his eyes.  Pulsating in irregular 
places, red veins grew out from the outer corners of his eyes.  They 
inclosed in on his pupil faster.  Blood seeped from every edge, some 
more than others.  They imploded, and blood filled the white parts of 
his eyes.  The man started to gurgle and spit out blood and vomit, but 
not all of it made its way out of the mouth.  I herd a thud and a 
splosh as a thick, red ball of meat had slipped out of the cut and hit 
my foot.  Before it could make its way out of his mouth, the white foam 
spilled out onto the dirt, hissing and bubbling until it became a 
liquid.  It trailed off, picking up dirt as it became unnoticeable.  I 
looked down and saw that the mans leg was limp.  It sloshed and rippled 
as it over flowed and became lifeless.  I looked up, and he, too, 
became lifeless.  I puled out my sword, flinging blood and meat with 
it.  With the aid of both arms, I held the man up by the back of his 
head.  Looking into his eyes, the same thing happened again. 

I was on my knees and blood puddled in the palms of my hands.  A softer
younger face was hear.  Georges' dead face looked to be frozen in 
surprise.  I felt a large, iron object, sticking out of the back of his 
skull.  Gripping it, I started to cry uncontrollably.  "God . . 
.dammit."  Dixon wasn't a man to cry, people thought.  "No . ." I spoke 
not louder than a whisper.  "God . . . no!" 

His crew felt the pain that Lt. Dixon was feeling.  He looked at them,
and finely, at Jimmy. he seemed to be the most devastated of all, more 
so than Dixon.  He didn't know why though.  Dixon returned to his 
captains deck, and stood at the wheel. 

~ 

"God dammit, two knots, not three. You should know how to set a steady
pace." 

"Sorry sir." 

"Captain, the Housatonic is 20 feet, and closing.  South-west-west sir."


The sound of ricocheting bullets are loud and motivational.  Dixon was
wondering about George.  How did it happen?  Why did it happen?  
Dixon's arms were cramped.  If only he could out stretch his arms and 
legs, it would feel so good. 

After a long time, Dixon finely ordered,  "Empty ballasts half way.  We
need to get centered."  The hull of the Housatonic was getting closer.  
With the long pole ready to plunge, it missed. 

"Sir, we missed our target." 

One shipmate said, "Captain, the Housatonic is changing coarse." 

Dixon said irritated, " God dammit!"  He looked down, shaking his head
in disgust.  "Turn hard left, and don't miss this time."  He could hear 
the sound of grunts and coughs. 

The Housatonic slowly came back into vision.  Now on coarse, Dixon
yelled,   "Two knots.  Brace for impact dammit."  The hull of the 
Housatonic became more and more visible as they come closer upon it.  
Though it was dark, the moon lighted the way.  The moon shot streams of 
light that danced as they hit the waters surface.  They shimmered and 
gleamed, dropping into the ocean deep.  Looking ahead, Dixon could see 
schools of fish, parting then coming back together as the Housatonic 
cut between them.  They quickly turned away as one as the Hunley came 
towards them.  The school of black, silver fish looked more like a 
cloud than anything at all.  Dixon had a calm look on his face.  Sweat 
roll down his forehead, dropping into his eyes, stinging as they did 
so. 

"Sir, were getting close." 

"How close?"  Dixon asked. 

"Ten feet sir." 

"Good."  He started again.  "Spar-torpedo ready?" 

"Yes captain." 

The water specks sped past us as we flew through the water free as a
seal.  The only difference is that ours is powered by a crew of nine.  
Bullets shot through the water, leaving a trail of bubbles floating to 
the surface.  The sound of churning water was soft to the ears, despite 
the sounds of the Hunley. 

The long pole sent vibrations racing in on the Hunley as the
spare-torpedo rammed into the left side of the Housatonic.  Fragments 
that were ripped and splintered off, lazily drifted down into the 
darkness.  The sound of the impact sent out sighs of relief. 

"The spar is locked and ready sir." 

"Poll's dropped, and the line is ready." 

Dixon waited for silence, then said,  "First officer speaking.  May I
have your attention."  There were murmurs of confusion, then they died 
down.  He continued.  "One man died today.  The cause of death is 
unknown.  But I trust that he only died in honor."  He ordered for full 
reverse and told the right propeller man to move slower for an easy get 
away at the end.  He kneeled down. 

One man spoke loudly while turning a crank,   "We all heard the cries,
but we thought it was just the hiss'n of the pipes.  It's loud in here. 
Hard to tell the difference.  Look, I'm yelling right now." 

Dixon said irritated over the loud, violent noises,  "Is this funny to
you?  God dam, what is wrong with you?  A ship mate dies, and all you 
can do is laugh!" 

The man who made the rude remark lowered his head. 

"Listen," Dixon said, " all I am asking for is that you- . . ." 

The loud boom was followed by a concussion that knocked Dixon onto his
backside.  The loud sounds of the hissing pipes were spine tingling.  
The creaks of metal grew louder as they bent even more out of shape.  
The loud crack of glass was soon rushed in by spiked fast moving water. 
 The water came rushing down on him like a ball of cracked glass.  In 
fact, that's exactly what it was.  Then, it hit him.  He could see 
shards of glass coming in at him at all sides.  A long, thick piece of 
glass drove into his eye.  He closed his eyes at the pain, but the 
glass pulled, then ripped his right eye-lid. The sick feeling that came 
over Dixon was incredibly nauseating. His frustration and fear worked 
up a cool sweat that made his bowels churn and knot up. The submarine 
spun sluggishly, letting the pink water and Dixon fall numerous times 
from roof to floor, and floor to roof. The water was rising very close 
to chin level. There was no other option. Dixon yanked his head high, 
took in a breath that could've bursted his lungs, and let the salty, 
blood tasting water engulf his body. Idly, he tumbled in the water, 
turning as the submarine rotated in the opposite direction.  He had 
little breath left.  He was rising towards the opening where the window 
had shattered.  With every ounce of strength he had, he managed to 
squeeze through the opening.  Looking down in shock, he saw that his 
waist wasn't all the way through.  Trying to squeeze through once more, 
the opening pulled on his hips.  With his cheeks puffed up, he grunted, 
letting out more air, making himself even more wheezy.  He was trying 
to move his legs, so maybe he could wriggle his way out, but that did 
very little.  Dixon started to cry, letting out long, high pitched 
groans.  He started to push with his arms, but that, he thought, would 
do no good.  The faint sound of a splash yanked his attention.  With 
his blurred vision, he could make out an object coming at him.  It was 
coming at incredible speeds.  He tried to move out of the way, but had 
no strength left.  It came closer and closer.  He started to moan, 
shaking his head thinking to himself, "Why is this happening?"  The 
long hollow pipe shot through his stomach, exiting half way out of his 
back.  The force of the pole yanked him out of the hole and brought him 
plummeting down to the dark of the ocean.  He looked up and saw the sub 
rising above him.  The submarine tumbled down, yet it got smaller.  The 
Hunley looked smaller than he remembered.  He started to feel joyous.  
He looked up and smiled, even as Michel's body rushed down beside him.  
It disappeared as it went down into the darkness.  Dixon's head 
followed Michel until he was out of view.  The sound of explosions were 
now gone.  He saw the fire and the sub itself begin to fade away.  
Everything became dark.  Dixon never felt this way before.  He felt no 
pain.  He began to feel light headed, and saw the light. 

The End


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