thing seemed like a dream.
A shout from one of his officers snapped him back to reality. 'She's coming right at us]'
The oncoming ship was pointed at the starboard wing where Calamai watched in horror. The sharp upturned bow seemed to be aimed directly at him..
The Doria's skipper had a reputation for being tough and in control. But at that moment he did what any sane man would have done in his position. He ran for his life.
The Swedish ship's reinforced bow pierced the metal skin of the speeding Andrea Doria as easily as a bayonet, penetrating almost a third of the liner's ninetyfoot width before it came to rest.
With a weight of 29,100 tons, more than twice that of the Stockholm, the Italian liner dragged the vessel with it, pivoting around the point of impact below and aft of the starboard bridge wing. As the stricken Doria plunged ahead, the Stockholm's crumpled prow pulled free, ripping open seven of the liner's ten passenger decks like a raptor's beak tearing into the flesh of its victim. It scraped along the long black hull in a bright shower of sparks.
The gaping wedgeshaped hole that yawned in the Doria's side was forty feet at the top and narrowed to seven feet below sea level at the bottom.
Thousands of gallons of seawater rushed into the massive wound and filled empty outboard fuel tanks tom open in the collision. The ship tilted to the right under the weight of five hundred tons of seawater that flooded into the generator room. An oily river poured through an access tunnel and manholes and began to rise through the floor gratings of the engine room. The struggling engine crew slid on the oilslicked decks like circus clowns taking pratfalls.
More water gushed in, surged around the undamaged empty fuel tanks on the port side, and buoyed them up like soap bubbles.
Within minutes of being hit, the Doria had heeled over into a severe list.
Nillson expected to be flung to the floor by the impact. The jolt was surprisingly soft yet strong enough to jar him from his paralysis. He dashed from the wheelhouse into the chartroom and lunged for the alarm button that would close the Stockholm's watertight doors.
The captain roared onto the bridge. 'What in God's name happened?° .
Nillson tried to mouth an answer. The words stuck in his throat. He was at a loss to describe the scene. Hansen ignoring his order to go to starboard. The blurred spin of the wheel to port. Hansen leaning forward into the wheel, hands tightly clutching the spokes as if frozen in time. No fear, no horror in his eyes. Only a glacial blue coldness. Nillson thought it was a trick of the light at first, the illumination from the gyrocompass housing catching the ugly scar. There was no mistake. As the ships hurtled toward certain disaster, the man was smiling.
There was no doubt in his mind. Hansen had deliberately rammed the other ship, aiming the Stockholm as if he were riding a torpedo. No doubt, too, that nobody, not the captain or anyone else on the ship, would ever believe such a thing could happened
Nillson's anguished eyes shifted from the captain's angry ` face to the helm. as if the answer lay there. The deserted wheel spun madly out of control.
In all the confusion Hansen had vanished.
Jake Corey was shocked from his slumber by a doomful metallic thunderclap. The hollow boom lasted only an instant before it was followed by the tortured shriek of steel against steel and a terrifying crumple and crunch as if the upper deck cabin were imploding. Corey's eyes blinked open, and he stared fearfully at what looked to be a moving grayishwhite wall, only a few feet away
Carey had drifted off to sleep minutes before. He had kissed his wife, Myra, good night and slipped beneath the cool sheets of a twin bed in their firstclass cabin. Myra read a few pages of her novel until her eyelids drooped. She switched off the light, pulled the blanket dose around her neck, and sighed, with pleas. ant memories of the sunbaked Tuscan vineyards still in her head.
Earlier, she and Jake had toasted the success of their Italian sojourn with champagne in the firstclass dining room. Carey had suggested a nightcap in the Belvedere Lounge, but Myra replied that if she heard the band play 'Arrivederci Roma' one more time, she'd swear off spaghetti forever. They retired shortly before tenthirty P.m.
After strolling handinhand past the shops .in the foyer deck, they took the elevator one level up and walked forward to their large upperdeck cabin on the starboard side. They put their luggage out in the corridor, where the stewards would collect it in anticipation of the ship's arrival in New York the next day There was a slight roll to the ship because the vessel had become more topheavy as fuel in the big hull tanks was used up. The motion was like being naked in a giant cradle, and before long Myra Carey, too, fell asleep.
Now her husband's bed lurched violently. He was catapulted into the air as if he'd been launched from a siege machine. He floated in free fall for several lifetimes before splashing into a deep pool of darkness.
Death stalked the decks of the Andrea Doria.
It roamed from the posh cabins on the higher levels to the touristclass accommodations below the waterline. Fiftytwo people lay dead or dying in the wake of the crash. Ten cabins were demolished in the firstclass deck where the hole was at its widest. The hole was at its narrowest at the bottom, but the cabins below the waterline were smaller and more crowded, so the effect was even more devastating.
Passengers died or lived according to the whims of fate. A firstclass passenger who'd been brushing his teeth ran back to the bedroom to find the wall gone, his wife vanished. On the deluxe foyer deck two people were killed instantly. Twentysix Italian immigrants in the smaller, cheaper cabins of the lowermost deck were right in line with the collision and died in a mass of crushed steel. Among them were a woman and her four young children. There were miracles as well. A young girl scooped out of a firstclass cabin woke up in the Stockholm's crumpled bow. In another cabin the ceiling crashed down on a couple, but they managed to crawl out into the corridor. '
Those from the two lowest decks had the toughest struggle, fighting their way up the slanting smokefilled passageways against a stream of oilslicked black water. Gradually people began to work their way to the muster stations and waited for instructions. .
Captain Calamai was at the far side of the undamaged bridge when the ships hit. Recovering from his initial shock, he pulled the ship's telegraph lever to Stop. The ship eventually came to a halt in the deep fog.
The second officer strode to the inclinometer; the instrument that measured the ship's angle.
'Eighteen degrees,' he said. A few minutes later he said, 'Nineteen degrees.'
Cold fingers brushed the captain's heart. The list should be no more than fifteen degrees, even with two compartments flooded. A tilt of more than twenty degrees would overwhelm the watertight compartments.
Logic was telling him the situation was impossible. The designers guaranteed that the ship would remain on an even keel with any group of two compartments flooded. He called for damage reports from each deck; especially on the status of the watertight doors, and ordered an SOS sent out with the ship's position.
Officers rushed back to the bridge with damage reports. The engineroom crew was pumping the starboard compartments, but water was coming in faster than they could get it out. The boiler room was flooded, and water was flowing into two more compartments.
The problem was at A Deck, supposed to serve as a steel lid over the transverse bulkheads that divided the ship into compartments. Water was flowing down those passenger stairways into the other compartments.
The officer called out the new reading. 'Twentytwo degrees.'
Captain Calamai didn't have to look at the inclinometer to know the list had, passed the point where it could be corrected. The evidence was in the slant of the chartlittered floor right at his feet.
The ship was dying.
He was numb with grief. The Andrea Doria was not just any ship. The twentyninemilliondollar Queen of the Italian Line was the most magnificent and luxurious passenger vessel afloat. Barely four years old, it was launched to show the world that the Italian merchant marine was back in business after the war. With its graceful black hull and white superstructure, the rakish red, white, and green funnel, the liner looked more like the work of a sculptor than a marine architect.
Moreover, this was his ship. He had commanded the Doria on her trial runs and in a hundred Atlantic crossings. He knew her decks better than the rooms of his own home. He never tired of strolling from one end to the other, like a spectator in a museum, breathing in the work of thirtyone of Italy's finest artists and artisans, glorying in the Renaissance beauty of the mirrors, gilt, crystal, rare woods, fine tapestries, and mosaics. Surrounded by the massive mural that lionized Michelangelo and other Italian masters, he would pause in the firstclass lounge before the massive bronze statue of Andrea Doria, second only to Columbus in greatness. The old Genoese admiral
