BRITISH COMICS
THE ATLANTIC
MONSTER
First episode,
taken from The Wizard issue: 1084 September
1st 1945.
THE PERSONAL DIARY OF A NAVAL
OFFICER WHO WITNESSED THE TERRIFYING SPECTACLE OF A HUGE WATERSPOUT MOVING
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC DESTROYING EVERYTHING IN ITS PATH.
There are times when I almost
convince myself that I am wasting a lot of paper with this diary of mine. Ever
since I have been in the Fleet Air Arm I have recorded almost daily the things
that have happened to me, and about me. Looking back over the records of the
war years, I find there are hundreds of pages about things of no importance.
The trouble is I never know in advance if the things I write about are going to
be important. So it is today. Early this evening I was sitting in the wardroom
aboard our carrier, the H.M.S. Golden Eagle, when Commander Earle appeared in
the doorway. “Lieutenant Cagney!” he barked, and even though I was deep in the
game of draughts with Gregory Albright, my pilot, I heard his voice and rose to
my feet. “I want you for a few minutes in the briefing room.” In war-time such
a request had been frequent, but as I walked along the narrow corridor in the
wake of the stout Commander, I wondered what reason he had for summoning me
when I was off duty. I’m in the Meteorological Branch, and spend most of my
days chasing weather reports over the
After that there was silence.
That’s not all.” I began to get interested, and sat on the edge of the table, a
position which I always find favourable to my long legs. I waited for the
Commander to continue. “Our own people in the Bermudas have been kept aware of
these strange happenings, and dispatched a fast motor-boat to see if there were
any survivors. It was an M.T.B. of the latest type, equipped with life-saving
apparatus and carrying two doctors. I’ve just had a wireless dispatch to say
that all communication with it has ceased. Half a dozen stations are calling
it, but without result. It seems to have vanished. They’ve asked us to do
something about it.” I did some quick thinking. “Maybe an electric storm in
that locality. What do the instruments say?” “Extremely low pressure in the
atmosphere, but nothing else. It’s queer. That’s why I’m asking you to fly
there tomorrow morning and have a look around. It’s not far off your beat.” I
nodded. I knew what he meant. Each day the Fleet was at sea, several
reconnaissance planes were sent up and ranged anything from two to five hundred
miles in various directions. In war-time we had been spotting U-boats, but now
we were interested in the weather, for the cruise we were on was connected with
the establishment of an All British air route to the
I may as well write down the
beginning just what has happened today. I don’t suppose anyone but myself will
ever read this account, but if they do they will want to get things clearly,
for unless I am very much mistaken, something very unusual is taking place. We
took off at dawn in one of the new Firefly reconnaissance machines, as nice a
job as we have ever had on this work. Lieutenant Albright was the pilot, in the
open cockpit forward, whilst I, the navigator, together with my instruments,
was in the small enclosed cabin aft. The carrier and the rest of the Fleet
vanished in the haze astern as we headed for the map reference given us. It was
a magnificent morning, as clear as crystal overhead, but with a faint mist on
the water. Everything sparkled in the sunshine, the sea was as blue as a
picture postcard, and away on our port side we could see an old tramp steamer
plodding across the
The motor took up its usual note,
and we proceeded on our way, not more than two thousand feet above the
glittering sea. I heard the pilot heave a sigh. “Whee-eew! That was a
humdinger. I don’t want to fall into a hole like that again. Have you noticed
the sea?” I had not, but when I looked down I pursed my lips, for the surface
was broken by a thousand little cones of water. They were not waves. It looked
as though heavy suction was at work, and as though the water was trying to rise
into the air in a thousand different places. It was most uncanny to look down
on it. Salt spray filled the air close to the sea. It sparkled in the strong
sunlight, for there was no wind down there. My instruments seemed to have gone
mad. The low pressure registered would not have been out of the way in the
centre of a typhoon, but we had come through no storm. I had never experienced
anything like this before. “I think I’ll get in touch with—” I began, when the
Firefly again nose-dived and hurled straight for the water. Down—down—down we
sped, as though the bottom had dropped out of the world. I could hear the motor
shrieking, but the screws seemed to get no grip on anything. They were racing
as though in a vacuum. No word came from Albright. I wondered if he had
fainted, but was too anxiously watching the up-rushing surface of the sea to
worry about anything else. In a matter of seconds we would strike, and then—
There was a jolt which broke the strap around my waist. Everything that was
loose in the cabin jumped up and hit me, then we were side-slipping and
skimming over the sparkling water which was no more than fifty feet away. It
was a last minute reprieve. I closed my eyes and pinched myself; it was all
real enough. “Sam, are you there?” came my pilot’s voice, and when I grunted he
hurried on: “I don’t want any more of this. There is something uncanny about
it. Let’s get back!” I pulled myself together with an effort. “I’ll make a
report first,” I told him. “They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me. Keep
away to the south and try to gain altitude. I don’t like this wave-hopping.” I
adjusted my earphones and depressed the key. Thirty seconds later I was in
touch with the Golden Eagle. I was in the act of sending a message to the ship
when I suddenly looked away to starboard, and saw something that made my eyes
grow round. It was a waterspout, the largest I had ever seen, rising from the
sea to the clouds of mist that hovered above. Whirling slowly, it proceeded in
the same direction as ourselves, and as I stared it seemed to me that the sea
was flooding in from all directions to feed it.
The buzzing of the instrument
recalled me to my senses. As yet the pilot had seen nothing, for he was looking
straight ahead. “Sorry!” I called into the transmitter. “We’ve just spotted a
giant waterspout, something larger than I’ve ever seen before. There’s
unusually low pressure around here, and the sea seems troubled. The temperature
is dropping. We’ve been meeting air-pockets worse than anything I’ve known
before. It’s a good thing this is a tough machine.” I switched over. There came
a voice of the control man from the Golden Eagle. “You are to circle the
waterspout at a distance of five miles. Try to get a photo of it, and record
the readings on your instruments.” “Right!” I called, and even as I switched
off a spot of water shot up from the sea below and caught us below. It reminded
me of those glass balls at rifle ranges, found at travelling fairs, glass balls
which bounced up and down on jets of water. We bounced in the same way, and
must have shot to ten thousand feet before we escaped and side slipped into
more equable conditions. How the Firefly held together, I could not imagine.
Gregory Albright’s voice came through the intercom. I don’t know how you feel
about it, but I’m heading for home! One of my oil gauges is bust, and I don’t
like the look of things.” We headed for home, and when we looked back we saw
that the small waterspout which had bounced us skywards had lapsed into the sea
again, if the main spout was thicker and taller than before. I saw some fish
gleaming in the channel-steel struts on the wing. They must have been hurled
out of the sea by the smaller waterspout. I watched the main spout until it was
hidden by mist. It was heading straight for the
After
having talked matters over with the Commander last night there is no doubt in
my mind that the missing planes must have been caught in one of those
air-pockets that we experienced, or were hit by a waterspout. Our radio reports
to
Every
man aboard began to realise the urgency of the occasion. All eyes were strained
ahead. From time to time the radio operators sent word to say there was no word
from either the liner or Firefly. The sea became rougher. The air-pressure
dropped alarmingly, and the captain looked around the horizon for the tell-tale
signs of a hurricane. It was not the hurricane season, but there was no knowing
what might happen under normal conditions in these waters. The horizons were as
clear as could be. There was no sign of bad weather. And then the look-outs saw
it—the waterspout! It was a dozen miles ahead, and linked sea and sky. It
appeared to be whirling slowly, giving the immense column of water a corkscrew
effect. For ten miles around the sea boiled in frenzy. Even the most hardened
of us paled. Waterspouts were not uncommon. Sometimes I had seen as many as a
dozen at one time in southern waters, but never anything as large as this. I
heard Captain Fitcher say the column must be a mile thick. It seemed to be
growing. We scanned the troubled waters for a sign of the liner, but saw
nothing. We searched the sky for the Firefly but all was empty. The radio calls
were going out all the time, but without result. Both the President Garfield
and the Firefly had vanished into the blue. I could not help wondering if the
waterspout had been responsible. “Circle the darned thing, and search the water
for wreckage!” snapped Captain Fitcher and at 33 knots we came round in a wide
curve. It was then something happened to the waterspout. It bulged on one side,
a balloon-like growth forming halfway up the mighty column, on our side of the
column. This hung lower and lower, as though it was going to detach itself,
then it receded, and to our horror the entire waterspout began to speed across
the sea directly towards us. It was still eight or nine miles away, but the
faces of those around me turned pale. It was almost as though some malignant
being had sighted us and had ordered the attack. Even I could have sworn that
the immense column of water increased its speed as it hurled in our direction.
Far
around its base the water was frothing and boiling as it surged to feed the
revolving column that rose to the clouds. Bells rang, the ship’s course was
altered. We sped away on a new course further west, aiming to pass about ten
miles to port of the moving menace. This put the waterspout between us and the
sun, and everyone gasped when they saw something suspended in mid-air midst
that mighty pillar of water. It was a liner, or what was left of a liner. It
was bouncing up and down, just as those glass balls had done in the fairs.
Maybe six hundred feet in length, the shattered liner was being turned over and
over, sometimes dropped a thousand feet, sometimes hurled upwards for twice
that distance. Only for a few seconds did we see it against the sun, then the
mists and the water that formed the core of the column blotted out everything,
and we felt a chill as the sun was screened from us. “Ye gods!” said someone.
“That’s the President Garfield! It’s been picked up as though it was a toy
ship.” I looked at Captain Fitcher, and saw that his lips had turned grey. He
was a man who had faced every peril that the oceans could provide in peace and
war, but he was scared now. Again the bells rang, as he ordered the course to
be changed even further to the west. Then the waterspout, as though aware of
what we were doing, likewise changed its direction to the west, once more
bearing down on us at great speed! Never in my life have I felt so helpless. I
knew that if it came within three or four miles of us we would be sucked into
that vortex and hurled skywards with the water which was being drawn from the
sea. We would share the fate of the President Garfield. Nothing on earth could
save us. At all costs we must keep our distance. We came about, and at 34 knots
sped away from the oncoming column. The decks throbbed to the strain imposed by
the engines, a dense cloud of smoke and steam poured from our funnels, and the
wind hissed along the deck. Everyone watched astern. At first it seemed that
the waterspout was gaining on us. Its speed was extraordinary, and it was
obvious even to us that it was increasing in size every minute. “The whole
sea’s being sucked up!” growled an A.B. near me. “What’s the blinkin’ idea?
It’s like one of these siphons. How’s it done?” His eyes, worried and puzzled,
met mine. “It’s to do with air-pressures,” I explained. “For some reason the
normal atmospheric pressure had dropped to almost nothing over the centre of
that column, and the water beneath it has been sucked into the air. That’s
formed a siphon, as you say, and that’s sucking up more and more water.”
“Strewth!” murmured the man, rubbing his nose. “But where’s it all go?”
“Somewhere up there above the mists it’s mushrooming out to form a great blob
in the sky,” I said. “If it ever comes down on any ship—or on any shore—”
Captain
Fitcher suddenly changed course, and most of us were thrown off our balance. It
was almost as though the waterspout was deliberately following us. We had to
double and dodge like a hare pursued by a dog. Something fell into the sea
about five miles distant, with a force which sent water half a mile into the
air. It was the American liner. It had slipped out of the core of the whirling
vortex, and gravity had done the rest. A mass of twisted metal, it went
straight to the bottom, and I wondered what had happened to the hundreds of
people aboard it. The waterspout was running amok like a mad thing. Was there
some natural explanation of why it was drawn towards ships and aeroplanes, or
was it the other way about? I was glad to see we were getting away from it, and
getting out of its path. It finally passed us to starboard, and we pitched and
tossed more wildly than I had ever known this big ship do. The sea seemed to
have been stirred by a giant jam-spoon.
My eyes are heavy as I write this
page in my diary, for there was no sleep last night. Everyone remained on watch
for the waterspout. We knew it was circling somewhere about us, and our
searchlights were kept on all night as we scanned the waters for its approach. During
the war we had had many restless nights because of lurking U-boats, but I never
remember a night as nerve-packing as the one that had passed. I did not get a
wink of sleep. Chips Bowers, who had come off duty, told me that just before he
had handed over a series of S O S messages had come through from various small
vessels caught in the path of the waterspout. They were calling for aid, yet no
one could aid them. The biggest ship in the world would have stood no chance
close to the waterspout. Actual contact with it was not necessary, for the
effect was felt for miles around. Bowers said that at least two other vessels
had vanished whilst sending out calls for aid. One of these had been a
cruise-ship, with a thousand passengers aboard. It was horrible to think about
it. “What course was it taking the last time reported?” I asked him, as he
closed his weary eyes and tried to doze. He told me, and I went across to the
chart to check up. If it continued in that direction long enough it would cut
across the main route of the liners from
We knew the signs. The waterspout
was coming. It had circled behind us during the night, and was now approaching.
We clapped on all possible speed and followed the freighter towards the north.
Half an hour later we overtook her. She was stationary. Something had happened
to her engines. They had broken down. Wallowing like a lame duck in the path of
the whirling waterspout, those men were doomed unless we did something for
them. Distress signals were being shown. Captain Fitcher gritted his teeth. He
had the responsibility of his own ship and his own men, but he could not leave
fellow-countrymen to die in this terrible fashion. He came down to dead slow,
and told the men aboard the freighter that he would stand by until they got
across. A cheer went up as they lowered their boats. They had not expected him
to stop. Laden boats commenced to pull in our direction, and we all stood ready
to give a hand. No time was wasted. The occupants were hauled aboard, but it
seemed there were still seven or eight men left aboard, including the skipper.
There had been no room for them on the first trip. “Then for the love of
Pete—hurry!” roared Captain Fitcher, through the megaphone, and he glanced
anxiously over his shoulder, for the tell-tale signs were showing in the waters
around him. Even the rowing-boat was lifted and dropped as it sped towards the
freighter. We stared astern. Again the searchlights were directed there. Every
moment we expected to see the massive column advancing on us. Dozens of smaller
spouts were making tentative efforts to rise, and were dropping back with
thunderous splashes. The boat reached the freighter and the captain and his
companions came tumbling down the ladder. The men at the oars worked like
furies, and then—we saw the waterspout! It was coming straight for us. In
ghostly silence those millions of tons of water were spinning between sea and
sky. Our searchlights made it glisten like molten silver, and formed rainbows
in the mists that surrounded it. Like some evil monster that had tracked us
down, the spout came for the two vessels. “Hurry men, hurry!” roared Captain
Fitcher, through the megaphone. “In another few minutes it will be too late.”
Nearer came the spout. The carrier was now bouncing and rolling. Men found it
difficult to keep their feet. Some were muttering silently to themselves. No
one suggested that we should flee and leave those men in the boat to fend for
themselves. I was one of those waiting to receive them. We did not care about
the boat. Directly the occupants had leapt on to the ladder, or had been seized
by one of us, someone shouted that we were clear and the bells rang for full
speed ahead.
The decks trembled, the screws
threshed the troubled waters astern, and we began to move. “We won’t do it!”
gasped my pilot, and Albright’s face shone with sweat as he nodded astern to
the monster that towered over us. “We’re going to be sucked back.” It seemed
that he was right. The water was already receding under our keel. The level of
the sea was dropping as the waterspout gathered more and more to it. With the
screws driving for full speed ahead, we made scarcely any speed at all. It
almost seemed that we would be drawn back. Just what the engineers below did to
get that extra knot, I do not know, but gradually we got the better of the
fierce current against us, and made some headway. Once we had started, we did
better. The distance increased a little further, and the waterspout changed
direction slightly to starboard. The water did not drag at us so much. Yet
there was not a man there whose throat was not contracted, and whose hands were
not tightly clenched, as he watched the whirling waters circle us. Then came a
shout of horror from those on the starboard side. Something was happening to
the freighter. She was beginning to move astern—in the direction of the spout.
Gathering speed, the doomed vessel went stern first towards the pillar of
revolving water. One of our searchlights was swung around to illuminate the
scene, and we saw clearly what happened. When the freighter was about three
miles from the base of the waterspout, she reared up stern first and seemed to
be trying to rise from the sea. The upward suck of the air disturbed by the
waterspout was affecting her. Prevented by her weight, the freighter skidded in
closer to the advancing mass of water, and then, with a suddenness which made us
gasp, she was sucked into the air. It was as though a giant hand had gripped
her. One moment she was bobbing on the sea, and the next she was a thousand
feet aloft, lost in that whirling maelstrom which rose to the clouds. Men cried
out in terror, some covered their eyes. Someone shouted. “Get us out of this,
Cap’n!” Captain Fitcher was doing his best. The Golden Eagle was making all
possible speed towards the north. Her bows rose high, and astern our wake
boiled and foamed for many a mile. Along our flush decks the wind howled and
whistled. We found it hard to stand. Having snatched the freighter into its
maw, the waterspout seemed content to hover on the same spot for a while. We
managed to get three or four miles away from it, and Captain Fitcher tried to
gauge which way it would go next.
The trouble was the movements of
this natural freak were unpredictable. They seemed to follow no rule. Moving
this way and that, sometimes swiftly, sometimes quite slowly, those millions of
tons of water spelled disaster for any vessel that came within a few miles. We
all knew that if the waterspout collapsed, it would churn up the seas for
scores of miles around, and would sink us just as surely as the broadsides of
an enemy battle-cruiser. We tried not to think of that. There was no moon, but
the stars were exceptionally bright, and as I stared up at them above the
wireless aerials I wondered what the end of all this would be. No such
waterspout as this had ever been reported in history. The horrifying part about
it was that it was still growing. It was five times as bulky as when Lieutenant
Albright and I had first seen it. It seemed to gather more volume every time it
turned. If it went on sucking up the
THE ATLANTIC MONSTER 16 episodes appeared in The Wizard issues 1084 – 1099 (1945)
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007