Into the Deep - Homer Olsen Chapter 4

8/16/2026

Saint-Nazaire carried a strange fascination for Homer Olsen. The port town had grown exponentially with the war effort. The banks of the Loire River swarmed with newly arrived troops, injured soldiers waiting for a ride home, and mountains of cargo. Bare-knuckle brawls broke out almost hourly between the Frogs and the Americans.

There was plenty to keep a man entertained, from back-alley dice games to enticing young French girls. But Olsen, with his hands still bandaged from rowing a lifeboat after the sinking of the James St. Lawrence, spent his idle hours watching the commercial divers in their brass hard hats and canvas dress as muscular tenders turned the rotary pumps that supplied the diver with air. He wondered what it must be like to descend into the depths and see the wonders there.

Standing close enough to observe the action but not to hinder the operation, Olsen watched the water burble as the tender and dive supervisor tracked the diver’s movements. For a moment, Olsen glanced up at the sun reflecting off the black hull of France IV, a four-funnel liner converted to haul troops and material. The diver was under her stern near the ship’s big brass propellers.

A bull of a man with a barrel chest and thick black stubble eyed Olsen as he chewed on a stub of a cigar. He was clearly the dive supervisor. His watchful gaze surveyed his workers and the crowd alike.

The sup’s eyes fell on Olsen, who, with broad shoulders and ropy muscles from hauling shells to the guns, cut a dashing figure in his dress blues. His time in the lifeboat had left his face gaunt, but he was still handsome with thick dark hair and brown eyes that took in every detail.

“Boatswain, eh?” the man growled. “What ship you on, swab?”

“I’m waiting for reassignment.”

The dive supervisor rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

“What’s he doing down there?” Olsen asked, nodding toward the muddy water.

“Replacing a hull fitting.”

“Is it hard?” Olsen asked.

The supervisor snorted. “You ain’t got the guts, kid. Stand aside and let the men work.”

Olsen balled his fists, ready to wade into a fight. No one got to tell him that he didn’t have guts. Not after what he’d gone through on that rowboat. After a deep breath, Olsen relaxed his muscles. Fighting with the sup wouldn’t get him the answers he wanted.

Olsen continued to watch the operation silently. The pump hissed as the sweaty men spun the wheels. Other divers hung around the pier, waiting for their turn to descend into darkness. Some of them chatted freely with the onlookers, telling of past salvage operations in the freezing Atlantic or pearl diving in warm Pacific waters. Olsen hung on every word. He knew he must learn to dive.

After the diving wrapped up, Olsen drifted away, finding himself in a bar overflowing with Frogs and Americans in uniforms of all branches. Beer flowed freely, and frequent singing broke out in drunken chorus.

Olsen saw an officer enter the bar and recognized him from the diving docks. He had short dark hair, scarred knuckles, and boxer’s ears. Olsen appraised him as a fellow fighter immediately, but those silver oak leaves on his khaki collar said he’d learned to keep his cool long enough to make commander.

Olsen turned to order another beer from the bartender only to have a Frenchman bump into him and spill the fresh beer across Olsen’s uniform. Immediately, Olsen clocked the Frog in the jaw, followed by two brutal shots to the gut. Other soldiers, sailors, and Frogs jumped into the fray, plunging the bar into chaos with fists flying and bottles breaking.

Someone grabbed Olsen by his jumper. He spun to face the threat, finding he’d nearly punched the commander with boxer’s ears. The man kept a solid hold on Olsen as he hauled him out of the bar.

“Belay that, sailor. That man was drunk and meant no offense.”

“Tell that to my uniform. It’s soaked!”

“Never mind that. I want to talk to you.”

“About what?” Olsen barked.

“Easy, Boats. My name’s Commander Quinn. I overheard you on the dock, talking to the dive supervisor. You want to learn how to dive; I can help you. We’re down a few men on our crew. I need men with courage like yourself.”

Olsen was suddenly alert to what the man had to say. “I’m in, sir,” he replied without hesitation.

“It’s not for the faint of heart, Olsen, but I need a man who’s levelheaded and can keep himself in check. You’ve proved you can do that when you were on the James St. Lawrence, but that display in the bar leaves me in doubt.”

Olsen nodded. “I understand, sir. You give me a chance, and I’ll prove my worth.”

Quinn led him through the streets to a waterfront warehouse, where the Navy ran its diving operation. As he gave Olsen a tour of the diving equipment, Quinn explained that most of the divers Olsen had seen came from a handful of private companies. The Navy had few divers of its own and had just recently stood up a salvage unit.

“We’ll test you in a rig to see how you fare. If you pass the test, you’ll start out as a tender and learn how to maintain the equipment. If you make it through all that, we might make you a diver.”

Olsen nodded, trying not to show his eagerness. “What about my orders? I’m supposed to ship out with another Armed Guard detachment.”

“I’ll handle that,” Quinn replied. “Be here tomorrow for morning muster.”

Olsen returned to his barracks room. The Navy had reissued him some uniforms and kit after his had gone down with the James St. Lawrence. He checked his dungarees, proud of the crossed anchors above the two chevrons freshly stenciled onto his blue shirt sleeve.

He was up before the bugler blew reveille, slipping along rain-soaked cobblestones to the warehouse. Quinn was already there with his crew. Most were boatswain’s or gunner’s mates. Olsen noted a few admin and supply types in the ranks.

Once the crews fell out to work, Quinn motioned his newest recruit forward and introduced him to a powerfully built man with a glistening bald head. “Chief Barnes, this here’s Homer Olsen. He sunk a U-boat with his four-incher.”

“You might be a helluva shot with a gun, kid, but that don’t mean nothin’ here. Working underwater is a whole ’nother ballgame.”

“I’ve seen him fight, Chief,” Quinn said. “If he puts that same amount of stubbornness into his diving, he’ll do swell.”

As Quinn turned to leave, Barnes said, “We’re still short a man, Commander.”

“I know a fella,” Olsen volunteered. “He was with me on the St. Lawrence. Every bit as tough as me.”

Commander Quinn’s left brow rose. “His name?”

“Gunner’s Mate Three Archie Rollins. He’s up at the transit barracks.”

Quinn nodded. “I’ll gather him up. Rig Olsen to dive.”

Barnes led Olsen through a jumble of dockside equipment and down a narrow gangway to a diving station on a barge. A couple of tenders worked the deck pump, a rectangular metal box about two feet square. Giant brass flywheels, like those for steering a ship, spun pistons inside the box to pump air to the diver through a thick rubber hose. A tender stood at the edge of the barge, holding the hose. Barnes explained that it was the umbilical—an air hose, a hemp line for signaling, a stout line to haul the diver up, and a telephone line for rudimentary communication.

“We’re gonna dunk you now, Olsen. See how you react.” Barnes motioned for a couple of men to help Olsen dress.

First came the thick canvas suit and the heavy breastplate. As the tenders worked the excess suit material under the plate, Barnes took Olsen’s hand and placed it on the front of the plate to keep him from cutting his chin. He explained each step in the process as the tenders fitted washers and nuts on the collar that would lock the helmet in place. With that done, they slipped his feet into lead-soled boots, laced on shin gaiters to keep air from collecting in the suit legs, and fastened a heavy weight belt around Olsen’s waist.

After air and communications checks, the tenders twisted the helmet a quarter turn to seat it on the collar.

Olsen shuddered at the instant claustrophobia. There was no escape from the rig, and he thought briefly about telling them to take it off. But then Olsen thought of the dive sup telling him he didn’t have the guts.

You ain’t backin’ out now, Olsen. This is what you wanted. You’re gonna get it!

“Keep ’at steel in your eyes, boy,” Chief Barnes noted. “You’re gonna need it.”

The tender squatted in front of Olsen as he worked, tightening the helmet nuts. “Listen to me, kid,” he said, taking the diver’s left hand and moving it up to a valve. “This is your air control. Toward you is more air. Away is less. Add air the deeper you go. Slacken it as you come up. You’ll tell the pressure by your ears. Keep clearing them as you go down.”

“Got it,” Olsen replied, repeating the sequence.

“I’m going to close the faceplate now,” the tender said. “When I clamp it down, put your right hand on the exhaust valve and turn it counterclockwise three times.”

Olsen moved his hand up and touched the valve.

Chief Barnes leaned in. “This is what you’re going to do, Olsen. When I tell ya, you’ll walk to the ladder. Descend it facing the barge. At the bottom of the ladder, you’ll be in twenty feet of water. I want you to find your footing and stand there for a moment. Breathe naturally. If you start huffing and puffing, you’ll overbreathe the helmet and pass out from the excess carbon dioxide. If that happens, we’ll pull you topside, and you’ll go back to your gun tub. Aye, Boats?”

“Aye, Chief.”

“Close him up,” Barnes said.

The tender shut the faceplate and screwed it tight. Olsen just sat there, staring through a network of brass bars that held the porthole glass in place.

“Diver stand,” crackled through the comms line, sounding distant and distorted.

Olsen rose, straining under the two hundred pounds of suit weight. He followed Barnes’ instructions to the letter, descending into the muddy abyss. Olsen’s breath caught in his chest as he released the ladder. He was putting his trust in his fellow man and their ability to maintain the topside equipment.

He glanced around but couldn’t see anything but muddy water in front of him. When he raised his hand to turn the air control valve, it was just a white blur in the gloom. He turned his head, finding he had to twist his entire body to turn the helmet, but he could move freely inside the helmet to see out the front, side, and top ports.

Barnes’ voice crackled through the speaker. “You on the bottom, Olsen?”

Olsen reached up and shut off the air to the helmet so Barnes could hear his reply. “On the bottom, Chief,” Olsen replied. “Can’t see anything, but I can feel the muck on my shoes.”

“Good. Right face and walk ten paces.”

Olsen slowly turned his body, the bulky suit awkward to move in. The tiny window in the helmet let in little light. Olsen counted each step as he walked.

“Ten paces, Chief.”

“Good. Right face again and walk forward. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Olsen trudged forward, deliberately lifting each heavy boot and setting it back into the muck as the river bottom sloped gradually downward.

Suddenly, Olsen was falling, desperately trying grab hold of anything to stop his slide down a muddy embankment. He skidded to a stop at the bottom, faceplate buried in the muck.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright and reached up to clear the glass, finding mud and sea grass trapped in the protective bars. Olsen cleared his ears and shook his head.

Barnes had played a dirty trick on him. He had known that drop-off was there. Olsen grinned to stave off his anger. He knew it was just part of the ritualistic hazing. The chief was testing him, wanting to see how he reacted to adversity.

As Olsen picked himself up, he cracked his demand valve to let more air in at the deeper depth and to lighten his suit. The awful smell of rotten eggs suddenly filled his helmet, bleeding down the air tube. There was nothing he could do but breathe through it and hope someone stopped waving sulfur in front of the air intake.

“You doing okay, Boats?” Barnes barked in his ear.

“Having a picnic with a mermaid, Chief.”

“You got grit, Olsen. Come on back to the ladder.”

Olsen clawed his way up the slope, careful to rest every few steps to keep his breathing and heart rate down. As he worked his way out of the pit, Barnes kept giving him a depth reading so Olsen could modulate his suit pressure. If the pressure inside the suit dropped below the surrounding water pressure, his entire body would be squeezed up inside the helmet. Dead before he even got started.

Eventually, Olsen made it back to the ladder.

“Okay, one last thing, Boats, there’s a bag hanging from a line. I want you to take out the bar and fit all the bolts through it, thread on the nuts, and give the line two jerks when you finish.”

Olsen could barely hear the issued orders through the crackling speaker, but he got the gist.

He found the line by swinging his arm around in front of him and then slid his hand down to the bag. Gently, he pried it open and rummaged inside until he found the bar. Holding it with both hands, fingers trembling from the frigid water, he counted six holes drilled through it. With difficulty, he fed each bolt through and threaded on a washer and a nut. When Olsen finished, some ten minutes later, he dropped the bar into the bag and gave the line two hard jerks.

“Come on up, Boats.”

Olsen climbed the ladder, his head breaking the surface, able to see through the muddy faceplate for the first time since descending.

A wave of relief washed over him as the tenders pulled off the heavy helmet. Olsen ran his fingers across his forehead, finding that he was sweating heavily. The tenders quickly stripped him of the rest of the diving dress.

Standing in his stocking feet, Olsen faced Chief Barnes. “How’d I do?”

“You’ll do well enough.” Barnes tapped the bar against his palm, the loose bolts rattling. “Have your hands rebandaged and see Commander Quinn.”

Olsen saw Archie Rollins dressed and ready to go into the water. He clapped his buddy on the shoulder. “Easy day, shipmate. Watch out for the sharks.”

Rollins chuckled. “They won’t like how I taste.”

Olsen walked toward the medical tent with a spring in his step.

He’d gone down into the deep and returned a changed man.

Homer Olsen knew he never wanted to do anything else for the rest of his life.

© 2026 Evan Graver