Demon in the Hole

By Jack Mawhinney

            Andy stood on the derrick platform relaxing until the next ninety feet stand of drill pipe was to be added to the six thousand feet already in the hole.  . Activity had slowed down, giving him an opportunity to marvel at his ability to handle the job racking drill pipe stands. It occurred to him how far he had come in just eight weeks, “A new hire and I showed them I could rack ninety-foot drill pipe as fast as any roughneck whether the derrick floor was dry as a bone or slick as a used car salesman. It was my idea to make a mat out of two-by-fours to keep the muddy floor dry for the crew. No other of the roughnecks thought to do as much.”
            The evening shift had earlier relieved the daytime tower and settled in, satisfied that a fresh drill would make the next eight hours an easy shift. The floor boss, Whitey Almond, an ex-union negotiator, periodic alcoholic and radical Socialist, helped Andy to make the usual clean-up of the rig, securing loose drill pipe, hosing off the muddy deck, and putting away 36 inch wrenches and various hand tools scattered across the oil derrick floor.
            Jeff “Sledge” Mackie, the derrick man and a payday drinker whose idea of entertainment was to start brawls in the nearest bar; a cheerful man of great humor and a hard worker. He is re-hired on a regular basis. Andy admired “Sledge’s” lack of fear of heights ninety feet up in the derrick and his willingness to come down on a regular basis to monitor the viscosity of the drilling mud.
            The driller, Hank Jackson, took his place at the control board off to the side of the floor, adjusting the speed as the drill cut through each new formation. His touch sensed every reaction of the rotary drill. The man was a pro. Thirty one years of experience had made him well respected.  Andy was especially impressed by him. He often thought, “Hank Jackson was a man of fairness and sure judgment”.
            As Andy came in sight dawdling across the derrick floor, Hank Jackson turned crimson and hollered over the noise of the diesel engines, “Junior, get your ass over to the mud pits and give “Sledge” a hand before you wind up riding a drill pipe over downtown Santa Barbara.” Embarrassment gripped the nineteen year old Andy, mumbling under his breath, “Jeez, nobody told me that I was supposed to work the mud pit. I’m not Junior!!”
            At the dinner break Andy asked Whitey, “Why did the boss get so hot with me earlier? I completed all the work I was supposed to”.
            “You’re as green as they come, Kid. The first rule is you don’t ever take it easy when another roughneck is working his butt off”.
            “Okay, but I don’t like being called Junior”
Whitey looked at the kid with a measure of contempt and said, “Grow up and they won’t call you Junior. He got up and then turned back,”Kid, drilling for oil is one thing, but drilling for natural gas is as dangerous as it comes. It will surface at incredible speed if the viscosity isn’t maintained. An explosion within five hundred feet of the rig will incinerate all of us.”
After dinner the men went back to their stations. Jackson pulled a plug of chewing tobacco from his shirt, a sure sign that he was pleased about the drilling pace they were making. They had put down two ninety foot stands of drill pipe in just four hours. It looked like two more stands would be in by midnight. Everything was spinnin like the button on a outhouse door.
Within forty minutes of putting the third stand in the hole the ground began to shake, first with a smooth rocking pace, followed by mounting vibration.
A threatening grumble came up from deep down. The framework of the derrick  rattled and swayed, cable snapped like a whip, and equipment crashed against the steel legs.
            The cry of danger was shouted from one crew member to the next, “She’s loose! She’ll blow!”
“Sledge” slid down cable from his seventy foot perch, cutting his hands into a bloody pattern. Jackson jumped to the ground and ran in huge strides to get away from the drill site.
Whitey yelled above the din to his green roughneck, “Into the basement! We’ve got to close off the damn Demon.”
Both jumped off the drilling platform and dropped into the basement which  housed  two massive shut-off gates designed for emergencies.
            The concrete walls were popping and creaking. The extra drill pipe, now free from its restraint, drunkenly staggered against the ribs and braces of the steel pyramid. Small hand-tools rained down from high up in the triangular structure drumming on the derrick floor. The ground and the basement groaned. The rumbling threat of the gas accompanied by a strong sulfuric smell seeped into the basement choking the man and boy. Andy gasped from the bite of the acrid chemistry. He looked at Whitey with a silent appeal to run.
Their sweat darkened their shirts. Fear glistened in their eyes.
Whitey strained against the stopcocks.  “Shut that valve kid!  Pull kid, pull.”
Andy hollered over the chaos, “I can’t get it shut.”
 “My valve is freeing up, kid. One more jerk and we’re out of here.”
The second gate came free. Once loose, the emergency controls smoothly throttled the Demon, the drill pipe locked in place, and six thousand feet of drill pipe calmed down,
Out into the light again Andy, hands trembling, looked back to see the pride in Whitey’s steel-gray eyes. From that time on no one of the crew called Andy by the name of Junior.