by Shaun Lewis
Once the Navigator had gone below, Richard was left to his own thoughts. Not for the first time he wondered if he had done the wrong thing. Steele was only twenty-three, the son of an earl and a brilliant cricketer. If the war lasted, he would no doubt rise to his own command. If he survived this war, he would have a bright future. Did he have the right to sacrifice such a promising young man on a fool’s errand? The responsibility of command began to weigh heavily on him.
*
Steele swam the quarter-mile ashore without undue effort. After dragging the raft onto the shingle, he dressed and commenced his stiff climb of the cliff. Despite the moonlight, he often stumbled in the dark, but soon found his way to the cliff top and the farmyard from which they had heard the animal noises two nights before. He rested behind a chicken shed. The chickens immediately set about squawking, but there was no other commotion. He was thankful he could not hear dogs barking.
Having caught his breath, he set off for the railway line and found it within two hundred yards of the farmyard. Creeping silently, he followed it for about four or five hundred yards in the direction of the viaduct. Suddenly, he heard voices ahead. Just three hundred yards short of the viaduct, two sentries were lying beside the track chatting and smoking. Taking cover in some bushes the other side of the track, he observed the sentries for a few minutes. They seemed comfortably settled and he recognised that he must either turn back or attempt a detour round them. His eyes were well accustomed to the darkness and, with the aid of the moonlight, he noticed that the track was laid on an escarpment. He assumed that if he could quietly slide down this, then there might be a way through the bushes around the sentries. It was a risk he would have to take.
He unslung his pack from his shoulder and, resting it in his lap, slid down the slope of the escarpment on his buttocks. The bushes below turned out to be thorny and it was a painful task to thread his way through them and, moreover, it ate up valuable time. Half way to the viaduct he hauled himself back up to the slope to the track. Cautiously, he raised his head above the rail to look out for sentries. He could no longer see the two he had by-passed, but he now saw ahead, on the curve of the track two hundred yards away, the glow of a fire. Some form of engine or tender was parked there and in the flickering firelight he could see vague shapes of men working on the track, just as it reached the viaduct. It was impossible for him to go that way. He was now potentially trapped between two groups of Turks.
He examined his options. The sensible thing to do would be to retrace his steps. He could still blow up a section of the track. It might only take six hours or so to replace, but it would show the Turks that it could be down. On the other hand, it had been his idea to mount this raid and Miller had been reluctant to allow him the chance. His captain might now be displaying more confidence in him, but Steele still felt he had to prove himself. If necessary he would die in the attempt. There might just be a way to claw victory from the jaws of defeat, even if he had to be mad to attempt it.
He knew it would take too long to continue to follow the escarpment through the thorns and bushes. He was going to gamble on the element of surprise and that the fire would have ruined the night sight of the Turks. Stealthily, he heaved himself up on to the track and, after drawing his revolver from his pack, began a crouched walk-cum-run towards the viaduct.
He made good progress, but just fifty yards short of the working party, he was spotted. Somebody shouted a warning, but he ignored it and now began sprinting towards the men. None seemed armed with anything more lethal than picks and shovels, but armed troops must now have been alerted to come running. Some of the men were clearly alarmed by his headlong approach and cowered in the shelter of the tender. The others stood still, stupefied.
Only five yards short of them, he spotted his objective. The ground dropped steeply on both sides of the track to the sea shore below. He leaped to his left and in his peripheral vision saw three soldiers running towards him, with rifles slung over their shoulders. Madly, and without thought, he scrambled and tumbled down the slope, falling in a heap. In his fall he lost grip of his revolver, but it hung by its lanyard from his wrist. He ran to the nearest pillar supporting the bridge, a pillar of brickwork on which sat one of the heavy iron girders. With his bayonet he began digging into the shingle to form a hole for the explosive charge. Up above, the soldiers began shooting at him, but he was safely screened from their fire by the upper works of the bridge.
He placed the whole of the gun cotton charge in the hole and stamped it into place and packed it with shingle. Without hesitation, he fired his fuse pistol and took to his heels towards the sea. He hung the whistle and revolver from his neck and stuffed the flashlight into his shirt before plunging into the water. He didn’t bother to discard his clothing as at any minute he expected shots from pursuers, but none came. He swam on his back out to sea, listening out for an explosion, but he could only hear rifle shots.
After swimming about 400 yards, he was back in the Gulf, but about three-quarters of a mile from the cove where he knew Miller would be awaiting his return. After his earlier exertions, he knew that even he, excellent swimmer as he was, could not make that distance. He headed back to the shore and rested a little while on the beach to recover his strength. He discarded his shirt and shoes and, reluctantly, the flashlight and revolver. He knew he would need the whistle to signal E9. Just as he was stepping back into the water, he heard a low rumble, followed by the scream of twisted metal. The charge had gone off and, with huge relief, he realised that he had succeeded in his mission.
To conserve his strength, he swam on his back, south along the coast. Above him, the stars shone brightly, but he could see the sky beginning to lighten. Every so often he blew his whistle to attract the attention of the lookout on board the submarine, but there was no answering call. It was not long before he recognised that he was tiring too quickly. The adrenalin that had pumped through his veins and sustained him from the start of his mad rush along the railway track had now subsided and he could feel the lactic acid building in his tired muscles. Again he rested, blew his whistle and listened for a response. This time he could hear the sound of rifle fire. His fatigued brain worked out that it could only be coming from the cliff tops from the Turks firing on the submarine. E9 must be close.
He turned onto his front and looked for his boat. An early morning mist was beginning to build on the sea, but through it he could see three small rowing boats coming in his direction. He couldn’t accept it and almost sobbed with frustration. With everything else going on, why were the Turks seeking him out? But he wasn’t going to be taken prisoner, to rot in a Musselman gaol. Straining every muscle and sinew in his body, he struck out for the shore. Immediately on hitting the beach, he hid behind some rocks and looked back out to sea. Tired and frightened as he was, he burst out laughing. There was E9 patiently awaiting his return. In the mist and his tiredness, he had mistaken her bow, gun and fin for three rowing boats. His fatigue evaporated and he whooped for joy before hailing the boat at the top of his voice. Somebody heard his shout and waved to him to swim over. He dived into the water whilst somebody manoeuvred the submarine to pick him up just forty yards offshore. It was five o’clock and the sun was just beginning to rise above the mountains to the east.
Chapter 27
Richard was amazed by Steele’s achievement. It must have required enormous stamina, not just to have climbed the cliff carrying a heavy load, but to sprint past the working party and then to swim over a mile almost fully clothed. Even more remarkably, this had been done after being cooped up in the submarine for nearly three weeks. He felt guilty at the credit he would no doubt share for the exploit that was all of Steele’s making, and resolved on the return to Mudros, to recommend Steele for a bar to his DSC.
The return was now weighing heavily on his mind. The Turks knew he had to return through the Strait sometime and would be waiting for him. The CO of E7 had advised that extra mine fields had already been laid, but the gauntlet
had to be run, nonetheless. He regarded the return to Mudros in two minds. First and foremost, it meant he could return to England and marry Lizzy. Nothing was going to stop him this time. Less sweetly, it would bring to an end his time in command of a submarine. If he were lucky, he might, in time, be given another command, but it would be of a surface ship. He knew he would miss the tight-knit community of a submarine and the professionalism of the men. They were dirty, unkempt and downright coarse at times, but they were the best sailors in the world and he was proud to be a part of their fraternity.
He quickly cast such sentiment to one side. Quite possibly the next time they contacted Jed, he would receive the recall signal. He still had five torpedoes left and there was unfinished business. Admiral de Roebuck had not ordered an attack on Panderma, but clearly had it in mind when he had sent the intelligence of the troop movements by rail. The task appealed to Richard’s view on how the war should be conducted. Any attack would be in plain view of the townspeople and the psychological effect would be powerful. The Turks would be expecting a submarine to interfere with the troop convoy and be at a high state of preparedness, but he considered his men up to the challenge. Within two minutes, E9 was on course for Peramo Bay.
*
The steamer lay about 500 yards off and Richard estimated he was 150 degrees on her port side, but although the red Turkish ensign was clearly visible, he could not read her name on the transom. It didn’t matter. She was low in the water and obviously heavily laden. Her deck was piled high with rolls of barbed wire and packing cases. He had just decided she would be a legitimate target when one of the crew spotted his periscope and, waving wildly, ran up the ladder to the bridge. Suddenly, a dense cloud of smoke erupted from the steamer’s funnel and Richard noted her propeller churn up more water astern, just as she turned sharply to port. He was annoyed as he had still to flood the bow tubes and open the bow caps. The range was opening already and by the time he was ready to fire, she would be a more difficult target to hit. He didn’t want to waste one of his precious torpedoes and, since it was pointless to remain concealed, he ordered the submarine to surface, so that he might pursue his quarry at full speed on the diesel engines.
After a few minutes of the chase, it became evident that the steamer would reach the harbour before E9 could catch her. It didn’t matter, he thought. The crew might escape, but the cargo could not. The steamer began to sound several short blasts on her siren to warn the inhabitants of the port of the danger. Through his binoculars he could see several people fleeing the sea front and an equal quantity rushing towards it to witness the spectacle. Inside the breakwater, at one of the piers, was a large liner towards which an officer was leading a column of troops. Another column was forming at the rail head, but Richard could see no sign of any artillery.
The unfortunate steamer was in such a rush to reach the safety of the port that her master did not bother to enter the harbour, but hurriedly berthed alongside the southern breakwater. The crew immediately abandoned ship and began running down the breakwater. It indicated to Richard that she must be carrying munitions. He dived the submarine and ordered the bow tubes to be readied for firing. At a range of 600 yards he ordered one torpedo to be fired. It did not take long for it to strike home. The steamer blew up in smoke and flames and seconds later an almighty explosion blew away the entire end of the breakwater. Pieces of masonry and the remains of the steamer rose sixty feet into the air, before raining down on the harbour and surrounding water. Richard now turned his attention to the liner alongside the pier inside the harbour.
The officer he had previously sighted was beside himself with rage. He was trying to form a squad to open fire on the submarine’s periscope but, despite being struck with the flat of the officer’s sword, the soldiers were fleeing back towards the town and others were rapidly disembarking from the ship.
Richard was distracted by a dust cloud in the town and spotted a troop of cavalry rushing to the defence of the port, but they were unlikely to be a threat to E9, so he ignored them. He lined up the shot for his second bow torpedo and fired. Even before the torpedo had run its course, he ordered the submarine to the surface for a gun action. He regretted the absence of other ships in the harbour. It meant that he was probably too late to head off the convoy of troops from Smyrna, but he could still wreak havoc on the railway head and create panic in the town. He was in a reckless mood. This might well be his last action before the return through the Strait.
As O’Connell and Dodds opened the conning tower’s upper hatch, the second torpedo hit the liner and the whole ship’s company could hear the explosion. Meanwhile, from the control room, Richard manoeuvred the submarine to enter the harbour astern.
‘Slow ahead port, slow astern starboard. Stop engines. Steady. Slow astern both. Steer 123. First Lieutenant, you have the submarine. Leave O’Connell to focus on the shoot.’
The first round from the gun was fired and Richard could see the ammunition party was beginning the task of passing shells up to the casing. He decided to join O’Connell on the bridge. The gunlayer and his assistant now had the range and bearing of the rail head, and were pouring their fire into the station and stationery trains. O’Connell grinned at him.
‘This is an occasion for job satisfaction, sir.’ He drew Richard’s attention to the liner. It had not been completely destroyed, but lay on the bottom with her buff superstructure still visible. There was no sign of the troops who only minutes before had been on the pier, but Richard could see that the cavalry were forming up on another pier and spreading out to send a volley of rifle fire at E9. Worse, he could see a field gun being unlimbered. Even a six-pound shell through the casing would prevent them from diving.
‘Check, check, check,’ he shouted. ‘Cease firing and clear the casing.’ Already bullets had begun to zip amongst the stanchions of the bridge. ‘Get below,’ he ordered O’Connell. ‘Diving Stations,’ he roared down the voice pipe and sounded the Klaxons. ‘Half ahead, steer 310.’
He ducked as a bullet knocked off his cap, and saw Dodds hit just after securing the gun. The man crawled towards the forward hatch and stopped. Immediately, Richard flung himself down the outside of the fin and onto the casing, leaving O’Connell to secure the bridge for diving. Dodds was still breathing, but unconscious from a bullet wound through the back. Richard heaved him towards the still-open hatch and pushed him down it head first into the outstretched arms of somebody below. He started to climb back to the bridge and spotted that O’Connell had still not gone below. He looked at the wreckage of the steamer and damaged mole, and simultaneously, he heard the sound of an artillery shell hitting the submarine somewhere. Something hit him painfully in the head. He was blinded by blood and in his dazed state he lost consciousness and fell into the water.
*
Steele could not believe what a forlorn figure the CO looked, floating lifeless on his back, just outside the breakwater. By some quirk of the current, his cap floated only feet from his body. The Turkish horse artillery field gun continued to fire on E9’s raised periscope, but could not find the range. The shells fell harmlessly short, macabrely straddling the floating corpse. The atmosphere inside the submarine was incredibly sombre. When O’Connell, after falling down the conning tower and landing in a heap in the control room, had gasped the news of Miller’s death, neither Steele nor the ship’s company had been quite able to comprehend the fact. The captain had always been there for them and it was unimaginable that he would not be there to guide them to even greater success.
For a moment, a ray of hope struck Steele. Through the periscope he observed the captain’s right arm rise up and down as if he was waving. Then Steele realised it was just a movement caused by the ripple of the water.
‘What are you going to do now, Number One?’ O’Connell asked in a hushed tone.
‘Are you sure he was dead, Pontius?’ Steele asked hopefully.
‘Not much doubt, I’m afraid. The shell nearly took his head off. Blood every
where.’
Steele could hear the tragic news being relayed down the submarine in whispers. It suddenly dawned on him that he was now in command, but there was no time for reflection or hesitation. He knew what he must do. He barked out a rapid set of orders to take the submarine back to the harbour.
‘What are you doing, Number One?’ O’Connell asked incredulously.
‘I’m going back to get the skipper,’ Steele stated resolutely.
Somebody murmured, ‘Bloody right, too,’ and a cheer was heard forward.
‘But he’s dead. There’s nothing you can do for him now.’
‘We don’t know that for sure. Even if he is, I’m not leaving him here to the Musselmen. The man’s a hero and doesn’t deserve that. Pilot, you take the trim. Up periscope. Bearing that.’
‘Green seven-two,’ the periscope assistant called. ‘141 degrees, sir.’
‘Slow ahead both. Steer 145. Down.’ Steele went over to the chart table and scribbled a few lines in the log. Meanwhile, the Coxswain reported E9 as being on the ordered course. When he had finished writing in the log Steele made an announcement.
‘May I crave your attention, gentlemen,’ he called out loudly. ‘In a few minutes I intend surfacing. I shall need four strong volunteers to be on the casing with a couple of boathooks. I’m going back for the captain.’ He was interrupted by cheering throughout the boat.
‘After surfacing, I’m going to put the boat alongside what remains of the southern breakwater. That will offer us shelter from the field gun in the harbour. I will dive into the water and bring the captain back. From that moment, the Navigating Officer will be in command until I return. Should I fail to return, or in the event of my incapacitation, he has written orders to leave me and the captain, to take the submarine to Marmara Island and either to scuttle her or take his orders from the CO of E7, should he make the rendezvous.’
