by Stephen Ward
He couldn't help but wonder what was below. Stories he'd heard about bodies, secret plans and Nazi gold fired his imagination. Whatever it was, he was sure that the historians would love it. Covered in a mass of kelp and seaweed he could just see the wheel that opened the hatch. “It's been underwater for forty years,” he thought to himself. “It can't possibly open.” In the back of his mind he knew that even trying would be a very bad idea with no backup. However, the chances of it working were slim. Pulling away the vegetation he placed his hands on the wheel. That weird sensation of unease returned, this time coupled with a feeling of woe. Yet again he shrugged it off and bending his knees applied pressure to the wheel. With a squeal and a grind it turned. He couldn't believe it. First half a turn then a full turn then it ran free and in doing so released a strong damp stench which assailed Forrester's nose and burnt his eyes for a few moments before the mouldy odour passed. Pulling up the hatch took a lot of physical effort. Below was a ladder heading down into nothingness. Common sense should have stopped him going any further but he couldn't stifle his innate curiosity. After all, the risks of flooding, chlorine gas, carbon dioxide poisoning, just to name a few, should have been enough yet Forrester couldn't help himself. Going to the bottom of this ladder couldn't hurt and just so long as he could still see daylight above he'd be fine. Reaching into his life vest, he pulled the small signalling light from its clip and started down the ladder. He could see his breath misting before him in the cool damp air as his head lowered beneath the hatch level. Feeling cautiously for each rung he shone the torch from side to side. The pale grime-stained walls and pipes dripped onto a damp floor somewhere below. Now, surrounded by what seemed like a block of blackness with only the pale light above and the small flash light to comfort him he reached out again with his foot. As he did so he slipped just managing to hug the ladder. The torch and small radio fell from his damp grasp, tumbling out of reach into the darkness where it landed and the light went out. As he settled his shot nerves he decided that this was a very bad idea and that even if he could find the torch down there it would probably never work again.
As brave as Forrester was, he didn't fancy his chances. Raising his right hand he began his ascent back up the ladder. However, as he did so, with a screech and a crash the hatch above him slammed closed. The wheel spun freely and the seal was complete. A creak came from somewhere far across the sub towards the forward section. A grinding noise could be heard breaking the natural silence as the large bow plane began to tilt forward towards the small inflatable still bobbing up and down until the sharp edge slit the rubber and neatly severed the tethering rope.
Chapter 17
Moorhouse decided that he didn't have time to go back to shore and wait for a tender to return to Talisman. Instead he ordered GéGé to take him directly alongside. Taking the radio in his hand, Moorhouse tuned the radio frequency. He knew it would be picked up by the ship. “HMS TALISMAN. HMS TALISMAN. COME IN PLEASE. THIS IS DOCTOR PAUL MOORHOUSE ONBOARD THE PORT TUG PL 262. DO YOU READ ME?”
Silence. Moorhouse repeated the message until an answering voice crackled over the speaker “PORT TUG PL262. WE READ YOU, DOCTOR. WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON THAT TUG?”
“NEVERMIND THAT,” said Moorhouse quickly and curtly. “REQUEST PERMISSION TO APPROACH ALONGSIDE FOR EMBARKATION. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. OVER.”
After a few seconds of muffled confusion the voice answered, “REQUEST IS GRANTED. PLEASE APPROACH AMIDSHIPS ON THE PORT SIDE. OVER.”
The tug made its way alongside the large expanse of grey with Moorhouse shouting instructions to GéGé. A voice called from above, “Prepare for lines.” Moorhouse shouted back, “No time. Hold her steady, GéGé,” and he mounted the rail and regulating his jump landed with just a few inches of his feet onto the gangway. He didn't stop for a second to salute as his boots thundered up onto the main deck heading for Wilkes' office taking three steps at a time. Hurrying down the corridor he knew there was no point in wasting breath speaking to the French authorities because it would be twenty four hours before anything was done. Finally, he reached the door only to be confronted by a DO NOT DISTURB sign. “What the fuck!” Repeated pounding on the door produced no response. Then in a moment of clarity he knew what to do, “Turnbull,” he thought. Spinning around he ran off down the corridor. Wilkes would be pissed that he had gone over his head but this was no time for pettifogging. The Admiral's cabin was just ahead and he almost ran into the door. Turnbull answered his knocking immediately.
“Doctor, are you OK?”
“No, sir.” Out of breath and sweating profusely he almost fell into the cabin.
After handing him a glass of water, the Admiral sternly asked, “Let me clarify, Doctor. You haven't been drinking, have you?”
Moorhouse exclaimed, “I'm as sober as a judge, Admiral. What I'm telling you is the truth.” He explained the situation to a very quiet and stern looking Turnbull.
“I'm disappointed in the pair of you. You should have come here or radioed the Coastguard right away. Personal glory isn't befitting of an officer in Her Majesty's navy.” His tone softened, “Though I understand your logic. Excitement may have clouded my reasoning as well. Did you notify Captain Wilkes?”
“I tried to, sir, but he's unavailable and not answering his door.”
Admiral Turnbull sighed, “Well, we need to search for Forrester. I'll notify the Coastguard and send our tenders on a search pattern.”
“Thank you, sir. I'll get into uniform right away.”
“No, Doctor. I think it's best if you stay aboard ship. The search and rescue party is medically trained.”
Moorhouse argued, “But Sir ….”
“No, Doctor. That's my final word. You're the Chief Medical Officer on board this vessel and we've already lost one officer. I won't be party to losing another. Now, get cleaned up and into uniform. Prepare the drill schedule for tomorrow's war games.”
“Sir, I'm so sorry.”
“Don't be sorry. Just keep the sick bay in readiness. We'll keep you informed as to any progress.”
As Moorhouse left he could hear the Admiral speaking urgently on the telephone. Walking back to his cabin, he opened the door and locked it behind him. Putting his head in his hands he felt so stupid. How could he ever have let Forrester go it alone? He was certain that if he'd kicked up enough fuss his friend would have eventually have seen sense. Glancing over to the small collage of photographs on the wall he realised wryly that every one contained either Forrester or his family. How could he tell Emma? God, he hoped his friend was OK. Memories of the days when the photos were taken came flooding back. Forrester, Emma and himself, a photo of last Christmas showing Emily and Molly climbing all over him, holding the My Little Ponies he had bought for them. It dawned on him that Forrester was as close to a brother as he could ask for. Now he was stuck aboard ship and helpless. Remembering what Turnbull had ordered, he rose to his feet and headed to the shower. He looked critically at his reflection in the mirror seeing his straggly beard and bloodshot eyes. Reaching for the small silver flask that Forrester and Emma had bought for him last year, he hesitated. It was time he got himself sorted out. He'd played the comedian for a long time to hide his problem. Now it was time for him to get it under control. Unscrewing the cap he poured the fiery liquid down the sink. Running hot water he allowed the steam to gather around him as he leaned over. Then with quiet resolve he reached for his razor and began to shave.
An hour later, the door of the cabin opened and a new Moorhouse emerged. His hair was short, his beard was gone and his uniform was freshly cleaned and perfectly pressed. He was well aware that there was a lot to do but he couldn't just lock himself in the medical bay so he decided to go to check the medical stations on deck. The air smelt fresh as he opened the hatch door onto the main deck. The harbour was filling up. Six more ships from different countries were spread out with their ensigns blowing in the breeze. In the distance small vessels could be seen sailing back and forward beyond the
breakwater. The search was already under way. Moving around, he checked the medical supply boxes in an effort to take his mind off what was going on over there.
“Come on, Forrester. You'd better be OK,” Moorhouse muttered aloud.
A voice came from behind him, “He'll be fine although I'm not sure that you'll be so lucky.” He whirled round to see Wilkes “You'll have some hard questions to answer. If anything happens to him it could be the end of your career.”
Moorhouse stood up straight, pushing out his chest. Whispering in the Captain's ear, “Permission to speak freely, sir? Listen, you little fuck. No one is here to hear this so it's your word against mine. If anything was going to happen today that could cheer me up at all, is that you'd trip over my foot and fall overboard. And if you open your mouth about Forrester again, that's what will happen.”
Wilkes was gob smacked. Moorhouse had never lost his temper with him before and he didn't know how to take it.
“Now, Captain, if you'll excuse me I have work to do,” and with that Moorhouse walked smartly away.
Chapter 18
Alison Turnbull had spent the last few hours calming Michael and Stephen prior to the trip to watch the exercise the following morning. She'd just packed the final item of clothing in a large black holdall when the boys came crashing through the door.
“Nana, is it time to go?” asked Michael.
“Not too long now. The taxi will arrive to take us to the station in twenty minutes so please go and find your shoes and help your brother put his coat on.”
“Nana,” shouted Stephen, “Where are we going?”
Alison smiled a soft grandmotherly smile, “We're going to meet your Grandfather at Portsmouth and if you're really lucky we might get a sight of the ships doing manoeuvres before they dock.”
“Do we get to go aboard Grandad's boat?” they shouted in unison.
“Well, I don't think that'll be possible but the dockyard has lots of other boats to go on before he gets home tomorrow. Now get your shoes and coats on,”
The two excited boys took off, “and don't slam the …...” Before she had the chance to get out the last word, the door slammed. Sitting on the foot of the bed she sighed. It was going to be a long few days but at least Laurence would be back in a few days. She was glad the days of him being stationed aboard ship were over. He still had to work away a lot but at least his desk job at the Admiralty meant that he was at home most of the time. She noticed that it was already 1500 hours and that they'd have to get a move on if they were to catch the 1705 Portsmouth train. After checking her hair one last time in the full length mirror she threw the holdall over her shoulder and headed out of the bedroom. As she made her way down the stairs she passed Michael perched on the bottom stair tying his shoelaces.
“Where's your brother?” she asked.
“He went into the study to find his coat,” he answered mischievously.
Alison looked sternly at her eldest Grandson, “You mean he went to play with Grandad's model boat, don't you?” Michael nodded. “Stephen John Turnbull, you'd better not be messing.” Walking into the study she found the little boy looking curiously at a large model of HMS Victory. Watching from the doorway, she could see him placing his Lego figures on the deck – a game he played when Laurence was home.
“Come on, Stephen. The taxi will be here very soon.”
“But Nana, I want to play.”
Alison stood behind him and put her arms round him. She pushed his untidy brown parting over and smiled. “What would you say if I told you that the real HMS Victory is in Portsmouth and that you can go on it?”
“Will Grandad be able to come too?” he asked.
“I'm not sure he'll be back in time but you'll have plenty of stories to tell him when he does get back.”
A shrill beep sounded from outside. Looking through the curtains she saw a black cab idling in the road. “Come on, boys, it's time to go.” She grabbed the bags and bundled the two outside and turned to lock the front door. Holding Stephen's hand, she stepped off the kerb and reached for the door handle. As she did so, she felt a slight movement on her finger, then a metallic clink. She looked down just in time to see her wedding ring fall, bounce neatly on the cast iron grid cover and drop down into the dark murky water in the drain below. With a cry of dismay, dropping to her knees, she scrambled to reach down through the gap but it was in vain. The ring was gone! For forty years of marriage she had kept it safe and now this! With a twinge of guilt she realised she could do no more but hopefully, Laurence could do something when he returned home. Michael helped Stephen into the cab followed by Alison. She had a bad feeling. She wasn't superstitious but the loss of her wedding ring made her feel uneasy.
“The station, please,” she asked the driver breathlessly. He nodded and the cab moved slowly away from the kerb.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at the train station with its wide stone steps leading up to the imposing Victorian entrance. Commuters bustled to and fro, so holding the boys tightly and dragging Stephen past the magazine stall, she headed for the main ticket booths. No queue. That was a first! She peered in through the safety glass. Within, sat a man untidy and disinterested. In a bored monotone he asked, “Where to?” without even looking up. “One adult and two children to Portsmouth, please.” Pressing the appropriate buttons three tickets popped out of a machine in front of him. “Six pounds ten pence,” he said. Placing the money in the tray Alison scooped up the tickets and turned to the boys and said “Look for the sign saying platform 3”. Glancing up she saw a large four-sided clock the hands reading four thirty five.
“Are you hungry, boys?”
“A simultaneous “Yes” resounded. So she guided them over to a small café where she chose the three best looking sandwiches and a can of juice. “Now boys, eat up.” The small table rocked back and forth pivoting on one short leg while the boys tucked in. Alison's appetite had disappeared as she felt the soft shine on her finger where her ring had been. She never took it off, not even to clean it. Laurence wouldn't be happy. She fervently hoped he'd be able to fish it out of the drain when he returned home.
After some time a loud, muffled voice came over the tannoy, announcing the arrival of their train. A distant squeal of brakes from the station concourse clarified the fact. Hastily collecting the sandwich wrappers and the empty can, she threw them into a nearby waste bin and herded the boys through the gate. The large maroon locomotive sat humming as they walked down the platform towards it. A guard held open a carriage door for them and they stepped over the gap and into the corridor. Stephen raced off, closely followed by Michael, in between the seats and jumped onto chairs with a table in front.
“Now listen, when we get to Portsmouth, it'll be late. We're staying in a little hotel close to the sea front.”
“Will we see Grandad in the morning?”
“No,” Alison smiled, “but soon, Michael, very soon.”
A whistle sounded from outside, then with a slight bump the train began to move slowly off. After ten minutes the train quickly picked up speed and the city gradually gave way to countryside. Alison stared out of the window past the trees and beyond.
Chapter 19
Keller made his way across the catwalk, past the bay where sparks flew and a bustle of activity surrounded the newly extended hull. Men shouted and hollered to one another while gantry cranes lifted large sections of metal. It had been many days since he'd shown the schedule to Weib, and strangely, he hadn't been summoned for a subsequent progress report.
He noticed Nikolaus Huber looking with puzzlement at a big diagram. Approaching silently Keller placed his hand on his shoulder. “What's wrong?”
Shaking his head, Huber looked up and replied, “I'm just second guessing myself. The rams have been ordered and the schematics have gone to Krupps for construction of the conveyors but for the life of me I just don't know how it'll all fit! I've been racking my brain but I just can't figure out how to get them into the hull. Soo
n the crews will want to know how and I won't be able to answer them.”
“Nikolaus, calm down. You're a designer. These men do jobs like this everyday. Ask them for their opinions. I'm sure they will relish the challenge to work it out instead of being told what to do. Give them a little space. Now, I'm going to report to Weib so please fill me in on any progress if you will.”
Huber took a deep breath and pulled a small black notebook from his pocket, its dog-eared pages sticking out from behind the front cover. “The boat has been cut fore and aft and the framing has begun. Due to the size, four extra ballast tanks have been necessary”
“Four?” exclaimed Keller, “I thought we only planned two?”
Huber looked uneasy for a moment, “When I checked the calculations two was the minimum number but then I remembered what you said about sending sailors out in a death trap so I ordered two more.”
“Well enough!” Keller nodded, “I guess you're right, my friend. Carry on.”
“Krupps have the designs for the conveyors but until we know they'll fit, we'll have to wait before installing everything else.”
“As I said before, Nikolaus, ask the crews. They'll help given enough slack. When does the new conning tower arrive? Have you been given a date yet?” asked Keller.
Flicking frantically through his notepad, Nikolaus paused then continued, “The foundry tell me two weeks but the roads are so bad that getting it here whole may be a problem. The railway lines are being badly bombed and it could be difficult to use them. A slow moving train would be an easy target.”
Keller knew that either way the journey wasn't going to be simple. “Tell the foundry to ship the parts in sections and we'll weld them together here. The pens provide more safety than the factory and it may speed things up. Now let's take a look at the inside,” Keller gestured towards the ladder. Making their way down into the now sectioned hull, they saw that little remained of the interior. There were just severed pipes and incomplete wiring. The tubes which once lined the sides of the submarine had been cut away leaving only the large hold above them. The sense of space inside was cavernous. Keller smiled as he watched a patch being welded over a removed hatch, “Her mine-laying days are over, he said with a laugh. Huber smiled too. Working their way aft, sparks rained in from yet another opening.
