“How long before he gets there?”
McClure was working it out. Ruck told the helmsman, “Starboard fifteen.”
McClure said, “Eleven minutes, sir.”
“Time it for me … Steer one-eight-zero.”
Ruck was carrying the whole picture in his head. Speeds, angles, and the minutes ticking by, the picture changing in his mind as they passed. He was tense with concentration, sweating as if he was playing squash. Quite a lot like squash really: a new figure came flying like a ball and he had to stop it with his brain …
“Stop starboard. All right on one motor, Number One?”
“Quite all right, sir.” Wykeham’s eyes stayed on the gauges, the plane indicators and the bubble. The submarine was swinging round faster now, with that screw stopped. Paul, having McClure’s track chart to look at now and then, could see roughly how Ruck was manoeuvring to put Ultra where she’d be able to turn and attack whichever way the zigzag pattern developed.
“Course one-eight-zero, sir.”
Motoring southwards, with the convoy coming up—converging slightly—on the submarine’s port quarter. “How long to go, pilot?” “Three and a half minutes, sir.”
“Slow ahead together. Twenty-eight feet. Up periscope. Stand by for range and bearing.” The periscope wires, glistening with grease, gleamed as they hissed around the deckhead sheaves and the shiny tube slid up between them. “Bearing—that. Range—Christ—that … Down, forty feet!” He then added, “I was thirty on his bow. Destroyer’ll be passing over in a moment …” Ultra plaining down, to give the Italian room. Eyes upward, watching the deckhead—as if its steel might be transparent and they’d see the enemy keel pass over … In your mind you did see it: now—noise like a train rushing through a tunnel. If depthcharges were coming they’d be floating down now, all round …
“Twenty-eight feet.”
“Twenty-eight, sir.” She’d only reached thirty-four. The hydroplanes swung, reversing their angles in the water to level her and bring her up again. Propeller noise fading—and no depthcharges, that time. Ruck muttered, wiping his eyes, “That’s one of ‘em out of the light.” He meant one less between Ultra and her target. “Time, pilot?”
“Minute to go, sir. Fifty-five seconds.”
“Twenty-eight feet, sir.”
“Up periscope … Bearing is now—that. Range is—that. And I’m forty on his bow.”
He pushed the handles up. McClure was keeping an eye on the stopwatch as he simultaneously put that range and bearing on the track chart.
“Twenty seconds to go … Fifteen … Ten …”
Ruck raised his hands, nodded to Quinn.
“Five—”
“All right.” He’d spun round swiftly, checking the positions of the escorts and the seaplane. Muttered, “Bastard …” Something on the beam, that had been: he was on the target again now. Another range and bearing: and Ultra now sixty degrees on the troopship’s bow. Ship crammed with soldiery, relaxing, never dreaming … The periscope slid downward; Ruck stock still, then telling Quinn, “Just dip it.” Quinn obliged: and Ruck’s eyes were at the lenses again. “Holding its course. Port fifteen. What’s my course for a ninety-degree track?”
“One-one-five, sir.”
“Steer one-one-five. What’s the DA?”
You jerked a handle round to align pointers between the enemy and the own-ship dials. Paul gave Ruck his aim-off angle, reading it straight from the machine.
“Course one-one-five, sir.”
“Stand by all tubes.”
He’d set the periscope on that director angle: Chief ERA Pool was reaching over to anchor it on the bearing. Pool shaved every day: it made him look out of place here, like a politician down a coalmine.
“Stand by!”
You held your mental breath. Literally months of preparation and years of training had gone into these few seconds, but one tiny error could abort the whole thing. While out there the target was a transport packed with troops who’d either get to join Rommel’s desert army, or would not—depending on the accuracy of figures you’d been reading off these dials, or a detail in the little Scotsman’s track chart, or Ruck’s eye and judgement …
“Fire one!”
Jolt, and the jump in pressure.
“Torpedo running sir.”
“Fire two!”
Paul swallowed, for his ears’ sake. Newman said, “Both running.”
“Fire three!”
Ruck with that characteristic snarl, lips drawn back to show his teeth. Now he’d opened his mouth to order the fourth and last fish its way. Paul saw his expression change …
“Damn!” Slamming the handles up: “Down periscope …The sods are zigging, damn them! Zigging now, blast ’em!”
All a waste. Three torpedoes already on their way, and the target altering course. Just exactly at the crucial moment.
“Destroyer green two-five in contact, sir!”
“Hundred feet. Group up, half ahead together.”
“Hundred feet, sir.” The telegraph clanged. They’d missed, wasted three valuable torpedoes, and now a destroyer had them on its asdics. It would whistle up its two friends, and Ultra would shortly be on the receiving end. For nothing.
“Closing, sir, in contact, bearing steady!”
“Starboard fifteen. Full ahead together. Shut off for depthcharging.” Ruck’s tone was calm, no tension in it now. He added, shrugging, “Can’t win ‘em all.” This was the same tactic he’d used yesterday: stir up the sea and charge right under the attacker. Even if it didn’t work as it had then, it would have the advantage of confusing the Italian in his judgement of the moment of passing over. This was one of the two things he’d have to get right, if he was going to do any real damage with his depth-charges; that, and having the charges set to whatever depth Ultra was keeping.
Watertight doors were shut and clipped.
“Boat’s shut off for depthcharging, sir.”
“Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir.”
“Steer one-four-oh.”
“Hundred feet, sir.”
The deep boom of an explosion shook the boat, and came as a surprise. From somewhere to port, and fairly distant. Reverberations dying like echoes … And it had, undoubtedly, been a torpedo hit. Wykeham glanced round at his CO. “Never say die, sir.”
Grins, all round. Paul heard the first murmur of the approaching destroyer’s screws. Ruck looked utterly astonished; he muttered, “Bloody lucky!”
Wykeham suggested, “Might have got the second one, sir—before it turned? Something like that?”
“Destroyer coming over, sir …”
Everyone could hear it now. Rising note as distance shortened, the rhythmic thrashing of fast propellers. If the man up there knew his business, the canisters of explosive would be smacking into the water about—now …
“Hundred and fifty feet.”
A pattern of charges began to explode astern. One—then three, four— and another. Astern and above: set shallow, evidently. The boat rattled a bit, but the pattern hadn’t been close enough to be very worrying. However— Paul reminded himself—there were three destroyers up there, and they knew where the submarine was now, so—
“Red nine-zero, HE slowing—stopping, sir.”
“Group down, slow together.” He met Wykeham’s eye. “Probably the one we hit.”
“Destroyer closing on red eight-oh!”
“In contact?”
Newton shook his head. “Transmissions on red one-six-oh and green five-oh, but—”
“Port fifteen. Steer oh-five-oh. Silent routine.”
“In contact, sir. Red seven-oh, closing …”
No point in being quiet now.
“Group up, full ahead together, port twenty.” Ruck shook his head, like a dog coming out of water. He said, as much to himself as anyone else, “We got the bugger. God knows how, but we got him.” He laughed. Ultra speeding up, turning to port and still nosing deeper.
“
Twenty of port wheel on, sir.”
The helmsman’s tone was so calm it was positively soothing. The sound of the enemy’s screws came like a whisper, grew to a murmur, scrunched overhead in a sudden grinding rush.
Exactly overhead, Paul reckoned.
Fading …
“Hundred and fifty feet, sir.”
“Very good.”
The sea astern broke up in thunder. The submarine lurched, from solid blows against her plating. Four—five …
Ruck said casually, “That Wop’s a learner. Starboard fifteen, slow both.”
“Motors are grouped up, sir.”
“So they are. Group down.”
“Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir.”
“Steer oh-five-oh.”
“Destroyer closing, green four-oh, in contact!”
“Two hundred feet. Damn his eyes.”
“Two hundred, sir. Motors are grouped down, slow ahead.”
“Half ahead together.”
Angling downward again, into denser, darker water. Wykeham adjusting trim as she sank, pumping water out of O, the midships trimming-tank. Ruck waiting, listening … Ruck snapped, out of a long silence, “Group up, full ahead together, starboard fifteen!”
Paul could hear it too now. McClure touched his arm. He turned round; the navigator was offering him a pencil and a game of noughts and crosses on a signal-pad. He shook his head, turned back, listening to the enemy coming at them.
“Two hundred feet, sir.”
Ultra trembling from the grouped-up battery power and her own racing screws. Perhaps the Italians would have set their charges deep this time. But then again, maybe they wouldn’t have …
“Steer one-four-oh.”
Churning over—now.
You could only wait for it, and noughts and crosses wouldn’t have helped. He told himself, Might as well get used to it, there’ll be lots more before we’re through. Explosions to port rolled the boat to starboard and lifted her stern a little; the planesmen were having to work to level her. Deck-head paint had been loosened by the shock, and cork chips rained like snowflakes.
“Group down, slow together. Port ten. Steer oh-five-oh.”
“Deeper setting on that lot, sir.”
Ruck agreed. “Might have been … Where is he now, Newton?”
“Red one-two-oh, sir … One-one-five. Transmitting.”
“Not in contact?”
Newton blinked, swallowed, shook his head.
“Course oh-five-oh, sir.”
Ruck murmured, “Very good.” Waiting, listening: feet spread, hands in pockets.
“Red eight-oh, sir, moving right to left, transmitting, not in contact.”
Searching, though, to regain contact. Where the hell was the third destroyer? One had continued south with the other troopship, one was hunting them, and the third was lying doggo. Getting a towline over to the ship they’d hit?
“Still drawing left?”
A nod. “Abaft the beam … Revs increasing, sir.”
Wykeham said, “Looks like you’ve lost him, sir.”
Faces all round the compartment showed the same hope. Nobody counting on it yet. Ten minutes ticked by very, very slowly. Glances tending to be upward—to where your thoughts were, in deep water.
“Passing astern, sir, fast HE.”
“Revs?”
“Three-four-oh, sir.”
High speed, and southward. Summoned to join the others, the survivor that was continuing towards Benghazi?
They surely wouldn’t send that trooper across the Mediterranean with only one destroyer to look after it, Paul thought. This one had been allowed to hang around as long as he had a contact on the submarine, but now he’d lost it maybe he’d been told to leave it and rejoin?
“Ninety feet.” “Ninety, sir.”
“What was the distance off track when we fired, Sub?” “Twelve hundred yards, sir.”
Mental arithmetic going on, in Ruck’s head. But if he could work out even vaguely how far they might be now from the stopped troopship, after all the twists and turns, he’d have to be some kind of Einstein.
Maybe practice did it. Experience. There was a hell of a lot to learn, skills to acquire, experience to gain. And maybe not everyone could make the grade. Which would account for Flag Officer (Submarines) having told his flotilla commanders—so rumour had it—that submarine captains were to be treated like Derby winners.
“HE on red five, sir!”
Ruck looked surprised. “What sort?”
“Destroyer, sir. Moving left to right. Transmitting …”
Behind Paul, McClure whispered, “Shit …” Ruck was watching the needle swinging slowly round the depthgauge. It was the only one in use, since the shallow-water gauges had been shut off as a precaution against depthcharge damage.
He’d come to a decision. “Twenty-eight feet.”
“Twenty-eight feet, sir.”There’d been a note of surprise in Wykeham’s acknowledgement. He’d been just about levelling her at ninety; now the planesmen put up-angle on her again.
“Be ready to flood Q and take her down fast.” Ruck turned to Newton. “Where is it now?”
“Green one-five, sir, opening. Transmitting.”
“Just keep opening …” Ruck was waiting with his toes against the well of the after periscope, the little one, as Ultra nosed upward towards the surface. Forty-five feet: forty … This third destroyer had obviously been lying stopped, perhaps alongside the damaged trooper. It was looking for them now, but fortunately—for the moment—out on the wrong side. Thirty-five feet. Ruck glanced at ERA Quinn, and wiggled his fingers: the attack periscope slid upwards, shimmering. He met it, unfolded its handles, circled … “Down.” He moved to the other one. “Steer ten degrees to starboard.” Gesturing again, then waiting impatiently with his hands up, ready to snatch the handles and snap them down, flicking into low power for an all-round sky search. Pausing … He muttered, “The Cant’s still with us, sod it.” Circling on. Now he’d settled on what could only be the target.
“Destroyer bearing now?”
“Red five, sir. Moving right to left.”
Shifting fractionally. “I see him. He was hidden by the trooper.” He was on the target again now, in high power.
“Course oh-six-oh, sir.”
“Stand by number four tube. You were right, Number One, it was the one we weren’t aiming at. She’s stopped and down by the stern. Destroyer out beyond her, circling round northward.”
“Number four tube ready, sir!”
“Ship’s head?”
“Oh-six-one, sir.”
“Steer oh-six-three.” Sky search again, rapidly, right around. Back to his target. He leaned back from the lenses and set the periscope on the fore-and-aft line. Back on target again now …
“Ship’s head oh-six-three, sir.”
A pause that lasted a few seconds: it felt like minutes …
“Stand by … Fire four!”
You swallowed, to clear your ears. Newton reported,”Torpedo running, sir.” Ruck was circling again, checking on the seaplane probably. Back on the for’ard bearing, motionless, intent. “Running time for 900 yards?”
“Forty seconds, sir.”
“Dip.” The periscope shot down, stopped, rushed up again. Any second now: so long as that fish ran straight … The explosion was deep, close-sounding.
Ruck, at the periscope, let out a grunt of satisfaction. Now he’d stepped back and pushed the handles up. “Sixty feet. Port ten. Steer”— he thought about it for a moment—”two-three-oh.”
“Ten of port wheel on, sir.”
And Ultra was nosing down. Ruck told Wykeham, “The seaplane was heading our way. But I hit under her second funnel. Engineroom. Ought to do the trick, on top of the first one …Where’s the destroyer, Newton?”
Training his receiver this way and that, Newton was looking puzzled. “Can’t hear him, sir. Might’ve stopped again, or—”
“All right.”
He’d have to look after survivors, anyway. “Sixty feet, sir.”
Newton reported, “Breaking-up noises, sir!” “Course two-three-oh, sir.”
Ruck took the Tannoy microphone off its hook.
“D’you hear there. Captain speaking. We had a lucky hit earlier on, on a troopship of about twenty thousand tons. It stopped her, and now we’ve hit her again with our last remaining fish, and she’s going down. Probably won’t be any counter-attack—the sea must be full of Germans or Italians, and the escort’ll have its hands full. But we’ll stay shut-off and keep quiet until we’re right out of it. Nice work lads.” He switched off. “Anything, Newton?”
“There was slow HE for half a minute but it’s stopped again, sir.”
Picking up swimmers? Behind Paul, McClure murmured, “Home, James …”
CHAPTER FOUR
At Cardiff on Monday, Commander Smith announced that there’d be no more leave. Jack was glad to have it confirmed. He’d hung around for long enough: it was time to get on with it, get it over. And get back. There was more to get back for, now, than there’d ever been.
“Are you—er—fit, Everard?”
He knew what lay behind that question. His weekends in London were disapproved of by Trolley, the chief instructor, who had complained to Smith about it. As a captain in the Army, Trolley was the equivalent rank of Jack as a naval lieutenant; he could throw his weight around so far as the training programme was concerned, but he had no administrative authority. Smith had warned Jack before that physical fitness was of paramount importance: late nights, smoking and drinking and what the commander in his old-fashioned naval terminology called “poodle-faking” could impair Jack’s stamina and thus threaten the success of the operation and the lives of his team. Jack had assured him this wouldn’t be allowed to happen: within twenty-four hours of any weekend leave he’d be in as good shape as anyone—including Trolley.
He told him roughly the same thing again now, and Smith accepted it. He was the sort of man who’d avoid a row, just for the sake of peace and quiet. Extraordinary, really, when you considered the characters he was handling here and the kind of operation they were facing. But he’d promised there’d be weekend leave, at that first interview; and he may have thought that Jack, in the circumstances, was entitled to some home comforts. Like a condemned man’s last meal … He told him, waving him to a chair, “You’ll be leaving here before the end of the week. For your private information, not to be discussed with anyone else, you’ll be going round to Falmouth.”
A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4 Page 9
