Marine H SBS

by Ian Blake

  ‘And it can’t extend down to her keel.’

  ‘Exactly, Tiger. That’s where she’s vulnerable.’

  ‘And from the air, sir, surely?’

  Tasler looked across at Davidson.

  ‘Yes, of course from the air,’ Davidson agreed. ‘But the Japs have amassed a huge concentration of naval fighters – mostly the latest Zeros – in southern Malaya. Presumably, they’re there to protect her. That’s what first alerted us to something unusual. But there’s something else, too. Intelligence sources say she has a new anti-aircraft shell which can be used by her main armament.’

  ‘Her main armament?’ Tasler queried. ‘Surely not. You mean her eighteen-inch guns can fire at aircraft?’

  ‘Incredible, I know,’ Davidson said. ‘But true.’

  He turned to Tiller. ‘As an explosives expert, it’ll interest you. It’s called a San-shiki shell. It has a time fuse in its nose – not unlike our proximity fuse – which explodes the shell in front of an approaching formation of aircraft. It’s packed with tiers of incendiary-filled shot. Six thousand rounds to be exact. These tiers rest on a base of explosive which is connected to the time fuse by a central column of explosive. As the flash passes down the column it ignites each tier in turn before reaching the explosive in the shell’s base which breaks it apart. Its effect is similar to some giant shotgun blasting a flight of birds.’

  Outside Tiller could hear members of 385 Detachment being put through their daily paces on the makeshift parade ground. He could see that the Catalina was back on its mooring in the channel.

  ‘No air attack, then,’ he said.

  ‘Super-fortresses could reach Singapore from India,’ Tasler said. ‘But the Yanks don’t have many of them and they’re all committed to pounding Japan from the Marianas. Under the circumstances, the Yanks don’t feel inclined to withdraw any of them except in a real emergency. You can’t blame them.’ Tasler’s voice trailed off. He obviously did blame them.

  ‘Singapore is SEAC territory,’ Davidson added by way of explanation. ‘Our pigeon really.’

  ‘But SEAC’s a joint Allied command, isn’t it, sir?’ Tiller said.

  ‘Yes, well . . .’

  Davidson’s sentence remained hanging in the air, but Tiller knew what had been left unsaid. SEAC was a joint command when it suited the Americans, a British one when it didn’t. The Japanese were threatening British lines of communication and British colonies. So it was a British problem.

  ‘And the intelligence source, sir?’ Tiller asked Davidson.

  Davidson smiled. ‘Now you know perfectly well, Colour Sergeant, I am in no position to reveal that.’

  There was a pause and Tasler said: ‘I think under the circumstances you can, Harry.’

  Davidson looked across at him, surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘Tiller delivered him,’ Tasler said.

  ‘Is that right?’ remarked Davidson. ‘Well, you did a good job. Congratulations.’

  ‘Is he still there?’ Tiller asked. ‘Or have you brought him out?’

  Davidson looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost touch with him,’ Tasler explained. ‘Frankly, it doesn’t look good. But before he went off the air he gave us invaluable intelligence about the San-shiki shell. He also smuggled out a plan of the harbour which shows where your principal target is lying.’

  ‘The Kamato you mean?’

  Tasler shook his head. ‘She’s not your principal target.’

  Tiller looked puzzled. ‘She’s not?’

  ‘The Hoko is.’

  ‘The largest aircraft carrier in the world,’ Davidson explained. ‘The Japs have only just launched her. If the Kamato and her escorts are going to move into the Bay of Bengal – probably using the Andaman Islands as their base – they’re going to need air cover and lots of it. The land-based Zeros will cover her up to the Andamans but not much further. No air cover, no advance. We will, of course, ask you and your team to have a go at the Kamato, but it’s the Hoko we want out of the way.’

  ‘In Pan Kon’s last message he said he didn’t think either of them are ready to sail yet,’ said Tasler.

  At least he knew the name of the joe now, Tiller thought.

  ‘There’s another thing, Tiger.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re going to have to assess very quickly what you’re going to use to attack these Jap ships.’

  Tiller looked puzzled. ‘I assumed we’d be using Welmans.’

  ‘Probably. But we’ve also recently received some Sleeping Beauties. They have certain advantages over the Welman, but you’ll have to make up your own mind about which to use. Sergeant Whitaker’s the man who’s been trying out the SBs.’

  ‘My team’s been chosen, then?’

  Tasler nodded. ‘There are four of you altogether, plus two reserves in case of illness or accident.’

  ‘And how do we get within striking distance of Singapore?’

  ‘The navy has pulled out all the stops,’ said Davidson. ‘They’ve converted two subs to carry either the SBs or the Welmans on their decks.’

  ‘You seem to have thought of everything, sir,’ Tiller said with a grin.

  ‘It’s my business to,’ said Davidson. ‘We’ve been reckoning for over a year that if the tide turned against the Japs they might try something desperate. We had to have something up our sleeve. That’s why we got the Welmans here. And you.’

  Tiller looked across at Tasler, who shrugged. So Blondie had known all along, Tiller thought. He might have guessed as much. ‘How big is this Hoko?’ he asked Tasler when Davidson had left.

  ‘She started life as a sister ship for the Kamato, but when the Japs realized the war at sea would be won or lost with carriers they converted her hull into an aircraft carrier. She won’t have much armour under water but she’s shielded by torpedo nets – that much we know. She won’t be easy to get at.’

  Tasler studied the pencil he was spinning between his thumbs and forefingers.

  ‘There’s another thing, Tiger.’

  Tiller knew there would be. He waited.

  ‘It will mean a night attack.’

  Jesus. A Welman couldn’t be used at night. Everyone had said it was impossible.

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  Tasler continued as if he hadn’t heard. ‘The full-moon period begins in ten days’ time.’ He looked up at Tiller. ‘It’s the best we can do, Tiger.’

  Tiller found Sergeant Whitaker studying a Sleeping Beauty with the other members of the team.

  ‘What’s it like under water?’ Tiller asked him.

  ‘Trouble is keeping it under,’ said one member of the team. ‘It behaves like a fucking porpoise.’

  ‘Just a matter of practice,’ said Whitaker calmly. He was a calm, dogged man, unflappable. ‘The good thing about it is its versatility. You can paddle it, sail it or motor it.’

  ‘We’re not going to want to do the first two where we’re going,’ said Tiller. ‘How powerful is the motor?’

  ‘Just under a half horsepower. It’s driven by four six-volt batteries in this watertight compartment here. Flat out, it can cover twelve miles at four and a half knots on the surface.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable. And under water?’

  ‘About half that.’

  The same as the Welman, Tiller thought.

  ‘Maximum depth?’

  ‘Fifty feet.’

  The same depth as the Welman was allowed to operate, but Tiller knew the SB was equipped with wire-cutters so that its pilot could slice through any anti-torpedo nets he encountered. A Welman had no alternative but to go under them. Whitaker pointed out the instruments to Tiller – a magnetic compass, a depth gauge and a clock – which enabled the pilot to keep a check on the SB’s submerged running time, depth and direction. He then ran through the procedure for trimming down, diving and finally returning the SB to the surface. Like the Welman, the craft was submerged by flooding two ballast tanks which were vented by
high-pressure air from two bottles when the pilot wanted to return to the surface.

  Unlike the Welman, which used a compensating balance weight screwed fore or aft by the operator, there was, Whitaker explained, a third tank fitted in the bows. This was used for trimming the SB to keep it on an even keel at any depth up to fifty feet. He also pointed out a plug in the keel which flooded the SB until it was awash and a mechanism which expelled the water when the SB was to be used on the surface. Once awash, the pilot could trim down the SB until only his head was above water, or he could flood the ballast tanks and dive by using the hydroplane and then use the trimming tank to bring it level.

  ‘Looks simple enough,’ said Tiller.

  ‘Even the Sardine Men prefer them,’ said Whitaker.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me, Billy,’ said Tiller drily.

  They launched the SB and Tiller watched Whitaker, dressed in a Mk V parachute water suit and oxygen breathing apparatus, manoeuvre it round the harbour, first in the surface position, then in the trimmed-down position, and finally under water. Then Tiller borrowed the suit and the oxygen apparatus and tried himself. The SB was much more difficult to control than the Welman and it porpoised too easily, but there was no doubt that the SB was a more advanced design.

  ‘But what can it carry in the way of explosives?’ Tiller asked after the trial.

  ‘Six limpets,’ said Whitaker. ‘Sink anything afloat.’

  But Whitaker did not know what their targets were.

  The next morning Tasler rang Tiller to say that naval Intelligence were certain the Hoko’s anti-torpedo nets would extend more than fifty feet below the water.

  ‘I guessed they would,’ said Tiller quietly. ‘But there’s no way we can use the SBs. They can’t carry enough explosives.’

  ‘The Welmans it is, then,’ Tasler said briskly.

  Tasler didn’t mention what they both already knew: it had proved impossible to modify the Welmans to increase the strength of the rectangular viewing window.

  The following evening the two submarines left the harbour of Hyatt’s Ferry and headed east.

  17

  With the first signs of dawn the submarine made ready to dive. With a roar the air tanks were blown and it then slid slowly down to sixty fathoms on its electric motors. In the dimmed light the captain, a lieutenant commander in the regular navy, studied his charts. The Japanese had laid two minefields to protect the Straits of Singapore and the course he took had to be carefully plotted. Clocks ticked. The soft whirr of the electric engines buzzed, slackened, buzzed again.

  Tiller lay on his bunk in the tiny petty officers’ mess in the submarine, flicking through a magazine. He thought idly of Hazel-eyes. He and his team of five had been kept in strict isolation from the time they had been given their briefing, and he had never had a chance to find out if he would find her sitting in Sam’s bar on a weekend evening. If she was, she was almost certainly not waiting for him. Not any more.

  ‘How much longer, Tiger?’

  Tiller turned to the opposite bunk, where Whitaker was composing a letter to his wife. Married men should not be allowed to volunteer for operations like this, Tiller thought. But Whitaker was a skilled and experienced operator, a solid rock of a man, as tough mentally as he was physically. Besides, they needed the best men available.

  ‘The skipper reckoned if we get through the minefields without a hitch we should be in position by late afternoon.’

  They lay in silence for a while, their ears alert for any scraping, metallic sound along the hull that would indicate they had snared a mine. But all they heard was the intermittent buzz of the electric engines, and the captain and his navigator talking in undertones. The submarine was rock-steady; there was no feeling of movement at all. It was as if they were suspended in time and space.

  At midday a seaman brought them both steaming mugs of ki, the navy’s thick, syrupy, sweet cocoa. In looks and consistency it reminded Tiller of the Irrawaddy – and probably tasted like it, too, he thought. The thought didn’t stop him draining it to the last muddy dregs as he consumed the huge sandwiches which came with it. Whitaker, however, refused both ki and sandwich. Not a good sign, Tiller reflected, but he refrained from saying anything. Every man faced a hazardous operation in his own way.

  They both slept until they were shaken awake by the same rating who had brought them their meal. He said to Tiller: ‘The captain asks if you would join him, Sarge.’

  The sound of the engines was different. It immediately told Tiller that the submarine was back under diesel power, obtaining its oxygen and exhausting its diesel fumes through its Schnorkel, or ‘snort’ as the navy called this invaluable Dutch invention that stuck above the surface like a periscope. It enabled a submarine to run just below the surface for indefinite periods of time.

  The captain beckoned Tiller to join him by the periscope. ‘I thought you’d like a dekko at the area before it gets too dark,’ he said, stepping back. Tiller put his hands on the periscope’s handle and his eyes to its lenses. At first he found it difficult to make out anything. But as his eyes became accustomed to focusing beyond the periscope’s numbered graticules – which enabled the captain to gauge the distances and angles of convergence of his targets – Tiller picked out several vessels on the surface. He swivelled the periscope and saw the thin, continuous line of land to his left and a broken one to his right. He then swivelled it aft and instinctively flinched as the seemingly huge hull of a merchant ship flying the Japanese flag filled the lenses.

  He heard the captain laugh behind him. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t run us down. He’s a lot further off than he looks.’

  The captain stepped forward, snapped up the periscope’s arms and pulled the periscope back down into its housing. ‘It will be dark in half an hour and we’ll be in position off Tekukor island about half an hour after that.’

  To avoid the anti-submarine patrols in the strait the submarine dived once more and its interior was again filled with the somnolent, uneven buzz of its electric engines. Supper of sausages, baked beans and mashed potatoes was served with a tot of rum. Tiller polished off the food but handed his tot to Whitaker, who pushed aside his untouched meal and downed it gratefully.

  Then both of them, for the umpteenth time, spread out a copy of the agent’s sketch of Singapore harbour and compared it with vertical photo-reconnaissance shots which had been taken the previous week by a US Lightning fighter whose long-range tanks and stripped interior had given it the necessary extra range to get to Singapore and back from India.

  The photographs, taken at a height that avoided the exploding anti-aircraft shells that were blotched all over them, showed the area where the sketch indicated that both the battleship and the aircraft carrier lay. But somehow the Japanese had camouflaged the two massive vessels so well by breaking up their outlines that even the expert PR interpreters had not been able to say for sure whether the two ships were there or not.

  Something was there all right, but it looked like two or three or more smaller vessels, and as many times as the two SBS men had studied the photographs they could not be sure either.

  ‘They could have moved them,’ Whitaker said.

  ‘They could have,’ Tiller agreed. ‘But surely ships that size couldn’t get far without being spotted by recce flights or submarine patrols?’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Tiger,’ Whitaker said sourly. ‘The open sea’s a bloody big place. I was aboard the Rodney when the Home Fleet was after the Bismarck. It was like hunting a needle in a haystack. The Home Fleet went in the wrong direction, and as for the Ark Royal coming up from Gib, none of her aircraft even got within cooee of her. It was a right shambles, I can tell you, whatever the bloody newspapers said. It was a sheer fluke that that Catalina pilot saw her. The heavy cruiser with her slipped through our fingers as easy as pie. No, a bloody big place is an ocean, whether it’s the Atlantic, the Indian or the Pacific.’

  ‘We must have coast watchers in the area. They’d
report back if they’d seen them.’

  ‘Not if they slipped out at night before the moon rose, they wouldn’t,’ Whitaker retorted. ‘And anyway, how long do you think it takes for intelligence to get fed back from Singapore?’

  Tiller shrugged. When a radio wasn’t, or couldn’t be, used, he didn’t know how it was done.

  ‘Weeks, mate. Has to go through Kunming, most of it. This sketch would be at least five weeks old.’

  Tiller didn’t let Whitaker’s doubts unsettle him. In his mind the Hoko and the Kamato were in Singapore all right and would be right where Pan Kon had said they would be. In his experience it was never any use dwelling on the uncertainties of an operation.

  Instead, he again went through the details of the plan with Whitaker. They were to attack the Hoko, the other pair of Welmans were to attack the Kamato. There could be no co-ordination between the two attacks, or even between the two Welmans attacking the same target, for there was no means of communicating between the four operators. Each man had his own appointed task and after performing it each would return to the same spot from which he had been launched – where, with any luck, the submarine would still be waiting.

  Whitaker was to place his charge by the Hoko’s engine rooms while Tiller was to put his next to the aircraft carrier’s propellers and rudder. Even two charges as powerful as the ones the Welmans carried would not necessarily sink such large ships, but Tasler had been completely confident that they would certainly damage them enough to make them inoperable.

  After a while they could feel that the submarine was climbing at a gradual angle towards the surface and then they were again taken aft, where the captain was peering through the periscope.

  ‘All clear,’ he said to his number one. ‘Prepare to surface.’

  The submarine levelled out and came to a halt. A rating opened the hatch and warm, damp but refreshingly fresh air – richly perfumed with unidentified aromas from the nearby island – flooded into the submarine.

  The captain was first up the ladder, followed by his number one, then by Tiller and Whitaker, and finally by the two ratings who were to unfasten the Welmans from their cradles.