‘We’d better take a vote on it,’ I said. I was feeling very depressed. My mind kept groping over the formula—CaCO3 = CaO + CO2. Surely that was right? Or had I made a mistake?
Then suddenly I saw that the cutting flame was no longer moving. ‘He’s stopped,’ I said. We watched. The whiteness of the metal where it had been cut was dimming. It was reddening, and the hatch cover as a whole was becoming black again. Gradually the hiss of the oxy-acetylene blower dwindled until it had stopped altogether.
‘Thank God!’ I breathed. ‘Listen!’ Not a sound. I walked down the length of the submarine and back again. There was not a sound from the deck overhead. When I rejoined the others in the control room I said: ‘Davies—you and I will go out and bring in Logan and Miss Weston.’
Kevan helped us into the escape apparatus. We blew the air bags up and switched on the oxygen. Then, wearing a pair of gloves, Davies unfastened the hatch and threw it back. I carried two spare oxygen equipments. We clambered out, breathing through our masks. The fire was still roaring, the flames flickering redly on the rock walls of the dock. Quickly we slammed the hatch back to conserve the pure air in the submarine. As we did so the body of the acetylene cutter rolled face upwards. It was a horrible sight. He had collapsed on to the flame of the blower and his face was burned out of all recognition.
The deck of the submarine presented a most amazing sight. There must have been at least twenty Germans lying huddled where they had collapsed. We hurried to the stern where we found two collapsible rubber boats moored. In one there was a German seated at the oars. He was looking dazed, but was not properly unconscious. But even as we climbed into the other boat, which was empty, he collapsed.
I cast off and Davies rowed quickly round to dock No. 5. Here the sight was even more amazing. The whole dock seemed strewn with the bodies of German sailors. It was like rowing in some fantastic crypt filled with the dead. I looked at Davies, pulling steadily on the oars, his face obscured by the awful futurist mask. So one might depict a modern Charon rowing a new-comer to Hades across the river Styx.
We moored to the flood gates of No. 5 dock and Davies scrambled up on to the dockside. I remained in the boat. In a very short while he returned, dragging Big Logan’s unconscious body. I thought I should never be able to get him into the boat safely. But, rocking precariously, I lowered it into the bottom of the boat. Maureen’s slight figure was easier to handle. Within less than three minutes of landing we were rowing back to No. 4 dock. Whilst Davies rowed, I fitted the escape apparatus first on to Logan and then on to Maureen. Then I untied their remaining bonds, not an easy procedure since I could use only one hand. Almost as soon as he began to breathe the oxygenized air, Logan showed signs of life. The first thing he did when he recovered consciousness was to try to tear the mask from his face. This I managed to prevent him from doing, and by the time we had reached our own dock, he had recovered sufficiently to lift himself on to the submarine. By that time Maureen had also recovered consciousness, but she needed assistance in climbing up on to the deck of the submarine.
Back in the interior of the submarine, we removed their masks and our own. Kevan had plugged the circular cut in the conning tower hatch, and the oxygenized air in the submarine was good to breathe after the mask, which was not at all comfortable. The place was getting very hot indeed, however, and I did not think we should be able to stay there much longer. Kevan had also found a flask of brandy. He passed it first to Maureen. Then on to Logan and so to myself.
Soon after the brandy Maureen lost her dazed look and asked conventionally where she was. I explained what had happened, and she giggled a little uncertainly. ‘I never thought I should live to be rescued by you, Walter,’ she said. I didn’t know quite how to take this, so remained silent. Her dark hair was hanging over her eyes, and flushed with newly regained consciousness, she looked startingly provocative. I saw Logan watching her.
I said: ‘I’m afraid you’ve had rather an unpleasant time.’
But she shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t too bad. As soon as Dan here saw the fire he told me what you were up to. You put us to sleep quite comfortably, didn’t he?’ She turned to Logan.
‘Is your name Dan?’ I asked.
Logan grinned. ‘Yes, they even gave me a Christian name,’ he said. ‘Where’s Trevors?’ he added.
‘Dead,’ I said.
There was a long silence.
By this time every one seemed sufficiently recovered, so I suggested that we started out for the back exit of the base. We put on our oxygen apparatus and each of us took a spare. Also we took one of the submarine’s oxygen cylinders, just in case. We had no idea how long our apparatus would keep us going. Then I sent Kevan aft to place a packing case or something fairly heavy over the engine-room hatch and unfasten it. I did not want the men down there to be trapped in this oven.
When we tied up at No. 5 dock and clambered up on to the dockside I was once again conscious of the eeriness of the place. There were men everywhere, but not a soul stirred. It was like a place of the dead. And we five masked figures looked like five horrible ghouls picking our way amongst the dead. The Germans seemed to have been struck down without warning. One still knelt before a piece of wood he had been sawing, kept upright by the saw. It was difficult to believe that they were only unconscious as yet, not dead.
At the end of the dock we found one of the mobile drills. They had been using it to get through the fall that blocked the gallery into our own dock. We then found two more cylinders of oxygen and several picks and placed them on top of the drill. We passed the ends of docks 6 and 7 and then dragged the drill up to the upper galleries. On the ramp and in the galleries we had to skirt unconscious bodies and sometimes they lay so thick that we had to move them in order to get the drill through.
At last we arrived at the guard-room and the cells we knew so well. Logan and Davies, who were armed with automatic rifles, went in front. They threw open the door, their rifles raised in case the gas had not penetrated the closed door. But the guard-room was empty. Davies went straight across to the other side where a rack of rifles stood. He pushed it sideways. A whole section of the cemented wall slid back on rollers to reveal a black cavity in the rock behind.
We hesitated, each looking questioningly from one to the other. Were we to risk everything in a desperate attempt to get through the falls in the mine? That meant blowing up the guard-room and imprisoning ourselves in the mine, for it was impossible to say how long the fire would last and once the men in the base regained consciousness they could come after us in order to prevent us making contact with the outside world. I remembered what Logan had said about falls in tin mines. It seemed pretty hopeless.
‘Isn’t there some sort of a lookout?’ Maureen’s voice was muffled by her mask.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but it’s like a periscope—just a piece of steel piping thrust through the rock. We’d never get through.’
‘Ventilation?’
I shook my head. ‘What do you say, Logan?’
‘This is our only chance,’ was his reply.
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘First, we need some food. And keep that door shut. We don’t want to lose any good air there is in the mine.’
Davies pushed the section of wall back across the opening and he and Kevan remained in the guard-room, whilst Logan, Maureen and I went in search of food. In the nearest kitchen we found two of the cooks sprawled across the table and another had burned himself on the stove and slipped to the floor in front of it. We collected enough provisions for a week in a big packing case and a large can of water and dragged them along to the guard-room. We loaded them on to the drill trolley, and after providing ourselves with torches, some spare batteries, an automatic rifle each and magazines, together with several grenades, we went through into the mine.
I think we all felt somewhat chilled at leaving the lighted guard-room for this dark damp tunnel. It was like stepping straight from the warmth and comfort of civilization int
o some aged vault. To me it was like walking into one’s grave, for I was not hopeful of our being able to break through the falls. There were only two of us properly able-bodied, and I was afraid that lack of ventilation would kill us long before our food gave out.
As soon as the section of the guard-room wall had been pushed back behind us we took off our masks. The air smelt damp and stale. By the light of a torch we walked steadily along the gallery, the drill trolley, now badly overloaded, jolting on the uneven floor. After we had gone about two hundred yards we came to a fall. This was the one that Maureen and her companions had worked their way through. She pointed to something. It was a piece of wire that led to one of the larger rocks. Evidently that was what had given the alarm. The gap they had made was not large and it proved quite impossible to get the trolley through. We debated whether to try to widen it or not. I was all for leaving the trolley. I had suddenly remembered that its engine would pollute the air. Anyway, it could be brought along later. The others agreed to this, so we unloaded it and passed all the various articles which we had loaded on to it through the narrow gap in the fall. It was a fearful struggle, and by the time everything we wanted had been transferred I felt completely exhausted. What little I had done had caused my arm to start bleeding again and I was conscious of the warm blood trickling down the splints on to my hand.
As soon as everything had been transferred to the farther side of the fall, I asked Davies if he would go back and demolish the guard-room. ‘A few grenades will do the trick,’ I said. ‘But see that you leave yourself time to get clear. And keep the door into the mine as near shut as possible and hold your breath whilst you’re in the guard-room.’
We wished him good luck and he climbed back through the fall. Gradually the sound of his footsteps died away. Then faintly we heard the door to the guard-room being slid back. Silence for a moment. Then the faint rumble of the door sliding to again and the sound of footsteps running towards us down the mine gallery. We braced ourselves for the explosion. It came a few seconds later, a terrific muffled roar that shook the rock in which the gallery was cut and seemed to rumble through our very bodies. It was not one explosion, but several very close together, and the roar of them and the crash of falling rock was continuous. Pieces of rock fell from the roof of the gallery round us and I felt the fall shift slightly.
Gradually silence descended on us again. We listened. Not a sound. We called out, but Davies did not answer. ‘I’ll go back for him,’ said Logan.
‘No, I will,’ I said. I felt sick for fear I had sent the man to his death.
But before I could move Logan was already scrambling over the rocks of the fall. He had to shift great lumps of dislodged rock before he could get through the gap. Again we waited. Two or three minutes later we heard him coming back up the gallery. ‘It’s all right,’ he called from the other side of the fall. ‘He got laid out by a lump of rock.’
I felt greatly relieved. And shortly afterwards Davies himself climbed back through the gap in the fall. He had a nasty scalp wound, but otherwise seemed all right. ‘The force of it knocked me over,’ he said. ‘Then a bloody great rock hit me on the side of the head.’
‘I went back and had a look at the damage,’ Logan said as he climbed through. ‘The gallery is completely blocked some yards from the entrance to the guard-room.’
We had burned our boats. I think we all had that sinking feeling. There was no going back. Whatever falls lay ahead, we just had to get through them. Each carrying as much as he could, we went on along the gallery. It sloped gradually upward and bore to the left. There were the remains of sleepers and here and there old lengths of rail on the floor of the gallery. Suddenly it broadened out and we found ourselves emerging from the farthest right of three branches off a main gallery. Logan, who was leading, glanced back at Davies. ‘The main gallery,’ said the Welshman. ‘The other branches are no use whatever. They end in falls, and if you worked through them you’d most likely find yourself back with the submarines.’
So we pushed on up the main gallery. But we had not gone more than a hundred yards or so before we found the gallery completely blocked with rock. ‘This is the fall they made yesterday,’ said Davies.
‘Looks pretty hopeless,’ said Maureen rather dully.
‘Depends how deep it goes,’ was Davies’s reply.
We put our things down and set to work immediately. Maureen tried to get Kevan and myself to rest. But I knew the value of time and though we could each use only one arm we were better than nothing.
Davies wielded a pick and the rest of us attacked the fall with our bare hands, pulling the loosened rocks down and piling them up behind us. When we started on it the time was just on four. But after that time had no meaning for me. It was dust and rocks and straining and heaving and sweating. Pain, too, for the exertion brought the blood pumping into my wound. Time went on and I really had no idea what progress we were making. I was just automatically pushing behind me rocks that were thrust at me from above. We took it in turns to rest. Sometimes we had water, sometimes some food, and days seemed to pass.
Nothing seemed real except my intense longing to rest. As in a dream I heard Logan say: ‘Listen!’ I listened, but I could hear nothing but the pumping of the blood against my ear drums. But still as in a dream I saw the others getting wildly excited and setting to work furiously on the fall again. Once more I began automatically shifting the rocks that were thrust at me. Then I heard faint picking sounds beyond the fall and later I remember Maureen saying: ‘It’s all right, Walter, they’re coming for us.’
I think it was then that I passed out, and I remember nothing until I woke to the lovely cold feel of fresh night air on my face. I had not felt fresh air for a fortnight. I breathed it in—sweet cool stuff smelling of grass and little rock plants. And then I opened my eyes and saw stars and a great round moon floating high in the velvet night. I closed my eyes again and slept.
The following is the report of Captain Marchant, which was forwarded to the War Office by the commanding officer at Trereen:
I proceeded to Pendeen with two companies, arriving there at 22.10 hours. Detective-inspector Fuller was awaiting my arrival at the inn, together with an officer of the Intelligence. The latter informed me that the Wheal Garth mine was believed to be occupied and to have some connection with U-boats. A woman reporter and three miners had failed to return from the mine after a visit the previous day.
There were three possible exits to the mine. I detailed a section to guard each of these exits. The fourth section I detailed to watch the cliffs above the mine. Lieutenant Myers took charge of these operations and each section was allotted a local miner as a guide.
With ‘B’ company I proceeded to the most recent shaft of the mine, which had been opened up by a rescue party. Detective-inspector Fuller informed me that he had had plant brought over from Wheal Geevor and that thirty miners were working in relays to clear the fall.
We then proceeded down the shaft by rope ladder and through several galleries to the fall. It was then 23.30 hours. At 2.20 hours sounds were heard from the other side of the fall. A way was cleared through and the woman reporter and two of the three miners who had gone down with her were discovered. With them were two men—Craig and Logan—who had disappeared after the landing of a U-boat commander near Cadgwith recently. They reported a complete submarine base with seven docks and accommodation for more than six hundred men. They had fought their way out largely by the ingenious method of causing a fire in a limestone fall and so immobilizing the base with CO2. They had blocked the gallery behind them.
We proceeded to this fall, and by 5.40 hours had cleared a passage into the base. The gas had cleared and many of the Germans had regained consciousness. But they put up a weak resistance. By 6.50 hours we were in control of the whole base.
Our casualties were two dead—Sgt Welter and Pte Gates—and three wounded—Ptes Morgan, Chapman and Regal. The enemy lost four dead and six wounded in action agains
t us. There were also a further forty-six dead by asphyxiation or by other means. Many were seriously ill as a result of the effects of the gas. A fall in the main gallery by the docks prevented those who resisted from getting at the munition stores and blowing up the whole base. One submarine was, however, destroyed by explosives.
Altogether five ocean-going U-boats have been captured intact and one destroyed, as mentioned above. Also one submarine store ship and a large quantity of war material fell into our hands. Prisoners taken totalled five hundred and sixty-five.
Signed,
MARCHANT.
Following a report by the intelligence officer to M.I.5 the proposed action against Kiel was postponed, it being feared that information concerning this plan might have been transmitted to Germany by a submarine.
After the capture of the base the area of sea immediately off the entrance was closely mined and a phosphorescent float moored in the usual position. By this means four more U-boats were destroyed.
THE END
THE HISTORY OF VINTAGE
The famous American publisher Alfred A. Knopf (1892–1984) founded Vintage Books in the United States in 1954 as a paperback home for the authors published by his company. Vintage was launched in the United Kingdom in 1990 and works independently from the American imprint although both are part of the international publishing group, Random House.
Vintage in the United Kingdom was initially created to publish paperback editions of books bought by the prestigious literary hardback imprints in the Random House Group such as Jonathan Cape, Chatto & Windus, Hutchinson and later William Heinemann, Secker & Warburg and The Harvill Press. There are many Booker and Nobel Prize-winning authors on the Vintage list and the imprint publishes a huge variety of fiction and non-fiction. Over the years Vintage has expanded and the list now includes great authors of the past – who are published under the Vintage Classics imprint – as well as many of the most influential authors of the present. In 2012 Vintage Children’s Classics was launched to include the much-loved authors of our youth.
Wreckers Must Breathe Page 20
