by Max Hennessy
‘We’ve only been making four and a half knots through the water and there’s a two to four knot current against us.’
Lyster stared at the chart and jabbed with a finger. ‘We’re here,’ he said. Then he shrugged. ‘But, what the hell? Why complain? There are some very odd currents in these waters and we’ve struck one that’s helping us. We’ll steer for Kilid Bahr on the west side to avoid the set towards Kephez. Shove the periscope up again.’
Even as it ran up and Lyster put his eye to it, his voice cracked in a shout. ‘Down periscope!’ A second later they heard a clang against the hull as a shell burst in the sea nearby, and a clatter like hailstones on a window as shrapnel flung through the water rattled against the conning tower.
‘They’ve spotted us,’ Lyster said. ‘I saw the damn thing shoot. It seemed to fire right into my eye.’
There was a tense wait and for another ten minutes they headed north in silence. They all knew now that they’d been seen and, however successful they were at passing through the straits, there’d be a reception committee of trawlers and gunboats waiting for them at the other end. By the plotting table, Kelly saw Rumbelo watching him and it suddenly seemed important that, come what may, he should be returned to Biddy.
After another five minutes, Lyster ran the periscope up again. He turned from the eyepiece, grinning. ‘We’ve made it,’ he said. ‘We’re past Nagara Point. There’s marshy land there that keeps us hidden. Take her down to seventy feet, Number One.’
Relaxed, they pushed steadily on, rising to periscope depth every few miles to check their position.
‘We’re opposite Gallipoli,’ Lyster announced eventually. ‘Looks like a pile of white bricks surrounded by fishing boats.’
The off-duty men sat quietly, drinking tea that tasted of diesel and unwashed bodies as they dived under the last minefield, moving as little as possible to conserve the oxygen. Clothes were soaked with sweat and, despite the fans, the smell from the unemptied sanitary buckets behind the engines penetrated the whole ship. The air grew thicker until the interior of the boat looked as if it were full of grey smoke as, with the last of the batteries’ power, they headed for the European shore; then still moving forward at dead slow speed, they lurched heavily and came to a stop.
‘What’s the depth, Number One?’
‘Fourteen fathoms, sir.’
Lyster turned. ‘Fall out diving stations,’ he said. ‘We’re in the Sea of Marmara close to the Gallipoli shore. So close in fact, we’ve just run into it.’
Six
They lay on the bottom in twenty fathoms all day. By the time diving stations were ordered again, the atmosphere inside E19 was thick enough to look like a London fog and they were all grey-faced and breathing heavily.
‘Take her up to thirty feet,’ Lyster said at last. ‘And do the thing slowly, Number One. We don’t want anyone having a heart attack.’
Lethargically, hands reached for valves and wheels, and air rumbled into the tanks. Lyster crouched near the periscope handles.
‘Up periscope!’
As the submarine surfaced and the hatch was cautiously lifted, the stale air whistled noisily through the opening and in return came the welcome smell of a dying day. Kelly joined Lyster on the bridge, gulping at the fresh breeze. The night was still and bright with stars, and over the monstrous rush of air the engines snatched through the hatch he could hear the barking of a dog somewhere ashore. It sounded familiar and rural and reminded him strongly of home.
‘Start the charge, Number One,’ Lyster called down. ‘But be ready to break off and go to diving stations.’
As the diesel motors sucked the icy draught into the boat, the atmosphere cleared at once. From the stuffy fug of an enclosed over-used hutch it changed at once to the damp sharp air of evening.
‘Let’s have the W/T signal away,’ Lyster said as the radio operator climbed to the conning tower to rig the wireless mast and aerial.
They waited tensely for the first cheep from the receiver that would give them a sign that an outside world existed, and there was the silence of disappointment as the operator failed to raise the British ship waiting on the other side of the spit of land that separated them from the Mediterranean.
‘What’s wrong?’ Lyster snapped.
‘Don’t know, sir.’ The radioman was tense and nervous at the responsibility, and ham-fisted in his efforts to succeed. ‘Might be anything – batteries, connection, valves. I’ll have to check.’
Lyster called down the hatch. ‘Pigeons,’ he said. ‘Quick sharp!’
But the seaman in charge of the homing birds had been too fond of animals and had fed them so well they were loathe to leave their happy surroundings in the forepeak. They were still struggling to get them into the air when the radioman announced he’d found the fault. ‘Defect in the aerial, sir. Oil cup where it comes through the deck had leaked. I’ve repaired it.’
Contact was made and purple-blue sparks began to leap from the damp aerial wire as the longs and shorts of the morse sign were flashed.
‘That ought to cheer Keyes up,’ Lyster said. ‘I bet he was biting his nails a bit.’
They spent the rest of the night on the surface, charging batteries, only sinking to the bottom as daylight came, to wait until the next night for a further move. The hours passed slowly as they slept and wrote letters and played the gramophone. One of the torpedomen produced an accordion for an impromptu concert and, as the daylight began to fade above them on the surface of the sea, they took stations again and Lyster brought the boat to the surface.
‘Up periscope!’
As he put his face to the eyepiece, they saw him smile. ‘There’s a small warship of some sort out there,’ he said quietly. ‘Gunboat perhaps. Bring her head round.’
As they manoeuvred, he took another look. ‘There’s a light cruiser just beyond her,’ he announced. Just the sort to be fitted out as a minelayer. I think we’ll have a go at that first. Flood the tubes.’
The rush of air indicated that the forward tubes were flooding and the report came briskly and eagerly from the torpedo compartment. ‘Tubes full, sir!’
‘Charge firing tanks!’
‘Both bow tubes ready, sir!’
Lyster called for increased revolutions and as the speed was stepped up, they heard the thud-thud-thud of a ship’s propellers overhead.
‘Seem to be suspicious,’ Lyster observed. ‘But I don’t think they’ve seen us and the water’s got a bit of a lop on, so we might escape unnoticed. Bring her up to twenty feet, Number One. And see she doesn’t break surface.’
Standing by the navigating table, Kelly watched the men at the other side of the control room with a thudding heart. This was the moment about which he’d talked so often with his father, the unhurried creep forward, raising the periscope only to get their bearings. Lyster’s voice came, sharp and authoritative, a small edge of excitement beneath the calmness, and Kelly began mentally to retract all the clever, boastful things he’d said about submariners. Lyster was an old hand at the game and even he was touched by the tension about them.
‘Steady! Stand by starboard tube!’
The silence seemed endless, then, as Lyster called ‘Fire!’, they heard the clatter and thud as the torpedo left the boat, followed by the violent hissing of rushing water. E19 lurched and the planesmen spun their wheels to keep the bow from rising. The seconds ticked by in silence.
Lyster pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid we’ve missed,’ he said. ‘But I’m blowed if I can see how. The torpedo must have gone underneath. What was she set to run at?’
‘Ten feet, sir.’
‘Sure?’
‘I checked it, sir.’
After the tension, the disappointment lay heavily over them all. Lyster was frowning deeply and biting at his lower lip. A submarine was on
ly as good as the only man who could see, and it clearly worried him that they might think him inefficient.
He made an attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Oh, well, we’ve got more where that one came from,’ he said briskly. ‘Have the tubes recharged.’
All that day they waited for the return of their victims but the sea seemed suddenly to have emptied. Lyster was nervous and irritable, and more on edge than usual because the flat calm sea made the feather of foam from the tip of the periscope visible from the shore.
‘They’ve all gone home for supper,’ he said sourly.
During the following afternoon, they sighted two dhows, small wooden vessels which weren’t worth wasting a torpedo on, and E19 rose to the surface in front of them. Immediately there was a panic aboard the nearest vessel and two or three men jumped overboard, only to regret their hasty decision immediately and swim back to their ship to be picked up again. Turks in fezzes stood on the foredeck, their arms in the air, and they could hear their wailing pleas for mercy.
‘Put ’em in a boat, Pilot,’ Lyster ordered. ‘See what they have on board.’
Armed to the teeth and feeling unnecessarily dramatic, Kelly had himself rowed across to the dhows. They were filled with fruit and tins of meat for the troops down the peninsula, and in the hold he found cases of shells. When he reported his find to Lyster, he grinned.
‘Blow ’em up,’ he said. ‘Make a good job of it.’
They put the Turks into their boats, helped themselves to tinned meat and fresh fruit, and planted a charge. The explosion was a highly satisfying affair with planks and masts hurtling hundreds of feet in the air as the shells in the holds were detonated. Handing tins of meat, fruit and water to the wailing Turks, they pointed the way to land less than ten miles away and E19 slipped beneath the water again.
Almost immediately, Lyster spotted smoke on the horizon and increased speed to investigate. It drew away from them, however, and disappeared.
‘Must have been a bank holiday yesterday,’ Lyster said. ‘They seem to have wakened up again.’
After tea, they sighted another steamer, this time a much bigger one and Lyster studied it carefully through the periscope.
‘All we have to do is stay here,’ he said. ‘She’s heading right across our bows. Charge firing tanks. Life seems to have returned to the Sea of Marmara. This time it ought to be easy.’
But it wasn’t and he watched their torpedoes run straight and true under the ship and vanish on the other side.
‘For God’s sake,’ Lyster cursed. ‘What the devil’s wrong with them? Bring her up, Number One. I’m going to frighten her to death instead.’
As the submarine surfaced, Lyster scrambled on to the bridge and yelled through a megaphone.
‘Abandon ship, or I shall fire a torpedo!’
The Turks clearly understood. The captain left the bridge with the ship still moving, and a lifeboat was lowered which capsized as it struck the water. As the ship finally stopped, more boats were lowered to pick up the swimming men. The ship was carrying munitions and the same procedure they had followed with the dhows was gone through. The ship’s papers were snatched up, the men in the boats were sent on their way with water and food and a chart, and Kelly went aboard with Rumbelo carrying a demolition charge of gun cotton. Placing it in the after hold, well stacked around with six- and fifteen-inch cartridge cases, they set the fuse and hurried back to E19.
Going astern, they had hardly stopped engines when there was a loud report, and a column of smoke and flame shot up, and the ship’s decks seemed to lift bodily upwards. Shells and cartridge cases were flung in all directions, then the ship lay slowly on her side, lifted her stern in the air and vanished in a matter of seconds.
‘Well, we’ve accomplished something at last,’ Lyster said. ‘Very pretty, Pilot. I think you’re earning your keep.’
They had now been in the Sea of Marmara for four days and, despite the disappointments over the torpedoes, they had done enough damage to warrant their being there. The following day, they sighted several ships but they were all too far away and going too fast for them to attack, and towards the end of the afternoon with nothing in sight, they surfaced to charge batteries, passing half-submerged by a small coastal village where a host of fishing vessels cut the sky into strips with their masts. Lyster tensed.
‘Diving stations,’ he called.
As they tumbled below, he reached for the periscope. ‘Take her down to fifty feet, Number One. There’s a battleship beyond those fishing boats. Barbarossa or Turgut Reiss. Let’s have a go. Hard a starboard, coxswain. Flood bow tubes. Charge firing tanks.’
‘Both tubes ready, sir.’
‘Let’s hope they work this time. We’ve got AE2’s disease and we’re running short.’
They held their breath as Lyster moved slowly round the periscope in the crowded control room. Every minute seemed an hour as he gave his orders. Unable to see what was happening, they could only use their imagination and construct the scene from Lyster’s orders.
‘Stand by!’
The tension in the control room could have been cut with a knife.
‘Fire both tubes!’
The clatter of the torpedoes leaving broke the tension at once. Lyster slapped up the handles of the periscope and stood by it, waiting. There was a long silence, then Lyster frowned and bent to the eyepiece.
‘Up periscope!’ He straightened as the periscope rose. ‘Damnation!’ he said savagely. ‘The bloody things have just risen to the surface and stopped. I can see the compressed air puffing out of the stern. Take her down, Number One. There’s a torpedo gunboat out there – Berki-Satvet class – and a couple of trawlers trailing a wire rope that looks as though it supports a net.’
They lay on the bottom for an hour while propellers passed overhead. Standing by the chart table, Kelly unashamedly confessed to himself a feeling of quivering funk. If the sweep caught them it would be only a short time before they were destroyed. But no one else showed any sign of anxiety and no one looked at him, so he could only assume his fear didn’t show and that they, too, were feeling the same as he did. When Lyster put the periscope up, all the searching ships had disappeared and the sea was empty.
As the conning tower broke surface, Lyster climbed through the hatch to the little bridge, Kelly close behind him.
‘See ’em?’
‘See what, sir?’
‘The torpedoes, man! We need ’em and this looks like a good opportunity to make a search for ’em. I want to sink something before we return.’
They moved slowly on the surface in a large circle, looking for the torpedoes, and Lyster brought up Rumbelo and another man who was reputed to have the best eyes in the ship.
‘I see one of ’em,’ Rumbelo said and then they all saw the long shape bobbing up and down some distance away.
‘Stop motors,’ Lyster ordered. ‘We’ve got to do this quickly before it’s too dark. We’ll hold the boat here. Then if the damn thing goes up it won’t harm us.’
As he began to drag at his sweater, Kelly pushed forward. ‘Not you, sir. You’re needed on board in case anything turns up. I’m a good swimmer and, with respect, it’s my job.’
Lyster studied him for a moment then he nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said.
Tying a spanner round his neck with a length of line, Kelly stripped off his clothes and dived in. The torpedo’s head was undamaged and it had clearly run beneath the target but the safe period of the first part of its run had passed and the propeller blades in the nose had charged it so that the firing pin was barely a sixteenth of an inch from the detonator. The slightest jar could set off the fulminate of mercury and blow him to bloody fragments. As he realised the danger, he edged away instinctively then, realising that having accepted the task, he could hardly back away from it and hand it to someone else
, unwillingly he moved closer and, swimming round the torpedo, he eyed it warily. Beyond it he could see E19, with Lyster waiting anxiously on the bridge with Bennett. There were several other men on the superstructure, among them the burly figure of Rumbelo, his face concerned.
Taking the spanner from his neck and twisting the line round his wrist so that he couldn’t drop it, he started with infinite care to unscrew the firing pistol. Slowly, treading water, he drew it from the nose of the torpedo and set it to safe. Then, moving along the side of the missile, he pushed the starting lever forward in case there was enough compressed air still inside to start the propeller again.
‘Rig the derrick,’ he heard Lyster call as he swam back to the submarine to take the end of a line. ‘And look slippy. The light’s going.’
After a lot of careful manoeuvring, the seventeen-foot torpedo lay alongside E19, harmless now, and a sling was passed under it at the point of balance and a shackle attached, with a tail line to stop it swinging.
‘Keep a sharp look out, Number One,’ Lyster said. ‘And let’s have extra men up with glasses. Keep the hands to diving stations just in case.’
As the torpedo was hoisted inboard and lowered to the deck, the warhead was removed, then Lyster, after a careful study of the horizon, ordered the forward hatch to be opened.
‘And make it quick,’ he snapped.
There was intense activity on the foredeck, because with the hatch open they were helpless to dive, but the torpedo was hoisted up and lowered into the submarine just as the light finally disappeared.
‘Right,’ Lyster said. ‘Get the hatch on and the derrick unshipped. At least we’re no longer shy of weapons and we might have better luck next time.’
Throughout the whole of the next day, still nothing was seen of the cloud of Turkish transports they had expected, and it wasn’t until almost evening that Lyster ordered diving stations.
‘Ships off the port beam,’ he said as he tumbled below. ‘And one’s a troopship by the look of her. Take a peep, Number One.’
