‘Blowin’ ’is tanks, sir.’
Wishart nodded as if he’d been expecting it. It was a loud, harsh noise, like sandpaper rubbing on a drum. Jake leant across the chart, resting on his elbows, hearing it and guessing what was happening in the other boat. Men trapped, frantically trying to break free by blowing themselves to the surface. Their submarine was speared on E.57’s bow, held by her deadweight, like a swimmer being pulled down by a shark.
Seventy feet. Seventy-one …
The angle was lessening and she was settling very slowly. The racket for’ard suddenly shut off. Seventy-three feet on one gauge and seventy-four on the other. Bulkhead doors open now. Close-’aul Anderson, one arm in a dirty sling, had stuck his head through the doorway to mutter something of Louis Lewis. Blowing noises again: at this rate it wouldn’t be long before the Germans ran out of bottled air. You built up reserves of it by running a compressor that filled the groups of air-bottles in various places in the boat. If you emptied all the groups you’d have nothing left to blow with; and you could only run the compressor on the surface with a hatch open. A lot of this Hun’s air might be just bubbling up through holes in his ripped hull.
E.57 lurched, resettled with a bow-up angle.
‘Open “A” and “B” kingstons!’
Lewis dived for the wheel that opened ‘B’. Beyond the bulkhead Close-’aul would be working one-handed on ‘A’. The enemy was trying to lighten himself and for that moment his efforts had looked as if they might be about to succeed, but now Wishart was adding ballast to E.57’s for’ard section to counter that lightness and hold her down.
‘Bubble’s coming back, sir.’
Hobday had said it as detachedly as if this was some ordinary trimming problem they were dealing with. Jake remembered sparrows that he’d drowned: in a sparrow-trap, made of wire netting, which his father used to set in the vegetable patch. Often there’d be a dozen or twenty birds in it; his father had shown him how to take the whole cage and hold it under the surface of the pond while they died. It was the kindest way, he’d explained, of doing it. Jake thought, leaning on the chart table, We’re being kind to Germans, now… Well, if the Huns had been luckier with that shot, E.57 would be a tangle of metal on the seabed by this time. Two thousand feet down: and in a drawer here in the middle of the wreckage would be a letter which until it disintegrated would still read, You needn’t worry for two seconds about me… He heard the blowing start again: it had stopped for about half a minute and now they’d opened up again: and vibration suddenly, a terrific shaking: he realised what it was just as Weatherspoon reported, ‘Using ’is motors, sir. Full group up, sound like.’
‘Shut “A” and “B” kingstons.’
Precaution. Might want to pump out or blow those tanks in a minute, and you couldn’t when they were still open to the sea. Wishart had moved in beside Hobday where he could see what was happening to the bubble. He’d want to make sure the German didn’t get any up-angle on her through his blowing; if he managed that he might be able to slip off.
‘Group down, slow ahead together.’
‘Slow ahead together, sir!’ Agnew whirled the telegraphs. By putting the motors ahead Wishart was maintaining a pressure that would keep his stem dug into her.
The vibration stopped suddenly: Weatherspoon met Wishart’s enquiring stare as he looked round over Hobday’s head: Weatherspoon opened his mouth to say something, and the shaking began again. He told Wishart, ‘Tryin’ it astern now. Or it was astern before an’—’
‘Yes.’ Wishart looked at Agnew. ‘Half ahead together.’
He turned to Hobday. ‘Number One – if he’s blowing bubbles under our bow, we could be getting some of his air into our for’ard tanks.’
He meant, through the open kingstons in the bottoms of them.
‘Could be, sir.’ Hobday sounded doubtful. Wishart glanced over at McVeigh. ‘Open and shut one and two main vents.’ McVeigh grabbed the levers and wrenched them back; the noise from for’ard muffled the sound of the vents opening, but the bow dropped suddenly in a downward lurch: eyes flew to the depth-gauges as McVeigh shut the vents again. Seventy-five feet: seventy-six…
‘Through the barrier, sir.’ There was alarm in Hobday’s voice. And some reason for it: with the deadweight of the part-flooded submarine on her stem to drag her down, fore ’planes jammed and four hundred fathoms under them … They’d passed eighty feet and the needles were circling faster now – eighty-five – ninety—
‘Stop together.’
‘Stop together, sir!’
One hundred feet. Wishart muttered, to nobody in particular, ‘It’s worse for him than it is for us.’ Jake guessed at what might be in his mind: the U-boat would have leaks, strained plates and rivets: as depth and sea-pressure increased she’d suffer more and more. And in his state the German couldn’t do much to help himself: he was being dragged down, drowned, getting heavier all the time. If as they went deeper the two submarines broke apart, the damaged one would almost certainly go on down – and down … Until the sea crushed him, burst him like a nutshell. But there was still that rather colossal ‘if’ – if they broke apart: it was possible, conceivable, that they might not. If when Wishart tried to separate he found he couldn’t, the German would still go on down but he’d be taking E.57 with him.
One hundred and twenty feet. Wishart was watching the depth-gauge intently. Hobday had just muttered something to him; he’d frowned, shaken his head, glanced at his first lieutenant as if he was surprised at him: and just at that moment, everything went quiet. It was the enemy’s motors that had stopped, and the vibration they’d been causing. The difference – silence – was uncanny … The two submarines were locked together, sinking towards the seabed quite fast, gathering downward momentum … Hundred and forty feet. Hundred and fifty. Roost said, ‘Lost steerage way, sir. Turnin’ all the time an’ I can’t stop ’er, sir.’
Like something dead, spiralling down. Visualising it as it would look from the outside, the sea out there, one couldn’t help seeing it as a wreck on its way to the bottom. Two locked into one. Jake heard Hobday ask Wishart very quietly, almost whispering, ‘Permission to blow “A” and “B”, sir?’
Wishart shook his head, without taking his eyes off the depth-gauge. There was a grim, shut look on his face: as if he had pressures in himself too, and was holding them back, forcing himself to see the thing through to its end, not to let go now as perhaps he’d have rather done. Everyone’s eyes were on him: he’d be used to that by now, but this time they weren’t just standing by for orders or clues to his intentions, they seemed to be trying to hypnotise him into some action they all passionately wanted. Such as blowing main ballast before—
‘Blowin’ again, sir!’
Half a second later you didn’t need hydrophones to hear it. It was the same sound as before, a rip of high-pressure air racketing out: then, within seconds of it starting, it was weakening, fizzling out.
Stopped.
Hobday said, ‘His air’s done.’
‘Yes.’ Wishart turned quickly, decisively. Jake guessed this was the climax he’d set himself to wait for. ‘Blow “A” and “B” main ballast. Half astern together.’
‘Open “A” and “B” kingstons! Stand by to blow—’
‘Both motors half astern, sir!’
Blowing the extra ballast out, and pulling astern to clear the German. If there was anyone alive in that boat now, there wouldn’t be much longer. The two internals’ kingstons were open: McVeigh sent air booming into the tanks to force the sea out through them.
Passing two hundred feet: and no change to the bow-down angle.
‘Stop together. Group up.’
Hobday pitched his voice up over the air noise: ‘Stop blowing! Shut “A” and “B” kingstons!’
‘Grouper up, sir!’
‘Half astern together.’
Agnew flung the telegraph handles round. ‘Both motors half astern, sir.’ Hobday asked Wishart, ‘Shall I
put a puff in one and two main ballast, sir?’ He wanted her bow up, the angle reversed. Wishart shook his head: he wanted to get her unlinked from the German first, not waste E.57’s air on slowing the wreck’s descent as well as his own.
Two hundred and twenty-five feet on the gauges now. Twenty-five feet below tested diving depth.
Two hundred and thirty …
‘Full astern together!’
The motors’ note rose as the screws speeded … Jake saw the needles circling on. Loss of ballast and all that power astern wasn’t stopping her. He wondered if Wishart wasn’t going to have to change his mind: whether they weren’t close to a point of no return.
Wishart must have come to the same conclusion … ‘Blow one, two, three, four, five six, seven and eight main ballast!’
The whole lot: too late for half-measures. McVeigh had flung himself like a mad dervish at the panel and he was wrenching the valves open. Even now there was no certainty – and if it failed: well, the German had been forced to use every ounce of air he’d had: now it could be a taste of one’s own medicine that was coming. Blowing: and motors grouped up: nothing in reserve if this failed … Air at three thousand pounds to the square inch smashing through reducers into the LP line and through it to the tanks: depth two hundred and forty-five feet. Two-fifty …
‘Stop blowing seven and eight!’
Keeping the bubble from going mad: and shouting to beat the din of air – which dropped slightly as McVeigh shut off the after pair of tanks. Two hundred and sixty feet: and suddenly alarming noise from for’ard: creaking, straining … Jake leant over the chart table, listening to it and at the same time not wanting to hear it. It sounded like the bow being torn off.
‘Stop blowing one, two, five and six! Half astern both!’ Like a section of hull-plates being ripped away. Jake told himself, Always sounds worse than it is … Under water every sound was magnified, distorted. But something was being wrenched apart… ‘Stop blowing three and four!’
The boat jerked, tilted as her bow hauled free and began to swing upwards – much too fast… ‘Open one and two main vents! Stop together – group down!’
It was going to be a tussle now to get her back into control and trim: but she was already rising fast towards depths that she was tested for. The quiet, after all that noise, was startling. There was no sound at all from outside: nothing out there that anyone could have heard. Only wreckage sinking into a half-mile depth of sea. It would be a long way down by now and it would only stop when it hit the bottom. He felt sick and shaky, as if his own hands had been locked on someone’s throat.
The sparrows, he remembered, had always fluttered, for a little while.
Chapter 10
‘Not cold, is it?’
Nick had only this moment woken from a heavy sleep: and he was warm, in the bunk. Wishart’s bunk. He’d opened his eyes to see Jake Cameron pulling on an extra sweater, on top of a sweater he had on already. Obviously he was going up to take over the watch from Hobday. He’d sat down now, to lace his canvas shoes, and he was looking up quite angrily at that question.
‘No. It’s like a greenhouse. If you’re swathed in layers of bloody blankets.’
Nick grinned. The more he saw of Cameron the more he liked him. ‘Sorry.’ Turning out for night watches wasn’t most people’s idea of happiness. He looked across at the clock and saw that it was two twenty-five – in the morning of day seven, Tuesday. And – almost fully awake now – he realised that it was cold. The diesels were sucking a torrent of night air down through the conning tower, and the boat had quite a bit of movement on her as she rumbled eastward with a southerly breeze and a choppy sea on the beam.
Eastward, because the rendezvous had been changed.
Reaper had moved fast after he’d had E.57’s wirelessed report last night. Within minutes he’d replied with confirmation that Louve had been captured intact and that the submarine they’d sunk had been German, and he’d told them to keep listening-watch for further orders. Then he must have been in contact with his friends ashore, and half an hour after midnight he’d come on the air again, switching the R/V position eastward, twenty miles nearer Constantinople, and telling Wishart it would be a caïque, not a dhow, he’d meet.
Robins had been quietly jubilant. He was in command now. And Reaper’s orders had said he was to represent French as well as British interests. But an hour ago he’d complained of ‘slight indisposition’ – he’d meant seasickness. He was on the bridge now with Wishart and Hobday. But Burtenshaw, Nick thought, was much the sicker of the two. Pale and sweating, corpse-like on Hobday’s bunk. Kinder not to speak to him.
It had been a trying day. After they’d sunk the U-boat Robins had wanted Wishart to surface and send off a report immediately; even if Terrapin hadn’t been listening at that time, Mudros would have got it. But Wishart, much to Robins’s indignation, had preferred to lie low until nightfall — and Nick had agreed with him. If they’d broken wireless silence at once, the Germans and Turks at the Horn would have had notice of their survival and therefore of the U-boat’s destruction; whereas if they kept quiet, the enemy might believe his U-boat was keeping silence in order not to alert the Aegean end of the British operation. If nobody went on the air until dark, the enemy would have only a few hours between hearing the transmissions and the time arranged for rendezvous with the dhow, and hopefully that might not give them time to interfere.
The German had known the time and position of the E.57/Louve link-up, so perhaps they’d know about the next appointment too. But if all Louve’s papers had been given to the U-boat commander and he hadn’t shared his knowledge with the authorities ashore before he sailed, then only the fishes had it now. The considerations had been: one, Reaper had stressed how vital it was to push this business through to a successful conclusion; his phrase had been ‘any effort, any risk’, and if that meant anything at all it meant exactly what it said. Two, at this time – when they’d been discussing it – the rendezvous with the dhow had seemed the only way they could get the landing party ashore. So the appointment had to be kept. If the enemy did have that much information, it could be highly dangerous, even suicidal. On the other hand, a lack of sound alternatives put it into the ‘any risk’ category. The alternatives were first to make a landing elsewhere, using the submarine’s Berthon collapsible boat; but this would be even more chancy, since no information was available about landing places, patrols, shore-guards or observation posts. Second – Nick’s suggestion – was to capture some small sailing craft, keep its crew prisoners in the submarine, and let him sail into Constantinople. He’d proposed loading it with Burtenshaw’s guncotton and a torpedo warhead as well, laying it alongside Goeben and detonating it. Robins had opposed this plan strongly, on the grounds that it wouldn’t get him ashore. Nick had seen a snag or two in his idea, but he still thought it would have been the best way to carry out Reaper’s orders – his part of them – and it would have been a straightforward, basically naval plan of assault, the sort of thing he’d have felt at home with. Wishart had been in sympathy, but had felt bound to accept Robins’s veto. Robins was the man in charge, and Nick was a latecomer to the operation. Wishart’s decision had been to reconnoitre the R/V area thoroughly in the hours before dawn, and then to make a very cautious approach to the dhow, making certain there were no other ships about and that the dhow wasn’t armed, and so on. After he’d transferred the passengers to it he’d accompany it at periscope depth as far as he safely could, on its passage to Constantinople.
One other area of danger couldn’t be insured against. This was the possibility of the dhow’s identity being known ashore, so that they’d be met on arrival. This was their personal risk, not the submarine’s, and Wishart left that decision to Robins, who said he’d make up his mind after he’d been aboard the dhow and questioned the Turks in it.
Then Reaper’s latest signal had arrived and cleared away all the question-marks.
Nick heard Burtenshaw groan that sea-s
ickness was a pretty rotten thing. Jake Cameron looked up at the bunk. ‘Not your first experience of it?’ The Marine must have nodded, or something; Cameron told him, ‘It’ll be worse in a caïque, my lad. Much worse.’ He added, when Burtenshaw didn’t answer, ‘Never mind. You’ll have Robins to hold your hand. Or you can hold his. Take it in turns, perhaps.’ He stood up, ready for the bridge; Burtenshaw stopped him.
‘Won’t forget that letter?’
‘I’ll hang on to it. Give it back to you later.’
‘Thanks.’ Nick guessed at what sort of letter it must be, and he wondered if he should have written one for Sarah. But saying what? And if his father should be at Mullbergh, released from the Army, and he opened it? A fine legacy to Sarah that would be … He slid down off the bunk; he’d slept enough and he was wide awake, and one of the others would be wanting to turn in presently. It truly was cold … Burtenshaw asked plaintively, ‘Is there anything one can do, for sea-sickness?’
‘Yes.’ Cameron answered over his shoulder, ‘Be sick.’ He went over to the helmsman. Nick told Burtenshaw, ‘Wear a tight belt, eat dry biscuit, don’t drink anything at all.’ Cameron had told the helmsman, Finn, ‘Relief OOW.’ He glanced back to the wardroom corner: ‘It’ll be much, much worse in the caïque.’ He winked at Nick. Finn was yelling up the voicepipe, ‘Permission to relieve officer of the watch sir, please?’
Wishart called down, ‘Ask Lieutenant Cameron to wait until I get down.’
There was good reason not to let the bridge get overcrowded on patrol, when the boat might have to be dived quickly in emergency. Jake sloped over to his chart table, pausing halfway to let CPO Rinkpole get by. Rinkpole, heading aft, had a gloomy look about him.
‘Still having bad dreams, TI?’
Earlier in the day he’d told Jake that he’d had a nightmare about the torpedo in the starboard bow tube, the one that had been flooded under pressure of the mine’s explosion. He’d completed a maintenance routine on it since. In the dream it had done something-or-other that had greatly upset him.
Patrol to the Golden Horn Page 22
