Mitcheson glances up from the stopwatch in his palm. ‘Group down. Thirty feet. Half ahead together.’ Then, as she slows and noses up towards the surface, ‘Up periscope. Set enemy speed twelve knots.’
‘Twelve, sir.’
He’s told them that it’s a modem-looking tanker, and deep-laden. Petrol for Rommel’s tanks… The periscope rises into his hands: a new moment of revelation coming now, how the picture’s developed in the last few minutes while he’s been running out to open the range. Glancing at Rowntree – the ’scope’s not out of water yet – ‘Target bearing?’
Rowntree gives him all the bearings, target and both destroyers. But the seaplanes – that’s a toss-up. His eyes are at the lenses and as the top glass breaks out into the daylight you see it in his eyes, the flickering and then the steady glare.
Small movements first: then a fast all-round sky-search.
Back on the target…
‘Thirty feet, sir.’
‘Bearing is that. Range – that. I am – forty on his bow. Port twenty. Down.’ Scowling: ‘Bloody escort’s in the way.’ A glance towards McKendrick at the fruit machine: ‘What’s my distance off track?’
McKendrick jerks small handles around, and reads it off: ‘One thousand yards, sir.’
‘Destroyer on that bearing’s turned towards us, sir, revs increasing.’
‘Twenty of port wheel on, sir.’
‘Ease to ten. Steer – two-five-oh. Forty feet.’ He doesn’t believe that escort’s frigging around is anything to sweat about: forty feet’s safer for the moment than thirty, that’s all… ‘Stand by one, two, three and four tubes. Course for a ninety track?’
Figures, angles, ranges. Teasdale’s plot suggests that the enemy’s speed is more like fourteen knots than twelve. Mitcheson’s taking no decision on this for the moment, he’s mentally picturing the scene up top – preparing himself and his reactions for whichever way the cat may jump, so to speak, very conscious that although as yet there’s no indication of the enemy zigzagging, this doesn’t mean he isn’t. Mitcheson knows that next time he puts the stick up he could find he’s made the wrong bet entirely. His hope meanwhile is that this close to his destination the Italian’s feeling safe – with his air escort, and all…
In the fore ends, having received the order to stand by, C.P.O. Chanter has moved the bow-cap levers on those four tubes to ‘Open’, and the indicators – arrows circling on brass disks – show it happening, the heavy circular doors on the front ends of the tubes swinging open to the sea. He reaches to the firing levers then, to remove the safety-pins. Hastings tells him, ‘Bowcaps open, T.I.,’ and Chanter rasps into his telephone, ‘Control room – one, two, three and four tubes ready.’
When Hart pulls his triggers now, those fish will be on their way.
* * *
Screws are passing overhead. They’ve been waiting for it, hearing the screws faintly at first, a distant murmur that mounts gradually to become a rush of sound like a train passing through a station. Now it’s diminishing just as fast.
‘Thirty feet. Pilot, did you say plot suggests fourteen knots?’
‘Looks like it, sir.’
‘Set enemy speed fourteen.’
McKendrick adjusts that setting on the fruit machine.
‘Target bearing – Asdics? Up…’
Halliday already has the tube shimmering up, and again Mitcheson’s eyes are at the lenses as the top breaks surface. Circling – checking on where the seaplanes have got to – before settling back on the target.
‘Bearing is that. Range – that. I’m – sixty on his bow. Course for an eighty track, Sub?’
The target’s altered course towards, Forbes thinks. Hearing McKendrick provide that answer… Forbes has his own job to do but the maintenance of the trim is a more or less automatic function – as things are at present – and he’s trying to picture the attack scene in his mind as it progresses. Because that’ll be his job, one day – if the war lasts long enough. Now – flogging brain and memory – he’s thinking that either the tanker’s altered course or the skipper misjudged it at the start.
Navigational alteration, probably. A zigzag would be more obvious, more dramatic.
‘What’s my D.A.?’
D.A. means director angle, the amount of aim-off. McKendrick tells him, ‘Green twelve, sir.’
‘Put me on twelve. Stand by.’
Hart confirms, ‘Standing by, sir’, and the signalman, Tremlett, reaches over Mitcheson’s shoulders to adjust the periscope to that angle. Periscope as it were looking out to the right now, and the tanker’s coming from the right: when its bow comes on to the hairline Mitcheson will start firing, spreading the torpedoes from slightly ahead of her to slightly astern, torpedoes and target running on – touch wood – on convergent courses, to meet at a mathematically determined point.
‘Keep her up, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Sorry, sir—’
Almost dipped him…
‘Fire one!’ Hart repeats the order as he fingers the small lever back, and from for’ard there’s a thump as the first one blasts out of its tube. ‘Fire two.’ Hiss of venting air, and a sharp increase in pressure. ‘Fire three.’ More of the same; you have to swallow to clear your ears against the pressure. ‘Fire four.’ He’s snapped the handles up. ‘Down periscope, sixty feet. Starboard fifteen.’
Rowntree tells him, ‘Torpedoes running, sir.’
At forty knots. In echelon, eight feet below the surface.
‘How long?’
Teasdale shows him the stopwatch. Following that course alteration by the tanker it wasn’t a long-range shot, so running-time won’t be long either. The submarine’s on her way down and under helm: motors still grouped down, making as little noise and disturbance as possible.
‘Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir.’
‘Steer north.’
‘Steer north, sir.’
Teasdale calls out the seconds: ‘Five – four – three – two—’
Hit.
To men who’ve heard torpedo-hits before, it’s quite distinctive. Sound and percussion, unmistakable. Rowntree hasn’t waited for it, has shifted the headphones off his ears before it came. He’s in doubt now – holding them half an inch clear – whether to replace them or—
Second hit.
Beyond doubt, you’ve sunk him. Forbes murmurs, ‘Nice work, sir,’ and the coxswain’s quiet growl is an echo of the congratulations. Lockwood on the fore ’planes nods slowly as if he’s telling himself – or others – There you are, then…
Rowntree tells Mitcheson, ‘Breaking-up noises, sir. Definite.’ The sounds, he means, of bulkheads collapsing as the sea bursts in crushing, drowning…
No pleasure in that. Easier not to let it into your mind: certainly not to dwell on it. Apart from the fact that there is no pleasure in it, it’s too close to home, you could remind yourself There, but for the grace of God…
The satisfaction, which is considerable, lies in depriving the Afrika Korps of fuel of which it’s in need, probably acute need.
‘Hundred feet, sir.’
‘Course three-six-oh, sir.’
Mitcheson says, ‘Slow together.’ Then: ‘Shut off for depthcharging.’
‘One’s on green one-five-oh, sir. Moving right to left, transmitting. Getting nothing on the other, sir.’
The other might be stopped, picking up survivors. If so, good luck to him and them. Spartan meanwhile at one hundred feet, motoring quietly northwards, and Mitcheson thinking Good luck to us too… He stares at Rowntree, willing him to report that the Italian which a minute ago was moving up to starboard with its Asdics probing for them has turned away to search elsewhere.
Could be so. He doesn’t have to strike lucky.
All the watertight doors have been shut and clipped, certain hull-valves screwed shut too. The heads, for instance, and the shallow-water diving gauges, the big ones in front of the coxswain and second coxswain; there’s a smaller one between th
em which they’re using now. Telegraphs to the motor room aren’t in use either; telephone communication – via Telegraphist Harris on a stool in the port for’ard corner, beside the helmsman – is much quieter.
Rowntree meets Mitcheson’s enquiring gaze. He nods. ‘Green one-three-five, sir. Still drawing left.’
Barney Forbes reaches up to the trimming-order telegraph, switches it to show ‘Stop pumping’ and ‘Shut W port and starboard’. Adjustment to the trim is always necessary when you change depth. In deeper water the hull is compressed so that effectively the submarine becomes heavier; so as you go down you need to shed ballast – to maintain neutral buoyancy, maintain control. And on the way up the same, only vice-versa. This natural phenomenon was discovered by the Greek inventor Archimedes in about 250 BC, and in submarining practice it amounts to a vicious circle; if you’re driven deep – by depthcharging for instance – and do not pump out ballast, you become heavier all the time. Out of control, then – heavier and heavier, sinking faster and faster.
‘He’s in contact, sir.’
Damn…
‘Where?’
‘Green one hundred. Bearing steady – may have turned towards, sir…’
He would have. He has struck lucky, and now he’ll be whistling up his chum. Can’t be all that number of survivors to pick up, the other would be joining in soon anyway. Good reason to try to throw this one off the scent while he’s still on his own.
‘Harris – tell the motor room to stand by to group up and put her full ahead. When I pass the order I want it fast.’
‘Aye aye, sir. Motor room…’
‘Revs increasing, closing, sir!’
‘All right.’ Coolness is the thing. The hallmark, even. And timing is the crux of this particular manoeuvre. When the Italian comes in close, before he thrashes over the top his Asdics will lose contact. This is a certainty, guaranteed. He’ll then be dropping depthcharges – please God not too accurately or luckily and not with 100-foot settings on them – and exploding depthcharges create such disturbance under water that for a while Asdics won’t get a look in.
Rowntree’s eyes widen, and the forefinger of his free hand points upward. ‘Here he comes, sir…’
* * *
In the T.S.C. – Torpedo Stowage Compartment, which is the seamen’s mess and living space, also known as the fore ends – McKendrick has joined Chanter and his torpedomen amongst the hammocks and clutter of other gear. He came for’ard before the watertight doors were shut between the various compartments – the object of which is to isolate leaks, or flooding. As torpedo officer McKendrick has no job to do in the control room once an attack has been completed, and it makes sense for the officers to be distributed through the boat. Matt Bennett, for instance, is in the after ends with his stokers.
In point of fact there’s nothing to do here either – except wait, sit it out. Telling them now, ‘There were two destroyer escorts. We passed under one during the attack. You’d have heard it?’
‘Can’t hear none of ’em now, though.’
‘May have swimmers to pick up. Hope so – keep ’em busy.’ He looks across at Chanter. ‘Your fish ran nicely, T.I.’
‘Had ’em well trained, sir.’
‘Eating out of your hand, no doubt.’
‘’Ang on.’ Hastings, Leading Torpedoman, cocks an ear. ‘’Ang on then, ’ang on…’
Fast propeller noise. They’re all listening to it now. Starboard side… McKendrick beginning, ‘Well – if they’re no better than that lot that was after us last patrol—’
He’s checked. Spartan’s hull trembling from the thrust of her screws as full power comes on them. Turning hard a-starboard: you can feel it, the swing and the slight list as her rudder hauls her round. A torpedoman by name of Evans flips a hand up towards the deckhead: ‘Bye-bye, fuckers!’
‘How many charges, Gus?’
Another of the torpedomen – Anderson, red-haired and pink-faced – offering a bet. Hastings queries: ‘This pattern, or the lot?’
‘This lot. I reckon five.’
‘Four, then. Ten ackers on it.’
‘You’re on. How many altogether?’
‘Thirty, I’ll say. Fifty ackers, right?’
‘I’ll say forty.’
‘Glutton for fucking punishment… T.I.?’
Chanter shakes his head. Murmuring aside to McKendrick: ‘Going deep.’
Feeling the down-angle on her. Although you could be wrong, only imagining it. The depthgauge on the for’ard bulkhead has been shut off – to avoid depthcharge damage to it – so there’s no way to be sure. McKendrick’s listening to Evans and Franklyn making their bets on the total number of charges that might be dropped on them, when the sea astern explodes. Everything shakes as if it’s tearing apart, loose items fall around, and the lights go out. By this time there’ve been three explosions, two so close to each other that they overlapped, reinforcing each other’s impact, the blast that hit and shook the pressure-hull. The echoes are still ringing – in the boat’s steel and in men’s skulls. Another now – astern again, but higher, shallower: although it would have been startling enough if those others hadn’t been so much worse. The lights come on again almost as if that last charge and not the L.T.O.s had done it: the light reveals that nobody has moved except that Anderson has lowered his head, has it resting on his raised knees. Lifting it now, scowling at the mess of cork chips that have been shaken down off the deckhead. ‘Look at that fucking lot.’
‘Out brooms an’ pans, eh?’
The cork was incorporated in the paint, was supposed to absorb the condensation or prevent it dripping. Evans shaking his head: ‘Bloody ’ell…’
‘Ten ackers you owe me, chum. Right?’
‘Yeah, well, ’ang on, there’s—’
. ‘Won’t get that close again.’ Chanter speaks with certainty. ‘Beginners’ luck, that was.’ He stands up slowly, leans with his back against the reload torpedoes in their racks. Three spare fish this side, three that. McKendrick realizes that the trembling thrust of high speed has ceased. She was grouped-up for about thirty seconds, he guesses – putting a spurt on, getting out from under.
He hopes Chanter’s right about beginners’ luck. And/or that next time the Wop comes over the skipper’ll put his spurt on a bit sooner. McKendrick’s nineteen, finished his submarine training class a year ago; he can think of three depthcharge attacks he’s been through that were more scary than this one – at any rate, than this has been so far.
The telephone buzzes, and Hastings who’s the nearest to it takes it off its hook. ‘Fore ends.’ Listening… ‘Aye aye.’ He tells Chanter, ‘All compartments check for leaks…’
* * *
‘No leaks or damage for’ard, sir.’
Mitcheson nods. They’ve got one aft, a stern-gland which Bennett has reported to have been loosened. They’re working on it, but meanwhile a lot of water’s spurting in. A minute ago the engineer asked Mitcheson over the telephone, ‘Are we likely to be going any deeper, sir?’
‘We’re at 200 now.’
‘Ah. And I suppose we have to use that shaft…’ There’d been a silence over the wire, then – except for the sounds of men at work in the cramped stern compartment. Bennett adding, after the pause, ‘Sooner we didn’t go any deeper, anyway – I mean, unless—’
‘Unless we have to. All right. Do what you can, Chief.’
At least they’ve no problems up for’ard. He looks at Rowntree. ‘In contact yet?’
‘On red one-three-oh, sir…’ A double-take, then: ‘No, not in contact.’
‘Disappointing for them.’ Mitcheson, leaning on the ladder, wags his head. ‘After such a promising start, too.’
It isn’t difficult to raise a laugh. Chuckles, anyway. Grouped down now, with the motors running at slow speed and all auxiliary machinery shut off, it’s so quiet that a sniff’s audible from one end of the compartment to the other.
Rowntree clears his throat. ‘Second lot of HE
coming up astern, sir. Other’s on—’ he hesitates, finding it ‘—on red one-two-five. Transmitting. Both transmitting.’
Forbes reaches up to the trimming order telegraph, hesitates, brings his hand down again. The boat’s slightly heavy, both sets of ’planes up-angled to hold her at this depth. In good trim, the ’planes would be mostly level, wavering just a little way up and down; but now, without that angle on them, she’d be sinking. Taking in a few gallons aft, of course – that stern gland… But this might not be a good moment to run the pump. If there’s any chance at all of the bastards not finding her again…
‘Destroyer on green one-oh-five’s in contact, sir.’
Right. No such chance.
Mitcheson takes his weight off the ladder. ‘That fellow’s a pain in the neck.’
Teasdale’s leaning over the chart table, doodling on the edge of the plotting-diagram which he used during the attack. He’s thinking about the leaking gland back aft, how it might be if there was another pattern in more or less the same relative position to the hull. In other words, that close to the stern again. It wasn’t likely, of course – especially having changed depth now – but if… Chances were it’d blow the bloody gland right in. Then they’d have a real leak, one they couldn’t even get near, let alone control – they’d have to evacuate that compartment. And then—
Forbes asks Mitcheson, ‘All right to use the pump, sir?’
A glance at the trim, the angle on the ’planes, and instant appreciation of the problem. ‘Yes, go ahead.’
Because they’re in contact anyway, Teasdale realizes, you’re in the shit already.
‘On green one hundred, sir, in contact. He’s stopped. Other’s right astern, closing fast.’
‘All right.’
Familiar tactic. One holds you while the other beats your brains out. Or tries to. Mitcheson thinks: When this one’s passing over – hard a-starboard, and group up. Bee-line for the other, steam right under him.
The alternative would be to turn the other way – hard a-port – so as to leave all the disturbance between oneself and him.
Love For An Enemy Page 9
