In which case, they’re on their own again…
Since when did submarines on passage to or from patrol get escorts anyway?
Maybe chariot-carriers are considered special, get special treatment. It’s not impossible. He calls back over his shoulder as a new thought surfaces, ‘Lookouts down!’
In case of having to dive again in a hurry. The escorts might turn back: or there could be more of them around. Bow-on, no easier to spot than Spartan is right now to them. Torpedoman Drake’s sighting of that one earlier was either brilliant or damn lucky – he’ll get a mention for it in the patrol report, anyway – while these, being in profile, were much easier and still are.
The lookouts have gone down: leaving only himself and Forbes now, two pairs of eyes instead of four. He’s glanced round quickly to check they’ve gone down, turns back putting his glasses up again, and – sees – or imagines he sees—
Fine to port – submarine conning-tower – tilting, and the long fore-casing rising, a black finger lifting out of white confusion… His glasses are still on it but he’s lowered himself to the voicepipe. ‘Stand by all bow tubes! Starboard ten, steer – oh-four-oh!’ Keeping his glasses on it: knowing that if he loses it for a moment he may not easily pick it up again… ‘Number One – forget the escorts – submarine red one-oh, set the nightsight. We’re fifty on his bow. His course say one-seven-oh. Give him twelve knots. All right?’
‘Aye aye—’
Forbes will be setting it mostly by feel. The nightsights – one each side, but Forbes’, port side, has to be the operative one now – are made of brass, an arrangement of swivelling bars which roughly solves the relative-velocity triangle: own course, enemy course and speed, torpedo track. A stud on one of the bars is set in the appropriate position for enemy speed, and where the other comes up against it gives you your line of fire, the aim-off.
‘Here – change over—’
Second thoughts telling him it’s easier to do it himself. He and Forbes crowding past each other while a few tons of sea sweep over, half filling the bridge and flooding away aft, a few gallons down the hatch… ‘Course oh-four-oh, sir!’ Then: ‘All tubes ready, sir!’
‘Steer oh-seven-oh.’
Stooped over that corner, semi-crouching, glasses aligned with the sighting bar. Forbes has already set it about right except he hasn’t positioned the stud for enemy speed, the bit that slides along the bar representing enemy course. Mitcheson does it by feel, his half-numb fingers counting the spaces. It’s a crude system, but handled right it works: and a spread of six fish at this range – 1200 yards, he estimates, distance-off-track say 900… Hell, go for a ninety track, why not?
‘Steer oh-eight-oh!’
‘Oh-eight-oh, sir…’
‘Cox’n on the wheel…’
Tremendous roll. Forbes with his glasses up: if an escort turns back - or a third shows – his eyes are now Spartan’s only safeguard. As he well knows… She’s on her beam, practically, hanging there with a deep chasm opening on the lower side and a mountain of it lifting on the other to roll her over. The Italian won’t be seeing much, he’s got wind and sea astern of him, is standing alternately on his nose and tail and he’s under constant threat of being pooped – overwhelmed from astern: having to watch that while also needing to keep tabs on the escorts on his bows…
‘Steer as fine as you ever did, Cox’n.’
‘Steer fine, aye aye, sir!’
‘Hart?’
‘Yessir—’
‘Good. Stand by ’
Coming on to the mark – now.
‘Fire one!’
He’s aimed that one a length ahead of the target. If Spartan should get put down at this stage – an escort appearing out of that chaotic sea, coming at her – Hart can fire the rest of the salvo by stop-watch interval while she’s battling to get under. ‘Fire two!’
Hart has the firing interval now, the interval he’d use if he had to. Meanwhile he repeats each order as he flicks the levers back. That one was aimed right on the Italian’s bow. ‘Fire three!’ Halfway along his fore-casing – the casing burying itself at that moment, and the bridge sheathed in white… ‘Fire four!’ Aiming-point for that one was the bridge. Spartan flinging herself around too much for the discharge of torpedoes to be felt – here in the bridge, anyway. ‘Fire five!’ Aimed at the target’s stern. C.P.O. Chanter’s beautiful blue-shellac’d fish on their way at forty knots to prove how well he’s cared for them. ‘Fire six!’
Aimed astern, that last one.
‘Port twenty – steer three-five-oh.’ He straightens: holding tight as she flings over again. It’s necessary to hold on, men have been washed out of submarines’ bridges before this. He’s turning her back into the weather: then he’ll dive. Diving beam-on to it would be bloody dangerous, she could easily be rolled right over. ‘Where are the escorts?’
‘None in sight, sir—’
Hunching to another deluge. Spartan responding in spasms to her helm and a wall of white lifting, towering, thundering down, swamping through… Wondering about running-time and the extent to which the sea might affect the fishes’ gyro-controlled course and their depth-keeping: it must to some extent, and if the one that would have hit is the one that happens to go out of kilter…
Spurt of flame, like the first sign of the ignition of a match – splutter of flame. Then the flare of it – for just an instant, and the sound, a harsh thump semi-smothered by surrounding noise of wind and sea – pitch dark again now, but in that spurt of flame he’s seen the Italian in two halves, snapped-up amidships. In black, rimmed in a split-second’s brilliance, photographed on one’s brain together with the knowledge that forty or fifty men who were alive ten seconds ago are now dead.
‘Course three-four-oh, sir!’
Searching for the destroyers: seeing nothing but the night and the heaving, crested undulations…
‘Down, Barney.’
Lowering his face to the funnel-shaped top of the pipe again, he sees Forbes’ dark movement into the hatch, shouts into the tube: ‘Dive, dive, dive!’, pushes the cock down to shut it and is in the hatch himself as the vents bang open. He pulls the lid down, and engages the first of the two clips.
‘Fifty feet!’
Forbes’ acknowledgement from below… Second clip on. Climbing down then; thinking that when he’s got her well out of harm’s way he’ll surface again and get a signal off:
Southbound submarine sunk – position HYXZ – time and date. Only one torpedo remaining. Time of origin…
The recall should come pretty quickly. Possibly even before one dives for the dawn. Unless they’re certain this chariot-carrier’s still on its way and decide that Spartan with one shot in her locker might be better here than nothing.
Not likely. Much better bet to shift Thane up to Leros, surely.
Unless Hugo’s already scored. If the Wop went that way – as he might have…
Out of the wet canvas enclosure around the ladder, into the glow of light. The boat’s already steady, nosing downward. He’s emerged into a circle of familiar faces all of which have either grins or expressions of deep satisfaction on them. Tremlett ducks past him into the birdbath, to shut the lower lid.
‘Group down, slow together. Starboard ten.’
‘Group down, slow together, sir!’
‘Ten of starboard wheel on, sir.’
‘Both motors slow ahead grouped down, sir.’
‘Steer one-seven-oh.’ He asks Rowntree: ‘Pinging?’
‘Very faint, sir. On true bearings one-two-zero and – one- zero-five, sir. Moving right to left – both –’
‘Just watch ’em.’
‘Shut main vents.’ Forbes, at the trim, looks as if he’d been swimming. Mitcheson supposes he must too. Stripping off his streaming jacket and unwinding the soaked towel, dropping them on the deck which despite the birdbath isn’t anything like dry.
‘Course one-seven-oh, sir.’
‘Fifty feet, sir.’
‘Very good.’
Extraordinarily so. As long as you don’t let your mind dwell on the poor bastards who’ve just bought it. Who after all would have done the same to you if they’d known how to, and certainly wouldn’t be shedding tears if they had.
The coxswain mutters – after a short silence – ‘Congratulations, sir.’
‘Oh. Well.’ He gives it a moment’s thought. Then nods. ‘To us all, let’s say. Not on my own here, am I.’
A chuckle: ‘You certainly are not, sir.’
* * *
Inside a taxiing Walrus, Currie was discovering, the noise wasn’t just the engine right above your head, a lot of it was what the young R.N.V.R. pilot called ‘water-clatter’.
‘Metal hull, you see, sir. OK when we’re up there, don’t worry!’
His worries weren’t anything to do with noise. Whether they’d guessed right – and weren’t already too damn late. Five-thirty now – no, five-forty, almost: after a sleepless night, discussions with senior officers on board Medway, Queen Elizabeth and Valiant. Currie then back to QE, the others to Ras el-Tin. Now, the result of the night’s explanations, arguments: one Walrus motoring across the harbour towards the entrance, somewhere short of which this lad would turn it for a long take-off run into the wind. Which fortunately was down now, quite a bit.
This was Valiant’s Walrus. There’d have been problems in launching QE’s; they couldn’t have used the catapult from where she was lying, and although she was generating her own power now – one boiler with steam up, driving the dynamos – Commander (E) had pleaded against the crane being used at this stage. Too much load already, with so many pumps working flat out, as they were. Valiant’s catapult couldn’t be used either, since it was slanted sideways by her bow-down angle, but she was to be docked this morning – the dock was flooded down, ready for her, and tugs were due alongside at 0800 – and she’d have been offloading her aircraft before that anyway.
‘This’ll do.’ The pilot’s Lancashire-accented voice in Currie’s headphones as he jammed on rudder, turning the Walrus abeam of the Vichy battleship Lorraine. Throttling down… Currie was in the fold-away seat beside him: there was an observer’s seat – unoccupied – behind them, while in front of them but enclosed in the same Perspex screen that sheltered all three cockpits sat a leading seaman T.A.G. – Telegraphist Air Gunner – with a single forward-firing gun. There was a second gun behind, for use by the observer if they’d had one on this trip.
Currie thinking – with his eyes shut – Come on, come on…
Noise building. Pointing north-east now. Sitting up with its high wings spread – they could be folded back, when for instance being put into its hangar on board – rocking on the water like some great duck while to the right, Currie saw, over El Mafuza and Gabbari, the sky was rapidly lightening.
So even now – visualizing it yet again: a submarine surfacing, and the swift transfer… Too late – or in the wrong place – or even both: having guessed wrong.
‘All set – sir?’
‘Christ, yes, let’s—’
Roar of sound from the power-plant behind them: pusher propeller, engine supported on huge struts up behind his and the pilot’s heads, in the vertical space between the two widely separated wings. Enormous volume of sound as the machine drove forward and picked up speed, bow-wave creaming out and streaming astern in spray, the boat-shaped metal hull slamming over the ridges of black water. A Vichy cruiser flashed by on the left, this side of it tinted paler by the pre-dawn light. Then the others, further back… The reason he was doing this had been Henderson’s and Dewar’s persuasive argument that if the effort resulted in Lucia’s rescue, after what she’d have been through she’d be a lot happier if she had someone with her whom she knew.
‘Now then, my lovely!’
Pulling back: muttering encouragement to his Shagbat as he did so… Cessation of slamming impacts from below as the machine lifted – water flying under, moored ships rushing aft, and ahead – then under them – trawlers moored stern-to at the inner breakwater… Christ, those masts—
Cleared them. Somehow… And climbing well now. Over Ras el-Tin, and the domes of Farouk’s summer palace down to starboard reflecting the increasing radiance from the east. Over sea, banking as the pilot brought her round to head northeast. It was a lot less noisy than it had been on the water.
Five fifty-seven…
‘All right?’
He nodded. One goggled face nodding at another. It didn’t feel as if this thing was going fast, at all. Dewar’s old motorcar felt speedier.
Dewar had said: ‘See you at Dekhela.’
The aircraft-less airfield. He’d be on his way there now. Despite odds of about – what, a hundred to one against? Currie had reminded him, ‘Only chance we’ve got, I know – but it’s a bloody slim one!’, and Dewar had professed to disagree. It wasn’t just their only chance, he’d argued, it was the only realistic possibility. The submariners with whom they’d talked on board Medway – telephone efforts hadn’t been satisfactory – had agreed that dawn would be the time and that the R/V would have to be at least ten miles offshore or the bugger couldn’t dive. No submariner would put himself into so invidious a position – when he might be jumped by aircraft – anything, that close in. He might close in a bit at the last moment, to get to the boat if it was still too far inshore and he felt nervous hanging around out there waiting. He’d have moved in towards the R/V position before the light came, with a lot of periscope up to spot the boat, and he’d expect to make the transfer of passengers in about one minute flat and get under again damn quick. If necessary, one of them had pointed out, he’d close the boat stern-first, so as to have his bow pointing seaward all the time, on his marks as it were for a fast getaway.
It was thirty miles from Alex to Rosetta, along the coast. To a position ten miles out, it would still be thirty. The same radius, when you measured it on the chart. Flying-speed would be about 120 mph, this pilot had said. About fifteen minutes, therefore, in the air – each way. One minute past six now, so – say 0610 as ETA. Sunrise, in fact – or damn near it. But – official sunrise. It would be partially light before that: light enough at any rate for them to have made their rendezvous and vanished. That Italian with his periscope up: ordering – at this moment – ‘Surface!’ A minute to surface, one minute on the surface, half a minute to dive: so they’d said…
During the course of the night the three of them had been hoping minute by minute for a report from the police at Rosetta that they’d picked up a young Italian and a girl. The non-arrival of any such report had brought biting comments from Henderson on the total unreliability of the Egyptian police; but Dewar had pointed out that since one knew Emilio was being helped by local Italians, one could also assume they’d have been keeping him under cover, providing transport, and so forth. The neat way they’d planned the decoy operation earlier on was proof that they were neither stupid nor unprepared.
Currie knew, now, how this was going to end. Landing at Dekhela: climbing out of this contraption, and Dewar there with his motorcar, glum as hell. Driving into town: farewells, commiserations. But it wouldn’t be over as far as he, Josh Currie, was concerned: he’d be waiting for Mitcheson to get back from patrol, then, to break this news to him. You could be damn sure they’d lump him with that job too. He could hear them: ‘Since you’re a personal friend of his – and knew the girl well, old boy…’
The sea was silvering, liquid silver bands on the dark surface reflecting light growing in the eastern sky. The great sweep of Aboukir Bay to starboard, the narrow, twenty-five-mile sand-strip carrying the railway-line and dividing the bay from Lake Edku; then the beak-like promontory of Rosetta, split by the Bolbitinik Mouth of the Nile – it was on this lumbering, hammering machine’s starboard bow, darkly visible, framed by the sea’s glitter. They’ll have been and gone, he thought, damn well been and gone. Henderson, Glover and Co. let Lucia down, and now I’ve let Mitch down, between us w
e’ve—
The gunner’s voice in his headphones: ‘Right under us!’
The ’plane jinked to port, straightened, starboard wings dropping as the pilot slammed on rudder: ‘Jesus, yes!’ Currie had seen nothing from his side. Hearing now, ‘Hold tight!’
Then he saw it. The Walrus standing on its ear, nose down, hurtling seaward, wind-scream instead of the engine’s hammering. He was seeing what he’d been visualizing all night – black cigar-shape of a submarine, boat alongside it, figures in the half-light like lice – on the submarine’s casing and in the boat, the image rushing up like something on a slide under a microscope’s lenses with the focus adjusting fast and smoothly, detail clearing at surprising speed: two on the casing – one running towards the conning-tower, and the other – two again now, two out of the boat as well as that other – that one running for the tower too…
Stopped: turning back, one face upturned, catching the light—
‘Short burst as we buzz ’em, Davies!’
‘Not near the boat, Christ’s sake don’t—’
‘At his conning-tower – when your sights bear—’
The gun blared, and cut off. Some kind of mix-up down there: just as the gun had opened fire a face had turned up – looking up – and the other – had to be her – had – he guessed – broken free and dived, or jumped. He’d seen the splash as they’d roared over: picture lost again then, Currie swearing, sweating, hearing the pilot’s shout as he slammed on rudder again, ‘Hey, bugger’s under way! Stand by, Davies, same again!’
‘Aye aye—’
There’d been only one person on the casing when he’d had it as it were wrenched out of his sight. Now there weren’t any: that would be the one climbing into the bridge. Being helped in – or dragged… Panic-stations by the look of it: the submarine definitely under way, water swirling like soapsuds from its stern.
Love For An Enemy Page 41
