Stark Realities

by Stark Realities (retail) (epub)

  Swivelling slowly left now: Hoxa Head would be one’s next landmark to starboard.

  He checked, trained back again. Slight lurch of the heart, and now shifting the scope a degree or two this way and that – since either through a periscope or binoculars one picked up a barely visible object better that way than by trying to focus directly on it.

  Trawler. Emerging from the bay beyond Herston’s left edge. Showing lights, for Christ’s sake…

  ‘Down.’ To dip it, no more than that: and into the voicepipe, ‘Captain to CO’s control-room. Stop starboard. Close-up hydrophones.’

  Stopping the ’scope on its way down, bringing it slithering up again, having dipped it as a precaution against being spotted – which in fact was highly improbable, virtually impossible, at such a range in darkness and broken water. Hearing the report ‘Starboard motor stopped’ – for the sake of running more quietly, on only one screw – and telling Winter as he came panting up, ‘Trawler coming out of the bay inside Herston Head – green six-four, range about a mile and showing lights.’ He was off the seat, Winter taking over at the ’scope, grunting to himself: examining the trawler for about a second-and-a-half, then swinging anti-clockwise – towards Switha and Stanger Head, Switha Sound. ‘Port fifteen. Stop port, slow ahead starboard. Steer’ – checking the bearing-ring and giving this a split second’s thought – ‘Steer two-nine-zero.’

  He’d sent the scope down. Acknowledgements and action meanwhile, by Muller here and others below. Otto at the chart, appreciating that on emergence from that bay – which was called Widewall, the chart reminded him – the trawler might continue straight over into Switha Sound, or turn to starboard up-channel or to port down-channel. His own inclination had been to turn away, which was what Winter was doing – to keep his distance from it while remaining at periscope depth because you needed to see which way it was going, in order to continue to stay clear of it. In fact he’d have had the scope up again by this time. And in case one needed to go deep, stay quiet and listen on hydrophones for instance – well, depth here was – upwards of fifty metres. Except for one shallow patch, where – oh, still minimally thirty metres. While if one continued on the course of 290 degrees, in less than a mile you’d be into Switha Sound – between Switha and Flotta – where there was considerably less water: not so good.

  ‘What depths in Switha Sound, Mettendorff?’

  Great minds thinking alike. Otto told him, ‘Down to as little as fifteen metres. But also, sir, on your course of 290, if the trawler’s holding on as it might be—’

  Neureuther’s voice then in the voicepipe: ‘Lange reports hydrophone effect green one hundred drawing left, range closing, sir!’

  ‘Stay on it. Frequent bearings, please.’ Calm old bison. Always at his best in action or emergencies, one recalled. He had the ’scope on its way up again at last. Knowing he had still to be about half a mile clear. And needing to know now which way the thing was going, and whether it was hunting for U-boats in general or this one in particular. Handles clicking down, training around to the quarter, searching. Otto reminding him, ‘Tide will be on the turn in about fifteen minutes.’

  A grunt – not to that, but because he’d found his target. Holding it for a moment: then leaving it, swinging to forward bearings – Switha, presumably, and probably looking for Stanger Head. He pushed the handles up: ‘Down. Port fifteen.’

  ‘Port fifteen, sir…’

  ‘Steer’ – working it out, then – ‘steer one-six-five.’

  Muller repeating, ‘One-six-five, sir.’

  Reversing course. Telling Otto, ‘Seems to be making for Switha Sound. Nothing to do with us, therefore. When he’s out of the way we’ll start in again.’

  14

  Mrs McGregor had given them a fish supper at seven-thirty, and now an hour later was telling them about the loss of the battleship Vanguard in July of last year. It was a story she’d obviously recounted several times: she knew the names of all the Grand Fleet ships that had been in the Flow that night – four battle squadrons, in all twenty-eight capital ships, as well as two cruiser squadrons, near sixty destroyers and numerous submarines. ‘Five what they call flotillas o’ them things…’ Among the battleships, the Vanguard, one of the 4th Battle Squadron, with a crew of 1,000 men. ‘She were here, just below us here, on the eighth day of July. They’d brought her over from close off Flotta, and spent the night here – on what we call the Ophir coast. I remember admiring the looks of her, on a summer evening that was as beautiful as I’ve known, and ’twas next evening, the ninth, she returned to where she’d come from, wi’ the others of her squadron – two miles to the north of Flotta there. Well, I tell you, I was in bed and asleep when it happened. Folk such as gunners on the islands or sailors on the other ships, likewise farmers as happened to be up an’ doing, all told how they seen a great shoot of flames light the Flow, and islands with it, a sound like the crack of doom, and then another. I was woken then, all right – and at the window, and I swear to you I pray never to see the like – burning objects flying through the air, and the heather on shore set alight – the very sky you’d think was burning! Then the smoke – black as hell, and when it cleared – oh, my Lord, she’d gone!’

  ‘Were any of them saved?’

  ‘Aye. Out of a thousand men, three. An officer, a stoker and a Royal Marine, but the officer died next day. To this day ’tis not known what caused it. “Internal explosion”, they said. Oh, ’twas a dreadful thing!’

  Her telephone rang. It was fixed to the wall in the hallway: had just rung again. Anne said, ‘Mr McGillivray calling back, perhaps.’ He and Mrs McGregor had the only telephones in this area, and she’d called him earlier to ask whether he could lay his hands on two ladies’ bicycles in good condition; he’d said he thought he’d be able to and would let her know in the morning.

  She was saying, on her way to answer it, ‘He’d never, though – at this time of night…’

  Sue said quietly, ‘Could be Sam.’

  ‘Could indeed.’

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence… Then: ‘I will enquire whether she is disposed to take your call. It’s late, you know.’

  ‘Likes to put ’em in their place, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Mrs Laurie—’

  ‘Is Sam, anyway.’ She went through and took the receiver from her. ‘That you, Sam?’

  ‘Did I wake you all, or something?’

  ‘No, of course not. How are things?’

  ‘May not have woken you, but I’m about to shock you. Do you have transport that might get you down to the quay at Houton?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now. I’m about to leave the flagship in her picket-boat, making for some landing-place on Flotta, but if you two could face it we’d pick you up at Houton in half an hour. Seems a U-boat’s trying to get into the Flow – they have hydrophones and suchlike—’

  ‘What’s it to do with us?

  ‘Well, not much, but – having dragged you up here, and now leaving you on your own, I thought the chance of having a ringside seat, so to speak—’

  ‘To see it being sunk or depthcharged, or—’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so, that’d justify the whole trip, wouldn’t it? Are you game? I want to see it and I’m tagging along with the flagship’s torpedo officer. I’ve asked might we take you two along and the duty commanding officer said why not – he’s never heard of you of course, but on my personal responsibility—’

  ‘You’re an extraordinary man, you know?’

  ‘Right now, man in a hurry. Will you come? If so, wrap up well. Can’t hang around though, because—’

  ‘There’s a Mr McGillivray near here who has both a motor and a telephone. If he’ll turn out for us—’

  ‘Make him. Bribe him. I’ll foot the bill. Double his usual price, if that’d do it. But if you’re not at Houton when we get there we can’t wait, so—’

  ‘I’ll do my best. See you there, I hope. Bye.’ Hanging up, and turni
ng to meet Mrs McGregor’s shocked stare. In the doorway, Sue was looking excited. ‘Mrs McGregor—’

  ‘He’ll no turn out this time o’ night! An’ what for, is it? Houton, I heard mention of?’

  ‘What’s Mr McGillivray’s number, please?’

  * * *

  Houton Bay was a base for seaplanes as well as for trawlers and that, Mr McGillivray told them. But he was more intent on asking questions than imparting information. Curiosity, even veiled suspicions, as to how and for what purpose two young ladies should come to be embarking in an American battleship’s picket-boat at such an hour seemed to have been a factor in his consenting to turn out.

  Anne answered all his questions as the car jounced west and south. It was a Star, 15.9 horsepower, he’d told Sue. A big, heavy thing with very large, solid tyres and a flapping roof, canvas or somesuch. Its headlights weren’t up to much. Were masked, maybe, as cars’ lights were down south. But she gave him Sam’s name and rank and said as Sue had earlier that he was her fiancé, Miss Pennington here her chaperone who’d come all the way up from London with them, and told him that apparently a U-boat had been detected trying to get into the Flow, and Lieutenant-Commander Lance had had permission from the New York’s duty commanding officer, whatever that meant, to take them with him to some island down there. ‘Flotta, would it be?’

  It might be, he said. Which case – aye, the Sound of Hoxa, mebbe, was where they’d try it, like as not. ‘But to be sanctioning the pair o’ye afloat – och, if ye’d excuse me sayin’ so—’

  ‘I agree, it’s extraordinary. But my fiancé’s an extraordinary man. Also conscientious – and having brought us all this way from London, he feels that if anything as exciting as that’s going on—’

  ‘It’s no’ back to the ship they’d be taking ye, then?’

  ‘I told you – that island—’

  ‘Aye. Flotta. Aye.’ Hauling left into that rather steep descent now. He was not a big man, although on the tubby side, and it took most of his strength to drag the wheel around. Sue meanwhile nudging Anne, muttering, ‘Your fiancé, indeed…’

  ‘Wasn’t that your idea?’

  ‘Seems to have become yours now. Method in his madness, maybe?’

  McGillivray shouted, ‘D’ye ken how long ye’ll be detained on Flotta, then?’

  ‘Not the least idea. I see what you mean, though. We’ll ask him – if you get us down there in time, that is.’

  ‘If I do not, then I’d return ye to the guesthouse, eh?’

  ‘But I very much hope—’

  ‘There’s your boat!’ Jabbing at the rather tall windscreen. ‘If they’ve the eyes and sense tae see us—’

  ‘Mr McGillivray – would they have a telephone on that island?’

  ‘The Navy, on Flotta? Aye—’

  ‘If I telephone to you when we were starting back – could mean waking you up, disturbing Mrs McGillivray again—’

  ‘Could’nae help that, however. In for a penny – eh? Would ye have my number wi’ ye?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘I’ll gi’e it tae ye, then…’

  * * *

  The car grated to a halt on the quayside; the picket-boat had bumped alongside the jetty that stood out from it at right-angles. Mr McGillivray had thrust a square of pasteboard into Anne’s gloved hand – his telephone number, she assumed – and she and Sue were hurrying towards the boat with its thumping engine and gushing steam. Men were on the jetty – crewmen handling ropes, and Sam striding this way, yelling, ‘You made it, then!’

  Anne grabbed Sue as she stumbled. The quay was wet – by the smell of it, fish-wet – which tallied with the shapes of trawlers berthed on the jetty’s other side – thumping against fenders, mooring-ropes thwacking in the surge. Fish, wet night air, seaweed, coal-smoke, steam… It was going to be a roughish trip, she guessed, the wind evidently having risen while they’d been lazing beside Mrs McG’s fire. Crewmen from the boat had thrown lines around bollards and were backing them up, not securing them, looking at herself and Sue as Sam guided them towards the stern where there was a shelter – cabin, if that was what they’d call it. Forward of that roofed section was deck-space and other crewmen – one in a cap with a shiny peak on it – petty officer, coxswain, whatever – and forward of that another raised section with the funnel slanting up out of it. They reached the stern, and a tall officer with a beaky nose put his arms up to receive Anne: ‘Easy, now, easy!’ Addressing her as if she was a horse, she thought: ought to let out a loud neigh. But she was on board, let go of him, and he was looking to give Sue a hand, but Sam had come thumping down like a ton of bricks and turned to bring her aboard with him.

  ‘OK there, sir?’

  ‘Sure, all aboard!’

  ‘Let go – shove off for’ard…’

  The one with the nose was ushering them into shelter. Sam grinning at them: ‘Cut it fine, but—’

  ‘Came as fast as we could, that’s all. Could say you cut it fine.’

  ‘You’re really something, I’ll tell you that!’

  ‘Not so bad yourself, Sam.’

  Sue said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve done it now, she’s gone on you.’

  ‘Sue, really…’

  The boat was off the jetty, engine pounding, rolling hard as they turned it across wind and sea. Sam had said, ‘I’m gone on both of you. But listen, this is Lieutenant-Commander Jack Ray, of the USS New York. Mrs Laurie, Jack, and Miss Pennington.’

  ‘Strange way to meet, but it’s a pleasure…’

  ‘How soon’ll we be there?’

  ‘Less’n half an hour. It’s about five miles, five-and-a-half, and the boat makes twelve knots flat out. Is a little rough, I admit – could take thirty-five minutes, say.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. Move further in, though?’

  ‘Rough, all right!’

  ‘Why it’s better to be inside.’ Sam added, ‘Irregular motion, and – heck, when she really hits one – whoops, hang on… Jack, you blind ’em with science?’

  ‘Sure.’ Ray was red in the face and had a moustache under his beaky nose. ‘See, there’s listening-out equipment – submerged hydrophones, and other detection gear – off Stanger Head, Quoy Ness and Roan Head – those are headlands on Flotta – and over to Hoxa Head the other side – all across Hoxa Sound, in fact. Know where I mean?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘We’ll be landing on a small pier – Vincent Pier they call it – just short of Roan Head and in shelter of a little island called Calf of Flotta. Fifty-yard walk from there to the control shack on Roan. Situation is that something like an hour ago, sea-bed indicator loops southeast of Stanger were activated by what must have been a U-boat. At the same time, however, an armed trawler patrolling down there was moving out from inside Hoxa Head, destination Switha and Gutter Sounds, which means it was heading to cross that same stretch of the main channel – and would’ve triggered the loops too – but visible anyway, showing lights to make her so. Uh?’

  ‘What’s an indicator loop?’

  ‘Loop of cable laid out on the sea-bed where an intruder’s magnetic field sets up an electric current in it and triggers reaction in galvanometers to which it’s connected. A galvanometer’s a dial with a needle in it. Needle jumps, see. Anyway, the U-boat announced itself in this way, then must’ve turned back on its tracks and – well, disappeared. They think it must have spotted the trawler and turned away for that reason. In which case it’s not likely to have been put off for long; when it sees the coast is clear it’ll make a fresh approach. That’s what we’re hoping for.’

  ‘And the trawler?’

  ‘Oh, gone. Up what the Royal Navy sometimes call the tradesmen’s entrance. That’s Gutter or Weddel Sound, after Switha. Big ships using Hoxa Sound, small-fry relegated to the narrower passage.’

  Sue asked him, ‘Might the U-boat have any way of knowing it had triggered the indicator loop?’

  ‘I don’t believe s
o. And it’s sort of my business, d’you see – why I’m here, a chance of seeing the system in action, as distinct from just an exercise. I say a chance of seeing it in action, I’m not taking any bets.’

  Sam put in, ‘He’s a torpedo specialist. In our Navy – not sure it isn’t the same in yours – torpedo expertise takes in mines, electrical gear associated with all that, explosives and so forth. Whoa-up…’ Grabbing for support against the heaviest roll yet. ‘Heck, maybe I shouldn’t have dragged you two out in this!’

  ‘Dragged us from a roaring fire and hot-water bottles waiting in our beds, incidentally. I’m still glad you did, though.’

  ‘Aren’t they something, Jack?’

  ‘Sure are. And you don’t have any claim on the little one, right?’

  * * *

  Landing at the Vincent Pier wasn’t too easy. This was the northeast coast of Flotta, and the small offshore island Calf of Flotta probably did provide some degree of shelter, but not all that much, and the tide fairly sluiced through that channel. The picket-boat’s coxswain knew his business, however, and they got ashore more or less dry. From there Ray had told him to take the boat 3–4,000 yards west, to the Royal Navy’s re-fuelling base in Weddel Sound – between Flotta and Fara – where they’d have good shelter as well as telephone communication with the shack on Roan Head.

  Fifty yards from the pier to the shack, someone had said, but by Anne’s reckoning it was more like 500. The men had flashlights, anyway, which helped, and there was no rain or sleet at this stage in the gusting, icy wind. There had been, on the way over. The shack, as it loomed up ahead of them, could by its looks have been a milking shed. Had not been, was of fairly recent construction – stone, like everything else on these islands – but that sort of shape, long and low, flat-roofed – also fitted with double doors against the wind. Once through them you were in warmth and a glow of light, smell of paraffin from a heater somewhere in the middle. Windows on one side – the side facing seaward, east and southeast towards the Sound of Hoxa – with curtains of blanket material covering them; and against the wall on that side a table or work-bench with what looked like electrical gear on it, also hand-drawn chart-sections – in bright colours and much enlarged – a child’s work, could have been. A loud-speaker on the wall above all that – wireless, maybe. No – loud-speaker…