‘Sharp?’
‘Cleared, sir. Seemed real solid, but –’
‘Midships the wheel, Cottenham.’
‘Midships, sir –’
‘Stop starboard. Ship’s head?’
‘Three-one-four, sir. Three-one-six –’
To Newcomb, ‘Slow ahead together.’ Because she’d still have stern-way on. And to Cottenham as the screws’ thrust checked that, ‘Port ten, steer three-one-oh.’ In order to pass at no great distance from that same mine-wire:passing reasonably close to it, touch wood without hitting the bloody thing again, you’d be less likely to hit another. Better the devil one knew, in fact. If one did, if that hadn’t been one of a fresh batch, newly laid.
New-laid closer to each other than the originals had been?
Getting clear of it now, anyway. Assume one was clear. He nodded to Jarvis. ‘Fifty feet, Sub.’
Stay at fifty for – oh, twenty minutes, say. At three knots, two thousand yards. But come round to north before that. This would be keeping to the route as planned, whereas to hold on westward would lengthen it – for no good purpose, there surely being no reason to assume one was still in the minefield, either that the Wops had extended it or that one’s DR position could be out by that much. Depth-gauge needles circling past 100 feet, Jarvis attending to the trim, and a particular alertness in faces of which one had a view. Newcomb’s, for one – small eyes sharp – frankly, rat-like – nice enough lad, the shape of his face not his fault, and natural enough that not having previously rubbed up against mine-moorings the possibility of doing it again – well, especially if there might be a greater density even of the old ones at these intermediate depths … Amongst the things one didn’t know, of course, was the depth of the mine itself below the surface, i.e. above Ursa’s casing. And he’d have given a lot to have had a sight of the wire, which if it had been there even a year would be slimy black and streamered with marine growth, or if of more recent origin, clean and shiny bright.
Seventy feet. Sixty-five. Rate of ascent noticeably slowing: although Jarvis would by now have passed the order to stop flooding and shut ‘O’. Passing the sixty-foot mark more slowly still: ’planesmen getting the angle off her without having been told to – which Mike would have expected, naturally, of Petty Officer Bull, but not necessarily of Ordinary Seaman Sharp.
Hadn’t had time to get to know much about him, this far. He’d joined in Alexandria, out of the poor old Medway’s spare crew, Ursa having sailed from Malta short-handed after landing a VD case for treatment.
Fifty-five feet. Fifty-three.
‘Fifty feet, sir.’
‘Very good.’He told Cottenham, ‘Starboard ten, steer north.’
‘Steer north, sir.’Winding-on helm. ‘Ten of starboard wheel on, sir.’
And Sharp was putting a few degrees of dive on the fore ’planes. Alive to the fact that putting on rudder tended to push the boat’s bow upward. For some reason. Well – the turning moment imparting a beam-on, upward pressure of water under the cutaway shape of her forepart, hull-shape for’ard of the keel, was what caused it. ‘U’s were sensitive beasts, took a bit of understanding.
Three hours after clearing the minefield he surfaced her into darkness six and a half miles northwest of Marettimo, and altered course to 070 – turning the corner into what the Italians might almost legitimately regard as their own home waters. Which of course was where any self-respecting British submarine belonged. Doctrine according to old Jackie Fisher, incidentally – Britain’s frontiers being the coastlines of the enemy. Thinking about that, telling the bastards telepathetically And we haven’t come all this way just to admire their beauty, signor … Fingers crossed, for targets – preferably whatever the Afrika Korps might be needing badly and going short of. Glasses at his eyes, sweeping slowly across his boat’s low, semi-submerged forepart and down her starboard side. Slight chop on the sea, Ursa trimmed well down, thrusting through it, rolling a bit at these low, battery-charging revs and such wind as there was on her beam to port.
‘All right, Pilot?’
‘Fine, sir.’
‘All yours, then.’ Lowering his glasses. Danvers not lowering his, nor the lookouts intently scouring the darkness in their own sectors of white-flecked sea. It was good to see some broken water, after the last two days’ glassy calm; on dived patrol the last thing you wanted was a millpond surface, and he’d been hoping it wouldn’t last. He stepped into the hatch, climbed down through the tower; in the control room Chief McIver asked him, ‘All serene up top, sir?’
‘Serene enough, Chief. Little breeze from the northwest – what we need. Donks serene, are they?’
Donks as short for donkeys, slang for engines. McIver shrugging: ‘No problems I’m aware of, sir.’ The diesels had given problems, on occasion. Jerk of the head towards the galley: ‘Rabbit stew, he’s giving us.’
‘Well – sooner the better …’
‘Canna abide fucking rabbit!’
Cottenham would offer him corned beef as an alternative, no doubt.
‘Captain, sir?’
Lazenby, PO telegraphist, with a page of signal-pad in his hand. ‘Cipher to us, sir.’
Mike took it from him. The former schoolmaster would have decoded it himself in his little caboosh there. This was an innovation of Mike’s own: ciphering and deciphering was supposed to be done by officers, but there were advantages in getting the stuff ready for use – as well as satisfying for Lazenby, who was well up to the job and totally reliable. Code and cipher books were kept in a safe, which in Ursa was in a corner of the W/T office, not as was customary in the control room. This had the secondary advantage of giving the helmsman more room for his legs than he’d have had otherwise.
Mike asked Lazenby – heading for the chart table and its light – ‘From S.10?’
‘No, sir. Swordsman. On patrol somewhere near?’
‘Some way east of us.’ From the Gib flotilla, on loan to the 10th and currently about a hundred and fifty miles east, top end of the Messina Strait. Shrimp had mentioned her in his briefing. Mike spread the flimsy sheet on the table’s glass top and read the brief message in Lazenby’s blue-pencilled copperplate. Telegraphists for some reason always used blue pencils.
To: Ursa, repeated Captain (S) 10, Vice-Admiral Malta, C-in-C Med and Admiralty: Italian light cruiser believed Garibaldi class with escort of two destroyers off Cape Milazzo 2050/23 course 270 speed 25. Time of origin, 2105.
Time now, just short of ten. A Wop cruiser off Cape Milazzo approx. one hour ago, split-arsing due west, i.e. this way. The stuff a submariner’s dreams were made of. Except the bloody thing might stop off in Palermo. Might be its destination, or might put in there to fuel. If it had come out of the Messina Strait – as one could assume it must have – and somehow evaded Swordsman – CO Dan Gerahty – who’d either failed to get in an attack or done so and missed. Anyway, reaching for the tools – parallel rule and dividers – conscious already that if Palermo was its destination, at twenty-five knots – less than four hours anyway – Ursa wouldn’t get anywhere near it tonight at any rate. But staying in that port how long, had to be the question. He called, ‘Number One – check what we have on Garibaldi-class cruisers?’
Provoking interest and speculation all round – here in the control room, and as always spreading instantly through the boat. Starting close at hand with Jarvis’s ‘I’ll get it!’ Meaning, get out Jane’s Fighting Ships. Italian section. Mike in the meantime plotting the cruiser’s track at twenty-five knots on course due west, noting that she’d be off Palermo in three hours, not four. Reducing speed then for the channel between those minefields – down to ten knots, say – might be anchored or berthed by – oh, half an hour after midnight – holing-up then for the night at least, possibly several days. As likely as anything, though, only calling in for fuel. All guesswork, this, but guesswork being all you had to work on – backed of course by logic, what seemed likely, then such petty details as times, speeds, distances. I
f for instance her destination was Cagliari in Sardinia – even if she wasn’t in need of fuel, her destroyers might be. Twenty-five knots for – well, how long? Might have started from Taranto, even. So – OK, assume it was simply a bunkering stop, in and out of Palermo then back on course for Cagliari. Whereas one’s own intentions this far had been to dive at 0430 here, five miles northwest of Cape Gallo. Wouldn’t do, now – not if the programme was Palermo and then Cagliari, as did seem likely. Shrimp’s surmise – Wops anticipating a Malta convoy from the west, Cagliari an obvious place in which to lie in wait for it. Could be other units there already, and/or more to come. But this Garibaldi and her escorts (a) could have fuelled and got on their way again before 0430 – the time by which one did have to dive, for daylight, should do so therefore as near as possible to whatever would be her track and (b) would be more likely to set a course of something like 280, he thought. Turning on to that course ten miles north of the port, outer end of the swept channel. From ten miles northeast of Cape Gallo, therefore, working up to full speed on – well, maybe not 280, maybe 275,278 … Pencilling a 278 track on, anyway: guessing they might be on it by about 0600. While Ursa, diving at 0430, then an hour and a half at four knots on due north, might reach that track at – well, about six, too.
Might improve on that. Be on it by 0500, say. Early bird maybe not seeing the worm for an hour or two – or longer, depending on how long they spent in Palermo – this was plain guesswork, not much else, but –
Could do it anyway, by altering at once. Calling it ten p.m. now – actually five-past, the watch had been changing around him while he was immersed in this – alter now to – something like 050 would do it. Or – 055. Alteration of fifteen degrees to port. And still dive at 0430 – with the box well up, and touch wood near enough to the Wop’s track to hear them coming. All right, her track as it would be if she was bound for Cagliari via Palermo. There was a strong alternative that he’d had in mind since starting on this, and was going to have to work on now, but what he liked about this scenario was the ‘have-your-cake-and-eat-it’ element – Ursa in the Italians’ 0500 position, then steering the reciprocal of their guessed-at course of 278 – reciprocal 098 degrees – so that if they’d stayed put in Palermo, which they might well have, the top end of that swept channel was where Ursa would end up anyway. Getting there at about – well, at the battery-conserving dived speed of four knots, and distance forty miles – early afternoon.
McLeod was hovering, dressed ready to go up and take over the watch from Danvers.
‘Jane’s is on the wardroom table, sir. Two ships in that class.’
‘And a fair chance we might meet one of them. When you get up there, alter course to oh-five-five. Look here, though – I’ll give you a quick run-down …’
He ran over it. Starting with Swordsman’s sighting report and his own view that the course of 270 suggested Palermo as at least the Wops’ initial destination. The rest of it then – 055 as Ursa’s course from here to intercept, thence 098 to back-track them to Palermo.
McLeod nodded. ‘Any luck, meeting them along the way.’
‘But suppose she’s heading straight to Cagliari, from Messina. Course’d be more like 280 than 270, one might’ve thought. Although ten degrees this way or that in a sighting report’s hardly conclusive, is it? And in somewhat restricted waters there, might’ve wanted to clear Vulcano by more than a mile or two, before settling on 280 or thereabouts. So – could come down to this.’
The straight-line course from Cape Milazzo to Cagliari.
‘At twenty-five knots they’d be here at 0200, here 0300, and we could intercept by steering due north and increasing to revs for seven knots. Dark hours interception on the surface. Only thing is – if we went for this and it’s the wrong guess – well, diving at four-thirty, we’re out in the deep field and they could be passing ten or fifteen miles to the south of us.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose …’
‘I’m going for the Palermo option. Come round to oh-five-five.’
The two cruisers of that class were the Giuseppe Garibaldi and the Duca degli Abruzzi. Both completed in 1937, displacement under full load 9,000 tons, main armament of ten six-inch guns, speed 35 knots; the Abruzzi was said to have made 38 on her trials. And what mattered most from the point of view of torpedo attack was that they drew seventeen feet.
Set the fish to run at fourteen feet. Too deep to hit a destroyer – the Aviere-class for instance drew only ten or eleven – but Ursa’s target was the cruiser, not her escort, and the aim would be to sink her, which was best achieved by hitting her a fair distance below the waterline.
Ursa on course 055 now, making five knots and of course battery-charging. Danvers at the chart, at Mike’s suggestion making his own assessments of possible enemy routes and timings. Mike thinking, while conscious of the aroma of Manoel Island Bunny – Chef Cottenham’s name for his rabbit stew – about that cruiser getting past Swordsman as it had. Visualising it: the cruiser coming out of the narrow bottleneck of the Messina Strait at say twelve or fifteen knots, then abruptly shoving her wheel hard over and cracking on the revs. Gerahty sweating blood in an effort to get into position for even a long-range overtaking shot; but with that lot’s speed, and the distance from which he might have made the sighting – might well have been several miles to the north of them, in fact – his only chance of getting in an attack being if they’d held on northward – Naples-bound, for instance – so he’d have had no chance at all. Another thing, though – they might not have come through the Strait, maybe only out of it, might have been in Messina itself. Smallish port, but room enough for a light cruiser and two destroyers all right. The eight-inch cruiser Bolzano had been in the dockyard there for months after Triumph – W. J. Woods – had blown her screws off. But that would answer one other niggling, back-of-the-mind concern, namely whether the bastards mightn’t also have got past Ultra – Jimmy Ruck, whom Shrimp had stationed off Cape dell’Armi in the Strait’s wide southern entrance. Ultra would have been on that billet two or three days now.
Better bloody well not get past Ursa, was all. He called in the direction of the galley, ‘Anyone seen our rabbit?’
He was on the bridge soon after midnight, an extra pair of eyes in the starboard for’ard corner, Jarvis as officer of the watch necessarily on the port side where the voice-pipe was. Friday now. Ursa trimmed low in the heave of dark, white-streaked sea, with ‘Q’ flooded, only 1 and 6 main ballast not full. Battery density rising as it should have been, and in the after ends they’d had the compressor running, building up reserves of bottled high-pressure air. It was darker than the last two nights had been, with quite a lot of cloud, stars visible only in clear patches here and there. Not a lot of wind, but with the change of course what there was of it was for’ard of the beam, so that even at these low revs she was kicking the stuff up a bit.
Visualising the Italians smashing through it – while drying the front lenses of his glasses on a wad of periscope paper – seeing the cruiser and her consorts racing westward. In Jane’s Fighting Ships there was a photograph, taken evidently from a low-flying aircraft, of the Abruzzi at what must have been her flat-out speed: calm sea, and the rather beautiful, immensely powerful ship carving her way through it. Mountainous bow-wave, brilliant spreading wake, guns jutting skyward.
Racing this way – please …
Glasses up again: sweeping slowly across the bow from right to left, circling slowly back clockwise as far as about forty, fifty degrees on the starboard side, covering the sector in which they might appear. If for instance they were hugging the Sicilian coast, for some reason – intending to turn the corner either inside or outside Marettimo, making for the North African coast?
Could be. None of this was anything more than guesswork.
Sweeping left again – for maybe the thousandth time. Allowing himself the privilege of watching just this sector, while Jarvis and the lookouts covered the whole three-sixty degrees of surrounding sea and
sky. One o’clock now. If one’s guess had been wrong and the Italians were on their way directly to Cagliari, they’d just about have passed Ustica, would be something like thirty-five miles northeast, crossing Ursa’s line of slow advance at right-angles:such a rapid change of bearing that when she dived at four-thirty they’d be more than sixty miles northwest – in other words, gone. He had his own chartwork clearly in mind, was aware that in those hypothetical circumstances the nearest they’d get to each other would be at about 0200 – twenty miles apart then, on a bearing of about due north. From then on, range opening.
OK. Could be. As well to recognise it, be prepared for it – while still actually reckoning on their being either en route from Palermo or still there, snoring in their bunks. Which would be perfectly OK. Not as good as running into them at say five, six or seven a.m., but in the long run – a day, two or three days, a week, even …
At 0330, near enough, Cape San Vito would be abeam to starboard, distance about twelve miles. One might assume they were not coast-hugging or corner-turning: for one thing because it was unlikely – where would they be making for, after all – Tunis, Bizerta? – and for another, the light on that cape might have been switched on for them, if they’d had any such intention. The Italians did often enough switch on coastal lights during movements of fleet units, and San Vito would have been the most useful one in those circumstances.
Maybe wouldn’t light the place up for just one cruiser, though.
Danvers had the watch now. Lookouts were Llewellyn and Brighouse, a stoker who came from St Austell in Cornwall and was known to his mates as ‘Snozzle’ – nothing to do with his nose, which was in no way spectacular, but from the way he pronounced St Austell. He was on the short side, with long arms – which was noticeable when he had binoculars at his eyes.
Three-thirty now. Even fewer stars visible than there had been earlier. And one hour to go. Danvers’ watch would end at four-fifteen, and as before Mike would tell McLeod to stay below, dive her himself at half-past. Or maybe stay up a bit longer than that, depending on the light.
Submariner (2008) Page 9
