The Custom of the Trade

by Shaun Lewis

  ‘In the meantime, it’s important we keep the men’s morale high and give them hope. Tell them that we’re in salvageable waters and, if we’re careful and with God’s help, we can hold out for forty-eight hours before we have to escape. For now, everyone is to get their head down and we’ll assess the situation again in the morning. I look to you both to take the lead and look a bit more cheerful. Any other questions?’

  Richard made it clear from his demeanour that he was not expecting any more questions and the two senior rates excused themselves and set about their duties.

  *

  Richard was woken by a gentle shake of his shoulder.

  ‘It’s 07.45, sir. You asked to be called.’

  It was the watchkeeper, Signalman ‘Knocker’ White. Richard’s brain was slow to focus. He had not slept well. Something was nagging him, but he could not work it out. He could only take shallow breaths and his head hurt. He recalled the events of the past twelve hours and remembered why. This was the effect of low levels of oxygen and correspondingly high levels of carbon dioxide. He was familiar with the symptoms as Johnson had twice before exercised the crew in staying deep for prolonged periods. Johnson’s reasoning had been that on a wartime patrol it might be necessary to bottom during the day to avoid the attention of enemy patrols, and then not to surface again until darkness had fallen, to replenish the air and charge the battery cells. However, the longest trial they had conducted to date was twelve and a half hours, so they would soon be in unknown territory.

  Out of habit, he reached for the Bible lying next to his bunk. It was his custom to read it for five minutes before facing the rigours of the day. He selected a page at random and read a passage in the available dim light. By chance, it was from the book of Jonah and made for uncomfortable reading.

  ‘In my distress I called to the Lord, and he answered me. From deep in the realm of the dead I called for help, and you listened to my cry. You hurled me into the depths, into the very heart of the seas, and the currents swirled about me; all your waves and breakers swept over me. I said, “I have been banished from your sight; yet I will look again toward your holy temple.” The engulfing waters threatened me, the deep surrounded me; …’

  Richard snapped the book shut. The text was too close to the bone and there was much to do. He gently eased himself out of his bunk and pulled back the wardroom curtain. He noted that most of the men were awake, but still in their hammocks. It took too much energy and oxygen to move about. The air stank of oil, the sour smell of the batteries, the unemptied buckets of urine and worse. Every man’s clothes were sodden with sweat. The moisture was condensing on the inside of the hull, too, and covering the electric bulbs with fine droplets of moisture. Added to the mixture of oil and water in the bilges, the condensation gave the interior of the boat a look of London in a smog.

  Notwithstanding the unpleasant atmosphere, Richard was pleased to note that although nobody, including himself probably, looked a picture of health, everyone seemed free of sickness so far. His attention was drawn to some cursing to his left. One of the stokers was trying to light a cigarette, but the match wouldn’t strike and he swore. There was too little oxygen to ignite it. Richard felt exasperated. He wasn’t a smoker and didn’t like others smoking when the submarine was dived. The air was foul enough as it was and it was a waste of good oxygen. Ill-temperedly he scolded the stoker.

  ‘Surely, Blake, the language of Shakespeare and Chaucer is rich enough in vocabulary to negate the need for profanity to express your frustrations.’

  He detailed one of the seamen to serve up some breakfast. It would be a meagre affair of cold tinned sausages and tomatoes, but it was important to keep up the men’s strength and stick to as normal a routine as possible.

  *

  Once he was sure that the officer was out of earshot, Blake whispered to his ‘oppo’, ‘Here, Ginge. You know what’s eating our ever so pious, high and mighty First Lieutenant?’

  ‘Not especially. He’s always playin’ the ’ard bastard.’

  ‘Constipation, that’s what.’

  ‘What you on about now, Blakey?’

  ‘It’s true. Honest to God. He hasn’t had a shit since we sailed. He never does at sea.’

  ‘Is this one of your jokes, Blakey?’

  ‘No, listen out. It was when we were on our first patrol after work-up. He went down to the heads to have a crap, but he couldn’t manage the valves properly. He was kneeling over the pan, like you does for the evolution, when he got his own back. Filth all over his face and down his neck. It was right funny, like. I was on watch nearby and saw ’im as he came out. He slipped me a couple of bob and asked me if I’d do the honours and clear up afterwards. Ever since then he’s been taking opium pills so he doesn’t have to go at sea. Ain’t that a lark?’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed. No wonder he’s a grumpy old sod. He must be right bunged up.’

  ‘Yeah. He’s full of shit, as one might say.’

  The two sailors chuckled quietly before they were interrupted by Goddard who had overheard the latter part of the exchange.

  ‘So, we’ve a pair of comedians here, haven’t we? Haven’t you two enough to worry about? Get off your arses and empty the slop buckets. Maybe then you’ll pipe down and conserve your breath.’

  *

  Richard inspected the pilot cells of the battery. The battery would last a few more hours at this rate of consumption. He wondered grimly if he and the men or the battery would expire first. It was then that he remembered one of the things that had been worrying him in his sleep and he returned to the control room as quickly as his fatigued, oxygen-starved body would allow.

  Realising he was physically less able than normal, he called for the Coxswain. Goddard was a tall and burly man.

  ‘’Swain, I’ve had an idea. I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it before. Can you help me crack open the lower lid of the conning tower? I remember the Captain ordering the hatch to be shut and clipped just before the collision. I bet he did the same with the upper lid. If we’re lucky, the tower will be dry and it will have a reserve of fresh air. Can you help me unclip the hatch?’

  With their combined strength, the two weakened men were able to unclip the hatch and, to their joy, no water seeped in as they broke the seal. Gingerly, Richard opened the hatch and, as he did so, it leapt open and he felt himself sucked upwards and through it. Fortunately, Goddard was on hand to grab both his legs or else he might have been badly injured. The tower was dry and, as Richard gasped at the fresh air, the control room filled with a mist. He realised his stupidity. The lack of oxygen was affecting his judgement. It was a fact that after several hours dived, the pressure in the boat increased due to leaking air from the high pressure air systems. On surfacing, therefore, Johnson had always taken the precaution of having somebody hang onto his legs to prevent being shot through the upper lid. Despite his stupidity, Richard was relieved to see the instant effect his action had on the men as they sucked in the new air greedily. It would at least give them a few extra hours.

  The silence of the boat was broken by the sound of diesel engines up top. To Richard’s experienced ears it sounded like a pair of trawlers. He ruefully wondered if one of them had been responsible for his crew’s present predicament. It was possible that the fishing vessel was blissfully unaware of last night’s collision and was happily going about its normal fishing run. He checked the control room clock. It was 08.30, so it should have been light up top for two to three hours by now. That would enable the surface forces to commence their search for them, but had the fog lifted? He checked the weather forecast at the chart table but, to his dismay, realised they only had yesterday’s forecast for the east coast. Today’s was for the approaches to Portsmouth.

  Then he heard the fast throbbing noises of diesel engines passing overhead. The other men had heard it, too, and like him, seemed to be holding their breath and to be united in the same thought. Was this from passing merchant traffic or a search party?
Slowly, the noises dissipated and, just as he started to give up hope, he heard a clang and then a metallic rasping on the starboard side of the hull towards the stern. As it reached the height of the casing above, it stopped and changed into a knocking noise for a few moments, and then it was gone. Under other circumstances it would have been a ghostly and unnerving sound, but to Richard and his trapped crew, it was contact again with the outside world.

  His brain refreshed from the additional supply of oxygen, Richard was again able to think clearly. The men were by now looking at him quizzically.

  ‘I think that was a trawl net passing overhead. The clanking noise was probably the metal weights and the net snagged on the hull.’ He was moved by the instant look of disappointment on the men’s faces.

  A few minutes later he heard again the approach of diesel engines on the surface. Nobody was surprised this time when soon afterwards they heard further metallic sounds on the port side of the hull, only this time they occurred astern and alongside the control room. The clanking and scraping noises seemed to linger and in Richard’s imagination some giant octopus was readying itself to pluck them from the sea like a tiny fish. It was a terrible sound. Suddenly, the submarine was jolted by the stern. The trawl net had clearly stuck fast on something. It was an unsettling feeling.

  Almost as quickly, the trawl freed itself and peace reigned once more. That didn’t last for long. Alarmingly, Richard heard the loud bang of an underwater explosion on the port side. Ten seconds later it was repeated and then there was another. It could only mean one thing: rescue was at hand. They had been found. Gradually the men worked it out for themselves and started cheering, but Richard cut them short. They still had to conserve oxygen as there was no telling by what means and how long it would take for them to be rescued.

  He returned to his bunk to think in private. There was still something he had forgotten, but for the life of him he could not recall it. It was good that they had been found. It removed one uncertainty. But how were they to get to the surface? The safest option would be for the boat to be lifted by giant cranes, but did such machines exist afloat and would it take too long? Despite the influx of air from the conning tower, the men were already suffering physically and he had spotted many with the tell-tale blue lips of oxygen starvation. Perhaps now they should consider swimming for the surface before the men became too weak, but how was that to be done? They could go through the engine room hatch or the conning tower, but that would mean flooding the compartments first. It would then be dark and the men would have to find their way through the hatch by touch. Some were bound to become disorientated and would they get out in time? Moreover, as soon as the inrush of salt water came into contact with the battery, it would create deadly chlorine gas. He was at least comforted by the thought that, only the year before, all the latest submarines of the Service had been fitted with a form of breathing apparatus for escape purposes. Captain Hall had been the Inspecting Captain of Submarines then. He and Fleet Surgeon Rees had worked with Siebe Gorman to invent a ‘rebreather’.

  Richard couldn’t remember all the details of the new apparatus, but he recalled that it included a canister of a newly discovered chemical, Oxylithe, which, when breathed, both gave off oxygen and absorbed carbon dioxide. This would enable the wearer to breathe underwater for thirty or forty minutes, enough time to escape the submarine and ascend to the surface. However, he had heard rumours that, despite the benefits to submariners, the Admiralty was now considering the withdrawal of the sets as they were too bulky for storage in the tight confines of an already crowded submarine. Fortunately, although there was still no formal training of submariners in escape procedures, Johnson had insisted each member of the crew practise donning the apparatus. Nonetheless, Richard decided it would be expedient to organise a further training session.

  Then came the chilling thought. Did the surface forces know they were alive? Would they recognise the urgency of rescue? Of course they would, he reassured himself. Why else drop the charges, but to let them know help was at hand. Even so, there was no doubt it would help if he could communicate with those in charge on the surface. How could he get a message to the surface without breaching their watertight integrity? He racked his brains frantically. It was no good. His brain just wasn’t working properly. Perhaps Waterfield or Goddard might have the answer. He called them to the wardroom for another meeting and briefed them on what was troubling him.

  He was surprised to observe that Goddard seemed to be suffering more than Waterfield. Goddard was a tall, fit man who, when submarine routine permitted, often turned out for the Fort Blockhouse rugby team, where his height was a major advantage in a line out. Waterfield, by comparison, was a short, round-looking man who to Richard’s certain knowledge never took any form of exercise. He did recall that, prior to joining the Navy, Waterfield had been a professional opera singer, the only one Richard had come across. Perhaps the discipline of singing had developed his lungs to recycle the air more efficiently than most men. It was Waterfield who seemed to have all the ideas.

  ‘Sir, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should vacate the control room and shift the men back aft. We all know that carbon dioxide is heavier than oxygen and, given the steep, bow-down angle, it will collect more readily forward. Indeed, I’ve noticed on my rounds that the air seems better quality the further aft one goes. In the past I’ve always put that down to the more rarefied conversations we have back there.’

  Richard smacked his forehead in frustration. ‘Of course you’re right, Chief. I should have thought of that. Hang on a minute, though. You’ve just given me another thought. I need to do some calculations.’

  He pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil, and started drawing a triangular diagram on it.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he exclaimed. ‘My brain was trying to tell me this all night. The boat is 163 feet long. The control room depth gauge reads eighty-four feet beneath us and we’re, say, seventy-five feet from the bows. That means the stern of the boat is about ninety feet from the depth gauge. The boat’s at an angle of twenty degrees, so take the sine of twenty degrees, multiply it by ninety and that gives us about thirty feet. Yes! The stern is just over thirty feet shallower in the water. In other words, if we could get out by the stern, then we’d only have to travel fifty-odd feet to the surface. That probably doubles our chances of survival.’

  He looked at the two men much as a magician sought approval for a successful conjuring trick, but the two senior rates only looked confused.

  ‘We’ll take your word for it, sir. Maths was never my strong point,’ Goddard replied. ‘So is that the plan then, sir? We escape from the after-ends hatch and swim for it?’

  ‘Well, not quite, Coxswain. I was getting carried away. We need to think of a way of informing the Senior Officer there’s somebody alive down here and to prepare for our reception. We don’t want to be floating off who knows where with the tidal stream. The after-ends hatch is still some feet forward of the stern and thirteen of us are going to have to get through that hatch once the whole compartment floods. We’ll have to consider the risks of disorientation and panic amongst the men.’

  Here Waterfield interjected. ‘I might be able to help, sir. Maybe if we pumped out the bilges, there would be enough oil to float to the surface to mark our position and tell them up top that somebody’s alive down here, and to get a fucking move on. Pardon my French, sir,’ he added embarrassedly. ‘Am I also right in thinking that the port after tube is empty, sir?’

  ‘Yes. What are you driving at, Chief?’

  ‘Well, it was just what you were saying about the stern being higher. Could not a couple of men escape by crawling through the tube? They could brief the officers in charge up there and it would mean two fewer left to escape through the after-ends hatch.’

  ‘Chief, I like the idea of pumping the bilges, but your other idea seems impractical. You forget that we would have to flood the tube to open the bow cap and the men would drown in the meantime. The re
breather apparatus is too bulky for crawling through a torpedo tube. No, that won’t do. On the other hand, we could put three men through the conning tower hatch.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I have actually been thinking about that. You remember that visit from the boffins at Siebe Gorman earlier late last year?’

  Richard tried hard to mask his exasperation and responded patiently. ‘Yes, I do. Mr Davis was trying to interest the Admiralty in a more compact breathing apparatus for use in submarine escape, to replace the Hall-Rees kit. Sadly, the discussions are still going on and, whilst such equipment would be jolly handy right now, we don’t yet have the gear. Do you have any more practical suggestions?’ He looked to Goddard expectantly.

  Waterfield ignored the snub and stuck to his guns. ‘Actually, we do, sir.’

  ‘Sorry, Chief. We do what?’ Richard was tiring of the discussion.

  ‘We do have some of the gear, sir.’ Waterfield was now adopting the patient tone.

  Richard was stunned for a moment, but then his heart started to beat faster. ‘What do you mean, Chief?’

  ‘It so happens I had a chat with one of the technicians and mentioned that even if the kit wasn’t yet approved for submarine escape, it might be just the ticket for an engine room fire. That got us on to the subject of mine rescue and he sent me two sets of rebreathers that have already been approved for use in the mines. He wanted my opinion on their use in submarines but, with everything going on these past few months, I’ve never got around to unpacking them. But I checked them this morning and they still seem to be in their original condition. I reckon if they work underground, then they should be fine underwater.’

  Richard checked his rate of breathing. The excitement was hurting his chest. This news gave him more options, but he would have to decide on a plan to use it. First he needed to see the sets. He adopted a more respectful tone towards Waterfield.

  ‘Chief, you might just be a genius. Could you take me to inspect the sets and, perhaps, you could explain to me how they work?’