He tossed the feeling aside, irritated with himself. Then he lowered his head to the gyro repeater, next to the control room voice-pipe.
Quinton was there waiting. ‘Two minutes, sir.’
‘Here we go again, Number One.’
Quinton chuckled. ‘Looks like it, sir.’
Ainslie steadied himself against the voice-pipes, recalling the little French commander, Poulain, his last moments on earth.
‘Make to escorts, Yeoman. Am about to dive. Will release smoke-float when satisfied.’
He turned away, shading his eyes to watch the hazy horizon. Nothing in sight. No land. Not even a seabird.
Menzies lowered the lamp. ‘From escort commander, sir. Don’t frighten the fish.’
Lieutenant Forster, who was also on the bridge, murmured, ‘Silly sod!’
Ainslie looked at him. It was not like the navigating officer to be so edgy. Another one with too many memories, perhaps.
Quinton again. ‘Ready, sir.’
Ainslie nodded and closed the voice-pipe. ‘Clear the bridge.’
It felt strange. Like being back in some peaceful Scottish loch, learning it all over again without the harrowing rush and tumble of action to drive you down.
He went last, slamming the hatch behind him, then down the full length of the conning tower to the control room. A seaman reached up to close the lower hatch, his face glowing in the low-powered orange glare.
Ainslie crossed the control room, his eyes taking in and discarding details without effort. Gosling sitting like a white sack at the wheel, the two planesmen nearby, Forster already in his chart space, busy with ruler and dividers.
Quinton stood near the diving panel, with Halliday further aft, leaning over two of his men at their vent controls. Watertight doors were closed, each compartment shut off from the next, and containing its own group of experts.
From right forward where the topedomen waited beside their racks of shining ‘fish’, down through the hull with all its maze of pipes, wires and dials to the stokers and artificers in the motor and enginerooms.
Ainslie gripped the handles of the forward periscope and turned the greased tube in a full circle. The sea was as before, with the two escorts rolling uncomfortably a cable or so away. How helpless they looked in the periscope’s crosswires, as if already caught in the web.
‘Turn out the foreplanes.’
He depressed the periscope lens and watched the two hydroplanes turning out from the hull like fins. The after ones were always under water and could not be seen anyway. He studied the dull metal as the planesman moved his controls back and forth.
‘Hydroplanes tested and correct, sir.’
‘Stand by.’
It was suddenly very silent. Halliday had cut the diesels and switched automatically to the electric motors for submerged running. Just a small humming sound, not even enough to make the massive hull quiver.
A drop of sweat splashed on to his hand as he peered at his watch. Almost angrily he wiped his face with his wrist.
‘Group up. Slow ahead together.’
He heard the snap of controls, feet shuffling as Halliday moved in more closely to watch his dials and winking lights.
Ainslie took one more quick glance through the periscope. He could not get used to it, this leisurely drill and careful progress. In the Mediterranean and almost anywhere else it was death to leave the periscope up for more than seconds. The diving bomber, the spectre in the lens. Oblivion. He checked his racing thoughts, feeling the sweat running down his spine, the shirt clinging to his skin.
He steadied himself and said evenly, ‘Open main vents. Take her down to fourteen metres.’ He slammed the periscope handles into their upright position and a stoker sprang forward to send it hissing down into its great well in the control room deck.
Ainslie looked at the depth gauge as the needle began to creep round. He listened to the surging rasp of water entering the saddle tanks and watched the planesmen, the tell-tales above their heads, gauging the slow dive, the feel of the big submarine around him.
Quinton said quietly, ‘Easy, Packer.’ He, too, was watching the foreplanes’ dial, thinking perhaps of the man who had tried to sabotage them.
‘Steady at fourteen metres, sir. Periscope depth.’ Quinton looked over at him, his lips compressed in a tight smile.
‘Up periscope.’ Ainslie bent over and gripped the handles, rising to his full height as the lens broke the surface overhead. ‘Check all compartments.’
How warm the sea looked, how close, as if he were swimming with just his eyes above water, and yet without feeling or sensation. Around him handsets and voice-pipes chattered back and forth until Quinton reported that every section was functioning as it should.
‘Very good, Number One. Down periscope. Steer zero-nine-zero.’ He blinked as spray splashed over the periscope as it started to slide down. ‘Take her down to twenty metres.’ He listened to the smooth purr of the motors, the regular ping of the echo sounder. A glance at Forster at the chart table showed him he did not have to worry. Forster was too watchful even to allow a faulty chart to put them on the bottom.
‘Steady on zero-nine-zero, sir. Twenty metres.’
More reports and cross-checks. Like fibres reaching from the ends of the boat to the control room, to Ainslie’s mind.
‘All checked, sir. No leaks.’
Ainslie looked round at the silent, intent figures, at the Soufrière’s crest, an erupting volcano, above which someone, probably Lucas, had hung a smaller emblem, the Free French Cross of Lorraine. They had done well, all of them.
‘Release smoke-float. That’ll tell the escorts they can go home again.’
Halliday stood back from his panel, wiping his bony fingers with a piece of waste. ‘Just as well, sir. They’ve probably got an important cocktail party on tonight!’ But he said it without malice, and Ainslie knew he was too pleased about his motors and diesels to let anything spoil this moment.
‘Open up the boat, Number One.’
As the order was passed and the watertight doors were unclipped throughout the hull, Ainslie picked up the tannoy handset.
‘This is the captain. Despite what you may have seen or heard since you took over, this boat is now on a war footing. Vigilance at all times. We shall live longer that way.’ He could see them in his mind throughout his command. Smiling at each other, pleased with themselves. Others would be saying, what’s the matter with the skipper, then? Getting cold feet? And a few, like himself, would be searching their thoughts, wondering how much more of it they could stand. He replaced the handset.
‘Fall out diving stations, Number One.’ He saw the concern on the Australian’s dark features. He would understand all right. They had seen and done too much together. ‘I’m going to my cabin to complete my report.’
He saw Lucas come through the after bulkhead and checked himself. It was often like this in the control room. It was a constant reminder to any commander that his eye, his brain, his judgement alone could keep the submarine and crew in one piece.
He walked across to the slightly built French lieutenant and said, ‘You have done a fine job.’ He saw the dullness leaving the Frenchman’s eyes as he added, ‘I think I even saw the Chief smiling just then!’
Lucas took the mood and glanced over to Halliday. ‘Oh, what a shame, sir! I must have missed it!’
Ainslie turned and walked towards his cabin, seeing the grins and the nudges, essential parts of their special, exclusive world.
In the cabin he closed the curtain and sat down at the desk.
So it looked as if Soufrière was going nearer home after all. Just as Poulain had always wanted.
He gave a sigh and picked up his pen.
‘Up periscope.’
Ainslie gripped the handles and pressed his forehead against the rubber pad. A cat-nap, a good shower, and a surprisingly good breakfast – considering the cook had barely time to get adjusted to the galley – had worked wonders.
Around him the Soufrière breathed her own special sounds, the echo sounder, the occasional whirr of pumps as Quinton trimmed the boat, a man humming softly to himself as he waited to carry a message, or make some more tea.
‘We’ll remain at fourteen metres, Number One. Tell the W/T office to make contact and report our ETA at the base.’ He glanced at the control room clock. ‘We’ll stand offshore until dawn. I don’t want to barge through a bunch of local fishermen and have to pay for a lot of nets!’
Someone laughed.
Quinton moved nearer, his face in shadow. ‘She handled well, I thought. Better than I believed possible with all the top-hamper of guns and the blessed seaplane hangar.’
Ainslie nodded. He felt at home. As if he had been aboard for months instead of days.
‘The first real emergency may tell us more.’
Lieutenant Ridgway, the torpedo officer, who was in charge of the watch, said, ‘W/T on the phone, sir. PO Vernon requests to speak with you.’
‘Not like him at all.’
Ainslie hid a sudden uncertainty from the others. But it was not like Vernon. He was very competent and disliked asking advice. He took the telephone from Ridgway’s hand, turning his back to the control room.
‘Captain. What’s the trouble?’
‘Urgent signal, sir.’
Even on the wire Ainslie could sense his anxiety.
‘Singapore under bombing attack after RAF report of unidentified aircraft approaching the city. Return to base forthwith and await orders. End of signal.’
Ainslie looked at the submarine’s curved side. So it had happened. Just as Critchley had predicted.
He said quietly, ‘Acknowledge, Vernon. Then no further transmissions.’ He handed the telephone to Ridgway and said, ‘Singapore has been attacked. It’s my guess that it’s just a start, a taste of things to come.’
Quinton breathed out noisily. ‘Jesus, Us against the whole world, eh?’
Forster, who was still leaning on his chart table, exclaimed, ‘It’s hopeless!’
Like a house of cards Ainslie could see his command falling apart. The first optimism and excitement of their capture had been smashed almost before they had got used to it.
He said, ‘Lay a course to base, Pilot. We’ll surface and proceed at full speed when you’re satisfied. Number One, pass the word, we’ll go to action stations in ten minutes. I’ll speak to the lads on the tannoy before we surface. After that . . .’ He shrugged.
Ainslie’s words to his company were brief. The small respite was over. They were going back to war.
As the submarine surged to the surface, foam spouting from her saddle tanks like expelled breath, the gun crews, lookouts and the rest of the bridge party hurried to their stations.
Ainslie barely had time to wipe the bloom from his binoculars and jam them to his eyes when the reports were completed. Turret closed up. Lookouts closed up. All tubes loaded.
He said, ‘Tell the first lieutenant to increase revs for fifteen knots.’
He shifted the glasses from bow to bow. An air raid on the city, but as yet no follow up. A quick return on the surface might get them past any invasion armada, but he would have to make sure the recognition signals were perfect, otherwise Soufrière would be the first target of the day.
Menzies sounded subdued. ‘First lieutenant wants to speak, sir.’
Ainslie waited for Forster to take his place on the forward gratings and then bent over the voice-pipe. ‘Captain.’
‘Another signal, sir. Three Japanese troop landings reported. Pattani and Kota Baharu, both in Malaya, and Singora further north, but no real information yet available.’
‘Thank you.’
Ainslie looked at the stars. Just like their pattern in the sky the Japanese command had made each move with precision. The air attack had been a feint, while the main assault had been high up on the east coast of Malaya. Not towards the great guns of the ‘invincible fortress’, but behind them. He chilled. No wonder that Japanese submarine commander had made no fuss or protest. As he had sat there watching the Soufrière taken from under his nose, he had known all the while that his country was poised for the attack. He must be laughing now.
He thought angrily of the chief of staff’s complacency, his thinly veiled contempt for Critchley’s ideas. It was to be hoped the defence and counter-attacks would not be left to men like him.
Quinton called, ‘Another signal just decoded, sir. Force Z has sailed from Singapore. All patrols are warned to give them complete priority.’
Force Z. Ainslie pictured the two great ships with their escorts steaming at top speed from the base, heading out like angered beasts to smash the enemy before he could do more harm.
He replied, ‘Keep a good listening watch. That Jap sub may be about. What a pair of targets for her!’
He turned to Forster. ‘Go below, Pilot. I’ll need you if I have to dive in the shallows.’
Forster nodded and threw his leg over the hatch coaming. He had just been thinking about Daphne. The letter he would write. Nothing definite or binding. A feeler, to discover how she was managing. Now all of it had been stirred into confusion by the news. Invasion. Attack. What the hell would they do?
But the rest of the night was uneventful, nor were there any more urgent signals from base. A storm in a teacup. A try-on which had gone badly wrong.
As the Soufrière reduced speed and pushed her way towards the naval anchorage, Ainslie, like the others of the bridge and casing party, saw the motionless pall of smoke above the city. There must be miles of it, he thought.
A light blinked from the old depot ship, and Menzies read, ‘Come alongside when ready, sir.’
‘Acknowledge.’ He leaned over the screen and waved to the second coxswain, the ‘casing king’, who was already directing his men to prepare the springs and breast ropes for coming alongside. ‘Port side to, PO!’
‘At least the base seems untouched, sir.’ Ridgway, tired and strained, stood beside him again, his cap tilted over his eyes.
‘Yes.’ How bare it looked without the two big capital ships. ‘I expect we shall soon get organized.’
The bridge messenger called, ‘First lieutenant’s here, sir.’
Ainslie crossed to the voice-pipe in a stride. ‘Yes, Number One?’ He could feel his stomach muscles bunching as if to receive a blow, yet he did not know why.
Quinton said, ‘We’ve just had the news, sir. The Japs attacked the American base at Pearl Harbour and knocked it flat. They say it was just like the Fleet Air Arm’s attack on the Italians at Taranto, caught all the battle-waggons napping. Like fish in a barrel.’ He sounded stunned.
Ainslie replied, ‘At least we’ll not be on our own any more.’ He forced himself to straighten up, to push the sudden despair away. ‘We’re going alongside in about ten minutes, port side to. I want the hands fallen in fore and aft. The rest will have to wait.’
He straightened his cap and saw a khaki-coloured car moving along the coast road in a trail of yellow dust. Somebody was up and about.
Lieutenant Farrant bustled through the hatch and paused as Ainslie said, ‘A smart turnout, Guns. They’ll be feeling a bit worried ashore. So let’s give them something to stare at, eh?’
‘Yessir.’ The hand jerked up and down like a piston. ‘If I could have them on the parade ground for just one hour I’d show them a thing or two!’ Then, and only then, did it seem to hit him. Singapore, the landings in Malaya, and now Pearl Harbour. He ended lamely, ‘I suppose that seems a bit stupid to you, sir.’
Ainslie smiled gravely as he bent over the voice-pipe. ‘Port fifteen. Midships. Steady. Steer two-seven-zero.’ Then he looked at Farrant’s stiff face and said, ‘You concentrate on your two big guns. I have a feeling they’re going to be needed very shortly.’
Fa
rrant considered it. ‘They will be ready, sir.’ He clattered down the ladder to the deck and then reappeared on the forecasing, his voice sharp and metallic as he urged the seamen into lines for entering harbour.
Only then, as silence settled over the submarine for her last half mile to the depot ship, did Ainslie turn aside and allow himself to doubt. Suppose the new enemy could not be held? How could they stop them here, on the island?
He thought of the notice boards. Out of Bounds. Off Limits. The smugness and arrogance of people who should have learned from Europe what might happen again here.
As he had half expected, Critchley was waiting to see their return. He climbed down to the submarine as the last line was made fast and lost no time in confronting Ainslie on the bridge.
‘How did it go, Bob?’ He looked dog-tired.
‘She’s fine. Everything working as it should.’ He touched his friend’s arm. ‘I’ve heard most of the news.’
Critchley was looking vaguely at the hurrying seamen with their wires and rope fenders. ‘Fine, is she? Good.’ He sounded as if he thought the opposite. Almost to himself he added, ‘The air raid was made very easy for the Japs. The city authorities neglected to keep the ARP headquarters manned during the night, so nobody was able to switch off the power supply from the street lighting! Can you imagine?’ He sounded near to collapse. ‘It was a nightmare!’ In a brisker tone he said, ‘They’re sending you out as soon as you’ve topped up your fuel, I was half hoping . . .’ He looked away.
‘You were hoping that Soufrière would be unable to go, was that it?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. She’s too big for these waters. Too bloody vulnerable.’ He controlled himself with obvious effort. ‘The Japs are thrusting inland, Bob. I’ve been reading the reports. They even landed tanks in the jungle. We’ve Indian troops up there who’ve never even seen a bloody tank, let alone had to fight them. God, what an unholy cock-up!’
Strike from the Sea (1978) Page 7