Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Then she was down, curtseying easily across the low swell, the propeller throwing spray over the wings whenever she dipped too steeply.

  As the first hint of daylight drew a faint line along the horizon, the hangar clanged shut, Christie and his aircraft sealed inside once more.

  ‘Clear the bridge.’ Ainslie watched the orderly bustle around him and then said, ‘Twenty metres. Dive, dive, dive. Negative klaxon.’ He half smiled as he closed the last cock on the voicepipe. They might be going to die today, and yet he had spared the Malay children and sleeping wounded the additional anxiety of the klaxon. He must be going mad.

  As he reached the control-room deck, and the lower hatch was slammed and clipped behind him, he saw Christie and his observer already by the chart table.

  ‘Twenty metres, sir. Revolutions for eight knots. Ship’s head zero-four-five.’

  ‘Very good, Number One.’ Ainslie nodded to Christie. ‘Glad you made it.’

  Christie looked very pleased with himself, and had a mask of oil below where his goggles had been, like an air ace from the Great War.

  Forster was busy with parallel rulers and dividers, his eyes squinting with concentration.

  Ainslie looked at the pencilled lines, then at Christie’s grimy finger, as he indicated one small cross.

  ‘Here, sir. About twenty miles ahead of us. One big ship, the trooper, and two destroyers. Right astern there were two smaller vessels, but I daren’t get any nearer.’

  ‘Did they see you?’

  Christie grinned. ‘No chance, but I had them pinned down on the first light, right on the horizon. By God, that’s a fine little kite, sir. I could win a cup or two with her.’

  Ainslie looked at him curiously. They were suddenly face to face with it again. Twenty miles ahead. Even zigzagging, they would be in range within the hour, less if the ships were fairly new. But all Christie could think about was his new toy.

  Forster was saying, ‘We should pass at this point, sir, if we maintain present course and speed.’ His dividers hesitated above some depth figures. Thirty fathoms. It was not much with a pair of destroyers on your back.

  ‘The target’s mean course is south-west. She is expected to arrive off Kota Baharu in the forenoon. We’ll steer due north for fifteen minutes.’

  Ainslie waited as the gyro repeater ticked round above Gosling’s massive head. He was thinking aloud. ‘Maximum revolutions.’ He heard his words being translated into action. ‘Group up. Revolutions for eleven knots.’

  It was their best chance. To move in now, and fast. When they rose to periscope depth the small convoy should be to starboard, against the sun, while, with luck, Soufrière would still have a darker backcloth.

  He looked at Ridgway. ‘Full salvo. One to eight. As before, keep the two stern tubes as a last resort.’

  Forster’s pencil rolled over the chart table and fell to the deck, the only hint of the sudden increase in power.

  He saw Farrant waiting by the bulkhead door. ‘Yes, Guns?’

  Farrant eyed the control room with distaste. ‘Permission to man turret, sir.’

  ‘Not this time, Guns. But I want you to send some of your best hands forrard to look after the passengers. Things might get a bit dicey later on.’

  ‘I’d have thought . . .’ Farrant shut his mouth tightly. He knew Ainslie well enough now not to argue.

  Ainslie dropped his voice and added, ‘You may think that it hardly comes under your scheme of things. But believe me, if you’d ever seen panic, you’ll know what it could do here!’

  Halliday was looking at his diving panel but heard enough to guess what Farrant had started to say.

  ‘Silly bugger.’

  Lucas looked at him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’m not talking to you, Frenchie.’ He jerked his thumb towards where Farrant had been standing. ‘God preserve us from numskulls like him!’

  Lucas smiled gently. Halliday had said us. That was quite a breakthrough for the taciturn engineer.

  In his small sick-bay Petty Officer Hunt went about his duties with his usual meticulous care. He was one of the few men in the submarine who cared little for his surroundings. For Hunt the job was everything. Submarine, hospital, or some clapped-out barracks, it was all the same to him.

  He paused by one of the four cots. He had moved his worst cases into them after the three men who had died had been buried.

  The man was a corporal, a small, wiry Australian whose face was criss-crossed with wrinkles and as tanned as leather. Someone who had lived off the land before he had donned a uniform.

  He was dying very slowly, the life draining out of him with the precision of sand in an egg-timer. No hurry, no obvious change, but Hunt had seen enough dying men to recognize the signs.

  He looked around his crowded domain. Men lying on the deck in blankets, or sitting on lockers waiting to have their dressings changed. The rest were scattered through the hull like extra provisions. The petty officers’ mess, the wardroom, there was even one soldier in the torpedo storage space.

  Hunt wondered if he should visit the captain’s cabin and see that the two British girls were all right. He had been once, and heard the one whose husband had been left in the village moaning and sobbing, coming out of her drugged respite to go over it all again.

  Hunt disliked women, but he had found time to admire the other girl, the one called Natalie, when she had said, ‘I’ll look after you. We’ll be all right. You see.’

  All right? Hunt watched the dying man. We’ll be bloody lucky to get out of it in one piece.

  He looked up, irritated, as a burly leading seaman stepped over the coaming. ‘What’s wrong with you, then?’

  The seaman was a gunlayer, who grinned as he answered, ‘Gunnery officer’s orders, PO. I’m here to help out.’

  Hunt frowned. All this mess to clear up. Women aboard, kids, the lot. And now this intrusion.

  He opened his mouth but said nothing as the intercom speaker clicked on.

  ‘This is the captain. We are about to engage an enemy convoy, the main target being a troopship. Our men in Malaya need all the help they can get. We’ll try to give some. That is all.’

  The dying soldier had opened his eyes and said hoarsely, ‘I heard that, mate!’ He smiled up at the burly leading hand and reached out to grip the SBA’s arm. But his arm froze in mid air, and Hunt folded it gently across the man’s chest and then closed his eyes.

  The seaman said quietly, ‘Poor bastard. And all for nothing.’

  Unaware of this and similar dramas throughout his command, Ainslie replaced the microphone on its rack. He did not turn as the first report came through.

  ‘Faint HE at green nine-oh.’ The Asdic operator sounded engrossed. ‘Too much interference, sir, but more than two ships.’

  Ainslie rubbed his palms free of moisture on his trousers. ‘Group down. Revs for seven knots. Silent routine.’ He listened to the fading purr of electric motors, the hushed voices of a boatswain’s mate on the microphone. ‘Periscope depth, Number One.’

  He thought about Critchley’s words under the stars, the Malayan children who had found Sawle’s pity.

  ‘Fourteen metres, sir.’

  Ainslie glanced at the young stoker who was waiting to press the hoist switch. ‘Ready, Tamlyn?’

  The stoker was no more than eighteen, but he gave a great grin as he said, ‘When you say the word, sir.’

  Ainslie stooped down above the periscope well. He’s pleased because I remembered his name. God, it should take more than that to make men risk their lives.

  He raised his arm slowly. ‘Now.’

  Every muscle in Ainslie’s back and neck seemed to be aching in unison. For no more than seconds at a time he took quick glances through the attack periscope, his eye and brain working like a switch.

  Surprisingly, it was all happening as he had expected. Through the spray-dashed lens he had seen the troopship, her side shining in the early sunlight as she completed another zi
gzag. She was well down, loaded to the hatches with men and weapons.

  Behind him Ridgway’s ‘fruit machine’ whirred and clicked as the brief checks through the periscope were transformed into figures and data to be fed into the machine and passed forward to the torpedo tubes.

  The troopship’s mean course was south-west, her speed about nine knots.

  Against the strange yellow glow she made the perfect target, heavy and stark, like a block of flats.

  But the escorts were worrying. Each destroyer was slightly ahead of the trooper, one on either bow. They seemed to have no set pattern in their zigzagging courses, or if they did, Ainslie was not getting long enough to understand the key.

  ‘Range six thousand yards.’ Ainslie remained crouching beside the well as the greased tube hissed down again. ‘Alter course. Steer zero-seven-zero.’

  He waited, controlling his breathing, as the gyro ticked round. Further aft, a mechanic was working on the diving panel with a screwdriver, his face completely calm, as if he were doing a job in his own home.

  ‘Tubes one to eight ready, sir.’

  Ainslie looked at the young stoker. He no longer had to tell him what to do. Another compact unit.

  He gripped the handles, swinging the lens on to the changed bearing. How wet the handles were, in fact his whole body was soaking, as if he were in a downpour. He dared not look at the clock. It felt like hours since that first Asdic report, years since it had all started. But he knew it was a bare twenty minutes.

  Ainslie tightened his grip, the sunlight probing his eye as he saw the target rise through the thin mist of spray and moisture.

  ‘Bow doors open.’

  Not yet. Not yet. He moved the periscope carefully, hearing the petty officer’s breathing as he followed it round to read the bearings. Dear God, where is that destroyer? He could see the furthest one, turning away to show her narrow stern and, further still, one of the other vessels, belching smoke.

  This was the testing moment. At any second the submarine might break surface, or the escorts could pick her up on their sonar.

  It was no use. It would have to wait. He knelt on the deck as the sea blotted out the daylight again.

  He looked at Quinton. ‘Bloody destroyer is coming our way. She’s big. One of their Kagero class, I think.’

  He heard Christie leafing through the recognition manual, then the pilot said, ‘Thirty-six knots, sir. Six five-inch guns.’

  Ridgway was still working his machine. ‘Nasty.’

  Ainslie did not look up at the curved deckhead. It took effort not to, even though he knew it was pointless. He had heard the sound for himself: thrum-thrum-thrum, the destroyer’s screws churning the sea above.

  The Asdic operator said, ‘About a thousand yards, sir.’

  Ainslie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The passengers would hear it, too. A noise filled with menace, like a reaper in a field.

  He looked at Forster. ‘It’s about the only damned advantage of being in shallow water, Pilot. So many back echoes that their chap probably doesn’t believe a thing.’ He saw Forster smile, the way his lips were frozen. A mask. Like the rest of them.

  He looked at the stoker. ‘Last time. Stand by.’ He lowered himself to meet the periscope, watching the crystal water, the pale blue above, and then the target, the high bows thrusting across the edge of the lens. Like a door closing.

  There was a faint, metallic ping, like someone using a tuning fork against the hull.

  Ainslie turned the lens slightly and felt his stomach muscles contract.

  The big destroyer was bows on, her stem cutting through the water like a battering ram as she turned towards the hidden submarine.

  Ping. The Japanese sonar reached out and found the Soufrière again, homing the destroyer towards her like a fox to the kill.

  Ainslie said tersely, ‘Ready!’ He stared at the troopship’s foremast, the sudden patch of colour as flags appeared on her yard. The escort must have warned her.

  ‘Fire One!’ He slammed the handles together and jumped to his feet. ‘Carry on firing by stop-watch. Full pattern.’ He strode across the deck and peered at the plot. ‘Hard aport. Group up, full ahead together.’

  He heard the clicks from the firing panel and saw the little red lights coming up as each torpedo leapt from its tube.

  ‘Shut off for depth-charging.’

  Seconds before the watertight door was clipped shut he thought he heard a child crying. This was no place for children, no matter what they had gone through already.

  ‘Steady. Steer three-five-zero.’

  Ainslie saw Ridgway looking at his watch. The hull was shaking more than usual as the motors worked up to full speed.

  ‘Depth here is thirty fathoms, sir.’

  ‘Take her down to forty metres.’

  The petty officer stoker at the diving panel moved deftly like a juggler with his vent controls, and Ainslie found himself listening to the controlled inrush of water, watching the hydroplane tell-tales dipping to take Soufrière closer to the sea-bed.

  ‘Forty metres, sir.’

  Thrum-thrum-thrum. The destroyer was also turning, charging hard round in pursuit.

  There was a tremendous explosion, and for a second Ainslie imagined he had been bracketed by depth-charges from another patrol vessel. Then another, the massive shock waves rolling the hull back and forth like a sick whale while the rudder and hydroplanes fought to keep her under command.

  Ridgway’s face shone with sweat. ‘We’ve hit her!’

  Crash. Crash. Crash. As each torpedo found its mark, and the terrible shock waves came bouncing back from the sea-bed, everyone heard and felt other explosions, large and small. It was like being trapped in a cavern filled with exploding dynamite. It went on and on, so that the drone of the destroyer’s screws was lost in the din.

  Quinton said between his teeth, ‘She must have been carrying a whole lot more than soldiers. Enough ammo for a whole bloody army!’

  The Asdic operator reported, ‘Heavy HE has stopped, sir.’

  They heard the last detonation rolling away like thunder, then the grinding sounds of a ship breaking up, machinery and equipment tearing free and plummeting through the shattered bulk-heads.

  The destroyer’s engines took over once more. Nearer and nearer, the sound changing and expanding.

  ‘Hard astarboard. Steady. Steer zero-four-five.’

  Forster said, ‘Depth twenty fathoms, sir.’

  ‘Bring her up to twenty metres.’

  The hull shuddered as two depth-charges exploded off the port beam. But the sudden alteration of course, plus the confusion left by the sinking troopship, had thrown the destroyer’s commander off balance.

  ‘Depth twenty-eight fathoms, sir. Constant for five miles.’

  ‘Very well. Take her down to thirty metres. Hard astarboard. Steady.’ He winced as another pattern of depth-charges exploded at a more shallow setting. Several lights went out and glass flew from some gauges as if it had been spat out. He said, ‘Steer zero-eight-zero.’ He peered at the shivering plot table and saw Forster’s hands moving across his chart to plan each change of track, seek out every hazard before they hit it.

  ‘HE at red nine-oh. Closing.’

  One of the patrol vessels. Slower, less certain, but just as deadly if they could bracket their target.

  Forster said grimly, ‘They’re trying to hem us in, sir.’ He pointed with his pencil. ‘The big chap here and the other two coming down to port. The other destroyer must have stopped. Either to pick up survivors or to block our escape.’

  Ainslie looked at him. ‘Good thinking.’ To Ridgway he said, ‘Stand by nine and ten.’

  It was like conning the Soufrière into one huge snare. If he could only delay one of the destroyers, the attacking one. Just to give him time to disrupt the pattern. Make them believe Soufrière was severely damaged or sinking.

  He said quietly, ‘You reported that a soldier died in the sickbay?’ He hurried
on without looking at Ridgway. ‘Tell your torpedo gunner’s mate to take the body forrard, along with any blood-stained dressings Hunt can give you. You will fire them from one of the tubes when I give the order.’ He turned to Halliday. ‘Chief. Get your people to release fifty gallons of diesel at the same time.’

  Ridgway swallowed hard. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The phone crackled, and Ainslie tried not to think of the anonymous soldier being carried forward, to be ejected from a tube like so much rubbish.

  ‘Ready, sir.’ Ridgway’s voice was hushed.

  ‘Now!’

  He felt the slight lurch as the tube was emptied, and heard the muffled beat of a pump as oil was sent surging to the surface with the corpse.

  ‘HE lessening, sir. Destroyer reducing speed.’

  It had worked. The simplest and the grisliest ruse of all. Ainslie felt sickened by it. Ashamed.

  In the Atlantic or the Mediterranean it would not have worked. It had once, but the killing grounds were quick and brutal teachers.

  He breathed out very slowly, the bile rising in his throat.

  Now for the other destroyer. Waiting no doubt for Soufrière to pass beneath or so close to her she would straddle her with a full pattern.

  He made himself ignore the tap-tap of the Japanese sonar, the sounds of racing screws – everything but the need to break up the escorts.

  ‘Periscope depth in two minutes.’

  He blinked as two charges burst almost within fatal distance, cutting off more lights and bringing down the cork-filled paint from the deckhead like hardened snow.

  ‘Group down. Revs for seven knots.’

  ‘Stern doors open, sir.’

  ‘Periscope depth.’ Ainslie knelt down, his heart feeling as if it would split in halves. ‘Right, Tamlyn.’

  He swung the periscope towards the stern, seeing one of the patrol vessels leaning right over in a tight turn before she made another run-in. There was smoke and wreckage everywhere, the whole scene completely changed. Men floundering in the sea like dying fish, other already floating, gutted or in fragments, blasted apart by their escorts’ depth-charges.

  He tensed, seeing the second destroyer. ‘One thousand yards. Bearing that.’

  Click, click went Ridgway’s machine.