One worrying – puzzling – feature of all this was that no propeller sounds had been heard. If Clansman had passed overhead or even close, the churning screw would have been audible. The answer might be that Ozzard was keeping clear, realizing that they were in some kind of trouble but still thinking or hoping that they might surface at any moment. If he thought it was even a possibility, he’d keep clear.
It was a possibility, too. Damn well had to be.
Although if he’d seen the smoke-float and the marker – the marker particularly – he’d see it was static, not being towed, and know she was on the bottom – you’d think he might have come in close.
Smoke candle failed to ignite? One had had duds… And the marker-buoy: with the height of the swell up there, it might take a very sharp eye to spot it, from any distance? If the smoke-float had worked, of course, they’d have been purposefully looking for it: but otherwise?
Mike Searle, Wally Bristol and a torpedoman by name of Clark had drowned in the Tube Space. Hamilton, Barlows’ Ship Manager, was dead too, probably of a heart attack. Eddington – leading torpedoman – had dragged him out of the Tube Space, and he’d died on the deck in the Fore Ends. Chalk’s knowledge of what had happened in those crucial minutes was mostly second- and third-hand, but according to the TI’s account Wally Bristol had gone back in to release the catch on the watertight door, had succeeded in doing so but then failed to reappear. They’d given him as much time as they could, but that door had had to be shut, and quickly. Or rather, they’d had to try to shut it. One didn’t question this: but the TI, CPO Osborne, had told Pargeter, ‘Should’ve been me, in there…’
In fact the door had not been shut. They’d just about won the battle but with inches to go one of the securing clamps had come out of its securing clip – dud clip, no spring in it even brand-new – fallen across the diminishing gap between the door and the bulkhead. The door had had to be eased back open again while the obstruction was located and removed – under water, and in pitch darkness, the lights having just gone out, and a few seconds later Trumpeter had hit the bottom. They’d all been knocked off their feet, the door had swung free again – latching itself again, probably – and by this time the order had come from Pargeter to evacuate the Fore Ends.
* * *
In the passage outside the wardroom Dymock was making small adjustments to the straps and belt of his DSEA set. He had both hands free for it, thanks to the bow-down angle having eased to only a few degrees now. Chalk and Buchanan had come through to the wardroom a few minutes ago, picking their way through the Control Room where men sat or sprawled over every square inch of deck-space. They were Barlows’ men, mostly, fitters and so forth. There’d been an exodus, at the time of the flooding, from the TSC and subsequently overcrowded adjoining messes; they’d moved like refugees, filing through to wherever they could find room to settle. Sitting or lying in silence, in the main, each isolated in his own thoughts or fears, but some desultorily chatting. A game of cards was in progress in the helmsman’s corner when Chalk and Buchanan passed through.
‘Anythin’ doin’, sir?’
A pale young Scot of about his own age: in glasses, and with pens and/or pencils clipped in his top pocket. Chalk told him, ‘Will be soon, I’m sure. Don’t worry…’
The one thing that was definitely ‘doing’ was that the air was being used up, with every passing minute. CO~2~ content growing steadily. At this stage the poison wasn’t noticeable, but it soon would be.
Pargeter had asked them to join him and his VIP guests in the wardroom – the messenger being Nat Eason, who’d interrupted Chalk’s lecture and demonstration of escape procedures. Wanting to finish it, he’d told Eason, ‘All right, Chief – in just a minute’, but Buchanan had pushed the gear back at him – mask, belt, oxygen bottle, breathing-bag, mouthpiece and nose-clip. ‘Thanks, but I’d never make anything of it.’
‘Any luck, you won’t need to.’ Eason jerked a thumb for’ard. ‘They got plans for getting us up.’ Eyes on Chalk’s then: ‘Going to be a busy night, I reckon.’
They’d gone through to the wardroom, where Pargeter had welcomed Buchanan and made room for him. Captain McAllister’s wide, strong-boned face, running with sweat, creased into a smile as he greeted them; beside him, the diminutive Gleeson was deep in a highly technical discussion with the Admiralty overseer, Hughes, whose face was creased with anxiety. Joe Fairley was listening in, scowling now and then as if there were bits he didn’t like the sound of. While Random, the ‘perisher’ man, was sketching out some other theory on a signal-pad and explaining it to Quarry – who was CO of a ‘T’ currently building at Chatham. Random glanced up at Chalk and nodded, with the glimmer of a smile.
Pargeter brought them up to date. ‘Dymock and Leading Seaman Billingstone are going to have a shot at getting for’ard to shut that rear door and open the compartment suctions. I say “have a shot” at it because the pressure’s going to be a bastard. But if they can stand it – for long enough – well…’
‘Solve our problems.’
‘Most of them. Yes. When it’s done, we’ll start pumping. Daren’t blow – the fore hatch mightn’t stand up to it, anyway we’ve used too much air already. That’s also the reason I’ve decided against trying to get her off the putty as we are now.’
Random agreed. ‘Makes sense.’
‘Very much so.’ McAllister, mopping at his face with a handkerchief like a sodden rag.
‘If it’d help – share the work out –’ Chalk glanced round at Dymock – ‘I could go in there with them. Easily get three in the chamber.’
‘You obviously haven’t seen Billingstone.’ Dymock was hanging a wheelspanner on his DSEA belt. ‘Big Billy, they call him for’ard.’
‘We’ll hold you in reserve, Rufus.’ Pargeter glanced at him. ‘Thanks all the same.’ Turning to Buchanan then… ‘The rest of it is—’ glancing at his watch – ‘well, it’s past six now, and we’ve heard nothing from up top. As you may know, we’ve streamed a marker-buoy – so they should know where we are – but – frankly, we don’t know what the situation is.’
Calshot was in the companionway, listening. Eason and the other two commissioned engineers were there too. And John Hervey, now.
‘What it comes down to is that sending anyone out by DSEA – when we don’t know for sure that there’s anyone up there—’
‘Pointless.’
‘Yes. But at first light, perhaps—’
‘But, Captain.’ Hughes the Principal Overseer… ‘Can there be no-one up there? After your flare and the marker-buoy – and the fact we’ve now been down longer than the three hours you announced as your intention?’
‘Yes. I know… I mean I’ve no idea. Except – look, better not let this get round – I happen to know that the tug has no wireless other than a radio-telephone with a range of twenty-five miles – in good conditions. Can’t say how R/T conditions are, mind you, but that’s about the range they’d need – every yard of it.’
‘Christ…’
‘They may have need to close the land – Ardrossan, say – to get a message over. It’s only a possibility – dare say I’m wrong, hope I am. It might account for the tug’s temporary absence, though. And with the marker up there, Ozzard would know he can find us again – and what else could he do, in the circumstances? Then again – it’ll be dark in a few hours, won’t it? No point at all, then, sending chaps out. Obvious thing is, therefore – barring sounds from the surface within the next hour or two – wait for daylight, then think about escapes by DSEA.’
‘Leading Seaman Billingstone’s dressed and standing by, sir.’ The coxswain, CPO West. Burly, bearded… ‘When you’re ready, sir?’
‘Coming now, Cox’n.’ Dymock asked Pargeter. ‘All right, sir?’
‘Good luck.’ Joe Fairley, leaning across the table with a hand out to shake Dymock’s… ‘Very best o’ luck, Lieutenant.’
Billingstone, Chalk saw, was the second coxswain, the big man
he’d seen on Trumpeter’s casing. Just this morning, but it could have been a year ago. Ten years… He put a hand on Dymock’s arm: ‘Good luck, Toby.’
Eye to eye, for one long moment. Then a nod. ‘See you.’
He added in a lower tone, ‘If by chance I don’t—’
‘Don’t be damn silly.’
‘Give her my love. Please.’ He raised his voice: ‘All right, Second. Get cracking, shall we?’
‘I’ll give you the rest of it, Rufus.’ Pargeter was edging out around the table. ‘Captain Gleeson’s idea primarily, but we’ve all put in our penn’orth. Come daylight, however well or badly the pumping-out process may have gone, we’ll send a couple of men out through the after chamber with a message for whoever’s up top by then, suggesting they send a diver down and connect an air-hose to our whistle connection. Fitters can prepare for it during the night – quite a job of work, there’ll be some new pipes to run, but—’
‘Air for breathing, or air for blowing?’
‘Blowing. With the object of getting her up there while we can still breathe.’
He thought, pausing in the companionway, Fat chance… Then put the same thought in a different way to Pargeter: ‘Bit of a tight schedule – isn’t it. We may last out as long as – midday, or thereabouts?’
‘Mid-afternoon, we reckon. But if this job goes as we hope, we might get her off the bottom by – oh, during the forenoon. And in the meantime – before that, after what I might call the first eleven’s gone out with our message, we’ll continue sending men out, in batches of three or even four. If we were to start that at say 0500, and it goes smoothly—’
‘Lighten her aft, get the stern up so the chamber’s closer to the surface?’
‘Well done.’ When Engineer Captain Gleeson grinned like that he had the look of a little monkey. ‘We did think of it, as it happens. Your bright idea, Random, wasn’t it?’
‘One other – which you’ll also have thought of, I’m sure. Alternative to using the whistle connection—’
‘The gun recuperator?’
He nodded. ‘You’re a jump ahead of me.’
He thought the plan might stand a snowball’s chance in hell, but not much more than that. These others must have known it too. The only way it could succeed would be if they were standing by up there with divers and a suitable air-hose and connections, and a compressor ready to start delivering air within minutes of receiving this proposal. If they had to spend more than about an hour in preparation, all there’d be to salvage would be a slightly shop-soiled ‘T’-class submarine with about a hundred dead men inside her.
* * *
There’d been plenty of volunteers to go into the forward compartments with Dymock. He’d made his own choice of Billingstone presumably because he was a powerfully-built man with lungs about the size of a horse’s.
They’d agreed that when they got into the TSC, Dymock would make his way through to the Tube Space, shut number five tube’s rear door and then rejoin Billingstone who’d have been waiting beside the hatch of the escape chamber. Dymock would wait then while Billingstone went to open the mainline suctions. This would split the physical work between them, and more importantly, if either came to grief and failed to reappear the other would be in a position to re-enter the chamber and shut its hatch so that it could be drained down. This was vitally important because if it was left open the chamber would be unusable for any future escapes.
They climbed in, the door was clamped, flood-valve opened. The Geordie ERA – Crowley – was in charge on the outside, with the TI and the Coxswain backing him up. Onlookers were Pargeter, McAllister and Random, with others in the background including Chalk, Nat Eason, Hughes, Fairley and Buchanan.
Both men in there were now breathing from their DSEA sets. Outsiders’ eyes on them through the thick glass port, as the water rose. Chalk knew exactly how it would be sounding to them in the chamber: the roar of the steadily rising water – frightening, if you let it be – and the harsh, regular huff-and-puff of their own breathing inside the masks. The flood-valve and draining-down valve here on the outside, and hatch-operating gear, were duplicated on the inside so that sole survivors or the last to leave could operate the chamber on their own. But here and now it was being done for them, so they could save their energies. All Dymock would have to do was open a vent when the water reached a certain height, and then, when the chamber was completely flooded and the pressure equalized, open the hatch into the TSC.
The rising water seethed around Dymock’s mask: at the same level, Billingstone’s shoulders. Dymock reaching to the vent, and Billingstone’s head turning that way, watching it. The top of Dymock’s head would be visible to him above water, nothing else: the water was up to his own chin… Chalk beginning to think they might pull this off: and hearing Buchanan’s mutter, ‘I could never do that.’
‘Touch wood, you won’t have to. As Nat Eason said. But if you did, you’d do it with me or someone else who knows the drill, so—’
Billingstone, facing the glass port, was pointing at his ears, shaking his head: waving both hands frantically close-up against the glass, then clapping them back over his ears…
‘Stop flooding.’ Pargeter said it, but Crowley was already screwing the flood-valve shut. Pargeter added, ‘Drain ’em down.’ Glancing round: the sad eyes seeking Chalk’s. ‘You still volunteering?’
‘Oh, yes…’
Not out of any interest in heroics, but because he thought he had at least as good a chance of making it as anyone else on board. Probably a better one. It was also in his own interests as well as everyone else’s to make this work. Put at its simplest, it might be a way to stay alive.
Dymock’s head and shoulders were out of water now, he’d shut the cock on his breathing-tube and was pulling off his mask. Billingstone was hunched against the side of the chamber, looking utterly dejected. Chalk turned back to Pargeter. ‘Toby and I together, perhaps, if he’s fit for another shot at it.’
‘Beg pardon, sir.’ CPO Osborne, the TI, speaking urgently – emotionally even… ‘It’s my job, sir – where I should’ve been.’
‘I’ve heard you were saying something of that sort, TI.’ Pargeter smiled at him, and shook his head. ‘It’s nonsense, though. You did your level best in there – and surviving’s not a crime, you know.’
‘My job here though, sir. My part of ship, that, isn’t it?’ To Chalk: ‘No offence, sir, but you’re not – well, not your boat, is she?’
‘All right.’ Pargeter was watching the last of the water drain away. It was around their knees but still above the sill of the entry hatch, so it couldn’t be opened yet. ‘That is a point. But – TI, if the first lieutenant’s unfit to try again, you’ll do it with Lieutenant Chalk.’
‘Aye aye, sir —’
Dymock, emerging from the chamber, was emphatic that he was in perfectly good shape and wanted to try again. Billingstone was shame-faced, stammering as he tried to explain the degree of pain he’d had in his ears, how he’d stood it for several minutes then couldn’t any longer. Pargeter assured him that he had nothing to be ashamed of: the first lieutenant happened to have cast-iron eardrums, that was all… ‘Better flake out for a while, Second. We’ll need you again before long. Have someone find him some dry clothes, Cox’n.’
‘What – his size, sir?’
Buchanan told Chalk, ‘I meant what I said. I couldn’t go through that.’
‘Not even with help, and to save your life?’
‘Wouldn’t. I’ve a weak heart, I know beyond any shadow of doubt I simply couldn’t stand it.’
Nobody would have thought of asking him whether he was fit or not. Or expected it to matter… Chalk told him, ‘So you’ll have to stick around until we get her up. I’m afraid you’ll find the air a bit thin, by morning.’
Before that, too. By morning, you’ll be breathing poison.
Another civilian – pale-faced, heavily-moustached – stopped them as they made their way aft. ‘N
o good, then?’
One of the caterers. Chalk had heard him enthusing to Eason about this being a great experience, what a good yarn he’d have to tell his wife and bairns.
Perhaps ignorance was bliss. Most of the Barlows’ workmen still looked remarkably untroubled. He told the caterer, ‘No good that time. Having another shot, presently. We’ll get there in the end.’
Get where?
A favoured Afrikaans saying of Diana’s echoed in his mind: Alles sal reg kom. Literally translated – ‘All will come right’. A happy thought, if you could believe it. Things sometimes did not go right: it was possible that Diana had yet to learn this.
* * *
Her voice over the wire then: ‘Who on earth have you been gassing with, this last twenty minutes?’
He felt bad about those conversations with Zoe. Having wondered sometimes whether they might not – in her intention – be a prelude to something else. Hadn’t this been the underlying reason he’d enjoyed them?
Her intention – his acquiescence?
* * *
McAllister was already in the wardroom, briefing those who’d stayed behind on what had happened. Hughes had come back too. Eason arriving then, looking as he often had when he was longing for a cigarette. Chalk told Zoe’s husband, ‘I’ll be back…’
* * *
The TI had to call it off at about the same stage that Billingstone had reached. And Dymock, who’d seemed perfectly all right up to that moment, threw his hand in too.
If the TI had been able to go through with it, he’d quite possibly have kept going, but he was seen to more or less collapse while the chamber was draining down, and both men were pulled out semi-conscious.
Pargeter decided that there’d be no more attempts. Chalk offered to make one more – alone – but he turned him down.
‘Lucky they didn’t get much further. That near the end of their tether, and not knowing it – might have got in there, then passed out…’
Not Thinking of Death Page 21