Surface!

by Surface! (retail) (epub)

  “Gar, you shower of flippin’ sods! Get on, you flippin’ fowls, I’ll make you jump!”

  Bird, on the junk’s deck, raised his eyebrows and murmured a protest as he cast off the line and the Gunlayer leaped across the gap, just in time. The submarine backed away, full speed astern on the motors; the bridge was empty and the vents crashed open, the air roared out and she dived stern first.

  Sub was on deck in time to see the bridge disappear, and looking around for a reason for this remarkable manoeuvre he saw it at once. An aircraft was approaching at a height of about two thousand feet from the direction of Sumatra.

  “Put the extra Chinks down below, Bird. Boarding Party go below, all of you. Keep an eye on the Chinks and if any of them make any trouble, kill them.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The Boarding Party vanished.

  The junks’ crew, three men, sat around on deck looking quite normal except at close quarters, when their expressions were those of rabbits with a snake in their hutch. Sub was crouching under the poop, his .38 revolver well in view, aimed at the senior member.

  The aircraft lost height, and circled slowly. To save time, Sub indicated to the crew that they were to sail towards the nearest junk.

  The airman could see nothing unusual. The escorts had been sunk: the submarine had dived, and presumably he had frightened it away. There was nothing he could do! Banking sharply, be straightened his course and headed away to report back to his base in Sumatra.

  “Bird!”

  “Sir?”

  “All clear. Leave two hands to watch them. You, Shadwell and Parrot come up here.”

  The three men appeared out of the musty hatch. The Gunlayer followed them, looking hurt that he hadn’t been mentioned. Sub pointed to the nearest junk, a hundred yards away.

  “We’ll take that one now. She’s smaller and easier to handle, so we’ll transfer to her and sink this one. Then we’ll go around the fleet leaving our cards.”

  The junk’s crew were no seamen, and ran their junk alongside the other with a crash of straining timbers. The Chinese were sent over into the smaller craft, and after placing the charge Sub sent his men over. He fired the charge and followed them. They cast off, and headed for the bunch of five junks that still hung together, waiting their turn in a conveniently close formation.

  Bird eased himself into a languid position in the bow of the junk, and remarked that it reminded him of his last season at Cowes.

  “Simply spiffin’ old boy, it was,” he told the Gunlayer.

  “Silly bastard.”

  Bird began to sing the Eton boating song.

  Parrot came for’ard and looked down at Bird. “Shut up,” he said, quietly. Bird stopped singing, a look of surprise on his big face.

  “‘Oo d’you think yer talking to, eh?”

  “You came up through the Guntower hatch, didn’t you, same as Guns ‘ere?”

  “I did – what of it?”

  “You didn’t see Wilky, did yer?”

  “No – what d’yer mean?”

  “I mean he’s dead. I mean ’is guts are all over the flippin’ bridge. That’s what I mean.”

  There was a bang from the junk which they had just left; rocking slightly, she began to sink.

  Chapter 4

  “Not a bad job you did, Sub.”

  From the Captain, that was a startling recommend.

  The submarine was dived again, waiting for dark.

  Number One said, “If any officer in Naval history has lost his first nine commands quite so fast, I’d be very surprised.”

  The Captain was thinking that on paper, in the patrol report, it looked well enough. Two anti-submarine launches, nine junks, a couple of dozen Japanese sailors and a few officers. Against that, one British sailor. Yes, it looked like a battle won. But to Arthur Hallet’s private mind he’d have given a year’s seniority not to have met that convoy. In an operational submarine, discipline was real. It meant complete understanding between officer and man, the sacrifice of any personal feelings when they counted against efficiency, the discarding of any formality that counted against the general welfare. Nobody was just a name and a number. Every man was a complete individual, a separate, vital component of the fighting machine.

  “Basher” Wilkins, as they called him in the seamen’s mess, had been one of them, part of Seahound herself. Now what remained of him was on the bottom, heavily weighted, wrapped in a Union Jack. No man who had stood in the Control Room while the Captain read the simple prayers, no man who had been on the bridge when “Basher” took his last, solitary dive, would ever forget this day, nor ever make peace with a Jap.

  * * *

  “Where do we go from here, sir?” Number One asked the question as the Captain turned back from the chart table. He brought the chart with him, spread it on the wardroom table.

  Off the extreme north-western tip of Sumatra is an island called Sabang. Inside the island, through a narrow bottleneck entrance, is a wide enclosed bay. The Captain pointed his pencil at the mainland coast inside the bay.

  “In there,” he said, “are jetties with cranes on them, storage sheds and an oil tank. I think we’ll nip in tomorrow and shake ’em up.”

  Chief sat up quickly.

  “But sir! How do we get out, afterwards?”

  “Who’s to stop us?”

  “They may have a patrol-boat, or aircraft. May be shore batteries. Think of my wife!”

  “Either we’ll get out dived, or we’ll stay in until dark and get out on the surface at night. And that’s enough comment from you. Pilot!”

  “Sir?”

  “Lay off a course to pass close outside Sabang, to enter from the East.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Sub!”

  “Sir?”

  “Is the Gunlayer doing a routine on the gun tonight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How much ammunition left?”

  “Only used about twenty rounds, sir.”

  “I asked how much was left, not how much you’d used.”

  “I’ll check up, sir.”

  “You ought to bloody well know.”

  Chief, who knew trouble when he smelt it, wandered quietly off to the Engine Room.

  * * *

  “Signal coming through, sir.”

  When it was deciphered, it was not received with any warmth. It was an Air/Sea Rescue signal, a report of an American bomber shot down, an order to proceed to a certain position and look for the survivors who, it was hoped, were still alive in a rubber dinghy. These signals were not at all unusual, and as most of them resulted in fruitless search because of an incorrectly reported position, nobody ever got very excited.

  “God damn and blast,” said the Captain. “All right, Pilot, put it on the chart and let’s see.”

  It meant all night at full speed again, and Chief shut his eyes as though the thought hurt him more than it would his engines. He lay down and pretended to go to sleep: there was less likelihood of being asked to do anything.

  * * *

  “Say,” began the aviator whose aircraft had bought it over Bangkok. “Say, do you guys know how to shoot crap?”

  Chief opened one eye. The Americans were sitting round the wardroom table.

  “No,” said the Chief, and closed the eye.

  “Gen’lemen,” said the Yank, looking round at the men in their bunks, “I guess we’re gonna have to i-nitiate you into a fine old American custom. Shootin’ crap.”

  “If you refer to the game you seem to have been playing all night,” said the Chief, “I may as well tell you that I have not the slightest intention of having anything to do with it.”

  “Tell me now,” asked the American, a look of friendly interest in his face, “do you have anything in partic’lar against us guys? Or would you be what I heard a guy described as, once, ‘ant-i-social’?”

  Chief grunted, and tried to go on sleeping.

  “No, listen, now – er, what do the guys call you – Chie
f? – Tell me, now, what do you really think of us Americans?”

  “That’s not an easy question. But I once heard an Indian answer it rather well. He said: America is the only country in history that has passed from a state of barbarism to a state of decadence without first going through a state of civilisation. That answer your question?”

  “Uh-huh. I guess so. Didja hear the story about the G.I. and the English Tommy in London, Chiefy?”

  “Go on.”

  “Wal, seems the Britisher says to the G.I., the trouble with you Yanks, he says, is that you’re over-paid, over-sexed and over here.”

  “Hear hear,” murmured the Chief.

  “So the G.I. says to the Limey: The trouble with you is you’re under-paid, under-sexed, and under Eisenhower. How’s that, boy?”

  Chief drew himself out to his full length.

  “I am not,” he said, “a boy.”

  “Guess he must be a goil,” said the Lootenant.

  They had found the dinghy straight off with no difficulty. A signal had been sent with the names of the four survivors, and in reply had come an order to rendezvous with a Catalina flying-boat which would take the airmen home to their base in India.

  For once, some lives had been saved and not lost or taken. It was quite a change.

  When they left, the Yankees shook Chief warmly by the hand.

  “S’long, Chiefy. If you get leave, one day, come up and see us. We’ll show you around, be glad to.”

  “Thanks very much,” replied Chief. “It’s been nice having you.”

  Everyone stared at them in amazement.

  Chief’s jaws were moving rhythmically up and down. He was chewing gum, or at any rate pretending to.

  * * *

  Over the dead-flat water the early morning mist was thick, blue-grey; an eerie light as the submarine nosed her way at periscope depth into the gap between the island and the mainland. There was not much room to spare, and the Captain himself was keeping the periscope watch, the Navigator standing ready to put a position on the chart as soon as the mist cleared enough to see the edges of the island. The feeling in the submarine was more tense than usual: the last submarine that the flotilla had lost was believed to have been lost in this placid, peaceful-looking bay.

  “Clearing a bit. Take down these bearings.”

  The fix on the chart showed that they were through the bottleneck, in the eastern end of the land-locked bay.

  “All right, Pilot. Take over the watch.”

  At the far end of the bay, on the coast of Sumatra, was the little harbour that was to be their target later in the day.

  “Show as little periscope as possible.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” In the warm silence the submarine crept steadily in between the smiling hills.

  * * *

  A messenger stood in the Wardroom entrance.

  “From the First Lieutenant, sir, would you please come into the Control Room.”

  The Captain swallowed a last forkful of corned beef, and joined Number One.

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s a small steamer at anchor off the port, sir. Red six-oh: she’s camouflaged, a bit hard to see against the background.”

  The Captain peered through the periscope.

  “Well, I’m damned! You’re quite right, Number One.”

  He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin in the characteristic manner that they’d all seen so often when he stood at the periscope during an attack.

  “Right. I’ll sink her with one fish, then surface and bombard. We’ll finish lunch first. Go to Diving Stations at one-thirty, Number One, but watch that ship and let me know if she starts getting under way. For God’s sake don’t show too much periscope.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Sub – tell the T.I. I’ll be firing one torpedo at about one-thirty-five. River-steamer at anchor. When we’ve sunk her I’m going to surface and bombard.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Sub went forward.

  The T.I. goggled. “I don’t believe it, sir. Fire a torpedo? From this ship. I thought we’d forgotten we ‘ad any.”

  “When we’ve sunk her, we’ll be surfacing for a bombardment.”

  “Ah, that’s the stuff, sir. Got to throw the old gun in, too.”

  * * *

  “Steady as you go!” snaps the Captain, stooping at the periscope.

  “Steady sir,” answers the helmsman. “Course-one-nine-one.”

  “Which tube, Sub?”

  “Number three, sir.”

  “Stand by number three tube.”

  The man with the telephone set sends the message forward to the T.I.

  “Number three ready, sir.”

  “Stand by – fire!”

  There’s a thud that jars through the whole submarine as the torpedo is shot out of the tube. The air-pressure rises sharply and you swallow to clear your ears.

  The man with the headphones, Saunders, reports, “Torpedo running, sir.”

  “Very good.” The Captain watches steadily through the periscope. Everyone is waiting for the bang they want to hear. Sometimes torpedoes go wrong and run crooked, off their course. Sometimes they miss. Up forward, the T.I. is murmuring under his breath, “Oh Gawd, let it ‘it, don’t let it miss, Gawd, not this one.”

  It hits all right, a roaring, shattering explosion, and the Captain smiles.

  “Right. Stand by Gun Action.”

  You’ve seen it earlier, through the periscope, and so has the Gunlayer. You know the targets: first the big oil storage tank, then the buildings and cranes on the jetty. But the storage tank stands among trees, and there’s no sign of where the shell falls. Make a correction, any correction, and try again.

  “Down eight hundred, shoot!”

  You’re in line, on the edge of the trees. “Up twelve hundred, shoot!”

  A film of dust rises through the tall trees, just short of the tank. “Up four hundred, shoot!”

  A hit, a flash of orange flame on the target. No more corrections: rapid fire.

  A gun is firing from the harbour area, and the shots are not far off. That’s a job for Rogers, the newly-promoted Oerlikon gunner. He gives it a long burst, and the firing stops. Rogers quickly changes the magazine on his gun and waits, watching for any more opposition.

  The oil tank is finished now, and looks strangely like the stem of a giant mushroom, the top of which is composed of flames and black, oily smoke.

  The Oerlikon is firing again: more opposition from a shore battery, one of whose shots at this moment has scrunched overhead, a noise like tearing calico: the splash goes up a long way over on their starboard quarter. Rogers has changed the pan on his gun, but his continued fire has no apparent effect on the enemy.

  “Stop that bugger, Sub!”

  The Sub yells over the front of the bridge to the crew of the three-inch: “Shift target left: gun battery behind the left edge of the harbour: under the white smoke-cloud.”

  The Gunlayer raises his left hand, thumb uppermost, in acknowledgement as he shows the Trainer the target.

  “Down eight hundred, shoot!” The first round at the Jap battery hurtles away as one more enemy shot rips across astern.

  “Down two hundred, shoot!”

  It looks like a near miss, that one.

  “No correction, shoot!” and as the splash from the enemy’s shell drenches the gun’s crew, the Captain orders full speed ahead to upset the Jap’s calculations.

  “Nice work, Sub!” That last one hit the battery. Two more shots in the same place, and still no answering fire: it seems to have done the trick.

  Shift target to the jetty, and a crane goes over on its side. Three or four men rush out of the sheds, make for the trees as shells begin to land in the wooden buildings.

  In ten minutes the little port is wrecked. In front of the background of the blazing oil tank, four other fires are blazing and spreading. Two cranes are finished for good, and a barge, the only thing that was left afloat after you’d t
orpedoed the steamer, is sunk.

  Cease fire, blow your whistle. Take a last look, before you dive. They’ll remember this day, ashore.

  You shout to the Gun’s crew: “Good shooting!” and they grin, showing white teeth in their blackened, happy faces.

  * * *

  Rogers, the man who had taken Wilkins’ place as Oerlikon gunner, sat in the Seamen’s Mess, peeling potatoes.

  “Lieutenant Commander ’Allet,” he announced, “is the best flippin’ C.O. I ever served with.”

  “Ah,” agreed a hard-faced man they called Dodger. “Reckon we’ve got a good lad, there.”

  “If any bastard in this flippin’ ship likes to argue with me,” continued Rogers, “I’ll ram ’is teeth dahn ’is flippin’ throat.”

  “You always was one for an argument,” commented Shadwell, from the depths of a hammock.

  Rogers looked at him. “I was up on the bridge just now, Shaddy, and when we was finished flippin’ the place up, and there was more smoke and flames than that on the flippin’ beach, I saw the old man lookin’ at it, steady-like, like ’e was drinking it in. When ’e turned round to pass some flippin’ remark to Subby, ’e saw me, and ’e gave a funny flippin’ grin, ’ard like, and I could see plain as kiss-me-arse what ’e was thinkin’. ’e was saying to ’imself,

  “‘There y’are, yer yeller bastards: take that lot for old Wilkie, and may you roast in ’ell, you shower o’ stinkin’ sods’.”

  Rogers looked round the Mess.

  “That’s what ’e was thinkin’, plain as yer like. ’E’d been givin’ ’em one for Wilkie, nothin’ else.”

  The words were hardly spoken when the klaxon roared over their heads, a blast as hard as a physical blow in its effect on the men who were sitting quiet and relaxed. The klaxon when the submarine was at periscope depth meant Collision Stations, shut off for depth-charging, dive to sixty feet. A bunch of half-a-dozen men performed the impossible feat of leaping aft through the bulkhead doorway in one solid mass: Shadwell heaved the door shut behind Chief Petty Officer Rawlinson as he fought his way in. The bar swung down, locking the heavy door in place.