* * *
The Major shook hands warmly with the Captain. He looked just about at the end of his tether, and so did his men. They had been burnt raw by the sun and looked as though they had had no sleep in all the forty-eight hours.
“This,” said the Major, “is Mr Jones.” The Captain shook hands with the little civilian.
Mr Jones, in spite of his dishevelled and careworn appearance, bore a certain dignity. It seemed possible to the Captain that he had another name and possibly even a uniform when he was elsewhere. The Major, at any rate, treated him with a comradely respect. They seemed to know each other well, and yet occasionally the Major took some trouble in stopping just short of the word “Sir”.
“Where are the other two, Major?” asked the Captain. The Major smiled.
“Oh, don’t worry about them.” The subject was closed.
After the soldiers and Mr Jones had eaten a large meal of corned beef, cold potatoes and mayonnaise sauce, followed by bread and cheese and coffee, the Captain pressed the buzzer for the table to be cleared. Then he reached into a locker and placed four tumblers on the table. He unlocked a cupboard and produced a new bottle of Scotch.
“It’s all yours, gentlemen.” The Major asked him, “Aren’t you going to join us?”
“No, thanks. We don’t at sea. Save up our thirsts until we get into Trinco.”
Presently the Major asked him whether he could give the sergeants a tot. Number One said, “The Cox’n’s looking after them, sir. Rum.”
“Oh,” said the Major. “Well, here’s to the Seahound. God bless you all.”
The diesels were taking them north, four hundred and twenty revolutions a minute up the Straits. They weren’t sorry to be on the move.
* * *
They stood on the bridge, the Captain, the Major, Mr Jones, and Number One who was the Officer of the Watch. The Seahound was out of the Straits and clear of the enemy, way out in the Indian Ocean.
The Landing Party were now fit again, well fed and rested, in boisterous spirits. Even Mr Jones’s emaciated form had new life in it.
The aircraft, a Catalina, swept round in a big arc as it eased itself down to the water, then straightened up and touched down gently, taxied towards the submarine that lay stopped and waiting. The Captain shouted down: “Send up the rest of the Army.”
The crew of the aircraft came out on the wings with cameras to take photographs of the submarine. The Major snarled:
“I’ll have all those films exposed, in ten minutes’ time.” Security, to the Major, was like air to a deep-sea diver.
The aircraft’s crew floated a rubber dinghy down to the submarine on a long line. One at a time, Mr Jones first and the Major last, the party was hauled across. The canoes were left in Seahound.
The Major and the Captain exchanged salutes, and shook hands. The farewells had all been said. They looked into each other’s faces, and were genuinely sorry that they might not meet again.
The Captain noticed that as Mr Jones climbed up into the Catalina, he was greeted with a considerable number of salutes.
* * *
With the signal that had ordered Seahound to meet the Catalina had come the order for their recall, and as soon as the Army men were safely transferred to the big flying-boat the Captain turned his ship on to the homeward course. Over the broadcasting system he congratulated the ship’s company on their conduct during the difficult time at the bottom of the Straits. “I’m proud of you,” he said, and he meant it. They settled down to the passage routine, looking forward to the rest that lay ahead of them, the baths and the other small comforts that were always luxuries for the first few days in harbour. The Captain looked forward to a letter from Cynthia, Sub thought about where he’d go for his leave and decided on Colombo, and Number One thought about Mary-Ann. They were sitting in the wardroom, Chief on his bunk as usual and the Navigator on watch, when Number One dropped his bombshell.
“Sir,” he asked the Captain, “what would you say if I asked permission to get married?”
“Good God! Are you serious?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well I don’t suppose it’d make the slightest difference what I said, would it?”
“Er – not really, sir. But I believe one has to ask.”
“I suppose she’s white?”
The Petty Officer Telegraphist handed the Captain a cipher. “Just received, sir.”
“Well, let’s see what it’s about. Here you are Chief, get moving.” Chief sat up, mumbling to himself about the lack of peace and quiet and some people having to do all the work. The Captain threw him a pencil and Number One shoved a signal-pad across the table. Chief began to thumb wearily through the book.
“God damn and blast!” he said, suddenly. Their recall was cancelled. A Japanese cruiser had left Singapore, was believed to be trying to reach Rangoon to attack the Allied shipping that was concentrating there. All submarines were dispersed to cover every possible avenue of approach: Seahound was being sent to patrol off Port Blair, in the Andaman Islands.
Chief flung the pencil down on the table and said, “Lot of bloody nonsense. The Japs wouldn’t be such fools as to send a cruiser this far west.”
The Captain didn’t agree.
“It’s just the sort of thing they would do, Chief. They know they’ve had it, and we’re closing in. So a quick suicide raid is very Jap-like. Sink a lot of ships and throw away a cruiser in the process.”
“Well,” said Chief, “all that this is going to mean is three boring bloody days off those horrible little islands. We’ll be back in Trinco three days later than we should have been, and we won’t have seen a thing. If there is a cruiser, and not just a Flying Dutchman or a pink elephant, you can be quite sure it won’t come anywhere near us.”
The Captain was not there to hear Chief’s last speech. He was ordering a new course and an increase in speed. Chief heard the quickened tempo of the engines: scowling, he rushed aft to the Engine Room.
Sub went for’ard to the Petty Officers’ Mess, to have a word with Chief Petty Officer Rawlinson.
“Want me, sir?” asked the T.I.
“D’you remember, T.I., saying a few days ago that there wouldn’t ever be a target worth a torpedo?”
“That’s right, sir. They don’t need me in this ship. They need a flippin’ artillery sergeant.”
“What would you say, T.I., if I told you that a Jap cruiser had left Singapore and might be coming this way?”
“Well, sir, begging your pardon, I’d say you was off your rocker.”
Nobody was very excited, and most of the men were fed-up to hear that their recall had been cancelled. Nobody was fool enough to think that anything as big as a cruiser would come their way: that sort of thing didn’t happen. Anyway, they had had all the excitement they wanted in this patrol, and the idea of hanging around the Andamans in the hope of a bit more was not popular.
“Flippin’ drudge, we are in this ship,” remarked Rogers as he clipped his toe-nails. “Any flippin’ job they ‘ave, they say, ‘Oh, give it ter Sea’ound, she’s the flippin’ sucker roun’ ’ere.’ I ’spect ole Fatty” (he referred to the Captain of the Submarine Flotilla) “looks at his flippin’ yeoman and says, ‘What’s this? The Sea’ound coming back to Trinco? Can’t ’ave that – send her a flippin’ signal and tell her to go and flip around the bleedin’ Andamans for a bit.’ An’ orf we go.”
“Well,” put in Shadwell, “it’d be nice to sink a flippin’ cruiser, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t be barmy. There ain’t no flippin’ cruiser. They’ll find it was all a flippin’ great mistake. Some bastard had a drop too much and he got carried away, like. Gawd ’elp us – another flippin’ cake-an’-arse party off the perishin’ Andamans.”
“Me own opinion,” stated Hopkins, “is that it ain’t fair for us to go sinking cruisers out ’ere. We ought to leave ’em for the Yanks. We’ve had our share of cruisers an’ suchlike, in the Med., and up north. It’s on
ly right to let the Yankies sink a couple, before the flippin’ war ends.”
All over the Indian Ocean submarines were preparing to intercept the raider. Setter was heading for the Nicobar Islands, Slayer was putting on full speed to patrol off Penang, others were already in their allotted areas. A flotilla of destroyers was being rushed from Trincomali to Rangoon to protect the shipping in case the cruiser did break through.
Seahound would be off Port Blair when she dived at dawn on the next morning. It was off the Andamans that she had spent her first patrol when she arrived in the Far East. It had been a boring three weeks, with only one trawler sunk and a long fruitless search for the crew of a shot-down bomber. They couldn’t imagine meeting anything worth sinking in that area, off the Andamans: it was always empty.
* * *
It was quiet and warm in the wardroom, while the Navigator kept the watch and they slept, most of them; only the Sub lay awake with his eyes shut letting his imagination run on the subject of sinking cruisers. He saw it happen, heard the torpedoes exploding, several hits one after the other, and he said a prayer in his mind: “God, let us meet the cruiser, and sink her.” He took it back: “No, God, let us meet her, that’s all.” It was up to you, the sinking part: if God lets you meet her, and you bungle it, you can’t blame Him.
It always feels wonderful to have sunk a really good target: you’re all so pleased with yourselves, and you know that when you get back to harbour they’ll be waiting to show you that in their opinion you’ve done a good job. The way they do that is to line the ships with men, and cheer you into your berth: for a really big sinking, any merchant ships that may be there blow their sirens, the “V” sign predominant, three short blasts and a long one, the little sign linked for all time with the greatest Englishman of the century.
It feels good to be cheered into harbour. To be cheered anywhere, in fact. The first time you ever had a cheer directed at yourself was when you were eight years old, and it was the village children that cheered you when you rode through the main street with the fox’s blood on your cheeks – your first kill, and the ceremony of “blooding”: there was no reason for the children to have cheered, because it was something that had happened to you and not something that you had done, but it was an old custom, as English as roast beef, and it was dear to their hearts and so they cheered. The next time that you got a cheer was when you were twelve, and this time it was in Switzerland when you finished a test in a very fast schluss that took you through the arch of the finishing-post like a streak of light. You were covered in snow and there were icicles hanging in your hair because you’d fallen so many times, but you’d made up the time and won the badge with two stars on it, and you were only twelve so the people cheered.
Thinking of the cruiser he drifted into sleep, and there it was, the cruiser, making a terrific bow-wave of snow as it crossed the hillside, and Chief was sliding down on a toboggan with blood all over his face. It looked as though they were bound to collide, Chief and the cruiser, and Sub tried to shout, to warn him, but the words wouldn’t come because his mouth was full of snow. The messenger was shaking him by the shoulder, saying, “Sub-Lieutenant, sir: five minutes to.” It was his turn to go on watch. The messenger, however, was used to shaking men for their watches, and he stood by until he knew that Sub was actually turning out and not going back to sleep again.
* * *
If the cruiser is coming this way, it means that she must have gone a long way round, maybe visiting the Nicobars first. That’s quite possible, of course. But this is wishful-thinking, because you know, as you shove your feet into the rubber-soled shoes, that the chances of your meeting a cruiser are very slight indeed. It’s like having a ticket in a sweepstake, and who ever wins a sweepstake except the other man?
The Navigator shows you the patrol-line on the chart, and the position which he has just fixed. Not trusting Navigators, you check the fix before you take over, because the submarine is close to the island and once you’ve taken over the watch the responsibility is all yours. He tells you the course, and you note that the telegraphs are at slow ahead together. “O.K.” you say, and the Pilot goes to his bunk, fed-up because he’d been hoping that the cruiser would come along during his watch. Everyone likes to make the sighting.
“Up periscope.” No periscope watch will ever have been more efficient than the one you’re going to keep during the next two hours. There’s the island, steep and bright green: the sight of it recalls the atmosphere of the first patrol, when you’d just arrived in the East and everything was new and unusual. There’s the entrance to the harbour of Port Blair, the entrance that the trawler came out of, the entrance that she limped back into, sinking and on fire. Behind the port the island rises to a conical hill which is so densely wooded that it looks as though it’s made of trees, an enormous bouquet of emerald green against the deep blue of the sky. There is the watch-tower, a white box on stilts, from which the Jap sentry watches for a glimpse of a periscope. At the inshore end of the patrol-line, using the magnification in the periscope, you can see the sentry standing in his box, and you feel an urge to be on the surface so that you can turn him inside-out with a burst from the Oerlikon. You feel it as personally as that. Along the coastline you can remember the places from where the coast artillery fired at you as you fought the trawler; their shooting had not been at all bad, and the Captain had been forced to zigzag about while you directed the gun: it made it awkward, with the range and deflection changing between every few shots.
“Down periscope.” You fiddle with the trim for a minute, then turn again and signal with a movement of your hands for the periscope. It rushes up and you sweep all round with the air-search first, to make sure that while you search the horizon there will be no aircraft diving on the periscope. The sky is clear, and you sweep the horizon, first quickly to check that there is nothing in the immediate vicinity, then slowly, very slowly, so as not to miss the slightest sign of an enemy. And there, on the starboard beam as you head out from the island, there on the horizon in the south, in the direction in which the Nicobar Islands lie, you see a tiny smudge on the horizon. Smoke.
“Captain in the Control Room.” He’s there so fast that you only have time to dip the periscope: it comes up again into his hands. As he looks, the men whose eyes are fixed anxiously on his face see a slow smile twist his lips. They have seen that look before.
“Diving Stations!” As Number One tumbles out of his bunk, he says, “My God – must be the cruiser!”
“Don’t be a silly flipper,” answers Chief. He’s never at his best when he’s woken abruptly. “Cruiser be damned.”
At Diving Stations, the submarine turns and heads towards the smoke. Number One is thinking, after he’s been told that it’s smoke, that it’ll turn out to be either a cloud or a mirage. But the Captain, watching through the periscope, knows better. It’s smoke, and the smoke of a big ship.
“Oh, hell. She’s escorted, by the looks of it.” He’s seen a second, a smaller smudge. Ten minutes pass slowly.
“I can see her, now. Stand by all tubes.” The order is passed for’ard, to the astonished T.I.
“Yes, it’s a cruiser. Two destroyers. Stand by to start the attack.” The Navigator is ready with a stopwatch in his hand.
“Start the attack. Bearing – that! Range – that! I’m fifteen on her starboard bow.”
Sub with his calculating machine, and the Navigator with his track-chart, soon have a picture of the cruiser’s movements. This is the Attack Team in action, the result of many practices on dummy targets in the depot-ship’s “Attack Teacher”, and of many dummy attacks during the “work up” period before they left Scotland. Each man knows that one slip, one inaccuracy on his part, could produce a wrong answer that would leave the cruiser afloat. Only the Captain sees anything but the figures and the track lines on the plotting diagram.
“How long has the attack been going?”
“Eleven minutes, sir.” In his mind Sub sees the cr
uiser as the Captain passes on the picture in figures. The enemy course and speed have been calculated, checked and rechecked each time a new range and bearing is taken, and added to the picture on the track chart.
“Starboard twenty.” The submarine turns on to her firing course, a course worked out in relation to the enemy’s course so that the torpedoes will approach her at an angle of ninety degrees, on her beam.
“Course two-two-five, sir.”
“Very good. Stand by!”
The order is flashed forward to the men at the tubes.
“Fire one!” Thud and shudder, a hiss and the rising pressure.
“Fire two!”
“Fire three!” Half the salvo is on its way. Saunders says:
“Torpedoes running, sir.”
“Fire four!” God, let them hit!
“Fire five!”
“Fire six! – Flood ‘Q’, a hundred and fifty feet, full ahead together, port twenty-five!”
Now to get out of it: the torpedoes are on their way, and whether they hit or miss is out of anyone’s hands. But the destroyers will be active in a minute.
“Shut off for depth-charging.” The words are hardly spoken and repeated by the man at the telephone when the submarine is rocked by the explosion of the first torpedo striking home into the cruiser, then another and yet a third. Three hits: a certain kill. In the Engine Room, Chief grins at the Stokers.
“Now we’re for it, lads.”
* * *
Before the submarine was shut off and the bulkhead doors shut, Sub went forward to be with the T.I. and the torpedo-men. The Officers’ stations for depth-charging were: Sub forward, the Navigator in the Accommodation Space, the Captain and Number One in the Control Room. Each compartment was sealed off by its watertight doors.
Surface! Page 14