by Joe Lane
When I finally broke the surface I found myself in a place of pitch blackness. I got to my feet, pointing the torch beam into the darkness to remove any concerns I had of a prehistoric beast surging towards me, though I did wonder if I should breathe the air in case there were any living parasites breeding in this hole that no scientist had ever heard of before. I took the risk and removed the aqualung mouthpiece, face mask and fins, suddenly catching a smell that at first I couldn’t identify. I laid out my pathway through the water with the torch beam and waded ashore.
I’d landed on cold, dry sand that clogged between my wet toes, a secret beach with no sunshine. I dropped the fins and facemask to the ground and eased the aqualung from my shoulders along with the weight belt, and began flicking the beam in different directions in fits of organized impatience. I soon realized that someone had found this beach before me.
The torch beam landed on empty wooden crates scattered around. There was no lettering or indication of age or era stencilled on the crates so I’d no idea how long the crates had been there but they appeared quite old. I startled when the torch beam illuminated an old diving suit complete with lead weighted boots and iron helmet hanging ghost like from a rock wall. Beside the suit were what I assumed to be a hand operated air pump and coils upon coils of air pipe. There were also three tall oxyacetylene bottles with hoses and cutting tools. Everything I saw directed me into searching for a second entrance to the cavern, as the equipment had to have been transported by land and not by sea.
I moved forward.
Something snapped beneath my footing.
I stopped and took a tentative step back. I shone the torch beam down onto the broken object. I was now beginning to get used to the odd skeleton or two popping up from the ground, only this time I was guilty of stand ing on a skeletal frame, wearing rotting dungarees, and breaking its left tibia in two places. Slightly beyond the skeleton’s outstretched bony hand there was an implement which I picked up for closer inspection under the torch beam. The shape alone told me it was a WWII submachine gun; German by its design, a substantially lethal weapon in its killing days. Not now, just rusting steel far beyond repair to be used again.
I threw the relic down and continued the search for the elusive entrance.
The torch beam landed on a waxed tarpaulin thrown over a large rectangular object and tied with rope. I pulled on the ropes; the ropes broke easily with rot. I peeled back the tarpaulin, amazed to find what I assumed to be a diesel engine and adjacent to the engine a square metal tank. I reached round and tapped the tank, estimating that it was a quarter full of what I presumed was old diesel. I removed the tarpaulin fully and let it drop to the ground.
I was standing there admiring a 1935 Lister Cold Start six horsepower diesel engine according to the information plate attached to the machine. Surprisingly it was in pristine condition and bolted to a wooden trolley fitted with four steel wheels for transporting the contraption. Not that it would have moved easily dragging the engine across sand, I would have thought.
I looked the machine over, flicking the torch beam in every nook and cranny. I located two rubber cables attached to what I assumed was a dynamo. From the dynamo drive shaft there was a leather drive belt attached to the engines main drive wheel. On further investigation my torch beam followed the cables from the dynamo out into the darkness, each cable veering in a different direction. I ran the torch beam along one of the cables and came across a Bakelite lamp-holder, its filament lamp still wedged in the holder, although from where I stood it was difficult to assess if the filament would still burn. More interestingly, I wondered if the engine would still run and would the dynamo still generate electricity.
I tugged the leather drive belt to test its firmness. It seemed solid enough and undamaged by age. I’d once seen a demonstration of a Lister engine in operation. I tried to remember the procedure the demonstrator used to prepare the starting sequence before the demonstrator had hand cranked the engine. I looked around the machine and found the cranking handle under the engine. I retrieved it and slipped it onto the spindle of the flywheel. As I recalled, there were four stages to the sequence. First I turned the compression screw clockwise to its closed position. I found the fuel line and opened the fuel valve. Then I turned the carburettor throttle three quarters open. I took a firm grip of the cranking handle, took in a deep breath and began turning the flywheel clockwise or at least attempted to rotate the flywheel because it was partially seized. I mustered a little more effort and got the flywheel moving, gathering speed. The engine spluttered into life and I quickly removed the cranking handle and stood back. The engine spat out a gurgled sound of strangulation and belched out a cloud of black acrid smoke and promptly died a death. I closed everything up just in case the carburettor flooded with fuel, and then I tried again, mainly because my torch battery was fading fast.
I repeated the starting procedure. Cranked the flywheel with more enthusiasm, shouting encouragement for the machine to show some life, ‘kick in you piece of iron shit!’, and this time it responded positively. It coughed and spluttered into life, black smoke seeping from the engine’s exhaust pipe; a slight groan as it picked up speed before bursting into a crescendo of clattering noise; a roaring piece of hardened machinery. Thick choking black smoke bellowed from the exhaust. The stench of burnt diesel filled my nostrils and my tongue tingled with the taste of the atmosphere. I quickly adjusted the carburettor and opened the compression screw a few turns. There was a sudden squeak from the dynamo and in seconds that too kicked into life.
Slowly the voltage built up. The cavern illuminated or in this case half illuminated because half the lamps didn’t work, yet the wattage produced was far more encouraging than the weak light from a battery torch. The cavern I was inside was enormous. I turned to look around. That was when I saw it.
I think my jaw dropped to my knees at that point. It was an awesome sight. There, half submerged in the water, listing onto its portside side, was the biggest rusting bucket of a submarine that would have a salvager rubbing his hands to salvage. I saw the ensign and the flaking lettering on the conning tower that highlighted that I’d found the elusive ghost submarine, the I-52.
I just stood there numbed. Not a flicker of emotion did I display. Just struck down with an imaginary paralysis and unable to mutter a word or raise a finger in triumph. I don’t recall how long I was standing there with no elation, nothing but a stare of utter disbelief but eventually I came to and exploded in delight.
Out loud, almost unheard with the sound of the Lister engine drowning my voice, I bellowed out, “Wow!”
Yet through my joy I tried to imagine how the hell the submarine got inside the cavern in the first place. How did it manage to navigate into the cave and beach itself? Perhaps it had crashed at speed, its weight momentum carrying it through and probably caused the rock fall. But I couldn’t see any damage to the submarine’s hull to verify my theory. But who cared! For the moment I was the proud owner of a submarine and I wondered if I should share the find with anyone.
I edged closer, noticing two rusty wire ropes which were attached to points on the bow of the submarine that I couldn’t see. The wire ropes drooped down into the sand half buried. I glanced over my shoulder and soon realized the purpose of the steel wires. Beyond the clattering six horsepower Lister was a bigger Lister diesel engine, at least eighteen horsepower, and it was mounted on a large iron structure at the rear of the cavern. The big Lister was attached mechanically to an iron contraption embedded into the rock walls of the cavern. In the middle of the frame was an enormous double motor winch system operated with an array of different sized cogs. That’s how the submarine had been beached, simply dragged into the cavern. The positioning of the sub marine was no fluke but a highly organized operation that would have taken months to set up. This was no overnight impulsion. Extreme strategic planning had gone into this piece of historical ingenuity.
Now it all started to make sense. The wartime photograp
hs; the vessel being deliberately sunk and hidden inside the cavern. But that didn’t explain the rock-fall? Was that deliberately done to conceal the submarine? I had to assume it was, and if that was the intention, then there was definitely another entrance somewhere close by.
I resumed my search around the cavern walls for the elusive entrance and finally I came across another significant rock-fall. I shone the torch beam through the cracks in the rocks and there, lodged in-between fallen debris, I saw the protruding bones of a right hand curled round what I assumed was another rusting German submachine gun. I noticed a ring dangling on the index finger bone. I reached through the gap in the rocks up to my elbow, prised the finger bones loose from its grip on the gum, slipped the trinket from the skeletal finger and carefully retrieved the piece of jewellery for examination.
I blew the dust from the ring, wet my forefinger and rubbed away the remaining dirt. It was a man’s gold signet ring, old gold and heavy too, with a cluster of minute diamonds circling the initials J.M etched on the ring’s face. I’d probably found the only evidence that could identify the victim of the rock fall. Though I don’t usually rob the dead of their personal treasure, bearing in mind I don’t usually find bodies, what the ring could indicate was an explanation on how the submarine had arrived inside the cavern in the first place. I placed the ring in my water resistant pocket for safe keeping.
I decided that if this had been the main entrance to the cavern by land then the rock fall had ended its existence. I considered the chances of excavating the rock fall, but from where I stood any attempt to dislodge the rocks would have resulted in a cave-in. I certainly didn’t want to be in the vicinity if it did and I decided I’d leave that to the experts if the situation should arise. I turned my attention to the submarine instead.
I spent a few moments speculating a number of possibilities on how I could climb aboard the submarine. The most feasible was to scramble up the side to get onto the deck or conning tower and try the escape hatches. I moved round the hull to the other side of the submarine and discovered I wouldn’t need to waste that kind of energy. Where the submarine leaned over precariously, I’d found my way inside. It was a straightforward man made entrance through a section of the hull obviously cut out by the oxyacetylene. I shone the torch beam into the dark hole and cautiously entered the torpedo room. What I found inside highlighted the horrors of what had happened.
With a quick head count I estimated there were at least twenty skeletal frames and all in bullet riddled uniforms of submariners. They had dropped where they died, scattered around the torpedo room, some of the skeletons at distorted angles and probable victims of hand grenade explosions. I could only imagine the fierce gun battle that had taken place. I moved on deeper inside, carefully treading over and around more skeletons. I’d stopped counting the submariners after thirty, finding more victims around the submariners sleeping quarters and empty cargo bays. I’d the feeling that the further I ventured inside the belly of the I-52, the more bones I’d find. And I did. For a fleeting moment I wondered which one could be Tanamoto’s father though impossible to identify amongst the mess.
There was no question that it had been a one-sided massacre. The Japanese submariners had never stood a chance. Blackened bulkheads and overheads showed more explosions had occurred, probably from many more hand grenades and resulting in more unfortunate dismembered skeletons caught up in the blasts and all now part of a mixed-up skeletal jigsaw puzzle. I could almost smell the gory mess of death.
The stern of the submarine, mainly the engine room and battery room was submerged in sea water and was impassable. I decided against a dive because it would have told me nothing other than confirm that the enlarged aerial photographs showing the saboteurs attaching their mines was correct and the mines had done their job savagely. I assumed there would be more victims there, if the sea hadn’t already devoured the bones. I explored further rooms with the same results; death and destruction. The control deck showed signs that there had been a serious fire, some skeletons still had taut flesh stuck to their bones like melted plastic.
I looked up inside the conning tower tunnel and saw that the hatch was open. I climbed the metal rung ladder. I found a lone skeleton draped over the conning tower defence cannon. It gave me a thought. Perhaps the battling submariner had fired a couple of cannon shells that had been the probable cause of the rock fall that had trapped the person whose skeleton was embedded in the entrance tunnel. Maybe the aftershock of the cannon shells exploding inside the cavern had also brought down the seabed entrance. I suddenly had moving images of the battle inside the cavern inside my head as I put together the pieces of what I thought had occurred in 1944. It was horrific no doubt; the raging battle; the sound of bullets splattering flesh; the inevitable screams from dying men.
I broke off. I’d seen enough of the battling ghosts and returned the way I had entered, glad to escape the death hole. I also came out of the cargo hold empty-handed. Whatever had been aboard at the time of the hijacking, it had gone now. And the gold bullion too, that had gone. It meant my friends had died for nothing. It meant that my plan of luring out of hiding the mastermind behind this murderous campaign had gone too. That had been my intention all along; to dangle the pot of gold in front of the baddies and lure the bastards out into the open. Though I hadn’t quite worked out how I would have exacted my revenge. I made my way out of the submarines belly dejectedly.
My feet seemed to drag heavily through the sand as I trudged away from the I-52 in deep thought, coughing with the accumulation of thick diesel smoke in the air. I was so mad with my failure to find anything worthwhile to salvage that I would have no doubt missed what I kicked in the sand if it hadn’t flicked up a few inches and the glitter of light it reflected caught my eye. Natural inquisitiveness made me pick it up. It was a metal block approximately three inches long and one inch wide and half an inch thick. It had three Japanese symbols stamped in the metal. The sand had kept it clean and I knew old gold when I saw it and the ingot I held in my hand brightened my belief. I wondered how many more pieces of gold lay buried in the sand.
It was moments like these that I wished I’d brought my metal detector along with me instead of having to sift gently through the sand with my feet. But after a few unproductive minutes I realized I was wasting my time, as there were no more ingots to be found. Whatever amount of gold had been available it was no longer in this place of death and probably gone forever. More significantly, if this solitary ingot was part of the cargo then it proved conclusively that the gold had existed and Tanamoto’s inventory was correct. It gave me plenty to think about. But everything led to the one question: where the frigging hell was the gold now?
I placed the ingot into the same waist belt pocket which held the ring I’d taken from skeleton, refastened the pocket securely, and then I went to collect my diving gear and switch off the Lister engine for the last time.
Within three steps my body had seized to an abrupt stop by the thunderous voice shouting over the clattering of the generator motor. It scared the hell out of me. My body felt as if someone had punched me violently in the heart region. I quickly located the source, a diver emerging from the water.
“Stand still!” The powerful foreign toned voice ordered me
I thought in my best interest I should comply with the request.
“One wrong move and you die, English pig!”
I was guessing, but by the sound of his voice I thought the approaching diver was a Russian. He was holding a polythene bag in one hand, the shape inside the bag was the distinctively shape of a machine-pistol and one that was pointing in my direction. He meant business that was for sure. I watched him remove his fins and throw them onto the sand as he came ashore. I thought about running but in what direction and to where? How far would I have gotten before he cut me down with bullets.
“Hand’s high, where I can see them.”
I raised them a fraction.
“You are alone?”
“No, strictly speaking.”
“Put your hands higher, now!” There was anxiousness in his voice, his eyes frantically flicking in different directions while still trying to keep one eye on me. “Where are the others?”
I flicked my head in the direction of the submarine and said, “In that tin coffin over there. It’s full of Japanese crewmen. But don’t panic, they’re not here for a beach party. They’re all dead.”
“You think you’re funny, pig shit?”
I’d been called a few names in the past but pig shit! I’d no answer to that.”
“Where’s the gold?” The Russian spouted.
I shook my head. “There’s no gold; nothing but ghosts.”
The diver moved closer, pushing his facemask up onto his forehead. His expression told me he was agitated, and I was right about him being a Russian; he had the look of a Russian.
“Lying English bastard!” he shouted, the echo of his voice bouncing across the cavern walls before being overwhelmed by the noise of the Lister engine.
“Look here, “I said strongly. “English Bastard I don’t mind. But I take offence to being called a liar! There’s no gold, just a rusting piece of scrap submarine doubling as coffin. Why don’t you go and see for yourself.”
He gestured with the gun for me to move. “Towards the sub and no tricks,” he ordered.
With reluctance I turned around and began trudging back to the sub while formulating a plan in my head of how I was going to relieve the Russian of his gun and shove it up the arse of his rubber suit. Even under threat I still felt confident I wasn’t about to get a bullet in my back, well, at least not until he’d discovered for himself that there was nothing to find aboard the I-52 other than what I’d discovered.