Cuttlefish

by Dave Freer

  “Why?” asked Tim. She looked like, well, an ordinary top-side modern lady in a flouncy skirt. He'd seen a few when he'd been out with the bloods top-side London at night, before his mam had found out and put a stop to it. The woman didn't say much, not like Miss Prisms-and-Prunes-snippy, the daughter. That girl had even cheeked the captain. And he'd laughed.

  “I dunno,” said Eddie. “Go back to sleep.”

  So Tim had done so. But his dreams had been full of the explosions and his mam.

  He woke up when they got under way again. Obviously Big Eddie had come and gone again. The camouflage sheet had been taken in, and they were feeling their way through the sandbar waters before heading out into the deeper water. Tim went and had breakfast and reported for duty. This morning that duty was cleaning officers' cabins and making beds. He was in Lieutenant Ambrose's cabin when they struck. It wasn't so much of an impact, as a slowing…and then a stop. And then a twang that reverberated through the boat. And then all was still. Then the engines fired again, and they pulled backwards briefly. Another twang, and they stopped again.

  Tim could guess what that meant. Submarine fouling nets were laid in London's drowned streets too. Divers cut them, or made panels that could be opened.

  Big Eddie and his mate Albert would have to go out in the cold dark water, in their waterproof canvas diving suits and helmets again, and cut them free.

  Only, a few minutes later Tim found it wasn't them that would be doing that.

  It was him.

  And there would be no diving suit either.

  He was called to the bridge. That was alarming enough. “Barnabas,” said Captain Malkis with no further finesse. “You're the smallest of the crew. The escape hatch is tangled in the net and can't open. We can see it with the periscope. There is a whole mass of net tangled over it. The hatch opens a crack, but the divers couldn't even get a hand out in their suits. It's a lot to ask of you, boy, but someone needs to go in there, in their skin, with small hands and some shears. There's a diver's breather pipe there. You'll have air, but you'll be underwater. If you cut it clear enough you'll probably have to squeeze out and cut the tangle away, so the divers can get out properly.”

  Tim swallowed. Looked around at all of them. That girl was standing looking at him from the doorway, eyes wide. Captain Malkis continued. “We've fouled the propellers too. If we try to pull free—we'll wind the propellers right off. If we don't pull free, we're only at ten feet down, and the tide is going out. By morning we'll be visible to the observation dirigibles.”

  What could Tim do, except to nod?

  A few minutes later Eddie was showing him how to breathe with the hookah mouthpiece. “We're lucky to have these mouthpieces. They dive without helmets in Westralia, and that's where the compressor comes from. The pipe usually screws onto the back of the helmet, see.”

  The two air hoses were neatly coiled and still wet, as was the chamber. It must be very tight in here with two of them in their diving suits.

  Standing, shivering slightly in his canvas knee-breeches and nothing else, Tim could see just how attractive the brass helmet with its windows, and the thick waterproof canvas suit could be too. But all he had was a knife and a set of wire-cutters. The netting out there had some strands cored with braided steel.

  They closed the hatch on him. There was a waterproof light on the wall, but Tim still felt very alone and very scared. He took a deep breath, put the mouthpiece in his mouth, and cracked the outer hatch. They could do that from inside too—to launch tick-tocks and the escape pod, but now it was up to him.…The seawater came spraying in. It was like being in an icy shower. And then a chilly bath, the water in the narrow chamber climbing steadily around his thighs and then up his body. Tim forced himself to duck down. Breathe underwater, through the mouthpiece, while he could still stand up and breathe, just as Eddie had told him to. Then he stood up and opened the hatch some more. Eddie had said do it little by little—it had a brass screw with a big butterfly nut letting you do so slowly.

  Only it wouldn't open much. The water flooded in still. And soon the only air in the escape chamber was from the bubbles from the mouthpiece. Tim tried to force the hatch open more. Not with all his strength would it move. So he tried to get his hand out of the gap. He could. Just. Not holding the knife. He had to hand it through to himself and try to feel to cut. A thread snapped. And another two. But his arm just couldn't go any farther. His forearms were too thick. He tried the other hand. It was no better.

  He had to close the hatch again and push and twist the purge knob, as Eddie had shown him.

  They were waiting. Shivering, Tim had to shake his head as someone handed him a towel. “It's no good, sir. My arm is too thick…it needs to bend here. In the middle of my forearm.”

  “My arms and hands are smaller,” said the girl, in the silence.

  Clara never quite knew what made her say that. But it was true. She was a bit smaller than the boy was, and her forearms were nothing like as muscular.

  “I can't ask you to do that, miss,” said the captain with finality. “Your mother would never permit it.”

  “I cut some of the strands,” said the boy, shivering. “I'll try again, sir. Just…just let me warm up for a minute.”

  “Get the boy something warm to drink from Cookie, Willis,” said the captain.

  “If we don't get free of the net, they'll sink us and we'll drown and be killed anyway,” said Clara. “And I can swim.”

  The captain took a deep breath. “Let us go and speak to your mother.”

  So they did. And her mother said no just as firmly.

  “Mother. I was the one who could fit through the ventilation shaft. This isn't any different,” said Clara.

  “You could drown, dear,” said her mother.

  “And if we're here by daylight, they could bomb us. Never mind could. Will. And then we'll all die.” She had a moment of an almost satisfyingly gloomy image of their bodies washing in the tide.

  “You're too young,” said Mother.

  “They let that boy who served us breakfast try. He's bigger than me, but I don't think he's much older. But he's a boy, right?” said Clara, knowing she was playing her mother's own sore points, but also knowing that it was true.

  Her mother bit her lip. Nodded. “All right. How safe is it, Captain?”

  The captain shrugged. “Not safe. But no worse risk than sitting here while they drop drop-mines onto us. It'll be cold and wet, but she can practice using the hookah before the chamber floods. We can close it when it is half-full, and she can check that she can do it.”

  Her mother closed her eyes, briefly, then said, “Very well. Can we do a trial?”

  The captain nodded. “I'll get the boy to talk her through it too, as well as the divers. She's a very brave lass, ma'am,” said the captain.

  “She's her father's daughter,” said Mother, looking as if she might start crying.

  Clara didn't know what to say. So she hugged her mother instead. “We'd better find you some clothes fit for getting wet in. I don't think you have a bathing costume. Could you arrange some boy's breeches for her?”

  “Of course, ma'am,” said the captain.

  The water was cold, so cold that it hurt and wanted to take her breath away, but at least it was really not that difficult to breathe through the hookah. All the trial did was to get her wet and cold before the real thing started.

  So they closed the hatch again, and she opened the outer one herself. The icy water filled the chamber again, and soon she had to breathe through the hookah. Having to do it was actually better than having a choice about putting your head underwater and breathing.

  The gap between the hatch and the hull was very narrow, but with a bit of wiggling she managed to get her elbow out. It was tight and awkward. It was also so cold it was hard to think. Ah. The boy had said you had to pass the knife out. So she did. And cut. She tried to move the screw for opening the hatch with numb fingers. It turned, it was wider now
—she pushed herself up and out towards it.

  Tim watched as the girl's mother stood there, wringing her hands. Looking at her watch. And Captain Malkis surreptitiously looked at his timepiece, and obviously reached a decision. “Seal the outer hatch. We need to open the inner airlock.”

  A submariner began turning the polished crank-wheel. Two turns…“It's not sealing, sir. Something in the way.”

  “Lieutenant Willis. Go up to the bridge. Put the forward spotlight on, and see if you can see the hatch.”

  Barely a minute later Willis came running, yelling, “Open the hatch! She's outside.”

  It was so cold. Cold cold cold. So hard to think. Once her head was out it had been easier to go out to try and snip with the cutters at the steel wires—which needed both hands, than to try and reach out. Opening her eyes underwater had been hard, but she could see a little in the water-filtered moonlight.

  And then…the hatch began to close on her foot. She pulled it out. Tried to grab the hatch to stop it. It went on closing. It was too strong for her to resist. In a panic, she pushed the cutters in, and they slipped from her numb hands. The knife. She pulled it from the sheath, and got the hilt in, just in time to stop her air hose being crushed. But she could not even get a hand in to try and open it.

  And in her frantic thrashing she'd got her legs tangled into the folds of net. The hatch had at least stopped closing now. Cold and desperately afraid, Clara tried to pull her legs free. Then the hatch that she had her hand on began to open again. And the knife tumbled slowly down into it, after the shears.

  “It looks like she's trapped in the net. There is still net over the hatch. She's still breathing.”

  Malkis nodded. Tugged his beard. Then said, “Empty the forward ballast tank. See if we can raise the bow as much as we can to reduce the water pressure. We should get to within a foot or so of the surface—the tide is going out. We'll close the hatch as much as we dare. Then we'll seal the forward bulkhead and pump air into the escape hatch. Then we're going to open it—with water coming in. And against the water, boy, we're going to have to push you in and close it. You'll have to take the second hookah pipe and cut her free and bring her in. Can you do that?”

  Tim nodded. “Sir.”

  “Don't try to do anything else. Just get her in,” said the captain.

  As they opened the hatch, the water sprayed in like a fire hose, bruising hard. Fortunately, it mostly hit the far wall of the escape chamber first. Albert and Big Eddie pushed Tim through, and he grabbed the wall-staple to stop himself washing straight back, as the hatch closed. Then, in the surge of icy water he had to grab the second hookah pipe, and start breathing. He ducked under the surface to stop the cold water beating at him. Air, precious air, came in through the mouthpiece.

  The chamber filled quickly, and he followed her air-line up. Twisting the screw, he opened the outer hatch as much as it would go. He could barely squeeze out of the gap.

  In the light of the spotlight from the bridge, he could see her in the water. She was trying to pull her legs free of the net, obviously not managing much with numb hands.

  And then she saw him, too. She nearly spat her air hose, with her relief. She clutched onto his arm with hands that were only just warmer than the cold water.

  Tim tried to keep calm, and simply concentrate on cutting the strands of the netting. He got her foot loose, and pushed her ahead of him, to the hatch. She tried to pull herself in, but obviously just couldn't do it.

  Tim pushed her from behind. Got her arms in. Pushed more, grabbed the edge of the hatch and shoved her in with his other hand with all his strength. She kept floating up, of course. So, he realised, was he. If it hadn't been for the net she'd have floated to the surface.

  Pulling down hard with his arms he got his head into the escape chamber. She was bobbing up at him, terribly in the way, trying to move herself, and in danger of floating out again. Tim pushed her away hard, so that he could get in. He jammed his legs across the opening and reached down and started winding the lever to close the hatch. He only realised their hoses were still in the way when the air stopped coming. In a panic he managed to open it a little. He hauled at the hoses with her trying to help, with hands that didn't obey either of them properly. Eventually, they got the hoses in. It seemed to take forever. Then…a turn more and he got the outer hatch closed.

  Tim managed to dive down and hit and twist the purge knob.

  Air began to bubble in, and water drain out.

  The girl, from half-leaning against the wall, sat down suddenly in the water. Well, either sat down or collapsed. Tim sat down next to her. Put his arm around her to keep her upright. He spat out the hookah mouthpiece. Their heads were above water now. “You all right?” he asked through chattering teeth.

  She nodded, weakly.

  The inner hatch opened and they were both hauled out.

  “Well done, boy!” said Captain Malkis, as someone wrapped Tim in a blanket. “Get them somewhere warm. Hot drinks.”

  Tim shook his head. He was shivering. It was even harder to do this than to go out the first time, but it needed to be done. “Need to go back. More cutting.”

  “The divers…”

  “Too small still.” He kept it short. It was easier to talk through his chattering teeth. “Two minutes.”

  The captain looked at him. “You need to recover, boy.”

  “Sooner. Best. And I need a weight…to keep down.” Tim shivered. “We were floating away.

  Albert slapped his head. “Of course. We've got lead boots.”

  A submarine captain had to make fast decisions. “Give him your boots,” said Captain Malkis.

  “Part of the suit, sir.”

  “Oh. Get a bunch of pry-bars from the engine room. Jump to it, man. And I'll want another man to go in with him. Not you, divers. You two get suited up. If the net can be cleared from the hatch, you'll be working on the rest as soon as they get in.”

  So, each with a belt with four heavy pry-bars hooked onto it, Tim and Submariner Smith, the bosun, had gone in to the escape hatch again.

  It was no less cold, and still dark outside in the watery moonlight. But it was only six wire strands, and then a dozen cord ones, with hands that were clumsy and stupid with cold, and then the hatch could finally open properly. As it did that, the bosun reached up and pulled Tim back in.

  They closed the hatch and purged. This time Tim was the one who sat down, before he fell down.

  Smith helped him up, and soon he was out, stripped out of his wet breeches, bundled into a dry blanket, and half pushed, half carried down to the engine room. “Warmest place on the ship, boy,” said someone with rough kindness, pushing a steaming mug at him as they sat him against the big firebox. “Get that into you.”

  Tim's hands shook and his teeth chattered against the cup as he tried to drink. It was sweet tea, full of condensed milk and rum. “Albert says you'll be bone cold. Takes it out of you, and you weren't wearing all their layers.”

  It took him a full half mug of the brew before he realised that he was sharing the warm firebox backrest with someone else. The girl was there. As was her mother, holding her hand.

  The mother smiled at him. Took Tim's hand too. Felt it. “You're still very cold. You're a very brave young man. Thank you.”

  Tim nodded. It was almost all that he felt he could do. The rum was making his head muzzy, and it was spinning a bit. But fair was fair, he knew. “She did it. She got it open,” he managed to say.

  The woman stood up. “You both did well. Now, I am going to see if I can get you some bottles of hot water. Your core temperatures are very low. I don't think that the alcohol was a good idea.”

  “You got me back inside,” said the girl, in a whispery voice. “Thanks.”

  “It was…nothing,” said Tim awkwardly, cold and feeling remarkably stupid. He'd often dreamed of being a hero to some beautiful woman. Only the dream was a bit vague as to what happened afterwards.…Hopeful, but vague. And t
he damsels-in-distress hadn't been skinny ghost-pale girls who had already done what he could not. He hadn't set off to be a hero, either. Just been the smallest member of the crew. She was the one who had volunteered to do it.

  He wondered what came next. It would probably not be much like the dream either.

  It wasn't. Just as the girl's mother got back, the chief came along. “Going to have to move you two. The good news is we're starting the Stirlings again. The divers have cut us clear, but we're racing the tide, now. Just take you to back against the wall over there. It's still the warmest place on the ship, in here.”

  Tim was glad of it. Glad too when the chief decided that the two of them had been cluttering up his engine room for long enough, and should go and lie in their own bunks. It had been too busy with all the noise—greasers scampering to the rods with their buckets, and coal-monkeys filling the feed-hoppers—to fall asleep in the engine room, but Tim had come close.

  “But this is much more interesting,” said the girl with a little mischievous smile, the first smile that Tim had seen since she'd been hauled in from the sea.

  “Now, Clara Calland! Behave,” said her mother. But she was smiling too.

  The Cuttlefish made it out of the Wash before daylight, and lay, safe and hidden, out on the Dogger banks while the hunters prowled vainly above.

  But Tim didn't know this. He slept the deep sleep of the very exhausted instead. Who would have thought a few minutes in cold water could make you that tired? He slept clean through Eddie's watch too. The good-natured diver had to bunk on the floor.

  He only woke up because his stomach told him it thought his throat might have been cut.

  He dressed, and made his way to the galley. “G'day, diver-boy,” said Cookie cheerfully. “I missed yer smiling face yesterday. But the skipper said you was to be allowed to sleep.”