E-boats.
0718. Dived to 100ft.
0729. H.E. drawing right. Two fast turbine craft, believe E-boats. Returned to 60ft then 40.
In the direction from which those enemies had come initially the chart showed a good anchorage in an inlet called Kvalfjord; he guessed it might be a base for patrol-boats, and made a note of this in the book. Then:
0746. Periscope depth. A/co 151 to clear Mjaanes Pt.
0748. 60ft.
This course would have taken her clear of the headland and right through, all the way. But he was wary of tidal sets in the bottleneck, and at 0820 when he estimated that Mjaanes Point should be abeam he ordered periscope depth to check on it. She was at twelve feet, rising very slowly under Gimber’s cautious control, and Paul had pressed the “up” button for the scope, when they were all startled by the sudden thunder of propellers—from around the point of land, but loud, close and fast, closer and louder every second: and X-12 in its path, still slightly bow-up, lifting with her periscope rising too.
“Hundred feet!” Agony of waiting—only seconds, but seemingly an age, while Gimber got bow-down angle on her. Paul snapped, “Full ahead, group up!” Expecting the end at any moment: the crash, hull splitting open, finis … Then the wash hit her as she wallowed down: powerful as the blast of a depthcharge, enemy screws racing over and that huge thrust hitting her as she fought for depth, bow-down with twenty-four feet on the gauge but her stern higher than that, catching the major part of it. That sound—a destroyer’s screws so close it had been touch-and-go whether you’d be ploughed open like a can ripped by the opener—he’d heard once before, in Ultra in the Mediterranean when an Italian had very nearly made it. X-12 flinging over, rolling right over on to her beam-ends, rammed not by the German’s forefoot but by his wash: Paul had been thrown off his feet, the others almost out of their chairs: the ringing of the gyro alarm bell was subdued under a fresh crescendo of propeller noise, a second ship rushing over the top.
They’d come from behind the headland. That was why the noise had burst on them so suddenly, without warning. X-12 was at forty feet and rolling back. Loose gear had been sent flying—including the gluepot and the kettle, utensils, tools and buckets. Paul got to the gyro alarm switch and shut it off—remembering that the Brown’s gyro would tolerate a twenty-five degree angle but no more. He told Brazier, as the second lot of screws receded, “Set the course indicator to ship’s head one-five-oh.” Near enough: their course had been 151. The course-indicator was aircraft-type equipment; it would be better than nothing for a while, until they could get the gyro working again. The magnetic compass would be useless in this fjord—or in Stjersund, for that matter—because of local magnetic anomalies creating wild variations. The chart, and the Pilot for the district, emphasized it.
“Fifty feet, Louis.”
“Fifty: aye aye.” Swinging the planes to get her bow up. Paul was still thinking about—or rather, reacting to—the extraordinary power of that first ship’s wash. Admitting that this was a very small submarine indeed and that she’d been right at the crucial depth for it to hit her, and at extremely close range—even then … He told Gimber, “Group down, slow ahead.” He’d needed full power to get her down, but in the last minute he’d been wasting amps. He heard Brazier comment: “Like going over Niagara in a barrel.” Lanchberry was taking over the helm from him, having set the course indicator.
But—still rolling?
Lanchberry enquired, glancing back over his shoulder, that slanted, typically sardonic look as he slid into the seat in Brazier’s place, “Anyone notice anything?”
Paul was checking the transverse spirit-level. His impression of a moment ago had been wrong: she hadn’t been rolling, she’d been taking up a much more pronounced list to port than she’d had before.
He told Lanchberry, “Guess.”
“Ten degrees?”
“Twelve.”
It was giving Gimber problems with the trim. With this much slant on her, the hydroplanes could hardly be expected to function normally, since one was now lower than the other—therefore, in denser water, having more effect than the higher one—and also the slant giving an element of rudderaction to them, because they were so far off the horizontal. It needed only a few comments to establish this, for everyone to recognise the problem and the difficulties it presented. You could also understand how it had come about: the side-cargo, already loosened on its sealing copper strip to the extent that one of its buoyancy-chambers had been flooded, had been jolted looser still by the impact of the destroyer’s wash. In fact Paul was wondering at this stage whether it had been a destroyer; the second one certainly had, and in retrospect a comparison between the two suggested that the first had been enormously more powerful. Lanchberry still staring at him over his shoulder: he suggested, “Have to ditch the port side-cargo, skipper. D’you reckon?”
The idea didn’t appeal to him. He told Lanchberry, “Watch your steering, for God’s sake.”
Both those ships must have been destroyers, he decided. Recalling the sound of their screws—even though the leading one had seemed so extraordinarily powerful …
Gimber reported grimly, “Fifty feet.”
“Make it thirty.”
After that, he’d take her up to periscope depth, get a fix and line up the course indicator more accurately. Then—well, just south of this headland there was an inlet three-quarters of a mile deep, called Lille Kvalfjord. Lille meaning “little.” The chart showed that it shelved to as little as ten fathoms in there, and if it was empty or at least not crowded it might be a good spot in which to lie on the bottom and set the gyro to rights, square off whatever other defects might show up when one had time to look around.
Gimber muttered, working hard at the trim, “This is damn near impossible.”
“You’re doing well, Louis.”
Not all that well, though. And nearer the surface, controlling her was going to be even trickier. Also, there’d be a slant on the periscope and you’d get distorted bearings. It was quite probable that the periscope would have flooded again, after that rough handling; he guessed the leak would be either around the frame of the top glass, or in the metal casing itself.
It might be wise—although it went against the grain—to ditch the flooded side-cargo. Set it to “safe” and release it. At least you’d be in shape to carry out a successful attack with the other one—which on the present showing certainly couldn’t be guaranteed.
It seemed such a waste. Having brought the thing all this way …
Gimber reported, “Thirty feet.”
“Nice work.”
“I can’t promise to keep her within a yard of any ordered depth, though.”
“Have to find a way to, Louis. Somehow. Try twenty, now.”
“Christ.” Gimber raised his voice to acknowledge more formally, “Twenty feet.” Shaking his head, as he tilted the hydroplanes … Paul still thinking about it—and realising that with trimming as it was now he wouldn’t have dared to bring her up any higher than twenty. If they bungled it now, alerted the Germans to the threat of attack—giving them time to move their ships out, mount a hunt in the fjords, plaster the whole area with depthcharges …
And if it happened, it wouldn’t have been Gimber’s fault. She was at twenty-two feet now and going down again: he’d been nervous of letting her overshoot upwards.
“All right. Twenty-five feet. I’ll have to ditch the bloody thing.”
Lanchberry’s head inclined in a nod of approval. Gimber said, “Yes. I’m sorry, but it’s just—”
“Can’t be helped.”
It still irked him to have to do it. Fifty per cent of her offensive potential down the drain. Facing facts, however, it could not be helped. And with six hundred feet of water here, it was as good a place as any to do it. He crouched at the port side fuse-mechanism. The pointer on the clock had to be turned through two stops to the left, to the one marked SAFE. Until it had been set there—or activ
ated, set going with a delay-setting on it—the release gear couldn’t be operated. He gripped the knob between forefinger and thumb, and twisted.
It wouldn’t turn the whole way. It clicked to the intermediate stop, but no further. He returned it to the starting point, and tried again.
“The pointer won’t go to ‘safe.’ “
She was at twenty-eight feet, and Gimber was still having to fight the controls. Paul beginning to appreciate that the problems were real and cumulative. He told them—Lanchberry, who was staring round at him, and Brazier’s wide, ginger-stubbled face framed in the circular opening of the W and D—“It’ll travel right, but not left. Not far enough.”
So—next alternative …
You could turn the knob to the right to the full extent of its travel, putting the maximum delay of six hours on the fuse, and then ditch it. The fuse would have to be activated, and after six hours it would explode.
Gimber had had the same thought. “Set a long fuse, and dump it?”
“Can’t do that.” He’d seen the answer. “Suppose we did it now. The bang would go off at three this afternoon. What chance would we—or any of the others—have of getting any attacks in tomorrow morning, d’you think? The Bosch wouldn’t just say ‘Oh, something’s exploded in the Rognsund,’ and do nothing about it, would they.”
Gimber admitted, “No. You’re right.”
“So we’re stuck with it, until tomorrow. Preferably until we find our target … Louis—let’s try a bow-heavy trim, holding her on the planes?”
He thought that might answer the trimming problem. Instinct, the “feel” of her, suggested it. But even if it worked, you’d still have a periscope on the blink, a heavy list and a side-cargo malfunctioning … He was behind Gimber’s left shoulder, studying the effects of the change of trim as it began to take effect. Thinking about that side-cargo—whether if it was defective in one respect it could be trusted in any other.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
. . .
Trench told me, “I’d arranged for the Bayleaf and Arctic Prince to divert to a new, closer rendezvous position. Two reasons: one, low cloud was giving us cover from the Luftwaffe and the forecast was for rough stuff ahead of us, the sort of conditions that make flying more or less impossible up there, so there was a good chance the bastards would be grounded. Normally I’d have gone right up to the ice and out of their range as soon as possible, but in these circumstances I thought I could take the risk of cutting the corner … Clear?”
It was not only clear, it was on the record.
“Second reason was we knew there were U-boats waiting up near Bear Island. I turned the Bayleaf to a southwesterly course—instead of southeasterly—and kept her clear of them. At the same time I altered the convoy’s route so as to pass south of the island instead of north of it. We made the rendezvous, got on with fuelling the escorts, and altered again—to about two-five-oh degrees, leaving Bear Island sixty miles to the nor’ard.”
Mrs Trench said, “If you leave your food alone much longer, it’ll be stone cold.”
He began to eat. She smiled at me. Eileen Trench was a good-looking woman, with a beautiful skin and good bone structure; in 1943 she’d have been what we then called a “smasher.”
Trench told me with his mouth full, “As it happened, a U-boat on passage to join its chums ran into us by sheer chance. It dived well out ahead, Leopard thought she’d made asdic contact and pooped off a few salvoes of hedgehog, but—well, may or may not have been a sub contact, but if it was the Hun survived it. Within an hour or so we had him shadowing from astern, calling to his friends to come and join him. Some of them did— resulting in the loss of the Lord Charles and an American freighter—whose name I forget … Quite a lot of survivors, from the Yank particularly, thanks to a very quick rescue. But Martin Insole drowned. The vice-commodore who took over from him was also American—name of Claypoole, master of the …” he’d paused, with a forkful of mutton in mid-air: and got it “… the Harriet Smith. Odd how some names stick and some don’t.”
Trench seemed to be staring at his wife across the table, but his eyes weren’t focussed on her and his thoughts, certainly, were a thousand miles away.
“We only lost those two. At dusk I made a drastic alteration southward. On its own this might have thrown them off, but in fact a strong blow from the northwest got up during the night, and by dawn—steaming west again by then—we had roughish seas with sleet and snow showers.”
Trench continued, “My object had been simply to get away from the U-boat pack. This had been achieved, and we’d lost our shadower too— which was extremely fortunate. If they’d maintained contact and known exactly where we were, later events might have turned out quite differently. But anyway—the signal from London told me that Lützow and nine destroyers had been reported as having sailed from Altenfjord. It felt very much as it had on the outward passage with PQ 19 when they’d told us Tirpitz and Scharnhorst were at sea. Except we’d had a cruiser with us then—not that that alone could make a jot of difference, but she’d had a man commanding her in whom I had a lot more faith than I had in myself. I looked around and saw my handful of lightly-armed ships, as against twice as many Germans with much heavier guns—that’s just the destroyers, let alone Lützow with her eleven-inch … I can tell you, I thanked God for the bad weather and for the fact we no longer had our shadower. But I still thought we’d come up against them, because we were so damn close.”
“About—two hundred miles?”
“From Altenfjord?” He nodded. “About that, after we’d turned down to the southwest. I didn’t know exactly when the Germans had sailed, but it would surely have been the night before, so we could have expected to run into them any minute. Their notion of my convoy’s whereabouts might have been somewhat vague, based on U-boat reports twenty-four hours old, and I wasn’t sure the U-boats would know which way we’d turned—they could have expected us to turn up towards the ice, you see, as we’d done before—I mean as Nick Everard had done. I had these imponderables in mind, and bad weather with very poor visibility as the one thing in our favour. Also, a fervent wish that Nick Everard had been on his feet and making the decisions.”
“But he was still …”
“Yes.” Trench put down his knife and fork. “C-in-C Home Fleet ordered the battle squadron out of Akureyri, and he sailed CS 39 as well— minus Nottingham, who’d been sent south to get her bomb damage patched up. Kidd had transferred his flag to Rhodesia. But they might as well have been on the China Station, for all the support they could give me from that distance.”
I asked him, later, “The ship that nearly ran down Paul’s X-craft and damaged her with its wash—would you agree that might have been Lützow on her way out?”
“Might’ve been. It’s never been possible to establish for certain, largely because there’s doubt about exactly when she did sail. We know she was at sea when the Admiralty made that signal—some hours before, in fact, because they’d had to take in and digest a report from our Norwegian friends first. And she certainly wasn’t in the fjord when the X-craft made their attacks on the twenty-second: but Roskill in his official history gives her departure date as September twenty-third. So—” Trench helped himself to cheese—“you pays your money and you takes your choice. Bearing in mind that only Allah is perfect.” He glanced across at me. “You knew Paul quite well, didn’t you.”
“Oh, yes.”
Eileen Trench asked, “Were you and he contemporaries?”
“More or less. And we were both submariners.”
“You weren’t in X-craft, though, were you?”
“No. At a late stage I volunteered for it, but by that time they had all they wanted … One thing does strike me, about the ship that hit him with her wash. When he identified her as a destroyer, before he realised it might have been something much bigger, he had nothing to go by except the hydrophone effect.” I explained to Trench’s wife, “We called it ‘HE.’ It was the underwater
sound of a ship’s propellers. The noise a turbine made—which is tantamount to saying a small warship, as distinct from a cruiser or battleship—was quite different from a big ship’s reciprocating engines.”
She smiled at me as if she thought I was talking double Dutch. “Do go on.”
“Well. That was the general rule, in 1943. But as it happened, Lützow was turbine-powered. Geared turbines, with diesels for cruising speeds. So turbine-driven screws is what he would have heard.”
Trench nodded. “You could well have a point.”
“And she must have sailed at about that time. But nobody had any sight or sound of her in Stjernsund. If she’d gone out that way, I think they would have, because X-10, commanded by Hudspeth, an Australian, was still in Stjernsund then, trying to make-good his boat’s defects. He had no compasses, no periscope, several other major problems. In fact he had rotten luck altogether—in spite of the defects he got her right down to Kafjord, then had to abandon the operation. He spent a week hiding in the outer fjords, and eventually made a rendezvous with one of the towing submarines. If Lützow had steamed out through Stjernsund when he was there, he’d have heard her, for sure.”
Trench agreed with me.
“You said,” his wife broke in, “that this Australian had to give up. So besides Paul Everard’s there were only—what, three X-craft left operational, when the time came?”
“Yes. Cameron, Place, Henty-Creer. All targeted on Tirpitz. Paul was supposed to attack Lützow, and there was nobody now to deal with Scharnhorst. Of course, none of the four teams who were in there had any way of knowing X-10 had dropped out.”
The image of Louis Gimber sliding on to his seat at the hydroplane and main motor controls seemed to shiver, mirage-like. Paul blinked, to clear his eyes, and finished replacing periscope tools in their canvas roll. Jazz Lanchberry muttered, “Air’s not too bad, considering.”
He meant, considering they’d been shut down for nearly twelve hours now, and he’d only made the comment because the truth was that the air was extremely thin. It would have been intolerable by this time if they hadn’t spread Protosorb on trays—Protosorb being Lithium Hydroxide, white crystals to absorb the poison with which four men’s breathing was polluting the midget’s damp, yellow-lit interior—and also doctored the atmosphere with guffs of oxygen from bottles stored in the engine-room. You had to go easy with the oxygen, because tomorrow might be a long day too. If you were lucky, it might be a long day.
The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6 Page 27