With not much room to spare, Paul guessed.
“What’s my DA?”
“Thirty-eight degrees, sir. Red three-eight.”
Two minutes, since he’d altered course and put on speed. Ultra trembling, as she always did, from the grouped-up effort—from a battery that hadn’t had its full charge last night …
Three minutes. A burst of propeller noise astern and above them as a destroyer passed over, close. Ruck let out a breath hard, as if he’d been holding it for a long time.
“Forty feet.”
“Forty feet, sir …” The hydroplanes swung to bring her up. Ruck said, for general information, “Most of the screen’s on the seaward side. Ahead of them and down their port side. Only one other this side.”
Wykeham reported, “Forty feet, sir.”
Ultra had been running blind for three and a quarter minutes. “Group down, slow ahead together.”
Cutting it short of the four minutes he’d intended. If there’d been no changes of course up there, he’d be nearer 700 yards off track than 800. Off-track in this case being the distance the torpedoes would have to cover after they left the tubes. They ran at forty knots, so over 700 yards the running-time would be thirty-one seconds … His thoughts froze for a moment as screws scrunched overhead.
Transmitting? In contact, even? Without asdics, you didn’t know …
But if that had been Ruck’s “only one other,” was Ultra now inside the screen?
“Both motors grouped down, slow ahead, sir.”
“Twenty-eight feet. Port twenty. Stand by tubes.”
Turning and rising, to attack; Ruck standing ready at the after periscope. “What should the target bear now, pilot?”
“Two-four-oh, sir!”
“Up.” He’d flicked his fingers; Quinn lifted the short steel lever and the wires hissed around their sheaves. “Twenty of port wheel on, sir.” “Steer two-eight-five.”
“Two-eight-five, sir …” Creagh eased the rudder angle.
Thirty-five feet. Thirty-three. Dead quiet: Ultra could have been alone … Ruck had the periscope trained to the right bearing, inching the periscope around to hold it there as the boat swung to her firing course. At thirty feet he put his eyes to the lenses.
“Course two-eight-five, sir!”
“There …”
A smile, or a grimace of satisfaction: half a dozen other pairs of eyes saw it. Imaginations picturing the cruisers and the pack of destroyers, the periscope-top poking out of the waves between the warships and the Italian coast.
“Twenty-eight feet, sir.”
Studying his target. Then circling fast. Back on the cruiser; and pulling his head back to check the bearing-ring. Sweat gleaming on his forehead. Paul repeated, in case he needed the reminder, “DA red three-eight, sir.”
Charlie Pool’s hands, over Ruck’s shoulders, held the periscope on that aim-off bearing. Ruck would see the target cross that line of sight, and his torpedoes would go out on a course thirty-eight degrees to the right of it, the way the tubes were pointing now. Torpedoes travelling at forty knots and the cruiser steaming at twenty-six would run to meet each other.
Paul reached to his left, to the edge of the chart table, thinking, Touch wood …
“Stand by.”
The torpedoes were the ones he’d seen loaded yesterday, with their polished steel warheads and long sleek bodies gleaming in blue shellac. They were about to leave home. Lying there now in their tubes, about to perform the function they’d been made for, groomed for. Alternatively, to miss, lie rusting for years to come in the silted bottom of the straits … He watched the taut, muscled face, the intent, day-glistening eyes. Wykeham concentrating on the trim: to allow the boat to dip below the ordered depth, blinding Ruck at this crucial moment, would be the crime of crimes …
“Fire one!”
Muttering: something about a seaplane. Then: “Fire two!”
Lips moving: judging by his expression, cursing an inquisitive Cant. Eyes seeming to burn with that reflected light in them. “Fire three!”
No asdics, for confirmation that the fish were running. Ruck’s lips parting again: and a pause, before—”Fire four!”
Men gulping, swallowing, to clear their ears after the four successive jumps in air pressure. Ruck had slammed the handles up: “Dip it.” About to allow himself the luxury of seeing his torpedoes hit?
Or not hit …
“Running-time on 750 yards will be”—the periscope came back into his hands—”what, half a minute?” “Thirty-four seconds, sir.”
He’d pulled the handles down, jammed his eyes against the lenses, a split second before an explosion from ahead rocked the submarine.
“Got him!”
Then a second one. At such close range, the boat felt them. Ruck announced, “Abaft the second funnel … I’d say that’ll do it …”
Sink her, presumably he meant … Silence now. A gap of more than the firing interval. Still, even two—
Three!
“That was—what the hell …” Scowling, at the periscope … Then, “My God, one of the screen! A destroyer, out on the beam, she’s—Christ, she’s gone!” He’d banged the handles up, and stepped back. “Sixty feet. Port ten, steer”—he thought about it for a second—”two-seven-oh.”
Laughter, comment, congratulations … He shut them up. Creagh repeated, “Steer two-seven-oh, sir.” West—across the straits, probably passing close across the tracks left by the ships he’d torpedoed. Hoping the Italians would expect him to retire the other way, east or southeast?
There was a sense of triumph: echoes of the torpedo-hits rang in memory. And rising behind that, now, awareness that as likely or not Ultra would have to take her own medicine.
“Make that a hundred and fifty feet.”
“Hundred and fifty, sir.”
“Course two-seven-oh, sir.”
Ruck had the Tannoy microphone in his hand: he tapped it to make sure it was working. “D’you hear there. We just scored two hits on the leading cruiser. The third hit sank a destroyer. My guess is that two hits with that depthsetting on a 5000-ton ship doing twenty-six knots will almost certainly sink her. How a fish set to twelve feet managed to hit a destroyer drawing at most nine is a question for CPO Gaffney, not for me … Now we’re likely to get a bollocking, so—silent routine. Not a whisper.” He switched off. “Stop one motor when the trim can stand it, Number One.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Going the wrong way might fox them. And it was highly desirable, with so many destroyers up there, to do so—to get away undetected. Those weren’t trawlers, they were fleet destroyers, crack ships manned by professionals; and if they did locate her, Ultra’s deafness would severely limit her capacity to take effective avoiding action.
Ten past five …
Ruck had adjusted the course to 250 degrees as soon as he’d reckoned to have passed the Italian squadron’s tracks; since then Ultra had been motoring very quietly southwestward across the southern approaches to the straits, her snout pointing towards the Sicilian coast about halfway between Taormina and Riposto.
More than an hour had passed since the attack: there’d been no asdic contact, no charges dropped. Twice, destroyers had passed close enough to be heard. Perhaps asdic conditions were poor, with the sea churned up by recent bad weather; and to start with there would probably have been survivors in the water, which would have inhibited the destroyers or preoccupied them.
Hitting a shallow-draught destroyer with a deep-set torpedo: Ruck had come to the conclusion that the destroyer might have been pitching, her bow deep in the sea, when that fish had reached her after passing between the two cruisers. That, or the torpedo’s depthkeeping hadn’t been too accurate … He glanced up at the clock now: it was a good half-hour since they’d heard the last propeller noise.
There’d been eight destroyers, and Ultra had sunk one. At least two would have continued northward with the other cruiser, and another two would very probabl
y have busied themselves rescuing survivors. They’d have gone off, too, to land them at Messina. Leaving three. But then again, Messina was only fifteen miles away, and some of those others could very easily return to join the hunt.
“How far have we come, pilot?”
McClure got to his feet. “Must be roughly in the middle, sir.” He checked the log, for the distance run, then bent over the chart to put on a DR position.
Ruck said, from his customary position—seated—by the ladder, “Let’s have both motors slow ahead now.”
Chief ERA Pool passed the order aft, by way of the bulkhead voice-pipe. In silent routine, the telegraphs were too noisy to be used.
The depthgauge needle, in the one gauge that wasn’t shut off, was motionless at 150 feet. There was no sense of movement whatsoever. Warmth, silence, and surprise at having been left alone all this time; hope growing that it might be possible to creep away, having got this far.
Pool came back from the bulkhead pipe. “Both motors slow ahead, grouped down, sir.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
McClure told him from the chart table, “We’re seven miles two-two-eight degrees from the dell’Armi lighthouse, sir.”
Ruck got up. Stretching to ease cramped muscles, he went over for a look. He muttered, after a few moments’ consideration, “Might come round to south now, I suppose.”
Paul hoped he wouldn’t. It would be the most direct route away from this now over-populated area, and it would also be the course for home, and in the circumstances—the convoy operation would be over by now, Ultra had only one torpedo left, and these waters would be distinctly unhealthy for a day or two—”home” did seem the obvious place to head for. But it was also what the enemy would be expecting, he guessed. And so far this westerly course had worked …
On the other hand, he realized, since it was now getting towards 1730, and the usual surfacing time was about 2000, if they did not turn south how could Ultra be far enough off the coast to surface even a couple of hours later than usual?
“Well.” Ruck came back from studying the chart. “We’ll start moving out. Want to be up in time for supper, don’t we? Even if it’s a late one.”
CPO Logan muttered, “Not too late, let’s hope.”
“Hungry, cox’n?”
“Well, sir.” The wide shoulders shrugged. “Put it like this. I wouldn’t say no to a nice juicy steak—touch on the raw side—with onions an’ French fries and a couple of grilled tomatoes, and a pint or two of—”
“Bloody ‘ell.” Lovesay, on the fore planes, couldn’t stand it. “I mean—”
Screws churned over the top. The first they’d heard for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
Nobody spoke, or looked at anyone else, until Ruck said quietly, “Port ten.”
“Port ten, sir.” Creagh had almost whispered the acknowledgement. “Ten o’port wheel on, sir.”
“Steer one-eight-oh.”
South. If they’d altered a few minutes ago, Paul realized, they might not have been treated to that shock … No sound now, anyway; it had come, and gone. But which way to turn, or when—blind and deaf, you might as well spin a coin … Then he heard the pings: little squeaks, like a creaky shoe walking on the outside of the hull. He’d lifted his head to listen to it: meeting Ruck’s eyes, and seeing Ruck listening too.
“Course one-eight-oh, sir.”
“Very good.”
Propeller noise to port: and over the top again. Attacking … Ruck leaning against the ladder, looking displeased. He told Wykeham, “Use telegraphs now.” The screws passed over in a sudden rush. He snapped, “Group up, full ahead!” All through the boat, in the other compartments isolated behind shut and clipped watertight doors, they’d have heard the destroyer go over, and they’d feel the burst of speed by which Ruck aimed to get out from under the charges which would now be floating down …
The pattern exploded astern. Only one charge was quite close, throwing the trim out so that the planesmen had to work hard to get the bubble aft again and regain the depth. A lot of cork came down, littering the deckboards.
It wasn’t only the submarine that had been shaken. Brains had, too. Reality had returned. Awareness that any notion you could sink cruisers in confined waters and just walk away unscathed had been ridiculous.
“Group down. Slow both motors.” Staring at the depthgauge. Knowing that whatever he decided it would be just another gamble.
“Two hundred feet.”
“Two hundred feet, sir.” The hydroplanes swung over. The operators moved their wheels to apply dive angle or rise angle, and miniature hydroplanes in the indicator dials followed the movements of the planes themselves—which were in effect horizontal rudders fore and aft. Ultra’s bow tilted downwards. No sounds from the surface. If sh’ed had asdics there’d have been plenty: Ruck would have known when the next attack was coming and from which direction, and where the ship was that was holding them in contact … As things were, he only knew it when it happened: as it would again, in a minute, or two, or three. Sound here inside the boat dropped to a quiet murmur as the power came off. The men at the various controls were blank-faced, carefully expressionless.
Screws churned over. From astern. It had come abruptly, ceased abruptly. Whether or not it had been an attack, or just one of them happening to pass over …
“Two hundred feet, sir.”
Overhead, the sea exploded. The separate charges in the pattern of five seemed to run closely on each other’s heels, making one drawn-out eruption. The submarine, already nose-down, was diving deeper, the echoes of the crashes ringing, her steel reverberating like a gong struck with a hammer.
“Half astern together.”
“Half astern together, sir!”
To slow her, take the way off her, the forward impetus that was also driving her downward. Wykeham and the planesmen hadn’t been able to get her bow up: she was passing 260 feet—270 … Screws running astern … Logan had had his after planes angled to drag her stern down and thus tilt her upwards, but with sternway on he’d need to reverse them. Wykeham had got the pump going on the midships trimming-tank.
Levelling, at last. “Stop together.” Depth 285 feet. She was only tested to 300. “Slow ahead together.”
“Two-fifty feet.”
“Two hundred and fifty, sir.”
You paid for everything, always. If you drank too much you paid with a hangover, if you whored around you got a dose, if you sank an Eyetie cruiser you got this. They’d sunk a destroyer too, and those were the destroyer men’s chums up there: they’d have some ideas about exacting payment.
Screws scrunched over, eighty yards overhead.
“Port twenty. Half ahead starboard.” To turn her faster as she circled away to port. “Steer oh-six-oh.”
“Steer oh-six-oh, sir … “Creagh’s “s” sounds were sibilant, because of his jagged front teeth. Ruck ordered, “Slow together.” He added, glancing round at them all like a father with his family, “Always sounds worse than it is. That lot wasn’t really close.” There were nods, here and there. Wise nods of experience, dutiful ones of acceptance. Then upheaval, thunderous and vicious, the submarine flung upwards and over to starboard as if she’d been rammed and knocked sideways. Charges still exploding as the lights went out: in pitch blackness you felt the bow drop, deck angling steeply, and the gyro alarm began to shriek. Paul had been thrown across the gangway and McClure was on the deck at his feet. Emergency lighting flickered and glowed weakly. McClure, struggling up, pushed himself aft towards the cage where the gyro switches were. Several other men had been thrown off their feet. With the gyro toppled, Creagh would be steering by magnetic compass. The main lights came on again as that raucous alarm bell cut out, but the boat still had a steep bow-down angle.
“It’s Q flooded, sir!”
Quinn, pointing out to Wykeham that the quick-diving tank’s indicator light was flashing: hence loss of trim, the dive, the angle on her. “Out-board vent must’ve
been blown open, sir.” He’d got it shut again now, and Wykeham asked Ruck quickly, “Blow Q sir?” You had to— unless you wanted to test the chart’s accuracy, the sounding of about a thousand fathoms here. Ultra was at 375 feet and still diving steeply. More depthcharges exploding—astern, comparatively shallow-set. Ruck ordered, “Blow Q!”
A/S men on the surface would hear it. But they already knew where their target was.
Bow coming up. Depth four hundred feet. McClure came shambling back from his trip to the gyro gear, muttering, “Bloody hell, I mean, fuck this for a lark,” and shaking his head as if he felt things had really gone too far. Four hundred and five feet on the gauge, but she’d be rising now. None too soon. Quinn shut off the air to Q and reported it blown; he and Pool were glancing around the inside of the pressure-hull as if expecting leaks to show. Quinn was bleeding from a gash on his forehead: he’d obviously been thrown against something sharp. She was coming up now, but she was still a hundred feet below her tested depth.
Ruck sat down on the asdic stool. “Hundred and fifty feet, Number One. Report damage from compartments.”
Screws churning over.
“Starboard ten. Group up, full ahead together.”
How many destroyers up there hunting, Paul wondered. One team in action and another standing by for when that lot’s depthcharges had been used up? With Messina so close they could go home for more, run a shuttle-service.
Motors grouped up, speeding. “Steer east.”
“Steer east, sir.”
Logan murmured, “Never did like Italians.”
Depthcharges bursting like a roll of thunder on the quarter. The more nasty ones you heard, the less the off-target ones disturbed you. This lot rolled the boat a bit and shook some more cork off the deckhead. Ruck said, “Losing their touch.”
Too much to hope they’d lost their target.
“Group down. Slow together.”
“Chief.”Wykeham glanced round at Pool. “May be something wrong with the after pump.”
A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4 Page 26