Submariner Sinclair: A thrilling WW2 military adventure story (The Submariner Sinclair Naval Thriller Series Book 1)

by John Wingate

  “… from Chaser 17 … to Chaser 25 … return to Yarmouth Roads … I am relieving you tonight … all right for some.”

  “Hard-a-port,” ordered Peter. “It’s ‘home James’ for us.”

  The tired little ship swung round out of line, leaving Chaser 27 to wait for her new consort.

  “Good night,” signalled Peter. “I don’t wish I was coming with you. Good luck.”

  Increasing speed, Peter went ahead and moored to the large buoy outside the snug harbour of Yarmouth. As he did so, Chaser 17, the Senior Officer, slipped quickly down on the tide, outward bound on her first patrol.

  “Good luck and thank you,” signalled Peter.

  The white bow wave sheened clearly as she swept by, hands waving from her bridge.

  I wish she had been able to have more time to work up, thought Peter to himself; it’s not so easy as you think out there.

  It was the last time that he was to see her.

  As the twinkling stars glittered brightly above the little ship, swinging gently at her buoy, a small cluster of men gathered on her steel quarterdeck. Bareheaded, they stood in a semicircle around their young Captain who, with an unaccustomed Admiralty prayer book in his hand, was giving thanks to Almighty God for deliverance from their enemies. The quiet murmur of their thanks to Him hardly broke the silence of the night which gathered slowly about them.

  “O Almighty God, who art a strong tower of defence unto Thy servants against their enemies; we yield Thee praise and thanksgiving for our deliverance from those great and apparent dangers wherewith we were encompassed: we acknowledge it Thy goodness that we were not delivered over as a prey unto them; beseeching Thee still to continue Thy mercies towards us, that all the world may know that Thou art our Saviour and Mighty Deliverer; through Jesus Christ, Our Lord.”

  “Amen,” came the low voices in thankfulness, their responses floating across the water like a deep sigh.

  Three hours later, two lean, black shapes slid silently across the patrol line off the south-eastern corner of the Isle of Wight. Undetected by the patrolling trawlers, the two MAAS-class German destroyers closed to within three miles of the signal station which was perched atop the massive bluff of Culver cliff.

  On the bridge of the leading enemy destroyer, the German Captain turned and spoke curtly to the young signals officer at his side.

  “You have everything ready, Herr Leutnant?”

  “Ja, mein Kapitan,” the eager voice replied.

  “These English pig-dogs are about to regret the day you were at Exeter University, are they not? Perhaps you will in your boat be sailing again here, as you did in the Solent three years ago?” A guffaw of guttural Teutonic laughter obsequiously greeted this heavy Hunnish humour.

  “Gott strafe England! Then make der signal,” ordered the Captain.

  “Ja, mein Kapitan. Heil Hitler!”

  Both officers exchanged a perfunctory music hall raising of their right hands and the young officer clicked his heels, then turned about to man the signal lamp in the port wings of the bridge.

  Click-click-clack … clack-click-clack-clack … click-clack-click: the shutter of the lamp clattered. A thin pencil of blue light stabbed the darkness and urgently summoned the signal station ashore.

  After a few seconds, high up on the cliff, an answering light replied with the coded challenge, ‘…A K … A K.’

  “Ha! Das ist gut!” snarled the German Captain. “Go on, Herr Leutnant, and jumble your reply.”

  The young Ober-Leutnant flicked away on the shutter, his forearm working swiftly in time with the clatter. He made two indistinct ‘BD’s’ following it up quickly with, “Do you know that we are here? May we enter harbour, please?”

  The signal station replied after a short pause, “Proceed up harbour. Your berth will be signalled later.”

  Both destroyers had lain stopped, pointed towards the light. Now that their acknowledgment had been signalled, they turned hard-a-starboard and steamed off into the darkness at high speed. Having thrown the shore authorities into confusion, they were now in search of their prey and had not long to wait.

  The lone, armed trawler, steaming up and down her appointed patrol line off St. Catherine’s Point, did not even see her killers until it was too late. Using flashless cordite, they blew her out of the water, not waiting to pick up the doomed survivors who were left to drown in the swirling waters.

  Sweeping round St. Catherine’s, the two darkened destroyers, concealed by the blackness of the moonless night, streaked westwards, some twelve miles off the Needles.

  “Achtung!”

  The warning rang across the bridge from the excited voice of a young German sailor. His arm pointed to two small black shapes steaming slowly in line ahead, fine on the destroyer’s port bow.

  “Donner und blitzen!” the German Captain swore. “Herr Leutnant, make them a signal, ‘Close me’.”

  “Jawohl, mein Kapitan.” Once again the blue light blinked.

  The young Captains of Chasers 17 and 27 read the winking blue light which beckoned them in the pitch darkness.

  “Close me. I have message for you.”

  The leading Chaser hesitated, unused to the guile and ruthlessness of this Channel war. She turned towards the winking light, her consort following in her wake. Both ships were at action stations. Huddled groups of seamen manned their 75mm guns on the clammy fo’c’sles, one round in each breech. The gunlayers’ fingers itched on their triggers. The darkened silhouette of two destroyers, bows towards them, slid into the crosswires of their sights.

  “Stand by!”

  But the British guns never spoke…

  As the German destroyers’ sights came on, a merciless broadside tore into the two Chasers, splitting them asunder.

  Safe now from retribution, the leading destroyer nosed into the wreckage-strewn water, intent on taking prisoners. In the swirling waters, the pathetic remains of two ships’ companies struggled. Several burned and shocked men clung desperately to floating debris. A destroyer drifted down upon them, the water poppling along her sides, from which jumping ladders and scrambling nets dangled, offering them their lives.

  Their young Captain’s shock of red hair, matted by the black oil fuel, bobbed up and down in the oily scum. Exhorting his men to save themselves, he swam towards the destroyer, a flashing gleam of defiance in his battle-crazed eyes. Nearing the ship’s side, he shouted at the top of his voice in a victorious yell of anguish, all reserve gone and all barriers down.

  “God save the King! God bless England!”

  In his exulting pride, he half heaved himself out of the water, while a jeering group of German sailors clustered on the upper deck, peering down inquisitively at him. One spat contemptuously over the side.

  For an instant, the contorted face of this gallant young Briton dipped beneath the swirling debris. He reappeared a few seconds later and hove himself half out of the water, yelling defiantly, “God save England!” His arm swung above his head and a small round object lobbed unseen through the air to land amongst the jeering crowd of Huns gathered by the torpedo tubes.

  As the grenade landed, bouncing and rolling along the steel plating, an orange flash stabbed the darkness. For an instant there was a shocked silence, then the screams of stricken and dying men rent the night.

  Instantly the propellers of the destroyer went ahead, churning their murderous way like a scythe through the struggling swimmers, and staining the waters horribly.

  From the starboard wings of the lower bridge a machine-gun spat, the green tracer lashing the water into spouts of boiling foam.

  The destroyer pulled away and slowly circled. Not until the last defiant voice was silenced did the ruthless guns cease their butchery. The sudden silence shocked even the watching Germans as from the darkness, a choking voice hauntingly pursued them.

  “… England … England!”

  Once again the gun chattered.

  The brave voice ceased suddenly, leaving only the
swish of the water to disturb the silence of the cruel night. The enemy destroyers wheeled to the westward and disappeared into the darkness to sink yet another trawler off Portland, before returning to their Normandy base.

  Off Yarmouth, gateway to the Isle of Wight, a little ship took her rest, swinging to the turn of the tide. Her young Captain turned restlessly over in his bunk, shouting to himself in his sleep, whilst, from across the mudflats of the river Yar, the plaintive cries of the curlew faintly called.

  To the eastward, over the sweeping line of English hills which stood blackly against the line of the night sky, the first silver streaks heralded a cold dawn. The curtain was slowly falling on yet another night in the Narrow Seas.

  CHAPTER 3

  To the Enemy’s Doorstep

  “Sub-Lieutenant P. Sinclair, Royal Navy, is appointed to H.M.S. Seahorse for Submarine course.” Peter Sinclair’s eyes were riveted to the signal-pad which was held before him by his signalman.

  “Thank you, Signalman. I’ll show it to the First Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The signalman hesitated.

  “Well, what is it?” demanded his Captain.

  The signalman looked his Captain in the eyes before replying.

  “I am sorry, sir. I just wanted to say that we’ll miss you.”

  From the first day, he had shared the boredom and excitements on the bridge with his Captain and this signal meant the ending of an understanding between the two men which had grown out of hardship and mutual respect.

  “Thank you, Park. I shall hate leaving such a good ship’s company. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Alone in his small panelled cabin, Peter allowed his eyes to wander around the small tin box in which he had lived for the past months. On the bulkhead was his favourite painting, a bright watercolour of London Pool; from the top of his chest of drawers, the photograph of his mother smiled down at him, her serene face giving him the tranquillity he always felt whenever he looked at it. He needed her understanding now, for this news would worry her much more than it would trouble him. To her, it would mean weeks of waiting for news that never came. Weeks of strain bottled up in a heart to be racked and hurt every time the terse routine B.B.C. announcement came over the wireless: “The Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of His Majesty’s Submarine — which has not returned from patrol and must be presumed lost. Next of kin have been informed.” The knock on the door that might be the telegraph boy, ruddy-faced and panting from his long ride to the moors, the buff telegram envelope held in a reluctant hand.

  No, Peter did not relish the idea much but it was a job of which to be proud, a real job. The more efficient he made himself at it, the more likely he was to survive.

  Since the loss of his friends in Chasers 27 and 17, Peter’s hatred of the Germans had intensified. Now he was glad, happy even, at the thought of being able to attack the enemy on his doorstep, for in submarines he would be able to revenge his friends and help, in his small way, to bring the ghastly business to an end.

  Peter said goodbye to his ship’s company on the quarterdeck. Slowly he walked down the two ranks of waiting men.

  “Goodbye, Coxswain, thank you.”

  “Good luck, sir.”

  “Thank you, Chief, for the ‘revs.’ from the Engine Room.”

  “That’s all right, sir. Good luck.”

  Finally he reached the last man in the rear rank.

  “Goodbye, Hawkins.”

  “Goodbye, sir.” A huge hand grasped Peter’s.

  “Good luck and thank you, Hawkins.”

  The two men gazed at each other for an instant.

  “It’s au revoir, sir,” Hawkins croaked. “I’ve put in for submarines too, sir.”

  Jamie, who was standing alongside, smiled. “I have a hunch you two will be seeing more of each other, sir.”

  Peter coughed.

  “Keep in touch, Hawkins.”

  “I will, sir.”

  The men were dismissed. Peter parted from Jamie in the Ward Room that they had shared for so long and then quickly clattered up the ladder, and with the cheers of his ship’s company still ringing in his ears he clambered ashore. He did not look back at the grey ship lying alongside the jetty, but tried instead to think of the long train journey to Northumberland which lay ahead of him.

  The training course had taken only seven weeks.

  Twenty-four men found themselves being addressed by the Commander, a quiet, upstanding man, greying at the temples.

  “As you all know, we are hard pressed. We have suffered very severe losses recently and most of our trained and experienced men have given their lives. That is why we have called upon you to make good the loss and to carry on where they left off. You may all have a choice of appointment, starting in order of examination results. The following appointments need filling,” he continued, clearing his throat:

  “Tenth flotilla at Malta — four officers. Fourth at Alexandria — six. Eighth at Gibraltar — four. Sixth at Rothesay — two.

  “Well done, all of you. Let me have your choice by noon today. Thank you, good luck and good hunting!”

  He turned on his heel and the young men silently dispersed.

  So it was that Peter Sinclair chose for himself the Fighting Tenth at Malta; but he had still to reach the beleaguered island.

  Gibraltar was the halfway house, and Peter reached the lonely fortress in a Catalina flying boat.

  The Rock had not changed since he was last there in a Home Fleet destroyer. The main street still smelled the same; the ‘Scorps’, as the local inhabitants were affectionately called, still smiled their ingratiating smiles, and the jingling of jukeboxes and tinny pianos still chimed from the gloomy interiors of the cafés.

  The ‘gharries’, pulled by flea-bitten little ponies, still picked their way through the thronging main street, cluttered up by scrambling children and squawking fowls. But as sunset shut down on the bustling street, the activities ceased as suddenly as a tap turned off. No longer did the twinkling lights spatter the Rock face like glow-worms on a midsummer’s night. The rigidly enforced blackout threw the great Rock into massive relief against the purple night sky, its overpowering vastness like a huge backdrop to an immense stage. By night, Gibraltar seemed to be grimly at war, in strong contrast to its daylight gaiety. The dark alleyways, which led off from the only street, brooded sombrely down upon the town, the shutters of the overhanging houses clasping hands across the street to shut out the immensity of the heavens above.

  Peter wandered back to the Submarine Depot Ship which was secured to the South Mole, with her small brood of submarines nestled against her towering side. At her forward end, the huge, blue shape of the ocean-going submarine Tweed lay stored and ready for sea. This was her last night in harbour, for, at dusk on the morrow, she was bound on yet another storing trip to the beleaguered island of Malta.

  This huge and unwieldy submarine Tweed was for Malta, the last connecting link with freedom, for without her the besieged island could no longer hold out. To fight back she must have high octane aviation spirit for her few gallant fighter aircraft and Tweed carried the explosive stuff in her tanks. Malta needed food and the Tenth Submarine Flotilla needed engine spares and torpedoes; torpedoes, torpedoes and always more torpedoes. So desperate was the need for torpedoes to hit back at Rommel’s supply lines, that the Flotilla Torpedo Officer was even diving down to retrieve them from bombed and sunken submarines in the dockyard: a horrible and gruesome task.

  So Tweed’s passages were packed with gleaming blue torpedoes, while green smokescreen canisters cluttered up every corner and in this floating gunpowder barrel, Peter had his first taste of operational submarine warfare. Tweed was forbidden to attack the enemy under any circumstances. Her role was vital, for with her precious cargo she had to reach Malta quickly and safely. Nothing else mattered.

  To Peter, the swift passage was like a dream. It was an unusual sensation to travel at one hundred and t
wenty feet below the surface, in an explosive machine, through enemy minefields, and three miles from the enemy’s doorstep.

  Looking at his messmates, he found it difficult to realise that they had been carrying out this unenviable run for many months.

  Tweed surfaced at dawn off the tiny islet of Filfla, at the south-eastern corner of Malta. She broke surface astern of the minesweeper which waited to escort her up the swept channel of the protective minefield and into harbour. A wheeling Spitfire glistened above them, spiralling in the morning sun in a frenzy of delight.

  It was a thrilling moment for Peter. For the first time, he absorbed the pleasure of sighting the besieged island from a submarine’s bridge and was wonderstruck by the peace and serenity of the scene.

  The sandstone of the island battlements and buildings was washed by the freshness of the new dawn, and, as each mile passed, the outline of the buildings sharpened. Against the blue sky the craggy battlements, ruggedly defying all assaults of the foe, stood clearly stencilled.

  Here have we been for a thousand years, and here we mean to stay, their massive strength proclaimed. Blue seas broke into white cascades of falling spray as they crashed against the rocky bluffs.

  Tweed was now within a mile of Grand Harbour, and the breakwaters were slowly opening to view. The mighty bastions of the ancient Knights of St. John glowered disdainfully down upon the clear aquamarine of Grand Harbour, shielded now by a black necklace of booms and nets. Slowly Tweed cleared the entrance to Grand Harbour and approached the smaller openings to Sliema Creek and Lazaretto Island. Breaking away from her escort she turned slowly to port, her casing lined by the seamen who were fallen in at Harbour Stations. The roar of her diesels died away, as she slid at last into her haven on her silent electric motors.

  Peter turned his head towards the faint noise of children’s voices. His eyes blurred at the sight of lines of women and children sprinkling the long breakwater like icing on a cake. Yelling and screaming, weeping and waving, they bellowed their little lungs out to welcome in yet another life-giving British submarine. They knew Tweed, as soon as she showed as a black dot on the distant horizon. To them she meant petrol, and petrol meant Spitfires to protect the skies above them. To these little knots of waving figures, the blue, whale-like creature wallowing in through the ‘boom’ spelled revenge in the shape of speeding torpedoes, bubbling their way mercilessly to their targets. To them, Tweed meant an earlier end to their hardships and miseries.