by John Wingate
The great sanctuary opened up before them. Leaving Sliema Creek, the former peacetime destroyer anchorage, to starboard, Tweed slid in under the battlements of Malta, Lazaretto Island on her starboard bow. Already the blue shapes of the little submarines, lying like a shoal of sharks straining at their moorings, came into view. They were strung in a semicircle around the sandstone buildings called Lazaretto, the former leper colony which was built upon this barren Manoel Island.
Under the arches of the buildings, little groups of waiting figures, dressed in serviceable khaki shorts and shirts, stood ready to welcome once more the gallant maid-of-all-work, Tweed, who had again brought them more ‘teeth’, more smoke canisters, vital engineering spare parts, yes, and it must be confessed, just the odd and very precious bottle of refreshment!
But the old boat was not home yet, and turning slowly to starboard, she settled alongside a petrol lighter where some battered lorries awaited her. Hardly had she secured her wires, when the petrol hoses were connected. Within fifteen minutes, the hoses jumped and pulsated as the precious spirit poured into the hungry tankers, which then sped away in dusty, yellow clouds, bumping over the potholes, to take the priceless lifeblood to secret tanks at the edge of the airfields. Not until the last drop of petrol was emptied did Tweed relax, and then it was only to proceed halfway up Torpedo Creek to unload her precious torpedoes at the depot.
By nightfall, she was unloaded and her company went ashore, exhausted, dirty and hungry.
But Malta shook herself, took stock of her augmented arsenal, squared her shoulders and was refreshed.
CHAPTER 4
Baptism of Fire
The cold woke him. For some time he lay still, wondering where he was and enjoying the puzzle of his present whereabouts. If it was his beloved Dartmoor, where was the low murmur of the stream at the bottom of the cleave? The stars glittered like sparklers on Guy Fawkes night in a sky of indigo blue, but the Channel did not behave like this. With a contented grunt, he slowly turned over to switch on the lamp. His fingers found no switch but only groped softly against damp sandstone which exuded a musty moistness. While an eddy of wind rattled a corner of the corrugated iron sheet which gamely attempted to call itself a roof, he slowly gained consciousness.
Already the blue above him was lightening to a pale green, for the dawn was breaking fast. The tintinnabulation of church bells, chiming the hour of six, gently came to him from across the water. Now fully awake, he wandered out in his bare feet to stand beside his roofless and doorless room on the terrace which overlooked the green waters of the harbour. The cool flagstones felt soft to his feet and, looking down, Peter saw the rough sandstone steps which led down to the shower room.
The outer end of each step was decorated by a small, carved sandstone block. Discarding his pyjama jacket and grasping his towel and toilet gear, he slowly padded down the steps looking at each, and recalling the famous submarines whose names showed on the rough faces of the blocks of stone. Unobtrusively these talismen reminded those who now used the steps of the ideals and standards set by those who had gone before, but had not returned; who had, until very recently, trodden these same stone steps. Thoughtfully Peter made his way slowly down to the wash-places.
“Let go aft. Let go for’d.”
At three-thirty two days later, His Majesty’s Submarine Rugged slipped unostentatiously from her mooring-buoys off Lazaretto to nose her way out of the battered harbour. The little 600-ton submarine was sleekly, strangely beautiful in a sinister way. As she silently scythed her course through the green waters, which rapidly turned to a deeper blue on clearing the harbour entrance, her bows, pierced by the free-flood holes, grinned like the snout of a hungry shark.
To Peter, appointed as Third Hand to Rugged two days previously, this neat and tiny boat was a great contrast to Tweed. Immediately Rugged was clear of the boom, her diesels were started and she bumbled along at her maximum speed of ten knots. As she was diesel-electric, she had no clumsy clutches to operate when changing from the electric batteries to her diesel engines. This gave her speed in diving, an essential for these little boats operating on the enemy’s doorstep.
But Peter had little time to notice what was going on around him, for he was concentrating on seeing that all was secured properly on the casing, the wires stowed and the gun greased. The duties of the Third Hand included that of Gunnery Officer, and Peter had been shinning up and down the conning tower with his weary gun’s crew for the last two days, training them and himself for Gun Action, even though they were alongside in harbour.
Surprise was the essence of gun attack, and this could only be achieved if the gun’s crew were swift and efficient. Peter’s new Captain had insisted that his Third Hand should be perfect in his gun drill, and, on surfacing after the Trim Dive, he was going to exercise Gun Action. All went well. Rugged carried out her Trim Dive when clear of the swept channel south of Malta, and went to ‘Patrol Routine’, remaining on the surface all night.
So, for the first time, Peter was taking part in an offensive submarine patrol and carrying out the duties of one of the four officers in His Majesty’s Submarine Rugged, one of the partners in the renowned Tenth Submarine Flotilla, affectionately known as ‘The Fighting Tenth’.
Peter felt a surge of pride in the realisation that he had been chosen to serve here. In this little boat, his tubular steel home for months to come, he felt at home. Already he knew that his other three officers were keen for him to settle down and become part of the boat.
The Captain, Lieutenant Croxton, D.S.C., Royal Navy, had been a stern taskmaster to Peter, sparing no effort to ensure that he was as efficient as possible in the short time left to him before sailing. ‘Joe’, as the Captain was called, drove his officers and men hard, but withal, he had a mischievous sense of humour. His ship’s company respected him, not because they liked him for his personal traits, but because he was an extremely efficient and successful submarine Commanding Officer. During an attack, when being counter-attacked and depth-charged by the infuriated enemy, he was as crafty and as cool as a Siamese cat. It was frustrating to a submarine’s crew for their Captain to miss the target with his four torpedoes, after perhaps hours of tension during the run-in of the attack. To miss occasionally and to receive a hot depth-charging in return was part of the game, but to fail frequently and receive the same medicine was bad for morale, however pleasant a Captain might be.
But Joe Croxton did not miss. He was one of those born submariners blessed with what is known as a ‘periscope eye’. Cool in action, his temper when he was roused seared flaming hot, shrivelling officers and men so that they wished they had never been born. But the storm was soon over and all was forgiven, providing the offender was repentant. Joe was no respecter of persons, as Peter well remembered when the First Lieutenant was the victim on one occasion.
Number One had put on a bad trim, and had broken surface for the second time, the back of his neck flushing with shame.
“What the devil is the matter, First Lieutenant? Can’t you keep a proper trim?” the sarcastic voice of the Captain snarled, but for once in his life the First Lieutenant was unrepentant.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you didn’t give me enough time to catch a trim on diving.”
The First Lieutenant turned away from his Captain in a gesture of impatience and busied himself with the pump order instruments. The men in the Control Room sensed that a drama was about to be played, and a pin could have been heard to drop in the silence that followed.
“Very well, First Lieutenant, go to diving stations.”
“Diving stations? Aye, aye, sir,” replied Number One, a slight trace of resentment in his voice as he said, “diving stations!”
Tired men, wiping sleep away from their red-rimmed eyes, bundled their way into the Control Room.
“Eighty feet, First Lieutenant.”
“Eighty feet, sir.”
Slowly the First Lieutenant, hand on his left hip, legs astride, took the boa
t down to her ordered depth, but carelessly allowed her to slide past it to eighty-seven feet.
“I ordered eighty feet, not eighty-seven, First Lieutenant.”
The First Lieutenant bit his lip but said nothing.
“Periscope depth,” the Captain snapped.
“Periscope depth, sir.”
Peter looked at Joe. His face was a hard, inscrutable mask, eyes glinting with anger. He stalked up and down the restricted space, a figure of suppressed fury. The Control Room crew dared not meet his eye and not even a wink passed between them.
The unfortunate First Lieutenant, in spite of desperate countermeasures, very nearly broke surface again, the boat porpoising about almost out of control and staying at twenty feet instead of the usual twenty-eight feet.
“What a performance! First Lieutenant, we shall remain at diving stations until you control this boat properly. Eighty feet!”
“Aye, aye, sir. Eighty feet, sir.”
By now, the First Lieutenant was noticeably more restrained, and quieter in his speech, a sure sign of danger with him. But this time, he pumped out sufficient water, and settled nicely on the ordered depth.
“Periscope depth,” the waiting figure of the Captain snapped.
“Periscope depth, sir.”
Calmly the First Lieutenant unfolded his arms and took the boat upwards. A wicked point of light seemed to dance in the glowing eyes of the Captain.
How unlike they are, those two, thought Peter to himself, watching this drama being played out, but Number One is on a sticky wicket!
Once more the First Lieutenant felt that, longing to get back to their bunks as the men were, all eyes in the boat followed the pointers on the depth gauges, but he also knew that his ship’s company would stay there until Kingdom Come before murmuring any disapproval.
And so this drawn-out exercise continued. Five more times did Number One take the boat up and down before Joe was satisfied. Number One had learned his lesson for all time, and in future attacks he was to bless Joe’s apparent hardness. It was amazing to Peter that this incident seemed to weld the whole boat together and from then onwards, Joe and his First Lieutenant worked together in perfect combination. The others knew that nothing but the best would suffice, and that all was done in the name of efficiency. Efficiency meant survival.
No, Joe did not miss, so the ‘troops’ had confidence in him. He was angular and large-mouthed, with black eyes that burned in their deep sockets like a smouldering fire. In the summer, when dived by day on patrol, his uniform consisted merely of a coloured ‘sarong’ and sandals, a fashion and challenge to be taken up by the remainder of the crew, who vied with each other for the most alarming and gaudy pattern possible.
For the haute couture of this season, Joe bashfully entered the Control Room wearing for the first time a sarong brilliantly decorated with coloured butterflies; but this was soon outmoded and classed as ‘too restrained’ when the Outside E.R.A. appeared in one of his own design, purple tigers and green foliage predominating.
On Joe’s shoulders rested the safety of the whole boat. By indecision or by one wrong decision during any second of the fourteen-day patrol, he could bring sudden and overwhelming disaster upon them all. All knew this, of course, and readily excused his frequent outbursts, nay, even loved him for them!
“Shift to night lighting! Lookouts in the tower!”
The orders were passed verbally through the length of the boat and the harsh electric lights were replaced by red bulbs, which threw an eerie crimson glow on all and sundry, plunging the boat into an atmosphere of sinister purpose. By this red light, eyes became accustomed to the darkness more quickly, lookouts having to remain in the darkness of the conning tower for only ten minutes, instead of the regulation twenty in normal light.
As a further precaution, a circular canvas ‘skirt’ known as ‘the trunk’ was fastened to the lip of the lower conning tower hatch and surrounded the ladder from the Control Room. An aperture, which formed a small doorway in the trunk, allowed a man to enter the canvas and climb the ladder into the darkness above him.
In the Control Room, the two lookouts, rustling in their weatherproof ‘Ursula’ suits, made ready to climb into the tower. Checking their binocular settings, cleaning the eyepieces and gathering enough periscope paper with which to clean them when once they reached the isolation of the bridge, the first two lookouts were important people. As far as the duties of lookouts were concerned, there were no differentials in rank or branch. Seaman or stoker, electrician or torpedoman, the best men had the job and considered it an honour. The duty lasted for an hour only, each alternate man being relieved half-hourly.
Special pills were taken daily to help their night vision, and the watches were organised in the most efficient manner possible in order to help the lookouts. After keeping an hour’s trick as a lookout on a submarine’s bridge, a man came below extremely tired. The watches were organised on a three-watch system: red, white, blue, each watch lasting two hours, although in surface ships, where the tension was not so great, their watches were four-hourly. But in a submarine the concentration of will and eyesight to maintain sixty minutes’ worth of continuous, one-hundred-per-cent efficiency was enormous.
On the bridge, the Officer of the Watch kept two-hour watches, being responsible to his Captain for the safety of the submarine in all eventualities. He, therefore, kept an all-round lookout, whereas the two rating lookouts only swept the sector down their respective sides.
At night, Peter was always the first Officer of the Watch on the bridge. Following the signalman, named Goddard, who opened the upper conning tower hatch on surfacing, Peter would haul himself on to the bridge which still dripped with cascading water, dash straight to the voicepipe cock and open it. Down below, as Peter opened the valve above, the helmsman would be holding a bucket to catch the water which poured from the belled end of the copper voicepipe. Not until this was done, was the bridge in communication with the brain cell of the submarine, the Control Room. The Captain, following close on Peter’s heels, would take charge, Peter and the signalman acting as lookouts. When the Captain was satisfied that all was well, he would order “Up lookouts”, and from the depths of the conning tower, where they were waiting in the darkness, the two lookouts would emerge like some creatures of the night, with binoculars slung about their necks.
For this night of patrol, on passage from Malta to North Africa, the Captain remained on the bridge whilst Peter stood his watch from seven to nine, and again from eleven until one in the morning. During this time, he was made to dive the boat twice by himself, an ordeal which soon gave him self-confidence.
At nine o’clock, he was relieved by the Navigating Officer, a young Lieutenant by the name of Hickey whom Peter had known during Dartmouth days.
Hickey had pale blue eyes that peered out from beneath light, sandy-coloured eyebrows with faint bewilderment. He smiled but rarely, but then his whole face would light up with delight and he would lose his strained look. His eyes would crinkle at the corners and the dark brown mole in the corner of his right cheek would become lost in his infectious smile. Until Peter became used to it, he was fascinated by the disappearing trick of Hickey’s mole.
Peter clambered down below, grinning to himself, and went into the Ward Room. He shed his sweater which he stowed in the locker formed by the settee on which he sat for meals, and which was his bunk by night. On the other side of the table, which was suspended at one end by a brass chain, sat the First Lieutenant, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
The high-sounding title of Ward Room was given to this tiny compartment, used by the Captain and officers. It was enclosed on three sides only, the boat’s passageway running across the inboard and open end. The after-end was formed by the Control Room watertight bulkhead, the outer by the ship’s curved side: the tiny galley formed the for’d wall, and from thence all food originated, ‘cooked’ by the boat’s voluntary cook, the gunlayer.
The sma
ll table of the Ward Room, large enough to feed four officers, filled the entire space in the centre of the compartment. Around this table were two settees which did the duty of seats by day and bunks by night. Against the ship’s-side end of the table was the First Lieutenant’s bunk, directly under a maze of pipes along which crawled erratically the brown specks of friendly cockroaches.
By night, another bunk was outfolded above the after settee, so that, with no extra passengers, each officer had a bunk to himself, the Captain’s being the foremost to allow him rapid egress to the Control Room.
In the eventuality of extra ‘guests’, however, the officers had to sleep ‘hot bunks’: the officer who came off watch had to use whichever bunk was empty. Not a very savoury custom but a warm one, nevertheless!
“Hullo, Sub! Enjoyed your first watch?” asked the First Lieutenant quietly. This unassuming manner of his was a quality which Peter was to admire so much in the days to come.
“Yes, thank you, Number One, but I’ve got such a heck of a lot to learn,” sighed Peter, before he continued, “By the way, the Captain said he would be down for supper shortly.”
“Good-o! I’m hungry. Would you mind telling the good news to O’Riley, the flunkey?”
At that identical moment, O’Riley, by some curious coincidence, happened to pass by the Ward Room.
“Supper in ten minutes, O’Riley,” ordered Number One, giving Peter an enormous wink. “What is it tonight? Cockroach soup and corned dog?”