by John Wingate
“Il Capitano, il Capitano!” the agonised voice of the diminutive starboard lookout cried hoarsely. Tears streamed down his face and his grimy finger pointed over the side, where a line of bubbles slithered under the ballast tank. They held their breaths, crossing themselves rapidly and gabbling away in their native dialects. Looking up, they saw two further tracks hiss past them, but farther out to starboard.
Slowly the Capitano dragged his eyes away from the murderous tracks which now trailed away ahead of them, growing fainter with every second that elapsed.
“Grazie, grazie!” he sighed, averting his gaze. “Port twenty,” he shouted, for the boat would soon be on the sandbanks. As if to emphasise the danger, four dull thuds shook the steel hull of the submarine, as four foaming spouts of water and spray leaped into the air, three hundred yards distant on their starboard side.
As the Italian U-boat rounded the black buoy at the narrow entrance to the shallow harbour, her ship’s company and Capitano di Corvetta Roberto Puzzi were silent and thoughtful men.
The tension in Rugged’s Control Room was shattered by four muffled thuds.
“Confound it! Those aren’t hits. Up periscope,” Joe barked.
Using the large for’d periscope, he quickly swept around the horizon for patrolling aircraft, but, seeing none, he continued his search until he fastened upon the U-boat’s bearing. She was already hull down and steaming as fast as she knew how. Flicking the lens over to high-power, he could just see the gesticulating Italians on their bridge. At that very moment, the U-boat altered course to port towards the buoy.
“Down periscope,” sighed Joe wearily. “Sorry about that, but she seems to have altered away just after firing. Those thuds were our ‘fish’ hitting the sandbanks, Number One. Tell the hands, ‘Better luck next time — she’s got to come out again!’” And, with that, Joe’s face lit up with an endearing grin. His eyes met those of his men around him, eyes that met his with sympathetic understanding.
The First Lieutenant grinned at his Captain and spoke for the ship, “Bad luck, sir. Shall I go to patrol routine?”
“No, Number One. Let’s get out of here, because they’re bound to send something out to look for us. It’s too shallow for us to go deep. Come round to north, and when we’ve got enough water under us, I’ll go deep to reload.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Port ten, steer north.”
“Port ten, steer north, sir,” the steady voice of the helmsman replied.
The Captain kept the periscope watch for the next five minutes, while they slowly circled away from the scene. He then handed the boat over to Peter, as the First Lieutenant was busy readjusting the trim which had inevitably been upset by the discharge of four tons of torpedoes. Orders were passed along the boat from man to man, like links in a chain. When the order had been carried out, back came the report to the Control Room that the order had been executed. Men relaxed and slouched against bulkhead doors, joking and yarning about the recent attack, and placing bets upon the next move.
In the tube space, Slater, the Torpedo Petty Officer, who was the senior rating responsible for the correct functioning of the precious torpedoes, moved nimbly, opening and shutting valves as he ‘blew down’ the tubes, thus draining them of the water that had rushed into them as the torpedoes sped on their journey to the sandbanks.
“Well! That’s eight thousand pounds on the putty,” grinned Petty Officer Slater, who was joking with Smith, the Seaman Torpedoman.
“Cor! What couldn’t I do with that lot?” mused the black-haired cockney, wiping his glistening forehead with an oily wad of cotton waste.
In the Control Room, men bustled around the figure of the Captain, while his Navigator, Hickey, crouched low over the chart table, was busy laying fresh plans. As he picked off distances with the dividers, the Captain mused aloud.
“Go deep now, Number One. Take her down slowly to eighty feet.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Eighty feet,” ordered Number One.
The periscope was lowered, the pumps whined into life, as the boat slowly sank to her new depth. The Captain listened for the ominous scraping of sand on her bottom, but nothing save the routine whine of motors could be heard.
“Eighty feet, sir.”
“Thank you, reload all tubes.”
“Reload all tubes, sir.”
This was a tricky operation, and all men who were not on duty went to the fore-ends to help. When reloading, the submarine was in a very vulnerable state, for a counter-attack could well cause a shambles in the fore-ends, the heavy ‘fish’ rolling about out of control.
Four steel-blue torpedoes, glistening in the bright lights, had to be hauled by tackles into the gaping mouths of the tubes whose rear doors were now open, because the bow caps were shut to hold out the engulfing sea. The First Lieutenant had to be extremely careful to prevent the boat taking on any bow-down angle, for it would be a calamity to have a torpedo crashing about in the fore-ends. Heaving and sweating, the men laid back on the tackles, as the gleaming ‘fish’ were hauled out from the racks. No voice was heard except that of the ‘T.I.’, as Slater was called, giving his precise orders; encouraging here, cursing there, until at last he nursed his ‘children’ into their tubes.
While this operation was being carried out, the Captain spoke his thoughts to his First Lieutenant who was busy trimming.
“What do you think about it, Number One?” he asked. “They’ve got to de-fuel the U-boat, and I don’t think that she’ll risk coming out again before dark, knowing that we are in this area.”
“Yes, sir?” answered Number One encouragingly.
“Let’s try a double bluff. The odds are that they think we will have left this area to avoid detection, as we have now jeopardised our position. Right?”
“Right, sir.”
“Then let’s take advantage of that, and go into the harbour at dark. We can’t dive because it’s too shallow. That means gun action, going in trimmed-down on the surface. We’ll slink in amongst the shipping and play merry havoc with the gun, which will give the Sub some practice! They shouldn’t know what’s hitting ’em. In the confusion, we ought to be able to slip out again on the surface, diving as soon as we’re clear of the entrance. Does that make sense to you, Number One?”
The First Lieutenant paused before replying.
“Yes, sir: providing we achieve surprise.”
“Yes. We’ll stay out until dusk to make sure of that. What time is moonrise, Pilot?” the Captain asked Hickey.
Hickey fumbled with the pages of the Nautical Almanac.
“About one-fifteen a.m., sir.”
“Good! I’ll do that, then. All set for your first gun action, Sub?” asked Joe, a twinkle in his eye as he addressed Peter.
“Yes, sir. All ready.”
“Well, you’ll have a bit of time to think about it. We’ll approach the entrance at dusk.”
From all corners of the submarine, men exchanged glances. What about getting out of the harbour again? Once we’re inside, we’ve got to get out. They’ve only got to ‘wing’ us or get a ship across the entrance, and we’re caught like rats in a trap. So the thoughts ran, but remained unsaid. Joe did not take unnecessary risks, and he knew what he was doing.
“All tubes reloaded,” came the report from the tube space.
“Very good. Go to watch diving, Number One. Tell everyone to get some sleep as they’re going to have a busy night. Go to supper early, and tell the cook to make it one of his ‘specials’. And issue the rum at supper.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Red watch, watch diving.”
Slowly the men took over their watch, the remainder going for’d to get some rest and to discuss the hours that lay before them.
It was the waiting for action at a predetermined time that Peter disliked most. As he became more accustomed to the daily routine of intense excitement and split-hair decisions, he began more and more to dislike the long waits. The sudden emergency exhilarated him, tuned as he was to a fine pitch of a
lertness after his time in the English Channel, but now they had seven hours to wait, quietly patrolling fifteen miles to seaward, invisible to the inshore patrols. Except for the odd sea bird and distant patrolling aircraft, there was nothing to be seen.
In his mind Peter continuously found himself repeating every detail of the gun action drill. By six o’clock he had an aching void in his stomach, feeling again the agonies of the batsman, waiting in the pavilion for the next wicket to fall. He could almost see the green fields at Dartmouth, sprinkled with white figures as they played their leisurely games. Apart from an identical feeling in the pit of his stomach, however, that was the end of the comparison. The game that they were now playing was for the higher stakes of life or death. How would he conduct himself when the testing time came in exactly two and a half hours? And, as he felt his mouth go dry, he remembered his friends in the Chasers who had sold their lives so gallantly. Their example comforted him, as he looked round at his companions.
Unconcerned, the Captain was reading the latest detective thriller, thick horn-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. The spectacles were a secret he kept from their Lordships at the Admiralty, for it was only when reading that his eyesight needed help.
“This is exciting!” he mused quietly to the world in general, the ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of his lips, as he peered at the novel propped on the Ward Room table.
Lieutenant John Easton, Royal Navy, twenty-three years old and First Lieutenant of His Majesty’s Submarine Rugged, lay on his bunk with feet against the Control Room bulkhead. His head lay on his arms which were folded beneath him. His eyes followed the antics of a cockroach which scuttled along one of the pipes six inches above his head. In his bunk, which lay fore and aft against the ship’s side, John Easton found the privacy for which he craved. Though within two feet of his brother officers, once he reached his bunk, perched six inches above the level of the Ward Room table and across the outboard end of it, he entered into his own private world. His messmates respected his feelings, and, when Number One lay there, his eyes open and staring at the pipes above him, they left him alone with his thoughts.
Recently married, he had had but ten days with his bride before sailing for the most active submarine flotilla in the world. Less than a year ago, his brother Ian had been in command of an armed trawler off the Scottish coast, where he had been murdered in cold blood by the merciless machine-guns of a Junkers 88 whilst swimming for his life in the cold North Sea. Only three years previously, they had both spent a holiday with their parents in North Wales, enjoying every carefree moment on the golden sands. Now both his brother and father lay dead, his father dying from a heart attack in the middle of a London air raid whilst shielding an old flower seller from the blast of a near miss.
No, Number One did not say much, though on occasions he could be most amusing with his dry humour. Calm in all emergencies, he was a man in whom all, officers and ratings, had confidence.
“Seven-forty, sir.” Hickey’s pale face poked round the corner from the Control Room, where he was on watch.
“Thank you, Pilot. Go to diving stations,” answered the Captain, slowly closing his book. Peter followed him into the Control Room, where he found Number One already at his station between the depth gauges, adjusting the trim while the hands came tumbling aft.
“Stand by to surface!” The red lights had already been shipped, throwing an eerie light upon the expectant faces.
“Lookouts in the tower!”
Three minutes later, the little boat slid to the surface, the phosphorescence sparkling like quicksilver from her dripping sides, as water drained from her conning tower and superstructure. It was almost dark when the diesels started to charge their batteries.
Weaving slowly towards the coast, Rugged took over an hour to sight the low strip of land, standing like a black ribbon against the indigo blue of the clear sky which lingered over the desert.
“Stop main engines. Group up, slow ahead together,” came the order down the voicepipe.
Down below in the red gloom, the clatter of the diesels died away as the main electric motors took over. No chances now, for silent skill must achieve the surprise.
Peter, clad in gym shoes, shorts and blue polo-necked sweater, waited in the Control Room. Standing near him was his gun’s crew of five, dressed also in dark clothes. The others wore knitted balaclavas, rolled turban-like upon their heads, and looked as motley a collection of cut-throats as you could ever meet.
Stacks of three-inch shells lay piled in the gangway, ready to be passed, by a chain of hands, up the conning tower and down through the chutes on either side of the bridge, to the waiting ammunition supply number at the gun.
The gunlayer, Able Seaman Stack, was a swarthy Cornishman who revelled in the barking of his gun. He was captain of the gun and was the mainspring of enthusiasm for the speed with which it was manned. Grinning now in the semi-darkness, he was itching to get up the conning tower ladder to man his waiting weapon.
“Vickers gun on the bridge!”
Up went the vicious little machine-gun with its long flame guard, to be manned by the signalman, Goddard, who was waiting for it on the bridge.
“Gun action!” the Captain barked.
As Peter’s eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he leaned over the side of the bridge to watch his gun’s crew manning their gun, now trained upon the harbour entrance. He heard nothing but the lapping of wavelets against the pressure hull and the undertones of the Captain’s orders.
“There’s the buoy, right ahead, Sub. I’m going in now.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Peter in a steady voice.
“If we’re lucky and find the enemy U-boat, open fire on her without further orders. If we’re out of luck, have a go at the tanker at the petrol-unloading pier. Don’t open fire on her until I give the order.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Load,” ordered the Captain.
“Load,” repeated Peter over the fore-end of the bridge.
“Load,” answered the eager voice of the gunlayer.
The submarine shuddered to the extra power, surging forward as she increased speed for the attack. The breeze whipped around Peter’s ears as she gathered way, sending little drifts of spray over the fore-casing and prompting jocular, muffled oaths amongst the gun’s crew.
Hickey and the signalman strained through their glasses to look for the target. The black buoy slid down the starboard side, and now Peter could see the open harbour. Against the sombre foreshore, the outlines of the small ships at anchor were silhouetted, their masts and crosstrees laced against the night sky in a weird, fantastic tracery. An occasional flicker of light in one dark corner caught Peter’s eye. He strained his eyes in that direction — there it was again! It flickered and was as quickly extinguished. His heart leaped, for it was the petrol pier and a low shape lay alongside it.
“There she is, sir! Fine on the port bow.”
“Very good — I’ve got her. Port twenty,” ordered the Captain.
The submarine swung round fast, putting the target broad on her starboard bow, but between them and their target lay several small ships at anchor, with very little distance between them.
“I’m going in between those two, Sub,” indicated the Captain with outstretched hand, as the black shapes of ships loomed closer.
“Signalman, take the port ships. Pepper their guns to stop their crews from manning them.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” a soft Irish voice replied calmly.
Now that they were almost on top of them, Peter could see a figure leaning over the rail of the nearest coaster, and shouting at them excitedly.
“Target — ship — starboard bow!” Peter yelled to the gun’s crew. The gun barrel aimed point blank at the squat tanker’s side.
“Open fire,” came the Captain’s quiet voice.
“Open fire!” yelled Peter.
Crash! The gun’s detonation shattered the night.
/> The ejected shell case bounced, clanging on to the pressure hull, and splashed over the side. A yellow flash and a spurt of red flame tore into the steel plating of the little coaster.
Rat-a-tat-tat — rat-a-tat! barked the vicious little Vickers, spitting green tracer into the ship which lay on their port quarter. Bang! Another round whined into the stillness of the night.
Click! Slam! The breech block added its own cacophony as it opened and shut to the accompaniment of the gunlayer’s shouts.
“Hard-a-starboard!” shouted the Captain down the voicepipe. The boat swerved close under the counter of the coaster, and now all bedlam was let loose! As they flashed by, Peter could see figures rushing to man the guns of their ships, while the clatter of their Vickers snapped and barked at the stumbling men who fell sprawling.
“Shift target — port bow — U-boat on petrol jetty!” Peter yelled above the din.
“Shift target, sir… TARGET — ON!” yelled the exulting gunlayer as another round slammed home in the breech.
“Open fire!” shouted Peter.
Bang! Crash! Bang! Crash! Yellow spurts of flame flashed along the petrol jetty, throwing black dust and debris into the air.
“Over!” yelled Peter. “Down one!”
“Down one!” screamed the gunlayer.
Bang! Crash!
“Hit!” yelled Peter. “You’ve hit her. Rapid fire!” The gun worked itself into a frenzy, slamming home round after round into the U-boat.
A blinding, searing sheet of flame tore into their consciousness as a fearful explosion rent the darkness. The target had disintegrated, but there was no time to watch the smoke clear away and see the terrible results.