by John Wingate
To Peter, entering harbour after his first patrol, a black Jolly Roger flapping proudly from the attack periscope, it was a moment of fierce happiness. The barefooted children yelled and clapped their hands on the breakwater as Rugged swept past the boom and into the blue waters of Lazaretto. The Creek was washed by the early morning sun, the willowy reflections of the yellow buildings eddying lazily upon the ripples made by the rust-splotched submarine. Slowly she entered harbour.
They were home.
CHAPTER 7
Iron Ring
Ten days later, only one submarine lay at her mooring in Lazaretto Creek. The whole flotilla had been sent out to form two iron rings — one round Naples and the other off Cape St. Vito, at the north-western tip of Sicily. Operation ‘Torch’, the code name for the Allied landings in North Africa, was planned to begin at any moment. Every submarine sailed under sealed orders and, apart from the position allocated to them, they knew not on what day the operation was due to start.
In the room of the Captain of the Tenth Submarine Flotilla, the Commanding Officers assembled in conference. Their orders were brief.
“Sink at sight,” remarked their humorous-faced leader who was beloved and respected by all in the flotilla. Short and stocky of build, he had been an intrepid submarine captain in his own right, and now, day and night, he conducted the strategy of his ‘Fighting Tenth’. Because the flotilla was the only unit of the Royal Navy left in the Mediterranean, he was inflexibly determined to hit the enemy hard and often on his own doorstep.
Peter had never forgotten the day when the whole flotilla had been assembled in the stone courtyard, to be addressed by its Captain. It had been customary for the sailors to give cigarettes to their German and Italian prisoners, and to look after them, if survivors were ever retrieved from the sinkings. The Captain now believed that such actions were leading to a certain softening in morale towards the enemy and Peter would never forget listening to his short speech. In acid and blistering terms the Captain had withered his audience and reminded them of the way the enemy had behaved, first as conquerors and then as whining captives. Everyone, officers and ratings alike, had left that courtyard with a burning desire to renew the fight with ruthlessness and determination.
“Sink at sight,” he now said to the conference in his room. “When in your patrol positions, you are to be five miles apart. Do not fire at U-boats, when on your billets, for obvious reasons. Don’t allow one enemy ship to get past you. There are no restrictions on passage. God bless and good luck.”
With a smile, he shook each Captain by the hand, as they left his room to take their boats to sea.
A few days before sailing, however, a local sickness known as sandfly fever, which was contracted by sleeping in the sandstone caves, took its toll of Rugged’s ship’s company. The few men unaffected by the fever regretfully watched the remainder of the flotilla depart.
“It’s a shame, isn’t it, Sub? We’re going to miss this party,” John Easton said to Peter as they stood by the water’s edge ruefully waving to the departing submarines as they slipped from their moorings.
“Yes, Number One, but…”
A hoarse cough behind him had made Peter turn round.
“But what, Sub?” Easton asked irritably.
He turned to finish his conversation, but he was left talking to thin air.
Peter was busy pumping the hand of a burly rating who was grinning from ear to ear. The sailor was obviously one of the new spare crew which had arrived from England yesterday. The man was stocky, with enormous shoulders, and blue eyes twinkling beneath a crop of fair hair.
“Crippin, sir! I didn’t think to meet you so soon!”
Peter grinned foolishly. “Nor did I, Hawkins! But it’s good to see you. This is Able Seaman Hawkins, sir, gunnery rating,” Peter continued, introducing the man to his First Lieutenant.
“And who is Hawkins, Sub-Lieutenant Sinclair?” Easton replied with a flicker of a smile, as he proffered his hand.
“We’re old shipmates, sir,” Peter went on. “We were both in my Chaser, and we both repaid a debt.”
“Oh, yes — gunnery rating, did you say, Hawkins?” Number One hesitated.
“Yes, sir, and…”
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, it’s not for me to ask, but, er…” Hawkins stuttered.
“Well, what do you want?”
Hawkins looked hopelessly out of his depth.
Peter spoke.
“I have a feeling he wants to join Rugged, sir.”
“Oh, does he? Well, he’d better put in a request in the proper manner.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Carry on, Able Seaman Hawkins.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The burly figure turned away, but not before his eyes rolled sheepishly in an imploring glance at Peter.
“You and he seem to be buddies, Sub,” Easton grinned.
“Yes, we are, Number One. He saved my life.”
“Oh, I see. Is he a good hand?”
“First rate.”
“Since Davis was killed, we’re down one in complement — and a gunnery rating at that.”
“Yes, Number One. Hawkins is a gunnery rating.”
“I’ll see if the Captain approves.”
“Thank you, Number One.”
But Easton was already striding up the stone steps which led to Joe’s cabin.
So it was that a few days later, Rugged’s complement was complete once more. Able Seaman W. Hawkins had replaced Able Seaman Davis, and all had recovered sufficiently for Rugged to sail. She slipped from her moorings, her destination the iron ring off Cape St. Vito, at the north-western tip of Sicily.
By proceeding at full speed on the surface at night, she would be just in time to fill her position in the ring, before the operation was set in motion. Her billet was between Rapid and Restless, the latter being commanded by Lieutenant Harold Arkwright, Peter’s old friend and Term Cadet Captain at Dartmouth. As soon as Peter had landed in Malta, Arkwright had renewed his friendship with him.
So, for the second time, Peter found himself standing on the windblown fore-casing, as little Rugged quietly slid between the black necklaces of buoys which formed the defensive boom at the harbour entrance. Already the boyishness had vanished from his youthful face. A faraway look clouded his eyes, and his cheekbones had begun to show their prominence beneath the windblown skin, which was no longer tanned by Channel weather, but was quickly assuming the faint greyness of most submariners.
Instinctively, he carried out his routine duties for securing the fore-casing, and, going below after a lingering look at the fading battlements of Valetta against the evening sky, he changed into his patrol rig of white shorts, khaki shirt and sandals.
After the trim dive had been successfully completed, Rugged remained on the surface, as night enveloped them like a comforting blanket. When clear of the little island of Gozo, Rugged set a course for Cape St. Vito. This meant steaming all night to the minefield off Sicily, where she dived at dawn to proceed all day through the ‘blazed trail’ in the minefield affectionately known as Piccadilly.
Glancing through the periscope, Peter was amazed to see how close this Sicilian shore seemed to his inexperienced eye. The white houses showed boldly, shining in the dazzling sunlight like small cardboard boxes as they nestled in the green fields of the low-lying foreshore.
“Don’t use the stick so long, Sub,” snapped Joe when he strode into the Control Room. “I don’t want to be sighted in Piccadilly. We would jeopardise the whole channel and everyone else into the bargain. Watch me. Use it like this. ‘Down periscope’,” he ordered.
In a series of quick looks, Joe took some swift bearings of shore objects, before handing the periscope back to Peter; then, using these bearings, the Captain quickly put the fix of the ship’s position on the chart.
“Look here, Sub. This is our position,” he said as he indicated a small circle which was ri
ght on their course line.
“Take a fix every ten minutes, and inform me at once if we veer off our course. We can’t afford to do that in this minefield” — and he gave Peter an odd glance.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The long day wore on. The circles on the chart crept slowly along the course line, while the silent submarine slunk through the treacherous water, the mines growing like mushrooms from their swinging wires on either side of her. The enemy were known to have hydrophones spaced at intervals along the minefield, so all conversation was carried out in low voices, the men changing watches in slippered or gym-shoed feet. Silently, remorselessly, the submarine nosed her way through the barrier.
In the afternoon, all hands tried to snatch sleep. Even Bill Hawkins knew that a hectic night awaited them, because they had to slip in between the enemy E-boat patrols, lying stopped and listening for them off Marittimo Island.
Peter lay on his bunk and stared at the disporting cockroaches on the pipes above him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Easton, the First Lieutenant, turn on his side, obviously making a fruitless effort at sleep. Below Peter, and across the other side of the table, the Captain lay reading, stretched out on his settee, but now he seemed to take longer in finishing a page.
Yes, thought Peter, the strain of listening for the scraping mine wires is not only worrying me — and, sighing, he turned on his side. His eyelids closed and he began to feel the drowsy half-world of sleep enfolding him when, from somewhere miles away in the fore-ends, there came to his dozing subconsciousness a faint burring, like a file on hard metal.
Suddenly, a sharp twang brought him jerkingly awake. He turned on his back, to see the Captain lay down his book quickly while the First Lieutenant rolled over with his eyes wide open. No word passed. The Captain’s eyes met those of his First Lieutenant and they held each other’s gaze. There was a slight pause in the ominous sound.
Then came the sinister scraping that all submariners feared and as the mine’s mooring wire clattered along the hull, the jarring clangour thrummed to fill the boat with a spine-chilling resonance.
Inexorably, the submarine was dragging down the lethal mine upon herself. Inevitably, it must swiftly blow them to eternity.
The Captain held Number One’s gaze and deliberately crossed his fingers. Peter swallowed and closed his eyes, to shut out the dreadful picture painted by his imagination. The scraping twanged into a scream as it passed directly over them. If it fouled in the conning tower…? Each man shut his eyes. Prayed. Held his breath. The infernal twanging shrieked hideously through the boat and, as suddenly, was gone.
The Captain picked up his book. He turned over a page, deliberately placed the novel face down upon the table and quietly rose from his settee. He walked into the Control Room. Number One looked across at Peter. They smiled and Peter swallowed. He saw Number One turn over upon his side to grope for elusive sleep.
But nobody slept much for the rest of that day, which slowly dragged on to its merciful close. Before surfacing that night, Joe called his officers around him and wasted no time. Drumming his fingers upon the chart, which was spread out on the Ward Room table, he grinned at them all.
“Well, Number One, this may all seem rather pompous, but I particularly want no misunderstanding during the next night or two. We are going through the E-boat patrol lines off Marittimo Island tonight. We should be there in two hours’ time.”
He glanced at his wristwatch, a slight frown puckering his bushy eyebrows, as he continued, “That means nine o’clock and the moon will have just risen. To reach our position off Cape St. Vito on time, I shall have to proceed on the surface on main engines, at full speed and trimmed right down. I don’t like it but there ’tis, as they say in Devonshire. The E-boats will be lying stopped and listening for us, so they may easily hear us before we sight them. However, we’ll have to risk it, and I expect a particularly good lookout, as it seems like being a flat calm tonight. Any questions, any of you?” he asked, looking at his three officers.
Peter felt the steady eyes boring through him, weighing his worth. Then the gaze shifted to Hickey, and so to Number One. Each man slowly shook his head.
“Right!” continued the Captain. “Tomorrow night we should be well through the E-boats but we will continue on main engines at full speed, and should reach our billet at dawn. Intelligence reports that we may meet enemy U-boats, so watch out. You are to fire on sight, even if I am unable to see the target. All our own boats will be in position off Cape St. Vito so there is no possibility of wrong identification. Any questions? No? Then stand by to surface, Number One” — and, grinning again, Joe dispersed the meeting.
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Number One.
He squeezed his way past the Captain on the settee and, raising his voice, gave the order, “Shift to night lighting. Diving stations!”
Quickly and silently, men scurried to and fro to their diving stations. The Ursula suits rustled as the lookouts, Officer of the Watch and signalmen donned them awkwardly in the passage outside the Ward Room. Swiftly the canvas trunking was lowered from the conning tower hatch, whilst the last red lamp was fitted to replace the white lighting. The eerie red glow shining on greasy faces now enveloped them all. The lower conning tower hatch clunked open and, slipping their binocular straps over their necks, the signalmen, lookouts and Officer of the Watch disappeared into the darkness of the conning tower. The Captain, dark blue, polo-necked sweater pulled over his khaki shirt, binoculars dangling from his neck, sat patiently waiting on the Ward Room settee.
The boat was deep during this dangerous period of twilight, for the periscope was useless as soon as the light started to fade.
“No H.E., sir. All-round sweep completed,” said the Asdic operator, Leading Seaman David Elliott.
“Ready to surface, sir,” reported the First Lieutenant to his Captain who then strolled into the Control Room.
“Periscope depth,” he ordered quietly.
Slowly, the depth-gauge pointers swung to twenty-eight feet as Number One, murmuring to the planesmen, brought her up to periscope depth, while he operated the pump order instrument with his left hand.
“Twenty-eight feet, sir.”
“Up periscope,” the Captain ordered.
The steel tube hissed as it slithered swiftly upwards. The Captain swung round rapidly to ensure that the coast was clear, though he could see little in the darkness.
“Surface,” he snapped.
“Blow one … blow two,” Number One ordered and the boat wallowed to the surface, rolling gently in the swell. Several long minutes passed, while the Captain, who was now on the bridge, swept the horizon.
“Start the generators! Half ahead together,” came his muffled voice down the voicepipe, and, a few minutes later when she had enough buoyancy, “Stop the blowers!”
The little submarine surged ahead, trimmed right down so that she was hardly visible, while the roar of the diesels filled the boat. To starboard, the black land mass of the western tip of Sicily loomed blackly against the night sky, the razor-like ridge of mountains dropping sheer into the sea. Huge and sombre, they looked like a menacing backdrop to a stage set for tragedy.
Alert, and strung taut like banjo strings, the bridge personnel restlessly peered through their binoculars, and swept their respective sectors, so that the whole horizon was covered. They sensed the mountains brooding over them, watching like giant guardians of the Sicilian shore, waiting to repulse all marauders of their Mare Nostrum.
Not a breath of wind shivered the glassy surface of the sea which reflected with pinpoints of dancing light the glittering stars in the indigo sky. The undulating water stretched astern in curving lines, as the submarine zigzagged through the mirror-like sea leaving willowy lines etching their tell-tale presence to the lurking enemy.
The first glimpse of the rocky chain of islets came into view ahead. They stretched out from the western tip of the mainland, emerging from the ocean depths like turrets o
n fairyland castles. Woe betide any submarine that careered out of control into these depths, for here the ocean was two miles deep, and the pressure at such depths would squeeze the steel pressure-hull like a man’s foot crushing a beetle.
The roar of the diesels coughed and rumbled into the night, heralding Rugged’s approach as she scythed her way swiftly towards the point where she would round the last islet in the chain, the notorious and dreaded island of Marittimo.
When Peter came on watch at eleven o’clock, Marittimo was already abeam now some two miles distant and was already passing out of sight, because a thin haze of fog was blanketing the land.
Hickey quickly turned over his watch to Peter.
“Mind they don’t bite, Sub,” he said jokingly, as he dropped down into the conning tower.
“They won’t,” replied Peter, not knowing clearly what Hickey meant. He had no time for riddles, for his whole concentration was focused upon searching the horizon for E-boats. This was now doubly difficult, for the haze had reduced visibility on the starboard quarter to less than half a mile.
At the after-end of the bridge, the Captain dozed fitfully. The moon had risen behind the mountains to throw its pale beam behind the haze, so that a ghostly whiteness shivered over the whole north-eastern horizon.
Peter looked over the side to port and his heart leaped into his mouth at the sight of thin white lines of phosphorescence weaving and streaking towards him, gleaming eerily in the glasses.
“Phew! Thought they were torpedo tracks!” he sighed with relief. “Must be those electric eels I’ve heard about,” and he realised what Hickey had meant. They were now right in the middle of the E-boat lines, and Peter’s heart thumped anxiously until he settled down to the routine of watch-keeping.
There was a grunt by his elbow. The Captain stood by him and leaned over the bridge-rail.
“How goes it, Sub?”
“All right, sir. Those electric eels shook me, though!” Peter replied.
“Yes, they look uncommonly like torpedo tracks, don’t they? We’ll soon be able to round up to clear Marittimo. I shall be glad when this is over,” he murmured, more to himself than to Peter. “I’m sure that these E-boats lie stopped, just listening on their hydrophones. We must be sounding like an express train tonight, mustn’t we, Sub?”