by Milly Adams
Norton staggered, gripped the chart table. Sammy fell back and knocked his headphones to one side, and it damned well hurt. Diddy hadn’t moved, but the sweat was no longer beaded, it was running down his face. Sammy checked the condensation on the inside casing. It had gone, been shaken loose, the floor was damp.
Another crump: an explosion louder than all the rest, right on top of them. The other skimmer was approaching from starboard. The boat jerked and jumped, the casing seemed to flex, the lights went, and the darkness was total. Naughty Nicholls shouted, ‘Auxiliary lighting out.’
Diddy murmured, ‘Somewhat superfluous loud report, one feels.’
Coxswain called, as quietly as he could, ‘Damage report?’ Torches were stabbing the darkness; the other skimmer was approaching, ashcans were dropping. All this Sammy relayed, but they’d all know soon enough.
Sammy lifted his right earpiece, just for a moment, to ease the noise, and thought he could hear water in the control room. His mouth was dry.
Reports were pouring through. ‘Main motor room in order.’ The chief’s voice came through next: ‘Engine room in order.’ Another report: ‘No leakage, sir.’ They waited as Sammy reported on the approach of the hunters, because he was the only eyes they had and his head, back and shoulders ached with the tension of it all. Dorian was moving some men about, trimming the boat. It must stay level, and they daren’t use the engines or the noise could help the buggers up top locate them, exactly. It was just guesswork at the moment. Pretty good guesswork.
The next explosions were deeper, the floor plates jumped. Beneath them were the stores. Well, they’d all had this before but in Old Tom’s time and then it was sardines that had burst their tins and soaked into the sugar. Disgusting, worse than bacon on a string. He knew he was very frightened because his thoughts were jagged. He heard the engines, louder. Much louder. ‘Increasing, sir. Smaller skimmer.’
He was still whispering as everyone was but why bother, when the pounding above was so damned loud? Was Diddy a lucky captain or not? Would he find a layer to hide in or would he be able to break and run? When would he make that break or that find? Because he’d bloody well have to, unless the skimmers lost their marbles and pottered off back to the convoy, their fun over for the day. Or was it night? What the hell did it matter, they were still here, stuck in the path of a load of rubbish.
Diddy flashed his torch at Sammy who reported: ‘Both decreasing, one astern, one to port.’ Sammy scanned, feeling terror at the thought that the other convoy skimmers might join in the hunt. If they did, it would be over. ‘Still only two, sir.’
Diddy shot him a smile, and murmured, ‘You read my mind, Sammy. Take her down further. Keep two hundred and fifty feet. Not a sound from the rest of you. Still silent running, if you please. Remember, not a bloody word from anyone, shoes off if you move.’ Stanning’s men had been gliding about, trimming silently with their weight, for what seemed like forever so they weren’t about to put clogs on, were they?
Sammy listened hard. They all waited, as the sounds decreased, and waited again, but then he heard it. ‘Destroyer is closing again, sir. From astern, sir, maybe trying for a better line. Corvette coming in from port.’ If he was trying for a better line, it could mean he’d guessed they were here.
Diddy nodded again. The ashcans were dropped, by both, but not as close. Ah, so they were still scattering, thank God. They crumped and again, and again, growing louder, louder, and closer – too close.
Sammy mouthed to Diddy, ‘Destroyer almost above, sir.’ But he’d know that, if he had the sense of a bloody gnat, because the propellers were so loud. Vehement waited, the skimmer moved over them, the engine noise decreased slightly, then the ashcans were hurled again, and this time the boat seemed to implode and then expand. Sammy looked over his shoulder, and saw, by the light of the torches, Diddy standing at the control panel, his eyes closed. He willed his captain to get it right because they all knew that he was calculating their course, the enemy’s course, ways of escape, how deep to go, when to break and run.
The coxswain was levelling at two hundred and fifty feet. Stanning moved the men backwards and forwards because the last thing any of them wanted was for the boat to lose stability and slip, arse down, into the depths and finish the Germans’ job for them. Dorian was at the control panel, alongside Diddy. The torchlights stabbed the darkness.
‘One moving away, but slowly, sir,’ Sammy said, listening to the crump, crump, tracking both engines, repeating their positions to Diddy.
Suddenly there was a different crash, within the boat. Everyone froze. ‘Plates in the galley,’ the coxswain whispered.
‘I’ll give him bloody plates,’ Diddy seethed. ‘Send Cookie to see me, if you please, Coxswain, when we’ve sorted this little problem, or would he like to send up a flag to show them just where we damn well are?’
Sammy pressed the earpieces, crump, crump, decreasing. He reported on both, and then eased an earpiece. Somewhere he could hear the hiss of water. Senior Rate Ted Simpson came into the control room from the engine room, in socks, his torch bobbing. ‘Tightening some valves, sir; superficial, sir.’ His socks were soaked, his voice was little more than a breath.
Sammy was counting the circling corvette’s ashcan explosions. He looked up, they were all counting, but he was the only one able to visualise the surface. He had a talent for it, Old Tom had said, and he had. He could see what was happening, and who was doing what, though sometimes he wished he couldn’t. Cookie should bloody well have slung the plates into a hod, daft bugger.
The destroyer was running in again, on a better line, for him, but not for Vehement. Diddy was at his elbow.
One explosion seemed to catch them under the keel, their soft underbelly. Dear God, where there were bloody millions of flanges and plugs. The corvette was widening his circle, but the big bugger of a destroyer was ploughing overhead, clearly audible. Well, he would be big if he was a destroyer, so shut up, Sammy, he told himself. Diddy was back with Dorian, but watching Sammy who gestured. Diddy nodded. Isaac’s hands must be sweating, because his pencil slipped from his grasp. It rolled to the edge. He caught it before it dropped.
Depth charges don’t have to hit a submarine, they just need to explode within the lethal radius. If a water pressure wave hits a boat it rips it apart at the seams. Sammy wished he didn’t retain these facts. He was listening, scanning. The destroyer was overhead, but then it was steadily decreasing, taking its ashcans with it; crump, crump, getting fainter. Sammy was scanning, working from one to the other, and the corvette was narrowing the circle, sniffing like a bloodhound, closer to them, too bloody close. He couldn’t have heard the plates. It was just luck. Had he got them cornered? Hang on. He put his hand up to his captain, who crept across.
‘Corvette circling, but more than slightly astern, sir.’
Diddy nodded, standing by him now. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be here,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve a mind to shift our arses when they next draw away.’
Sammy nodded, still tracking one, then the other. ‘Might be an idea, sir.’ But then he caught Diddy’s sleeve. ‘Destroyer’s come about, sir. Bearing two nine zero. Closing rapidly.’
Diddy’s lips thinned, but that was all. They all waited, the trimmers moved about to Stanning’s signals. There were four explosions in quick succession, but slightly astern, then another cluster, the plates leapt, one very close. Norton, the young navigator, was making a note by torchlight for the log. Sammy hoped someone would be left to bloody read it.
Coxswain came to Diddy’s side. They were back by the controls. ‘Lights fixed, sir.’
Diddy shook his head. ‘Only essentials, if you please. Who knows how long we’ll need to stay down, so let’s be kind to the batteries.’
Sammy said, ‘Corvette decreasing.’ Everyone was watching him. ‘Destroyer close circling.’ He scanned for the corvette. Bugger. ‘Corvette increasing, closing.’ He could see them, up there, getting their act together.
> They came again. Crump, crump, bloody crump, getting louder and louder, but they were still scattering, so still not sure they were even here, or if they were, not sure where exactly. One dropped much too close, the boat bucked, and tossed, then another exploded, far too bloody close. The lights flickered, but stayed on. Distantly someone screamed, Sammy cursed, whacking his head against the compartment wall, his headphones were ripped from his head. Isaac was thrown from his post to skid into the pipes. One of the trimmers flew into the hatch, and cursed with pain.
Diddy grabbed the chart table, everyone grabbed something, more water hissed, Norton also grabbed for the chart table, missed and was hurled into the periscope. They all heard the crack. The lad crumpled unconscious, blood poured from his nose, across the deck plates. Stanning hissed, ‘Nicholls. Medic, immediately.’ Dorian and Diddy trimmed the boat with those who had recovered their feet.
Crump, crump, so many were being dropped, from both ships. Naughty Nicholls hurried off, grabbing the pipes for support as the boat shuddered again and again under the barrage. Sammy groped for his headphones, the back of his head hurt. He felt it. Blood.
Diddy found his way to Sammy. ‘They might be thinking they’ve got us. I need to know the moment they move off, this is getting tiresome. The moment, Sammy.’ He moved back to the nerve centre.
Sammy listened, and pictured the surface; the corvette was overhead, crump, crump, then another, exploding too close, within the lethal radius. Again they were tossed and knocked. Isaac had clambered back onto his perch, and was clinging to his table. Sammy’s head hurt, he felt sick, but no, he needed to listen. Where was the destroyer? He scanned. Got it. Another close one lifted him from his seat, his breathing stopped, he lifted his earpieces away from his head, the noise too loud, but he was scanning, always scanning, because even if they were torn apart, that was what he must do.
Davy, Isaac’s assistant, was beside Isaac now, in case he was needed, but Isaac sent him back to his action station. Perhaps he was a trimmer? Sammy didn’t know, hadn’t noticed, all he knew right this bloody minute was that his head hurt and he was bathed in sweat, cold sweat. He dropped his earpieces back to where they should be, and scanned. Hang on, the corvette was moving off to port, but still scattering. Where was the bloody destroyer? Ah, he’d got it.
‘Both decreasing, sir.’
Diddy swung round, nodded to Stanning, ‘Hard a-starboard. Now. Quick.’
‘Still decreasing in sound, sir,’ Sammy said.
‘Full ahead.’
It seemed that they were all holding their breath as they ploughed on, trying to make their escape. God damn it, Sammy picked up the skimmers again, Increasing. Damn and bloody blast. Increasing. But then suddenly, both were faint. Sammy pressed the earpieces. Yes, suddenly faint. It could be a layer, or the start of a layer at least? Sammy told Diddy, his voice not even a whisper. Diddy grinned at Sammy. Then they were back, louder, closer. If it had been a layer, it was only a teaser.
‘Another fifty-foot dive, if you will,’ Diddy ordered. They dived. They stopped, levelled. ‘Stop engines, let’s wait awhile, again. Quiet as you like,’ Diddy ordered. Norton groaned, loudly, as the medic, young Simons, worked on him. ‘Silence.’ Diddy sliced through the air with his hand. The medic put a hand over the lad’s mouth to stifle the moan.
Crump, crump, crump, overhead, the Germans had got the depth wrong, but no, there was one too close, again, the casing flexed, water spurted from a seal, shooting in a loud jet across the control room, it was bloody freezing, and too damn close to Sammy. Then another seal gave way, another jet of water, loud. Sammy worked the scanner, and listened. God, did he listen. ‘Both decreasing again, sir. To port and starboard.’ The chief entered, tightened the seals, the water died to a trickle. The noise stopped.
‘Full ahead, both engines,’ Diddy ordered.
This time it took longer for the destroyer to come around, and he was now too far to starboard, and the corvette too. They fell silent again when they drew close, and while they did the medic suddenly straightened, snatching away his hand from Peter Norton’s mouth, as though he’d been stung. ‘Jesus.’ It was the medic who groaned now, a groan he snapped off as Diddy swung round. Peter Norton’s head lolled to one side. It was only then that the control room realised young Peter was dead, for how could you breathe when your nose was crushed, and your mouth covered? You couldn’t. You were being smothered. You died.
Sammy turned back, and continued to scan, continued to report. They were decreasing, the explosions were quieter, and now they had a cat in hell’s chance of getting out of this bloody mess alive. Sammy snatched a look at young Norton, but there was work to do. The medic was sent to action stations because it was best he had something to focus on. As he went the tears were pouring down his face, bloody pouring. He must have been the same age as the man he had just killed and Sammy was relieved that he was stuck with the hydrophones.
Within half an hour they were running free, and Isaac could send his report from the surface before they resumed their patrol, but only after they had buried young Norton, at sea. Before that, Diddy had called the medic to his tiny cabin. The coxswain, Peters, had helped clean Peter Norton as best he could, because he insisted the lad deserved the works. Diddy told the medic quietly, though they all heard in the control room, that the coxswain had reported Sub Lieutenant Peter Norton’s forehead was like a broken eggshell, and that was why he had died. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The coxswain had seen Sammy watching, and shrugged. ‘Well, you can’t let a lad go through life thinking he’d killed like that. Even though he had.’
Before Sammy went to his pit after coming off watch, he climbed up onto the bridge to look up into the sky. It was night again, but that was the time to surface. It was clear; the stars seemed so low he felt he could touch them. Diddy came up too, talking quietly to the lookouts, then coming to Sammy. There was a moderate wind after the storm. He lit up a cigarette and offered one to Sammy, who took one, though he didn’t smoke. His hand was shaking.
Diddy said, ‘You did well, Sammy. You should think of taking a commission. Let’s see how you do this patrol, but I reckon you should have a go, especially as I hear you could be a family man soon.’
Sammy coughed on the smoke, and tossed the cigarette over the bulwark. It was taken by the wind. ‘Not sure if marriage is fair on the women, you know, sir.’
Diddly leaned his arms on the rail. ‘Nothing and nobody’s sure of anything these days. You have to take happiness where you find it, Sammy. If you don’t marry her, then you’ll break her heart. If you die, then you’ll break it too. Maybe you should think of making one another happy while you can. My wife says she takes it one day at a time, and is thankful for each one. God in heaven, Sammy, you could get run over by a bloody bus crossing Oxford Street so don’t hold back. I told you I’d bring you all home, and I will. God willing.’
He had said ‘God willing’ very quietly. They both looked up at the sky while the four on watch stayed glued to their sectors, under Stanning’s watchful eye. Sammy thought about a commission. Well, it would shut up the future mother-in-law. He laughed quietly as Diddy returned to the control room, and Isaac took his place up top. Together the two friends let the wind blow in their faces, knowing that today they had nearly died. So what was new? They’d lost count of the times that had happened.
Chapter Ten
Sunday 8 December 1940, Little Mitherton
IT WAS BARELY light, with a heavy ground frost and a harsh wind beginning to build, when Phyllie attached the wooden cart to Maeve, Miss F’s bicycle. She set off to collect compost that the villagers in Little Mitherton and Great Mitherton left at the designated collection points. Phyllie grinned to herself, pulling her woolly hat well down, before ringing her bell at chickens in the road. Honestly, if these WI women were set the task of planning the whole war at one committee meeting, it would be over before you knew where you were. She looked up at the grey sky.
&
nbsp; ‘Hello, darling Sammy,’ she whispered. ‘I love you so much. I can’t wait until I see you in January.’ For that is what he had promised in his letter.
She picked up the pails, labelled with their owners’ names, and rode back towards the allotment. While she did this, Miss F and Jake would be walking Francois to the pond, checking on the ducks, and throwing bread. Ice had formed at the edges yesterday, black and sinister somehow. When it froze over completely the ducks just ‘shoved off’ to the hide in the fenced-off area, Miss F had told her.
Phyllie bumped over the ruts leading to the allotment. Ice filled the hollows and cracked as she skidded over them. To the left she could hear hedging and ditching. Clearly there was no point in going to see Joe about the new scheme she and Miss F had devised until darkness fell.
She swore as she fiddled with the padlock on the wooden allotment gate because the metal was so cold, but no one was prepared to make it easy for the vegetable thieves. She pushed the bike with its cargo along the frosted grass track leading to the compost heaps. She was racing against the clock, and lifted the old carpet off the first of them, feeling the warmth, seeing the steam. She lowered the back of the cart, slinging the contents onto the heap, before replacing the pails and the carpet. She checked the lists that had been wrapped round the handles of the pails, then set to, digging up parsnips, leeks, the odd cabbage from the various plots. She felt that hacking concrete would have been easier. Back she rode, delivering the contents to the drop-off points.
The cold had bitten deep, but she wore extra socks and the gumboots, which were a size too big, had been warm enough. While she was doing this, Mrs Speedie would have collected up the scraps from the pails marked ‘Pig Club’. It used to be done by young Alice Martin but she had joined the WAAF. The WI had thrown a farewell party and Phyllie, single and young, had felt momentarily isolated as they’d all raised their glasses to her. As the villagers flung themselves into the Gay Gordons, however, and she had whirled with the oldest of them, she felt truly proud to be amongst them.