Patrol to the Golden Horn

by Patrol to the Golden Horn (epub)

  E.57 had a complement of twenty-nine officers and men, and at diving stations fifteen of them had jobs here in the control room.

  Hobday had been through to the after ends. He’d finished his tour now and he was coming back, coming from motor-room to engine-room. In the space between those two compartments, Stoker PO Leech was squatting between the engine clutches, paring his nails with a pusser’s dirk. He edged sideways to let the first lieutenant pass.

  ‘Shaft gland on the port side’s seeping a bit, Spo.’

  The Yorkshireman’s left eyebrow twitched. ‘Sweatin’, more ’n seepin’, sir.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Old chum o’ mine, that port gland, sir.’

  ‘Mind you look after it, then. And be sure Peel checks the bilges every watch.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Hobday went through to Wishart. ‘No leaks, sir.’

  ‘Heaven be praised.’ Wishart told Jake, ‘Bring her up to twenty feet.’

  ‘Twenty feet, sir.’

  The ’planesmen swung their brass handwheels round – big as bicycle wheels, brightly-polished brass – and watched the dials that showed the angles of their hydroplanes and the boat’s depth, and the tube of the spirit-level that showed her angle in the water. Now, as she rose towards the surface, Jake had to put back into the buoyancy tank as much water as he’d pumped out on her way down. And Wishart wasn’t intending to make it easy for him; as she was slowing and levelling to periscope depth, he told Hobday, ‘Fall out diving stations, Number One.’

  ‘Which watch, cox’n?’

  Crabb growled, ‘First part o’ port, sir.’

  ‘First part of port watch, watch diving!’

  Now instead of fifteen men in the control room, there’d be only four – plus the officers in the for’ard part of it, where they messed. Two ’planesmen, one helmsman, and one duty ERA would be all the watchkeepers on duty; of the others, some would be going for’ard and rather more than that going aft. The trim would be completely thrown out.

  Jake told McVeigh, ‘Stand by the trim-line.’

  The for’ard trim tank held a ton-and-a-half of water, the stern one a ton. They were connected by a water-pipe called the trim-line and also by an air-pipe with a vent-and-blow cock on it, here in the control room. By putting the cock this way or that, you could blow water from one end of the boat to the other, to compensate for crew movements. It was a quick and simple system, and by the time the change-round was completed Jake had her back in trim.

  Hobday nodded. ‘Not bad.’

  Jake looked down at him. ‘I’m a clever bloke.’

  ‘Just as well to be told. Nobody’d ever guess it.’ Hobday joined Wishart and the passengers. Robins had emerged from the cabinet. Lewis, the gun trainer who acted as wardroom messman, was drawing the blue curtain which converted that corner of the compartment into what passed for a wardroom; he asked Wishart, ‘Tea, sir?’

  ‘What a good idea.’

  Robins said, ‘I was under the impression we’d had tea.’

  Lewis told him, ‘That were stand-easy tea, sir. Sardines with this lot.’

  ‘Lord, but we’re pampered …’ Wishart winked at Burtenshaw. He’d brought the chart over, and he was spreading it on the pull-out table. ‘Show you fellows our route and whatnot, so you’ll understand what’s going on … Here – this is where we’ve just dived. This line’s the track we’re following to approach the straits. We had to start some way out, you see, or they’d spot us from the shore and be expecting us – and that we don’t want … The distance to run in is just about six miles. That’s to the shaded area here, right across the entrance – the one enemy minefield we know about for certain. So at this spot here, in about three hours, we’ll go deep and slip under it.’

  Burtenshaw asked hesitantly, ‘How do we know when we reach that point?’

  ‘We’ll be taking fixes – periscope bearings of the headlands – during the approach. We also have a check on the distance run, from log readings.’ He jerked a thumb. ‘The log’s what makes that ticking all the time.’

  It was quite loud, when you stopped to listen to it. Behind it was the low hum of the motors driving the submarine north-eastward at slow speed, and a thinner, whining whisper that came from the flywheel of the gyro compass.

  Wishart explained to Robins, ‘By the time we’re under the mines and inside the straits it’ll be coming up for sunset. The straits aren’t what you’d call wide – in fact they’re darned narrow in some places — so we won’t use the periscopes more than we have to, when we’re in there. Not even in the dark. But we can when it’s really necessary, and land-shapes should be visible against the stars. That’s why we decided to make this passage at night and on a night without a moon.’ He paused, rubbing his jaw; then he went on, ‘As far as possible, though, we’ll stay deep. Several reasons. There’ll be obstructions – nets, obviously – and they all start on the surface – buoyed, mostly. Lower down, depending on the kind of net and how they’ve laid it, we can either pass under its foot or break right through it. Same with mines – they tend to be nearer the surface than the seabed. That’s a bit of an oversimplification, because the practice nowadays is to moor the beastly things in lines at varying depths.’ He shook his head. ‘Very unsporting chap, the Turk. Not that it’ll do him any good so far as we’re concerned.’

  Robins glanced up at him.

  ‘Why not?’

  Wishart turned a chair around, and sat down. ‘Because – not that I’d want to boast, you understand – because I know my job, and I’ve an able and experienced crew, and this is a lucky ship.’

  ‘What an experience to have.’ There was a glowing smile on Burtenshaw’s youthful, games-player’s face. ‘It’s magnificent. Absolutely.’

  Nick was looking at him as if he thought he had a screw loose. But Wishart patted him on the back. ‘Extra rations for that kind of talk. But I’m afraid you may be disappointed if you’re expecting thrills. Best way to pass the next eight hours’d be to get your head down and sleep through it.’

  ‘Eight hours?’

  ‘Something of that sort.’ Wishart looked at Nick. ‘I was going to explain — reasons for staying deep rather than going through at periscope depth – the main one is the peculiar tidal picture in the straits. Nasmith was the chap who first rumbled it – you know, Nasmith VC? Well, he buzzed up and down the Dardanelles as if he owned them, once he got the hang of it. What he discovered was that near the surface you’ve got a tide from the Marmara into the Mediterranean – against us, in fact – of about one-and-a-half, two knots. If you have to knock those two knots off our dived speed you’d be adding forty per cent to the time it’d take us to get right through – and then the battery wouldn’t last out. That’s one of the problems they faced in those days – before Nasmith found that lower down, at say seventy or a hundred feet, there’s a tide running at about three knots into the Marmara. With us.’

  He paused, listening, as Jake ordered quietly, ‘Raise the for’ard periscope.’ They heard the slight thump as the ERA of the watch pushed the control lever to ‘up’, and the hiss of the hydraulic ram as oil-pressure sent the long brass tube sliding upward. Another soft thud as the ERA stopped it, and then a click as Jake jerked its handles down. Wishart went on, ‘Surface water going one way, bottom water going in the opposite direction. That’d be odd enough. But it’s more complicated than even that, in some places … One theory is that about halfway down, somewhere around the bottleneck there, the whole body of water in the straits does a sudden corkscrew twist – water from the bottom rises on one side, and surface-water slides down on the other. Bit awkward if you get caught in it — as one or two boats have, in the past. But – well, knowing it can happen, and being ready for it – that’s half the battle. If you find we’re suddenly blowing and flooding tanks and generally pumping around in what may seem a rather disorganised manner, don’t let it worry you – it won’t be anything we can’t cope with. Eh?’

 
Robins murmured, ‘One might well hope—’

  ‘Or for that matter if we bump into a net. It’s not unusual. If we get snarled up, we unsnarl ourselves. Been done before, lots of times.’

  Able Seaman Lewis pushed in through the curtain, using his elbows to part it. He was carrying a tin tray with mugs of tea on it. Jake, at the periscope, addressed the helmsman: ‘Anderson – stand by to take down some bearings.’ Hobday called out, ‘Hang on there.’ He grabbed the chart in one hand and a mug in the other, and went over to the chart table. Jake said, from the periscope, ‘I’ll have some tea here, Lewis, while you’re at it.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ The messman was putting the other mugs on the table, and Robins was staring disdainfully at his dirty hands and black fingernails. He was still staring at them when Lewis pushed his fist into an old toffee-tin and brought out a handful of sugar lumps. He began to thumb them one at a time into the lieutenant-commander’s mug: ‘Say when, sir …’

  ‘One hundred feet.’

  Wishart snapped up the handles of the periscope – the for’ard one, the big one with the sixfold magnification in its lenses – and McVeigh depressed the lever that sent it hissing down into its well. Wishart had just taken a new set of bearings — edges of land, and hilltops – to get a last fix on the chart before E.57 went in under the mines. At the chart table, Jake had marked the position on the chart and taken a reading of the log.

  ‘Hundred feet, sir.’ CPO Crabb spun the wheel of the after ’planes, and Morton put some dive on his. Key men had taken over the controls, although the rest of the hands hadn’t been closed up at diving stations. No need for it, yet.

  Robins was in the wireless cabinet. He’d said he was going to take Wishart’s advice and sleep right through. Nick Everard and Burtenshaw were lying on Wishart’s and Hobday’s bunks, Nick with his eyes shut and Burtenshaw reading Tolstoy. Hobday watched the needles in the depth-gauges slowing down as the boat approached her ordered depth and the ’planesmen levelled her off.

  ‘Stop the pump.’

  McVeigh pushed the switch with the toe of his plimsoll. It was warm in the control room: quiet, comfortable, well-lit. Easy to drop off to sleep if you’d no special reason to stay awake. The quietest tone of voice was enough for orders and reports; if you spoke loudly you’d be heard at the far ends of the submarine.

  ‘Hundred feet, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’ Wishart had to turn sideways to edge round the ladder; looking over Roost’s shoulder he checked the ship’s head by gyro. The course was 084 degrees, to run in between Cape Helles and Kum Kale.

  ‘I’ll sing out if I need you, pilot.’

  ‘Sir.’ Jake crossed from the chart table to the wardroom corner. The curtains were drawn back now, open. He sat down in the armchair, and Burtenshaw asked him if he wanted to stretch out.

  Jake shook his head. ‘I’ve my own bunk, anyway. This drawer thing here. Pulls out when it’s wanted.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course…’ The Marine nodded. ‘Er – mind if I ask you something?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you’ve asked it.’

  ‘Oh … Well, how did you come to be RNR, as opposed to RN or RNVR?’

  ‘Merchant Navy. I was a cadet when the war started. Went to sea as a snotty – in a trawler based at Immingham. Then I sort of wheedled my way into submarines.’

  ‘Will you go back to the Merchant Navy?’

  ‘Lord knows.’ Jake shrugged his heavy shoulders. The future and his place in it worried him; he didn’t want to talk about it. Bad enough spending so many hours thinking about it – at night, even nights when you really needed sleep but you woke and it came into your mind and wouldn’t go away. He asked Burtenshaw, not really giving a damn for the answer, ‘What about you?’

  The Marine laughed. ‘Honestly haven’t a notion, old chap.’

  ‘You’re not on a regular commission then.’

  ‘Me?’ He was tracing patterns in a glisten of condensation that was already forming on the white-enamelled deckhead above his bunk. ‘Well, I was at Harrow, you see, and – how shall I put it – I unilaterally terminated my scholastic career?’

  ‘French leave?’

  ‘Almost. And the Royal Marines seemed as good a choice as any, so I trotted down to Deal – the depot there, you know? – and joined up, in the ranks.’

  ‘Did you, by George!’

  ‘Spur of the moment, really. Just sort of happened.’

  ‘Did your people mind?’

  ‘Ah. Well, my father took it quite well, really. And now since I’ve been commissioned even my mother—’

  ‘What does your father do?’

  ‘Surgeon. Cuts up people who can afford his stupendous fees.’ Burtenshaw’s chuckle faded. ‘He’s in France now — disguised as a colonel, cutting up people who can’t … Anyway, my life in the ranks didn’t last long. When they found I had the rudiments of an education they told me it was my duty to accept responsibility, all that rot.’

  ‘What about the explosives part of it?’

  ‘Chemistry was about the only thing I was any use at, at school. And at Deal before the Zeebrugge raid there was a chap called Brock – son of the man who started the firework factory, d’you know? – and he’s a real expert. I mean he was. He was killed on the mole … Anyway, I got tied up with some of his experimental stuff, bombs and things. I applied to go on the raid in his crowd, actually, but—’

  ‘Wouldn’t take you?’

  Nick, who’d known Brock at Dover, had his eyes open, listening. He heard Burtenshaw answer, ‘Everyone wanted to go on the raid, you know. For every man that went, there were fifty wanted to.’

  That was true enough. And the blockships’ passage crews, mostly stokers, had been so determined to get into the action that they’d stowed away, hiding until the assault was launched. He heard Cameron ask the Marine, ‘D’you really think you’ll be able to blow up Goeben?’

  ‘I’ve – well, not much of an idea about it, really. I mean, what I’m supposed to do. I’ve got this stuff with me, of course, but how or when or where – well, don’t ask me, because I don’t know anything.’

  Silence … Nick turned his head, saw Jake Cameron looking puzzled. Then Burtenshaw’s hand showed, pointing towards the wireless cabinet. ‘Do what I’m told, that’s all. When I’m told.’ He leant right over the edge of the bunk and spoke in a whisper, but impersonating Robins: ‘Fewer people know anything about it, the better for us all, Burtenshaw …’ He’d pulled back into the bunk. ‘Truly, I’m simply to do what I’m told when the time comes.’

  ‘But if—’ Jake waved in Robins’s direction ‘—if he went adrift, and you’re left in the dark – surely—’

  ‘Three of us now, thank heaven. I mean we’ve got this—’

  A clang from the bow: from somewhere outside the hull.

  ‘Stop both motors!’

  Now a scraping noise. Jake Cameron had half risen in his chair, then sat back again and let his breath out. Burtenshaw was up on an elbow, pink-faced, goggling. Nick was on his back with his eyes open and staring at the deckhead. He hadn’t otherwise moved although he could feel cold sweat all over his skin and his gut was tight. ERA Knight had jumped to the telegraphs to pass Wishart’s order to the motor-room, and now the sound of the motors died away. But the scraping was continuous, from somewhere on the port side for’ard. Abrasive on the mind, inside it. Nick told himself, Take it easy: they know their business, and this is only the first minute, we’ve a whole night to get through.

  He hadn’t expected it to start this soon. He was getting his imagination and his nerves in hand now, hoping nobody had seen any outward sign of the sudden shock he’d felt.

  ‘Starboard fifteen.’

  ‘Starboard fifteen, sir.’ Roost pushed the wheel around. He didn’t look as if he thought anything out of the ordinary was happening. The wheel’s polished brass glinted as it revolved; he’d checked it now. Morton, the second coxswain, reported an obstruction on the fore ’planes.r />
  ‘Can’t ’ardly shift ’em, sir.’

  ‘It’s an ill wind …’ Wishart added, ‘Midships. Slow astern together.’

  ‘Slow astern together, sir.’

  Calm, quiet … Voices so relaxed there was something almost artificial about them. Hobday asked Wishart over his shoulder, ‘What ill wind, sir?’

  ‘Tells us where it is, old lad … Stop port. Starboard ten.’

  ‘Starboard ten, sir.’

  ERA Knight, still acting as telegraphman, reported the port motor stopped. Burtenshaw whispered to Jake, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘For’ard hydroplanes have been fouled by something. Wire. So we’re sort of backing off it.’

  ‘Mine-wire?’

  ‘Likely as not.’

  A reverberating twang: still echoing: weird … Morton whispered, ‘Bye-bye, dearie.’

  ‘Stop starboard. Midships.’

  Stopping the boat and then putting her astern – and with helm on, at that – had thrown out the depth-keeping. The jammed fore ’planes hadn’t been able to help, either. The gauges showed a hundred and eight feet, and the submarine was still sinking slowly deeper. Hobday, trying to cope with the trim, not only spoke in the suddenly fashionable calm, quiet manner, but his movements were slower too. Normally he was an unusually brisk, jerky sort of man.

  ‘Both motors stopped, sir.’

  ‘Helm’s amidships.’

  ‘Port five. Slow ahead together. Knight, find someone else to work the telegraphs – you’ll be cooking the breakfast, next.’

  ‘Sir.’ The ERA went to the bulkhead doorway. ‘Pass the word for Davie Agnew!’

  ‘Both motors slow ahead, sir.’

  ‘Five o’ port wheel—’

  ‘Midships. Ship’s head?’