Mike asked Swathely whether his patient was any better.
‘Was taking notice, then give up, sir.’ Shake of the head. ‘Dunno there’s an ’ope.’
‘Well. Please God.’ Moving to the chart for a look at the DR Danvers had put on it when they’d dived and since then extended to a new one for 0600, based mainly on fairly minuscule differences between log-readings. He asked Fraser, ‘Bearings and distances of HE now?’
‘Two-four-six and – lost that one, sir. Transmitting, could be in contact. Was moving left to right, both of ’em. Two-four-six and –’
‘Time for a shufti anyway.’ Shufti being Desert Army slang for a look, squint, recce, most common everyday usage being ‘Shufti bint’ meaning ‘Get an eyeful of that piece of crackling’. Point of taking another squint now being that largely through the Partenopes’ own manoeuvres – manoeuvres of one of them at least – they were or soon would be in much closer range – had set this up themselves, Ursa had only to let them come. He told McLeod, ‘Slow both, thirty feet’, and Jarvis, ‘Stand by numbers one and two tubes. Depth-settings eight feet.’ This in keeping with his confidence in those two being Partenopes, whose draft was listed as eight feet but with a wartime load on – such extras as ammo, torpedoes, depth-charges – would be several feet more than that. A glance at the depth-gauges – needles creeping up towards thirty-three feet – and he moved over to the small ‘attack’ periscope – the after one, monofocal – and nodded to Ellery. ‘Up.’
McLeod reported, ‘Thirty feet, sir.’
Daylight in only one eye. Also – extraordinarily – one perfectly good target in it. Little grey destroyer-shape lying stopped – as of this moment, stopped.
‘Port ten.’
‘Ten of port wheel on, sir …’
Wouldn’t get a ninety shot, but nobody could expect to get absolutely all the luck. As it was – to have come up with a chance as good as this … Calling for an alteration of just a few degrees – and one’s own presence on the face of things quite unsuspected.
‘Midships and meet her.’
‘Meet her, sir …’
‘Steady!’
On target,and steadied. At least,steadying … Asking Fraser whether he had either HE or asdic transmissions on or near that bearing. Reply negative, although he should have had. Passive,hydrophonic listening,presumably. Target static,except for pitch and roll; Ursa more like on its quarter than its beam, but still roughly how one might have prayed for it – without dreaming any such prayer might be heard or answered. Could still go for a 90-degree shot,but doing so would have involved quite a lot of manoeuvring around, and to risk buggering up a chance as good as this – range a thousand yards, call it, a torpedo’s running time at forty knots about a minute and a half – and no third pattern yet dropped on Unsung, but there could be at any second and it would put an end to this, the first touch ahead on the bugger’s screws would be all he’d need to save himself, whether he’d know he was doing so or not.
Well, he wouldn’t.
‘Stand by numbers one and two tubes.’
Doubling one’s chances by using both. Jarvis having received the TI’s confirmation of one and two tubes ready, and Mike telling Smithers to steer a single degree to starboard.
‘One degree to starboard, sir.’ Applying what was little more than a slight hint to her rudder. The range could be nearer nine hundred yards than a thousand, he thought. So, running time less than a minute and a half, more like –
‘Damn!’
Messerschmitt 110 – in a dive from slightly to the right of his target – agleam in sunshine and a blurry streak of Wop colours, slicing seaward at the periscope ‘feather’ or whatever its pilot had spotted, flaming staccato of its guns as it smashed over –
‘Fire One! Flood “Q,” hundred and fifty feet!’
Hundred and fifty because those Unsung charges had been shallow-set and Ursa might be receiving similar attentions shortly. It was a toss-up, of course. Hearing from the HSD ‘Torpedo running, sir’, and sending the other one after it as the flooding or ‘Q’ dragged her bow down – ‘Fire Two!’ Almost certainly wasted – three thousand quids’ worth gone beyond recall – and there’d been some kind of detonation, a bomb from the Me being the only thing it could have been – felt as well as heard, a hit on or in the after casing as the most likely thing, he thought – or a very near miss astern there. Screws, hydroplane, rudder not very far under there. The attack ’scope was on its way down and the boat tipping bow-down. He’d yelled at McLeod, ‘Full ahead group up!’ – bow-down angle of about fifteen degrees calling for her screws’ full power to drive her down into it – and ‘Port twenty’ – now both fish were on their way. In the last minutes one hadn’t been able to touch the helm,only trust to Smithers holding her like glue to that firing course. Now, however, port wheel with the intention of settling her on something like southeast,meanwhile announcing over the Tannoy broadcast, ‘That was a near-miss aft, bomb from an Me 110, report damage if any.’ Presenting as fact what was actually not even supposition, more like hope, the least alarming explanation one had been able to come up with. Telling Smithers then to steady her on 130. Jarvis had gone aft. Danvers, stopwatch in hand, was looking at Mike queryingly, and in the next second reacting not only sharply but you might say ecstatically to what might have been a clap of thunder on the bow to starboard. Torpedo-hit – not wasted, not that one anyway. Mike had almost forgotten that a hit was to be expected either this soon or not at all. Danvers confirming in a whoop, ‘Minute and twenty seconds, sir!’ Hardly believable, but plain fact; everyone knowing what a torpedo warhead sounded like. There were other sounds now, including cheers, McLeod looking at Mike and shaking his head, grinning, and the coxswain growling ‘That’ll learn ’em …’
‘No damage anyone’s aware of, sir.’ Jarvis, back from his visit of inspection aft. ‘But – crikey …’To Danvers, a mutter of ‘Just about takes the blooming biscuit.’ Mike telling McLeod, ‘Group down, slow both.’Thinking of the depleted battery and the probability there’d be disproportionate demands made on it before long. Not thinking so much of one’s output of sound, at that stage, not being aware of any close enemy attention until Fraser’s sudden ‘Fast HE on green four-zero, sir. Closing – moving right to left – turbines, sir …’
Turbines, so not a chance encounter with Unsung, but the other Partenope – which in recent minutes had not been in evidence, barely even in one’s cognisance, but now cutting in on the bow from starboard – knowing the direction from which one had fired, of course, seen the bloody Messerschmitt’s performance too – well, for sure …
‘Shut off for depth-charging.’
None too soon either. Watertight doors thudding shut all through the boat, other things happening as well. McLeod taking in reports from the now isolated compartments before making his own, ‘Boat shut off for depth-charging, sir’ – this coinciding with Fraser’s yelp of ‘Transmitting, sir! On green three-six – three-five –’
You could hear it. Not only transmitting, but in contact – the first squeaks at that moment, electronic bleeps on the steel of her hull: and McLeod’s further report of ‘Hundred and fifty feet, sir.’
‘Bearing now?’
‘Green three-two – in contact, closing –’
‘Starboard fifteen.’ Turning inside the Wop’s line of approach. And, ‘Stop starboard.’To tighten the turn in altering to either south or southeast. Thinking about this sequence of events, though – the second Wop having got on to them so extraordinarily quickly. Attributable he supposed to having sunk the other one pretty well under this one’s nose – so they’d have known the direction from which one had fired and then withdrawn – or begun to – and certainly the line of one’s escape from the Me’s attack – speaking of which there were two other possibilities, both stemming from that bomb – could be –
‘Lost contact, sir. Slowed, and – ceased transmitting, that’s –’
‘Yes.’ Meaning, he’s jus
t listening; and thinking that Ursa might have a singing screw – propeller damaged by that bomb. This was one of the two possibilities. The other might have been an oil leak – there being both oil-fuel and lub oil tanks back there, and if the bomb had burst either close alongside or actually in contact, in either case several feet under, well … But a damaged screw was the most likely. Hydrophone Effect at its lethal worst, in that as long as they had ears they couldn’t lose you. Ears meaning asdics in the listening mode. Only reassuring thing at this stage being they didn’t know your depth, could only guess at it. It was a thought worth holding on to. But also, here and now, if he was right about the bomb having bent or cracked a propeller-blade, maybe there was an immediate solution. If one could handle it right and had a modicum of luck, might be.
He told Smithers, ‘Stop port. Slow ahead starboard.’
Praying it had been only the port screw, not both of them. Five or six feet underwater, it was conceivable that the blast could have damaged both.
‘Ship’s head?’
‘One-eight-eight, sir.’
‘Steer two hundred.’
‘Port motor stopped, starboard slow ahead, sir.’
Thoughtful expressions, here and there. Working most of it out for themselves. It was in fact more a response than a solution, didn’t by any means solve all the problems, might only save one’s bacon if a few other things went right. Smithers centred his wheel, reported quietly, ‘Course two-zero-zero, sir.’
If the Wop would drop some charges, the disturbance would give one the chance as it almost routinely had of getting away under cover of the furore. Whereas like this, one was achieving nothing … Except – having stopped the port screw, if the Wop began transmitting again, mightn’t one assume that that was the one that sang, had been all the contact he’d thought he needed?
Slow HE on the port quarter now, according to Fraser. Low revs passing up the port side and out on that bow.
‘Transmitting, sir. Red seven-oh, opening.’ A pause, and then: ‘In contact, sir!’
He nodded. Seeing the case as proven against that port screw, and guessing the crunch was coming pretty soon now. The attacker had to be moving at a certain speed to be able to drop charges that wouldn’t cause damage to himself, would start his attacking run from out there where he was going now and drop the charges which would explode at whatever depth had been set on their pistols and some safe distance astern of him – and from the throwers, out on his beams. And the other thing as well as not knowing one’s depth was loss of asdic contact prior to actually passing over, so he was then temporarily blind and deaf and you had your chance – using starboard screw only, for Christ’s sake, and hoping to God this one wasn’t in the habit of putting deep settings on his charges – if it had been the other one dropping that shallow-set pattern on Unsung.
‘Same?’
Fraser had confirmed that the Partenope was still moving out that way, at only a few knots, on a course diverging from Ursa’s by twenty or thirty degrees. The same thing was clear from a glance at Danvers’ attack diagram: Ursa’s course just west of south and the Wop’s now southeast, pinging into empty sea.
Or sea that might have Unsung in it. One’s own mental picture was of her creeping away probably southwards out of trouble, barely comprehending events of the past half-hour, simply getting out from under while through some miracle she had the chance.
Alternatively, it was possible Melhuish might have had his chances.
‘Going round to port, sir. Red three-five, right to left, transmitting.’
So all right – if the bugger imagines you’re out that side of him … Not a sound, let him lose himself out there, and after a while come gently round to west then – after a while – back on course for home. Meeting Danvers’ hopeful glance, raised eyebrows, thinking, well, it’s possible, it’s what is happening …
‘Transmitting, sir.’
Instead of continuing into the wild blue yonder the Wop had circled away to port and for some time been lost to them, now turned up overhauling on Ursa’s own course at revs for nine or ten knots. Transmissions not yet audible to anyone but the HSD, via his headset. But it would be coming now, surely. Reminding himself that only a very short while ago he’d been impatient for it – for the chance to evade, slip away. But the Wop now suspecting he’d gone wrong, unsure how to play it from here on – having no partner in this now, solo maybe for the first time ever?
Well – wishful thinking, probably – was not only transmitting, by sheer luck – his – was back in contact. Jarvis had just whispered, ‘Squeak-squeak-squeak’ – pointing at the sweating white enamel on the deckhead, somewhat clownishly drawing Danvers’ attention to asdic pings that had suddenly become audible – as were the destroyer’s churning screws, sound that had started out of nothing only seconds ago and was rapidly getting louder. Charges set for about fifty feet, please God? Anyway, make one’s break to port, and use both screws, just that minute or maybe two minutes of extravagance. The Wop wouldn’t be hearing any of it, so what the hell, give it all she’s got – all right, might not have all that much more of – and since in order to be at any rate slightly removed from its centre before the first charge exploded you’d be putting the wheel over a fraction early, the Wop if he was on the ball getting what he might interpret as notice of which way you had it in mind to go, hold that rudder on her and take her all the way round, full circle through the welter of it and out the way he would not think you’d be going.
Like the Flying Scotsman pounding at you.
‘Stop starboard. Group up port and starboard.’
‘Group up both sides, sir –’
‘Hard a-port, full ahead together!’
In one’s mind’s eye seeing it happen up there. First one, set to however many feet, out of the rack on his stern, up there in the sunlight, then the throwers lobbing theirs; next one off the stern again to splash in midway between those two, fill the centre of the pattern. Ursa into her turn by this stage, trembling from the effort while the barrel-shaped charges sank down towards her through a steadily darkening however many fathoms.
This one doesn’t go for shallow depth-settings anyway. Makes you bloody wait, recognising that if they’d been set shallow they’d have been going off much sooner than this. Than this, now – first thunderblast much too close for comfort and then it’s like going over Niagara in an oil-drum only not as much fun as that, first describable effects being lights gone, gyro alarm a completely deafening scream in pitch darkness, men and objects being flung around – he’d gone sprawling himself, cracked his head, back of it sticky-wet – the boat steeply bow-down and going deeper, repeated blasts out there like very heavy blows to which her steel was ringing, cork chips raining from the deckhead. The cork was in the paint, meant to absorb condensation. Glass splintering – battery-tank, that was, under one’s feet – and fuses blowing like rifle-shots. He’d called for number one main ballast to be blown – which Ellery had done, in that initial darkness, checking the vent shut before finding the blow also by feel – to get her bow up, check the dive – Mike having already stopped both motors and grouped down, put first the starboard one then both of them astern. With this much bow-down angle on her, the last thing she wanted was forward power to drive her deeper. Tested depth being 250 feet, which wasn’t all that far below 150, and she was below that now. Blowing number one main ballast should have got her bow up, but as yet had not, nor had the screws running astern had much influence on her. He’d realised they were only at slow astern, and increased to half grouped up: she’d be just about hanging on them now, and maybe not far off running out of juice.
Emergency lighting had come on – a considerable improvement, thanks to the LTOs – and McLeod’s torch centred on the depth-gauge showing 214 feet, indicative of an alarmingly fast descent in the space of no more than a minute. The dive had been checked now, though, and she was slowly righting herself; he told McLeod to get her up to a hundred feet as soon as possible, also t
o reduce power when he could get away with it. It had come as a huge relief when the gyro alarm had shut off. But asdics were defunct, according to Fraser, ERAs and others were checking steering, hydroplanes, all telemotor controls and functions – periscopes for instance, the big one wouldn’t rise – and hull-glands. The heads here had a leak on them. More importantly, the after ends had reported by sound-powered telephone that the propeller-shaft glands were leaking badly, on account of which Stoker PO Franklyn had the after ballast pump sucking on the bilges, but the pump was running hot, not making much of a job of it and obviously couldn’t be relied on. Stokers were working on those glands.
At 170 feet now. He asked Smithers, ‘Ship’s head by magnetic?’
Gyro compass being still out of action. Hec Bull working on it, flat on his belly on the corticene. Smithers had come up with ‘North fifty-two west, sir.’
‘Well … port ten, steer due west.’
‘Port ten, steer west –’
Bull’s Welsh-intonated voice from the recesses: ‘Soon have her up an’ running, sir.’
‘Good man.’
Not that it mattered much, no great inconvenience getting by on magnetic. Worst of it was the probability that about as soon as you did have it – or anything else – up and running, that thing would be over the top again with more of those bloody charges. He’d be searching now, plainly had been fooled over which way you’d gone, but he’d only to reverse his course, come back and listen for you; might be doing so at this moment. Or if he thought he’d sunk you he’d want evidence of it, a sight of whatever might have come floating up. Might try to stir some up; alternatively, find you and have another go. Probably do that anyway; and Ursa wasn’t in shape to stand much more of it.
McLeod reported, ‘Hundred feet, sir.’
‘Well done, Jamie.’ He told him, ‘We’ll hold on like this for an hour or so if the bugger’ll let us.’
‘I’ll drink to that, sir.’
‘And His Majesty’ll provide the hooch.’ He smiled at the quiet cheers, in semi-darkness and the odour from the batteries, the smashed foul-smelling cells. It wasn’t unusual for a jar of rum to be smashed in the course of a serious depth-charging. Rum was one of the coxswain’s responsibilities, Admiralty required him to account for every ounce; he’d write a jar off, and Mike would order a splicing of the mainbrace.
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