by Edwyn Gray
‘What do you intend doing once we’re inside, sir?’ Mannon asked.
‘Wait and see,’ Hamilton said flatly. It sounded off-hand and impressive. But it was an empty promise. In reality Hamilton had no idea how he was going to handle the task that lay ahead. He was a man who disliked planning and following a set pattern. He preferred to exploit a situation as he found it, relying on his reactions under stress and his intuition. Once inside the bay something was bound to happen. And when it, did he hoped he would be able to turn it to their advantage.
‘We’ll go under the boom submerged,’ he told Mannon.
‘Apart from luck we’ll need two things - sufficient depth of water and inefficient look-outs on the Jap destroyer.’
‘I would think the latter requirement highly unlikely, sir,’ Mannon said primly.
‘And so do I, Number One. But my guess is they’ll be watching the surface. No one but a fool would try to take a submerged submarine into a landlocked bay with its only exit guarded by a destroyer. The Japanese are a logical race. They’ll have considered the possibility - and dismissed it.’
Scott looked up from the chart table where he had been studying a large-scale map of the mainland coast. It was not an official Admiralty chart, but a crudely drawn native map used by local fishermen. He had purchased it in a Hong Kong shop behind the harbor a few days earlier.
‘I reckon we’ll have fifty feet of water over the bar, sir. This map shows fish in the area that wouldn’t normally live in shallow water.’
Hamilton nodded approvingly. Scott was the type of officer he appreciated - a man who was anxious to use his brain and his initiative. He wondered how many other navigators would have thought of estimating the depth of the water by studying the type of fish inhabiting the sea. It reminded him of the time he had used the feeding habits of seagulls to steer Rapier through the shallows of the North Sea in pursuit of a U-boat.
‘We’ll have to go through blind,’ he explained. ‘If the Japs are watching the surface they’d spot a periscope immediately. And we’ll have to proceed at our slowest speed to avoid causing too much disturbance on the surface.’ He looked around the control room. ‘Is everyone ready?’
There was a murmur of assent and Hamilton clicked his fingers sharply. ‘Up periscope... down periscope!’
The lens had poked inquisitively up through the waves for no more than ten seconds. But it was sufficient for his skilled eye to estimate the bearings and distance involved. He decided to keep to the westerly side of the entrance so that Rapier was as far away from the destroyer as possible. Then, outwardly relaxed, he walked across to the gyro- repeater and checked the reading. He projected a mental picture of the entrance to the bay in his mind as he made his final calculation.
‘Steer three-zero-zero, Helmsman. Slow ahead both motors. Take her to forty feet.’
‘Three-zero-zero, sir.’
‘Down planes, level at forty feet.’
‘Forty feet, sir.’
‘Thank you, Cox’n. Hold her steady.’
There was nothing more to do but wait. Hamilton had already started his stopwatch and he followed the sweep of the second hand as Rapier crawled towards the boom. ‘Stop all fans and motors. Rig for silent running.’ Mannon tried to hide the tension gnawing in his belly by carefully studying the warning lights of the venting panel over Venables’ shoulder. As he did so, he mentally rehearsed which levers would have to be pulled to blow the appropriate ballast tanks - Numbers Six and Nine if the bows grounded. Numbers Twenty-two and Twenty-five if the stern touched bottom. He wiped the perspiration from the palms of his hands and stretched his fingers like a concert pianist preparing to play.
Scott seemed unconcerned. Unlike the executive officer, he was a regular Navy man and he’d been in submarines since 1938. Picking up a pencil, he began sketching a series of directional arrows on the chart, to indicate the probable flow of the tidal currents inside the bay. Although he had not voiced his opinions aloud, he was certain that Hamilton had made a grave error by choosing to go through at high water. If Rapier had been taken in on the flood tide, the strength of the current could have added at least two knots to their speed. But now, battling against the ebb, the motors could dissipate fifty per cent of their power in just fighting the tide.
Hamilton smiled to himself as he watched the navigator drawing his little barbed arrows. It wasn’t difficult to guess what was passing through Scott’s mind. But Hamilton had already considered the point when issuing his original orders. The changing of the tide, especially in the confined waters of the narrow entrance, would create a considerable disturbance on the surface as the ingoing and outgoing currents clashed. It would only last for two or three minutes, but the tumbling waters would help to conceal the presence of the submarine creeping stealthily beneath the surface. He thought about explaining his reasons to Scott but, on an impulse, changed his mind. He glanced down at the stopwatch.
‘Three minutes,’ he said quietly. ‘We should be approaching the boom at any moment.’
The success or failure of the mission was now beyond the control of human hands. Rapier was committed to her course, depth and speed. And, as if he could still play some part in the submarine’s destiny, each man inside the control room stared at his instruments and concentrated on the task in hand. The tense silence was broken only by the faint vibration of the motors, the soft whisper of the sea against the outer plating, and the familiar sound of Ernie Blood sucking his teeth.
‘Let’s hope Alistair’s fish know what they’re doing,’ Hamilton said lightly, in an effort to ease the tension. The men in the control room grinned, but no one felt in the mood for joking and the oppressive silence descended once again, as each man shut himself away in his own private thoughts....
A sudden jolt shuddered through the submarine, followed by a soft slithering rasp from under the keel. Scott’s fish had obviously let him down - his estimate of the depth of water over the bar had been too optimistic. Hamilton reacted without hesitation.
‘Full ahead both!’
The hum of the motors rose to a shrill whine as the power came on. Rapier lurched like a prehistoric sea monster rising from its muddy nest on the sea bottom, and then slid smoothly forward as the propellers kicked her clear of the underwater obstruction.
‘Slow ahead both.’
The high-pitched whine faded away to the familiar soft hum and the ammeter needles flicked back as the drain on the batteries eased. The dials showed the submarine riding level and the depth gauges indicated forty feet.
‘Any HE, Baker?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you want an Asdic sweep, sir?’ Mannon asked.
Hamilton shook his head. ‘Negative. They might detect the pulses. As it is, I’ve got to gamble that they didn’t spot the disturbance on the surface when we switched to full power.’
He glanced down at his stopwatch to calculate how far they had penetrated inside the bay. He felt like a blind man feeling his way down an unfamiliar street by counting his footsteps. In a few moments he would have to cross the road. If he had counted correctly, he would have reached the safety of the other side. If not, he was likely to be struck down by a large truck. The minute hand of the watch clicked into the third segment of the dial. He looked up.
‘Steer one point to port, Helmsman.’
‘One point to port, sir.’
The overwhelming temptation to raise the periscope and check their position was almost irresistible and only Hamilton’s long experience and iron nerve enabled him to fight off the urge. Rapier was by now well into the bay and moving invisibly towards the anchored gunboat. The stretch of clear water ahead would be under close observation by the Japanese look-outs, and the faintest wisp of spray from the tip of the questing periscope would be sighted and reported as soon as it broke surface. And once trapped inside the bay, Rapier would stand no chance of escaping from the inevitable depth charge attack.
Hamilton seemed unconcerned by the strain of the blind appro
ach, and he stole a quick glance at Mannon to see how he was reacting. He could recall his own nervous tension when the skipper of Surge had crept unseen into Kiel Bay before the war. And he had not forgotten the tragedy that followed. But despite his lack of experience, Mannon was standing up to it well. Leaning forward over the ‘outside’ ERA’s shoulders, he kept watch on the glowing warning lights of the venting panel like the alert hawk he in many ways resembled. Hamilton decided it was time he took the young RNVR officer into his confidence.
Taking a rough sketch map of the bay from his pocket, he called Mannon over to join him and spread the paper out on the chart table so that he could see it.
‘This is our estimated track,’ he explained drawing a line with his pencil. ‘And this...’ he marked a cross on the map, ‘is where we altered course a few minutes ago.
The idea is to get around behind Firefly so that the destroyer’s look-outs won’t see us when we surface.’
‘A bit like Blind Man’s Bluff, sir,’ Mannon observed.
‘I suppose it is,’ Hamilton agreed. ‘A great deal will depend on the strength of the tidal currents inside the bay. The pilot reckons a two knot surge on the ebb.’ He paused to draw a directional arrow. ‘If he’s right, that would make us just about - here. We don’t seem to have been spotted so far, so I’ll maintain course to here...’ Hamilton marked another small cross behind and astern of the gunboat. ‘Then I’ll have to raise the periscope to check we’re in position before we surface.’
Mannon nodded. He was beginning to understand the skipper’s strategy. ‘I think I follow it so far, sir. We come up on the blind side of the gunboat so that the Japs can’t observe what’s happening.’
‘That’s part of the plan, Number One. But there’s more to it than that. If we do have the misfortune to be spotted, the gunboat will act as a shield. And if the Japs open fire they’ll have to sink her before they can get at us. Needless to say, by that time we’d be well under the surface again and out of harm’s way.’
It sounded a trifle cold-blooded to Mannon. He wondered what the men onboard Firefly would say if they knew of Hamilton’s scheme. He had not served with Rapier's skipper long enough to have seen the ruthless streak in his character before - and he was not sure that he liked it. But, being objective, he could appreciate the careful thinking behind the plan. Hamilton was protecting his boat and his men. And if anyone got hurt, he was making sure it would not be one of Rapier’s crew. In the circumstances Mannon supposed he should be grateful.
The second hand of the stopwatch circled the dial twice more and, in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture, Hamilton passed the tip of his tongue over his dry lips. His outward air of calm detachment hid the maelstrom of inner tension. His crotch was wet with sweat and he felt slightly sick as a violent spasm knotted his stomach muscles.
‘Up periscope!’
The column glided upwards and he stopped its ascent as soon as the tip broke surface. He had already brought the lens onto an estimated bearing to save time and it took him only a few seconds to fix the submarine’s position.
‘Down periscope. Steer one point to starboard. Stop motors. Stand by to surface.’
‘One point to starboard, sir.’
‘Switches off - motors stopped, sir.’
Hamilton concentrated on the stopwatch. ‘We’ll be going straight up, Number One,’ he warned Mannon. ‘Stand by to blow the tanks. I intend to rely on positive buoyancy so we won’t need to use the ’planes.’
Mannon wiped his hands down the sides of his trousers to get rid of the sweat and leaned forward over the venting panel, ready to give Venables his support when the order came.
‘Blow main ballast! Surface!’
‘Close main vents - blow all tanks.’
As Venables moved the hydraulic levers to close the vents, Mannon reached forward to turn the valve wheels of the compressed air reservoirs and a shrill scream of high pressure air echoed the length of the submarine.
‘Duty watch on deck!’
Hamilton pulled the clips of the lower hatch as the yeoman and look-outs lined up behind him at the bottom of the ladder.
‘Gun crew stand by! Morgan - bring your men topside at the double if I give the word.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Fifteen feet, sir.’
Hamilton reached up and pushed back the hatch cover. Swinging his body sideways with the agility of a monkey, he avoided the worst of the water streaming down into the control room from the conning tower compartment, and he heard the yeoman swear as he caught it full in the face. Then, hoisting himself up through the narrow opening, he started climbing the ladder leading to the upper hatch....
Lieutenant Forsyth, Firefly’s executive officer, raised his binoculars with a weary sigh and trained them on the destroyer again. He wondered how much longer Ottershaw was going to be. The Japanese commander had been studiously polite, and the skipper had offered no objections when the destroyer’s motor boat had come alongside to take him across to the Suma. But that had been more than eight hours ago.
‘Have they replied to my last signal, Yeoman?’
‘No, sir. They acknowledged receipt - but nothing else.’ ‘How many damned signals have we sent now?’
Bartlett consulted the signal log. ‘Seven, sir.’
‘And no replies to a single one of them?’
‘No, sir.’
Forsyth looked towards the narrow entrance to the bay. It was difficult to resist the temptation. His background and training, to say nothing of the age-old traditions of the Royal Navy, urged him to make a break for it and take Firefly through the boom and out into the open sea. And to hell with the Japs if they tried to stop him. But his loyalty to Ottershaw overcame his natural instincts. It wouldn’t be right to abandon the skipper to his fate, and he reluctantly decided to hang on a little longer.
‘They’d blow us out of the water before we were halfway across the bay, sir,’ Bartlett observed flatly, as if reading the officer’s thoughts. Forsyth nodded. The yeoman was right. But they couldn’t sit around waiting much longer. And why the hell didn’t Hong Kong send some assistance?
‘What d’you make of that, sir? Starboard side of the entrance.’
Forsyth welcomed the diversion. At least it took his mind off their present predicament. Putting his binoculars to his eyes he stared seawards towards the entrance. The orange floats of the boom were still bobbing gently on the surface and he could see nothing untoward.
‘Looks normal to me, Jones. What was it?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure, sir. It happened too quickly. There was some sort of disturbance just below the surface. Those bloody floats were bobbing up and down like a Maltese whore on piece-work.’
Forsyth lowered his glasses and shrugged. ‘Probably the tide on the turn - it’s just about due, or perhaps a large fish swimming into the bay looking for food. It all seems quiet enough to me.’ He paused for a moment and then made his way across the voice pipe. ‘Send Sub-Lieutenant Peters to the bridge.’
Peters, an RNVR officer and a former Hong Kong shipping agent, bustled up the companionway to the bridge and saluted cheerfully. He’d been involved in similar incidents before as a civilian, and he did not seen unduly worried by the skipper’s enforced absence. While Japan and Britain remained at peace Ottershaw would be quite safe. The Japs might bluff and bluster, but they would take great care not to overstep the mark.
‘Any news, Number One?’
‘Not a damned thing, Sub. What the hell do you think they’re doing to him?’
‘Probably filling him full of booze and trying to make him so drunk he won’t know what’s going on. Then they’ll talk him into a signing a public apology for shadowing the convoy.’
Forsyth did not feel so optimistic. While Peters was probably correct in this particular instance, the gunboat’s executive officer had judged the Japanese character more accurately and he knew they were quite capable of torturing Ottershaw into signing a confessi
on if it suited their purposes. If, and God forbid, war should break out, he hoped and prayed he would never fall into their hands as a prisoner.
‘The bottom’s dropping out of the glass,’ Peters added by way of conversation. ‘And I don’t like the way the clouds are building up to the south-west.’
Forsyth glanced towards the entrance of the bay. The breeze had died away and the air was unnaturally still. And, as Peters had remarked, the sullen coppery sheen of the sky looked distinctly unpromising. He shrugged. ‘Certainly seems like a storm brewing. Perhaps we’d better lay out an extra anchor. I don’t want to get caught on a lee shore.’
‘Looks more like a typhoon than a storm,’ Peters told him.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sub. The typhoon season ended a couple of months ago. There’s no point in being alarmist.’
‘Suit yourself,’ the sub-lieutenant shrugged. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never been in England when it’s snowed on Midsummer’s Day. Seasons are all very well in their way - don’t rely on them. All the signs point to a typhoon and I ought to know. I’ve lived out here for fifteen years.’ Forsyth looked thoughtful and then, without saying a word, he went into the wheelhouse to check the barograph. The jagged purple trace left by the pen showed the isometric pressure falling rapidly - more rapidly than he had ever seen in the whole of his career. He moved across to the synoptic weather chart and studied it carefully. The center of the depression lay to seaward and was clearly approaching at unusual speed. Although he was no meteorological expert, Forsyth could see they were in for a hell of a storm within the next hour or so. He opened the door and went back to the bridge.
‘Weigh out a storm anchor, Chief, and pass the word below to secure all scuttles. Then bring up a deck party and lash down all loose equipment.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Johnson glanced up at the threatening sky. ‘Looks like we’re in for a packet.’ He seemed to derive a certain enjoyment from his pessimism.
‘The boilers are still on two hour’s notice, sir,’ Peters reminded the first officer. ‘We’ll need a good head of steam if we’re hit by a typhoon - the anchors won’t hold unless we can take the strain on the engines.’