Submariner (2008) (40 page)

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 to 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.

Once this was over.

The breakages that most concerned one were of battery containers. There was no way of telling how many had been smashed without
actually getting into the battery tanks, opening them up, which could only be done when you were home and in dockyard hands.
There were two tanks – batteries – number two here under the control room and number one for’ard of it, under the ERAs’ and
POs’ messes, each containing fifty-six cells, glass-enclosed and standing waist-high with cross-sections about sixteen inches
square, each cell needing at least two men and usually a crane, to lift it. In the two steel tanks, 112 of them. When the
glass containers were cracked or broken the acid content of course leaked out, and was contained in the tank; it smelt, and
could be set on fire, but worst of all, if salt water got into it – the tank itself holed for instance, acid escaping into
the bilges – you got chlorine gas, which kills unpleasantly.

For the moment, the battery was still providing power. If it could keep on doing so until dusk – and of course the Partenope
and others stayed away …

Well, they might. That was a matter of pure luck now. The real threat was the battery. If it chucked its hand in, the answer
might be to bottom. Simple evolution made slightly tricky by the echo-sounder being out of action. Although it might be better
not to use it anyway, with the risk of having its impulses picked up on Wop hydrophones. But bottom, anyway. How much water
you were in you’d find out when you hit the putty. Then shut down everything, lie bottomed until nightfall, when you’d blow
some main ballast, float her to the surface, start the generators and head for home – getting a signal out if possible, although
wireless might not be operable – experience telling one that the main aerial might well be done for. If on the other hand
it was OK he’d ask for air-cover to be provided at first light. Alternatively, trust to luck – plug on homeward through the
night and probably the first hours of daylight, eventually identifying oneself by Aldis light to the Castile signal station
on arrival in the swept channel.

‘Number One.’

‘Sir?’

‘If we’re left to ourselves now, we’ll turn south in about an hour, and if the box conks out we’ll bottom, sit tight until
dark then surface and get cracking on generators.’

‘Home like a bat out of hell.’

‘As near as possible like that.’ Thinking,
albeit slightly crippled bat
… ‘Here and now, though, we’ll open watertight doors. Cottenham issue tea and buns, whatever, you and I’ll confer with the
Chief, and no doubt there’ll be a run on the heads – if Ellery here passes them as OK to use.’ He’d glanced at Ellery, who
muttered ‘Long as I get first crack, check ’em out.’

‘Outside ERA’s perks, fair enough.’ Turning to the chart, checking soundings in the vicinity of the last DR position, he startled
himself with the news that bottoming was right out of the question: you wouldn’t find bottom at much less than 400 or even
600 feet anywhere within about fifty bloody miles. Well –
ten
miles, you’d have a chance – but ten miles, at this present rate of progress, which one daren’t exceed …

0840, and peace and quiet still prevailing. Had even read a few pages of Robert Graves’
I Claudius
, to take his mind off other things – which oddly enough it wasn’t doing, and he thought he’d probably give it up. He’d only
persevered with it – as far as he had – for Abbie’s sake, he realised – and there was no reason she’d actually give a damn.
He wished he hadn’t given Ormrod’s two P. G. Wodehouse titles to Colour-Sergeant Gant; but he had, and it was probably a good
thing to have done.

Ursa
now on course 200 – gyro duly fixed – running on her starboard motor at slow grouped down, which he reckoned was giving her
about a knot and a half – and at eighty feet in the hope she’d be invisible to overflying Cants, while not suicidally deep
in terms of sea-pressure and her injuries, especially the shaft-glands. He thought a hundred would be unnecessarily deep,
sixty maybe dangerously shallow.

And bottoming now out of the question, no matter what.

He’d put Abbie’s book down, and McLeod looked up from Miss Blandish, asked him quietly as their eyes met, ‘If the box jags
in, sir, what’s the solution?’

‘Might better put it as
when
the box jags in, Jamie.’

‘Well …’

‘What would your answer be?’

‘I think bottom. Praying for a shallow patch and – well, continuance of our famous luck, maybe?’

‘Spotted any
charted
shallow patches?’

‘No, sir. Small ones often aren’t though, and –’

‘Fancy the idea of trimming her down further and further past her limits knowing that eventually something’s going to crack?’

‘Don’t
fancy
it exactly, no –’

‘She’s already damaged, she wouldn’t stand for it, would she? Imagine those shaft-glands blowing in like champagne corks.
The only realistic option’s to surface, take
that
chance.’

McLeod held his stare for a moment. Then: ‘Taking on the Partenope and its four-inch guns maybe.’

‘Partenope or whatever else.’ After two hours it was a fact that the Partenope was very much less of a danger than it had
been, but he didn’t need to tell McLeod that. He said, ‘Tactic then might be to turn tail and run.’

‘At eight knots.’

‘Yes. Well, exactly …’ Voice down to a murmur – knowing he could have been heard from the galley if there’d been anyone in
it, or the wardroom if any Blue watchkeepers had been tuned in – Danvers, or the helmsman who’d be either Farquhar or Llewellyn,
or ’planesmen Hart and Brooks – since some of these prognostications were likely to be dire enough. One didn’t want any of
this to be overheard, was all. Continuing with ‘Likely as not, Jamie, we’d find ourselves on our tod and remain so, continuing
on generators – well, as you say, eight knots with luck, depending on that screw – Lewis guns in the bridge, of course – hell,
Stoker PO Franklyn up there singing “Land of Hope and Glory”, if you like … If on the other hand when we break surface we
find ourselves in close company with Wops of any kind –’

He’d been going to say – murmur – ‘Probably nothing for it but abandon ship, send her down with the hatch open’ – but instead
was silent, listening – eyes on the deckhead port side aft, HE having quite suddenly become audible from that quarter. Not
fast
HE – overhauling, obviously, but a target
running at not much more than one knot didn’t take a
lot
of overhauling, and this whatever it was would be listening-out on hydrophones,hence the low revs. He called to Danvers,
‘Silent running, Pilot. Diving stations when the bastard’s left us.’ Then in a flash of inspiration and – all right, change
of mind, lunacy or tactical innovation – told McLeod to take over the trim, stop starboard and see how she coped with that
– whether she’d be able to hold her depth for the few minutes it might take this Wop to pass on by.

The convoy had made it intact, been brought in on Sunday, consequently were still discharging cargo, those at moorings in
Grand Harbour here using their own gear to discharge into lighters alongside, others’ masts and upperworks visible across
the water in French and Dockyard creeks. One Union flag, two Stars and Stripes, one Dutch red-white-and-blue. And at anchor
in midstream the cruisers
Orion
and
Euryalus
, dotted around in other berths half a dozen Hunt-class destroyers. Others of the escort had already started back, apparently,
and the light cruiser
Arethusa
who’d been torpedoed in a night attack by Savoia-Marchettis had made it home to Alex under tow. She’d had 155 of her men
killed in that attack, Shrimp had told Mike in his office in Lazaretto an hour ago. It was past midday now, a fine, cool day
on the Upper Barracca, Grand Harbour actually a thrilling sight, illustrative of the turning of the tide after the long period
of siege. Ships’ boats all over, smoke drifting from merchantmen’s and warships’ funnels, ensigns fluttering,
dghaisas
busy as fleas on a dog’s back. Not that sight-seeing was primarily what he was here for; after the meeting with
Shrimp he’d telephoned Abbie at the Defence Security Office and asked her when she came on the line, ‘How about the Upper
Barracca in about thirty minutes, you incredibly lovely creature?’

‘Oh. Well.’ Then: ‘I suppose I
might
manage it.’ Further pause, and ‘– Whoever the hell you are.’

‘Can’t guess?’

‘Don’t want to seem stand-offish anyway. OK, I’ll take a chance. Nearer forty-five minutes than thirty, though?’

Could hardly have been a happier time. To have got back was one thing, imminence of reunion with her another. Shrimp hadn’t
exactly hauled him over the coals, and just a few minutes before he’d called her there’d been a message from Colour-Sergeant
Gant, who’d gone in the ambulance with Marine Newton, that the surgeon who’d be operating on him later in the day had told
Gant there was no reason the patient shouldn’t come out of it as good as new. So after the call to Abbie he’d nipped back
aboard
Ursa
to pass this to the coxswain – who’d been overjoyed, not only at the news itself but at having been apprised of it. Also
on board at that time had been Commander Sam MacGregor, the flotilla engineer, making decisions, lists and notes, with Chief
McIver at his elbow disputing practically every point. MacGregor had said, ‘You put her through the wringer this time, didn’t
you. We’ll have her in dock at least a couple of months.’