Strike from the Sea (1978) (16 page)

He gripped the handles, swinging the lens on to the changed bearing. How wet the handles were, in fact his whole body was soaking, as if he were in a downpour. He dared not look at the clock. It felt like hours since that first Asdic report, years since it had all started. But he knew it was a bare twenty minutes.

Ainslie tightened his grip, the sunlight probing his eye as he saw the target rise through the thin mist of spray and moisture.

‘Bow doors open.’

Not yet. Not yet. He moved the periscope carefully, hearing the petty officer’s breathing as he followed it round to read the bearings. Dear God, where is that destroyer? He could see the furthest one, turning away to show her narrow stern and, further still, one of the other vessels, belching smoke.

This was the testing moment. At any second the submarine might break surface, or the escorts could pick her up on their sonar.

It was no use. It would have to wait. He knelt on the deck as the sea blotted out the daylight again.

He looked at Quinton. ‘Bloody destroyer is coming our way. She’s big. One of their
Kagero
class, I think.’

He heard Christie leafing through the recognition manual, then the pilot said, ‘Thirty-six knots, sir. Six five-inch guns.’

Ridgway was still working his machine. ‘Nasty.’

Ainslie did not look up at the curved deckhead. It took effort not to, even though he knew it was pointless. He had heard the sound for himself:
thrum-thrum-thrum,
the destroyer’s screws churning the sea above.

The Asdic operator said, ‘About a thousand yards, sir.’

Ainslie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The passengers would hear it, too. A noise filled with menace, like a reaper in a field.

He looked at Forster. ‘It’s about the only damned advantage of being in shallow water, Pilot. So many back echoes that their chap probably doesn’t believe a thing.’ He saw Forster smile, the way his lips were frozen. A mask. Like the rest of them.

He looked at the stoker. ‘Last time. Stand by.’ He lowered himself to meet the periscope, watching the crystal water, the pale blue above, and then the target, the high bows thrusting across the edge of the lens. Like a door closing.

There was a faint, metallic ping, like someone using a tuning fork against the hull.

Ainslie turned the lens slightly and felt his stomach muscles contract.

The big destroyer was bows on, her stem cutting through the water like a battering ram as she turned towards the hidden submarine.

Ping
. The Japanese sonar reached out and found the
Soufrière
again, homing the destroyer towards her like a fox to the kill.

Ainslie said tersely,
‘Ready!’
He stared at the troopship’s foremast, the sudden patch of colour as flags appeared on her yard. The escort must have warned her.

‘Fire One!’
He slammed the handles together and jumped to his feet. ‘Carry on firing by stop-watch. Full pattern.’ He strode across the deck and peered at the plot. ‘Hard aport. Group up, full ahead together.’

He heard the clicks from the firing panel and saw the little red lights coming up as each torpedo leapt from its tube.

‘Shut off for depth-charging.’

Seconds before the watertight door was clipped shut he thought he heard a child crying. This was no place for children, no matter what they had gone through already.

‘Steady. Steer three-five-zero.’

Ainslie saw Ridgway looking at his watch. The hull was shaking more than usual as the motors worked up to full speed.

‘Depth here is thirty fathoms, sir.’

‘Take her down to forty metres.’

The petty officer stoker at the diving panel moved deftly like a juggler with his vent controls, and Ainslie found himself listening to the controlled inrush of water, watching the hydroplane tell-tales dipping to take
Soufrière
closer to the sea-bed.

‘Forty metres, sir.’

Thrum-thrum-thrum
. The destroyer was also turning, charging hard round in pursuit.

There was a tremendous explosion, and for a second Ainslie imagined he had been bracketed by depth-charges from another patrol vessel. Then another, the massive shock waves rolling the hull back and forth like a sick whale while the rudder and hydroplanes fought to keep her under command.

Ridgway’s face shone with sweat. ‘We’ve hit her!’

Crash. Crash. Crash.
As each torpedo found its mark, and the terrible shock waves came bouncing back from the sea-bed, everyone heard and felt other explosions, large and small. It was like being trapped in a cavern filled with exploding dynamite. It went on and on, so that the drone of the destroyer’s screws was lost in the din.

Quinton said between his teeth, ‘She must have been carrying
a whole lot more than soldiers. Enough ammo for a whole bloody army!’

The Asdic operator reported, ‘Heavy HE has stopped, sir.’

They heard the last detonation rolling away like thunder, then the grinding sounds of a ship breaking up, machinery and equipment tearing free and plummeting through the shattered bulk-heads.

The destroyer’s engines took over once more. Nearer and nearer, the sound changing and expanding.

‘Hard astarboard. Steady. Steer zero-four-five.’

Forster said, ‘Depth twenty fathoms, sir.’

‘Bring her up to twenty metres.’

The hull shuddered as two depth-charges exploded off the port beam. But the sudden alteration of course, plus the confusion left by the sinking troopship, had thrown the destroyer’s commander off balance.

‘Depth twenty-eight fathoms, sir. Constant for five miles.’

‘Very well. Take her down to thirty metres. Hard astarboard. Steady.’ He winced as another pattern of depth-charges exploded at a more shallow setting. Several lights went out and glass flew from some gauges as if it had been spat out. He said, ‘Steer zero-eight-zero.’ He peered at the shivering plot table and saw Forster’s hands moving across his chart to plan each change of track, seek out every hazard before they hit it.

‘HE at red nine-oh. Closing.’

One of the patrol vessels. Slower, less certain, but just as deadly if they could bracket their target.

Forster said grimly, ‘They’re trying to hem us in, sir.’ He pointed with his pencil. ‘The big chap here and the other two coming down to port. The other destroyer must have stopped. Either to pick up survivors or to block our escape.’

Ainslie looked at him. ‘Good thinking.’ To Ridgway he said, ‘Stand by nine and ten.’

It was like conning the
Soufrière
into one huge snare. If he could only delay one of the destroyers, the attacking one. Just to give him time to disrupt the pattern. Make them believe
Soufrière
was severely damaged or sinking.

He said quietly, ‘You reported that a soldier died in the sickbay?’ He hurried on without looking at Ridgway. ‘Tell your torpedo gunner’s mate to take the body forrard, along with any blood-stained dressings Hunt can give you. You will fire them
from one of the tubes when I give the order.’ He turned to Halliday. ‘Chief. Get your people to release fifty gallons of diesel at the same time.’

Ridgway swallowed hard. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

The phone crackled, and Ainslie tried not to think of the anonymous soldier being carried forward, to be ejected from a tube like so much rubbish.

‘Ready, sir.’ Ridgway’s voice was hushed.

‘Now!’

He felt the slight lurch as the tube was emptied, and heard the muffled beat of a pump as oil was sent surging to the surface with the corpse.

‘HE lessening, sir. Destroyer reducing speed.’

It had worked. The simplest and the grisliest ruse of all. Ainslie felt sickened by it. Ashamed.

In the Atlantic or the Mediterranean it would not have worked. It had once, but the killing grounds were quick and brutal teachers.

He breathed out very slowly, the bile rising in his throat.

Now for the other destroyer. Waiting no doubt for
Soufrière
to pass beneath or so close to her she would straddle her with a full pattern.

He made himself ignore the tap-tap of the Japanese sonar, the sounds of racing screws – everything but the need to break up the escorts.

‘Periscope depth in two minutes.’

He blinked as two charges burst almost within fatal distance, cutting off more lights and bringing down the cork-filled paint from the deckhead like hardened snow.

‘Group down. Revs for seven knots.’

‘Stern doors open, sir.’

‘Periscope depth.’ Ainslie knelt down, his heart feeling as if it would split in halves. ‘Right, Tamlyn.’

He swung the periscope towards the stern, seeing one of the patrol vessels leaning right over in a tight turn before she made another run-in. There was smoke and wreckage everywhere, the whole scene completely changed. Men floundering in the sea like dying fish, other already floating, gutted or in fragments, blasted apart by their escorts’ depth-charges.

He tensed, seeing the second destroyer. ‘One thousand yards. Bearing
that
.’

Click, click went Ridgway’s machine.

‘Fire Nine. Fire Ten.’

‘Down ’scope. Group up, full ahead. Thirty metres.’

‘Both torpedoes running, sir.’

Ainslie watched the gyro and the depth recorder, and felt a nervous jump in his neck as a torpedo exploded with a violent crash. More tearing sounds. A ship going down.

It went on for another three hours. Twisting and turning, rising and diving deep whenever the depth allowed it. The destroyer attacked again and again, but without her powerful consort, and hampered by the two slower patrol vessels, she was losing ground.

For the submariners, let alone their passengers, it was like an endless bombardment, with the hull rocking and plunging, equipment coming apart, loose gear tearing from racks and hooks while the depth-charges rained down.

But one surface vessel was no match for an experienced submariner. The destroyer lost precious minutes after each attack while she charged past the target, losing the echo on her sonar in the roar of her own screws. With another ship in company it would have been easier. One listening, while the other attacked, so that the echo and the bearing were never lost.

Ridgway mopped his face and exclaimed, ‘The buggers knew nothing about a submarine in these waters, sir!’

Quinton said harshly, ‘Hell, George, they bloody well know now!’

Ainslie looked at each of them in turn. There had not been a depth-charge for five minutes. The enemy might be calling up other ships, and aircraft, too.

It was time to go.

He said, ‘I think we’re out of it. Another ten minutes and we’ll go up for a quick look round.’ They all stared at him. Drained, breathing shakily like old men.

Quinton spoke to the boatswain’s mate and then said, ‘No serious damage, sir. No casualties.’

Forster said dully, ‘Course to steer is one-three-zero, sir. Revolutions for seven knots.’

When they eventually rose to periscope depth the sea was empty once more. Far astern there was still a pall of drifting smoke, merging with heat haze to make the sun waver like reflected fire.

Ainslie turned the periscope slowly, his ears still throbbing from the explosions, his eye picturing the dead soldier floating in the oil. He had probably done more to save them than anybody.

With a start he realized he had held the periscope up too long, and felt the sweat trickling on his skin like ice as he signnalled for it to be lowered.

Vigilance at all times, no matter what. God, he had drummed it into others enough times. Vigilance or sudden death.

He said sharply, ‘Forty metres, Number One. We’ll surface at dusk. Then we’ll return to base.’

A troopship and a destroyer sunk without loss to himself. He should be proud, well satisfied.

He heard Ridgway whispering fiercely on a telephone and knew it was Hunt calling him from the sick-bay. He would want a signature on a form. Just to make the dead soldier’s disappearance neat and tidy. That was Hunt all over.

‘Open up the boat. Tell the cook to prepare a meal as quickly as possible. Fall out diving stations when you’re satisfied, Number One.’

Quinton watched him, hiding his anxiety. One more like that and the skipper would be over the top.

Not if I can help it.

He said, ‘You did a great job, sir. I was a bit bothered back there, once or twice.’

Ainslie took the offering like a lifeline. ‘It will get harder. It always does.’

8

Drink Up, and Forget

REAR-ADMIRAL GRANGER
rested his hands, palms down, on his big desk and regarded Ainslie gravely.

‘You look done in, Commander. It can’t have been a picnic for any of you.’

Ainslie felt his resistance going, his eyelids drooping. He had barely brought the submarine alongside the same old depot ship when he had been called to Granger’s office.

He had waited to see the wounded put ashore into the waiting ambulances, but when he went to ask the two British women if he could be of any help, he discovered that Rear-Admiral Granger’s flag-lieutenant had already whisked them away.

The soldiers, ragged and silent, had looked smaller on the jetty, and the scene had been made worse by a sudden downpour of heavy, persistent rain. He could hear it now, flogging the neat lawn into a bog, battering the corrugated roofs like ball bearings.

It made the air heavier, not cooler, and the slowly revolving fans overhead seemed to have no effect.

‘I’ve told the C in C about your success with the troopship. You did very well.’ He tried to smile. ‘As I knew you would.’

Ainslie looked past him at the wall map. The yellow tape was almost taut now, and ran diagonally across the whole peninsula, cutting the west coast at Penang.

Granger followed his glance and said heavily, ‘Yes. They’ve split the country in two. Occupied Penang yesterday.’

So it was all wasted. The troopship, the destroyer, the dead soldier, everything.

Ainslie said at length, ‘It seems that nothing can hold them, sir.’

‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re wrong. The enemy
need
every man, just as we do. Your risks were not in vain.’