Submariner (2008) (39 page)

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 just 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.