Submariner (2008) Read online

  He didn’t go any further aft – eight minutes to the hour now, no point getting into conversations there wasn’t time to finish. Looking aft from that latched-back bulkhead door though, past ERA Coldwell and Stoker PO Franklyn chatting there in the engine-room, the big Paxman diesels’ glittering steel port and starboard, narrow steel walkway between them; motor room then with its rank of shoulder-high copper switches. PO Hector Bull and two of his LTOs there, smoking while waiting for the ‘off’ – and beyond them another watertight door giving access to the boat’s narrowing aftermost compartment – known as the after ends – where stokers lived amongst a variety of auxiliary machinery.

  Home, one might call it. Length just under 200 feet, beam 11 feet, displacement surfaced 600 tons, dived 800. Completed in the Royal Docks at Chatham about twenty months ago. A brightly-lit, overcrowded, iron and steel tube, most of its interior surfaces finished in gleaming white enamel, polished brass hand-wheels here and there on the maze of piping; and in the control room and living spaces a deck-covering of brown corticene that was regularly buffed-up with shale oil. Shale was the fuel on which torpedoes ran; the boat reeked of it and so did her crew. All submariners smelled of shale.

  In the control room, he checked battery readings – voltage, and density of the electrolyte – as recorded in chalk on a blackboard on the curve of deckhead. The submarine’s huge battery – two sections of it, under this deck, each consisting of fifty-six four-foot-high cells weighing a quarter of a ton apiece, each section contained in its own tank – and electrics generally were another responsibility of McLeod’s, as supervisor of electricians known as LTOs – PO Bull and his boys back aft there, denizens of the motor room. McLeod and CERA McIver had had Ursa’s diesel generators pounding away all afternoon and early evening, and the figures on the blackboard reflected this – readings well up, as they needed to be.

  He checked the time. ‘All right. Harbour stations.’

  A quiet departure – few spectators, and certainly no brass bands; only Shrimp and a few others watching from the Lazaretto balcony while below them in the arcade the berthing party dragged the plank ashore and stood by to haul in the rope breasts when they were cast off. The only wire still in place being the back spring, running tautly from the boat’s knife-edge bow to a point on shore level with her stern. Mike would turn her on it, the steel-wire rope restraining her from forward movement while a thrust ahead on the outer screw sent her stern swinging out into the stream. Coxswain Swathely at the bridge wheel, McLeod, Danvers and Signalman Walburton also up there with Mike, Jarvis on the casing with PO Tubby Hart and his henchmen. Shrimp had called, ‘Good luck, Ursa!’; Mike thanked him, said to McLeod, ‘Let go the spring’ and to Danvers at the voice-pipe, ‘Stop port, slow astern together.’ On the fore casing, on McLeod’s order they were taking that wire’s turns off the bollard, to let it splash away. On war patrols you didn’t take berthing wires to sea with you; even tightly coiled and lashed inside the casing they could be blasted loose by depth-charging, and loose wires had a tendency to wrap themselves around propellers and propeller shafts, which was – well, best avoided. Anyway, the berthing party ashore were hauling it in and Ursa’s screws were imparting stern-way to her, a flood of black water washing for’ard along her slim, blue sides; Mike told Swathely, ‘Port ten, Cox’n’, and Danvers as she swung faster, turning near enough in her own length, ‘Stop port.’ The motors at this stage were ‘grouped down’, which meant the two batteries connected in series, as distinct from in parallel which provided more power but used the amps up faster. She was clear of the mooring buoys and the floating brow now, and pointing seaward: Mike told Swathely, ‘Midships the wheel’, and stooped to the voice-pipe: ‘Group up, half ahead, start engines.’

  Ursa on her way. Her seventeenth Mediterranean cruise, this would be.

  He’d made by light to Hebe, the minesweeper which had taken them under its wing soon after they’d passed out of Marsamxett through the defensive boom, which by now its attendant trawler would have dragged shut again behind them, Intend making trim-dive now before proceeding. A trim-dive being essential in view of the entirely changed distribution of weights on board – stores, torpedoes, everything. McLeod would have got her as near right as he could, working it out with a trim diagram, established formulae and his own dexterity with a slide-rule, and putting things into balance by adjusting the contents of internal compensating and trimming tanks, but there were bound to be further small adjustments necessary, to get it exactly right. U-class were tricky beasts, tended to get out of hand if it wasn’t exactly right.

  Walburton had passed that message, and now took in the reply: I’ll stick around, see you on your way. Mike too had read the flickering light. They were a mile down-channel, a mile from the Castile signal station, and it was Wednesday, half an hour past midnight. He lowered his binoculars, murmured ‘Very kind of you.’Hebe was one of the four fleet minesweepers whose arrival had made such a difference here; the flotilla leader, who’d met them and escorted them in, was Speedy. Seemed more like an hour ago, than thirty. He told Walburton and Danvers, ‘All right, clear the bridge.’ The hands were already at diving stations, and McLeod was down there ready to control the dive, as always concerned to see how well or otherwise his trimming plan worked out. If he’d made a real cock-up of it, for instance, you could find yourselves nosediving for the bottom.

  Unlikely. Wouldn’t be all that far to nose-dive, either – less than a hundred and fifty feet of water here. The only hazard anywhere near was the Dragut shoal with barely thirty feet on it, but that was a quarter of a mile back on the port quarter now. Mike glanced around the empty bridge and quiet, dark seascape: Hebe wallowing a couple of cables’ lengths ahead, Malta’s jagged black fortress shape two thousand yards astern.

  Into the voice-pipe: ‘Open main vents.’

  Fairly quickly then shutting the voice-pipe cock. Vents crashing open, the rush and roar of released air, main ballast filling, hydroplanes hard a-dive to ’plane her down. He was in the hatch, on the vertical steel ladder in the tower, feeling the dive now as well as hearing it, grasping the handle of the hatch above his head and dragging it down shut on top of him. Clips now, to secure it …

  ‘One clip on!’

  For McLeod’s reassurance that it was safe to continue the dive. Whereas if he’d somehow bungled it – been shot or had a fit, knocked himself out somehow – they’d either have reversed the dive – shutting main vents and blowing tanks instead of flooding them – or more likely by that stage had no such option, only time to shut the lower hatch, saving the boat but drowning him by the time they could get her up again. Second clip on, however – and finding the cotter-pins dangling on their short chains, shoving them in to lock the clips in place. Done – for the thousandth time – and clambering down to the hatch at the bottom of the tower, through it on to the control-room ladder. As he stepped off it, into the motors’ hum, glow of lights and circle of familiar faces, Walburton shot up it to shut and clip what was known as the lower lid.

  ‘Twenty-eight feet, sir.’

  Periscope depth, that was. If he was holding her at that depth without much effort from the ’planesmen, the trim couldn’t be too bad. Why make it too easy for him, though? Mike said, glancing at Barnaby – wardroom flunkey, a lad of about nineteen with the look of a startled rabbit, who was on the motor-room telegraphs – ‘Group down, slow together.’ The faster she moved through the water, the more effect the hydroplanes, which were effectively horizontal rudders, had in holding her at the ordered depth. Whereas if she was in fore-and-aft balance and neutral buoyancy – i.e. perfect trim – you might in ideal sea conditions achieve a ‘stop trim’ – screws stopped, the boat simply hanging, immobile, neither light nor heavy.

  The motors’ note had fallen to something more like a whisper than a hum. Swathely, on the after ’planes – controlling them by means of a brass wheel about eighteen inches in diameter, with an image in a dial in front of him showing the angli
ng of the hydroplanes as he adjusted them, commented in a tone which in his own judgement might have been classifiable as sotto voce, ‘Touch heavy aft, sir.’

  ‘I’m pumping from aft, Cox’n.’

  ‘Ah. Beg pardon, sir …’

  Mock-reproving glance from Tubby Hart on fore ’planes – precisely similar controls, on the cox’n’s right. Cox’n aware of the glance, ignoring it. McLeod with his hand up on the electric trimming telegraph, by means of which he’d ordered the stoker on the after pump to shift some ballast from the stern trimming tank to the midships one. Guessing that that should be about enough, switching to ‘Stop pumping, shut “Z” and “O”’ – and now assessing the effect of it.

  Hydroplanes – fore ’planes and after ’planes – to all intents and purposes horizontal and barely shifting: depth-gauge needle flickering at 29 feet, bubble in the spirit-level one degree aft of centre.

  Twenty-eight and a half feet: twenty-eight. Hart easing a few degrees of ‘rise’ off his fore ’planes. McLeod said, ‘Twenty-eight feet, sir.’

  ‘You’ve got her well trained, Number One.’

  ‘Eats out of my hand, sir.’

  It was as good as you’d get it anyway. One man coming aft from the fore ends now would be enough to upset it slightly, and if they’d been remaining submerged, all hands moving from diving stations to the routine state of ‘watch diving’ – one-third of them on watch, the rest with their heads down or playing Uckers, Cribbage, or whatever – the trim would be thrown out completely; whoever was taking over as officer of the watch would speed up enough to hold her close to the ordered depth until he’d got things back under control.

  McLeod suggested, ‘Want to tell ’em what we’re doing, sir?’

  It was a good idea – the right moment for it too, having some peace and quiet, which presently on the surface with the diesels hammering away you wouldn’t have. ‘Yes.’ Mike took the microphone of the Tannoy broadcast system from its hook on the deckhead and tested it for sound. Then – ‘D’you hear, there? If you don’t, get closer to a speaker. Listen – we’ve had darned little harbour-time, I know – sorry, fact is they want us out there on the billet. Had an easy enough time of it swanning around Haifa, Port Said and Alex, haven’t we. And there’s sound reason to be getting on with it now – Rommel on the Egyptian frontier – right? The more of his supplies we can deprive him of, better chance the Eighth Army has of reversing that situation. OK, that’s nothing new, only happens to be about twice as urgent – hence the rush to get us out … So – our billet’s off Palermo on Sicily’s north coast – as you’ll no doubt have heard. Means getting under the Marettimo–Cape Bon minefield – which we’ve done so often she’d practically find her own way under the bloody things if she had to.’ He took a breath. ‘And – well, surfacing now, three and a half hours at ten knots, we’ll dive on the watch at 0430. Dived all day then, spend tomorrow night getting the box up for the minefield passage, should be on the billet first thing Friday.’

  Looking around as he spoke – never all that keen on his own voice droning on – across the compartment he was face to face with CERA McIver. The Chief as he was known having no doubt been there all the time – one of the others must have moved sideways, as it were exposing him where he stood close to Ellery the Outside ERA, in his usual position at the diving panel. McIver being the best part of a foot shorter than Ellery – shorter than most, in fact – and dark-visaged, angry-looking – a permanent anger at being so close to the ground or deck-level? He and Ellery – who’d worked for the Austin Motor Company, at one time – were both extremely competent, and McIver was a highly efficient chief engineer. Still there and glaring as Mike finished with, ‘Likely targets – toss-up, obviously, but anything southbound, aiming to get round that end of Sicily – on its way to Tripoli for instance.’ He shrugged – ‘Just hope our luck’s still running, uh?’

  He switched off, hung the mike on its hook close to the trimming-order telegraph, and moved towards the big periscope – for’ard one – glancing at Ellery whose reaction was as always instant, bringing the glistening brass tube rushing up, shiny with grease and salt-water droplets, rivulets … Dark up there for sure, but it was routine and essential to take a pre-surfacing look around: even in pitch blackness you might catch sight of the white flare of an enemy’s bow-wave, if there happened to be one and asdics for some reason hadn’t picked it up. Mike throwing a glance at Fraser the asdic man – HSD, Higher Submarine Detector – as the periscope rose into his hands, ‘Anything?’

  Shake of the yellow head. ‘Only the sweeper, sir – on oh-two-five, seven hundred yards, low revs.’

  He found Hebe visually on that bearing, then made a circle with the ’scope in low-power first, then high, and found nothing else. As with Hebe in company one might have known there wouldn’t be. Belt and braces, though … He pushed the big ’scope’s handles up, and Ellery depressed the lever that sent it down, telemotor pressure achieving that. Mike nodded to McLeod. ‘Stand by to surface.’

  ‘Check main vents …’

  En route, now, on one’s own. Course 315 degrees, revs for ten knots but making about nine, diesel generators rumbling steadily, replacing amperes the motors were devouring. Ursa at half-buoyancy with ‘Q’ quick-diving tank, just for’ard of her centre of gravity, filled to its capacity of ten tons. With ‘Q’ to help her down, she could be under in less than fifteen seconds – performing what journalists and script-writers liked to refer to as a ‘crash dive’.

  Jarvis had the watch until 0215. On Mike’s left, bulky in sweater and weather-proof Ursula jacket, hunched in the bridge’s port for’ard corner with binoculars at his eyes. Lookouts – Parker and another – further aft, one on each side of the after periscope standard, also with binoculars, searching their own sectors of the dark, lazily heaving seascape. Lookouts were relieved on the hour, officers of the watch at a quarter past – to reduce traffic in the tower and hatches and an overcrowded bridge, also to ensure there was always at least one pair of eyes up here adjusted to night vision.

  Visibility wasn’t bad. No moon, but a sky full of stars and very little cloud to hide them, wind no more than the Beaufort scale category of ‘light airs’. Ursa pitching rhythmically as she drove across and through the swells, black Med surface broken only where her stem carved into it, whiteness rolling away left and right and flooding aft over her pressure-hull inside the casing, wake broadening astern where it fizzed away to nothing. Steady throbbing of the engines – audible to surface craft at maybe a thousand yards? Malta hidden in the night five miles to port, to be succeeded during the next hour by the smaller islands of Comino and Gozo at ranges of more like eight. Sicily – Cape Scalambri – forty miles due north.

  Time to go down, anyway, leave it all to Jarvis.

  ‘All right, Sub?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Call me for anything at all. Dive, for anything.’

  He’d probably have given his sub-lieutenants that instruction several hundred times, he realised. They’d both, after all, earned their watchkeeping certificates seemingly so very recently. In fact, casting one’s mind back, during the workup period back home – in Scottish waters mainly – and a single work-up patrol off Norway, then the passage out, a week in Gib and a blank patrol from there off the French south coast, aimed at giving a new boat and its crew some initial Med experience. Admittedly neither of them had been entirely green when they’d joined him and Ursa in Chatham dockyard, they’d both put in at least some sea-time – in surface ships – before completing the submarine course at Blyth. And since then of course, on top of that period of what might be thought of as an extension of basic training, the real thing – sixteen patrols of it, some of them quite memorable, in conditions as tough as submariners had ever known.

  Might say that made them veterans?

  Might. Even in one’s own somewhat rigorous view of it – stemming from long-term total responsibility as well as the isolation which in the function of co
mmand in stringent war conditions was inescapable. Plus maybe a tendency still to see them as one had a year and a half ago in that builder’s yard – one trainee stockbroker from Colchester or thereabouts, and one former Merchant Navy cadet – Bristolian – then so recently promoted from midshipman to sub-lieutenant that you could still see where the blue patches of an RNR snottie had decorated the lapels of his reefer jacket.

  It was a fact they’d both come through it all very well. Climbing slowly down through the tower, telling himself So give the poor sods a break.

  Meaning, effectively, give oneself a break?

  Which was not to say relax, exactly. Nor in fact that there could be any harm in telling them Call me for anything, dive for anything – basically a reminder that it was better to dive for a seagull than stay up and be bombed or strafed with cannon-fire.

  In the control room now, off the ladder and out of the furious rush of wind the diesels were sucking in; taking in at a glance that it was Leading Torpedoman Brooks on the wheel, Ordinary Seaman Sharp control-room messenger – Sharp being a newish member of this crew, actually an SD, asdic rating, back-up to Fraser – although it was ERA Coldwell taking his ease on the asdic stool, cigarette in the fingers of one hand, tin mug in the other.

  ‘Kye, sir?’

  Hector Bull, PO of the watch. Pudding face – blunt nose, round chin – eyes questioning, with this offer of pusser’s cocoa. Mike nodded, on his way to the chart table – to check the log, chart and whatever he’d noted in his night order book. ‘Nice idea, Bull. Thanks.’

  No problems here. Starting-point off Tigne Head where they’d surfaced within a few minutes of 0100 to start the thirty-five-mile run northwestward, hourly positions marked along the pencil track and culminating in the projected 0430 diving position: sunrise in fact nearer 0500, but false dawn putting a shine on the surface well before that. Danvers would have his head down now, would be shaken for his watch at 0200 and when relieved by McLeod at 0415 would have a quarter of an hour for starsights – if he found he had a usable horizon at that time.