A Dawn Like Thunder (38 page)

Odd that it had taken somebody like Richard Tsao at last to recognize their weakness.

He leaned over the chart and moved the light to obtain a better look. One to two thousand fathoms under the keel in this span of open water. Straight down. Total darkness. Creatures still unknown to man, unreachable even with the most modern detection gear.

It was getting to him. He straightened his back and moved to the periscope wells.

‘No point in hanging about, Number One. Take her up to periscope depth and mark it in the log.' He gave a wry smile. Who would ever read it?

He listened to the first lieutenant's voice, quiet and confident, as it had been during the depth-charge attack, the straddles, the savage jerks and lurches, the groan and crack of metal under pressure. He was probably remembering it right now.

Ross saw the dials and their quivering needles, felt the gradual tilt of the deck under his shoes. Ninety feet, eighty, seventy . . . He wiped his eyes with his wrist. It was wet. Forty feet, thirty . . . Steady, the hull without motion, hanging in space above the chasm.

Ross lowered himself almost to his knees and snapped down the periscope handles as it hissed smoothly out of the well.

The darkness changing to misty grey; the flurry of foam you always thought you would feel; then the periscope stopped. Ross moved carefully around the well, snapping the lenses to full power, probing through one hundred and eighty degrees and then reversing along the other beam. Dark water, only the hint of a grey light beyond. It was a contrast, nothing more: there was no true vision as yet. Somebody handed him a pair of binoculars, which he slung around his neck and covered with his open shirt. It might seem cold up top; better that than feeling half asleep.

Their eyes met. ‘Open the lower lid. Surface, Number One. Fast as you like.'

He pushed through the waiting gun crews, the trailing snakes of bright ammunition for the two Brownings, the lookouts with their dark glasses. Somebody touched his arm and a voice, barely audible, murmured, ‘I'll be thoroughly browned off if the war's over an' we've not been told, sir!'

Ross was thankful for the shadows and their protection. They could not see his face.
Help me.

‘Surface!'
Then it was happening, like a released spring. Hands clawing at the ladder, shoulders, arms and legs all crammed into the small pressurized tube; and then with a crash the upper hatch was open, water spitting down on their bodies as
Tybalt
lurched violently to the surface. Then the scamper of feet was stilled, the clang of the four-inch gun's breech-block went unnoticed. It was cold, compared with the oily warmth they had just abandoned. The bridge was still running with trapped water, the voicepipe cover blurred with salt.

‘Dawn coming up, sir!'

Ross held his breath and watched it. A sliver of red, like blood on the horizon, the living division of sea and sky. It would be full daylight in no time. What then?

He heard Murray's voice through the voicepipe. ‘Course to steer is one-one-zero.' Somebody spoke in the background, probably Mike Tucker. Down there instead of here with me, Ross thought.

‘No H.E., sir.'

‘Very good, Number One.'

Murray sounded as if he was pressed against the voicepipe, so close. He replied, ‘We're on our own. Sea's pretty calm.' He heard the periscope move, and knew Murray was seeing for himself.

Ross raised his glasses. ‘No ships anyway.' He was thinking aloud. ‘Aircraft then. From the land. Out of the sun.' He saw one of them acknowledge him. ‘So be ready.' Any U-Boat commander who had survived the incredible passage from France, around the Cape of Good Hope and across the Indian Ocean, would be on his toes. Every ship or aircraft would be regarded as an enemy until proved otherwise. It was exactly the same for British submarines in the North Sea or Mediterranean. Many a boat had been depth-charged or bombed by an over-eager pilot who had seen only an enemy.

‘Bend on the flag.' He glanced around to see the German ensign flap weakly from the small staff on the buckled ‘bandstand'.

The seaman who had hoisted it said, ‘Don't forget yer titfer, sir!'

It was Ross's own cap, with its white cover and a crudely fashioned German badge. All U-Boat commanders were distinguished by their white caps: if anyone got close enough to see that the badge was a mock-up, it would be too late in any case.

When it came there was neither shock nor surprise, merely the sense of something inevitable.

‘Aircraft, sir! Bearing Red four-five!' Excited, but without fear. ‘Low down, sir. Angle of sight about two-zero!'

Ross leaned over the voicepipe and saw his own breath like mist on the brass mouth.

‘Sound action stations, Number One. We've got company!'

He turned away from the insane sound of the alarm and watched the small, slow-moving aircraft. Like a flaw against the fierce dawn sky.

Then he saw the slender grey muzzle of the four-inch gun training round, seeking out the intruder, the next shell already waiting to be rammed home.

He tried to remember the poem beneath the school's Roll of Honour, but like everything else, it was gone. There was only now.

LIEUTENANT CHARLES VILLIERS
clambered through the hatch and wedged himself between Ross and one of the lookouts. The red dawn made him appear flushed, and deepened the lines of tension around his mouth.

Ross did not lower his glasses. ‘You once told me you were on top line as far as aircraft recognition went.' Then he did glance at him. ‘I think that little bugger is having a good look at us. Can't be sure.'

Villiers lifted his binoculars from inside his shirt and trained them carefully over the wet metal. Ross could well imagine him under training, keen and very serious. Life had been hard on him since then.

Villiers said, ‘It's a Jap all right. A seaplane. At this range . . .' He hesitated as if studying some remembered wall-chart. ‘It would be an Aichi reconnaissance plane. Some carry a couple of bombs, but out here I think it's unlikely. Mounts a pair of twenty-millimetre cannon, among other guns.' Surprisingly, he grinned. ‘But not very fast – about two hundred and a bit, flat out.'

Ross touched his arm. ‘Spot on. Pass the word to the gun crews.' He dragged his eyes from the slow-moving aircraft and tried to picture the submarine as the Jap airman would
see her. The damage, real and faked, would be visible, and without looking he knew that a long silver snake of leaking diesel fuel, one of the Base engineers' tricks, should carry some additional weight. It would look more convincing if most of the hands were on deck: in safe waters it was customary to give crewmen as much freedom of movement as possible, especially if they really had just completed a long and dangerous passage. But suppose the enemy were not deceived? Or worse, if they already knew about Operation
Trident
? They might die anyway, but to dive the boat under attack and leave so many men to drown or be machine-gunned in the water was not even a consideration.

He heard Villiers switching on the bridge signalling-lamp.

The starboard lookout muttered, ‘The bastard's getting brave, sir!'

The aircraft was much lower. If the sky were brighter, they would see its reflection as it flew above the undulating water like a giant hornet. Lower and lower, turning now as if to cross astern of them. The pilot must surely see the oily stains on the water?

The machine-gunners were ready, sights set, the ammunition trailing over the side of the bandstand, with fresh belts close to hand.

The pilot had obviously made his decision. The seaplane changed course again and flew towards the sun, the harsh glare shining on the markings and the perspex of the cockpit cover. Villiers exclaimed, ‘The signal!' They stared at the winking light from the cockpit. Villiers said, ‘H . . . R.' He triggered off an acknowledgement and added, ‘Here we go.' The lamp clicked in his hand.
R . . . K.

There were shouts of alarm from the four-inch gun as a sudden burst of fire spat from the slow-moving seaplane.

Ross cupped his hands. ‘Stand fast, lads!' He knew that
two of the gun crew had turned to stare up at him, caught as they were on the open deck-casing.

The shells exploded with vivid flashes, which even the sun could not quench. Ten small starshells. Ross rubbed his mouth. Exactly as Tsao had predicted. The seaplane was already heading away, its part played: it was up to others more senior to decide matters from now on. Much the same as in any service, in any country.

Ross spoke deliberately into the voicepipe. ‘Signals exchanged, Number One. The natives are friendly.' He thought he heard somebody give an ironic cheer. ‘We shall continue surfaced until it's time to alter course.'

He gripped the pipe's bell mouth, the decision still to be made holding him like a wire spring. There was no cancellation, no change of plans. He knew Villiers was watching him, wanting to help in some way. He could see them all in that shabby building they used as their headquarters, the palm trees, the ocean like a dark barrier beyond. When the signal was received there . . . still he hesitated. It might very likely be Victoria who would decode it. He doubted if Pryce trusted anybody else.

He looked at Villiers and smiled. ‘As you said, Charles. Here we go!' He lowered his mouth to the voicepipe again. He was speaking to the first lieutenant, but also to Mike Tucker, to all the others who had to depend on him. And, not least, to her.

‘Make the signal, Number One.' Then he gripped the warm steel and leaned back to ease the stiffness in his body. When he looked again for the aircraft, it had vanished. The German flag and the white stripes across the hull had probably convinced the pilot as much as any simple recognition code.

If a German aircraft came out to investigate it might not be so easy. But Richard Tsao had said there were only two
German seaplanes, and they were at Penang, a further two hundred miles beyond the intended target.

They would have to submerge and risk the reduced speed for their final approach. To meet with an inquisitive warship or casual patrol-boat would ruin everything. He glanced at his watch and saw how hard he was gripping the bridge rail, and released his hold one whitened finger at a time. Something he had taught himself to do all those years ago, whenever the true realization had reached him. Twenty-four hours and it would be over. Twenty-four hours to live, or to die.

He thought of Bob Jessop, the submarine
Turquoise
's commander, his bitterness at what he considered a waste of lives when compared with a normal patrol. Jessop had to be wrong. It had to matter what they were doing.

Surely a dying man had a right to know that it must have been for
something
?

He said, ‘Go below, Charles. Have another run through it. Number One can relieve me when he's ready.'

Villiers paused on the ladder and looked back at him, his eyes troubled. Up there with the ocean and the clearing sky it was remote: even the circling Jap plane had not seemed real. He lowered himself the rest of the way and saw a seaman handing out mugs of tea.

Ross had wanted to be left alone. Alone, and yet strangely at peace.

Petty Officer Mike Tucker strolled from the submarine's wardroom, where he had been helping to dress the two chariot crews, and found himself wishing that things would get a move on. It seemed wrong not to be sitting with the others while the diving-suits and equipment were dragged and belted into place. Like being an outsider.

In the forward part of the hull it was just the same, as the
marines and the small detachment of Gurkhas struggled in the limited space to prepare their boats for hoisting through the forward torpedo hatch. He did not envy them: with all their weapons and gear, they would be out of breath by the time they had paddled their way ashore. They were well trained and experienced, but get used to it? He shook his head. They must be nuts!

He glanced through the control-room, deserted now but for the first lieutenant and a small group of watchkeepers.
Tybalt
had already taken on a stark, abandoned look; the rest had been a pretence to guard them against what lay ahead. Tucker had seen Lieutenant Villiers creeping on his hands and knees while he checked the various coloured wires, the timers, or, as a last desperate resort, the detonator which could blow the whole boat to hell with one press . . .

Here on the chart table lay the last of the notes and plans. There was even a print of their main target, the depot-ship. Once named the
Java Maru
, she had been a passenger and cargo vessel of the Osaka Mercantile Steamship Company. Eight thousand tons, and built only a few years before Pearl Harbor, she was a good choice. Tucker had seen the two chariot officers going over the final details with Ross. The fuel tanker was their target, and although there were no proper details available about it the attack would be straightforward, just like the drill. They always said that.

Tybalt
had been forced to dive earlier than planned because of several aircraft sightings. Now that their presence was known and had obviously been reported, there was no point in inviting a closer inspection.

‘Are you all right, Mike?'

Tucker turned and saw Ross watching him, an unlit pipe jammed in his mouth. ‘So-so, sir. Getting a bit twitchy, I suppose.' During the afternoon he had mentioned the nurse named Eve to him, although he had not intended to let it
come out until he felt more certain. But Jamie Ross was like that, easy to talk to, rarely too busy to listen.

Ross had seemed genuinely pleased, relieved even. ‘I'd like to meet her.'

He had meant it, something which had always made him seem very special to Mike Tucker. Not like some regular officers: said one thing, but that was as far as it went. No wonder that sort stayed in General Service. They wouldn't last five minutes in this mob.