Diving Stations

ONE

The Admiralty official who first suggested the posting probably received an MBE in the New Year’s Honors List in appreciation of his services to the Royal Navy and the nation. And, if he failed to win an award, it certainly wasn’t the First Sea Lord’s fault. Many civil servants were known to have been knighted for less.

Not that Lieutenant Nicholas Hamilton DSO RN was a bad submarine commander◦– his seamanship and courage in dangerous situations were invariably highly commended in his personal reports.

But he had a reputation for being difficult and at least half a dozen flotilla commanders had breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief when his tour of duty with them came to an end. On the other hand, there were many submarine captains who would have willingly shouldered the burden of Hamilton’s unenviable reputation in exchange for some of the brilliant successes he had enjoyed in his brief career.

His exploits in rescuing the captured British merchant seamen from the prison ship Nordsee, in the early weeks of 1940, had made him a national hero◦– although his ruthless destruction of the Vichy French submarine Gladiateur had been hushed up for diplomatic reasons. Nevertheless, it had not gone unnoticed in the right places.

Yet for all his undoubted ability Hamilton was regarded as a nuisance. His habit of only obeying orders when they suited his own particular purposes infuriated his superiors; while his total lack of scruple worried the more responsible Admirals who took the trouble to think about such matters. And, despite the success of the unusual missions to which he had been entrusted, he had proved an inexplicable failure on routine patrols. In fact, he was probably the only captain in the entire British submarine service to have survived two years of war without sinking a single enemy ship in the course of normal patrol operations.

Even a three-month tour in the Mediterranean combat zone had failed to reflect an improvement in his record although, as the Sixth Sea Lord readily admitted in his more charitable moments, Hamilton had carried out two further special missions with complete success. But as these operations remain subject to the restrictions of the Official Secrets Act even today, more than thirty years later, the details have never been revealed to anyone outside a select circle at the Admiralty.

And so, when William Strong, the Deputy Under Secretary, suggested that the addition of a submarine to the China Squadron might be a good thing, the vice admiral responded with unusual enthusiasm.

‘Send Rapier out to Hong Kong, eh? How soon can we do it?’

The Deputy Under Secretary was no stranger to the labyrinthine channels of decision at the Admiralty. Formal approval of transfers between stations could take several months. And, with the foresight of experience, he had arranged the pieces of his jig-saw with infinite care.

‘Fairly quickly, sir,’ he said. Strong had the usual civil service aversion to committing himself too precisely. ‘Rapier was pulled out of Malta two weeks ago for a minor refit at Alexandria. That means she’s the nearest submarine to the Far East◦– assuming we route her via Suez.’

‘I wouldn’t have regarded that as a particularly strong recommendation,’ Gresham observed doubtfully. ‘The DNO usually prefers to create maximum chaos by finding the most inconvenient and impractical posting possible. In my opinion, the fact that Rapier is the shortest distance from Hong Kong is probably a disadvantage. Do you have anything better?’

‘Well sir, in 1939 we had a complete flotilla of fifteen submarines at Hong Kong. As you know, they’ve all been withdrawn for service nearer home. And now, just when Japan looks like turning nasty, the C-in-C China hasn’t a single boat available to defend the colony.’

‘I doubt if that will cut much ice with the DNO either,’ Gresham sighed. ‘The 10th flotilla was withdrawn from the Far East because we had a shortage of submarines in the Med. And, since we’ve now lost at least half of the poor sods, I can’t see anyone agreeing to release a much needed boat to a station that’s not directly engaged in combat operations. Don’t forget, they’re even pulling out the old Yangtse gunboats to form an Inshore Squadron to cover the 8th Arm’s seaward flank in North Africa. And that’s really scraping the barrel.’

The civil servant nodded his agreement and remained silent for a few minutes◦– his eyes fixed on the large wall chart behind the admiral’s desk. He still had his trump to play.

‘Just supposing the Japs did launch an attack sir,’ he said slowly. ‘What do you reckon their chances of success?’

Admiral Gresham gave a short laugh. ‘Not much, Strong. If we send a couple of fast battleships to Singapore, as the War Cabinet proposes, the Japanese will end up with a bloody nose. They haven’t got a single well-designed ship in their Navy◦– and the RAF’s Spitfires will run circles round their aircraft. They’d be on a hiding to nothing◦– and they know it.’

The Deputy Under Secretary made no comment. The admiral’s views did not fit in with what he had heard from officers recently returned from the Far East, but he knew that Gresham was only reflecting the general opinion of the War Cabinet and the IGS. He wondered whether the US Navy entertained a similarly complacent underestimate of the Japanese war machine’s capabilities.

‘Of course, I’m not denying that we might lose Hong Kong in the event of hostilities,’ the admiral continued. ‘The land frontier with the Chinese mainland is virtually indefensible. But the Yanks certainly won’t let them take over the Philippines and the Jap bombers haven’t the range to operate against Singapore from their bases in China.’ Gresham had fallen neatly into the trap the Deputy Under Secretary had so carefully prepared. Strong seized his chance without hesitation.

‘But if they were to secure air bases in French Indo-China,’ he pointed out, ‘it could create a very different situation.’ He walked across to the map and indicated the distances involved. ‘It’s only about six hundred miles by air from Saigon to Malaya◦– and we know they’ve got bombers with that sort of range.’

The admiral looked up at the chart and shrugged. Why did these damned civilians always think they could run the war better than the service chiefs? ‘The French wouldn’t grant the Japanese landing rights. And,’ he added defiantly, ‘if they did the Royal Navy would soon go in and settle their hash!’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure, sir,’ Strong warned him gently. ‘Oran and Dakar didn’t go down too well with our people. Even Jimmy Sommerville delayed action well beyond the set time-limit at Mers-el-Kebir to give the French a chance. And because he didn’t fancy mass murder. If the Japanese decide to occupy Indo-China, we’ll have no margin of time to allow admirals to come to terms with their consciences.’

‘Very well, Strong,’ Gresham yielded reluctantly. Much as he hated to admit it, he knew the Navy was opposed to further attacks on the French fleet. ‘I grant it wouldn’t be easy. But what has this got to do with Hamilton and Rapier?’

I wondered when you’d ask, Strong thought to himself. He smiled. ‘Everything, sir. Hamilton has already proved that he’ll attack the Vichy French without compunction. Don’t forget he has destroyed one French submarine already.¹ And he has no scruples. He’s the one man in the Navy who can be relied upon to attack the French, if for any reason the Japanese should try to occupy Indo-China with Vichy approval.’ The Deputy Under Secretary paused for a moment and then added quietly, ‘And there’s another thing, sir. I doubt if any warships operating along the Chinese coast from Hong Kong would survive for more than a few days if the Japanese mounted a full-scale attack. And of all the officers in the Royal Navy, I would have regarded Lieutenant Hamilton as certainly the most expendable….’

Admiral Gresham rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he digested the civil servant’s words. Strong’s analysis of the situation was brutally practical. And it would certainly solve a number of problems at a stroke. He had nothing against Hamilton personally, in fact he’d never met the man, but when the safety of the nation and empire was at stake no cost could be too high. And having assuaged his conscience to his own satisfaction the Admiral smiled bleakly.

‘I’ll see the DNO straight away. As you say◦– it’s worth a try.’

HAMILTON’S initial reaction to the projected transfer was one of angry disbelief. Like many Englishmen, he enjoyed the excitement of war. The tensions and stresses of combat, the ever-present danger, and the necessity of unrelenting vigilance brought him the satisfaction of being stretched to the limit, both mentally and physically. And war gave a purpose to life◦– a life made all the more precious by the fact that it might only be short.

As far as Hamilton was concerned, Hong Kong was no more than a peacetime station, where spit-and-polish and the dreary round of cocktails and social small-talk were more important than combat efficiency and a determination to defeat the common enemy. The Colony was ten thousand miles away from the real war, and he scarcely rated the Japanese invasion of China as being in the same league as the European conflict with Nazi Germany. In any event, Britain was securely neutral in that particular Asiatic power-struggle, and Hong Kong was virtually unaffected by the fighting on the mainland.

The admiral’s day cabin was hot and stuffy and the task of persuading Hamilton to accept the transfer without complaint had tried the flag-officer’s patience to the limit. Rear Admiral Herbert could understand Hamilton’s dismay. He was feeling none too pleased himself. Experienced submarine commanders and trained crews were desperately needed in the Mediterranean, and he could not understand the reason for the Admiralty’s decision to reduce their already slender resources by sending a much needed submarine to the Far East. But, as one trained in the old school of docile obedience to orders, he had accepted the posting without argument.

He was, however, shrewd enough to discern the true reason behind Hamilton’s reluctance to go. Despite his spectacular successes, the young lieutenant was anxious to prove his ability on routine patrols. And that could only be achieved in the face of the enemy. It was not merely a matter of personal prestige or glory. The DSO which Rapier’s commanding officer had won when he rescued the prisoners from the Nordsee was adequate proof of his skill and courage.¹ And his activities in the Kattegat and off the Belgian coast during the evacuation of the BEF had only served to add to his reputation. There were, the rear admiral realized, other equally important considerations.

Hamilton was a career officer and, with six years seniority as a lieutenant, he was keen to earn his half stripe. Most of his contemporaries had already been promoted over his head, and in recent months a growing number of RNVR officers had achieved the coveted third narrow ring on their sleeves. Herbert was no fool. He knew Hamilton’s background was against him and could not help but sympathize with his frustration. Promoted from the lower deck◦– an upper-yardman in Navy slang◦– he lacked the polish and social graces of his brother wardroom officers and, despite his proven abilities, the Admiralty seemed determined to keep him as a ‘two ringer’ until the seniority rules made his ultimate promotion unavoidable. And while the delay continued, Hamilton was losing valuable experiences and seniority in the next rank◦– which he badly needed if he was to climb the ladder of promotion in his chosen career.

‘I know how you feel, Lieutenant,’ the admiral admitted carefully. ‘And I have no wish to lose either you or Rapier from my command. But I have no doubt that the Admiralty in its wisdom knows what it is doing. And if trouble does break out in the Far East, you’ll get all the action you want◦– probably a damned sight more. After all, Rapier will be the only British submarine in the area and you’ll have the entire Japanese navy in your sights.’

‘It’s tempting, sir,’ Hamilton nodded. ‘But frankly I can’t see Japan taking the risk of involving either us or the Americans in a war. We’d wipe them off the face of the sea in a few weeks.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Hamilton,’ Herbert grunted. ‘We haven’t got enough ships out there to do anything but get ourselves sunk. If the Japs do come into the war on Hitler’s side, we’ll have to rely on the US Navy to do the fighting for us. And if the Tokyo High Command decide to play it safe and by-pass the Philippines, we’ll be on our own.’ The admiral paused thoughtfully at the prospect. The moment passed and he smiled. ‘But I don’t think it will ever come to that,’ he continued reassuringly. ‘And much as I hate to lose Rapier, you and your men are badly in need of a rest. And Hong Kong will be just the ticket.’

Hamilton knew Herbert was right. Reluctant as he was to admit the truth, he was physically and mentally exhausted from two years of unrelenting combat. His men, too, needed a break from the rigors of operational patrols and Rapier herself could do with a refit. A few months in the peaceful atmosphere of Hong Kong was what they needed. Bright lights, good food, and a respite from the ever-present threat of enemy air attack would do them all a power of good. And perhaps when they came back into the fray, the break would have added that extra spark of zest which would be rewarded by a successful patrol.

‘I suppose you’re right, sir,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Perhaps we do need a rest. But I’d like to request a posting back to the Med. after three months.’

The rear admiral stood up. ‘I’ll do what I can, Lieutenant. We’ve lost too many good skippers in the last few weeks◦– I’ll have you back just as soon as I can find the right strings to pull.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good luck, Hamilton. And remember◦– once you’re out in China, at least you won’t have to crash dive every time you see an aircraft.’

‘I’ll try sir,’ Hamilton grinned. ‘But old habits die hard.’

Hamilton leaned his elbows on the rim of the conning tower bridge and stared ahead over the bows, as Rapier cut through the smooth green waters of the South China Sea. The mist of spray spuming back across the foredeck helped cool the stifling heat of the midday sun, and the men sprawled on the hot steel plating, grinned contentedly as the cold droplets of water spattered their tanned bodies. After twenty-four months of air attacks, the voyage across the Indian Ocean and down through the Bay of Bengal had resembled a luxury pleasure cruise. And with typical good sense, the skipper had relaxed discipline as soon as Rapier cleared Steamer Point at Aden to give his men a much needed chance to rest and relax.

The submarine had only stopped at Columbo long enough to fill her bunkers, and their call at Singapore had been too brief to permit shore leaves. But Hong Kong now lay less than two hours away over the shimmering horizon, and every man aboard was already planning how to celebrate his arrival.

The weather was good and the blue arch of the sky was clear of cloud, except for a few white wisps of stratus to starboard. The vast estuary of the Pearl River lay on its port hand and, somewhere below the heat haze on the north-western horizon, the Portuguese colony of Macao slumbered fitfully◦– girding its loins and gathering its energy for another night of gambling, dancing, drinking, and whoring.

‘Number One and Coxswain to the bridge.’

‘Control Room, aye aye, sir.’

Turning away from the voice pipe, he paced the narrow circuit of the bridge area with his hands clasped together behind his back while he waited. He could hear the clatter of footsteps echoing inside the empty upper chamber of the conning tower, and stood away from the hatch opening as Roger Mannon and Chief Petty Officer Ernie Blood clambered through, out on to the deck.

Hamilton eyed his first officer coldly as he straightened up and saluted. Mannon had only joined Rapier a few weeks previously. He was young and eager. But the wavy gold rings on his uniform sleeves marked him down as an amateur and, in Hamilton’s opinion, the submarine service was strictly for professionals. It took years of training and service experience to make an efficient submarine officer. How the hell could a volunteer reserve officer, whose experience of the sea comprised a few hours of coastal sailing at weekends, qualify for the exacting disciplines required for submarine service.

Not that he blamed Mannon personally. Roger was keen enough. But it somehow seemed totally wrong to share the wardroom with a chartered accountant, who knew more about balance sheets and company law than buoyancy tanks and the King’s regulations. Admittedly he was learning. But that wasn’t enough when the life of every man in the boat depended on the skill and experience of his shipmates; and Hamilton felt himself duty bound to check and recheck everything Mannon did◦– an additional chore that became an onerous burden in the tropical heat.

He nodded his head towards the slumbering men sunbathing on the foredeck. ‘Get the sleeping beauties below, Cox’n. I want a tiddley ship when we enter harbor.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘And then muster the fo’c’sle party in number six rig. I’ll show the China Station that we haven’t forgotten how to do things Bristol fashion, even if we have been fighting their bloody war for them over the past two years.’

Blood leaned over the conning tower coaming and hurried the off-duty watch below, in a voice that reflected his years of service as a gunnery instructor at Whale Island. Then, having checked that the foredeck casing was clear and the gun hatch closed, he made his way back to the bowels of the submarine to gather up the fo’c’sle party. Hamilton moved to the voice pipe.

‘All hands to harbor stations!’ He glanced at Mannon as he closed the cover of the speaking tube. ‘Ever been through the peacetime drill for harbor stations before Number One?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, keep your eyes skinned and you’ll learn something. It’s a bit different from the sort of lash-up you’ve been used to with the Malta flotillas.’

‘But not so exciting, sir.’

‘It’s exciting enough if something goes wrong,’ Hamilton corrected him crisply. ‘You’ve obviously never served in a ship that’s been ordered back to sea and told to return and berth in a seamanlike manner. I once saw it happen to a Rear Admiral before the war. It took him a long time to live it down.’

Blood emerged from the conning tower hatch, his face gleaming with perspiration after a few brief minutes inside the steaming-hot submarine. ‘Fo’c’sle party fallen in, sir,’ he reported punctiliously.

‘Thank you, Cox’n. Take over the helm.’

Blood relieved Finnegan at the wheel. It was customary for the coxswain, the senior petty officer, to take the helm on entering or leaving the harbor, and Blood enjoyed the responsibility of conning Rapier to her berth. When the boat was closed up at diving stations, his place was at the controls of the aft hydroplanes, where he was responsible for maintaining the submarine’s depth◦– a critical duty during a torpedo attack. But although a dedicated submariner, Ernie Blood always preferred to be at the helm. It made him the most important man on the boat next to the skipper and he took a quiet pride in the fact.

‘Steering zero-two-zero, sir,’ he repeated as Finnegan passed over the course.

Hamilton glanced down at the chart. There were no landmarks in sight yet, but he felt confident of their position.

‘Ease her to zero-one-eight, Cox’n. Full ahead both.’

‘Zero-one-eight, sir. Full ahead both.’

‘Aircraft approaching on port bow! Height 5000!’

Only a few weeks earlier, the look-out’s warning would have cleared the bridge in seconds and Rapier would have quickly thrust her bows beneath the surface, like a fox going to ground. However, Hamilton showed little concern, despite the instinctive tensions of the other men on the bridge. Walking casually to the port side, he raised his glasses and scanned the blue sky to the north-west.

Three small black dots flying in arrowhead formation were approaching from the direction of the Chinese mainland; but they were still too far away to identify with any degree of certainty. He lowered his glasses.

‘Probably our welcoming committee from Hong Kong. Maintain course and speed.’

Mannon continued studying the aircraft intently through his binoculars. The planes had appeared too far to the west to have come from the Colony, and there seemed something vaguely threatening in their purposeful approach.

‘Do we have any two-engine machines on the China Station, sir?’ he asked.

Hamilton shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, Number One,’ he admitted. ‘I suppose we might have some Blenheims or a few Marylands serving with the RAF. Why?’

Mannon didn’t answer the question. ‘They’re changing course, sir. Heading towards us by the look of it.’

Hamilton raised his binoculars again. Mannon was too jumpy. And he didn’t want the rest of the crew to be affected. Nerves could be highly contagious in a submarine. That was the worst of the Wavy Navy◦– good chaps in their own way, but no experience. He located the formation and brought his lenses into critical focus.

Rapier’s skipper was the first to admit that he was no expert on aircraft recognition, but there was certainly something strangely familiar about these three. The silvered wings glinting in the sunlight seemed oddly unreal after the drab colors of European combat aircraft, and he wondered momentarily whether they were carrier planes from the US Pacific Fleet. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it entered his head. Despite the enormous size of their vessels, even the Yanks still had to find a way of operating twin-engined machines from carrier decks. He held the aircraft steadily in his binoculars and, as one suddenly peeled away from the formation, he saw the red blob of the Rising Sun on the underside of its starboard wing.

‘Japanese,’ he informed Mannon curtly. ‘Nothing to worry about. Probably having a quick look-see to check we’re not a Chinese boat.’

‘But the Chinese don’t have any submarines, sir,’ Mannon objected.

‘Perhaps they haven’t, Number One. But a submarine running at speed on the surface is difficult to identify from the air. When you’re looking down from five thousand feet it could be anything from a motor torpedo boat to a destroyer. Once they realize their mistake, they’ll leave us alone.’

Mannon did not share his skipper’s optimism. He had a strange feeling of foreboding about the approaching aircraft and raised his glasses to study them again. Selecting the leading plane, he examined it closely in search of evidence to substantiate his unease. What he saw was enough. ‘They’re opening the bomb doors, sir!’

‘Are they, by God?’ Hamilton did not seem over-concerned by the news. ‘Yeoman! break out the Union Jack and spread it over the after deck.’

He glanced up at the conning tower jack and felt vaguely reassured by the white ensign streaming in the breeze. ‘Coxswain! Stop engines.’

‘Stop engines, aye aye, sir.’

The acknowledging bell of the telegraph repeater tinkled faintly from deep inside the hull, and Rapier almost immediately started losing speed.

‘Is that wise, sir?’ Mannon asked.

‘In the circumstances and in my judgement◦– yes,’ Hamilton told him. He disliked having his orders called into question, but he had enough sense to realize that the first officer meant well in his inexperience. Nevertheless, he made a mental note to speak to him later in the privacy of the wardroom. He did not believe in admonishing junior officers in front of the men. ‘If this was a hostile boat, the last thing we’d do is to turn ourselves into a sitting target by stopping,’ he explained. ‘It’s the most effective method I know of making sure the enemy will investigate before he starts shooting. And it’ll give us time to rig up some sort of identification.’

The threatening roar of the aircraft engines was now clearly audible, but Hamilton remained outwardly unconcerned. Walking to the after end of the conning tower, he peered towards the stern. Drury and three hands were carefully spreading the flag across the deck and lashing the ends to the mooring cleats along the sides.

‘It doesn’t seem to be having much effect on the Japs,’ Mannon observed doubtfully, as the bombers formed up in line-ahead formation.

‘Perhaps they’re color blind,’ Hamilton grunted. He watched the three Mitsubishis carefully. ‘Hard a’starboard, Cox’n!’

Ernie Blood spun the wheel and Rapier’s bows swung to the right, so that she presented her stern to the approaching aircraft like a bitch on heat. Hamilton waited expectantly, but the huge Union Jack had no apparent effect on the intentions of the oncoming machines. As they levelled off at five hundred feet, he saw a cluster of black bombs fall away from the belly of the leading aeroplane.

‘Everyone down!’

The first Mitsubishi swept over the top of the conning tower with the shattering roar of an express train screaming through a wayside station. The shriek of the falling bombs passed directly overhead, and the ear-splitting explosion as they struck the sea well clear of the starboard bow threw a fine spray of water over the submarine.

‘Not even a near miss,’ Blood commented scornfully. ‘And on a sitting target at that. Bloody Japs must be cross-eyed.’

By the time Hamilton had scrambled to his feet, the three aircraft were already climbing for height and banking over for a second attack. He released a string of obscenities to relieve his feelings. Mistaken identity was an ever present hazard at sea. But not even a half-blind idiot could have missed the enormous Union Jack spread out across Rapier’s stern. For reasons best known to themselves, the Japanese pilots were making a deliberate and cold-blooded attack on a neutral warship. Well, if that was the way they wanted to play it…

‘Gun crew close up to action stations! Full ahead both engines, Cox’n. Maintain course, but stand by to go a’port when I give the shout.’

‘Helm, aye aye, sir. Standing by.’

Mannon watched the three Mitsubishi Otori bombers level off at two thousand feet at the end of their steep climbing turn. It was his first taste of an air attack, and he felt his stomach churning as the aircraft angled down into a shallow dive for the next bombing run. Hamilton’s incisive command broke the spell.

‘Hold fire until you’re quite sure they intend attacking, Number One. I’ll leave you to give the order.’

The sudden responsibility chased the fear from Mannon’s blood. Hurrying to the for’ard section of the bridge, he checked the gun crew were at their battle stations, ordered the layer to follow the leading aircraft in his sights, and warned Morgan, Rapier’s gunner’s mate, to wait for the order. Then, seemingly unconscious of the fact that he was standing in the middle of the target area, he joined Hamilton and watched the formation coming in again, with the concentration of a spectator at a football match.

This time the bombers approached out of the sun directly over the submarine’s bows. Two were flying in line-ahead, while the third hung slightly astern of its companions on their starboard flank.

‘Watch the first two, Number One,’ Hamilton snapped. ‘And open fire as soon as they show themselves to be hostile. I’ll keep an eye on the other bastard. I don’t know what he’s doing, but he’s up to no good.’

Hamilton’s instinct, born from long combat experience against the German Luftwaffe proved uncannily accurate. The third aircraft suddenly swooped to wave top height and swung towards the submarine. Bright yellow flames flickered from the nose, followed moments later by the tak-tak-tak of machine gun fire.

‘Hard a’port, Cox’n! Stand by◦– fire’

The shrill whistle of the falling bombs merged with the staccato chatter of the machine gun and Rapier threw back a wall of spray as the bows slammed sideways. The sudden alteration in course caught the Japanese bomb aimers off balance and their bombs exploded harmlessly clear of the submarine, although the concussion kicked the boat sharply to starboard.

‘Keep after them, Number One!’ Hamilton shouted to Mannon.

Rapier’s gunners needed no encouragement and blobs of black cordite smoke trailed across the sky in pursuit of the bombers as they veered back into the sun.

‘They don’t seem too keen now we’ve started hitting back, sir,’ Mannon grinned cheerfully.

‘Don’t get too bloody cocky, Number One,’ Hamilton told him discouragingly. He put his mouth to the voice pipe. ‘Control Room, send up the Lewis guns. Any internal damage?’

‘Control Room, sir. Lewis guns on their way. No reports of damage. Did we get any of the bastards?’

‘Not yet, Scotty◦– but we will.’

Taking advantage of the momentary lull, Hamilton carried out a rapid visual inspection of the hull for external damage. Several bullets had struck the side of the conning tower, but had done little more than chip the paintwork. Glancing up, however, he saw the white ensign had been ripped to ribbons by the Japanese machine guns.

‘They’re coming in again, sir,’ Mannon reported anxiously.

‘Stand by. Open fire as soon as they get within range, Number One.’ He looked across at Ernie Blood. ‘Everything under control Cox’n?’

‘Fair to middlin’, sir. It ain’t exactly the first time, you know.’ He stared up at the sky to check the position of the aircraft relative to the submarine, and then nodded his head to starboard. ‘I’ve been watchin’ that there boat, sir. Seems to be in a hell of a bloody hurry.’

Hamilton swung his glasses in the direction Blood had indicated, and saw a large launch some two miles away from the submarine’s starboard quarter. It was one of the big TSD Chris Craft designs – the sort of vessel millionaires use for shark fishing off Florida◦– and, judging by the glistening white wave curling from its bows, it was running at a good twenty knots. He shrugged. It posed no threat to Rapier. Probably an innocent fishing party getting the hell out of it when they saw the shooting start. And who could blame them? It wasn’t their war.

‘Nothing to worry about, Chief. Just a fishing boat making for Macao.’

The throaty roar of the Nakajima Kotobuki radial engines climbed to a high-pitched scream, as the bombers hurtled down to renew their attack. Rapier’s unexpected swing to starboard threw Hamilton off balance, and he clung to the rails as the deck tilted under his feet. A wall of water swept over the bows drenching the gun crew on the exposed foredeck with spray, but the sharp rhythmic bark of the quick-firer never wavered for a second. Often knee-deep in swirling foam, the gunners continued serving their weapon as if engaged on peaceful summer afternoon target practice in the Solent.

Rapier twisted like a demented eel, as Blood’s violent evasive action threw the submarine from starboard to port and back again in quick succession. The angry chatter of Burton’s Lewis gun compounded the noisy confusion of bellowing aero-engines and gunfire. It was almost impossible to think and Mannon could not help envying the cool detachment of the skipper and his coxswain, as they fought to keep the submarine out of danger. Now that the deck gun was in action there was nothing left for him to do, and to keep his brain busy, he concentrated on observing the movements of the attacking bombers.

Davidson, Rapier’s gun layer and a veteran of the Norwegian campaign◦– where he had fought a squadron of Stukas almost singlehanded, until his armed trawler had been sunk under his feet◦– followed the Mitsubishi in his sights. A line of ragged smoke puffs punctured the sky◦– each closer to the target aircraft than the last.

The leading bomber wobbled unsteadily as shell splinters pumped into the fuselage and a thin wisp of glycol spumed from beneath the port engine.

‘They’re breaking off the attack, sir,’ Mannon yelled excitedly as the three aircraft sheared away, swooped to wave height, and roared astern of the submarine with their throttles wide open.

Hamilton said nothing. The action of the Japanese pilots had only served to prove his point. He was sorry that Admiral Herbert was not present to witness the flight of the bombers when faced by determined opposition.

‘Stop firing, Number One.’

‘Check, check, check! Cease fire, Chief!’ Mannon had a wide grin on his face as he turned away from the for’ard lip of the conning tower screen. ‘We certainly made the bastards run, sir!’

It was his first taste of surface action. Now that the nervous tension had gone, the acrid smell of burned cordite was like nectar and the excitement left a feeling of intoxication.

Hamilton grunted disinterestedly. Keeping the binoculars firmly pressed to his eyes, he watched the departing bombers clawing for height before turning and regaining formation. Mannon would soon learn to curb his enthusiasm. There was no place for emotion in battle. Killing had to be a question of reflex. With the senses stunned by the noise and paralyzed by the sights and sounds of death and destruction, the professional must continue to function like a finely balanced piece of machinery. Too much adrenalin upset a man’s judgement and led to mistakes. And even the smallest error could spell instant disaster to something as vulnerable as a submarine. Hamilton himself felt neither excitement nor elation at their apparent success. And his senses were still tautly alert, as he watched the aircraft fleeing towards the mainland lurking beneath the northwestern horizon.

‘Shall I tell the gun crew to stand down, sir?’ Mannon asked.

‘Negative, Number One.’ Hamilton lowered his glasses. ‘I want to make quite sure our friends have finished their fun and games first. Tell Morgan to bring up some more ready-use ammo.’

‘Aye aye sir.’

The sharp crackle of cannon fire echoed across the sea and Hamilton moved to the port side. The big Chris Craft launch was zig-zagging wildly as it came under attack, and he could see the Mitsubishis circling over the fishing boat like hornets gathering over their nest.

‘You murdering bloody swine,’ Hamilton swore angrily. He turned to Blood. ‘Bring her round to port, Chief. Steer for the launch. I’m going to sort these bastards out once and for all.’

Mannon hurried to join the skipper on the engaged side of the bridge. Now that the initial excitement of the bombing attack had subsided, the first lieutenant’s old caution reasserted itself. Rapier was making fifteen knots and the launch, swinging in a wide arc to escape the Japanese bombers, was speeding towards the submarine as if seeking the protection of its guns. Picking up his glasses, Mannon carefully examined the twin-screw diesel cruiser.

‘Do you think we ought to get mixed up in it, sir?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘The launch is flying a Portuguese flag.’

‘I don’t care if it’s flying a pair of lace knickers, Number One, I’m not sitting by and watching an innocent fishing boat being shot up by a gang of trigger-happy Japs.’ He moved to the front of the bridge and leaned over the coaming. ‘Stand by, Mister Gunner. Open fire as soon as we’re within range. And let’s see some proper shooting this time!’

As Hamilton turned away, he heard Morgan admonishing his crew in his sing-song Welsh accent. ‘You heard what the Skipper said, me boyos. You’re not using a powder puff to dust their bloody arses. I want you to hit those buggers where it hurts. And if you don’t, I’m going to get the three of you polishing the brass on that gun for the next six months!’

‘Range 1500, Chief! Height 2,000.’

‘Elevation 55!’

‘Fused for 2000.’

‘Breech open…. Load.’

The man at the helm of the launch certainly knew how to handle a boat. As the aircraft dived to renew the attack, he cut speed for a few moments and then, having timed his action to the last second, banged open the throttles of the twin diesel units and turned sharply to starboard. The pilot of the leading aircraft zoomed low across the bows, but the sudden alteration in course had spoilt his aim and he made no attempt to release the bombs. The second aircraft, following on his tail, tilted over on to its starboard wing in an effort to get in a quick burst with its machine guns. For a few seconds the silver fuselage was square in Rapier’s sights.

‘Fire! Reload… Fire!’

Morgan’s second order proved unnecessary. The first shell exploded just below the center of the bomber’s fuselage and the Mitsubishi folded in the middle like a piece of hinged cardboard. Flames burst out from behind the cockpit, the body snapped into two separate pieces, and the burning remains of the aircraft fell into the sea with a hissing splash.

‘Good shooting, lads. Keep it up!’

Mannon said nothing. It had been a brilliant piece of gunnery and he didn’t begrudge Hamilton’s praise. But he could not help wondering how the hell the skipper was going to explain the destruction of a neutral aircraft to the powers-that-be at Hong Kong. A shout from Hamilton interrupted his thoughts.

‘Number One! Tell Murray to radio HK for a rescue boat. And inform them we need air support.’

You’ll be lucky, Mannon told himself, as he made his way to the voice pipe. He could well imagine the effect of Hamilton’s signal at Naval HQ in Hong Kong. It was probably just the pretext the Japanese were waiting for to invade the Colony. The reply, he decided, would be an official raspberry◦– or worse. Lifting the lid of the speaking tube, he relayed the skipper’s orders to the control room.

Rapier was less than a hundred yards away from the launch, as the two remaining aircraft came in with guns blazing to avenge the loss of their comrade. The sharp crackle of cannon fire echoed across the empty sea and the men on the submarine’s bridge ducked instinctively But the Japanese pilots were no longer interested in the British warship. This time they wanted an easy victim that couldn’t hit back. There was a sudden explosion, followed by a loud whoosh of flames as the cannon shells punctured the Chris Craft’s fuel tanks. Within seconds, the motor cruiser was in flames from stern to stern and Mannon stared aghast at the awful spectacle.

‘Stop engines,’ Hamilton ordered calmly. ‘Steer to windward, Cox’n. Stand by fo’c’sle hands to pick up survivors.’

Rapier’s deck guns stopped firing and, as the rumble of the diesels faded away, Blood moved the wheel to starboard. The two bombers had quickly left the scene and vanished into the blue void of the sky. The eerie almost unnatural silence was only broken by the soft slap of the sea against the hull plating, and the angry crackle of the fire as the submarine drifted downwind towards the burning launch.

‘Half-astern both!’

The reversed thrust of the propellers brought the submarine to a standstill. Hamilton peered into the pall of black fumes obscuring the remains of the motor cruiser. The smoke and flames made it impossible to see clearly, but he could just make out a group of people huddled against the side of the wheelhouse. Why the hell didn’t they jump? Snatching up the microphone of Rapier’s loudhailer, he pushed the button and held the grille close to his mouth.

‘Abandon ship… we’ll pick you up.’

The metallic tones of the disembodied voice had no effect. Protecting their faces from the flames the survivors cowered in terror, as if they were more frightened of the submarine than they were of the fiery furnace on which they were marooned.

‘Show ’em the Union Jack, Yeoman,’ Hamilton told Drury. ‘They think we’re bloody Japs.’ He moved to the front of the bridge. ‘Throw out some lines, Morgan.’

‘Won’t do no good, sir,’ the gunner shouted back. ‘If they’re Chinese they probably can’t swim. We’ll have to go in after them!’ Morgan had served on the China Station in the early thirties and knew what he was talking about.

Hamilton dragged off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, and climbed up on to the narrow lip of the conning tower bridge screen.

‘Take over, Number One. The gunner is going to need a hand getting those poor devils off.’

Mannon was given no time to protest. Hamilton balanced precariously on the lip of the coaming for a moment, and then plunged into the warm sluggish waters of the China Sea. Further forward on the foredeck plating, Morgan and two members of the gun crew followed the skipper’s example and joined him in the water. Less than twenty yards separated the two vessels and it only took a few strong strokes to bring them up alongside the burning launch.

Hamilton felt the heat of the fire sear his face as he looked up and, treading water, he spat the sea from his mouth.

‘Jump!’ he yelled. ‘Jump◦– we’ll look after you.’

The bewildered survivors on the launch hesitated. Then, as if the sea threatened a worse fate than the fire, one of them held his nose and plummeted down into the water with a mighty splash. Rapier’s gunner was alongside him almost immediately. A brawny arm encircled the man’s neck, dragging his face clear of the water so that he could breathe. Then, rolling over on his back, Morgan began towing the spluttering Chinaman towards the submarine.

‘Okay, sir, I’ve got him.’

Encouraged by the speedy rescue of his companion the second man jumped, disappeared beneath the surface like a stone, and was quickly grabbed by Davidson as his head bobbed up again. Hamilton trod water and waited. The third and last figure, smaller and lighter than the others, stepped towards the rail, paused for a moment to look at the flames, and then dropped with thistle-down grace into the sea. Hamilton swam towards the floundering survivor and grabbed for a handhold. To his surprise his hands encountered the unexpected softness of a woman’s breasts and, without pausing to think what he was doing, his fingers instinctively closed over the twin mounds. The girl twisted away as she felt his hands on her body and, ignoring the dangers of drowning, she struggled to escape his grasp.

Hamilton grabbed her shoulders, ducked her down violently under the water to discourage further resistance, and started to haul her back towards the waiting submarine. He wondered how he was going to explain this unfortunate reflex action when he got her aboard but decided, on balance, to ignore the incident. Perhaps she would believe it was an accident if he said nothing….

A life line snaked down from the Rapier’s bows and he grabbed it thankfully. Looping the rope under the girl’s arms, he fastened it into a noose and told the foredeck party to haul her in. He followed behind in an easy crawl and trod water while the seamen lifted her gently aboard the submarine. Then, grasping Mannon’s hand, he clambered up the slippery slope of the ballast tank and grabbed the clean towel Wilkinson was holding ready for him.

The gunner’s mate reached the side of the submarine a moment later, with Davidson following not more than a stroke behind. Since both men were dragging a survivor, they were carefully lifted up to the foredeck casing. Hamilton felt slightly relieved to see that the other two members of the motor cruiser’s crew were not women.

‘Get them below, Number One. And tell the Doc to check them over.’ He rubbed the towel rigorously over his head. ‘Better put the girl in the wardroom◦– no point in giving the men any unnecessary temptations.’ Glancing towards the bows, he saw that the girl had lost most of her clothing in the water. ‘And find something for her to wear or I might get tempted too!’

Throwing the wet towel back to Wilkinson, Hamilton hauled himself up the bulkhead rings of the conning tower as the crew lowered the survivors down through the gun hatch. Swinging his leg over the coaming, he vaulted down and resumed his place on the narrow bridge. He looked around. The blue void of the sky was now empty of aircraft, and the smoldering remains of the motor cruiser rolled gently in the swell.

His hands still tingled where they had touched the girl, and he stared down at the foredeck casing in silence, as he recalled the brief glimpse of her slim body sprawled nakedly on the steel deck plating. He was anxious to meet her again, but knew his eagerness must wait. There would be plenty of time to make her acquaintance when they reached Hong Kong. But, all the same, he could not help wondering what she had being doing aboard the launch.

Dismissing the thoughts from his mind he walked to the binnacle to check the compass. The purple haze of Macao was faintly visible on the port horizon and the yawning mouth of the Pearl River lay ahead over the bows. It was sufficient to give him a rough and ready bearing.

‘Half-ahead, both, Chief. Steer zero-one-zero.’

‘Half-ahead both, sir. Course now zero-one-zero.’

‘Number One!’

‘Sir?’

‘You look a bloody awful mess,’ Hamilton informed him dispassionately.

Mannon did not dispute the observation. His once white shorts were streaked with green slime from the weed-encrusted ballast tank, and his face was grimed with cordite smoke. The skipper, he decided, looked even more of a scarecrow◦– although he had the tact to keep his opinion to himself.

‘Do you want me to change, sir?’

Hamilton grinned. He was shirtless and shoeless and his shorts were tom and sodden with sea water. His arms were covered with superficial cuts where the razor-edged barnacles adhering to Rapier’s ballast tanks had ripped his flesh. And blood still trickled from his nose where the girl had butted him in the face during the brief struggle in the water.

‘To hell with being tiddley, Number One. Let’s show Hong Kong what a real fighting ship looks like. Damn the paintwork and the polished brass. It’ll give the buggers something to talk about while they’re putting on their starched shirts and getting ready for dinner tonight. And I hope it gives ’em indigestion.’