Diving Stations

THREE

‘I’ve no objection to taking part in a one-man war, sir. But I think we ought to be practical about it,’ Mannon told Hamilton as the officers gathered in the wardroom after Rapier’s skipper had finished addressing the crew. ‘As you’re often fond of reminding me◦– I was an accountant in civvy street, and that makes me very conscious of hard facts and figures. I daresay we would run amok in the China Sea for a couple of weeks◦– but that’s all.’

‘Roger’s got a good point there, sir,’ O’Brien agreed. ‘We can only carry ninety-one tons of oil in the bunkers. So even at Rapier’s most economical cruising speed, our maximum patrol range will be limited to around six thousand miles.’

‘And it’s one thousand six hundred and ninety miles back to Singapore,’ Scott pointed out, after a quick reference to Reed’s Table of Distances. ‘According to my arithmetic, that leaves an effective operational endurance of less than four thousand five hundred miles◦– let’s say three weeks at the most.’

Hamilton looked down at his erstwhile council-of-war. ‘You’re a lot of bloody dismal Jimmies,’ he told them coldly. ‘As for making for Singapore◦– forget it. If the balloon goes up we stay close to the China coast. We’re the only submarine this side of Aden. It’s our job to keep the Japs busy until the Navy can send a fleet out East. And the current staff evaluation for doing this is ninety days.’

‘Well, short of stepping masts and fitting our own sails, I don’t see how we’re going to survive that long,’ O’Brien said pessimistically. ‘We’ll have burned up all our oil inside twenty-five days. What do we use for fuel after that?’

Hamilton shrugged. ‘I suppose we could hide amongst the islands and extend our operational duration that way. The important thing to remember is this: until they succeed in sinking Rapier, the Japs have got to divert valuable anti-submarine units into the area to hunt us down. Every single extra day we can remain afloat will make their attack schedule that much more difficult to maintain.’

‘I still think we should be realistic, sir,’ Mannon said patiently. ‘I agree that Hong Kong will probably fall within a fortnight. And I agree that we shall then have nowhere to replenish our oil stocks. But don’t forget we’ll also need to replace torpedoes. Rapier carries six Mk VIIs in her tubes and a further six reloads. That means we will be limited to a maximum of twelve attacks. After that we cease to be an effective fighting unit. Once a submarine has exploded its torpedoes, it becomes a liability rather than an asset.’ Hamilton looked at them in silence for a few minutes. He knew it was a crazy plan, but once embarked on an enterprise he did not believe in looking back. He turned to Scott.

‘Start going through your charts with a fine toothcomb, Alistair. I want you to find me a small uninhabited island inside a five hundred mile radius of Hong Kong. Von Spee hid his squadron amongst the Pacific Islands in 1914 – and it took us four months to find him. So let’s take a lesson from the enemy.’

As Scott began sorting through the charts, Hamilton turned his attention to Mannon. ‘I shall want you to call on the Dockyard Superintendent tomorrow, Number One. Tell him we came out here without torpedoes and need a complete outfit. If he asks questions, you can always say we had to off-load ours at Alexandria because the Mediterranean flotillas were short of weapons.’

‘But he’ll want to examine our forms S304 and 319. And they’ll show we had a full kit on board when we left Alex, sir.’

‘You’ve got a twisted mind, Number One. You ought to have been a bloody civil servant not an accountant. Bring the forms to me and I’ll write them up so that they back up our story. I used to be good at forging the Commander’s signature for leave passes when I was serving in the Lower Deck.’

‘Aren’t you taking a bit of a chance, sir?’ O’Brien asked quietly. ‘Supposing the Japs don’t attack. How the hell are you going to wriggle out of falsifying records and getting hold of a dozen torpedoes which you weren’t authorized to draw?’

‘That’s my problem,’ Hamilton told him crisply. ‘I’ve been sent out here to defend Hong Kong. And I’m not going to let a load of bureaucratic bullshit stop me.’ Mannon gave up his efforts to dissuade the skipper from hanging himself. In fact, he was beginning to understand what Hamilton had in mind. A lonely and uninhabited island. A private stock of ammunition and supplies. And every man’s hand against you. It reminded him of the old Percy F. Westerman stories he used to read at school.

‘Supposing Scott finds an island, sir. What then?’ Hamilton looked at the young RN VR Executive Officer. He could see the gleam of excitement in Mannon’s eyes. Perhaps he’d misjudged him. Perhaps all chartered accountants were pirates at heart. He gave him a grin of encouragement.

‘The first thing is to lay out an anchorage and make sure we have adequate cover from air search.’ He glanced at Scott. ‘That means deep water close inshore, Pilot, and plenty of trees and vegetation.’

‘Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, sir. There aren’t any desert islands in this part of the world◦– the coral area is further to the south and east.’

‘Good. Once we’ve found a suitable island, we’ll transport as many supplies and as much fresh water as we can find and start building up a store’s reserve. Then we offload our torpedo outfit and come back to draw replacement weapons from the RNAD depot. With luck we should end up with twenty-four torpedoes.’

The others nodded. It sounded plausible enough. O’Brien, Rapier’s engineering officer, was the only one with any doubts.

‘That’s fine for stores and ammunition, sir. But you can’t stockpile oil willy-nilly. It will still have to be kept in tanks or, at least, barrels. And how the hell do we smuggle barrels of oil out of the depot without being spotted?’

Hamilton smiled enigmatically. ‘I’ve already thought of that one, Chief. And I think I’ve got the answer.’ He looked around the table. ‘Any more questions?’

The officers shook their heads.

‘Right,’ Hamilton told them. ‘We start loading tomorrow. And remember◦– if you can’t wangle it out of the depot, I shall expect you to buy the necessary supplies from the Chinese burn boats with your own money.’

The last weeks of October 1941 passed without undue incident. Rapier sailed on self-imposed exercises every four days, vanishing from sight for forty-eight hours, returning to Hong Kong noticeably lighter in draught than when she departed. Scott’s island◦– a small tree-covered paradise off the north-east coast of Hai-Nan – provided just the privacy Hamilton required to carry out his plan and it was soon amply stocked with reserve stores. A convenient cave close to the water’s edge provided an ideal torpedo store, although the task of manhandling the cumbersome mark VII tin fish, each weighing 4,106 pounds, was no picnic in the heat of the sun.

Hamilton, with Scott’s expert assistance, carefully surveyed the coastline around Hong Kong in search of suitable hiding places, and by the end of the month he felt confident that he could exploit the sea area to his advantage, if the necessity arose.

Stores had been a problem at first. The depot superintendent had put up a stout fight but, surrendering to O’Brien’s blarney, had finally supplied most of the items on Hamilton’s apparently inexhaustible list. The gunboat skippers, too, having been taken into Hamilton’s confidence, chipped in with useful extras and Charlotte Island rapidly developed into a miniature arsenal, as crate after crate was painstakingly hauled up the beach and hidden in the thick undergrowth. But despite the willing assistance of the other commanders, Hamilton took care not to reveal the identity of his secret base to anyone outside the circle of Rapier’s officers◦– the fewer who knew about it the better. And although he suspected that the C-in-C and his staff had guessed what was going on, they maintained a discreet silence and asked no awkward questions.

In spite of the hectic activity at Charlotte Island, Rapier’s skipper still found time to make regular visits to his newfound Portuguese friends in Macao. And, typically, he gave no reasons for his weekly jaunts across the estuary, although it was apparent from the expression on his face when he returned that Hamilton was well-satisfied with what had happened while he was there….

October passed into November without incident. The Japanese military forces in China seemed intent on maintaining a low profile and Hamilton was beginning to wonder whether he had misjudged the situation. The big Jardine & Mathieson steamers continued their normal trading routine and, despite the boom guarding the entrance to the Pearl River, the regular boats had been allowed upstream to Canton and Whampoa without hindrance from the Japanese Navy. Reports filtering through to the Colony indicated that Japanese control over the river traffic on the Yangtse Kiang further to the north had tightened; but no one in Hong Kong read any significance into the stories they received from Shanghai. The peace mission which Tokyo had dispatched to the United States suggested that their bluff had been called, and there was a general feeling amongst the Europeans that the situation would soon ease.

Ernie Blood was supervising a deck washing party on the foredeck casing at the beginning of the afternoon watch, when a grey painted staff car hooted its way through the dockyard and screeched to a halt at the head of the mooring gangway. Hamilton and the other officers were below in the wardroom finishing their lunch, and the rest of the submarine’s crew were busy stacking the latest consignment of illicit stores, ready for the next shuttle run to Charlotte Island.

As a result of Hamilton’s orders, Rapier was on war routine and peacetime regulations had been relaxed in order to get the work done. The customary welcoming deck parties and correctly bedecked officer-of-the-watch pacing aimlessly up and down the narrow bridge, were conspicuously absent. But if discipline and ceremonial were not immediately apparent, Hamilton’s security precautions certainly were. Two members of the submarine’s crew armed with rifles and fixed bayonets stood guard over the dockyard end of the gangway while a third, perched high up the conning tower, kept an eagle-eyed watch over the quayside◦– the Lewis gun at his side ready to give instant support to the sentries if required.

The door of the Hillman staff car swung open and Captain Snark emerged. His white tropical uniform had lost its usual crisp freshness. Large sweat stains marked his shirt and he looked tired and haggard.

The two sentries snapped to attention and presented arms as he hurried across the burning concrete. There was no red tape about Hamilton’s security system. The men were quite familiar with Snark’s identity and he was passed through onto the gangway without question. Ernie Blood straightened up as he saw the captain approaching. Throwing a half-smoked cigarette into the dock, he hurried to the base of the conning tower and shouted to the Leading seaman standing beside the Lewis gun.

‘Bladon! Tell the skipper Alice is coming aboard.’ Snark’s nickname had obvious connotations. ‘At the double!’

Bladon’s head disappeared behind the bridge screen as he reported Snark’s unexpected arrival to the control room and, seconds later, Bell, the duty runner, delivered the news to the wardroom.

Hamilton put his coffee down and wiped his mouth. ‘Thank you, Bell. Tell the gunner’s mate to report to me immediately.’ He seemed unperturbed by the visitation despite his companions’ apparent alarm.

‘Shouldn’t we try and do something to hide those extra stores, sir?’ Mannon asked anxiously.

‘No time,’ Hamilton told him with a shake of his head. ‘Snark knows very little about submarine routine. I doubt if he’ll notice anything untoward. And if he does, I’ll just have to blind him with science.’ He looked up as Morgan, Rapier’s gunner’s mate, appeared through the wardroom curtains. ‘Ah, there you are, Chief. Captain Snark is coming up the gangway. Assemble the tidiest looking men you can find in the control room, and tell the rest to make themselves scarce in the fore and aft ends.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Hamilton finished his coffee with unhurried pleasure. ‘There’s no call for panic, gentlemen,’ he told the other officers quietly. ‘Probably just a routine visit. I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.’

Able Seaman Bell reappeared. Thrusting his head through the wardroom curtains like a spirit at a seance he announced sepulchrally: ‘Captain coming down the control room ladder, sir. The Gunner says the men are fallen in as ordered.’ Having imparted his news in a voice of doom, he entered the wardroom and saluted smartly.

Hamilton acknowledged the courtesy and nodded to Mannon. ‘Come on, Number One. And try not to look so bloody guilty. Let’s find out what the old bastard wants. Perhaps he just needs me to make up a four for bridge this evening.’

Snark was waiting by the diving panel as Hamilton and his executive officer came through the for’ard bulkhead hatch. He eyed Rapier’s skipper belligerently.

‘Boat’s like a bloody pigsty, Lieutenant,’ he grumbled. ‘Lucky for you this isn’t an inspection. I like to see a ship clean and tidy. Shows efficiency.’

‘Rapier is fully armed and stored and ready to sail at thirty minutes’ notice, sir,’ Hamilton pointed out quietly. ‘That’s the sort of efficiency I look for.’

Snark snorted. His mission was too urgent to bandy words with a mere two-striper. ‘Dismiss the men, Mister Gunner,’ he growled at Morgan.

The gunner’s mate came to attention and saluted. Snark smiled sardonically. That was the way he liked to see things done. When he said jump◦– they jumped! Morgan completed his salute and turned to Hamilton.

‘Permission to fall out the men, sir?’

‘Granted, Chief. Tell them to wait in the fore-ends mess space.’

Snark swallowed his anger. There was no mistaking Morgan’s studied insolence. But the post captain had been in the service long enough to know there was nothing he could do about it. Hamilton was Rapier’s captain and, on his own ship, his word was law despite his inferior rank. As soon as the control room was empty, Snark delivered his bombshell.

‘The Japanese have taken Firefly!’

Hamilton accepted the news without any sign of surprise. He thought the Japs had been too quiet recently. But he could not help wondering whether Harry Ottershaw was all right, and he reflected bitterly on the uselessness of the Station’s Standing Orders not to provoke the Japanese. It hadn’t done Ottershaw much good by the sound of it. ‘How did it happen, sir?’ he asked.

‘We’ve been shadowing the Japanese troop convoys passing down the coast,’ Snark explained briefly and, as Hamilton raised his eyebrows, he added: ‘Just because Higher Authority imposes restrictors upon our behavior, does not mean that the Navy is content to take an inactive role in the defense of our Far Eastern dependencies, Lieutenant, although I realize that this is your impression of the Hong Kong Station. We have been keeping Japanese warships under surveillance for several months. And we’ve learned a thing or two.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Firefly was sent out to investigate a large troop convoy coming out from Shanghai. The ships were outside the three-mile limit, so Ottershaw had every right to be there. We don’t know precisely what happened, but Firefly was forced into Hai-An Bay and the Japanese have boxed her in.’

‘For what reason, sir?’

Snark shrugged. ‘We’ve no idea. They haven’t communicated with us yet and it’s all a bit of a mystery. No doubt they’ve got something up their sleeve.’

‘Can’t we send out a destroyer, sir?’ Hamilton suggested.

‘Unfortunately not,’ Snark said shaking his head. ‘For two reasons. Firstly we have no ships. Thanet and Thracian are cruising off Amoy Island on exercises and Scout is in dry-dock for rudder repairs and bottom scraping. And, secondly, even if they were available they would be unable to assist. The Japs have thrown a temporary boom across the entrance to the bay to make sure Firefly can’t escape.’

‘Are we in radio contact with the gunboat?’ Hamilton asked. ‘Surely we could tell Ottershaw to ram the boom and break out. The other gunboats could be sent in to give him support.’

‘It’s not as easy as that,’ Snark told him gloomily. ‘If Firefly tries to escape, Ottershaw will be left behind. Apparently he’s been taken aboard the Japanese destroyer for what they diplomatically called discussions.’ The captain paused for a moment and then looked Hamilton in the eye. ‘That’s where Rapier comes into the picture.’

‘If it means a chance of having a crack at the Japs…’ Hamilton began, but Snark cut him short.

‘I know you have a reputation for disobeying orders, Lieutenant. But this time you will have to be careful. Ottershaw’s life will depend on your handling of what looks to be a very tricky situation.’ Snark picked up a sheet of paper from the chart table and sketched an outline of Hai-An Bay. He marked two crosses inside the bay and drew a straight line across the entrance to represent the boom. His pencil tapped one of the crosses. ‘This is Firefly’s present mooring position. And the destroyer is anchored here. As you can see, the Japanese commander is able to cover both the gunboat and the entrance with his main armament. If he gets any sort of warning, he can sink the gunboat within seconds and still have time to deal with the rescue boat.’

Hamilton forgot his dislike of the captain as he concentrated on the practicalities of the problem. At a time like this, they were all members of the same team and personal feelings could not be allowed to intervene.

‘I take it that Ottershaw is aboard the destroyer?’ he asked quietly.

Snark nodded. ‘As far as we know◦– yes. And that’s the crux of the problem. A consensus of Staff opinion is that a submarine could get under the boom and alongside Firefly without the Japanese being alerted. After that, any further action would be on the initiative of the submarine commander.’

‘You mean I’ll be running the show?’

‘Yes, Lieutenant. You’ll be running the show. But your orders are to take no belligerent action against the destroyer. Providing you can act quickly the Japanese commander will have no time to call up support, and on his own, I reckon a submarine and a gunboat will be sufficient odds to deter him from being foolish. Your task will be to obtain Ottershaw’s release and then bring Firefly safely back to Hong Kong.’

Snark somehow contrived to make it sound easy, but Hamilton noted that he made no effort to tell him how the impossible was to be achieved. But perhaps it was better that way. At least he could not be accused of disobeying orders. He looked down at the sketch map again.

‘What’s the depth of water inside the bay?’ he asked. ‘Ten fathoms◦– although it’s probably only about eight over the bar. Unfortunately we have no accurate charts for this part of the coast.’

‘Do the Japs have Asdic equipment?’

Snark shook his head. ‘Not as far as we know. You’ll only have to contend with hydrophones. And I doubt if they’ll be maintaining a listening watch. I don’t think they’ll be expecting a submarine.’

Hamilton knew it was a gamble. Taking a submarine into an uncharted bay was tantamount to suicide. And what the hell was he going to do even if he succeeded in getting under the boom. But his reputation was at stake, and the challenge to show off in front of the Colony’s top naval brass was too much to resist.

‘Very well, sir. I’ll try it. But I’ll do it my way.’

Snark looked at him coldly. ‘I’m sure you will, Lieutenant. Fortunately for you, this is how it must be. We cannot afford to antagonize the Japanese, even in a situation like this where they are entirely in the wrong. Your mission will be regarded as completely unofficial◦– if anything goes wrong, the authorities will make it clear that you were acting contrary to orders. Your reputation for disobedience, in fact, may prove very useful. And make no mistake about it, Lieutenant. Your head will be handed to the Japanese on a platter if the plan fails.’

And don’t you hope it will, Hamilton thought to himself. He did not, however, demur. This was the way he preferred to do things. At least he could handle the situation as it developed without the constraint of superior orders.

‘I have only one question, sir,’ he said slowly. ‘How much longer are we going to play second fiddle to the Japs?’

Snark allowed himself the luxury of a thin smile. ‘Not much longer. The nucleus of a Far East Fleet is already on its way to Singapore. Two capital ships and a carrier. They should arrive next month. And there are more to follow. Take my word for it◦– Tokyo will be singing a very different tune once they see we mean business. But this is in the future. For the moment the situation remains unaltered. Now, how soon can you sail?’

‘In thirty minutes, sir.’ Hamilton would have liked to stress his combat readiness after Snark’s complaints about Rapier’s efficiency, but he felt the plain statement of fact was proof enough.

Snark appeared to take it as a matter of course. He had no intention of allowing Hamilton to enjoy his moral victory. The taciturn expression on his face did not soften even though he held out his hand.

‘Good luck, Hamilton. And remember◦– you’re on your own.’

Rapier left Hong Kong via the easterly channel. As Taikoo shipyard passed on the starboard side, Hamilton could see the destroyer Scout in dry-dock having her venerable old bottom scraped. The gunboat Moth was also ashore being refitted, and he wondered how the Navy would cope with a Japanese attack with one-third of the Station’s largest ships out of commission. Dismissing the problem from his mind, he guided the submarine through the narrows at the eastern end of the channel and altered course to the southeast towards Lam Tong Island.

Two motor torpedo boats from the 2nd Flotilla swept up from the south as Rapier came level with Pottinger Peak and their ensigns dipped in salute as they thundered past at forty knots. Lieutenant Commander Gandy, the flotilla commander, waved a cheery farewell from the spray-soaked bridge of the leading MTB and Hamilton returned the greeting. Rapier’s bows rose and fell sharply as the submarine pushed into the currents of the South China Sea and, having passed clear of Lam Tong, Hamilton altered course to the south◦– to mislead any shore watchers in the pay of the Japanese.

‘Stand down Harbor Stations, Number One.’

Mannon leaned over the conning tower coaming. ‘Sea Duty men below! Secure for’ard hatch.’

He waited for Morgan to dismiss the men on the fo’c’sle and then flipped the lid of the voice-pipe. ‘Take over lower steering. Course 1-7-5.’

‘Control Room, aye, aye, sir. On lower steering. Course 1-7-5.’

‘On lower steering, sir.’ He reported to Hamilton. ‘Fore hatch shut and clipped. Hands fallen out to passage routine.’

Hamilton acknowledged Mannon’s report with a nod and stared east as the peaks of Victoria Island shimmered in the heat haze. Despite the approach of winter the weather was unreasonably warm. Day temperatures should have dropped to a mean seventy degrees by now but when Rapier had left the Colony was still sweltering in a humid eighty-three. The latest Met report was forecasting an approaching cold front later in the day, but Hamilton had very little faith in the weather experts with their little charts and multi-colored inks. The China Seas were notoriously treacherous. Sudden squalls could appear from nowhere and vanish as quickly as they had come; and miniature storms of surprising ferocity could shut down visibility and lash a ship with gale-driven rain out of an almost clear blue sky. Rapier was lucky that the typhoon season was over.

‘Stand by to dive, Number One. Diving in two minutes.’ Mannon passed the preliminary order to the control room and waited while the duty signalman and the two look-outs swung into the upper hatch and clambered down the steel ladder.

‘Bridge clear, sir. Ready to dive.’

‘Thank you, Number One. Get below and stand by.’ Diving on the klaxon was restricted to emergencies and the submarine service did not officially acknowledge the term ‘crash dive’. Hamilton was in no hurry. The men had had more than their share of emergency dives during their last spell of duty in the Med. He had little doubt that diving on the klaxon would become part of their standard routine again in the very near future but, for the moment, he was content to let the crew take it easy. He moved to the voice pipe.

‘Take her down to periscope depth, Number One.’

‘Periscope depth aye aye, sir.’

Hamilton heard the metallic clang of the vents thrusting open as the hydraulic power came on, followed by the thundering roar of the sea flooding into the empty ballast tanks. Abaft, in the engine room, Chief ERA Bates acknowledged the order from the control room and passed the executive command to the motor room.

‘Out clutches◦– secure for diving.’

‘Clutches out, Chief.’ Yarden confirmed. ‘Engines stopped.’

‘Switches on. Group up◦– half-ahead both.’ The urgent throb of the diesels faded away and Bates felt the deck plating vibrate as the motors came on. He reached for the telephone link to the control room. ‘Engines off, sir. Motors running. Clutches out and secured for diving.’ Hamilton closed the upper hatch, fastened the clips, and slid down into the brightly-lit nerve center of the submarine. The monotonous chant of the reports, orders, and acknowledgements echoed quietly inside the crowded apartment.

‘Upper hatch shut and clipped.’

‘Permission to close lower hatch, sir?’

‘Granted.’ Hamilton glanced at the big dials of the depth gauges facing the two coxswains. The red pointer needles fingered towards the twenty-feet calibration. ‘Level at thirty, Number One. Maintain course and speed.’

Petty Officer Arnold leaned back in his seat and watched the needle swing down. As it touched the thirty feet mark he reversed the big steel-rimmed diving wheel and brought the for’ard planes into the horizontal position. Rapier’s bows levelled off as the submarine gently came out of the dive.

‘Fore ’planes amidships, sir!’

As Arnold made his report, Ernie Blood eased the controls of the aft hydroplanes and deliberately balanced the submarine’s buoyancy as he coaxed it to the required depth.

‘Aft ’planes amidships, sir. Thirty feet. Trimmed and level.’

‘Up periscope!’

Bush moved the telemotor pump controls of the periscope mechanism and the bronze column sighed up from the womb with a soft hiss. Pulling down the steering handles, Hamilton pushed his face into the rubber cup of the binocular eye-pieces and waited for the water to clear from the upper lens. After the soft glare of the tungsten lamps in the control room, the strong sunlight made him blink, but it was only a slight discomfort and it quickly passed. Swinging the ’scope through a full circle, he carried out a preliminary routine sweep of the surface to ensure that there was no shipping in the immediate vicinity of the submerged submarine and then, flicking the sky-search lever with his thumb, he tilted the big search lens upwards to scan the sky.

A few wisps of cirrus cloud hung over the southern horizon but the remainder of the sky was clear; although Hamilton noticed a strange bronze sheen to seaward that contrasted with the brilliant blue over Hong Kong itself. A small float-plane, probably a Fair Sea Fox, droned slowly towards the peaks of Victoria Island trailing a large drogue, and he watched a speckle of tiny brown splashes of smoke bursting around it as the Colony’s anti-aircraft defenses put in some much needed live ammunition practice.

Moving the lens a few degrees to port, he stared in the direction of the Ninepin Islands group and watched a large trading junk tacking northwards to round the eastern coast of the New Territories towards the Chinese mainland. Suddenly, and without warning, he snapped the steering handles upwards and stepped back.

‘Down periscope! Flood Q! Sixty feet. Attack team close up.’

The bronze column sank softly into the heavily greased well in the deck with a sigh of hydraulic power and Venables, the ‘outside’ ERA, quickly spun the valve wheel to open the vents to the quick-diving tank in the bows.

‘Planes to dive!’

Despite the unexpectedness of the commands, there was no panic. Arnold angled the bow planes into a steep dive and watched the depth gauge like a hawk, as Ernie Blood juggled with the aft hydroplane controls.

‘Faster!’ Hamilton snapped.

‘Full ahead both!’ Although Mannon was in the process of moving from his diving station alongside the skipper to his attack team position at the venting panel, he found time to pass the order back to the motor room and wait for the acknowledgement from the chief ERA. Rapier needed the extra thrust from her propellers to get her down to the required depth more quickly.

‘What’s the depth of water, Pilot?’ Hamilton asked Scott. The navigator left the torpedo director and glanced at the opened chart on the table.

‘Twenty fathoms, sir. Plenty of diving room.’

Hamilton nodded his head and waited.

‘Sixty feet, sir. Trimmed and level.’

Having made his report, Ernie Blood eased his large bottom into a more comfortable position on the narrow unpadded seat. As a veteran submariner, he was accustomed to emergencies and he sat phlegmatically behind the diving wheel, sucking his teeth thoughtfully, ready for the next order. Despite his outward calm, however, he could not help wondering about the reason for the skipper’s sudden decision to take the Rapier deeper. Probably something he had spotted on the surface. Well, he knew best. The coxswain’s confidence in Hamilton’s skill was completely unshakable. But, like every other member of the submarine’s crew, he had no idea what might be happening in the bright sunlit world above the surface of the sea. Only the captain was privy to the secrets of the periscope’s lens. And in an emergency he was too busy to explain his actions to a group of curious matelots.

Hamilton looked at his stopwatch and checked that the attack team was closed up in the correct stations◦– Mannon behind the ‘outside’ ERA watching the trim and indicator lights of the blowing panel. O’Brien ready to mark up the plot, Scott at the ‘fruit machine’ and the two electrical artificers, Blake and Sutton, ranged alongside the periscope, ready to read off the angles and make the slide-rule calculations for the navigator to feed into the torpedo director.

The expressions on the faces of the attack team reflected the tension of the sudden emergency, but they stood at their stations with the easy casualness of men who knew what they were doing. Hamilton said nothing and reached for the telephone to the fore-ends compartment.

‘Bow tubes?’

‘Fore-ends, aye aye, sir.’

‘Action stations. Blow up tubes one, two, three and four.’

The chief torpedo gunner’s mate had served with Hamilton since the first day of the Rapier’s commissioning. He knew his skipper and he knew exactly what was expected of him. Moving the lever of the telemotor controls from left to right, Newton waited for the needle of the pressure gauge to swing across the dial before glancing up at the mechanical indicators. The warning lights glowed as the tubes flooded up and Bruce, the sub lieutenant and fourth hand in charge of the bow compartment, nodded to Langton to check the test cocks. A trickle of water emerged from each end and the torpedo man passed a thumb’s-up signal back to the officer.

‘Bow caps open.’

Newton moved the lever on each tube and the sub lieutenant saw the markers of the mechanical indicators swing to the ‘open’ position. He put his mouth to the telephone.

‘Tubes flooded up, sir. Bow caps open. Standing by.’

‘All received, Number Four. Standing by for firing.’

‘Fore-ends aye aye, sir.’

‘Losing trim, sir! Bows dropping!’

Ernie Blood’s warning report was almost casual in its delivery. His voice gave no hint of alarm and Mannon, alerted by the warning, glanced at the inclometer for confirmation.

‘Blow One and Two compensating tanks.’

Venables reached forward across the panel and twisted the control valves of the bow compensating tanks. There was a sudden whine of compressed air as the water was transferred to the main ballast tanks under pressure, and Mannon saw the artificial horizon of the inclometer tilt back to equilibrium.

‘Trimmed and level, sir.’

Hamilton frowned. Rapier shouldn’t have lost trim so easily. And the fact that the heaviness in the bow coincided with the flooding of the torpedo tubes suggested something amiss with the first officer’s trim calculations. Alternatively, the by-pass valves used to transfer water ballast to balance the extra weight of the flooded tubes were malfunctioning. Either way something was wrong, and he made a mental note to check as soon as time permitted.

‘Any Asdic contacts, Glover?’

‘No, sir.’

‘HE?’

‘Negative.’

‘Take her up to periscope depth, Number One.’

‘Planes to rise◦– level at thirty. Blow Q!’

‘Thirty and level, sir.’

‘Up periscope!’

The big search ’scope rose up from the deck and Hamilton swung the column onto a north-east bearing. He focused the lens on the trading junk he had seen before their emergency dive and then, with pointedly unhurried calm, he swept the horizon through a full circle.

‘Down periscope. Attack team fall out.’ He reached for the telephone. ‘Bow ends◦– secure from Action Stations. Close bow caps and blow tubes.’ Putting the telephone back on its cradle, he lifted the microphone of the internal tannoy system. ‘This is the Captain. All hands stand down to Watch Diving routine.’

Mannon carried out a final check on the glowing warning lights of the main venting panel before turning to Hamilton. The tension of the unexpected emergency still showed in his face, but he managed to conjure up a grin.

‘Panic over, sir?’ he enquired cheerfully.

‘Just a drill, Number One. I wanted to make sure we hadn’t got stale after a few weeks enjoying the flesh-pots of Hong Kong.’ Hamilton glanced at the stopwatch hanging from a cord around his neck. ‘I suppose you didn’t do too badly◦– all things considered,’ he admitted grudgingly. Walking to the gyro-repeater, he stared at it in silence for a few moments. ‘Reduce to half speed. Steer zero-four-five.’ Finnegan brought the submarine on to its new course and centered the wheel as the gyro-repeater came on. ‘Half-ahead, sir. Course zero-four-five.’

Mannon knew that the alteration of the helm had pointed the submarine’s bows towards the Chinese mainland, and he could not help wondering what sort of plan Hamilton had in mind. Snark’s scheme had seemed wild enough when he first put it forward but, looked at afresh in the cold light of reality, it now seemed totally impossible. Boarding a destroyer◦– a submarine’s arch enemy◦– in its lair was an invitation to suicide. And Mannon did not feel very enthusiastic about dying young.

‘Bring your trim calculations to the wardroom, Number One,’ Hamilton told him sharply. ‘The bows shouldn’t have gone heavy when we flooded the tubes. There must be an error somewhere and I’d like to check your figures.’ Mannon was quite certain his calculations were correct, but Hamilton was probably wise to check, and he harbored no resentment. The answer probably lay in a malfunction of the ballast by-pass valves and, fortunately, that wasn’t his responsibility. Pulling down the file containing Rapier’s, trim figures, he ducked through the for’ard bulkhead hatch to wait for the skipper in the wardroom.

Hamilton, meanwhile, had joined Scott at the chart table. He located Hai-An Bay without too much difficulty and circled it with his pencil.

‘What time is high water?’ he asked.

Scott checked the tables printed on the right-hand side of the chart and scribbled some figures on a scrap of paper.

‘About six o’clock, sir. It’s difficult to be precise. It’s not marked on the chart and these islands to the north could affect the tidal flow.’

‘Will we have enough water under the keel?’

‘Inside the bay◦– yes. But I’d reckon only six to seven fathoms over the bar at this time of the year at high water◦– and that’s a pretty risky gamble.’

Hamilton shrugged. ‘It’s my gamble, Pilot, not yours. But I can’t see an alternative. We’ve got to get inside the bay.’ He stared down at the various symbols printed on the chart and tried to picture what the scene would look like in reality. There were times when he wished he’d been blessed with a more vivid imagination. ‘I want to be half a mile off the bar at high water. Rapier will remain submerged through the approach◦– no point in revealing our presence before we have to. Let me have a course and speed.’

Scott picked up his dividers and made some quick calculations. The submarine was only twenty-five miles from the bay and it was not a difficult task to plot a suitable course. He only wished he could be more certain about the tide.

‘Course zero-three-nine, sir. Speed five knots, reducing to four for the last hour’s running.’

‘So be it, Pilot. Take over the watch while I check the trim figures with Roger. And call me when the plot shows we’re five minutes before high water.’