Diving Stations

SEVEN

Although nightfall had brought the Navy a welcome relief from the air attacks that had raged without respite throughout the day, the land battle for Hong Kong continued into the darkness. The men on the gunboats could hear the sharp chatter of machine guns echoing across the black water and see the flicker of gunfire against the night sky, as the Japanese invaders maintained pressure on the exhausted and outnumbered troops falling back towards Kowloon. And, as they gathered at the rails with their mugs of steaming cocoa, they considered themselves infinitely better off than the soldiers struggling for survival in the holocaust ashore◦– even though most of them had been continuously at action stations for nearly twelve hours.

It was a sentiment shared by the officers. Standing at the starboard bridge wing of his gunboat, Ottershaw tried to follow the progress of the battle through his night glasses. But without adequate communication links to the troops ashore, it was impossible to make sense of the chaos and confusion on the darkened mainland. And, although it had always been a proud tradition in the Navy to give what help it could to the Army, there was little the ships could do until dawn….

‘Reduce to half-speed, Number One. I want to be in the vicinity of Castle Peak Bay at first light, in case the Japs try to make a landing. And if there’s any trouble during the night at least we’ll be close at hand.’

While Forsyth was passing his instructions to the helmsman and engine room, Ottershaw examined the situation further to the east. It was not very encouraging. Victoria Island seemed fairly quiet, but large fires were still burning in the center of Kowloon and the dense pall of smoke hanging in the sky over the Colony’s only airfield at Kai Tak boded ill for the next day. If the RAF had been knocked out, air supremacy would pass to the Japanese and, with no fighters to drive off enemy bombing attacks, the prospects for the Navy’s little ships looked decidedly gloomy.

He turned to the gunboat’s bosun standing to the rear of the wheelhouse. ‘Secure from Action Stations, Mister Phillips. Tell the cooks to get some grub ready and pipe all hands to dinner in thirty minutes.’

The chief wondered what the cooks would use for food. Firefly had left for sea at short notice and the stores waiting on the quayside had been left behind in the rush. Dinner, for all the promise of its name, was likely to be cold bully beef and ship’s biscuits. Still he supposed it could be worse and, acknowledging Ottershaw’s order with a salute, he made his way aft to the galley.

‘I see that bugger Hamilton just managed to get away in the nick of time, sir,’ Forsyth said suddenly. ‘A good thing for his reputation probably,’ he added bitterly. ‘Those bloody submariners are all the same◦– all wind and bluff. I don’t see anything brave in sneaking along under the sea and torpedoing some poor bloody ship that doesn’t even know you’re there. They ought to try standing on the surface in broad daylight and fighting the enemy face to face.’

‘You don’t seem to like our friend Hamilton, Number One,’ Ottershaw observed mildly.

‘Damned newspaper hero, sir,’ Forsyth said firmly. ‘He wouldn’t have got that DSO without the help of his pals in Fleet Street. And, thanks to him, poor old Gerry Cavendish was booted out of the service.’¹ Ottershaw made no comment. He did not share his executive officer’s views and he had no intention of getting involved in an argument. He had little doubt that antipathy to the submarine commander dated back to the former’s lack of initiative when Ottershaw was being held as an unwilling guest on Suma.

‘I’m bloody hungry,’ he announced without making any attempt to reply to Forsyth’s statement. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going down to the wardroom for a quick bite. Find young Peters and tell him to take over the Watch.’ Ottershaw stopped and turned as he reached the head of the companionway. He looked at Forsyth with a cold eye. ‘And change that damned shirt before you come down for dinner, Number One. It’s filthy.’

Rapier was running submerged at half-speed steering north-east with Lantau Island to the starboard, when Hamilton came to periscope depth to obtain a fix. The very survival of the submarine could depend on accurate navigation over the next few hours and he was anxious to pinpoint their exact position while things were still quiet.

Searching along the ridged hills of the island, he found a suitable landmark and called off the bearing to Scott. ‘Ching Fort bearing zero-six-zero.’ The upper lens swiveled questioningly to the left in search of another prominent feature. ‘Castle Peak◦– zero-zero-five. Down periscope!’

Stepping back from the column, he joined Scott at the table and waited while Rapier’s navigator ruled the lines of the cross bearings onto the chart and neatly calculated the fix.

‘I’ll check Castle Peak Bay as far as Brother’s Point first,’ Hamilton explained. ‘If there’s no sign of enemy activity we’ll double back around Lantau and run up the eastern side of the island so that we can approach Hong Kong from the south-west.’

‘What then?’ Mannon asked.

Hamilton shrugged. ‘I don’t know until I’ve established the situation, Number One. If I can contact one of the gunboats and get a report, well and good. If not, we’ll have to fight our own private war. Tell Morgan and his cut throats to close up in the gun-tower. I doubt if we’ll find any targets worth wasting a torpedo on.’ He snapped his fingers at Bushby and waited for the periscope to slide upwards.

Patches of early morning mist were still rolling gently over the surface of the sea as Hamilton peered through the eye-piece, but the sun was already glinting on the rock outcrops of Castle Peak as it rose clear of the shimmering haze covering the New Territories to the east. Everything looked deceptively peaceful and, as far as he could judge, the invaders had failed to penetrate the western sector of the mainland during the night. Glimpsing something moving in the direction of Lung Kwu Chan he switched to the high magnification lens.

Circala, her white hull gleaming in the morning sun, was steaming slowly south-east in the direction of Castle Peak. Her battle flags were flying and a plume of spray whispered like silver from her bows. Hamilton could see the urgent flash of the signal lamp on her bridge and swung his lens to starboard in search of her companion. He found Firefly close inshore two miles to the eastward. Ottershaw’s ship was moving fast and the anti-aircraft gun in front of the bridge was firing at an invisible target high up in the sky. Moments later, two enormous geysers of water erupted astern of the little white gunboat and he glimpsed a Japanese dive-bomber as it flashed across Firefly’s quarterdeck and climbed for height at the end of its attack run.

Hamilton knew there was nothing he could do to help. Submarines did not usually engage aircraft unless they happened to be caught unawares on the surface and, with a fine sense of personal preservation, he decided to remain discreetly out of sight beneath the waves. The Japanese pilots would be too intent on the gunboat to spot the periscope of a submerged submarine.

‘I’ve found Firefly and Circala,’ he told Mannon. ‘Both ships bearing one point off the starboard bows at a range of four miles. They’re under attack from enemy bombers, but so far they seem to be getting the best of it.’

‘Can’t we do anything to help, sir?’

‘I’m afraid not, Number One. We wouldn’t last five minutes on the surface. We’ll just have to sit it out and see what happens. If you want to do something you could always try praying!’

It was almost an hour before the last of the Japanese bombers swung away from their targets and vanished northwards towards their airfields inside the Chinese border. During that time, Hamilton had seen them drop no fewer than fifty bombs and yet, by a miracle, neither gunboat had been hit. He could not help wondering whether Mannon had taken him at his word. Perhaps that’s what came from having a father who was a clergyman.

He waited for five minutes to make sure the attack would not be renewed and having assured himself that there was no immediate danger, he told Mannon to take Rapier up….

Firefly’s guns swung to port as the look-out reported a submarine surfacing to seaward and Ottershaw raised his binoculars anxiously in anticipation of a fresh hazard.

‘Range 1000— bearing Green-two-five! Hold your fire.’ He turned to Forsyth. ‘Any idea what a Jap submarine looks like, Number One?’

‘They all look the same to me, sir. I suggest we open fire before he has a chance to hit back.’

Ottershaw shook his head and kept his glasses focused on the patch of white foam bubbling on the surface half a mile off the gunboat’s port bow. He knew he was taking a dangerous risk, but something warned him not to be too hasty. No enemy submarine commander would be fool enough to surface under the guns of two warships and yet, so far as he knew, there was no possibility of there being any British boats in the area. Rover was dry-docked and refitting in Singapore and Rapier was by now several hundred miles to the south en route to Malaya. It might just be an American boat, or a Dutchman. And while the doubt lingered in his mind he was not prepared to take chances.

The bows of the submarine thrust from the cauldron of foam, followed, moments later, by the periscope standards and conning tower. Ottershaw thought that there was something vaguely familiar about the shape of the surfacing boat and he was still trying to identify it when the bosun shouted excitedly, ‘It’s the Rapier, sir! It’s bloody Rapier come back to give us a hand!’

‘Check the guns, Number One. Two points to port, helmsman. Half-ahead together.’

Hamilton scrambled out of the upper hatch and leaned over the conning tower rails as Firefly drew alongside. The look-outs followed him out on deck and quickly stationed themselves on either side of the bridge◦– their eyes already scanning the empty blue skies as they raised their binoculars. Hamilton had warned them to get below at the first sign of aircraft. It was no time to take risks and he knew he could rely on Rapier’s highly trained crew to get the submarine safely beneath the surface within thirty seconds of the diving alarm.

‘What’s the score, Harry?’ he yelled as soon as the gunboat was within hailing distance.

‘The Army’s falling back on Kowloon. The Japs will probably be there in another two days◦– we’re completely outnumbered.’ He turned to pass an instruction to the helmsman as the two boats began drifting apart and then continued his report. ‘Kai Tak airfield has been knocked out and we’ve nothing left to stop the bombers. It’s sheer bloody murder. We were under attack all day yesterday.’

Rapier rolled suddenly as the gunboat’s rubbing strake rode up over the bulge of the starboard ballast tank and forced it under the surface. Ottershaw yelled something to the coxswain and Firefly backed off gently. Hamilton peered down over the side, but fortunately the collision had caused no damage.

‘If you touch me there again I’ll scream,’ he grinned across at the gunboat commander, who rewarded his humor with a two-fingered gesture. He waited for the two vessels to drift together again. ‘Where do you suggest we go◦– and no cracks, Harry!’

‘Anywhere in the Straits once the Japs succeed in taking Kowloon. They’ll have to use boats to get their troops across to Hong Kong.’

‘What about the gunboats?’

‘We won’t survive that long if the air attacks continue. But we’ll do our best to support you while we can. If you run to the south and he on the bottom for forty-eight hours you should be just in time for the big show.’ Ottershaw paused for a moment as Forsyth joined him at the bridge rail and handed him a message. He nodded. The submarine and the gunboat were drifting apart again and he cupped his hands to his mouth so that his voice would carry across the water. ‘If you’re after bigger game, Nick, try the south-west approaches. Thanet has reported seeing a cruiser and destroyer in the offing. Collinson has nothing he can send out against them. And if they find any of our gunboats it’ll be a massacre.’

‘Three aircraft astern, sir!’ Rapier’s starboard look-out reported urgently. ‘Five thousand feet and approaching!’ Hamilton pressed the diving alarm. He made no effort to confirm the report. If Jacobs said aircraft were approaching that was enough for him. Geysers of water erupted along the side of the submarine as the main vents swung open and, almost before the two look-outs had slid into the hatchway, Rapier was dipping beneath the surface. Hamilton waved a hasty farewell to Ottershaw as he made for the open hatch.

‘See you around, Harry! And don’t get your feet wet.’ The hatch cover shut with a bang and within seconds the submarine’s conning tower had vanished into the bubbling cauldron of foam.

‘Action Stations! Bandits astern◦– range 2000◦– height 4000. Full ahead both!’ Ottershaw watched the three Mitsubishi dive bombers coming out of the sun. ‘Starboard helm! Pass air attack signal to Circala, Number One!’

Forsyth raised his head above the level of the bridge screen in time to see the other gunboat open fire and circle to the west with bombs exploding on all sides. Firefly shuddered from stern to sternport from the effects of a near-miss and, as he crouched on the deck, he could hear the shrill shriek of more bombs. He gritted his teeth and waited. Damn that bastard Hamilton! It was bloody unfair. Why should he be able to escape the bombs? Why couldn’t Rapier stay on the surface and fight it out alongside the gunboats? Damn it all◦– they were all in the same bloody Navy….

‘Thirty feet and diving, sir,’ Mannon reported quietly as Hamilton slid down the ladder into the hushed brightness of the control room.

‘Take her to sixty feet, Number One. Fortunately for us it’s only an air attack. If the japs had sent in destroyers it wouldn’t have been so funny.’

‘Planes to dive. Group up◦– full ahead together. Level at sixty feet, Coxswain.’

Mannon felt pleased with the smooth efficiency with which he had taken Rapier out of danger, but he looked for no compliments. Hamilton did not regard efficiency as meriting commendation. He expected nothing less.

‘What now, sir?’

Hamilton was leaning over the chart table in conference with Scott. The navigator was making some calculations on a note-pad and he passed the results to the skipper for approval.

‘We’re going cruiser hunting, Number One,’ Hamilton said casually. ‘If Harry Ottershaw is right, it will take the Japs two or three days to reach Kowloon, so there’s nothing much we can do until they try crossing the Straits to Hong Kong. According to the Staff Appraisal Snark showed me, they reckon the island can hold out for fourteen days◦– so we’ve plenty of time.’ He glanced up at the calendar hanging down from one of the deck head high-pressure air pipes. ‘It’s the 9th today. That means we’ve got a fortnight to send Tokyo our Christmas cards!’

O’Brien came through the bulkhead door. He was sweating heavily and wiping his glistening face with a piece of the engineer’s traditional cotton waste. ‘I’ve been checking the fuel stocks, sir. The bunkers are down to sixty tons.’

Hamilton did a quick calculation. They’d used up a quarter of their stocks already and that meant about twelve day’s supply left at economical cruising speed. It was his own fault for making that high-speed dash back to Hong Kong.

‘Thanks, Chief. I’ll take her back to the dockyard to top up once we’ve run down this cruiser.’

‘How long’s that likely to be, sir?’ O’Brien enquired. ‘And when do we get topside for a breath of air◦– it’s like a damned furnace in the motor room.’

Hamilton nodded sympathetically. His own clothes were wet with sweat and his underpants were sticking to his body. ‘I’m afraid it’s something we must learn to live with,’ he said unhelpfully. ‘I’ve no intention of showing myself on the surface in daylight. Unfortunately these S-class boats weren’t built for the tropics so we’ll have to lump it and like it.’

Mannon glanced at the control room thermometer. It was standing at iio°F.

But it wasn’t just the heat. The humidity was worse. Everything was wet to the touch and beads of water continuously dripped from the deck head as the condensation built up. Reacting to an irresistible impulse, he pushed his hand up inside the waistband of his shorts and scratched violently.

‘When you’ve finished doing your monkey act, Number One, I want you to go for’ard and check the tubes and the mouldies. If we meet up with that cruiser tonight I don’t want any slip-ups. Young Villiers is doing his best but he’s no expert, so go along and see if he needs any help.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Ernie Blood was busy scratching his ample stomach and, as the skipper looked in his direction, he withdrew his hand guiltily like a child caught stealing sweets from a tin. He tried the old sailor’s trick of sucking his teeth but it did nothing to ameliorate the persistent irritation of the heat rash. Hamilton moved across to the chart table. He kept his voice low so that the men could not overhear what he was saying.

‘I reckon that Jap cruiser force must be to the southwest, Alistair. The trouble is we don’t know where it’s heading. Could be a bombardment support squadron to back up the invasion of Hong Kong◦– or a covering force for another troop convoy heading for a fresh landing somewhere to the south.’ He looked down at the chart as he weighed up the alternatives. ‘We’ll carry out a two-hundred-mile box search centered on Gap Rock.’ He pointed his finger at a small black dot some forty miles to the southwest of Hong Kong and Scott nodded. ‘Fifty miles due south from the rock◦– then fifty miles east and so on. It’s only a small area, but it will take us across the main shipping channel into the Pearl River.’

Scott circled the pin-point denoting Gap Rock on the chart and picked up his ruler and protractor. ‘Any particular time-table, sir?’ he asked.

‘I intend to remain submerged until sunset. Then, if conditions are favorable, we’ll stay on the surface throughout the night. We can cover the search area more quickly that way◦– and it will give O’Brien a chance to re-charge his batteries.’

Jamieson hurried into the control room in his usual state of breathlessness. ‘Urgent radio signal coming through, sir,’ he reported. ‘Murray says he thinks you ought to listen.’

Hamilton glanced at the clock above the chart-table. It was nearly 2 p.m. It hardly seemed possible that they’d been running six hours since Firefly had been attacked. He wondered when he was going to get some rest.

The radio compartment was immediately aft of the control room and Murray glanced around as he heard the partition curtains swish open. He kept one earphone clasped firmly against his head as he passed on the gist of what he had heard.

‘The Japs have got Force Z, sir. I’ve just picked up signals from Singapore. Both ships sunk.’

Hamilton felt the blood drain from his face. ‘Are you quite certain?’ he asked.

Murray nodded. ‘Absolutely, sir. I’ve been picking up signals from both Express and Electra. They’re bringing the survivors back to Singapore. Repulse went down at 12:30 and Prince of Wales about an hour later. One message said that the Admiral was missing.’

Hamilton tried to think, but the enormity of the tragedy seemed to paralyze his brain. ‘Have you received any battle reports, Sparks? If I decide to take Rapier up into the Gulf I’ll need to know the size and composition of the Jap fleet.’

‘There were no surface ships involved, sir. It was an air attack.’

Hamilton had always been a submarine man. In his opinion a well-handled submarine was a match for any battleship. And, although he had a certain respect for aircraft◦– his experience in the North Sea had taught him to treat them with caution◦– he had never subscribed to the theory that airplanes had made the capital ship obsolete. But if Murray’s information was correct, and there seemed no reason why it should not be, today’s action had witnessed the opening of a new chapter in the history of naval warfare.

Two battleships, with plenty of sea-room in which to maneuver and equipped with modern anti-aircraft guns backed by radar and the latest fire control instruments, had been attacked and sunk by aircraft. The prophets of air power had been proved right in their predictions. From now on, the mighty battle wagons that had ruled the seas for more than a century must yield pride of place to the aircraft carrier.

‘Keep listening out, Murray. And let me know if you get further details. I’ll make an announcement to the ship’s company later on. They might as well know the worst.’

‘There is one other thing, sir.’

‘Yes?’

‘The Japanese have landed in the Philippines. And I gather that things aren’t going too well for the Americans.’

Hamilton thought of the Repulse and Prince of Wales lying on the bottom of the Gulf of Siam. Things were not exactly going too well for the British either….

‘Captain to the Control Room!’

Hamilton’s eyes opened and he was wide awake in an instant. Swinging his legs off the bunk, he thrust his feet into the waiting slippers, and padded quietly through the hatchway into the dim red glow of the control room. It was Rapier’s fourth night on patrol in the search area and he knew it was probably another false alarm. All they’d seen so far were trading junks and a solitary Dutch coaster en route from Canton to Java.

The draught of cool night air sweeping down through the open conning tower hatches, showed that Rapier was still running on the surface and the low rumble of the diesels provided further confirmation that they had not submerged. He wondered what the cause of the panic was◦– if they’d spotted a possible target Mannon should have taken the submarine under the surface immediately. But he hadn’t.

Villiers, Rapier’s fourth hand, was waiting to make his report as the skipper entered the control room.

‘Asdic contact, sir.’

‘Why the hell haven’t we submerged?’ Hamilton demanded.

‘Not reported to the bridge yet, sir,’ Villiers explained. ‘I was waiting for further information from the Asdic operator. Contact not yet positive.’

‘Good God, man! Don’t you realize you’ve put the entire boat at risk?’ He almost pushed the young sub-lieutenant aside as he reached for the intercom.

‘Diving stations! All hands to diving stations! Stand by to dive.’ As he pulled the cover from the bridge voice pipe, the dimly lit control room was suddenly filled with silent men moving to their positions. ‘Clear the bridge, Number One. Emergency dive!’ Reaching down he pressed the klaxon button. He had given Mannon and the look-outs the routine warning. It was up to them to get below before Rapier vanished beneath the waves.

AHOOA… AHOOA… AHOOA.

O’Brien arrived in the engine room as the first squawk of the klaxon blasted through the hull. He had been peacefully dozing in the wardroom when the skipper was called to the control room, but he was wide awake and at his post before the third and last raucous squawk of the alarm had faded.

‘Shut off for diving! Out clutches◦– switches on. Group up. Full ahead both motors.’ The Irishman peered across the narrow compartment to check that Miller had closed down from the diesels. ‘Shut exhaust valve!’ He reached for the intercom. ‘Shut off for diving, sir. Motors grouped up. Standing by.’

Hamilton acknowledged the report and made a mental note to commend O’Brien for the efficiency of his instantaneous reaction.

‘Take her down, Cox’n. Level at thirty feet.’

‘Open main vents. ’Planes hard a’dive!’

‘Stand by to close lower hatch.’

Rapier was diving fast◦– faster than even her usual emergency routine. If Mannon and the look-outs did not move quickly enough, the conning tower would be under the surface before the upper hatch was secured. And that would mean closing the lower hatch and marooning them on deck.

The first of the look-outs slid down the ladder and landed at the bottom with a thud. Mannon’s voice echoed hollowly from inside the empty cavern of the conning tower.

‘Upper hatch shut and clipped!’

The second look-out came down the ladder followed, moments later, by Mannon himself. He had made it with only seconds to spare and his face bore an expression of faint surprise tinged with excitement as if, bearing in mind his civilian profession – he had just found a significant error in a company’s balance sheet.

‘What’s up, sir?’

‘Asdic contact,’ Hamilton told him briefly. In fact, at that precise moment, he knew no more himself. ‘Villiers didn’t pass on the message to the bridge. I’ll deal with him later.’

‘Don’t be too hard on him, sir. He’s not in the Trade like the rest of us. Don’t forget, we only shipped him as a passenger.’

Hamilton had difficulty in repressing a smile. Mannon seemed to have forgotten that less than eighteen months ago he was working as an accountant in a City office under the shadow of St Paul’s and had never seen the inside of a submarine, except on the cinema screen. And yet now he regarded himself as a fully-fledged professional.

Like most regular officers, Hamilton took a conceited pride in his skill and knowledge. It needed years of training and dedication to produce a naval officer◦– and even more to produce a submariner. Yet in a few brief months, as Mannon had so correctly implied, the young lieutenant was already on equal terms with the regulars. Perhaps it was in the blood. Perhaps that’s what made the true submariner. Not years of training, although that was important, nor hours of dedicated study, although that, too, had its place, but the primitive instinct of the hunter◦– of a man who was prepared to gamble his personal survival against the overwhelming odds against him in the deadly arts of underwater warfare.

‘Positive contact, sir,’ Glover reported from the Asdic scanner. ‘Range three miles, bearing three-zero-zero, course south-west, speed 20 knots.’

‘Attack team stand by. See what you can make of the HE, Glover.’

Although the Asdic echoes gave a more accurate range and bearing than the primitive mechanical ears of the hydro-phones, the electronic gadgetry could not analyze the nature of the contact it indicated. And Hamilton needed more than mere range and direction at this stage of the game. No point in hunting a freighter.

Glover moved the sensitive microphone onto the bearing of the Asdic echoes and turned the amplification up to maximum power. Three miles was stretching his equipment to the limit of its range and he had to strain his ears to interpret the vague sounds in his headphones.

‘I’m getting turbines, sir. I’d say a cruiser and perhaps a couple of destroyers. That’s the best I can do until they get closer.’

‘Up periscope!’

It was a routine Hamilton had carried out many times before and yet, despite his achievements on special missions, success had always eluded him when operating under ordinary patrol conditions. Perhaps this time his luck would turn.

The periscope lens was already set to the Asdic bearing. As it emerged above the surface Hamilton’s trained eyes found the fleeting dark shadows of the ships almost immediately◦– three black masses moving at speed against the night horizon, with bow waves that glistened in the moonlight. By sheer chance Rapier was on the perfect interception course and the range was decreasing to his advantage with every passing minute.

‘Down periscope! Attack Team close up. Bow ends stand by!’ The men who made up the attack team moved obediently to their stations◦– Mannon to the diving panel where he could watch the trim and keep an eye on the two planes men, Alistair Scott at the torpedo director, and O’Brien, hurrying in from the engine room to the chart table to enter up the plot. It was a skilled and experienced team and Hamilton knew they would not let him down. If the attack failed, the only person to blame would be himself.

‘Up periscope.’

He guided the lens a fraction to the left to allow for the movement of the target and brought the leading ship into sharp focus. ‘Start the attack! Range – that Bearing – that Blake, the senior electrical artificer, read the figures from the scale engraved into the brass ring encircling the periscope column and passed them back to Sutton who was standing behind him with a slide rule.

‘Green◦– one◦– zero, sir. Range thirty-five hundred.’

‘Course three-two-five, sir. Speed four knots.’

Scott’s torpedo director◦– the fruit machine as it was irreverently known to submariners◦– clicked busily as he fed in the data.

‘Down periscope! Group up main motors. Steer three-zero-zero.’ Hamilton picked up the intercom. ‘Bow ends◦– blow up one, two, three, and four tubes.’

‘Bow ends, aye aye, sir.’

‘Up periscope!’ Despite the quiet calm of the control room Hamilton could feel his heart pounding with excitement as the cruiser came into his sights. Take it easy◦– no hurry. Remember, they don’t know you’re there. Plenty of time for a double check. No point in making silly mistakes. He carefully centered on the cruiser’s pagoda-like bridge structure and moved the handle-bar grip so that the two images of the rangefinder element came together. ‘Range that!’ Blake noted the angle and relayed it to Sutton. ‘Bearing that Hamilton paused for the electrical artificer to read the scale. ‘Down periscope!’ He stepped back as the periscope slid down into its well. ‘Looks like a Mogami class heavy cruiser plus a couple of destroyers. The moon’s out and visibility is good.’ He didn’t add that all they needed was a modicum of luck, but the men in the control room knew his unspoken thoughts. ‘What’s the DA, Alistair?’ he enquired with the casualness of a man asking the bus fare to Aldgate.

‘Twenty-seven Red, sir.’

Hamilton rubbed his nose thoughtfully. No problems there. His slight alteration of course at the beginning of the attack had shown sound judgement.

‘Up periscope.’

Hamilton’s knuckles suddenly whitened as the lens mockingly reflected an empty sea. He scanned to the left but the dark shadows had vanished. Swearing softly to himself he swung the ’scope to the right. Shit!

‘Target moving to starboard◦– away from us. Speed increasing.’ He peered intently through the lens. ‘Now twenty degrees to starboard of old course. What does that make it, Alistair?’

‘Two-nine-five, sir.’

Of all the bloody luck! The enemy ships were now steering an almost identical course to Rapier and, with their superior speed, the range was rapidly lengthening.

‘Director angle for three-degree track angle?’

‘One degree Red, sir.’

‘Down periscope. Open bow caps.’ Hamilton realized the hopelessness of the situation, but he was loath to pass up even an outside chance of sinking a Japanese cruiser. He moved to the monocular attack ’scope at the rear of the control room.

‘Up periscope◦– put me on director angle.’ Blake placed his hands on top of the skipper’s and guided the column onto the critical bearing.

‘On director angle, sir.*

The targets were now moving steadily towards the horizon. Only the cruiser was still in range◦– and then only just. ‘Stand by 1-2-3-4. Prepare to fire….’

He waited until the stern of the cruiser centered in the graticule sights of the attack scope. ‘Fire One… Two… Three… Four! Down periscope. Flood Q. Eighty feet!’

Rapier nosed deeper. Now they could only wait. Perhaps the skipper would be lucky this time, although the expression on his face did not encourage optimism.

‘Torpedoes running, sir,’ Glover reported from the hydro-phones.

No one spoke a word and all eyes went to the sweeping second hand of the control room clock and a dozen brains wrestled with the same arithmetical problem◦– two miles at forty-five knots equals three minutes. If there was no explosion in the next one hundred and. eighty seconds they knew the torpedoes had missed. And sitting quietly at their stations, leaning against the bulkheads, or standing motionless in the center of the tiny claustrophobic compartment, they waited….

It was Hamilton who finally broke the tension. ‘Secure from diving stations.’

‘I suppose we ought to look on the bright side, sir,’ Mannon forced a smile. ‘At least we haven’t had to put up with a depth charge attack. They didn’t even know we were there.’

‘That’s what makes it all the more damnable, Number One,’ Hamilton retorted bitterly. ‘Perfect conditions, a sitting target, and everything in our favor. They say the devil looks after his own and I’m beginning to believe it.’ He straightened up. The attack may have been abortive but it wasn’t the end of the world. ‘Maintain depth and course. Reduce to half speed.’

Mannon walked over to join Hamilton and the navigator at the plotting table. ‘Do you think we should hang about and see if they turn up again, sir?’ he asked.

Hamilton shook his head. ‘No◦– we can’t even be sure they will come back. And we can’t afford to waste time. According to the last radio report the military situation is deteriorating in Hong Kong. We haven’t had much success against the Japanese Navy◦– let’s see if we have more luck with their bloody army!’ He looked up at Scott. ‘Well, what are you waiting for, Pilot? Lay off a course for Hong Kong.’