Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

“How long would it take to release a second, sir?”

“Ten minutes, I would reckon. Have to roll a second one across then hook it up and fuse it before hoisting it over the side. Can’t be quick.”

“Could you work out something faster, Skipper?”

“Could – don’t know if it would be a good idea. Be easy enough to fit brackets around the stern, three of them and stow the bombs in them with the hole for the fuse up and close to hand and just pull a rope to drop them out the bottom. Could use a net, thinking of it, with a cod end, sort of thing, to snatch it open. Thing is, Adams, I ain’t sure I want to. Speed’s the thing.”

The skipper seemed to think his comment was self-explanatory. Christopher showed a blank face.

“Say we’re making six knots – got to go slow for Fanny to listen for what’s about. We start chasing and open up the steam valves – but we ain’t in no bloody destroyer what goes from six knots to twenty in five minutes. Old Heiney is a trawler and takes half an hour to work up from six knots to ten! So, we drop a bomb and she blows at a hundred feet, thereabouts. Say she takes ten seconds to drop – I don’t know how long but it won’t be much more than that and could be less. Six knots is two thousand yards in ten minutes, which is two hundred yards in one minute and thirty-three yards in ten seconds. About a hundred feet, more or less. So we’ve got a hundred pounds of whatever’s inside the bomb, lyddite or something, blowing distant a hundred and down a hundred from our stern. That’s going to shake our guts out without trying to chuck another couple into it. I don’t know about killing submarines but it ain’t likely to do us no favours.”

Christopher borrowed pen and paper for a minute, confirmed the arithmetic.

“Guncotton, I think, not lyddite. Makes no difference. You should not drop at less than twelve knots for safety’s sake. You can’t do that in this vessel. I’ll speak with Captain Hamworthy, Skipper. For the while, drop one only if the word comes and keep your crew forward when doing so. What I will suggest is that we drop one for testing and see what damage it does to you. If it shakes your guts out, which I expect, we’ll take the problem back to Malta.”

Christopher returned to Fanny Brown and took his calculations back to Hamworthy.

“Good chance they will blow rudder and screw off, sir.”

“Bloody near a certainty, Adams. Can’t work them in an echelon, either – do number two in line no favours at all!”

“Arrowhead, sir, three to drop together and hopefully box the submarine in. Might be an idea to lay out the towing gear, sir. Might well need it.”

They closed Hans Heine and informed her skipper of their conclusions. He shouted back that they ought to try one out – he thought she was a strong built boat.

“Not for practice! To big a risk. We’ll give it a try if we hear a sub.”

They entered the Strait of Otranto, the narrow waters between Italy and Albania, and pottered along at three knots, sufficient to maintain headway, listening hopefully. They heard nothing through the first day but partway through the middle watch, close to two in the morning, a lookout on the bridge wing shouted that he could hear a motor revving high in the distance.

The officer of the watch called all hands and Christopher rushed to the bridge, joining Hamworthy and Ephraim, all with their heads cocked and a hand to their ears.

“Submarine charging its battery, sir?”

“Could be, Adams. Where? How far distant?”

Off the starboard bow, somewhere…

“Can’t use a light signal… Drop a boat, sir? Inform the three trawlers and tell them to be ready to launch a bomb?”

Hamworthy nodded.

“Go in person, Ephraim. Tell them to be ready to make full speed. In about an hour, I will fire star shell and then open up with the main armament. They are to advance and drop where they see the submarine go down if they don’t spot any hits. Chances are they won’t, firing in the night at a tiny target.”

Ephraim nodded and trotted off to his boat.

“Mr Adams, put together a boarding party. Say six men with rifles. If possible, take her over. Try to lay your hands on her confidential books if you can get aboard and inside her.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It struck Christopher as a suicide mission. He had no objections to that. He strapped a pistol to his waist, loaded it and settled to wait, six seamen behind him.

“How long does it take to charge batteries, sir?”

“Buggered if I know, Adams.”

“Nor me. A few hours, I suppose. Bloody daft place to choose for it – narrow waters off a major naval base. Must have no choice in the matter – I expect they have to charge every night, without fail. Not my idea of fun!”

“Wouldn’t get me down in one of those bloody things, Adams!”

They waited and listened and decided the submarine was coming slowly closer. Ephraim returned.

“I ordered them to use their four inch if we opened fire, sir.”

“Good idea. Should have told you that myself.”

The lookout called quietly.

“Light, sir. Very faint. About two hundred yards, sir.”

They peered and agreed there was the tiniest glimmer.

“Taking a smoke, do you think, Adams? If they are that close, they are bound to spot us. Shoot, Mr Barclay!”

A single star shell and then common shell from the four point seven and twelve pounder that would bear. The bridge Maxims opened up as soon as they could see.

“Over… Under… Close alongside… Close… Hit!”

The trawlers made their slow approach, four inchers busy.

“Cease fire!”

The trawlers were too close for safety.

“That’s a hit from their four inch, sir. She’s not submerging, must be damaged. Hans Heine is going to hit her… He’s ramming, sir!”

There was a great crunch as the trawler’s reinforced steel bow hit and rode up over the submarine’s hull, forcing the boat onto its side.

“She’s taking water, sir. She’s going.”

“Star shell, Mr Barclay.

The light was just adequate to show the submarine sinking stern first and on her side. She slipped away quickly.

“No survivors in the water, sir.”

“Only one way out and the water was flooding down the conning tower. Poor sods!”

“Remind me not to volunteer for submarines, sir.”

“Yeoman, light signal Hans Heine. Condition report.”

A short delay and the trawler responded.

“Minor damage to bows. Reinforced for Arctic ice.”

“Make thanks and congratulations. Message to wireless. Report C-in-C Malta. ‘Fanny Brown and flotilla sunk one submarine by shellfire and ramming – time and position from Navigator – returning Valetta to make good damage’.”

The bridge messenger took the details from Christopher and trotted off to the wireless cabin.

“Close trawlers.”

The three were close together, celebrating, they supposed. Captain Hamworthy took his speaking trumpet.

“Returning Malta. Follow Fanny Brown. Did you see number or name on the submarine?”

“Austrian, sir. She had the double-headed eagle painted on the side of the conning tower. Nothing else.”

“Well done! What speed can you make?”

“Probably six knots, sir. There is a slight leak to the bows, would not wish to push faster.”

The leak remained no more than trivial and the second day saw the flotilla in Valetta harbour, Hans Heine taken immediately into the yard.

The Admiral was not displeased with their performance.

“Killed a submarine! Well done. There have been losses to subs and we needed to hit back. Trouble is, we need to sink another dozen at least. You did well, Hamworthy, but we still have no idea of the value of depth bombs and hydrophones.”