Эдвин Грей - Diving Stations

LIEUTENANT FORSYTH, Firefly’s executive officer, raised his binoculars with a weary sigh and trained them on the destroyer again. He wondered how much longer Ottershaw was going to be. The Japanese commander had been studiously polite, and the skipper had offered no objections when the destroyer’s motor boat had come alongside to take him across to the Suma. But that had been more than eight hours ago.

‘Have they replied to my last signal, Yeoman?’

‘No, sir. They acknowledged receipt◦– but nothing else.’

‘How many damned signals have we sent now?’

Bartlett consulted the signal log. ‘Seven, sir.’

‘And no replies to a single one of them?’

‘No, sir.’

Forsyth looked towards the narrow entrance to the bay. It was difficult to resist the temptation. His background and training, to say nothing of the age-old traditions of the Royal Navy, urged him to make a break for it and take Firefly through the boom and out into the open sea. And to hell with the Japs if they tried to stop him. But his loyalty to Ottershaw overcame his natural instincts. It wouldn’t be right to abandon the skipper to his fate, and he reluctantly decided to hang on a little longer.

‘They’d blow us out of the water before we were halfway across the bay, sir,’ Bartlett observed flatly, as if reading the officer’s thoughts. Forsyth nodded. The yeoman was right. But they couldn’t sit around waiting much longer. And why the hell didn’t Hong Kong send some assistance?

‘What d’you make of that, sir? Starboard side of the entrance.’

Forsyth welcomed the diversion. At least it took his mind off their present predicament. Putting his binoculars to his eyes he stared seawards towards the entrance. The orange floats of the boom were still bobbing gently on the surface and he could see nothing untoward.

‘Looks normal to me, Jones. What was it?’

‘Couldn’t say for sure, sir. It happened too quickly. There was some sort of disturbance just below the surface. Those bloody floats were bobbing up and down like a Maltese whore on piece-work.’

Forsyth lowered his glasses and shrugged. ‘Probably the tide on the turn◦– it’s just about due, or perhaps a large fish swimming into the bay looking for food. It all seems quiet enough to me.’ He paused for a moment and then made his way across the voice pipe. ‘Send Sub-Lieutenant Peters to the bridge.’

Peters, an RNVR officer and a former Hong Kong shipping agent, bustled up the companionway to the bridge and saluted cheerfully. He’d been involved in similar incidents before as a civilian, and he did not seen unduly worried by the skipper’s enforced absence. While Japan and Britain remained at peace Ottershaw would be quite safe. The Japs might bluff and bluster, but they would take great care not to overstep the mark.

‘Any news, Number One?’

‘Not a damned thing, Sub. What the hell do you think they’re doing to him?’

‘Probably filling him full of booze and trying to make him so drunk he won’t know what’s going on. Then they’ll talk him into a signing a public apology for shadowing the convoy.’

Forsyth did not feel so optimistic. While Peters was probably correct in this particular instance, the gunboat’s executive officer had judged the Japanese character more accurately and he knew they were quite capable of torturing Ottershaw into signing a confession if it suited their purposes. If, and God forbid, war should break out, he hoped and prayed he would never fall into their hands as a prisoner.

‘The bottom’s dropping out of the glass,’ Peters added by way of conversation. ‘And I don’t like the way the clouds are building up to the south-west.’

Forsyth glanced towards the entrance of the bay. The breeze had died away and the air was unnaturally still. And, as Peters had remarked, the sullen coppery sheen of the sky looked distinctly unpromising. He shrugged. ‘Certainly seems like a storm brewing. Perhaps we’d better lay out an extra anchor. I don’t want to get caught on a lee shore.’

‘Looks more like a typhoon than a storm,’ Peters told him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sub. The typhoon season ended a couple of months ago. There’s no point in being alarmist.’

‘Suit yourself,’ the sub-lieutenant shrugged. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never been in England when it’s snowed on Midsummer’s Day. Seasons are all very well in their way◦– don’t rely on them. All the signs point to a typhoon and I ought to know. I’ve lived out here for fifteen years.’ Forsyth looked thoughtful and then, without saying a word, he went into the wheelhouse to check the barograph. The jagged purple trace left by the pen showed the isometric pressure falling rapidly◦– more rapidly than he had ever seen in the whole of his career. He moved across to the synoptic weather chart and studied it carefully. The center of the depression lay to seaward and was clearly approaching at unusual speed. Although he was no meteorological expert, Forsyth could see they were in for a hell of a storm within the next hour or so. He opened the door and went back to the bridge.

‘Weigh out a storm anchor, Chief, and pass the word below to secure all scuttles. Then bring up a deck party and lash down all loose equipment.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’ Johnson glanced up at the threatening sky. ‘Looks like we’re in for a packet.’ He seemed to derive a certain enjoyment from his pessimism.

‘The boilers are still on two hour’s notice, sir,’ Peters reminded the first officer. ‘We’ll need a good head of steam if we’re hit by a typhoon◦– the anchors won’t hold unless we can take the strain on the engines.’

‘I daren’t take the risk, Sub. If the Japs see us raising steam they’ll think we’re going to make a dash for it. Let’s hope we can work up enough pressure when the storm breaks.’

’Officer of the Watch to the starboard side!’

The look-out’s shout brought the discussion to an abrupt end as the two officers hurried to the starboard side of the bridge to investigate. Forsyth peered down at the water. There certainly was something happening. The surface of the sea was heaving violently and streams of air bubbles were rising up from the depths like an evil brew simmering in a witch’s cauldron.

‘Cor!’ breathed the look-out. ‘Looks like a bloody underwater volcano◦– I’ve ’eard about them sort of things in these parts.’

The sub-lieutenant’s explanation of the unexpected phenomena was more prosaic, but no less dramatic in its implication.

‘Good God, sir! It’s a submarine!’

Forsyth hesitated indecisively as the top of the conning tower thrust out of the swirling water. What the hell were the Japs up to now? He wondered whether Firefly ’s bosun would know the pipe for ‘Stand by to repel boarders’ and decided it was highly unlikely.

‘Action Stations! Submarine on starboard beam!’

It was the only order he could think of in the circumstances. But even as he gave it, he knew that the submarine was too close for the guns to bear. The rush of water fell back to a frothing tumult from which emerged the glistening steel plating of Rapier’s conning tower. Viewed from such close quarters, it was almost impossible to identify and it bore little resemblance to the neat silhouettes issued for recognition purposes.

‘It’s okay, sir, she’s one of ours.’

Forsyth did not know how Peters could be so certain, but he was willing to accept his judgement. And, as he ordered Firefly’s crew to fall out from Action Stations, he saw the upper hatch of the submarine swing back and an officer emerge onto the bridge…

Hamilton seemed unaware of the furor he was causing aboard the gunboat. At that moment he was too busy with his own problems. And as the yeoman and look-outs scrambled out onto the bridge he moved to the voice pipe. ‘Start motors and send up the deck party.’