Эдвин Грей - Diving Stations

‘Steer one point to port!’

‘One point to port, sir,’ Mannon acknowledged. ‘How are we doing?’

‘Fine,’ Hamilton told him laconically, as another cascade of freezing water swept over the bridge. ‘How are things below?’

‘Mustn’t grumble, sir. At least we’re not getting wet.’

Hamilton knew that the first officer was lying. Submarines were not designed to ride on the surface in severe storms and he knew only too well what conditions would be like below deck. The interior of a submarine was no place for a queasy stomach, with the hatches secured and the cramped atmosphere reeking of diesel oil, human sweat and stale vegetables. And, in bad weather, the sour smell of vomit added a new dimension of horror to the already revolting stench.

Hamilton’s hands were bleeding, his face was raw from salt burns and he was drenched to the skin. But the hardships that he was enduring on the exposed bridge was nothing when compared to the misery of the men cooped up in the Rapier’s iron hull. They were the real heroes of the submarine service.

‘Can you lend a hand, Nick?’ Ottershaw yelled from the other end of the bridge.

Fighting against the motion of the boat, Hamilton half slid, half-stumbled, across the flooded deck and knelt down, beside the gunboat skipper. Jack Drury, Rapier’s signal’s yeoman, was barely conscious and blood was trickling from an ugly gash in his forehead, where he had struck the compass binnacle.

‘We’ll have to get him below,’ Ottershaw shouted above the shriek of the wind. ‘His leg’s broken.’

Hamilton felt Drury jerk with pain as he reached forward to confirm Ottershaw’s diagnosis. He glanced up and shook his head.

‘He’ll have to stay here, Harry,’ he said flatly. ‘I’m not opening the top hatch until I have to. An agile man could be through the hatchway in ten seconds and we could probably get it open and shut again before the next sea broke over the bridge. But Drury’s a dead weight. And he’s a big man into the bargain. It would take all of thirty seconds, perhaps even a minute, to get him inside. And I can’t afford to take the risk of flooding the Control Room. Try to make the poor sod comfortable and then lash him on to the periscope standard. We don’t want him washed overboard.’

Leaving Ottershaw to cope with the injured yeoman, Hamilton groped his way towards the for’ard section of the bridge to check the bearing of the destroyer. Suma was now barely two hundred yards away and he could see her anchor chains straining against the mounting pressures of the wind and sea. He moved to the voice pipe.

‘Number One◦– send Morgan up with a deck party. And tell them to rig life lines. It’s sheer bloody murder up here and I don’t want any more accidents.’ He paused as Rapier plunged into a trough and rose clear. ‘We’ll be passing inside the lee of the destroyer in exactly one minute. When I give the shout, I want Morgan’s party topside at the double. Then stand by to receive Drury◦– his leg’s busted and he’s unconscious.’

‘Understood, sir. Deck party closed up. Ready when you are.’

‘Stand by to shut down engines. Stand by motors.’

Hamilton had waited as long as he dared before making the critical transfer of power and he knew that the decision could not be deferred any longer. The primitive gear-box of a submarine did not permit it to go astern on its diesel engines and Rapier would have to rely on her electric motors for the delicate maneuvering that lay ahead. It meant a heavy drain on the batteries, but in the circumstances, there was no alternative. The submarine steadied suddenly as she came under Suma’s lee.

‘Now.’

Hamilton saw the upper hatch swing open and, a moment later, Morgan’s head thrust into view. Grasping the lipped rim of the hatchway, the gunner’s mate heaved himself upwards, swung his legs onto the deck, and immediately turned to help the next man through the narrow opening. Within thirty seconds, all four members of the deck party were on the bridge and two of them hurried aft to help Ottershaw lift the unconscious yeoman into the hatchway.

‘Stop engines! Clutches out◦– switches on! Half astern both motors. Stop! Slow ahead together… stop!’

Rapier hung inside the protective lee of Suma ’s starboard beam just long enough for Drury to be carried below.

‘Hatch shut, sir!’ Morgan shouted.

‘Full astern both motors… steady as she goes. Full starboard rudders.’ Hamilton reached for the loud hailer and watched the bows swing in a semi-circle to bring the submarine’s stern in line with Suma ’s bows. Ottershaw, now freed from the burden of looking after the signaler, came for’ard to join him.

‘I must be imagining things, Nick. But I’d swear the wind is moderating◦– and veering to the south.’

‘You’re quite right, Harry. That’s why I was in such a bloody hurry to get across the bay. Let’s hope Aritsu is too damned scared to notice.’ He put the microphone of the loud hailer to his mouth and pushed down the thumb switch, ‘Ahoy, Suma I Do you hear me! Can you get a line to my stern?’

A fo’c’sle party, wearing black oilskins that flopped like gigantic bats in the wind, appeared in the destroyer’s bows and Hamilton stared astern through the driving rain and flying spray as he passed steering instructions to the helmsman in the control room below. Aritsu was standing on the starboard wing of the destroyer’s bridge with an old fashioned megaphone in his hand. He seemed too intent on the submarine’s careful approach to notice the almost imperceptible improvement in the weather conditions.

A line snaked down from Suma’s bows, struck the fantail of the submarine with a loud clatter, and slid back into the sea before Morgan’s men could grab it and haul it aboard.

‘Try again, Suma.’

This time, the line landed close to the deck party huddled in the stern of the submarine and two of the men seized it and began dragging it back towards the conning tower. Miller and Davidson came to their assistance, while Morgan encouraged them to haul away like a regatta tug-of-war team. The after deck was almost continuously under water as the sea pounded against the ballast tanks and threw white swirling foam over the hull. A heavy six-inch twin towing wire was attached to the line and Morgan’s men heaved and swore as they drew it around the front of the conning tower and then began dragging it back towards the small auxiliary capstan above the engine room hatch.

A large wave smashed against the windward beam of the submarine and Rapier rolled to starboard. Luckily, the deck party managed to hang on to their life lines as they vanished beneath a roaring wall of ice-cold water. And, as Rapier swung back again, they emerged from behind the conning tower and quickly shackled the hawser in position.

‘All secure, sir!’

Hamilton pushed the microphone to his mouth. ‘Ahoy, Sumal Stand by to take the strain. Make five knots when I tell you◦– and let go your anchors!’

‘Aritsu won’t be very popular if he loses his anchors,’ Ottershaw grinned at Hamilton.

‘Probably not– but I daresay he’d rather lose his anchors than his ship.’

Holding the microphone against his chest to shield it from the rain, Hamilton moved to the voice pipe. ‘Slow ahead together, Number One.’

‘Slow ahead aye aye, sir.’

He watched the towing wire lift slowly out of the water as Rapier began to creep forward.

‘Suma.’

‘Standing by, Rapier.’

‘Make five knots. Let go anchors. Port your helm!’ Hamilton waited for the acknowledgements from the destroyer’s bridge and then bent over the voice pipe. ‘Steer six degrees to port, Number One. Increase to half-speed.’