Эдвин Грей - Diving Stations

The dying echoes of the three thunderous explosions were still reverberating back from the sheer north face of Taichee Rock and the screaming protests of the gulls disturbed from their nests added to the confusion. Suma had been struck fair and square amidships and the second torpedo had broken the destroyer in half. The stern section was already sinking beneath the surface and, as he stared at the awful spectacle, Hamilton saw the bows tilt upwards, hang suspended for a few seconds, and then slide back beneath the sea with a sibilant hiss of quenched white-hot steel. Wreckage and bodies bobbed aimlessly in the water and a cloud of steam hung wraith-like above the surface to mark Suma ’s grave.

‘Machine guns to the bridge! Reduce to half-speed!’

MacIntyre and Davidson came up through the hatch clutching their cumbersome Lewis guns and Hamilton sent them to their battle-stations in the port and starboard wings. Then, raising his binoculars, he searched the floating wreckage for survivors. But the torpedoes had done their deadly work almost too efficiently. Suma had gone down in less than half a minute and those members of the crew who survived the first torpedo had died in the water, their ribs smashed and their lungs ruptured by the pressure wave radiating outwards from the second explosion.

‘Boat approaching on port side!’

Hamilton swung round to focus his glasses on a small rowing cutter emerging from the entrance to the lagoon. The sailors on shore had obviously heard the noise of the explosions and were hurrying to the scene in search of survivors.

‘Target red-eight-zero!’ Hamilton shouted to Morgan. ‘Open fire!’

Rapier’s deck gun traversed to port and the layer’s arms pumped like pistons as he reversed the elevation wheel to depress the barrel. The loader slammed the first shell into the breech, closed the block, and pulled down the locking lever.

‘Loaded and ready Chief!’

But Morgan hesitated. Pitching steeply as its bows met the swell of the sea beyond the sheltered waters of the lagoon, the cutter thrust forward as its crew strained on their oars. The boat was less than five hundred yards off the submarine’s port beam and the Welshman’s keen eyes could make out every detail.

‘They’re not armed, sir,’ he shouted up to Hamilton.

Rapier’s captain examined the cutter through his binoculars. There were four men at the oars and the fifth, a petty officer, was at the tiller. Hamilton studied him closely and saw the holstered pistol at his hip.

‘They’re carrying guns, Mister Morgan. Open fire!’

Years of discipline had destroyed Morgan’s initiative. He knew that the men in the cutter were carrying only side-arms. They posed no threat to the submarine and intent on the task of finding survivors, they wen; showing no hostility towards Rapier. He knew too that in his present mood for revenge Hamilton would not rest until every single member of Suma’s crew was dead. But he had been given an order by a superior officer and it was not for him to question it. He turned back to the men working the deck gun.

‘Fire!… Reload!’

The first shell fell short by twenty yards and exploded harmlessly in the sea ahead of the cutter. Morgan saw the petty officer glance at the splash of the bursting shell and then concentrate his attention on the steering again. Ignoring the threat of Rapier’s gun the oarsmen continued to row steadily towards the spot where Suma had gone down.

‘Up ten… fire! Reload!’

The shell exploded with a blinding flash as it struck the starboard gunwale of the cutter. Jagged splinters of red-hot steel scythed through the men bending over the oars and simultaneously, the tiny boat disintegrated. Only the petty officer survived and, as he bobbed to the surface some twenty yards astern, two ugly triangular dorsal fins darted through the water. Hamilton lowered his glasses and leaned his elbows on the conning tower rails as the sea around the struggling man was suddenly ripped into a frenzy of boiling foam. The petty officer let out a single despairing shriek as he vanished from sight and a circle of bright red blood rose to the surface….

‘Coxswain to the bridge! Stand by to transfer steering to upper position.’ Hamilton waited for Ernie Blood to come up through the hatchway and take his position at the helm. ‘Obey telegraphs◦– full ahead together. You can take her into the lagoon, Chief.’

Fifteen minutes later Rapier was snugly berthed under the camouflage netting, with her bow and stern tied up to the makeshift wooden jetty the submariners had constructed the previous month. However, nothing else remained of their carefully prepared hiding place. Both of the bamboo huts had been torn down. The aqueduct which Scott had designed to bring fresh water down from the hill had been destroyed and only the smoldering ashes remained of the wooden crates containing the victuals, stores, and spare parts which had been so laboriously transported from Hong Kong a few weeks earlier.

Hamilton looked at the heartbreaking remains of his labours unemotionally. He consoled his disappointment by admitting it had been a crazy idea from the outset. And yet, although everything had gone wrong, he had no regrets. Without torpedoes, his grandiose plans for a lone marauding sweep of the South China Sea in search of enemy shipping would have to be set aside. And now, deprived of its oil reserves, Rapier had barely enough fuel to retire to a safe base. Tightening the gun belt around his waist, he made his way down the rickety bamboo gangway and joined Mannon on the jetty.

‘O’Brien has found one of Suma’s motorboats hauled up on the beach, Number One, and that means there are still some survivors hiding ashore. I intend to remain here until every last man is dead.’

‘The Japs are trained in jungle fighting, sir,’ Mannon pointed out. He disliked his continual role of devil’s advocate but as Rapier’s executive officer he considered it his duty to underline the difficulties. Hamilton’s unreasoning thirst for vengeance made him blind to any defects in his plans. ‘Most of our lads hardly know how to aim a rifle.’

But Hamilton was not listening. ‘The motorboat suggests there’s an officer with them, and there’s just an outside chance it’s Aritsu.’ He turned to Mannon. ‘How many men can be made available for a search party?’ he asked sharply.

‘Every man in the ship’s company has volunteered for shore service, sir. But as we only had ten rifles aboard I’ve had to prune them down a bit. They’re waiting over by the trees.’

Hamilton strode over and gave the hurriedly constituted landing party a cursory inspection. Individually they looked tough enough and, despite Mannon’s pessimism, he knew that three of them had obtained marksman badges. It was a rough and ready little army, but Hamilton considered it adequate for the task he had in mind. The enemy was unlikely to be better armed and, judging by the size of the destroyer’s diminutive tender, he felt confident he had superiority in numbers. Even so, like most sailors, he felt slightly uneasy at the prospect of fighting ashore. His knowledge of military tactics was limited to a fortnight’s course at Excellent and the uninspiring contents of the Royal Naval Handbook of Field Training ◦– most of which was devoted to the niceties of parade ground drill and ceremonial occasions, although he could vividly recall a bloodthirsty photograph demonstrating ‘withdrawal of bayonet after kill on the ground.’

‘Take five men and search the north hill, Number One. The remainder will go with me to cover the southern section of the island.’