Эдвин Грей - Diving Stations

Rapier twisted like a demented eel, as Blood’s violent evasive action threw the submarine from starboard to port and back again in quick succession. The angry chatter of Burton’s Lewis gun compounded the noisy confusion of bellowing aero-engines and gunfire. It was almost impossible to think and Mannon could not help envying the cool detachment of the skipper and his coxswain, as they fought to keep the submarine out of danger. Now that the deck gun was in action there was nothing left for him to do, and to keep his brain busy, he concentrated on observing the movements of the attacking bombers.

Davidson, Rapier’s gun layer and a veteran of the Norwegian campaign◦– where he had fought a squadron of Stukas almost singlehanded, until his armed trawler had been sunk under his feet◦– followed the Mitsubishi in his sights. A line of ragged smoke puffs punctured the sky◦– each closer to the target aircraft than the last.

The leading bomber wobbled unsteadily as shell splinters pumped into the fuselage and a thin wisp of glycol spumed from beneath the port engine.

‘They’re breaking off the attack, sir,’ Mannon yelled excitedly as the three aircraft sheared away, swooped to wave height, and roared astern of the submarine with their throttles wide open.

Hamilton said nothing. The action of the Japanese pilots had only served to prove his point. He was sorry that Admiral Herbert was not present to witness the flight of the bombers when faced by determined opposition.

‘Stop firing, Number One.’

‘Check, check, check! Cease fire, Chief!’ Mannon had a wide grin on his face as he turned away from the for’ard lip of the conning tower screen. ‘We certainly made the bastards run, sir!’

It was his first taste of surface action. Now that the nervous tension had gone, the acrid smell of burned cordite was like nectar and the excitement left a feeling of intoxication.

Hamilton grunted disinterestedly. Keeping the binoculars firmly pressed to his eyes, he watched the departing bombers clawing for height before turning and regaining formation. Mannon would soon learn to curb his enthusiasm. There was no place for emotion in battle. Killing had to be a question of reflex. With the senses stunned by the noise and paralyzed by the sights and sounds of death and destruction, the professional must continue to function like a finely balanced piece of machinery. Too much adrenalin upset a man’s judgement and led to mistakes. And even the smallest error could spell instant disaster to something as vulnerable as a submarine. Hamilton himself felt neither excitement nor elation at their apparent success. And his senses were still tautly alert, as he watched the aircraft fleeing towards the mainland lurking beneath the northwestern horizon.

‘Shall I tell the gun crew to stand down, sir?’ Mannon asked.

‘Negative, Number One.’ Hamilton lowered his glasses. ‘I want to make quite sure our friends have finished their fun and games first. Tell Morgan to bring up some more ready-use ammo.’

‘Aye aye sir.’

The sharp crackle of cannon fire echoed across the sea and Hamilton moved to the port side. The big Chris Craft launch was zig-zagging wildly as it came under attack, and he could see the Mitsubishis circling over the fishing boat like hornets gathering over their nest.

‘You murdering bloody swine,’ Hamilton swore angrily. He turned to Blood. ‘Bring her round to port, Chief. Steer for the launch. I’m going to sort these bastards out once and for all.’

Mannon hurried to join the skipper on the engaged side of the bridge. Now that the initial excitement of the bombing attack had subsided, the first lieutenant’s old caution reasserted itself. Rapier was making fifteen knots and the launch, swinging in a wide arc to escape the Japanese bombers, was speeding towards the submarine as if seeking the protection of its guns. Picking up his glasses, Mannon carefully examined the twin-screw diesel cruiser.

‘Do you think we ought to get mixed up in it, sir?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘The launch is flying a Portuguese flag.’

‘I don’t care if it’s flying a pair of lace knickers, Number One, I’m not sitting by and watching an innocent fishing boat being shot up by a gang of trigger-happy Japs.’ He moved to the front of the bridge and leaned over the coaming. ‘Stand by, Mister Gunner. Open fire as soon as we’re within range. And let’s see some proper shooting this time!’

As Hamilton turned away, he heard Morgan admonishing his crew in his sing-song Welsh accent. ‘You heard what the Skipper said, me boyos. You’re not using a powder puff to dust their bloody arses. I want you to hit those buggers where it hurts. And if you don’t, I’m going to get the three of you polishing the brass on that gun for the next six months!’

‘Range 1500, Chief! Height 2,000.’

‘Elevation 55!’

‘Fused for 2000.’

‘Breech open…. Load.’

The man at the helm of the launch certainly knew how to handle a boat. As the aircraft dived to renew the attack, he cut speed for a few moments and then, having timed his action to the last second, banged open the throttles of the twin diesel units and turned sharply to starboard. The pilot of the leading aircraft zoomed low across the bows, but the sudden alteration in course had spoilt his aim and he made no attempt to release the bombs. The second aircraft, following on his tail, tilted over on to its starboard wing in an effort to get in a quick burst with its machine guns. For a few seconds the silver fuselage was square in Rapier’s sights.

‘Fire! Reload… Fire!’

Morgan’s second order proved unnecessary. The first shell exploded just below the center of the bomber’s fuselage and the Mitsubishi folded in the middle like a piece of hinged cardboard. Flames burst out from behind the cockpit, the body snapped into two separate pieces, and the burning remains of the aircraft fell into the sea with a hissing splash.

‘Good shooting, lads. Keep it up!’

Mannon said nothing. It had been a brilliant piece of gunnery and he didn’t begrudge Hamilton’s praise. But he could not help wondering how the hell the skipper was going to explain the destruction of a neutral aircraft to the powers-that-be at Hong Kong. A shout from Hamilton interrupted his thoughts.

‘Number One! Tell Murray to radio HK for a rescue boat. And inform them we need air support.’

You’ll be lucky, Mannon told himself, as he made his way to the voice pipe. He could well imagine the effect of Hamilton’s signal at Naval HQ in Hong Kong. It was probably just the pretext the Japanese were waiting for to invade the Colony. The reply, he decided, would be an official raspberry◦– or worse. Lifting the lid of the speaking tube, he relayed the skipper’s orders to the control room.

Rapier was less than a hundred yards away from the launch, as the two remaining aircraft came in with guns blazing to avenge the loss of their comrade. The sharp crackle of cannon fire echoed across the empty sea and the men on the submarine’s bridge ducked instinctively But the Japanese pilots were no longer interested in the British warship. This time they wanted an easy victim that couldn’t hit back. There was a sudden explosion, followed by a loud whoosh of flames as the cannon shells punctured the Chris Craft’s fuel tanks. Within seconds, the motor cruiser was in flames from stern to stern and Mannon stared aghast at the awful spectacle.

‘Stop engines,’ Hamilton ordered calmly. ‘Steer to windward, Cox’n. Stand by fo’c’sle hands to pick up survivors.’

Rapier’s deck guns stopped firing and, as the rumble of the diesels faded away, Blood moved the wheel to starboard. The two bombers had quickly left the scene and vanished into the blue void of the sky. The eerie almost unnatural silence was only broken by the soft slap of the sea against the hull plating, and the angry crackle of the fire as the submarine drifted downwind towards the burning launch.