Down The Hatch (8 page)

The passage of time was marked by the changing of the watches. Beards grew longer and more unkempt until the control room took on the appearance of a depression bread-line. The bread itself was harder and the slices grew smaller--as the crusts went mouldy and were cut off. The submarine ticked over in a somnolent state similar to a mass hibernation.

Seahorse
’s patrol position lay across a main shipping route and The Bodger stood at the periscope and watched the big tankers come up over the horizon, their huge slab sides and superstructures as big as blocks of flats gleaming white in the sunlight. The Bodger practised attacks on them. They made perfect targets, steaming on steady unalarmed courses, the massive hydrophone effect of their propellers pounding over
Seahorse
’s sonar. They seemed quite unaware of a submarine’s presence. If any of them ever noticed a suspicious flash from the sea as the sun caught the revolving glass of the periscope they showed no sign of it. Some of them passed less than a quarter of a mile from
Seahorse
and The Bodger was often unable to see anyone on watch on the bridge at all.

On the fifth day, The Bodger became concerned about the lack of contacts and moved to the extreme westward of
Seahorse
's area. The Bodger reasoned that the expected Task Force would assemble far out in the Atlantic to the westward and move eastward towards Ushant. A signal at midnight from ComSubPink confirmed The Bodger’s theory. By dawn on the sixth day The Bodger was waiting on the westward edge of his area. It was, appropriately, the Midshipman who made the first sighting.

The Midshipman looked very closely before he mentioned it to Wilfred. He could not afford another mistake. If this turned out to be a fishing vessel or a floating spar of wood, he would never live it down.

“Number One, would you come and have a look, please? I think I can see the mast of a destroyer! “

Wilfred was at the periscope in one bound.

“O.K. I’ve got it. Call the Captain! “

The Bodger was delighted.

“That’s well done, Mid. That’s a good sighting. It’s a destroyer all right, large as life. I can just see the tip of his funnel as well. We’re fine on his port bow. No, he’s just altered towards. But he’s still a long way away. Number One, pipe ‘Attack team will be required in ten minutes’ time’.”

Leading Seaman Gorbles, the sonar watchkeeper, had been giving negative reports in a regular monotone voice. Suddenly, his voice went up a semitone.

“Possible H.E., bearing two-seven-zero. Faint transmissions on the bearing.”

The Bodger was jubilant. “That’s us! Blood for supper! Let’s have a butchers.”

The Bodger took the second pair of earphones and listened as Leading Seaman Gorbles quartered the sea with sweeps of his set. The Bodger could hear the unmistakable throbbing of the destroyer’s hydrophone effect, known in sonar parlance as “H.E.”, and the eerie pinging transmissions of its asdic set. Leading Seaman Gorbles had already begun his long recital of new hydrophone effects and bearing changes, couched in the esoteric dialect of the sonar world, which would continue until all the sounds had faded and the sea was empty once more.

“. . H.E. louder, two-seven-two, moving right. Revolutions one-two-zero, classified turbine. Transmissions on the bearing, transmission interval varying. Second H.E., two-seven-nine, transmissions varying. . . .”

The destroyers were still searching without contact. While their transmissions remained random and disconnected, a submarine could assume that it had not yet been detected. The Bodger went back to the periscope.

“It’s them all right. I can see them now. It’s two destroyers and there’s something else behind them. . . . Can’t see what it is, but it’s a lot of ship! And more of them. . . . My God a whole bloody forest of masts! It’s the Task Force, not a doubt about it.”

It was indeed the vanguard of the Task Force, spread out over a front of more than thirty miles. The Task Force had been assembling for the past two days, the earliest arrivals killing time in refuelling, carrying out asdic sweeps and narrowly avoiding collisions.

The main striking element of the Task Force was the two aircraft carriers H.M.S.
Great Christopher
and the U.S.S.
Little Richard
.
Little Richard
was almost three times as big as
Great Christopher
and was the largest warship the world had ever seen. Rumours of her fantastic size had even percolated as far as
Seahorse
and the messes were buzzing with sailors’ yarns about her, that she was so big that the Captain went round Sunday divisions in a Grand Prix Ferrari, that her hangars were so large that she carried two squadrons of B.52s, that she was so long that there was a bus service from one end of her to the other, and that her flag deck was so high that her signalmen wore oxygen masks. By any standards she was a formidable ship. The Bodger was anxious to make her acquaintance.

Little Richard
was only the hub of a vast armada made up of
Great Christopher
and four smaller carriers, five guided-missile cruisers, three orthodox cruisers, seven escort and radar picket groups, and a fleet train of four tankers and a supply ship.

Occupying last place in the Task Force was the motor yacht
Istagfurallah
, the property of an oil-bearing Sheikh. She was present quite by chance, her owner only hearing of “Lucky Alphonse” through his sailing master who was given complete details of the exercise in a Naples bar. The Sheikh had arrived at the assembly point first and had courteously greeted each fresh arrival by dipping his ensign, the house flag of San Remo casino, and by a display of fireworks.
Istagfurallah
had passed unchallenged because each new captain who saw her had decided that she must have been included in an Amendment he had not yet received. Her presence was in fact appreciated, if only for the firework display she provided every night. Her only other quirk was her habit of hoisting inexplicable signals according to the passing whim of the Sheikh. At the present moment she was flying “Am preparing to repel boarders” and a small white pennant inscribed in gold with a verse of the Koran.

By breakfast time, the major units had completed fuelling, the escort groups were in position, and the Task Force moved off on an easterly course.
Istagfurallah
flying the International signal “You are standing into danger”.

Ten miles ahead, and directly in the path of the Task Force lay S.555, Exercise Callsign: Eskimo Napoleon, H.M.S.
Seahorse
(Lieutenant-Commander R. B. Badger, D.S.C., R.N.).

Watching the Task Force’s advance, The Bodger felt like a bandit waiting to ambush a ponderous wagon train.

“. . Four, five, six escorts. And behind them two carriers. Name of a name. . . . That’s the biggest carrier I’ve ever seen! It’s. . . . It’s indecent! They’re not even zig-zagging. Nearest escort is . . . let’s see . . . four miles away. God, talk about Johnny-Head-In-Air! You’d thing they were out for a Sunday afternoon jolly. It’s always the same with these frigates. Give them a fine afternoon off Portland with the First Eleven up in the Asdic Office and they’re good kids. But you wait until they’ve been at sea a few days and they’ve had a bit of rough weather and there’s any old Joe Bloggs on the set and then you see a difference! They wouldn’t know a submarine if it came up and asked them for a light. . .”

“Periscope’s been up fifteen seconds, sir,” said Wilfred.

“Right. Let’s have another listen.” The Bodger donned the earphones.

By now the attack team had closed up and were waiting for the attack to begin. The control room was crowded with men standing by instruments, plots and counters to help The Bodger with his attack.

“That’s a funny H.E.” The Bodger said.

“I think he’s got a chipped propeller, sir,” said Leading Seaman Gorbles. “I can’t get a rev. count on him. He’s staggering his revs.”

“Dead crafty,” said The Bodger.

The Bodger took the periscope again.

“Now here’s a character who looks as though he knows what he’s doing. I do believe it’s our friend with the chipped prop. Yes, it must be. Well, here goes. Bring all tubes to the action state. Stand by for the first range and bearing of the target. The target is
Little Richard
. There can’t be anyone else that size. . .”

With the first range and bearing of
Little Richard
, the stop watches were starting, the first situation put on the fire control plot and the first entry made in the attack narrative. The attack was under way. Meanwhile, The Bodger returned to the ship with the intriguing propellers.

“I don’t like the look of this man. He’s got the attack flag at the dip. He’s got a sniff of us. Ah, he’s turned away. His pennant number is F.787. Somebody get out the exercise bridge card and see who that is.”

“It’s H.M.S.
Windfall
, sir,” said Wilfred. “Frigate converted from a destroyer, sir.”

“Who’s her captain?”

“Captain J. A. S. Persimmons, D.S.O. and Bar, D.S.C. and Bar, R.N., sir.”

“Black Sebastian!”

The Bodger put up the periscope handles with a snap.

“I’d forgotten he was in this exercise! “

The Bodger caught Wilfred’s eye.

“
That
,” he said sombrely, “puts a different complexion on it
altogether
. With Black Sebastian in the hunt this is not going to be as easy as I thought.’

“Black Sebastian!”

The control room echoed the words. So might souls abandoned in hell have whispered the syllables of Prince Lucifer’s name.

Captain Jasper Abercrombie Sebastian Persimmons, D.S.O*., D.S.C*., R.N., known in and out of the submarine service as Black Sebastian, was a living justification of the principle of setting a thief to catch a thief. An ex-submariner himself, he had become the finest anti-submarine captain afloat. His knowledge of submarines and their capabilities and his insight into the mind and thoughts of a submarine captain made him a deadly opponent.

There had often been speculation inside the submarine service on the cause of Black Sebastian’s return to general service. The popular theory was that the number of submarine officers Black Sebastian returned to general service through nervous breakdowns became too great a drain on the submarine service’s manpower.

Whatever the reason, Black Sebastian now hated submariners with the unreasoning, implacable hatred of a renegade for his former companions. His hatred had made his perceptions keener. Just as Captain Ahab, with almost supernatural accuracy, could foretell the presence of Moby Dick, so Black Sebastian, by nothing more than the pricking of his thumbs, could feel the presence of a submarine. “I can
see
a periscope at five miles,” he once said, “and I can
smell
a snort at ten.”

It was no idle boast. Black Sebastian had proved it again and again, flushing a submarine from cover where his rival escort captains had drawn blank. Now, as he swept across the van of the Task Force, Black Sebastian sensed the familiar tingling which told him he was close. Although his asdic operator had only caught a fleeting contact and had been unable to classify it, Black Sebastian knew in his bones that he was getting warm.

Sixty feet down and three miles to starboard, The Bodger was well aware of his danger.

“Sonar, give me constant reports on that H.E. Designate Black Sebastian.”

“Designate Black Sebastian, sir, roger. Black Sebastian, three-five-five, moving rapidly right, transmissions varying.” The Bodger’s attack was already nearing completion. The attack team had re-created from the stream of bearings and ranges The Bodger had given them a plan picture of what The Bodger could see through the periscope. They had also made predictions and deductions which The Bodger could not see and fed them into the calculation. Now, the final firing bearings were approaching solution. “Black Sebastian fading, zero-zero-five.”

“He’ll be back,” said The Bodger. “Bugger him. Up periscope.”

An attack on a task force through a defending screen was the supreme test of a submarine captain’s skill and judgment. It was also a severe strain on his temper. Captains had been known to trample members of their attack teams underfoot and physically to assault their trimming officers if the periscope dipped below the surface for an instant. With such captains, an attack was such excellent entertainment that the sailors who were not in the attack team drew lots for the privilege of standing in the passageway whence they could hear the sound-track. The Bodger was using the smallest periscope for periods of five seconds, just long enough to take one all-round look and a range and bearing of the target. While the periscope was down, The Bodger paced the control room, crossing from the periscope to the plot, from the plot to the sonar room, and from the sonar room back to the periscope, executing as he went a nervous, jerking hop and jump, like an abbreviated Hungarian mazurka. He wiped the palms of his hands on the seat of his trousers each time before seizing the periscope handles.

“Bodger Agonistes,” murmured Dagwood.

The Bodger was in a perfect attacking position, if the Task Force maintained its present course. He had no need to manoeuvre to close the track, nor was there any danger of him being overrun. He was like a swordsman who need do nothing except allow his opponent to run upon his weapon.

“Surely they must zig soon. I’m bloody certain Black Sebastian got a sniff of us.”

“Black Sebastian faded. Last bearing zero-two-zero.”

“I wonder what that crafty old bastard’s up to now?”

Black Sebastian was huddled on the starboard wing of his bridge, scowling at the sea. He was a very tall man with a hooked nose and a broad black beard. His complexion was pale and his eyes shadowed in deep sockets and he had the pointed ear-tips and arched eyebrows of a Rubens satyr, but his face lacked the same jolly devilment. His whole appearance suggested a powerful but hostile personality. As he leaned over the rail and studied the disposition of the Task Force, he looked like the reincarnation of a medieval torturer, or one of those terrible figures of the Inquisition who would eat a good dinner and go downstairs to watch their servants with fire and rack extort a recantation.