The sudden changes startled the crew from their semi-coma. Corporal Lambert slid down from the gun turret into the cabin and started forward; the radio-operator woke up with a jerk. The pilot turned in his seat, his young face crimson with excitement.
“Submarine!” he yelled. “Up on the surface, about two miles dead ahead of us!”
The corporal nodded, and slid back into his turret; he had the gun to tend. The pilot turned feverishly to the chart. In spite of the excitement, he must mind his orders. Area SM, up to 1530…. He shot a glance at the clock upon the panel in front of him; it was 1539. They had turned at 1527—twelve minutes on the new course since they turned. Say twenty-six sea miles. He slapped a ruler down upon the pencilled line that he had drawn upon the chart. They were in Area SM still. Area TM was a good two miles over to the west.
It was all right to attack.
In spite of having throttled back the engines the machine had climbed to nearly two thousand feet, thickly enveloped in the cloud. The speed was down to less than a hundred knots. The pilot pressed the stick a little, and swung round for a quick glance up and down the cabin. In the gun turret the corporal stooped down to look forward at him, and held one thumb up cheerfully. Chambers turned forward, settled into his seat, and pressed the machine into a dive.
She gained speed quickly. She broke from the clouds, diving forty degrees from the horizontal. The pilot looked round frenziedly to find the submarine.
He saw her still upon the surface, well over to his left, a thin pencil on the dark grey, corrugated sea.
The rush of air along the windscreen rose to a shrill whine. He could not drop his bombs upon a turn and hope to hit; it was essential to come down on her in a straight dive. He muttered: “Damn and blast!” and swung the monoplane in its dive over to the right. He leaned forward and tripped two switches on the bombrelease control, selecting a stick of four of his small bombs and making the firing-switch alive.
He shot a glance at the air-speed indicator. Beneath the notice which said, SPEED MUST NOT EXCEED 200 KNOTS IN DIVE, the needle flicked between 230 and 240 upon the dial. He glanced again at the submarine and judged his moment, then swung the monoplane towards her in a turn to port, easing the wheel towards him very slowly as she did so.
The submarine loomed up ahead of him. She was nearly bow on to him, a good position for attack, but one which hid the sides of the conning-tower from his view. He concentrated desperately upon identification marks. He dared not bomb unless he could see something to distinguish enemy from friend. He could see no one in the conning-tower; already she was lower in the water, and she was moving ahead. She was going down.
British submarines carried identification marks upon the hydrovanes. He could see the hydrovanes ploughing in a smother of foam as she moved ahead in the rough sea; they were turned to press her down. In the split seconds of the final stages of his dive he watched in an agony for the colour of the metal in the foam. Then the trough of a wave came, deeper than the rest. For an instant the port forward hydrovane was bare of foam, streaming with water that showed grey paint underneath.
He cleared his mind of that, and for less than a second concentrated all his being upon levelling the machine off. Then, as the bow of the submarine passed out of view beneath the bottom of his windscreen, the gloved hand on the throttles moved to the firing-switch and jabbed it firmly. The first stick of four bombs fell away as the monoplane swept forty feet above the low grey hull.
The machine rocketed up to three or four hundred feet, and the pilot threw her round in a steep turn. Behind him he heard the rattling clatter of the gun as Corporal Lambert blazed away at the steel hull. Then the submarine swung round into the pilot’s view again as the monoplane banked steeply round her.
One of the bombs had landed near the foot of the conning-tower, or on it; the superstructure was all wreathed in smoke. A stick-like object, mast or periscope, had fallen and was poking sideways from the conning-tower; the pilot got an impression that the submarine had stopped her engines. The deck was awash by this time; she was quickly going down.
There was no time to be lost. He had not hurt her seriously, and she could still submerge beyond his reach. He swung his body brutally on the controls and forced the monoplane towards her in a dive again. He leaned forward quickly to the switchbox and selected four more of his little bombs and one of his two big ones.
Again she loomed up very quickly in the windscreen. He pulled out of his dive just short of her and jabbed the bomb switch viciously. There was an instant’s pause, followed by the clatter of the gun again, and the detonation of the bursting bombs behind him. Then came a more thunderous explosion as the big bomb with delay action burst under water.
Again the pilot forced his machine round in a violent turn. As soon as the submarine came in view he saw a change. She was higher in the water than when he had last seen her over the greater portion of her length, but the stern was down. Beside the stern there was a great subsiding column of water from the explosion of his big bomb: a great mass of foam and bubbles was showing all round her.
He thrust the monoplane into a dive at her again. She was now end on to him, badly damaged; he was attacking from the stern. He selected the last of his big bombs and four more little ones, and came at her once again. As the stern passed below his windscreen he pushed hard against the button on the throttle-box.
He rocketed up from her, and turned. His heart leaped as she came in view. There was a great column of water close beside her, rather forward of the conning-tower; the bow was rising from the water. As he watched, fascinated, the bow rose clean out of the water, grey and dripping, like the nose of a monstrous, evil reptile. It was wholly repulsive, a foul, living thing.
He stared at it for a moment, circling round. Suddenly a jet of brown liquid gushed out from the nose, falling into the sea and completing the illusion of a reptile. Chambers stared down with disgust and loathing.
It had ceased to signify a ship to him, ceased to have any human meaning. It was something horrible, to be destroyed.
His upper lip wrinkled as he forced his machine round. From the look of the thing he guessed that it was holed: he leaned forward and pressed down all the remaining switches on the selector-box. As he swept over it again he pressed his bomb switch for the last time, and the whole of his remaining bombs left the machine.
He swung the monoplane round more gently this time; he could do no more. When the target came in sight again the bow was practically vertical: the conning-tower was well submerged. The sea was boiling all around her, in part from the explosion of his bombs and in part from the air that now was blowing from the hull. Slowly the bow slid down into the sea. The light was fading; it was too dark to make out much detail. Now there were only six feet left above the water.
Now there were three feet only. Now just the tip.
Now it was gone.
There was nothing left except a great circle of white, oily water on the grey, rough sea.
He relaxed for a moment. The wireless-operator was by his side, looking over his shoulder through the windscreen. Chambers said: “That’s finished him.”
Above the roaring of the engines the boy yelled: “Good show, sir. First in the squadron!”
The pilot nodded. “It’s probably the one that got the Lochentie!” he shouted.
He turned and looked behind him. The corporal was leaning down from the gun ring, crimson with pleasure, beaming all over his face, and holding up both thumbs. The pilot grinned and held a thumb up in response, then turned back to his work again.
At some time in the incident he felt that there had been a ship. He circled round for a minute, peering into the gathering night. At last he saw her. She was a trawler, painted grey, in naval service. She was about three miles to the south of him, headed towards the scene at her full speed.
He swept low over her and circled round; from the little bridge above the chart-house an officer was waving at him. He waved back in reply and flew
ahead of her, to dive on to the scene to show her where it was. There was nothing there to see now except a circle of oily water with a great mass of white bubbles coming up. The trawler would buoy the place and pick up any wreckage that there was.
He flew back to the trawler and stayed with her for ten minutes, till she reached the spot. Then, in the dusk, he set a course for home.
The corporal left the gun turret and made his way along the cabin to the pilot. He was bursting with pride. “Poor old sergeant, he won’t half be mad when he hears about this,” he shouted. “Fair kicking himself, he’ll be.”
Jerry broke into a smile. “Too bad he wasn’t with us,” he shouted in reply. “After all this time.”
“Serve him right. Shouldn’t go catching colds.”
He squatted down behind the pilot, staring ahead through the windscreen. Presently they crossed the land: ten minutes later they approached the aerodrome. The corporal wound the under-carriage down as the machine swept low over the hangars: as they crossed the tarmac they saw men stop and stare at them.
The corporal laughed. “They’ve seen our bomb racks empty,” he said gleefully. “That’s what they’re all looking up at.”
The pilot brought the machine round to land; the flaps went down. The hedge slid below them and the ground came up; Chambers pulled heavily upon the wheel and the machine touched and ran along. It slowed and came to rest; Chambers looked round behind and turned into the hangar.
It was practically dark when he drew up upon the tarmac. One or two aircraftsmen came running with unwonted energy; the corporal hurried down the cabin and jumped out of the machine.
One of the men said: “What happened to the bombs, Corp?”
Corporal Lambert swelled with pride. “Fell on a bloody submarine, my lad,” he said. “Proper place for ’em, too.”
The news ran from mouth to mouth. “Did you sink it, Corp?”
“Where did it happen?”
“Were there any ships about?”
“Did any other aircraft have a hand?”
“Did you get fired at?”
The crowd swelled quickly round the corporal. “Officer sunk it, lads,” he said. “Mr. Chambers. I didn’t do nothin’ but fire the bloody gun, and that’s no flaming use against a sub.”
“Was it the one what sunk that ship what was torpedoed yesterday, Corp?”
“I can’t tell you that, lad. Officer thinks it was.”
Chambers got down from the machine, clutching his maps. There was a thin, spontaneous cheer from the crowding men. He was embarrassed, and stood there in his flying clothes, blushing a little, taller than most of them.
“Thanks awfully,” he said awkwardly. “We had a bit of luck this afternoon. Pity Sergeant Hutchinson couldn’t have been with us.”
They cheered him again, more loudly this time. He pushed his way through them and went towards the pilots’ room; a dozen of them followed after him. It was practically dark. Hooper came running out to meet him. “Jerry—is this true?”
“True enough, old boy,” he said. “We plastered it good and proper.”
“Did you sink it?”
“Sunk it all right. It went right up on end; the bow was vertical.”
“Bloody good show! Did anybody else see it?”
“There was a trawler about three miles away. I showed her where it happened.”
They went together to the pilots’ room. There was a surge of pilots round Chambers as he got out of his clothes, with a volley of questions. He changed in a babel of voices and discussion; in the middle his squadron-leader, Peterson, came in.
There was a momentary hush. The squadron-leader said: “Is this true, that you got a submarine?”
The young pilot straightened up. “Yes, sir. I don’t think there was any doubt about it.”
He told his tale again. The squadron-leader said: “Well, that’s all right. I’ll just ring Dickens, and see if he wants to see you now, or after you’ve made out your report.”
He lifted the telephone, but the wing-commander’s line was engaged.
Hooper said: “I vote we go and break open the bar.”
The surged over to the mess in a body, gathering other officers to them as they went. The news spread through the camp like a running flame. It was dark by this time, and work was over for the day. In the anteroom Chambers stood flushed, and embarrassed, in the middle of a crowd of officers, a pint pot of beer in his hand, besieged by questions.
In the babel of talk and congratulations the mess waiter pushed into the crowd. “Wing-Commander Dickens on the telephone,” he said. “He wants Squadron-Leader Peterson and Mr. Chambers over in his office.”
Chambers drained his can, and followed the squadron-leader out of the room. They put on overcoats. Outside the night was very dark, with a thin drizzle of rain.
The groped their way over to the wing-commander’s office with some difficulty; neither had thought to bring a torch. In the corridor they paused for a minute and tapped on the door. Dickens said: “Come in.”
He was alone, seated at his desk. He got up slowly as they entered. He said gravely: “Good evening.”
He turned to Chambers. “I understand you sank a submarine this afternoon?”
The young man was a little daunted by the heavy manner of the wing-commander. Surely there could be nothing wrong? He said: “I attacked one, sir. I think she sank all right.”
The wing-commander took a paper from his desk and handed it to him. “This signal has just come in.”
Puzzled, the squadron-leader looked over his shoulder and they read it together. It was despatched from trawler T.383. It read:
Submarine destroyed by Anson aircraft 1541 area SM/TM. Recovered floating two British naval caps, one British naval jumper, two empty packets Players’ cigarettes. Returning to port immediately. Position buoyed.
There was dead silence in the office.
Dickens said heavily: “I’m afraid one of our own submarines is overdue. H.M.S. Caranx isn’t answering any signals.”
The telephone bell rang. The wing-commander crossed to his desk and picked up the receiver.
The operator said: “Captain Burnaby upon the line, sir.”
III
CAPTAIN BURNABY, as usual, was direct and to the point. He said: “I have spoken to Fort Blockhouse, Wing-Commander. They are sending Commander Rutherford over to my office at once. Will you please come in immediately, and bring the pilot with you? You’d better come to my office, in Admiralty House.”
Dickens said: “Very good. I have the pilot with me now.”
“Then I shall expect you at about a quarter to six.” The wing-commander glanced at the watch upon his wrist; it gave a bare half-hour with fifteen miles to go, mostly in traffic, in the darkness of the black-out. The naval officer went on: “What has he to say?”
“He’s only just come in, Captain. I haven’t heard his story yet.”
“Well, we won’t waste time with it on the telephone. Get a car and bring him in with you. In the meantime, I have warned a salvage vessel to be ready for sea at midnight, and I have a drifter standing by the buoy. It’s possible that some of them may still get out with the Davis escape gear. T.383 should dock in an hour’s time, and we shall see then what they’ve got.”
“Is there still no answer from the Caranx?”
“The last signal was received at two o’clock. She should have passed the Gate an hour ago.”
There was a pregnant silence. The wing-commander said quietly: “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
Captain Burnaby said shortly: “Quite so. I am sure that we are all very sorry, Wing-Commander. Now will you please get straight into a car and come to my office, with the pilot of the aeroplane.”
Dickens hung up the receiver, and turned to Chambers. “What letters did the thing have on its conning-tower?”
The pilot hesitated. Then he said: “I never saw them, sir.”
Beside him the squadron-leader said gently: “Why not
, old boy? Didn’t you look?”
The pilot turned to him, flushed and anxious. “I never got a chance. When I got out of the cloud he was over on the left, and going down quick. I had to take him from the bow in the first attack. You can’t see the letters when you’re on the bow.”
Dickens said: “But after the first dive—you made several, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t you see his conning-tower when you came round?”
“No, sir. There was smoke all round it. I got a direct hit with the first stick.”
“But how did you know it wasn’t a British submarine, then?”
“It had nothing on the hydrovanes, sir. No identification marks at all.”
The wing-commander stared at him. “But you said it was going down. Could you see the hydrovanes?”
The boy hesitated miserably, irresolute. After a time he said: “Yes, sir. I saw them clearly.”
The wing-commander got up from his chair. “We’ll have to get along,” he said. “Come on. We’ll walk down to the Transport.”
Chambers said: “May I go and get my coat, sir?”
“Yes—be quick.” The boy turned to leave the room. Dickens called after him: “Bring a torch, if you’ve got one—the battery’s run out in mine. Can’t get about the dockyard without a torch in the black-out.”
“I’ll bring mine, sir.”
He left the room, and managed to slink in unnoticed through the back door of the mess to fetch his coat. In the office that he had left the wing-commander put on his own coat. Then he turned to the squadron-leader.
“It doesn’t look so good,” he said.
Petersen shook his head. “It doesn’t.” He turned to the other. “Be careful you don’t get him rattled,” he said. “He’s a good lad, you know. I should be surprised if he’d made a mistake like this.”
The wing-commander bit his lip. “It’s the Navy I’m afraid of. They’re liable to tear him in pieces.”