As the noises caused by the vessel surfacing diminished, the Han’s senior sonar rate heard the sound of high-speed screws, rapidly growing in volume and then the first Spearfish struck, angling up from below to impact just above the keel.
The sound of the explosion and the sea bursting skywards had them all ducking for cover, Muriel screamed and Eric put his arms protectively around her. The Han split in two just aft of her conning tower and both severed ends were raised clear of the water just as the second torpedo struck the bow.
The effects of the second torpedo hitting were even more spectacular than the first as it set off the Han’s own torpedo warheads, tearing the forward section asunder. Jagged metal whipped outwards from the explosion; some splashed into the ocean short of the ketch, some beyond it.
With a splintering sound the top ten feet of the mainmast crashed down, amputated by flying shrapnel and bringing the sail, now peppered with holes, down like a shroud. The Han’s starboard bow plane, torn free of its mounting was sent spinning skywards. Measuring 10’x 6’ it arced across the space between the vessels and slammed into the ketch 5’ from the bow and removed it cleanly, the ocean rushed in and the old vessel immediately began to settle.
Tied to the stern rail where they were being towed along was the collection of life rafts and the ketch’s own Gemini. One of the one-man rafts was rapidly losing its rigid shape, holed by shrapnel from the Chinese attack submarine.
Eric opened a locker and pulled at the Gemini’s outboard motor, Nikki helped him lift it as Sandy hauled on the painter, pulling it up to the stern.
Fu Chen ducked into the cabin and was soaked from the waist up as he emerged from below decks with a three-gallon container, ¾ full of fresh water carried in one hand and a box containing a jumbled collection of food stuffs under his other arm, which he handed over the stern to Eric. Muriel and Nikki were in the Gemini where Nikki was attaching the outboard motor, whilst Sandy was kneeling in one of the one-man rafts and holding on to the side of the Gemini and the stern rail.
Eric shouted to the Chinese aviator, gesturing at another locker where the lieutenant retrieved a five-litre petrol can and was in the act of stepping over the stern when he stopped.
“Chubby?”
Nikki looked around frantically and shouted her friend’s name.
Fu Chen suddenly looked back towards where they had been fishing, and passed the can to Eric before dashing into the tangled folds of sailcloth, pulling the material away.
Chubby appeared to be sat down looking out to sea when Fu Chen uncovered him. The Chinese aviator spoke loudly in rapid fire Cantonese and grabbed the RIO’s left forearm but the American did not move. Chubby had a peaceful look on his face and both hands were resting on the jagged end of a 6” wide shard of submarine casing that had pinned him to the side of the cabin through his sternum. Blood soaked the young American’s flight suit from the chest down.
Stepping astride the aviator’s legs Fu Chen crouched and looked into the lifeless eyes, before bracing his legs and pulling hard on Chubby’s arms. Such was the damage to the American; he pulled him free without too great an effort and stooped to lift him onto his shoulder before he carried him to the stern rail. The water was almost level with the deck as he passed him across and untied the painters.
A half-hour later the Hood’s ESM and periscope appeared, to be followed after a few minutes by the conning tower and upper hull as she rose to the surface, less than 50m from the collection of inflatables.
Despite initial protests from a couple of ratings the body of the young aviator followed the survivors below the casing where the contents of Chubby’s pockets were placed in a plastic envelope before his body was sealed into a body bag.
HMS Hood sank below the waves to egress the area, leaving only empty life rafts, oil and the detritus of war at sea, bobbing on the surface.
A long way east of HMS Hood, the USS Nimitz led the centre column of ships that were making a high speed crossing of the South Pacific.
5th (US) Mechanised Division and a small number of British troops, plus equipment, accompanied them aboard the merchant ships that were strung out in three parallel columns.
Sgt Rebecca Hemmings stood at the stern rail of the New Zealand merchantman Rotorua Princess, and although her eyes were open they saw nothing of the view before her. Bloodshot and red-rimmed from three days and nights of tears gave her a haunted look.
She had managed to telephone her parents when the Queen Elizabeth’s Combat Team had arrived in San Francisco only to find that her parents were a lot more up to date with world events than she. Her parents had assumed that she had already been informed that her husband was listed as missing, believed killed, along with everyone else aboard the Royal Navy surface combat ships in the Prince of Wales group.
Lt McMarn of the Royal Green Jackets had been waiting in line to use the telephone; her cry had silenced the chatter of others waiting their turn.
He had led her back to her dormitory in the transit barracks and collared a JNCO to fetch the REME detachment Commander from the BOQ, as the Americans called their Officers Mess.
They had offered to arrange priority air travel back to the UK but the sergeant had refused. She was thousands of miles from home and family so she elected to stay with her friends and alternative family, her unit.
Heck went to the British Consulate at 1 Sansome Street in the city, and informed them of the unit’s location. He requested the MOD be informed of the unit’s current disposition and stated that unless he received orders to the contrary they would begin boarding the ships with the US Division in four hours.
The convoy was two days out of San Francisco when he was summoned to the cabin of Major General Thackery, Commander of the beefed up division that was enroute to Brisbane.
Foot drill in the British Army differs in many ways from that employed by the armed forces of the United States of America. British soldiers describe their cousin’s drill as being akin to the soft-shoe-shuffle and Heck discovered the US Army’s opinion of the Brits’ martial style ten seconds after being admitted to the division commander’s presence.
Captain Hector Sinclair Obediah Wantage-Ferdoux, 1st Royal Tank Regiment stepped into the cabin, took a half pace forward with his left foot, pulled the foot back sharply and bent his right knee until the thigh was parallel with the ground and drove the right foot in beside the left with a resounding crash.
Having thus halted and assumed the position of attention he saluted smartly, it impressed the divisional Commander, but not favourably.
“Jesus H Christ on a muvaluvinbroomstick, boy!” exclaimed the general officer as he frantically grabbed at his cup and coffeepot on a table before him. A spoon danced out of the saucer and hit the cabin’s deck with a clatter. A jug of cream tipped over, and a second cup hit the deck and shattered.
“Does this look like Buckingham Palace boy?” the General enquired in a slightly quieter tone. “Well does it?”
As tempting as it was to have pointed out to the general that ‘Buckingham’ was in fact one word, and not the two ('Bucking' and 'Ham') that the American had used, and he wisely remained silent.
‘Duke’ Thackery regarded the British captain who was stood rigidly at attention and staring fixedly at an invisible point on the bulkhead. He was about to say ‘at ease’ but stopped himself; he didn’t want his table bouncing a foot into the air again.