A gigantic wave struck the submarine’s bows and burst with the roar of an exploding shell. Rapier’s stem lifted under the initial impact and then fell back with a sickening jolt. The following crest, meeting with no resistance, swept across the foredeck, crashed against the base of the conning tower and threw a solid wall of cold, black water over the men on the bridge.
Hamilton clung to the rails. The salt water stung his eyes and, half-blinded, he reached out his hands to make sure Ottershaw was still there. A third wave tossed the submarine to starboard with contemptuous ease and he suddenly found himself sliding helplessly across the flooded deck, until the steel bridge screen brought him to a bruising stop. Something cannoned against him with a force that knocked the breath from his body and, disentangling himself, he found Ottershaw sprawled like a drowned rat at his side. Hauling himself upwards, he leaned forward and helped the gunboat skipper to his feet.
Hamilton wiped the water from his eyes and searched into the darkness ahead for the destroyer. Rapier’s bows lifted to meet another breaker and, as the deck tilted at a crazy angle, a large black object slid towards the rear of the bridge with the ungainly grace of an elephant seal slithering over the rocks towards the sea.
‘It’s the Yeoman, Harry!’ he shouted to Ottershaw. ‘Grab hold of him. I’ll give you a hand as soon as I can.’
Rapier executed a weird war dance, as the combined ferocity of the wind and waves hurled her from side to side like a pea in a rattle. Even the thrusting power of her Admiralty Standard Range diesel engines seemed pitifully inadequate when matched against the terrifying strength of the typhoon. She wallowed drunkenly, pushed her bows upwards with sluggish reluctance and then wearily buried her nose beneath the surface like an exhausted and drowning swimmer. Hamilton peered through the murk and managed to pick out the green navigation light from Suma’s bridge. Grasping the rail with one hand, he flipped open the watertight cover of the control room voice pipe.
‘Steer one point to port!’
‘One point to port, sir,’ Mannon acknowledged. ‘How are we doing?’
‘Fine,’ Hamilton told him laconically, as another cascade of freezing water swept over the bridge. ‘How are things below?’
‘Mustn’t grumble, sir. At least we’re not getting wet.’
Hamilton knew that the first officer was lying. Submarines were not designed to ride on the surface in severe storms and he knew only too well what conditions would be like below deck. The interior of a submarine was no place for a queasy stomach, with the hatches secured and the cramped atmosphere reeking of diesel oil, human sweat and stale vegetables. And, in bad weather, the sour smell of vomit added a new dimension of horror to the already revolting stench.
Hamilton’s hands were bleeding, his face was raw from salt burns and he was drenched to the skin. But the hardships that he was enduring on the exposed bridge was nothing when compared to the misery of the men cooped up in the Rapier’s iron hull. They were the real heroes of the submarine service.
‘Can you lend a hand, Nick?’ Ottershaw yelled from the other end of the bridge.
Fighting against the motion of the boat, Hamilton half slid, half-stumbled, across the flooded deck and knelt down, beside the gunboat skipper. Jack Drury, Rapier’s signal’s yeoman, was barely conscious and blood was trickling from an ugly gash in his forehead, where he had struck the compass binnacle.
‘We’ll have to get him below,’ Ottershaw shouted above the shriek of the wind. ‘His leg’s broken.’
Hamilton felt Drury jerk with pain as he reached forward to confirm Ottershaw’s diagnosis. He glanced up and shook his head.
‘He’ll have to stay here, Harry,’ he said flatly. ‘I’m not opening the top hatch until I have to. An agile man could be through the hatchway in ten seconds and we could probably get it open and shut again before the next sea broke over the bridge. But Drury’s a dead weight. And he’s a big man into the bargain. It would take all of thirty seconds, perhaps even a minute, to get him inside. And I can’t afford to take the risk of flooding the Control Room. Try to make the poor sod comfortable and then lash him on to the periscope standard. We don’t want him washed overboard.’
Leaving Ottershaw to cope with the injured yeoman, Hamilton groped his way towards the for’ard section of the bridge to check the bearing of the destroyer. Suma was now barely two hundred yards away and he could see her anchor chains straining against the mounting pressures of the wind and sea. He moved to the voice pipe.
‘Number One◦– send Morgan up with a deck party. And tell them to rig life lines. It’s sheer bloody murder up here and I don’t want any more accidents.’ He paused as Rapier plunged into a trough and rose clear. ‘We’ll be passing inside the lee of the destroyer in exactly one minute. When I give the shout, I want Morgan’s party topside at the double. Then stand by to receive Drury◦– his leg’s busted and he’s unconscious.’
‘Understood, sir. Deck party closed up. Ready when you are.’
‘Stand by to shut down engines. Stand by motors.’
Hamilton had waited as long as he dared before making the critical transfer of power and he knew that the decision could not be deferred any longer. The primitive gear-box of a submarine did not permit it to go astern on its diesel engines and Rapier would have to rely on her electric motors for the delicate maneuvering that lay ahead. It meant a heavy drain on the batteries, but in the circumstances, there was no alternative. The submarine steadied suddenly as she came under Suma’s lee.
‘Now.’
Hamilton saw the upper hatch swing open and, a moment later, Morgan’s head thrust into view. Grasping the lipped rim of the hatchway, the gunner’s mate heaved himself upwards, swung his legs onto the deck, and immediately turned to help the next man through the narrow opening. Within thirty seconds, all four members of the deck party were on the bridge and two of them hurried aft to help Ottershaw lift the unconscious yeoman into the hatchway.
‘Stop engines! Clutches out◦– switches on! Half astern both motors. Stop! Slow ahead together… stop!’
Rapier hung inside the protective lee of Suma’s starboard beam just long enough for Drury to be carried below.
‘Hatch shut, sir!’ Morgan shouted.
‘Full astern both motors… steady as she goes. Full starboard rudders.’ Hamilton reached for the loud hailer and watched the bows swing in a semi-circle to bring the submarine’s stern in line with Suma’s bows. Ottershaw, now freed from the burden of looking after the signaler, came for’ard to join him.
‘I must be imagining things, Nick. But I’d swear the wind is moderating◦– and veering to the south.’
‘You’re quite right, Harry. That’s why I was in such a bloody hurry to get across the bay. Let’s hope Aritsu is too damned scared to notice.’ He put the microphone of the loud hailer to his mouth and pushed down the thumb switch, ‘Ahoy, Suma I Do you hear me! Can you get a line to my stern?’