Number One returned.
“Skipper, this is a weapons-free zone. Officially, Danish Navy, but their subs are Baltic based. There’re no subs reported in this area from any of our Allies.”
Ffoulkes grunted.
“Our orders are crystal clear then. Latest ROE will apply. Do you agree, Jimmy?”
“Absolutely, Skipper.”
The Captain turned to the Gunnery Officer.
“Have ‘A’ and ‘B’ turrets prepare. Fire one round each, two hundred yards either side of the target. On my command. Standby depth charge. Standby Spike. Standby sonar.”
As the two offensive groups readied themselves to attack and the sonar crews removed their headsets, the Gunnery Officer chivvied his crews through the speaker set and was quickly able to report ‘guns ready’
“Shoot.”
Both forward 4.5” guns fired simultaneously, and the sea erupted four hundred yards apart.
Such explosions often wrecked the chances of redetection for some time, such was the effect on the hunter’s apparatus, so Ffoulkes waited patiently.
His patience ran out after two minutes.
“Sonar?”
“Nothing yet, Skipper. Wait one…”
Petty Officer Coots was an efficient man, and Ffoulkes knew he was working the problem as best he could.
The roiled water was still doing its obstructive work, but Ffoulkes was anxious to detect some sort of reaction, preferably the reaction of a friendly submarine that realised its error rather than that of an angry enemy.
“No change detected, Skipper. Still got the after-effects’ troubling us, but my bet is he hasn’t deviated one little bit.”
“Depth?”
“Wait one… looks like he’s steadied out at one hundred feet, Skipper. That’s a guess at the moment.”
Standing orders for an Allied submarine were to surface in such circumstances. The submariners would recognise that their would-be assailant was a friendly, rise to the surface and communicate with whoever it was that had found them out, with no more than rapped knuckles and red faces to show for the encounter.
“Not rising? Definitely not rising?”
“Steady at depth one hundred, Skipper.”
“Roger, Sonar.”
Ffoulkes dropped into his command position and the Number One drew close, anxious to understand how HMS Charity would now prosecute the contact, if at all.
“Skipper?”
“Jimmy, ROE is simple… we attack. They haven’t responded as they should. Has to be an enemy. Agreed?”
“Absolutely, Skipper.”
“Quartermaster, increase speed to two-thirds, steer hard a-port.”
The quartermaster repeated the order back but Ffoulkes had already moved onto other matters.
“Jimmy, make sure the depth charge crews are ready, but I intend to fire Spike when we’ve lined back up on the blighter. If no luck, we’ll put a pattern down on him when we come back. Clear?”
“Roger, Skipper.”
“I’ll get her lined up on the blighter for a stern run.”
With the ship at action stations, there would be no delay to any order Ffoulkes issued, but giving his crew a heads up would not go amiss.
“Ship’s tannoy.”
The bosun’s whistle died away to be replaced with Ffoulkes’ clipped tones.
“Do you hear there? Do you hear there? Submarine contact has not responded to our warning. We’ll be attacking an underwater target considered a hostile submarine with our hedgehog and depth charges. All gun crews stand ready for surface action if whatever it is comes up. End.”
He handed the tannoy back to the bosun and moved to the front of the bridge.
HMS Charity was gently swinging back onto the same course as the submarine, which the Number One had just confirmed with the Sonar division.
“Sparks, make to Admiralty, am engaging confirmed submarine target. Give our position. End.”
“All lined up, Skipper. Range to target twelve hundred yards, dead ahead. Steering course 220.”
“Roger, Number One. All ahead, one third, steer 220.”
HMS Charity bled off speed slowly, all the time gaining on her target.
“Sonar?”
“Skipper, constant bearing on 220. Range eight hundred. Depth one hundred, speed six knots.”
“Number One.”
He beckoned the Lieutenant over for a whispered conversation.
“Any doubts, Jimmy?”
“Skipper, we’ve gone by the book. There are no friendlies in the area. He hasn’t responded as he should. Seems to me it’s not one of ours, but he’s trying to play it very steady. I reckon he feels that by doing nothing, we’ll think he’s one of ours.”
“My thoughts exactly, Jimmy.”
Ffoulkes shot a quick look at the sea.
“Sonar?”
“Skipper, constant bearing on 220. Range six hundred. Depth one hundred, speed six and a half knots.”
“Roger, Sonar. Constant reports.”
He dropped his head close to his Number One for a final time.
“We attack.”
“Aye aye, Skipper.”
The two men moved to different areas of the bridge.
Coots’ voice provided a monotone commentary on the sea ahead, counting down the yards.
The Hedgehog’s range was two hundred and fifty yards, and the gap was rapidly closing.
“Standby on Spike.”
And then the moment was on him.
“Standby on Spike…Shoot! Standby, Sonar!”
The hedgehog mount started to spit its deadly little charges into the air, twenty-four deadly Torpex bombs dispatched in just under twelve seconds, held on target by the recently updated gyro-stabilised mount. The new mounting ensured that they all landed as aimed, creating a deadly circle of splashes ahead of HMS Charity.
The bombs sank at about twenty feet a second, and Ffoulkes, along with everyone else on the bridge, started counting off.
‘One…’
‘Two…’
‘Three…’
‘Fou…’
KABOOM!
“Fuck a rat!”
“Silence on the bridge!”
The chastised rating’s face was split from ear to ear, despite the fact that he would be on report later.
A total of four explosions had split the water, the last three almost simultaneous but decidedly separate from the first.
“I make that four solid hits, Skipper.”
No binoculars were needed to see the large bubbles of air disturbing the surface, added to by the sweet smell of diesel that now accompanied other detritus to the surface.
There were two bodies, both naked as the day their mothers brought them into the world.
There were the standard artefacts that escape from a smashed submarine hull; clothing, bottles, paper, wood…
“Jimmy, get a boat away smartish and pick up what you can. I shall stand off and make another sweep, just in case.”
“Aye aye, Skipper.”
The Number One disappeared to organise a boat party.
“Sparks, make to Admiralty, as per ROE 18th last, underwater target engaged and sunk, repeat confirmed sunk. Give time and our position. Wreckage and body recovery underway. End.”
The knock on his cabin door was more than insistent.
It was urgent beyond measure and full of portent.
“Enter.”
“Skipper.”
“Number one? Christ but you look like you’ve spent a night with a Pompey whore and plenty of money in your skyrocket!”
“Skipper…”
The man’s face was ashen and he was clearly disturbed.
“Go on, man. Spit it out!”
“Nothing recognisable at all. No tattoos on the bodies to help. Both are with the surgeon being examined.”