“Boy, get thee some glasses. See there,” he pointed off to the left, “Port side there. What say thee, boy?”
The ship’s boy did as he was bidden, seeking out the shape that had piqued Boothroyd’s curiosity.
Holding up his hand, preventing the sweaty engineer from speaking, the Captain listened for the boy’s report.
“Skipper, it’s a mine. One of our’n, by the cut of her.”
Boothroyd smiled, the boy’s attempts at seafarer’s talk understandable, but still funny.
“I thought as much. Go and find the Number One and tell him I asked for a rifle on the bridge. Explain why, and bring it here as soon as he issues it. Clear, boy?”
“Aye aye, Captain,” the boy rushed off, charged with important matters.
“So, Obadiah, what news of my engine?”
Higginbotham, the engineer, hawked and spat in the brass spittoon set aside for the Captain’s pleasure, for when smoking was difficult, but chewing tobacco fine.
“The engine is your’n now, Cap’n, but I won’t guarantee her o’er six knot. The bearing’s repaired, for the now, and I have Young Crouch refurbishing the broken section as we speak.”
Higginbotham was an old woman when it came to his precious engine, so Boothroyd automatically added two knots. Sequoia could only steam at twelve knots at the best of times, so eight knots was a reasonable result, especially when the graunching sound had seemed so terminal.
“Thank ye, Chief, and pass that on to your crew there. There’ll be an extra tot for your boys when the sun is over the yardarm.”
The conversation was interrupted by the return of the excited boy, complete an old Lee-Metford rifle, closely followed by Lieutenant Clark, the ship’s Number One. He had kept the ammunition tightly in his hand until he understood what exactly the breathless boy had been on about.
“Carry on, Chief,” the friendly order about as formal as things got onboard Sequoia.
“Ah, Number One, give the boy some bullets there, and let him have a bash at yonder mine. But first, pass the word to the lads, let ’em know what’s occuring. Don’t want ’em wetting themsel when it goes bang, do we?”
Clark nodded and blew done some voice pipes, quickly announcing what was about to happen.
Gesturing at the port side, Boothroyd nudged the quartermaster.
“Ahead one third Jacko, steer,” he paused for a second, checking out both the mine and the signs of the sea, “Steer 0-0-5,”
“Ahead one third, steer 0-0-5, aye aye Cap’n.”
The ringing of the telegraph provided a backdrop to the sound of a magazine ramming home into the rifle. The boy, proud of the responsibility he had been given, scurried to the portside bridge to set himself to the task.
“What the hell was that?”
Yanninin asked the question, his ears glued to one side of the headphones.
“Sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil, Comrade Captain.”
He had been there himself, heard the sound before, so he saw the surface vignette with the utmost clarity in the fraction of a second.
“Steer starboard 90, set speed for five knots.”
The sonar operator silently sought an explanation from his commander.
“You use a rifle to shoot at a mine. I think they are trying to…”
The words became unnecessary, as a huge explosion rocked the boot, firing its sound straight into the left ear of the unfortunate sonar operator, the drum instantly ruptured.
‘Mudaks, that’s my fault’, Yanninin chided himself, placing his hand to the mouth of the moaning man.
The shock waves of the explosion came next, jarring the boat.
In the torpedo room, the sound came as a surprise, as did the following shock wave.
One young seaman filled his pants, so complete was the surprise and savage the effect.
“Midships, set speed for three knots, silent running.”
At the front of the boat, the torpedo room commander, a Chief Starshina on his twelfth patrol, braced himself quickly. Grabbing for solid support, he wedged himself between the starboard lower torpedo tube and the firing assembly, setting himself firmly in place.
The rocking subsided, the faint echoes of the explosion now gone.
Sighs of relief overcame the sounds of fear, the first comments about their unfortunate comrade starting.
The Chief was otherwise pre-occupied, examining his wet hand and the recently welded door, a metallic clicking sound noticeable with every rise and fall in the roiled water.
The experienced Warrant Officer drew a visual image of the area and quickly realised what had happened.
The errant outer door had come loose in the shock wave but, in the course of trying to close it earlier, the system had been strained, leaving a little play.
It was this play, twelve millimetres of movement in total, which was producing the clacking sound as the waters moved the door in a steady rhythm.
Without waiting for orders he grabbed the winding control, and commenced closing the outer door, an act that commenced smoothly, indicting his guess had been right.
The door came shut with a low sound as the two metal surfaces married around their rubber seals.
Checking he had completed the closing procedure, the Chief Starshina contacted the Control room, reporting the change.
Yanninin accepted the report from the Senior Midshipman, the most experienced Warrant officer on the 307, one of his problems solved by accident, although the welding of the tube meant that it would be unavailable until they had time to inspect it from inside and out.
Shch307 moved on silently.
A voice tube whistled, interrupting Boothroyd’s congratulations, the boy openly proud that he had hit the target with every shot and that the third .303 had ignited the floating mine.
It was an incredible feat of marksmanship but one Boothroyd realised he could not overly publicise, lest the thirteen year old was removed from service on his ship.
He pulled the plug on the voice pipe, identifying himself brusquely.
“Captain Sir, I think there is something below us. I definitely heard clear metallic sounds but now they have gone.”
The apparatus lost efficiency when dealing with targets immediately underneath the vessel.
Boothroyd considered the man on the other end of the pipe, putting his pipe to his lips, tapping his teeth in an indistinct rhythm.
Charles Maitland, very much a ‘hostilities only’ new navy man, a Sub-Lieutenant recently out of naval school system, trained up to run the ‘garfangled box of tricks’ and thrown aboard the Sequoia to learn his trade.
A trade he had mastered in spades by all standards the crew and himself applied.
None the less, he had to question further.
“Come on there, Subby, give me more than that.”
“Sir, there was a low but regular metallic sound, which was then replaced by a single deeper sound, also metallic in nature. My belief is we are sitting on a submarine.”
Boothroyd had not asked for his guess, but he accepted it in any case.
“Light it up, Subby, active search.”
Turning to the bridge crew, he did what was necessary.
“Action stations depth charge, Number One.”
The ship’s bells rang immediately, the Lieutenant having readied himself, knowing what was coming.
“Full speed ahead, Jacko.”
The bridge was suddenly filled with the sound of asdic returns, drowning out the quartermaster’s response, bouncing back from something solid, something that should not be there.
Boothroyd already knew there were no friendly submarines in the area, his search area considered a weapons-free zone.
“Talk to me Sub.”
“Contact dead ahead Skipper, range four hundred yards, depth one-fifty feet, identify as definite submarine.”
Instant decision.