Hearts of Stone (13 page)

‘New target! Cargo ship bearing five degrees off port bow. Turning to cross our bow. Range seven hundred! Ready tube five. Shoot when ready!’

Andreas felt his heart beating furiously as he imagined the hapless Italian vessel swinging directly into the path of the submarine. The range was close and it would be almost impossible to miss. Another hiss of air sounded through the compartment and the crew stood still, struggling to restrain their excitement as they braced themselves for the detonation. The sound of the cargo ship’s propeller seemed deafening to Andreas and he gritted his teeth as he waited for the shattering roar of the torpedo’s explosion. But there was only a faint clang of metal on metal and the growing drone of the propeller.

‘Holy fucking God!’ Iatridis growled through clenched teeth. ‘A dud torpedo. What have those French bastards been selling us?’ He paused and composed himself and returned to the periscope eyepiece. ‘Too close now. New target . . .’

He began to rotate, seeking out another enemy ship ploughing through the sea in the dusk. Then he rattled out fresh instructions. ‘New target. Tanker. Thirty degrees off starboard bow—’

‘High speed propeller, closing!’ the hydrophone operator interrupted urgently. ‘Bearing . . . one eighty. Right behind us, sir!’

Iatridis lurched round to face the stern and seemed to flinch before snapping upright. ‘Dive! Periscope down!’

Pilotis did not need to repeat the order as the ratings on the dive-plane controls pressed them forward. The deck began to angle sharply and a pair of dividens slid across the chart. Andreas snatched them before they dropped off the table.

‘Make depth one hundred metres!’ said Iatridis. ‘Steer hard to port!’

The angle of the deck became more disorientating in the cramped confines as the
Papanikolis
began to roll through the turn and Andreas felt the acrid bite of nausea in his throat and prayed that he would not be sick in front of his crewmates. The fabric of the submarine began to groan under the strain, then he heard it: the muffled rumble of the destroyer’s propellers.

‘Slow to four knots,’ the captain ordered.

Pilotis glanced back at him anxiously, then nodded and repeated the order to the helmsman. Andreas felt the hairs on his scalp tingle as he heard the exchange. What was Iatridis doing? Why slow down? Then some calm place in his mind recalled the rudimentary introduction course to the world of the submariner that he had taken at the academy after he had been told of his first posting. Sound carried very efficiently through the medium of water. Higher speeds generated more noise; the captain was trying to make it harder for the enemy to trace their course.

Papanikolis
settled on her new course, perpendicular to her old direction, and continued to dive.

‘Passing fifty metres,’ the first officer intoned. ‘Fifty-five . . . sixty.’

Andreas became aware of a new sound, a protesting groan as the pressure outside the submarine’s hull increased the deeper it went. Above them the sound of the destroyer’s propellers increased.

‘He’s right on top of us . . .’ a voice muttered.

Iatridis swung towards the man. ‘Keep your mouth shut.’

Pilotis’s eyes were fixed on the depth gauge. ‘Eighty metres.’

‘Sir!’ The hydrophone operator looked up anxiously, his hands clasping his headphones to his ears so that he might hear the sounds in the water around the submarine more clearly. ‘Depth charges!’

Fear gripped every man in the compartment at the words, even the captain, before he recovered and bellowed, ‘Seal all compartments! Crew, brace!’

Andreas and a rating rushed to the heavy hatch heading forward and swung it into the frame and turned the locking handles until they were tight. Another man closed the stern-facing hatch. More clangs and clatter sounded from the other compartments before the crew found themselves handholds and grasped tightly as they waited. All trace of excitement had gone from Andreas’s thoughts. The only thing that remained was naked terror as he imagined the heavy drums packed with high explosive sinking towards them.

He glanced round and saw a rating standing beside the air tank controls, eyes clenched shut and lips trembling as he muttered, ‘Holy God, save us . . .’

‘Ninety metres,’ said Pilotis.

The captain nodded. ‘Level off.’

‘Level off, yes, sir.’

The dive plane controls were eased back and a moment later the angle of the deck became less acute.

That was when the first depth charge exploded.

It was like a titanic hammer blow struck against the hull of the submarine. Far more violent than anything Andreas had expected. The vessel shook and his ears filled with the roar of the detonation and the rattle of loose fittings around him. One of the men cried out in alarm and others swore oaths or called on God to preserve them. As the shockwave passed on, Andreas’s chest heaved and he felt a surge of ecstatic relief that he was still alive. That was before he realised that it had only been the first depth charge in a pattern dropped by the destroyer. The rest went off in a rolling barrage that battered the submarine and shattered the wits of all those trapped within as the cold steel shell tossed from side to side in the dark depths of the sea.

Chapter Twelve

E
xplosion after explosion ripped open the sea around the submarine with a shattering sequence of roars that rocked the craft from side to side. In the bridge compartment of the
Papanikolis
the crew clung desperately to whatever came to hand and tried to stay on their feet as the submarine was mercilessly battered by the depth charge patterns dropped by the Italian destroyer circling overhead on the surface. The concussion pierced Andreas’s eardrums and pressed in on his eyeballs with a terrifying crushing sensation. All the time he was certain that the hull would split open under the tremendous forces it was being subjected to. A torrent of cold seawater would sweep the length of the boat, dragging it into the deep where the pressure would crumple the vessel and her helpless crew.

‘Number One!’ Iatridis yelled above the din. It took two attempts before Pilotis gathered his wits enough to respond.

‘Take us down to one hundred and twenty metres. Turn to starboard and reduce speed. Slow ahead!’

‘Slow ahead, yes, sir.’

The submarine’s deck inclined again for a short while and it barely edged through the darkness. Now the sound of the steel ribs of the vessel under great strain was almost continuous, even if the explosions were further off and more infrequent as the Italians lost track of their submarine. Andreas began to sweat freely as he closed his eyes and began to pray for the first time in years.

A hand grasped his shoulder and shook him roughly. ‘Eyes open, Katarides . . .’

Andreas forced himself to obey and saw his captain looking at him anxiously. He was speaking quietly and in a far gentler tone than before. ‘You must help set an example. You’re an officer. Return to your work. You need to plot that last turn.’ He nodded towards the chart table. ‘Control your fear. If the men cannot take their lead from you then we are lost, and cannot serve our country, and protect our families. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Do your duty, then.’

Andreas snatched a deep breath and reached for his pencil and ruler and marked the course change as accurately as he could. The captain made his way round the compartment, calming his crew, before he returned to the navigating table and examined the chart and the last known positions of the enemy. There was a handful of distant explosions and then no more. Andreas could not shake the thought that this was only a lull in the enemy’s attack. Soon they would detect the Greek submarine again and resume their depth-charging.

‘Hydrophones, what can you make out?’ Iatridis asked.

The crewman had taken his phones from his head the moment the explosions began to save his ears and now hurriedly put them back in place, adjusted them and began to sweep the instrument for the enemy. His comrades waited impatiently for his report.

‘Well?’ Iatridis demanded.

‘Cargo ships are very faint, sir . . . I can hear the troopship breaking up.’

‘What about the destroyer?’

The hydrophone operator turned his dial, stopped and turned it back and froze. He winced. ‘High-speed propellers closing. Bearing . . . one sixty off port bow. Estimated range, three thousand five hundred metres, sir.’

Andreas felt his stomach tighten at the man’s words. He glanced at his watch and noted the time and direction on the chart. Iatridis examined the plottings.

‘He’s going to pass over us in five minutes or so. We’ll turn inside him, remain at this level, stop the motors and keep silent. He’ll lose any chance of staying in contact. Then he’ll face a choice. He can continue the hunt, or round up the other ships and continue towards the Albanian coast.’ He glanced up at Andreas. ‘A little test for you, Katarides. What would you do in his shoes?’

The question was unexpected and it took a moment before Andreas could collect his thoughts sufficiently to respond. ‘Sir, I have not been counting the explosions, but the enemy must have used up a considerable number of charges already. If I was him I would need to use what’s left sparingly. I’d wait for a positive contact before I tried anything. If we remain silent he will have to decide if we have made good our escape or if we are still here, waiting for him to leave the area.’

The captain nodded approvingly. ‘Go on.’

‘At the same time, he will be concerned about the other vessels in the convoy. They will have been terrified by the attack and looking out for themselves. The longer he leaves them to their own devices, the harder it will be to gather them up. The destroyer’s captain has already lost one ship. If he loses any more he’ll have to answer for it to his superiors. On the other hand, he can save face by sinking us.’ Andreas paused and marshalled the arguments to make his conclusion. ‘If I was him, I would search for another few hours. No later than midnight. Then I’d give up, gather the convoy and put as much distance between myself and the submarine under the cover of darkness to prevent us having any chance to renew the action. First light is just after five in the morning. He has to be out of sight by then.’

‘Very good, Katarides. I think you have grasped the essential details. Let’s hope our opponent does as well, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Iatridis straightened up. ‘New course. Port ninety. Engines stop.’

The submarine glided round and the noise and vibrations of the electric motors ceased.

‘Silent routine,’ the captain ordered. ‘No moving. No talking.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pilotis nodded and repeated the order, informing the other compartments through the voice tube. After the turn was completed the
Papanikolis
lost way and slowed to a stop and lay suspended in the sea, one hundred and twenty metres below the surface. Andreas marked off the position and then set the pencil and instruments aside. Around him the other crewmen sat in their seats or stood at their stations. No one spoke and the silence and stillness seemed unreal after the frantic terror of the depth charge attack and the tense escape that followed. Soon afterwards he could hear the approaching destroyer, a muted thrashing sound that steadily increased in volume and pitch before it began to diminish. The captain crossed to the hydrophone operator’s station and gripped the back of his chair as he spoke softly.

‘What’s he up to?’

‘He’s passed over us, sir, heading away. The bearing is not constant.’

Iatridis clicked his tongue. ‘He’s circling us. Carrying out a search pattern. Let me know if he starts moving off.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Iatridis returned to the periscope and leaned his back against it as he cleared his throat. ‘Relax, boys. If there’s one thing in life you can count on it’s the impatience of the Italians. They’ll give up soon enough.’

Pilotis exhaled nervously and reached up to his breast pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes.

‘No smoking,’ Iatridis ordered. ‘We’ve been down here four hours already. Going to be a while before we risk surfacing. The air will start getting stale soon. Best not make it any more uncomfortable, eh?’ he concluded with a slight smile.

Pilotis nodded and returned the packet to his pocket. ‘I’ll tell the rest of the crew, sir.’

‘Do that. But keep the noise down.’

Pilotis nodded and reached for the voice pipe. Following the casual manner of his captain, Andreas crossed his arms and sat against the corner of the chart table. The air already felt hot and humid, despite the weak breeze blowing from the fans. He could feel the sweat on his brow and trickling down from his armpits, and the cloying stink of diesel and his companions caught in his throat and made him feel slightly nauseous. The hands of the large clock on the instrument panel edged round slowly as they waited. From his basic training, Andreas knew that the submarine’s underwater endurance was no more than ten hours as far as the air was concerned. The carbon dioxide would begin to build up, poisoning the crew. He estimated that the submarine’s batteries must have used only half their charge. But while they were motionless, it was the air supply that was their main concern.

Several times they heard the sound of the destroyer coming and going and waited impatiently for the hydrophone operator to make his reports to the captain. Iatridis nodded each time and made no comment.

Midnight passed and Andreas felt his head begin to ache and each breath he took did not seem to satisfy his need for air and left him feeling ever more fatigued. The enemy destroyer carried out one more search pattern, passing directly overhead at one point and filling the hearts of the submarine’s crew with fresh horror before it continued on its way without renewing the attack. The sound of the propellers faded away and then there was silence from outside the hull and only the laboured breathing of the men within. The captain waited a full hour from the last report of the hydrophone operator before he stirred, hands on hips, and addressed the men in the bridge compartment.

‘Rise to periscope depth.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pilotis turned to the men charged with controlling the air tanks. ‘Blow main and transfer from forward to rear.’

Compressed air forced the water out of the bouyancy tanks and the submarine began to rise, slowly at first and then faster as it clawed its way up from the depths. As the pressure on the hull eased so did the metallic groaning from its fabric and the crewmen exchanged looks of relief and mumbled prayers of thanks. As the vessel slowed its ascent and stopped at periscope depth the captain took a final report from the hyrdophone operator before ordering the periscope to be raised.

‘The moment of truth.’ Iatridis smiled wryly and then swept the horizon. ‘The troopship is still afloat. Capsized, but still there. No sign of the destroyer, or any of the other ships.’ He stepped away from the periscope. ‘Down scope. Surface the boat, Number One. Make ready to start diesel engines.’

Andreas lowered his head into his hands for a moment and rubbed his tired eyes, scarcely able to believe that the ordeal was over. He felt ashamed of his earlier fear and hoped that his captain was the only one who had detected his true feelings. He had never before imagined the depth of terror he had experienced and regarded his earlier passion to serve his country and fight the enemy with a sense of self-loathing. What fool would ever endure such a thing? Trapped and helpless in the confines of the
Papanikolis
had put him in mind of being buried alive. There had been moments when it took all his remaining self-control to stop himself scrambling up the ladder into the conning tower and seeking to escape through the deck hatch. And yet he was safe. He had survived, and his dark, morbid mood gave way to a feeling of exultation that he was alive.

He heard the water cascading down the hull as the submarine broke the surface. Iatridis led a small party of men up the ladder and through the hatch on to the conning tower. A blast of fresh air washed into the compartment and Andreas stood by the ladder, head tilted back to enjoy the salty scent. The diesel engine started and idled with a mechanical rattle that vibrated the whole boat.

‘All clear!’ the captain shouted down. ‘Pilotis, open fore and aft hatches, and stand down from silent discipline. The men can smoke if they want. Add the time to the log, 03.40 hours.’

As the orders were relayed, Andreas cupped a hand to his mouth and called out, ‘Permission to come up, sir?’

There was a short pause before the reply came. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. Come on, you may find this interesting.’

A frown flickered over Andreas’s features before he clambered up the rungs and emerged in to the cool night air. The lookouts were at their posts scanning the horizon. It was a dark night with no moon and the only illumination came from the stars. A thin band of differentiated shadow marked the boundary between the sea and the sky. Andreas breathed in deeply and smiled as the breeze lifted his hair and made his perspiration feel cool.

‘Look there,’ said Iatridis, pointing off the port beam.

Andreas rested his forearms on the coaming and squinted in the direction the captain had indicated. At first he thought it must be a distant island, then he recalled their position and knew that was impossible. Then it moved ever so slightly and he realised he was looking at the capsized hull of the troopship, just over a thousand metres away. He could just make out the rudder and propellers, and then he fancied he heard a voice cry out. But it might have been his imagination. He had enough experience of the sea at night to know how it could work on the senses, particularly if a man was exhausted.

‘It’ll be light soon,’ said Iatridis. ‘You’ll be able to see more then.’

‘Why is the ship still afloat, sir?’

It seemed wrong to Andreas. Two torpedoes should have sunk her, removed the ship from sight, and conscience. Now it served to remind him of the enormity of their deed. A ship, a huge complicated machine, had been destroyed by the crew of the
Papanikolis
. It had been a troopship. Many men must have died. He heard another cry from that direction and fancied he saw a dark mass in the water. A lifeboat most likely. There was a chance that a good number of those on board had survived. Where there was one lifeboat there were sure to be more. It helped to salve his conscience.

‘We’ll head north-east,’ said Iatridis. ‘Try to pick up that convoy again. See if we can improve on our score, eh?’

He smiled and Andreas tried to share his mood, telling himself that they had done their duty. This war had been forced on them. The men who had been on the troopship were on their way to fight Andreas’s countrymen. They had brought this on themselves. If only they had remained in Italy. If only their leader had not attempted to force his will on other nations, this would never have happened.

‘Slow ahead,’ the captain called down the voice tube. ‘Steer north-east.’

The engine note changed as the command was carried out and at once the deck shook beneath their boots. Not the usual rhythm, but a harsh, violent vibration. Iatrisdis exchanged a surprised look of alarm with Andreas and called down to the bridge compartment again. ‘What the hell is that? Stop the engine. Pilotis, report!’