Diving Stations Read online

  Diving Stations

  (Nick Hamilton 4)

  Edwyn Gray

  Diving Stations

  Nick Hamilton Book 4

  Edwyn Gray

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2019 Edwyn Gray

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  eBook ISBN 978-1-64119-479-2

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64119-480-8

  Contents

  Get your FREE copy of The Target H

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  A Look At: No Survivors, The U-boat Series

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  About the Author

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  Author’s Note

  British local time, i.e.: Hong Kong or Singapore time, has been used throughout the book

  Diving Stations

  One

  The Admiralty official who first suggested the posting probably received an MBE in the New Year’s Honors List in appreciation of his services to the Royal Navy and the nation. And, if he failed to win an award, it certainly wasn’t the First Sea Lord’s fault. Many civil servants were known to have been knighted for less.

  Not that Lieutenant Nicholas Hamilton DSO RN was a bad submarine commander - his seamanship and courage in dangerous situations were invariably highly commended in his personal reports.

  But he had a reputation for being difficult and at least half a dozen flotilla commanders had breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief when his tour of duty with them came to an end. On the other hand, there were many submarine captains who would have willingly shouldered the burden of Hamilton’s unenviable reputation in exchange for some of the brilliant successes he had enjoyed in his brief career.

  His exploits in rescuing the captured British merchant seamen from the prison ship Nordsee, in the early weeks of 1940, had made him a national hero - although his ruthless destruction of the Vichy French submarine Gladiateur had been hushed up for diplomatic reasons. Nevertheless, it had not gone unnoticed in the right places.

  Yet for all his undoubted ability Hamilton was regarded as a nuisance. His habit of only obeying orders when they suited his own particular purposes infuriated his superiors; while his total lack of scruple worried the more responsible Admirals who took the trouble to think about such matters. And, despite the success of the unusual missions to which he had been entrusted, he had proved an inexplicable failure on routine patrols. In fact, he was probably the only captain in the entire British submarine service to have survived two years of war without sinking a single enemy ship in the course of normal patrol operations.

  Even a three-month tour in the Mediterranean combat zone had failed to reflect an improvement in his record although, as the Sixth Sea Lord readily admitted in his more charitable moments, Hamilton had carried out two further special missions with complete success. But as these operations remain subject to the restrictions of the Official Secrets Act even today, more than thirty years later, the details have never been revealed to anyone outside a select circle at the Admiralty.

  And so, when William Strong, the Deputy Under Secretary, suggested that the addition of a submarine to the China Squadron might be a good thing, the vice admiral responded with unusual enthusiasm.

  ‘Send Rapier out to Hong Kong, eh? How soon can we do it?’

  The Deputy Under Secretary was no stranger to the labyrinthine channels of decision at the Admiralty. Formal approval of transfers between stations could take several months. And, with the foresight of experience, he had arranged the pieces of his jig-saw with infinite care.

  ‘Fairly quickly, sir,’ he said. Strong had the usual civil service aversion to committing himself too precisely. ‘Rapier was pulled out of Malta two weeks ago for a minor refit at Alexandria. That means she’s the nearest submarine to the Far East - assuming we route her via Suez.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have regarded that as a particularly strong recommendation,’ Gresham observed doubtfully. ‘The DNO usually prefers to create maximum chaos by finding the most inconvenient and impractical posting possible. In my opinion, the fact that Rapier is the shortest distance from Hong Kong is probably a disadvantage. Do you have anything better?’

  ‘Well sir, in 1939 we had a complete flotilla of fifteen submarines at Hong Kong. As you know, they’ve all been withdrawn for service nearer home. And now, just when Japan looks like turning nasty, the C-in-C China hasn’t a single boat available to defend the colony.’

  ‘I doubt if that will cut much ice with the DNO either,’ Gresham sighed. ‘The 10th flotilla was withdrawn from the Far East because we had a shortage of submarines in the Med. And, since we’ve now lost at least half of the poor sods, I can’t see anyone agreeing to release a much needed boat to a station that’s not directly engaged in combat operations. Don’t forget, they’re even pulling out the old Yangtse gunboats to form an Inshore Squadron to cover the 8th Arm’s seaward flank in North Africa. And that’s really scraping the barrel.’

  The civil servant nodded his agreement and remained silent for a few minutes - his eyes fixed on the large wall chart behind the admiral’s desk. He still had his trump to play.

  ‘Just supposing the Japs did launch an attack sir,’ he said slowly. ‘What do you reckon their chances of success?’

  Admiral Gresham gave a short laugh. ‘Not much, Strong. If we send a couple of fast battleships to Singapore, as the War Cabinet proposes, the Japanese will end up with a bloody nose. They haven’t got a single well-designed ship in their Navy - and the RAF’s Spitfires will run circles round their aircraft. They’d be on a hiding to nothing - and they know it.’

  The Deputy Under Secretary made no comment. The admiral’s views did not fit in with what he had heard from officers recently returned from the Far East, but he knew that Gresham was only reflecting the general opinion of the War Cabinet and the IGS. He wondered whether the US Navy entertained a similarly complacent underestimate of the Japanese war machine’s capabilities.

  ‘Of course, I’m not denying that we might lose Hong Kong in the event of hostilities,’ the admiral continued. ‘The land frontier with the Chinese mainland is virtually indefensible. But the Yanks certainly won’t let them take over the Philippines and the Jap bombers haven’t the range to operate against Singapore from their bases in China.’ Gresham had fallen neatly into the trap the Deputy Under Secretary had so carefully prepared. Strong seized his chance without hesitation.

  ‘But if they were to secure air bases in French IndoChina,’ he pointed out, ‘it could create a very different situation.’ He walked across to the map and indicated the distances involved. ‘It’s only about six hundred miles by air from Saigon to Malaya - and we know they’ve got bombers with that sort of range.’

  The admiral looked up at the chart and shrugged. Why did these damned civilians always think they could run
the war better than the service chiefs? ‘The French wouldn’t grant the Japanese landing rights. And,’ he added defiantly, ‘if they did the Royal Navy would soon go in and settle their hash!’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure, sir,’ Strong warned him gently. ‘Oran and Dakar didn’t go down too well with our people. Even Jimmy Sommerville delayed action well beyond the set time-limit at Mers-el-Kebir to give the French a chance. And because he didn’t fancy mass murder. If the Japanese decide to occupy Indo-China, we’ll have no margin of time to allow admirals to come to terms with their consciences.’

  ‘Very well, Strong,’ Gresham yielded reluctantly. Much as he hated to admit it, he knew the Navy was opposed to further attacks on the French fleet. ‘I grant it wouldn’t be easy. But what has this got to do with Hamilton and Rapier?’

  I wondered when you’d ask, Strong thought to himself. He smiled. ‘Everything, sir. Hamilton has already proved that he’ll attack the Vichy French without compunction. Don’t forget he has destroyed one French submarine already.1 And he has no scruples. He’s the one man in the Navy who can be relied upon to attack the French, if for any reason the Japanese should try to occupy Indo-China with Vichy approval.’ The Deputy Under Secretary paused for a moment and then added quietly, ‘And there’s another thing, sir. I doubt if any warships operating along the Chinese coast from Hong Kong would survive for more than a few days if the Japanese mounted a full-scale attack. And of all the officers in the Royal Navy, I would have regarded Lieutenant Hamilton as certainly the most expendable....’

  Admiral Gresham rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he digested the civil servant’s words. Strong’s analysis of the situation was brutally practical. And it would certainly solve a number of problems at a stroke. He had nothing against Hamilton personally, in fact he’d never met the man, but when the safety of the nation and empire was at stake no cost could be too high. And having assuaged his conscience to his own satisfaction the Admiral smiled bleakly.

  ‘I’ll see the DNO straight away. As you say - it’s worth a try.’

  Hamilton’s initial reaction to the projected transfer was one of angry disbelief. Like many Englishmen, he enjoyed the excitement of war. The tensions and stresses of combat, the ever-present danger, and the necessity of unrelenting vigilance brought him the satisfaction of being stretched to the limit, both mentally and physically. And war gave a purpose to life - a life made all the more precious by the fact that it might only be short.

  As far as Hamilton was concerned, Hong Kong was no more than a peacetime station, where spit-and-polish and the dreary round of cocktails and social small-talk were more important than combat efficiency and a determination to defeat the common enemy. The Colony was ten thousand miles away from the real war, and he scarcely rated the Japanese invasion of China as being in the same league as the European conflict with Nazi Germany. In any event, Britain was securely neutral in that particular Asiatic power-struggle, and Hong Kong was virtually unaffected by the fighting on the mainland.

  The admiral’s day cabin was hot and stuffy and the task of persuading Hamilton to accept the transfer without complaint had tried the flag-officer’s patience to the limit. Rear Admiral Herbert could understand Hamilton’s dismay. He was feeling none too pleased himself. Experienced submarine commanders and trained crews were desperately needed in the Mediterranean, and he could not understand the reason for the Admiralty’s decision to reduce their already slender resources by sending a much needed submarine to the Far East. But, as one trained in the old school of docile obedience to orders, he had accepted the posting without argument.

  He was, however, shrewd enough to discern the true reason behind Hamilton’s reluctance to go. Despite his spectacular successes, the young lieutenant was anxious to prove his ability on routine patrols. And that could only be achieved in the face of the enemy. It was not merely a matter of personal prestige or glory. The DSO which Rapier's commanding officer had won when he rescued the prisoners from the Nordsee was adequate proof of his skill and courage.1 And his activities in the Kattegat and off the Belgian coast during the evacuation of the BEF had only served to add to his reputation. There were, the rear admiral realized, other equally important considerations.

  Hamilton was a career officer and, with six years seniority as a lieutenant, he was keen to earn his half stripe. Most of his contemporaries had already been promoted over his head, and in recent months a growing number of RNVR officers had achieved the coveted third narrow ring on their sleeves. Herbert was no fool. He knew Hamilton’s background was against him and could not help but sympathize with his frustration. Promoted from the lower deck - an upper-yardman in Navy slang - he lacked the polish and social graces of his brother wardroom officers and, despite his proven abilities, the Admiralty seemed determined to keep him as a ‘two ringer’ until the seniority rules made his ultimate promotion unavoidable. And while the delay continued, Hamilton was losing valuable experiences and seniority in the next rank - which he badly needed if he was to climb the ladder of promotion in his chosen career.

  ‘I know how you feel, Lieutenant,’ the admiral admitted carefully. ‘And I have no wish to lose either you or Rapier from my command. But I have no doubt that the Admiralty in its wisdom knows what it is doing. And if trouble does break out in the Far East, you’ll get all the action you want - probably a damned sight more. After all, Rapier will be the only British submarine in the area and you’ll have the entire Japanese navy in your sights.’

  ‘It’s tempting, sir,'’ Hamilton nodded. ‘But frankly I can’t see Japan taking the risk of involving either us or the Americans in a war. We’d wipe them off the face of the sea in a few weeks.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Hamilton,’ Herbert grunted. ‘We haven’t got enough ships out there to do anything but get ourselves sunk. If the Japs do come into the war on Hitler’s side, we’ll have to rely on the US Navy to do the fighting for us. And if the Tokyo High Command decide to play it safe and by-pass the Philippines, we’ll be on our own.’ The admiral paused thoughtfully at the prospect. The moment passed and he smiled. ‘But I don’t think it will ever come to that,’ he continued reassuringly. ‘And much as I hate to lose Rapier, you and your men are badly in need of a rest. And Hong Kong will be just the ticket.’

  Hamilton knew Herbert was right. Reluctant as he was to admit the truth, he was physically and mentally exhausted from two years of unrelenting combat. His men, too, needed a break from the rigors of operational patrols and Rapier herself could do with a refit. A few months in the peaceful atmosphere of Hong Kong was what they needed. Bright lights, good food, and a respite from the ever-present threat of enemy air attack would do them all a power of good. And perhaps when they came back into the fray, the break would have added that extra spark of zest which would be rewarded by a successful patrol.

  ‘I suppose you’re right, sir,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Perhaps we do need a rest. But I’d like to request a posting back to the Med. after three months.’

  The rear admiral stood up. ‘I’ll do what I can, Lieutenant. We’ve lost too many good skippers in the last few weeks - I’ll have you back just as soon as I can find the right strings to pull.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good luck, Hamilton. And remember - once you’re out in China, at least you won’t have to crash dive every time you see an aircraft.’

  ‘I’ll try sir,’ Hamilton grinned. ‘But old habits die hard.’

  Hamilton leaned his elbows on the rim of the conning tower bridge and stared ahead over the bows, as Rapier cut through the smooth green waters of the South China Sea. The mist of spray spuming back across the foredeck helped cool the stifling heat of the midday sun, and the men sprawled on the hot steel plating, grinned contentedly as the cold droplets of water spattered their tanned bodies. After twenty-four months of air attacks, the voyage across the Indian Ocean and down through the Bay of Bengal had resembled a luxury pleasure cruise. And with typical good sense, the skipper had relaxed discipline as soon as
Rapier cleared Steamer Point at Aden to give his men a much needed chance to rest and relax.

  The submarine had only stopped at Columbo long enough to fill her bunkers, and their call at Singapore had been too brief to permit shore leaves. But Hong Kong now lay less than two hours away over the shimmering horizon, and every man aboard was already planning how to celebrate his arrival.

  The weather was good and the blue arch of the sky was clear of cloud, except for a few white wisps of stratus to starboard. The vast estuary of the Pearl River lay on its port hand and, somewhere below the heat haze on the north-western horizon, the Portuguese colony of Macao slumbered fitfully - girding its loins and gathering its energy for another night of gambling, dancing, drinking, and whoring.

  ‘Number One and Coxswain to the bridge.’

  ‘Control Room, aye aye, sir.’

  Turning away from the voice pipe, he paced the narrow circuit of the bridge area with his hands clasped together behind his back while he waited. He could hear the clatter of footsteps echoing inside the empty upper chamber of the conning tower, and stood away from the hatch opening as Roger Mannon and Chief Petty Officer Ernie Blood clambered through, out on to the deck.

  Hamilton eyed his first officer coldly as he straightened up and saluted. Mannon had only joined Rapier a few weeks previously. He was young and eager. But the wavy gold rings on his uniform sleeves marked him down as an amateur and, in Hamilton’s opinion, the submarine service was strictly for professionals. It took years of training and service experience to make an efficient submarine officer. How the hell could a volunteer reserve officer, whose experience of the sea comprised a few hours of coastal sailing at weekends, qualify for the exacting disciplines required for submarine service.