Killer ship, p.1
Killer Ship, page 1
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It was a remarkable invention—a camera that could to take one brief, flash-lit shot of the night sea and discover with amazing clarity exactly what might be lurking out there in the darkness. But when the equipment was trialled aboard H. M. S. Wind Rode, it set in motion a chain of events that could only end in death. For there was a German submarine out there in the deeps, on its way to mine Jomard Pass and effectively cripple Allied shipping for the foreseeable future. Furthermore, its commander was a fanatical Nazi totally dedicated to his job.
But Peter Bentley was equally dedicated—dedicated to stopping the German from succeeding in his mission … and that’s when the deadly battle of wits began between destroyer and submarine really started …
J E MACDONNELL 12: KILLER SHIP
By J E Macdonnell
First published by Horwitz Publications in 1958
©1958, 2022 by J E Macdonnell
First Electronic Edition: July 2023
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate
Series Editor: Janet Whitehead
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
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Author’s Note
THE NAME OF Doctor Edgerton is mentioned in this story because he is the inventor of stroboscopic light. However, there is no intention of claiming in actuality that one of his experiments was carried out in the area south of New Guinea, as is described herein. But experiments were carried out with his equipment against U-boats in the Atlantic, in Burma and other places, with considerable success.
Also—though the fact has never been publicised outside Service circles—German submarines did operate in Australian waters. U-862 sailed from Penang (then Japanese-occupied) to the coast of Australia, sinking a Liberty ship south of Sydney on Christmas Eve, 1944, and another ship some seven hundred miles west of Perth, at the beginning of January the following year.
Finally, I would like to state that the then-secret weapons whose purpose and operation are described throughout the book are no longer on the secret list.
Chapter One
A RED AND unclouded sun setting into a purple ocean looked with a fiery stare upon the submarine. Within the visibility radius of fifteen miles from her sombrely black bridge there was nothing else for the sun to shine upon. The sea itself, darkening, drew all about the low shape the uncompromising wheel of the horizon—except where, to the northward, an arc of the smooth weld of sea and sky was broken into a fanged edge by the stone teeth of New Guinea’s mountains.
The submarine was a large boat, one of Germany’s latest. Her fore-deck casing was not level, but swelled into a hammer-head of a nose; into each side of this, like elephantine ears, her two hydrophones fitted snugly. Her stem where it met the water was very fine, so that she ran along with two thin spurts of water curving upwards. These twin bow-waves ran aft and met the saddle-tanks which bulged her belly, and slipped over them in little catspaws of white foam.
A voice came from the bridge.
“Starb’d twenty.”
The voice was quiet, and the last syllable of the number was clipped off in a manner that imbued the order with a sense of assured and definite command. The man who uttered it was the captain Kapitanleutnant Gunther Kamenz, Iron Cross with Oak Leaves.
The helmsman below in the control room applied the wheel ordered and U-221 heeled a little as her angled rudder-face took effect. Kamenz put out one hand to the periscope standard to steady himself. He was under six feet tall, but immensely broad, with the neck and shoulders of a wrestler. His bullet head was covered with black hair cropped so close that at first sight it looked almost shaved. His features were hard, and his eyes were yellowish and very pale.
There was only one other man on the bridge with him, the lookout, Seaman Klaus. A blond man with the pale face of one who spent most of his time hidden from the sun, Klaus had his binoculars up and was sweeping the horizon with a keen and dutiful stare. But his mind was really concerned with the pleasure of breathing again the clean, sun-washed air of the surface. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the draughts with almost the physical sense of drinking, feeling the tight head-achy feeling ease behind the bridge of his nose. The U-boat had been submerged all day, and the potash-cartridges issued by Engineer Lemp were no compensation for what Klaus was breathing now.
“Midships. Steer one-oh-five.”
The captain’s voice brought Klaus back to a sense of his duty—he had already been reprimanded by the captain once on this commission, and once was enough. He cleared his throat to make sure his report would be clear and concise, for Kamenz was particular in that regard also, and reported;
“Nothing in sight, Herr Kapitan.”
He would like to have added what good visibility there was in these southern latitudes, and what a fine night it promised to be, for Klaus was a gregarious man. He was also a cautious man, and he kept his mouth shut. Unless you had a report to make, you spoke to this captain when you were spoken to, and never before.
Kamenz grunted in answer to his lookout’s information, and bent his great shoulders towards the voice pipe which ran like an extended throat down to the control-room twenty feet below.
“Commence charging the batteries,” he ordered, and before he came upright he heard his first-lieutenant, Oberleutnant Kranzbuhler, repeat the order. Kamenz straightened up and turned at the same time, so that he caught Klaus’ vacant eyes on him.
“Get on with your job!” Kamenz snapped. “There is nothing in sight now—does that mean there will always be nothing?”
Klaus swallowed. “No, Herr Kapitan.” He lifted his glasses hastily and continued his search. From beneath the big twin lenses he heard the captain say;
“Commander Murimoto on the bridge.”
Seaman Klaus knew that he should devote the whole of his attention to keeping a careful lookout. They had surfaced a few miles to the south of the south-eastern tip of New Guinea, not far from Jomard Passage, the narrow strait which opened into the northern route to Guadalcanal, Bougainville, New Britain and the big Allied naval base of Manus. This was extremely dangerous territory, liable to be crossed by both enemy aircraft and destroyers. Which was the main reason U-221 had surfaced only after a meticulous periscope search, and just before dusk. Seaman Klaus certainly should be keeping the most stringent watch with his binoculars here; he knew that, but still he could not stop his mind from wandering along the train of thought sparked by his captain’s words;
“Commander Murimoto on the bridge.”
Seaman Klaus had heard many orders passed down that voice-pipe since they had left Kiel months before, but they had all referred, when names had been mentioned, to Kranzbuhler, or Lemp, or Cremer, or Fleige, the ship’s officers. But Murimoto ...
Klaus’ eyes lingered a moment on a dark shadow on the slope of a wave, and decided it was only a shadow. Murimoto. This would be a cruise to remember, to talk about back in the submarine base. They were certainly the first U-boat to be sent so far East, and most definitely the first to carry a Japanese submarine captain as a guest, though the Jap had enjoyed none of the rest that is synonymous with the title ‘guest’. Almost since they had slipped away from the dockyard pier in Kure their passenger had spent every waking hour poking around the boat with the captain, both of them talking, of all languages, English. No doubt, Klaus had long ago decided, because that was the only language with which they were both conversant. Come to think of it, it would be strange to hear Kapitanleutnant Gunther Kamenz, one of the old Junker Prussians, gabbling in sing-song Japanese.
What they talked about Seaman Klaus had no idea, but it was obvious to all hands that this Japanese was being shown every secret U-221 possessed—and they were plenty! Much of the time he spent round the big mines which the boat carried lashed to the launching rails, with First-Lieutenant Kranzbuhler explaining the process of laying the spherical bulbs.
Seaman Klaus was no Einstein, but he did not need to be, to guess that the prime object of U-221’s entry into the Pacific arena was to instruct the Japanese on, one, minelaying, and two, in the refinements of submarine attack and evasion from escort ships. Klaus, though he had no really definite thoughts on the subject, vaguely disliked the idea of revealing to these monkey-men the secrets of Germany’s best scientific brains. And he guessed the rest of the crew felt the same. There had been, of course, no outspoken comment—of all the Reich’s armed forces, discipline was harshest and most strictly enforced in the underwater branch of the Reichsmarine.
Neither did Seaman Klaus know where they were bound to this particular mission. And certainly it was a particular mission. Four times during the long run south from Kure, U-221 had sighted fat targets—one of them had been an American aircraft-carrier which, though adequately escorted, would normally have drawn a salvo of the submarine’s explosive teeth. Yet the captain had lowered his periscope as soon as he had sighted the little fleet and had crept silently away down into the depths. And that was certainly not in the least like their glory-hunting captain, who had once, to Klaus’ personal knowledge, pressed his attack on an Atlantic convoy until he had got inside the British destroyer screen and slaughtered merchant ships right and left.
It was all very strange, but Seaman Klaus consoled himself with the thought that shortly he would know what their object was—it had to be fairly soon, for even the fuel of a large mine-laying boat like U-221 was not inexhaustible; and they had to get back to Kure.
He stiffened, and attentively searched the dimming horizon as he heard steps on the vertical ladder leading up from the control-room. The Jap had learned much in the past weeks—he could still learn something of the efficiency of a German sailor’s lookout.
Commander Murimoto, when he eased his shoulders through the hatch and climbed on the bridge, was not interested in the efficiency of German lookouts—he chose to be his own lookout. He had his binoculars with him, and before he spoke to Kamenz he swung the lenses carefully right round the horizon. The action—both of them searching together—made Seaman Klaus feel slightly ridiculous. But Kamenz seemed not to find anything unusual in his guest’s preoccupation. He waited till Murimoto had completed his sweep, his eyes idly on the other’s face. Commander Murimoto was shorter than the German, but he was built strongly. Under the binoculars his face was hard and capable. The Jap lowered his glasses and Kamenz said;
“A fine night, Commander. We should get in a good run on the surface.”
He had raised his voice a little above the clattering throb of the big twin diesels, which were pouring back into the banks of batteries the precious electricity the day’s submerged run had drained.
Murimoto turned his head slightly, though he did not look directly at Kamenz. His voice was hardly accented.
“You will run all night on the surface, Kapitan?”
Kamenz nodded. He felt no irritation at the question, even though it implied some doubt of the wisdom of his intention. Murimoto had proved himself an attentive and impressed pupil.
“Yes,” he said. “We must be in position off Jomard in plenty of time for our exercise tomorrow night.” He smiled, but the gesture merely pulled down the corners of his hard mouth. “You think it unwise?”
Murimoto’s head was still in that turned position, as if he had been listening attentively to what Kamenz had said. He smiled himself, carefully.
“To run all night on the surface, Kapitan? Who am I to advise? Except ... ”
“Yes?” Kamenz’s voice was tolerant.
“Except that the enemy has good radar, Kapitan.”
“So? I understand that any ships in this area are almost certain to be Australian. I do not think we have much to worry us, Commander.”
Murimoto pursed his lips. It was the equivalent of a Frenchman’s shrug.
“You will not run submerged with your snorkel tube up?”
“No, there is no need. I want my men to be fresh and rested for tomorrow.”
“I see.” Murimoto idly ran the forefingers and thumbs of his hands up and down the leather strap of his binoculars. “These Australian ships, Herr Kapitan. They are quite highly-trained, you know. Their training is based rigidly on that of the Royal Navy. I would say that there is no difference at all between an Australian and a British ship.”
Kamenz smiled down at the brown face from his greater height. He could just see the hard planes of its outline in the failing light.
“I have met British ships before, Commander. I am only worried about an Australian destroyer if she is handled better than the British. And that would be very doubtful, nein?” He paused. “You yourself have had experience of these locals?”
“I took prisoner the crew of an Australian destroyer,” Murimoto answered. He was staring thoughtfully out over the hammer-headed bow. “In fact, it was not very many miles south of here.”
“Then,” Kamenz chuckled, “surely you over-rate the fighting efficiency of this little Navy? If you could sink one of their destroyers, might it not be possible that I could do the same?”
This time Murimoto looked up and gazed into his host’s face. He smiled, almost gently.
“It is quite possible, Kapitan. You see, I did not sink this destroyer, I merely picked up her crew—or those I could find. Before that, she had depth-charged to the surface, then rammed to the bottom, the submarine I was to rendezvous with. Perhaps it was lucky that I came upon her men just after their ship had itself sunk. Her captain, I remember, impressed me as being a very efficient commander indeed. I had later justification for my opinion of him.”
“Really?” Kamenz smiled. There was, Murimoto noticed, just the right rising inflection at the end of the word. A smart officer, this German, Murimoto thought—he had probably learned his English in England.
Inwardly stung by the tolerant deprecation in the other’s tone and look, Murimoto said, a trifle sharply;
“Yes, really. He was delivered by me to a secret base of ours on Funalithi Island. With his men he escaped from the island. I had departed the day before—luckily, I think. For weeks we could establish no contact with the base. Then a submarine was sent to reconnoitre. We found the opening to the base closed up with rock, obviously blasted there, and certain other damage which suggested that the island had been subjected to an intensive air-attack. The submarine sent in a landing party. They buried what was left of the base’s complement.”
“And the Australians?” Kamenz asked, interested in spite of himself.
“There were no Australians. They had escaped in three whaleboats. And obviously they had set the bombers onto our hideout. Altogether,” Murimoto smiled calmly into the German’s face, “a very creditable performance on the part of our despised enemy.” i
A creditable performance against Japanese, Kamenz wanted to say. Against Germans the story might have been different. He restrained the sneer—his orders from Admiral Doenitz had been explicit, and he could not afford to indulge his personal opinion of these toothy little men he had been sent out to instruct.
“Yes,” he contented himself with saying. “However, it is unlikely that your redoubtable destroyer commander will repeat his success in these waters.” He bent to the voice-pipe.
“Kranzbuhler?”
“Yes, Herr Kapitan?” The answering voice was gruff, but respectful.
“We will proceed on the surface at twelve knots as soon as the batteries are charged. Course oh-nine-five.”
“I don’t like it. Not one little bit.”
Lieutenant-Commander Peter Bentley said the last four words slowly and with emphasis, almost through his teeth. Lieutenant Randall stared at the dark water ahead of Wind Rode’s placidly rising bow, moving his head in a circular motion. It was an instinctive movement, a legacy of years at sea; he could see little but the occasional flash of a white wave-cap against the overall black backdrop of the night. He did not answer his captain’s words—he did not need to. Randall was the first-lieutenant, Bentley’s deputy, and he liked what they had been ordered to do as little as his captain. The thing ran counter to every instinct of experience and training and common sense. He pulled his eyes from the darkness ahead and looked sideways at his chief.
“I suppose we’d better get him up here,” he said.
Bentley did not answer for a moment. They were standing at the fore end of the bridge, out of earshot of the officer of the watch and the signalman. He leaned his hands on the wind-break, his brown fingers gripping forward over the edge. If ever he had felt like disobeying orders, this was the time. The time was not too far back in the past when he had disobeyed an admiral’s orders. But that time—like Nelson—he had brought off a successful action. Here there was nothing to fight; he had only the bulwark of his own common sense to sustain him in disobedience. And that was not nearly enough. Not when your orders had come originally from the heavy brass in Navy Office itself, passed on to him in Port Moresby; orders from officers whose own experience outweighed his own, and who could presume to have used their own common sense before they gave this fellow the go-ahead.
