‘Dive, dive, dive!’
‘Shean was an ideal CO. He had a very highly developed mechanical brain and thoroughly understood all the technical side of the craft. Then, his coolness in difficulties and his extreme quickness of thought made him the perfect submarine skipper.’
—Stoker Petty Officer Jim Warren, Charioteer and X-craft submariner
‘Strewth!’ yelled Max Shean as the strong wave broke over XE-4’s casing. His grip went and he rolled off the deck head-first into the choppy sea, his cumbersome binoculars still hanging around his neck. Shean struggled in the black ocean, kicking himself to the surface with difficulty, his shoes heavy. He surfaced, coughing up seawater, just as the XE-4’s rudders passed by his head, the propeller churning the water dangerously close. Realising that he had only seconds in which to save his life, Shean struck out for the submarine, kicking hard, one hand reaching out for the jumping wire that ran from the periscope shield to the XE-craft’s rudder. If he missed it, he would be dead. Kicking wildly, he stretched his fingers out, desperately pushing towards the single strand of black-painted steel wire that was almost invisible against the moving submarine’s dark flank.1
*
When Tich Fraser had awoken in the seaman’s mess aboard HMS Stygian the day before his friend Max Shean’s untimely dunking, he had had to fight down his fears for the coming mission: the fear of failure, of capture and above all of torture. Getting hold of his emotions, Fraser had sighed, put down his steaming mug of tea and stood up. He decided that activity was the best cure for a case of the heebie-jeebies and he got dressed. His khaki shirt carried the rank epaulettes of a sub-lieutenant RNVR as a rather hopeful subterfuge, the upper shoulders of the shirt also adorned with the freshly sewn-on badges provided by Lieutenant Potter that declared his arm of service and his nationality. He pulled on khaki shorts and long socks, laced up his black shoes and picked up his white-topped naval officer’s cap with its firmly sewn-on crown and anchor badge.
‘Come on, Kiwi, wakey-wakey, its oh-four-thirty,’ said Fraser as he shook his first lieutenant awake. Smith, his eyes blank, rose suddenly from a tangle of blankets, his hair in disarray, and stretched wildly.
‘Give the others a shake, will you?’ asked Fraser. ‘We’ll have breakfast when you’re ready.’2
Fraser walked along the corridor to the control room, lit by red night lights. The helmsman was at his wheel, his eyes glued to the gyro-compass repeater in front of him. He barely acknowledged Fraser’s entrance. Fraser walked over to the chart table and switched on the light. Detailed naval charts of Singapore and its approaches littered the table. For some time Fraser went over each aspect of the plan in his head, working through the complex series of courses, speeds and distances that he had memorised, knowing that they would all lead to one final destination – the Takao.
Once he was satisfied that all was in order, Fraser snapped off the light and requested permission to climb the conning tower ladder up to the bridge. Guy Clarabut gave his permission immediately and when Fraser emerged on to the bridge it was still night. The sea was calm with just a few clusters of stars visible through breaks in the clouds. Lookouts scanned the sea in every direction through powerful binoculars watching for Japanese aircraft and patrol ships.
‘How much longer till we slip?’ Fraser asked. Clarabut wasn’t sure. Together, the two officers returned to the control room chart table for a final consultation.
‘Officially, the slipping position is roughly about five miles from Horsburgh Light,’ said Clarabut, putting his index finger on the chart, ‘but it’s a dark night tonight, and I’ll try and get in a little closer. I want to be as near as safety will allow.’3 The Horsburgh Lighthouse stands on Pedra Branca Island 34 miles east of Singapore and less than nine miles off the coast of Johor. It marks the eastern entrance to the Straits of Singapore.
Clarabut and Fraser discussed the situation for a little while longer. Fraser appreciated Clarabut’s offer to take them in closer to the enemy coast. It was a risky venture, but it would decrease the amount of time that Fraser and his crew would have to spend aboard the cramped and uncomfortable XE-3.
Soon, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting along the corridor from the seaman’s mess drew Fraser back to his crew and breakfast. No one spoke much as they ate. Their thoughts were elsewhere. It would be the last proper meal they would have in several days, so they savoured every delicious mouthful, or at least they tried to. More than one man found that he didn’t have much of an appetite.
At 5.30am the Stygian’s main engines were stopped, the clutches were disengaged and she continued along at slow speed on her quieter electric motors. There was a shout from the conning tower. It was Clarabut.
‘Control room, sir,’ replied the helmsman instantly.
‘Towing party on the bridge,’ ordered Clarabut, his voice muffled.
‘Towing party on the bridge, aye, sir,’4 repeated the helmsman. The chief petty officer and four ordinary seamen in the towing party disappeared up the conning tower ladder. Fraser gathered his crew in the control room and then followed the towing party up top, the ladder cold to the touch.
Fraser and his men watched as the towing party inflated a large yellow aircraft rescue dinghy on the submarine’s casing. Small waves were breaking over the deck and the party struggled to pump the dinghy up. A grass rope – that is, one which floated – was attached to the dinghy’s towing bracket. Fraser looked astern and could just make out the XE-3 about 200 yards away, the tall figure of Sub-Lieutenant Frank Ogden, the passage skipper, standing on the casing, waiting patiently for relief.
‘Dinghy’s ready for launching and streaming, sir,’ called up the chief petty officer in a strong Cockney accent from the deck.
‘Thank you, Chief,’ replied Clarabut. ‘Okay, Tich, we’re all ready for you.’
Fraser looked at Clarabut in the dim light. ‘Righto, Guy,’ he said, his face tight with concentration.
Clarabut stuck out his hand. ‘Au revoir, and good luck,’ he said smiling. ‘See you Friday night.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Fraser, ‘but don’t forget to wait.’5 Clarabut shook hands with Smith, Reid and Magennis, who all mumbled their goodbyes, before the four XE-men clambered down to the casing and made their way over to where the dinghy was being held with difficulty against the side of the submarine. The casing was wet and slippery, and Fraser’s party made their way over to the dinghy in single file. After shaking hands with the towing party, each man jumped into the dinghy. The dinghy was released and slowly drifted towards the XE-3, the grass line playing out behind it. Fraser and his crew sat in silence, each preoccupied by his forthcoming duties. A lot rested on their young shoulders.
*
Aboard HMS Spark a few dozen miles away the same scene was being played out as Jack Smart and his crew transferred to the XE-1. Like Fraser, Smart’s mind was filled with mission information, but also like Fraser, apprehension lurked below the surface.
*
As the dinghy came close to the XE-3, Sub-Lieutenant Ogden cast Fraser a line, pulling them alongside. Fraser clambered aboard, shaking Ogden’s hand. Little was said. Ogden and his men were relieved to be getting back aboard the Stygian and Fraser’s party was focused on the job to come. Anyway, it was not goodbye, but only ‘au revoir’. At least, that’s what everyone prayed for.
*
The transfer between HMS Spearhead and XE-4 hundreds of miles away near Indochina was effected more smoothly. Max Shean and his crew changed over with Sub-Lieutenant Willie Britnell’s passage crew, the XE-4 brought close astern of the Spearhead and made fast with a short line. Britnell had been through the whole process for real once before. He had been passage skipper on the X-24’s first mission against the German floating dock at Bergen.6
The Spearhead’s motor was run astern to prevent contact between the two submarines. Shean and his four crewmen simply stepped from the Spearhead over the small gap to the XE-4, shaking hands with Britnell and his crew as they went the other way. The sea and swell were low, making for a quick and easy changeover.7
Likewise, aboard the XE-5 heading for Hong Kong, the transfer went without mishap. The sea state was also calm, and Pat Westmacott and his crew bade farewell to HMS Selene. Westmacott believed that his operation to cut the telephone cables off Lamma Island would be straightforward and considerably less hazardous than making a harbour penetration. Spirits were high as the XE-5 submerged still in tow and the crew settled into the final approach to Hong Kong.
*
Sub-Lieutenant Edgar Munday, XE-1’s passage crew skipper, reached down and helped Jack Smart to climb aboard his boat. The two men shook hands. ‘Any trouble?’ asked Smart.
‘No, nothing serious,’ said Munday. ‘The telephone’s been unreliable, but that’s all.’ The telephone link was intermittent aboard all four of the towing submarines involved in the operations. Though undoubtedly inconvenient, it was a minor problem.
‘Well, thanks Eddie,’ said Smart as the rest of his crew clambered aboard and Munday’s passage crew emerged gratefully from the XE-3 and jumped into the dinghy.
‘Good luck, Jack!’ said Munday, giving Smart’s hand a final squeeze before he followed his men into the dinghy. Munday was glad that he wasn’t going with them. No matter what was said, the chances of coming back from a harbour penetration were remote. ‘See you soon!’ shouted Munday, forcing a smile onto his weary face, hoping that he sounded and looked convincing.
*
Aboard the XE-3 Frank Ogden also reported that the telephone line was intermittent. But the battery density was right up, and the boat was dry inside and recently cleaned out.
‘Thank you, Frank,’ said Fraser. ‘You had better go now before anything goes wrong. I should hate you to be left here in the middle of this ocean in a rubber dinghy.’
‘Righto!’ laughed Ogden. ‘Cheerio, and good luck.’8
The plan was for the mother submarines to tow the four attack midgets as close to their targets as they dared before releasing the umbilical lines. That meant all four XEs would be on tow for most of the day, something that most of the crews had not experienced before.
Aboard the XE-3, Fraser and his crew settled into their workstations. Fraser stood in the control room’s periscope well while Kiwi Smith was seated aft operating the hydroplanes and pumping systems. When under way using its own power, Smith would also operate the motor and engine controls. ERA Charlie Reed was seated on the starboard side of the control room just forward of the periscope well where his attention was concentrated on the wheel and the gyro-compass repeater. Mick Magennis, the only member of the crew to have experienced towing before, plotted the course and bearings on Fraser’s handmade chart.9
Once the crew transfer was complete, Fraser signalled the Stygian with a lamp to pull back the dinghy containing Ogden and the passage crew. The Stygian was soon under way again, pulling the XE-3 through the water at a steady five knots. Fraser remained on deck for a few minutes until he heard Smith’s voice from inside the casing. ‘Casing, all ready below.’ This meant that Fraser could dive the boat.
‘Okay,’ shouted down Fraser through the open hatch. ‘I’ll just check the casing before I come down.’ Fraser gave the exterior of his submarine a quick once over. The side cargo containing two tons of high explosive and the limpet mine carrier were both secure. ‘Stand by to dive,’ he shouted to Smith.
‘Aye aye, Tich. Ready for diving,’ came his reply.
Fraser raised the Aldis lamp and signalled his intention to dive the submarine to the Stygian’s yeoman, who acknowledged receipt with a few brief flashes of Morse. Fraser turned and started down the ladder. Before he shut the heavy hatch he looked around one last time. The first fingers of dawn were lighting the horizon. It was going to be a long day and night to come. He slammed the hatch shut and took his place beside the periscope standard.
‘Dive, dive, dive,’ he ordered calmly. ‘Thirty feet.’ Fraser gave the course, adding, ‘Let me know when you’re happy with the trim, Number One.’ Smith repeated the orders.
ERA Reed slammed open the levers controlling the three main vents to the tanks.
‘Q flooded,’10 said Reed, the XE-3 sliding beneath the dark waves.
‘Craft trimmed for diving, Tich,’ said Smith shortly after.
‘Very good,’ replied Fraser.
They were on their way to the Takao and their moment of destiny.
*
A submerged XE-craft on tow behaved badly for the first fifteen minutes or so until the crew had settled her trim. The XE-1’s depth was initially all over the place, first fifteen feet, then 50 feet, then 20, as first lieutenant Harold Harper struggled to sort out her trim with the fore and aft tanks. Eventually she settled down, the submerged HMS Spark dragging her along at a sedate two knots. It was expected that both the XE-1 and XE-3 would slip from their mother submarines around 11.00pm.11
*
Aboard the XE-3 Fraser studied his charts again. He already knew every course change and bearing off by heart. Kiwi Smith constantly monitored the distance that had been run using the Chernikeeff Log, an instrument used to measure distance at sea. When a turn came up, Smith would inform Fraser and then monitor the next run for the agreed distance. When he had planned his mission, Fraser, like Smart, Shean and Westmacott, had taken into account water currents and wind speeds. But no matter how accurate the chart navigation, all of the skippers had to occasionally take bearings on lighthouses and other prominent landmarks during the run in and report any deviation to the mother submarine via the telephone link. A change in current or wind could set them off course by miles and it was the only way to be absolutely sure. But it was inherently risky. They were already deep into enemy waters, and popping up the attack periscope presented the constant risk of detection and/or attack.
When Fraser wanted to check his position Smith would bring the XE-3 up to periscope depth. Near the periscope standard was a bearing indicator with a swinging needle for taking the bearings of any objects in relation to the submarine’s bow; so the captain could take a bearing 180 degrees on either side of the boat. As Fraser called out, his eyes pressed to the periscope, Reed called out the ship’s heading on the gyro-compass repeater, and after Fraser had given the appropriate bearing of the ship’s head to Smith, he would work out the true bearing to be noted on the chart.12 But this method was by no means accurate because of the bearing indicator’s swinging needle. Generally, the XE-craft skippers knew that they were within a ten-square-mile patch of ocean after each peek outside.
‘Minefield ahead, Tich,’ stated Smith flatly. Fraser knew they were about to nose into every sea captain’s nightmare. The approaches to Singapore and Johor were protected by a series of minefields that had been laid by the British, Dutch and Japanese. The charts were not completely accurate, so a cautious skipper would normally take the long route and work around the minefield into one of the safer swept channels. But Fraser in XE-3 and Smart aboard the XE-1 did not have the luxury of time. They had to reach the anti-submarine boom protecting the eastern entrance to the Johor Strait by first light the following day. After talking to the captains of the towing submarines Stygian and Spark, it had been decided to simply sail straight through the minefields to save time. The mines, great steel balls with magnetic detonation arms giving them the appearance of scaled-up medieval maces, were suspended from thick chains and anchored to the seabed by weights. The submarines could pass safely over the tops of the mines, which were set deep to strike the hulls of large warships. Everyone tried not to think about the possibility that one might have broken its chain and be bobbing about near the surface. A collision would mean instant death.
*
The day wore on. Aboard the XEs the crews tried to eat, but mostly they just picked at their ‘proper’ food. The submarines carried mostly tinned food and a steamer for heating it up, actually a carpenter’s glue pot.13 Because everything aboard an XE-craft was in miniature, the food came in small, sample-size tins. Into the pot were poured the contents of any tins that the crew wanted to eat. It was then heated up and served as a glutinous stew. It was very much an acquired taste.
Lacking much appetite, the crews instead drank pint cans of American orange juice and nibbled tinned American peanuts. Conversation was limited to technical issues.
*
The XE-3 surfaced at 10.30pm. When Fraser opened the hatch warm tropical air wafted into the stuffy craft. Fraser climbed out on deck and looked around. He immediately spotted the Horsburgh Lighthouse flashing a couple of miles away, marking the eastern end of the Johor Strait. Lieutenant Clarabut had been true to his word, bringing the XE-3 in much closer to the Malayan mainland than the agreed five miles. As Fraser strained his eyes in the gloom, he could make out dark hills. ‘Johor,’ he muttered to himself. It was almost time to slip the tow. He could feel the excitement building inside him. Taking the blue Morse lamp, he flashed the Stygian.
‘Casing – control room,’ he said down the open hatch.
‘Control room,’ replied Smith.
‘Raise the induction,’ ordered Fraser. A few seconds later the schnorkel pipe slowly cranked up to fifteen degrees. Fraser closed the hatch, remaining on deck. He would use the open pipe to speak to his crew.
‘Stand by to slip the tow,’ Fraser shouted down the induction trunk.
‘Aye aye, Tich,’ came Smith’s voice, as if from far away.
A few seconds later Smith spoke again. ‘Ready to let go now, Tich,’ he said.
Fraser signalled the Stygian, asking for permission to slip.
S-L-I-P, came the Morse code reply.
‘Okay, let it go, Kiwi,’ shouted Fraser.
‘Tow line released, Tich,’ shouted Smith a few seconds later.
‘Slow astern,’ ordered Fraser. The electric motor thrummed into life, the beating propeller noisy after the silence of towing. The towing line came completely free as the XE-3 backed away from the Stygian.
‘All gone for’ard,’ shouted Fraser. ‘Stop the motor.’14
The XE-3 was free of the Stygian. She was on her own. Now there was one final farewell to make to ‘mother’. XE-3 motored close alongside the Stygian. Lieutenant Clarabut stood atop the conning tower and yelled out the latest position to Fraser – oh-three-six degrees, two-and-a-half-miles from the Horsburgh Light.15 Clarabut had come in much closer to land than his orders had specified. Clarabut raised his hand and Fraser did the same.
‘Thank you!’ yelled Fraser, whose tiny, toy-like submarine looked terribly small beside the Stygian’s long menacing hull. ‘Cheerio, see you later,’ said Fraser.
He turned back to the induction trunk and ordered the diesel engine engaged.
‘Full ahead. Steer two-four-oh degrees, 1,500 revolutions!’ he shouted to Smith, the little submarine vibrating as the propeller bit into the water.
As the XE-3 pulled away from ‘mother’, Fraser heard a subdued cheer from the Stygian’s darkened deck. In the time-honoured tradition of warriors, they were saluting those who were about to go into battle.16
*
When Max Shean lost his grip and tumbled into the sea from the XE-4 he knew that he had only seconds to save himself. The submarine was running on the surface at two knots. The sea state had changed since Shean had slipped the tow and bid farewell to HMS Spearhead at 9.00pm on 30 July. The ocean was shallow over the Formosa Bank, and the wind had whipped the night-time waters into waves that broke over the submarine’s casing. This had become more problematical to Shean as the night had worn on, as he needed to take a visual sighting off the Cape St Jacques Lighthouse to accurately establish his position. But the lighthouse had not been lit and Shean couldn’t make it out from his position atop the surfaced XE-4. Instead, he had managed to take a rough fix on a range of mountains called Nui Baria.17
With a rising wind and sea, Shean had experienced difficulties even using his binoculars. Salt spray kept fogging up the lenses and he was forced on several occasions to climb back inside the submarine to clean them. Getting in and out of the craft had also become increasingly hazardous. Because of the choppy sea Shean would open the hatch and quickly leap up to sit on the casing, swing his legs out and over the side, then shut the hatch before a wave broke over the casing and poured down inside the submarine.
With the hatch closed down, Shean had been communicating with his crew using the partly raised induction schnorkel trunk, just like Tich Fraser had been aboard the XE-3 approaching Johor.
Shean had thought that he could see one of the casing bolts breaking loose, forward of where the waves were buffeting worst. He had gingerly left the induction trunk to investigate, slipped on the wet deck and been washed overboard by a strong wave.18
When Shean went into the sea the XE-4 sailed on oblivious to her commander’s sudden departure. Fortunately, his outstretched hand grasped the jumping wire and he was able to slowly pull himself back aboard the submarine’s deck, where he lay exhausted for a time, coughing up seawater and thanking God for his deliverance. If he had not managed to grab the wire the XE-4 would have sailed on at a stately two knots. Coupled with the sea state, Shean would not have been able to catch up with her.19
It would have been around fifteen minutes before his first lieutenant, Ben Kelly, noticed that all orders had ceased from the casing and gone to investigate. In fifteen minutes on a dark ocean in the middle of the night Shean would have been long gone. Kelly would have undoubtedly brought the XE-4 about and tried to search for Shean, but the chances of finding him would have been remote. Shean would have tried to swim in the direction of the submarine, or trodden water, until he either drowned or was eaten by sharks – either way, a terrible, lonely death best not thought about.
When Shean clambered down the main hatch ladder to sort himself out after his impromptu swim, he tried to make light of the drama in front of his crew, but no one was under any illusions about the seriousness of the incident. Ben Kelly would not have aborted the mission if he had failed to locate the missing Shean. He could not have afforded to linger for too long conducting a futile search, dangerously flashing lights on the water’s surface in Japanese territory, but would have been expected to take command and push on and complete the mission without Shean. It was what they were trained to do, and this was the real deal, not a training mission. The mission always came first, not the man. Shean knew that more than anyone. It was a brutal fact in their line of business.