Early one hot Wednesday afternoon in August Bob was on deck, cleaning the fish for next morning’s breakfast. It was a messy job, scraping the scales of the herring, then splitting them and removing the innards. Gulls swooped overhead, then dived down for the guts as Bob threw them overboard. Because of the gulls’ screeching he didn’t hear Skipper come up behind him.
‘Bob,’ said Skipper, ‘just get me the glasses.’
Bob got up off his knees, rubbing his hands on his trousers. He fetched the glasses off the mizzenmast and handed them to Skipper, who was staring intently to starboard.
‘There’s a couple of submarines out there,’ Skipper said.
Bob stared in the same direction. He wasn’t sure if he could see something, or if he was imagining it.
‘Yes, there’s definitely two of ’em,’ said Skipper. ‘Go an’ tell everybody to be ready for action.’
Bob’s heart pounded in his chest. Two submarines against one little fishing smack. He ran to tell the others. Then he went to his own action station, with George, down below in the fore-peak, in the ammunition room.
‘Take them shells out of their boxes,’ said George, ‘and hand ’em to me so’s I can hook ’em on to these ropes. Bert and Ernie’ll pull the ropes up an’ unhook the shells, an’ Ned’ll load ’em into the gun. There’s no time to lose.’
Bob was all fingers and thumbs. He tried to be as quick as he could. George was swearing under his breath. The gunners were shouting to each other. Before they could fire a shell, the submarine opened fire on the Admiral.
There was a tremendous explosion, followed straightaway by another, even louder. Bob was sure they’d been hit. His ears rang and his hands trembled.
‘It’s all right,’ said George. ‘We’ve not been hit. Pass us another boxful.’
Their own gunners retaliated. The whole boat vibrated, just as it had when they sank that Jerry submarine a few months ago. It seemed so easy then. One shot, and it went down. Not this time. Their shots were falling short. The sub was keeping its distance.
Another explosion, and another. The Admiral’s gunners fired back again. There was a tremendous reverberation throughout the boat, and the smell of smoke.
Another explosion. Really close. A flash. The boat shuddered. Bob heard water splashing.
Then he heard Alf shout, ‘He’s hit us on the starboard bow!’
‘A little further for’ard, an’ we’d both have bin gonners,’ said George.
Bob felt sick. He longed to be in the fresh air. It was hot and cramped in the ammo room, but he had to stay and do his bit. The terrible noise, the ringing in his ears, the stench of gunfire. What if the boat went down, and he and George were trapped?
His knees hurt with crouching down by the boxes of shells. He stood up to stretch his legs.
‘All right?’ asked George.
‘Yes,’ said Bob, though he wasn’t. He was more scared than he’d ever been. What had he said to Harry Foster? Money for jam. Tempting providence, that’s what Mam would call it. He wished he’d never said it.
‘My ears are ringin’ that bad I can’t hear a thing,’ said George. ‘Just go an’ find out what’s goin’ on. Don’t put your head above deck though.’
‘He’s out of range,’ Bob heard Arthur shout.
‘Hang fire for a bit,’ called Skipper. ‘Wait ’til they come nearer an’ then give ’em another blast.’
Crack! Another shell came over. And another. A hit. The boat shook.
The Admiral’s gunners fired back, but they couldn’t hit Jerry. He was too far off.
There was another bang, quickly followed by another, and a terrible juddering.
‘It’s gone through the mainsail!’ yelled Alf. ‘Oh, God, that one’s gone right through the port quarter!’
‘Abandon ship!’ shouted Skipper.
Bob ran back to George. Skipper was right behind him.
‘We’re sinkin’ fast,’ Skipper said. ‘Come on!’
On deck Alf, Tom and Bert were unfastening the little boat, ready to launch it. Smoke swirled around them.
Bob felt the salt water spray on his face. He could taste it. Water!
He kicked off his boots, his beautiful new boots. There was no point in wearing them. The high heels would be a nuisance. They’d have to go down with the ship.
He turned and raced down below. Water was coming in so fast it was nearly up to his knees. Where was the old tea-kettle? Here! He managed to fill it with fresh water.
Back on deck Skipper was taking the carrier pigeon, Red Runner, out of its coop.
‘Hold him, Bob,’ he said, ‘while I write a message.’
Bob watched as he wrote, ‘Armed smack the Admiral attacked by submarine – Hardy Shoal Buoy.’
While Bob held the pigeon steady, Skipper stuffed the rolled-up paper through the ring on its leg. Then he held it aloft and let it go.
Skipper and Alf lifted the big compass out of the Admiral and passed it down to George and Tom in the little boat. Once they were all aboard they pulled clear of the Admiral as fast as they could. She was going down. They didn’t want the little boat, their only hope of survival, to be dragged down with her.
When they were at a safe enough distance they rested the oars, and watched in silence as the Admiral tilted and disappeared beneath the waves.