Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (26 page)

“Well you won’t find me sticking my head beneath the sea. I prefer my head above the waterline breathing natural air and my feet on terra firma. I’m very experienced in paddling. When is this great event to watch you drown?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’d advise you wear some warm clothing; the chill factor out in the bay is appalling. And if swimming isn’t a strong point I suggest you check on whether life-jackets are readily available.”

Hamer’s eyebrows lifted in terror. “Is it going to be that bad?”

“Have you seen the weather forecast predicted for tomorrow?”

I was drinking tea in the hotel lounge when Shamus arrived and presented me with the enlarged photographs he had rolled together carefully. “Did you get my diving gear from the boot of my car?”

“Indeed I did Shacks sir, safely transferred to the boat in readiness.”

“Excellent.”

I unravelled and studied each enlargement in turn. On one of the photographs, what I’d first thought were just black dots on the hazy originals, now clearly showed three small rubber crafts with at least two men aboard each craft seemingly in the process of attaching implements to the stern of the submarine.

I pointed to the spot I was looking at on the photograph. “What do you make of this, Shamus?”

Shamus leaned over. “Straight forward, I’d say. The submarine’s under attack, Shacks sir. I examined the photos with a magnifying glass. The people in the dinghies are attaching black discs. I’d be guessing explosives.”

I agreed with him. “Limpet mines, Shamus. It would seriously explain the smoke bellowing from the rear of the submarine in the other photographs. I think their intention was to immobilize the steering controls to stop the sub sailing away.”

“The attackers were trying to capture the sub, Shacks sir?”

“I think the intention was to sink the sub.”

“Why would they want to sink it, Shacks, sir?”

For the gold bullion
I was tempted to tell him. Instead I said, “I’m not sure, Shamus. Ireland declared neutrality during the war. Perhaps the Japanese thought it was a safe haven. There’s no records of the Allies attacking a submarine in these waters because they were too busy battering a similar sub in the Atlantic. So why indeed should anyone attack a submarine in Irish waters? I wouldn’t mind betting there’s nothing written in any of the history books concerning this slice of wartime activity.”

“History or not, Shacks sir. Old Shamus now knows which shoreline the sub lies off. Look carefully at the second photo, just to the top, right side, there’s a faint image showing through the watermark. It’s a landmark, a piece of rock rising from the water. I’ve seen it before! If I’m not mistaken, that splinter of rock holds the ruins of O’Driscoll’s fort. Dun an Oir, ‘the golden fort’. The historic fortress is on the West side of Clear Island.”

“Good man, Shamus! You’ve just earned yourself a double bonus.”

My jubilation lasted all of three seconds when a shadow loomed over our shoulders. Hamer leaned over to view the photographs.

“What have we here, Speed?”

“My holiday snaps in three D, Inspector.”

He looked hard at Shamus. “Who’s this chap then? Is he trying to sell you some postcards, Speed?”

“Shamus, meet Inspector Hamer, Ministry of Defence police investigator who’s volunteered to assist us in our quest for fishing for the big one. Inspector Hamer, meet Shamus our tour operator and guide.”

Shamus appeared concerned. “He’s a policeman, yer mean, Shacks, sir?”

“No Shamus. He’s a Ministry of Defence policeman. Don’t worry, he’s not after you. His jurisdiction ended the moment he touched Irish soil. But be warned. You touch even a flake of paint that resembles military hardware and he’ll have you strung up by your balls and carted off to the nearest gaol without your feet touching the ground. Isn’t that right Inspector?”

Hamer curled his top lip and resumed his interest in the enlargements. “That’s a Japanese cargo submarine used during WWII?”

“You’re very observant, Sherlock.”

“Cut the crap, Speed! Is that why you’re here in Ireland, to find a submarine?”

“I happen to have a passion for wreck diving.”

“You’re wasting your time even looking, Speed.”

Shamus jumped in. “Exactly what I told him, sir.”

Hamer scowled at the interruption. “There aren’t any such wrecks in these parts.”

“You’re just as bad as Shamus; spoiling my dreams.”

“I’d say we’re doing you a favour.”

“I take it that you’re an expert on the subject of wrecks, Hamer?”

“I know enough to tell you there are no sunken submarines in these waters. There was only ever one Japanese submarine sunk in this part of the world during the war.” He flicked his head sideways. “And that was out there in the deep blue ocean of the Atlantic in 1944. That’s historical fact. And that particular submarine has already been located by the yanks in recent times, pinpointed and recorded. Besides, Speed, if you’re thinking of an Atlantic rendezvous, I’d give up now. It’s far too deep for you and your flippers.”

“Have you any idea how long I can hold my breath?”

“Not long enough, Speed. Save your air tanks. Let’s instead have a nice cruise around the harbour, collect our things and get ourselves back to London to sort out our problems. Then we can think about a holiday to somewhere warm and pleasant and away from the smell of fish. I’ll even get Morgan to finance the arrangement.”

I gave him a stern look and said, “You’re trying to be bossy again.”

“I want to go home.”

“Nobody’s stopping you.”

“You’re forgetting Morgan.”

“You just decide whether you want to come along and play pirates or not?”

*

Hamer made the trip with us to Clear Island after all. His presence suited me. At least I could keep an eye on him. It turned out that Hamer made a lousy sailor. He suffered miserably with seasickness throughout the rough voyage. He grasped whatever he could in the wheelhouse providing it didn’t move and he wouldn’t let go. Not even for a beer. I left him to suffer alone in the corner of the wheelhouse.

Me! I was excited with the prospect of solving the mystery of the elusive I-52 when we arrived at the proposed diving site; the position Shamus and I had calculated where the submarine would have been at the time when the photograph was taken by Craven’s Spitfire. Shamus dropped the
Muff’s
anchor.

I changed into my diving gear. While doing so I explained to Shamus the importance of conducting a rigorous training session for a surface coordinator on line duty and the various pulling signs he must know to communicate and understand the diver below. I also stressed the fact that this practice was what a diver’s life depended on. Twice I went through the procedure with him. Twice I didn’t get the responsive confidence I’d hoped for. Just his expression alone told me he didn’t fancy taking on the responsibility alone. When Hamer made an appearance on deck I asked him if he understood the procedure, but he shrugged, made a mad dash for the starboard side and promptly threw up his half digested morning meal.

Again I went through the communication rope pulling signals with him while I slipped into the neoprene dry suit, attached the aqualung (double tri-mix air tanks-air regulator-buoyancy compensator), put on an adjustable buoyancy life jacket, weight-belt, fins and silicon facemask resting on my forehead. I illuminated the rubber torch to check it was working; checked the knives were in position, one on my arm and one attached to the side of my leg; checked the wrist attached dive computer (calculated depth, temperature and compass bearings). I attached the safety line and I was ready to dive.

“Right, Shamus! Listen again! You are the shore and I’m the diver. Okay?”

“I’ve got that, Shacks sir.”

“One pull on the rope by shore indicates, ‘are you okay’ to the diver. If the diver pulls the rope once, it indicates, ‘I’m okay’. Understand?”

“Indeed I do, Shacks, sir. It’s one pull and you’re okay.”

“Two pulls by shore, indicates, ‘stay still’. Two pulls by diver, indicates, ‘I’m still’. Three pulls by shore, indicates, ‘go down’. Three pulls by diver, indicates, ‘going down’. Four pulls by shore, indicates, ‘come up’. Four pulls by diver, indicates, ‘coming up’. Continuous pulls by shore, indicates, ‘emergency bring you up’. Continuous pulls by diver, indicates, ‘bring me up’. Have you got all that?”

“Indeed, I do, Shacks, sir.” He prodded the side of his head. “All here, within the confines of me head.”

“It better had be there, Shamus because I’m depending on you,” I warned him. “Now is the blue flag flying to show other crafts a diver is down in the water?”

“It is, Shacks, sir, flapping in the wind, it is.”

I pulled the goggles down over my eyes, put the aqualung mouthpiece in and sucked in some air to test it was working correctly. And then I made a walk-in dive and dropped beneath the water line, brought my knees up to my midriff and threw my head down, kicked the fins and made my descent into the depths of Roaring Water Bay.

I descended at an energy saving pace. The water darkened the deeper I dived and the water temperature dropped rapidly; not exactly a diver’s paradise. Further down I had to revert to switching on the powerful rubber torch I’d brought with me.

I made routine checks of my depth on the wrist computer until I’d reached the bottom vegetation. If a large vessel of any description was down on the seabed, especially a submarine of such a massive length, I was confident I would find the frigging thing, that’s if it hadn’t sailed away in 1944, as Shamus had already suggested plus making the annoying point that
if it was here why hadn’t it been discovered before now?
But I wasn’t to have my confidence dampened by wasteful thoughts so I pressed on regardless; there was a lot of seabed to search and breathing time under water is limited.

In a short time I’d covered a fair section of seabed, establishing a grid reference search which took me in towards the rocky shores and back out again. I marked the areas I’d covered on my submersible chart. It was tiring work which wasn’t surprising considering the strong currents I had to swim against. I decided to take a break and warm my bones with a hot cup of tea mixed with a tot of paddy’s whiskey. I pulled the rope four times to indicate to Shamus that I was coming to the surface. I began the surfacing procedure with the utmost of care and if I were to apply the wrong application on my return to the surface, I would have ended up inside a decompression chamber with the bends, and that’s not regarded as having a thumping headache but more in line as a close to death experience. I should know because I’ve been there before.

It was ten years ago now and it hadn’t been through stupidity that I’d surfaced too quickly and found myself abandoned inside the scary atmosphere of a decompression chamber. But it wasn’t as scary as having a great white shark bearing in on me, forcing me to swim for my life. The choice I made was simple. I’d rather experience the agonizing bends than have half my limbs shredded with a set of razor sharp teeth. Apart from that one unfortunate incident of the bends, my competence in scuba-diving was down to being taught under the guidance and supervision of the great Jacque-Yves Cousteau and his simple application: never allow yourself to ascend faster than your last air bubble.
Watch the bubbles or you will suffer
, he used to harp on…

When I broke the surface, Shamus’s large hand was there to haul me aboard. I removed my facemask. Shamus stood there with a cocky grin on his red veined face.

“Now didn’t Shamus O’Malley say there wasn’t anything of interest down there, Shacks, sir?”

I removed my aqualung. “Take that smug look off your face, Shamus. I haven’t finished the search yet.”

“O’ well, I be thinking how boring it must be looking for the mysterious one. If yer fancy a change, I’d noticed a shoal of fish off the portside. We’ll catch a pan-full that I promise.”

“Sod off, Shamus! I’ll take a two hour rest, change of tanks and I’ll make a second dive. Where’s Hamer gone?”

“He’s down below, Shacks sir; from under my feet.”

“Better join him while you make a mug of tea. And don’t be selfish with the added whiskey or else I’ll dock your wages.”

*

In less than two hours I was back down beneath the murkiness of the bay scavenging the seabed once more, swimming in a cross-directional search pattern, interweaving through the vegetation, with small playful fish darting across the torch beam in a game of dare. I checked meticulously every conceivable object large or small that was encrusted with sea-life in-case the submarine had exploded and fragmented over the seabed. Up-turned everything and frustratingly I found nothing remotely resembling even a scrap of submarine.

I stretched my search area further left, approximately the size of half a football field. Frustrating as it was turning out to be, it’s moments like this when some searchers would be ready for chucking in the towel; that self doubt tapping the back of their skull that they were wasting time and effort. I’d never reached that stage yet but I was getting rather close to quitting myself.

My overall assessments had me thinking I was looking in the wrong place. Not my fault entirely. It stands to reason that a submarine the size of the I-52 just doesn’t evaporate to metal filings unless it had been lost for a thousand years. There would be pieces scattered along the seabed; big pieces that wouldn’t need even an underwater metal detector to locate. Maybe Shamus was right after all and there would be nothing to find. Perhaps he knew more than he was telling me and was quite happy to leave me to my own devices. It stands to reason that the longer I’m unsuccessful the more he’s paid. I wondered if Shamus was playing the artful dodger underneath his jovial expression. Or perhaps I was just deflecting my own failures on Shamus which was unfair to him.

I snapped out of my negative thoughts quickly. I was no quitter and I wasn’t about to begin now. My success in finding objects was down purely to perseverance; that and the thrill of the challenge. And if I were to falter in the belief of my abilities I now had the back-up to drive me on: Tommy and Lens, and the horrific way they died.