Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (36 page)

“Bollocks to you, Speed!” And with outburst he trudged off towards the bar, weighed down by the huge sulk dragging behind him.

I said, as he strode away. “So I can take it you won’t be joining us on the ‘Muff’ this afternoon?” Now there was a statement for open ears, which, unsurprisingly, caused a few heads to turn. As for Hamer, I considered his instant reply of a swift raise of two fingers damned right impertinent and a definite no.

“What happened to, ‘stick to me like glue policy’ you were so positive on applying?”

“Go and drown yourself, Speed, so I can go home with a clear conscience.”

I left Hamer to decide which part of his dummy he would spit out next, went to change and met Shamus aboard the
Muff
.

*

The weather was favourable for diving; the sea considerably calmer as we sailed out into the bay, and arced towards Clear Island. Inevitably we were chaperoned by the
Flying Fish
. There was no hard evidence that the ship was actually shadowing us, yet I’d be willing to put all my money on it. And if the ship was intending to do research then I’d be sacking the crew because they were a frigging bunch of lazy bastards as there was little happening on deck. But as long as they left me alone I was content on continuing my own piece of research.

Shamus lined up the bow of the
Muff
with his pre-recorded land markers in exactly the same position as before and probably within the inch. While Shamus dropped the boat’s anchor I squeezed into my neoprene diving gear, donned my equipment and was quickly into the water.

Beneath the seas and oceans of our planet the water smothers the madness of an exhilarating existence. It’s an entirely different world where a person can think. Pace is smoother and more practiced; it has to be. While we are able to breathe air above the water as fast or as slow as we like, beneath the water you’re at its mercy. Too fast a manoeuvre and the wrong breathing pattern is considered highly dangerous to the human body submerged in deep water. But it’s not all doom and gloom and uninviting. Diving is divine, a world of excitement, and its peacefulness only interrupted by the gurgling of escaping air bubbles exhaled from my mouthpiece.

Amongst my array of diving tools I had with me a very long engineer’s lever. It was heavy even in seawater and that excess weight took me down to the seabed without me having to kick my fins. It’s a good thing you can’t get the bends descending or else I would have been in big trouble. At least I would have plenty of reserved energy for working on the seabed. As for Shamus feeding my lifeline into the water, his hands were probably moving ten to the dozen and suffering from rope burns, trying to keep up with my rapid descent. I did warn him.

Again I located the position where the strong current flowed between the fallen rocks that I had found on the previous dive. I went to work. Rammed the tip of the long engineers lifting bar into the crack of a rock and levered hard while trying to keep my feet steady on the silted seabed. Fragments of rock splintered but nothing significant happened. I chose another crack in the same rock, again the same result. I persevered. I’d no choice because I loathe defeatism. Working on the same rock I shifted the crowbar around its circumference, levering to and fro, jerking side to side. The effort was tiring, and tired lungs use up air at a fast rate.

If the levering was to fail then my only other choice would be with a couple of sticks of dynamite, that is, if I’d any idea of using the stuff properly without blowing myself into a thousand pieces. After a little more persuasion with the lever my persistence paid off and the rock suddenly gave and rolled down causing the silt to explode into a psychedelic form of cloud as it drifted on the current.

I began attacking the next rock with more brute force, which proved just as stubborn before finally giving. Every rock after gave easily, and slowly and surely, I’d created a tunnel large enough to safely squeeze through.

I dropped the crowbar to the seabed, waited a few moments for the silt to settle before shining the torch beam into the dark void that stretched into oblivion. I half expected something to suddenly shoot out of the hole but nothing did. Still I hesitated from venturing into the unknown, wondering whether I should prop the tunnel with appropriate rigging before I entered, but that would have taken more time. I also discarded the lifeline because I thought it could snag as I went in. I tied the line to a rock so Shamus wouldn’t panic if he suddenly realized I wasn’t attached to the other end. Satisfied, I kicked the fins hard and slipped through the hole, pushing loose boulders aside. At first I swam cautiously slow, apprehensive of what lay ahead in the gloom. I could even admit to being a little scared.

The claustrophobic tunnel I was swimming through began to widen with every swim stroke. I would have expected to find a certain amount of sea-life, maybe a few curious fish darting into the torch beam, but strangely, it seemed devoid of anything, even vegetation. I checked my depth gauge on a regular basis. I made a quick calculation. By maintaining the direction I was heading, the readings showed that with every swim stroke I was beginning to surface. I slowed my ascent to acclimate.

When I finally broke the surface I found myself in a place of pitch blackness. I got to my feet, pointing the torch beam into the darkness to remove any concerns I had of a prehistoric beast surging towards me, though I did wonder if I should breathe the air in case there were any living parasites breeding in this hole that no scientist had ever heard of before. I took the risk and removed the aqualung mouthpiece, face mask and fins, suddenly catching a smell that at first I couldn’t identify. I laid out my pathway through the water with the torch beam and waded ashore.

I’d landed on cold, dry sand that clogged between my wet toes, a secret beach with no sunshine. I dropped the fins and facemask to the ground and eased the aqualung from my shoulders along with the weight belt, and began flicking the beam in different directions in fits of organized impatience. I soon realized that someone had found this beach before me.

The torch beam landed on empty wooden crates scattered around. There was no lettering or indication of age or era stencilled on the crates so I’d no idea how long the crates had been there but they appeared quite old. I startled when the torch beam illuminated an old diving suit complete with lead weighted boots and iron helmet hanging ghost like from a rock wall. Beside the suit were what I assumed to be a hand operated air pump and coils upon coils of air pipe. There were also three tall oxyacetylene bottles with hoses and cutting tools. Everything I saw directed me into searching for a second entrance to the cavern, as the equipment had to have been transported by land and not by sea.

I moved forward.

Something snapped beneath my footing.

I stopped and took a tentative step back. I shone the torch beam down onto the broken object. I was now beginning to get used to the odd skeleton or two popping up from the ground, only this time I was guilty of stand ing on a skeletal frame, wearing rotting dungarees, and breaking its left tibia in two places. Slightly beyond the skeleton’s outstretched bony hand there was an implement which I picked up for closer inspection under the torch beam. The shape alone told me it was a WWII submachine gun; German by its design, a substantially lethal weapon in its killing days. Not now, just rusting steel far beyond repair to be used again.

I threw the relic down and continued the search for the elusive entrance.

The torch beam landed on a waxed tarpaulin thrown over a large rectangular object and tied with rope. I pulled on the ropes; the ropes broke easily with rot. I peeled back the tarpaulin, amazed to find what I assumed to be a diesel engine and adjacent to the engine a square metal tank. I reached round and tapped the tank, estimating that it was a quarter full of what I presumed was old diesel. I removed the tarpaulin fully and let it drop to the ground.

I was standing there admiring a 1935 Lister Cold Start six horsepower diesel engine according to the information plate attached to the machine. Surprisingly it was in pristine condition and bolted to a wooden trolley fitted with four steel wheels for transporting the contraption. Not that it would have moved easily dragging the engine across sand, I would have thought.

I looked the machine over, flicking the torch beam in every nook and cranny. I located two rubber cables attached to what I assumed was a dynamo. From the dynamo drive shaft there was a leather drive belt attached to the engines main drive wheel. On further investigation my torch beam followed the cables from the dynamo out into the darkness, each cable veering in a different direction. I ran the torch beam along one of the cables and came across a Bakelite lamp-holder, its filament lamp still wedged in the holder, although from where I stood it was difficult to assess if the filament would still burn. More interestingly, I wondered if the engine would still run and would the dynamo still generate electricity.

I tugged the leather drive belt to test its firmness. It seemed solid enough and undamaged by age. I’d once seen a demonstration of a Lister engine in operation. I tried to remember the procedure the demonstrator used to prepare the starting sequence before the demonstrator had hand cranked the engine. I looked around the machine and found the cranking handle under the engine. I retrieved it and slipped it onto the spindle of the flywheel. As I recalled, there were four stages to the sequence. First I turned the compression screw clockwise to its closed position. I found the fuel line and opened the fuel valve. Then I turned the carburettor throttle three quarters open. I took a firm grip of the cranking handle, took in a deep breath and began turning the flywheel clockwise or at least attempted to rotate the flywheel because it was partially seized. I mustered a little more effort and got the flywheel moving, gathering speed. The engine spluttered into life and I quickly removed the cranking handle and stood back. The engine spat out a gurgled sound of strangulation and belched out a cloud of black acrid smoke and promptly died a death. I closed everything up just in case the carburettor flooded with fuel, and then I tried again, mainly because my torch battery was fading fast.

I repeated the starting procedure. Cranked the flywheel with more enthusiasm, shouting encouragement for the machine to show some life, ‘kick in you piece of iron shit!’, and this time it responded positively. It coughed and spluttered into life, black smoke seeping from the engine’s exhaust pipe; a slight groan as it picked up speed before bursting into a crescendo of clattering noise; a roaring piece of hardened machinery. Thick choking black smoke bellowed from the exhaust. The stench of burnt diesel filled my nostrils and my tongue tingled with the taste of the atmosphere. I quickly adjusted the carburettor and opened the compression screw a few turns. There was a sudden squeak from the dynamo and in seconds that too kicked into life.

Slowly the voltage built up. The cavern illuminated or in this case half illuminated because half the lamps didn’t work, yet the wattage produced was far more encouraging than the weak light from a battery torch. The cavern I was inside was enormous. I turned to look around. That was when I saw it.

I think my jaw dropped to my knees at that point. It was an awesome sight. There, half submerged in the water, listing onto its portside side, was the biggest rusting bucket of a submarine that would have a salvager rubbing his hands to salvage. I saw the ensign and the flaking lettering on the conning tower that highlighted that I’d found the elusive ghost submarine, the I-52.

I just stood there numbed. Not a flicker of emotion did I display. Just struck down with an imaginary paralysis and unable to mutter a word or raise a finger in triumph. I don’t recall how long I was standing there with no elation, nothing but a stare of utter disbelief but eventually I came to and exploded in delight.

Out loud, almost unheard with the sound of the Lister engine drowning my voice, I bellowed out, “Wow!”

Yet through my joy I tried to imagine how the hell the submarine got inside the cavern in the first place. How did it manage to navigate into the cave and beach itself? Perhaps it had crashed at speed, its weight momentum carrying it through and probably caused the rock fall. But I couldn’t see any damage to the submarine’s hull to verify my theory. But who cared! For the moment I was the proud owner of a submarine and I wondered if I should share the find with anyone.

I edged closer, noticing two rusty wire ropes which were attached to points on the bow of the submarine that I couldn’t see. The wire ropes drooped down into the sand half buried. I glanced over my shoulder and soon realized the purpose of the steel wires. Beyond the clattering six horsepower Lister was a bigger Lister diesel engine, at least eighteen horsepower, and it was mounted on a large iron structure at the rear of the cavern. The big Lister was attached mechanically to an iron contraption embedded into the rock walls of the cavern. In the middle of the frame was an enormous double motor winch system operated with an array of different sized cogs. That’s how the submarine had been beached, simply dragged into the cavern. The positioning of the sub marine was no fluke but a highly organized operation that would have taken months to set up. This was no overnight impulsion. Extreme strategic planning had gone into this piece of historical ingenuity.

Now it all started to make sense. The wartime photographs; the vessel being deliberately sunk and hidden inside the cavern. But that didn’t explain the rock-fall? Was that deliberately done to conceal the submarine? I had to assume it was, and if that was the intention, then there was definitely another entrance somewhere close by.

I resumed my search around the cavern walls for the elusive entrance and finally I came across another significant rock-fall. I shone the torch beam through the cracks in the rocks and there, lodged in-between fallen debris, I saw the protruding bones of a right hand curled round what I assumed was another rusting German submachine gun. I noticed a ring dangling on the index finger bone. I reached through the gap in the rocks up to my elbow, prised the finger bones loose from its grip on the gum, slipped the trinket from the skeletal finger and carefully retrieved the piece of jewellery for examination.