‘Right,’ Hamilton told them. ‘We start loading tomorrow. And remember◦– if you can’t wangle it out of the depot, I shall expect you to buy the necessary supplies from the Chinese burn boats with your own money.’
The last weeks of October 1941 passed without undue incident. Rapier sailed on self-imposed exercises every four days, vanishing from sight for forty-eight hours, returning to Hong Kong noticeably lighter in draught than when she departed. Scott’s island◦– a small tree-covered paradise off the north-east coast of Hai-Nan – provided just the privacy Hamilton required to carry out his plan and it was soon amply stocked with reserve stores. A convenient cave close to the water’s edge provided an ideal torpedo store, although the task of manhandling the cumbersome mark VII tin fish, each weighing 4,106 pounds, was no picnic in the heat of the sun.
Hamilton, with Scott’s expert assistance, carefully surveyed the coastline around Hong Kong in search of suitable hiding places, and by the end of the month he felt confident that he could exploit the sea area to his advantage, if the necessity arose.
Stores had been a problem at first. The depot superintendent had put up a stout fight but, surrendering to O’Brien’s blarney, had finally supplied most of the items on Hamilton’s apparently inexhaustible list. The gunboat skippers, too, having been taken into Hamilton’s confidence, chipped in with useful extras and Charlotte Island rapidly developed into a miniature arsenal, as crate after crate was painstakingly hauled up the beach and hidden in the thick undergrowth. But despite the willing assistance of the other commanders, Hamilton took care not to reveal the identity of his secret base to anyone outside the circle of Rapier’s officers◦– the fewer who knew about it the better. And although he suspected that the C-in-C and his staff had guessed what was going on, they maintained a discreet silence and asked no awkward questions.
In spite of the hectic activity at Charlotte Island, Rapier’s skipper still found time to make regular visits to his newfound Portuguese friends in Macao. And, typically, he gave no reasons for his weekly jaunts across the estuary, although it was apparent from the expression on his face when he returned that Hamilton was well-satisfied with what had happened while he was there….
October passed into November without incident. The Japanese military forces in China seemed intent on maintaining a low profile and Hamilton was beginning to wonder whether he had misjudged the situation. The big Jardine & Mathieson steamers continued their normal trading routine and, despite the boom guarding the entrance to the Pearl River, the regular boats had been allowed upstream to Canton and Whampoa without hindrance from the Japanese Navy. Reports filtering through to the Colony indicated that Japanese control over the river traffic on the Yangtse Kiang further to the north had tightened; but no one in Hong Kong read any significance into the stories they received from Shanghai. The peace mission which Tokyo had dispatched to the United States suggested that their bluff had been called, and there was a general feeling amongst the Europeans that the situation would soon ease.
Ernie Blood was supervising a deck washing party on the foredeck casing at the beginning of the afternoon watch, when a grey painted staff car hooted its way through the dockyard and screeched to a halt at the head of the mooring gangway. Hamilton and the other officers were below in the wardroom finishing their lunch, and the rest of the submarine’s crew were busy stacking the latest consignment of illicit stores, ready for the next shuttle run to Charlotte Island.
As a result of Hamilton’s orders, Rapier was on war routine and peacetime regulations had been relaxed in order to get the work done. The customary welcoming deck parties and correctly bedecked officer-of-the-watch pacing aimlessly up and down the narrow bridge, were conspicuously absent. But if discipline and ceremonial were not immediately apparent, Hamilton’s security precautions certainly were. Two members of the submarine’s crew armed with rifles and fixed bayonets stood guard over the dockyard end of the gangway while a third, perched high up the conning tower, kept an eagle-eyed watch over the quayside◦– the Lewis gun at his side ready to give instant support to the sentries if required.
The door of the Hillman staff car swung open and Captain Snark emerged. His white tropical uniform had lost its usual crisp freshness. Large sweat stains marked his shirt and he looked tired and haggard.
The two sentries snapped to attention and presented arms as he hurried across the burning concrete. There was no red tape about Hamilton’s security system. The men were quite familiar with Snark’s identity and he was passed through onto the gangway without question. Ernie Blood straightened up as he saw the captain approaching. Throwing a half-smoked cigarette into the dock, he hurried to the base of the conning tower and shouted to the Leading seaman standing beside the Lewis gun.
‘Bladon! Tell the skipper Alice is coming aboard.’ Snark’s nickname had obvious connotations. ‘At the double!’
Bladon’s head disappeared behind the bridge screen as he reported Snark’s unexpected arrival to the control room and, seconds later, Bell, the duty runner, delivered the news to the wardroom.
Hamilton put his coffee down and wiped his mouth. ‘Thank you, Bell. Tell the gunner’s mate to report to me immediately.’ He seemed unperturbed by the visitation despite his companions’ apparent alarm.
‘Shouldn’t we try and do something to hide those extra stores, sir?’ Mannon asked anxiously.
‘No time,’ Hamilton told him with a shake of his head. ‘Snark knows very little about submarine routine. I doubt if he’ll notice anything untoward. And if he does, I’ll just have to blind him with science.’ He looked up as Morgan, Rapier’s gunner’s mate, appeared through the wardroom curtains. ‘Ah, there you are, Chief. Captain Snark is coming up the gangway. Assemble the tidiest looking men you can find in the control room, and tell the rest to make themselves scarce in the fore and aft ends.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Hamilton finished his coffee with unhurried pleasure. ‘There’s no call for panic, gentlemen,’ he told the other officers quietly. ‘Probably just a routine visit. I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.’
Able Seaman Bell reappeared. Thrusting his head through the wardroom curtains like a spirit at a seance he announced sepulchrally: ‘Captain coming down the control room ladder, sir. The Gunner says the men are fallen in as ordered.’ Having imparted his news in a voice of doom, he entered the wardroom and saluted smartly.
Hamilton acknowledged the courtesy and nodded to Mannon. ‘Come on, Number One. And try not to look so bloody guilty. Let’s find out what the old bastard wants. Perhaps he just needs me to make up a four for bridge this evening.’
Snark was waiting by the diving panel as Hamilton and his executive officer came through the for’ard bulkhead hatch. He eyed Rapier’s skipper belligerently.
‘Boat’s like a bloody pigsty, Lieutenant,’ he grumbled. ‘Lucky for you this isn’t an inspection. I like to see a ship clean and tidy. Shows efficiency.’
‘Rapier is fully armed and stored and ready to sail at thirty minutes’ notice, sir,’ Hamilton pointed out quietly. ‘That’s the sort of efficiency I look for.’
Snark snorted. His mission was too urgent to bandy words with a mere two-striper. ‘Dismiss the men, Mister Gunner,’ he growled at Morgan.
The gunner’s mate came to attention and saluted. Snark smiled sardonically. That was the way he liked to see things done. When he said jump◦– they jumped! Morgan completed his salute and turned to Hamilton.