It was at sea that the major confrontations came.
0300 hrs, Saturday, 1st March 1947, Vinogradar Young Communists Sailing Club, Black Sea, USSR.
The base’s lights had been gradually extinguished until only a handful of red bulbs contributed their modest illumination to the grand cavern that contained the submarines.
At 0300 hrs precisely, the great doors unlocked and silently moved into the open position.
At 0302, I-14 started to extract herself from the secret facility and make her way into the open waters of the Black Sea.
By 0340 the entire group of six submarines were out and the doors were already closing.
Raduga had commenced.
0201 hrs, Sunday, 2nd March 1947, the Baltic Sea, thirty kilometres due south of Rønne, Bornholm.
The sonar rating leant forward and screwed his eyes up, trying to isolate as much information as possible and allow him to concentrate on his earpieces and the ‘something’ he thought he had heard.
The frigate had stopped engines nearly forty minutes beforehand, a standard listening tactic for their passive detection apparatus.
HMS Loch Tralaig, pennant K655, was a frigate with a difference.
Launched on 12th February 1945 and commissioned the following July, she entered into a world where conflict existed solely in distant climes.
Intended for anti-submarine work, she was fitted with the latest technology the Royal Navy could supply, from the devilishly effective Squid ASW mortars, of which she boasted two, to the very latest versions of the best radars and sonars available.
She was destined for the Pacific, and journeyed across the Atlantic to the eastern seaboard of the USA as soon as her sea trials were complete and her crew judged ready.
The Portsmouth-based vessel docked in Portsmouth, Maine, where she was to be fitted with a new version of the WW1 US towed sonar array ‘Electric Eel’ as a reciprocal arrangement for British release of an improved ‘High Tea’ sonar system to the USN.
At the time her hull again tasted the cold waters of the Western Atlantic, she was the most deadly anti-submarine platform in the world.
Her reign was cut short by a crippling accident, which saw a fire on board cause two welding cylinders, acetylene and oxygen, to blow up.
The violent explosions and subsequent fierce fire wiped out much of the bridge, charthouse, and forward accommodation, as well as severely damaging the squid launchers and damaging their wiring system.
Seventeen crewmembers died and another twenty-seven were badly injured.
The errors that had permitted a small fire to ignite the two cylinders resulted in an unspoken sanction of the petty officer who had commanded the welding detail, and his posthumous recommendation for the George Medal was quietly brushed under the table.
However, three others of the ship’s crew received the award and the report on the firefighting operations undertaken became a standard on how to fight a ship fire, as well as a permanent testament to the bravery and skill of her damage control teams.
HMS Loch Tralaig never made it to the Pacific, as she was repaired in the States and did not put to sea again until two weeks after the Japanese surrender.
Assigned to work with HMS Dolphin, the shore establishment based at Fort Blockhouse in Gosport, Hampshire, Loch Tralaig conducted mock attacks on submarines as part of their ongoing training programme.
HMS Dolphin was the main RN submarine training establishment, and Loch Tralaig put many a new submariner through the wringer, as she won her encounters with monotonous regularity.
Despite her obvious effectiveness, work in the USA and at home on similar vessels was slow, and there were only five such ASW frigates in existence when the world went hot again.
The Admiralty removed her from training duties and, along with one of her peers, HMS Loch Veyatie, she was assigned to the Baltic, operating along the north German and Polish coasts, all the way to the border with Swedish waters.
At 0202 hrs, the equipment, the training, and the expertise gained in hundreds of simulated detections, came together in deadly fashion.
0202 hrs, Sunday, 2nd March 1947, the Baltic Sea, thirty kilometres due south of Rønne, Bornholm.
“Eel contact… quite distant… bearing unknown… working on that, Chief… has the feel of a sub.”
“Ok lad. Anyone else got a sniff?”
No one acknowledged his enquiry, which meant that they had nothing, but it served to focus the other operators on the possibility that there was something to find.
Chief Petty Officer Roland patted the young operator on the shoulder and waited patiently.
The advanced Electric Eel system was revolutionary and required experienced and skilled operators to understand its information.
Detecting a submarine was made considerably easier with it, but understanding where the submarine was in relation to the parent vessel needed men with the skills that Thresh possessed to make it a truly effective piece of anti-submarine equipment.
Despite his youth, Thresh was the best Eel operator on the ship, and probably in His Majesty’s Navy.
Roland leant back and activated the phone to the bridge.
“Bridge, Sonar. Active Eel contact. No bearing at present. We’re working on that… Thresh is on the set… he feels it’s a sub. No other contacts, Skipper.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
Commander Robert Taggert RN, his full name of Robert William Forbes Mac An Tsagairt being used solely on the official paperwork of the desk-bound navy, was a legend amongst the sub hunters of the Atlantic.
One of Walker’s prodigies, he had cut his teeth with the hunter-killer sub group aboard HMS Woodpecker, which was torpedoed and subsequently sank whilst being towed back to Liverpool.
As the vessel was not sunk immediately, survivors leave was not granted, and Taggert found himself shipping out with the group’s next sally.
He eventually rose to command of his own vessel and was responsible, in whole or part, for the sinking of nine U-Boats.
Taggert had been the perfect choice as captain of the Loch Tralaig and he moulded his crew into a machine that oozed efficiency.
HMS Loch Tralaig was a happy ship, and it showed in its performance.
Roland waited, holding his tongue, as Thresh worked on isolating the various receivers on the towed sonar. The other systems still didn’t have a sniff of whatever it was, so the contact was probably some distance away.
On the bridge, Taggert was sending messages to all parts of the ship, keeping his men informed, and at the same time reminding them of the need for silence.
He also ordered the radio shack to inform the ace up his sleeve.
In the sonar house, things started to happen.
“Chief.”
Roland bent forward to view the display that carried the information Thresh had developed.
The sonar sensor cable was three miles long, and Thresh had concentrated on the sensors twenty-six to twenty-eight. There were only thirty-two, each one hundred and fifty yards apart, starting four hundred and eighty yards away from the ship’s stern.
Using his equipment, Thresh used volume levels to gauge the proximity of the contact… he thought of it as a definite submarine… and his experience allowed him to work out the position with uncanny accuracy.