The Third World War: August 1985

“ “Up periscope.” Commander Peter Keene, Royal Navy (“P.K.” to his fellow submariners), grasped the handles and began to sweep another sector of the horizon. A clear, blue sky. Calm sea. Nothing in sight so far. It would not be true to say that P.K. was nervous, let alone uneasy. But he was keyed up. He had been in command of HMS Churchill for nearly a year. The nuclear-powered boat had been in refit when he was appointed in command. He had brought her through the comprehensive post-refit trials and “work-up” programme. She was in good shape, with a first-rate crew. But now he, and they, and the Churchill, were facing the ultimate test. It was 5 August 1985. When they had sailed from Faslane two days before, Great Britain was still at peace. Now she was at war. P.K. felt his mind working overtime. Surely he should be feeling, not just keyed up, but different in some way. He must think. Has everything — but everything — been done to make ready? There must be no mistake. It is them or us.

“Down periscope — sixty-five metres.” It had taken P.K. some time to get used to ordering the depth to keep in metres. But it was over ten years since the Admiralty charts had been made metric and the fathom had dropped out of the language.

P.K.’s orders were to establish anti-submarine patrol in an area between the Shetland Islands and the Faroes. He would be well clear of other NATO submarines. Because of the prevailing water conditions he had decided to remain in the “surface duct”; this would also enable him to come quickly and quietly to periscope depth to classify any sonar contacts there might be. There were still some trawlers at sea, and possibly other surface vessels.

“Control room — Sonar.” The watchkeeper’s voice came over the intercom. “Red three two, sir — contact.”

“Action Stations, Number One,” ordered P.K. “Bring all tubes to the Action State. Periscope depth.” The boat angled slightly upwards and levelled off. “Up periscope.”

Keene gazed intently, moving the periscope a little to and fro either side of the bearing. Then he clicked the handle to give “low power” magnification and swung quickly right round and back to the original bearing.

“Down periscope.”

In the Control Room men had moved to their Action Stations. As nuclear-powered submarines spent almost all their time dived, the hallowed cry “Diving Stations” had been discarded in favour of the more descriptive “Action Stations”. But to a submariner the “dangers of the sea” were always more to be feared than the “violence of the enemy”… or were they? The next few minutes would tell.

“All tubes at Action State, sir,” came the report from Jake Bond, the Torpedo Control Officer.

“Bearing Red three oh, sir, diesel H.E.,” from the Sonar Room.

“Up periscope.” P.K. looked on the bearing, then, as before, a few degrees either side. “Nothing in sight on the bearing. Could be a submarine ‘snorting’. He may have just begun to. Could be close. Number One, pass the word that we are attacking an enemy submarine. Down periscope.”

Tom Richardson, the First Lieutenant, called, “D’ye hear there?” on the intercom and passed the word.

“Bearing Red two eight, sir. H.E. increasing. Classified submarine. Diesel. Two forty revs, sir. Eight knots if it’s a Tango class.” It was the Chief Sonar Operator now. Gordon. An excellent man.

“Port twenty. Stand by One and Two tubes. Pilot, let me have a range as soon as you can. Steer three zero zero.”

The Coxswain repeated back the order. The Control Room was very quiet now. Everyone was at his post. The tension was building up.

“I’ll take another look,” said the Captain. “Up periscope.”

“Bearing Green four three,” came from the Sonar Room. “Moving right.”

“Range five thousand two hundred, sir,” said Harry Clay, the Navigator.

The Captain aligned the periscope on the bearing. “Bring her up, Number One, I think there’s something there… YES! By God, and she’s close. Down periscope, sixty-five metres. Switch to sonar. Range three thousand. Number One tube — Shoot!” P.K. moved to the Fire Control Panel.

“Torpedo’s running, sir,” said Jake Bond.

“Good,” said P.K. He had carried out scores of dummy attacks on friendly submarines in the course of his training. He had seen many Tigerfish anti-submarine torpedoes fired, for practice. Some had run badly. He gazed intently at the illuminated panel, ready to guide the torpedo if need be. He could hardly believe it. There was his torpedo — a homing torpedo — moving straight out towards the target. A minute went by. It seemed eternal. Half a minute more and then from the Sonar Room:

“Acoustic contact!” Followed, after an agonizing pause, by, “Tonk!” A faint metallic thud was heard.

“Damn!” said Keene, in an agony of dismay. “Something’s wrong. The torpedo hit but didn’t explode…”

“Control Room — Sonar,” Gordon’s voice broke in, “H.E.’s stopped, sir! I think we got him. That was an explosion! Last bearing Green five seven.”