Submariner (2008) Read online

  Clear sky, still. Darkening, colours deepening, still no hostiles in it. There’d be Spit and/or Hurricane patrols in northern offshore sectors, he supposed. Although the RAF wouldn’t be burning up aviation spirit any faster than they had to. Petrol did come in by submarine – the larger boats, such as the minelayers and the River-class – and even T-class visiting with loads of it in their ballast tanks – but in relation to actual requirements it could only be a trickle, nothing like enough to satisfy the Spitfires’ thirst. The so-called ‘Magic Carpet’ boats brought other stuff as well, of course – medical stores, for instance, or special foods for invalids and babies – whatever was most urgently required and they had room for.

  A convoy operation would be the priority now, Mike thought. Shrimp had in fact said as much, when they’d been in Haifa; he’d been desperate to get his submarines back where they belonged.

  The sweeper was flashing: Can you find your own way from here to Lazaretto?

  ‘Make to him,“Might just stumble on it. Thanks for your company.”’

  Walburton muttering the words to himself as he aimed the lamp and started sending. Mike stooped to the pipe: ‘Starboard ten …’

  Entering harbour, finally. McLeod with him in the bridge, also the coxswain, CPO Jacko Swathely – steering from the wheel up here in the bridge now – and casing party down on the casing, five men for’ard and three aft, under the supervision of Sub-Lieutenant Tommy Jarvis RNVR and the second coxswain Petty Officer Hart, known to his friends as Tubby. You could see why they called him that, but he was a big man, could manage his avoirdupois all right. Also in the bridge was Ursa’s fourth hand and navigating officer, Sub-Lieutenant Pete Danvers RNR, who’d come into the RN, and after a year or two into submarines, out of a Merchant Navy cadetship. Ursa motoring into Marsamxett now with Fort Manoel to starboard and Valetta to port, and a dghaisa ferryman in his gondola-shaped craft waving his hat and screeching with joy, one scrawny sun-blackened arm pointing at the Jolly Roger flapping from the after standard. Mike and others gave him a wave. It did feel like a homecoming now: in water in which, in the final month or more before pulling out, submarines in harbour between patrols had had to spend their days lying on the bottom in fifty or sixty feet of water, surfacing at dusk to resume necessary maintenance work and other preparations for patrol.

  Lazaretto in clear sight to starboard, finally. Two U-class lying between buoys, with floating brows connecting them to shore, and what was known as the wardroom berth, right alongside the old building, vacant, reserved for the new arrival. Mike said, ‘Group down, slow both’, and while McLeod was passing that order down told CPO Swathely, who was about shoulder-height to him, ‘Put her alongside, Cox’n. And stand by to pipe.’

  ‘Aye, sir …’

  Swathely with a look of satisfaction on his well-weathered features: bosun’s call ready in his palm, ready to sound the ‘Still’ and bring all hands to attention in salute to the boss, old Shrimp.

  2

  Shrimp shook his hand. ‘Nice work, Michael. And good to be back where we belong, eh?’

  ‘Is indeed, sir. Good to see you too.’ Mike in khaki, Shrimp in white shirt and shorts and the four stripes of a captain on his shoulder-boards. Not all that tall – hence the nickname – but stocky, solid, with a broad face and strong jaw: a fighter’s face, although the truth was that he was a kind man, thoughtful and easy-going, as well as highly resilient and innovative in his approach to the problems of command in exceptionally haphazard circumstances. Tailor-made for the job, in fact. They were old friends, Mike having served under him in the Harwich flotilla in 1940, Mike then with his first command, one of the old H-class, on anti-invasion patrol on the Dutch coast mainly, and Shrimp with only three stripes but commanding that flotilla – which like this one had been scrambled together in a hurry and with few facilities beyond those of Shrimp’s own devising. Anyway – had known each other quite a while: and meeting now on the arcade on the Lazaretto waterfront, outside the wardroom, Ursa secured alongside right there on the harbour side of the low, yellowish limestone wall and series of arches; Shrimp glancing up at Ursa’s Jolly Roger, becalmed and drooping over her blue-painted hull in the lee of the fine old building.

  Hull, casing and bridge blue-painted for camouflage when dived. Italian Cant seaplanes flying so slowly that they were almost hovering could see you seventy feet down, when there was no lop on the surface.

  Shrimp commented, ‘Roger getting a bit full, eh?’

  ‘Oh – still a little room, sir …’

  Gear was being brought ashore over Ursa’s plank – sailors’ own gear, bags and hammocks, some cargo too, crates of stuff from Haifa – amongst it a few cases of gin for the wardroom mess, as well as items that were perhaps more obviously essential – medical stores, so forth. There wasn’t much room to spare in a U-class submarine: in fact there wasn’t any. Anyway McLeod and the coxswain would be supervising all that, McLeod assisted of course by young Jarvis, and with base staff on hand to show them the layout of the place as now revamped during the flotilla’s absence. Mike had been greeted by the COs of Ultra and Unbowed, and others too, a whole bunch of them, as he’d come over the plank, but they’d left him to Shrimp now, of course. Those two, Jimmy Ruck and Guy Mottram, would be sailing for patrol before first light, he’d gathered in those first exchanges, and as they could only have been here a day or so it seemed likely that Shrimp would be pushing Ursa out fairly smartly too. Which was fine, what one was here for, but her officers and crew would meanwhile be wanting to know the form, how long a respite they’d be getting. Mike didn’t even have to look round to know that McLeod, for instance, would be on the casing with an eye on him, waiting for the word – which Shrimp would come out with soon enough. Telling him meanwhile that the care and maintenance team had done bloody wonders during the flotilla’s absence: ‘I’ll show you. Tunnelled-out new sleeping quarters – and sickbay, ops room, staff office etcetera – new bathrooms right beside the mess-decks – well, blooming luxury! The cabins up there are habitable again, incidentally.’

  Above this arcade, which ran the full length of the building, was a first-floor gallery – balcony – with COs’ cabins leading off it, under the building’s flat stone roof. Ten weeks ago, a lot of it had been open to the elements – stone blocks blown out of the roof, all the glass and timber frames out of every window, COs and everyone else sleeping – living, more or less – in rock tunnels in the limestone cliff that backed the building itself. It was a saving grace in fact that tunnelling was so easy – not only here, but all over the island. Shrimp added, about the cabins, ‘As long as when the sirens go you leg it down into cover right away – no hanging around, no excuses accepted, alternative’s to sleep in the tunnels as before – all right?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  A bit of a threat in that, too. The cavern used as officers’ sleeping quarters, at the height of the blitz here, had originally been an underground oil storage tank – with oil sludge on its uneven flooring, planks put down on and in that as walkways, and the most God-awful stench. But the maintenance people would have done something about it by now, he guessed. Must have … Asking Shrimp, ‘The bastards are still at it, then?’

  ‘Lord, yes. Couldn’t expect ’em to ignore us altogether. It’s roughly like it was in January – a raid or two most days, nights too. But the RAF’s coping well now, and quite a bit of it’s not Luftwaffe but Regia Aeronautica.’

  Italian air force. They were less like mad dogs than their German allies. Tended to stay high, and to beat it when powerfully discouraged. The island’s gunners, Royal Artillery and Royal Malta Artillery, were pretty damn good by this time, despite a high rate of casualties. They were a splendid lot: a diving Stuka took a bit of standing up to. Shrimp had changed the subject: ‘There’s mail for you, I think. Might as well pick it up while we’re here.’ Leading the way into the wardroom – which was unchanged. Spacious, cavernous, darkish by virtue of the covered arcade outside it, its mos
t striking feature was the big fireplace at its centre, with an open hearth in each of its stone chimney’s four sides. But also, inside the archway entrance, on the right, the flotilla’s scoreboard, a chart-sized square of board with submarines’ names and/or numbers down the left-hand edge, ruled columns allowing a small rectangle for the results of each patrol, little thumbnail sketches in it of targets sunk or damaged. In some cases – far too many – the ‘strip cartoons’ terminated in a space blanked-off with diagonals. Making it as much a memorial as a scoreboard. Mike’s eyes moving from Ursa’s to Urge’s and Upholder’s – both of those blanked off. By very recent hand of one of Shrimp’s staff, probably; Urge had been lost during the general exodus, on her way to Alex, and Shrimp plus staff had flown in from Cairo only a few days ago, ahead of all returning boats.

  Shrimp had turned from his own brief perusal of the board. ‘Your estimate of eight thousand tons for this troopship – reasonably sure of that, are you?’

  ‘Could have been nearer eight and a half, sir.’ A shrug. ‘I’d settle for eight, though.’

  ‘The true figure’s eight seven-fifty. Forget her name, but we have it – show you, in a minute, in the office. There was an RAF report – they’d been after her earlier in the day, a Blenheim got shot up apparently. Escort of two destroyers – right?’

  Mike nodded. ‘One of ’em put me deep just as the DA came on – on an eighty track, rather close inshore. I’d got one fish away, fired a second by asdic on the way down, heard one hit, and held on – didn’t have room to do much else, must’ve passed just about right under him. HE had stopped, but I knew pretty well where he was – wasn’t all that much water in there though, so I turned sharpish, came up for a look and there he was, already bow down. I thought one more’d make sure of it, used number three tube and hit amidships. Well – would’ve been a disgrace if I hadn’t, frankly.’

  ‘The escorts meanwhile not troubling you?’

  It wasn’t an idle question: Shrimp’s eyes were hard, analytical. Mike told him, ‘They were both to seaward of him. If they’d had much savvy they’d have had me boxed in – couldn’t have realised the last hit had been on his starboard side. Extraordinary, but – anyway they were picking up survivors, troops going over the side in droves, and maybe they didn’t want to know – any charges they dropped – well, must’ve been hundreds still in the water. I gave it a few minutes, couldn’t go deeper than forty feet, came up for another shufti and the bugger was still afloat – just – one destroyer practically alongside his after-part – by the look of it still getting men off as well as out of the drink – and his mate out in the deep field somewhere – transmitting, incidentally, which goes to show –’

  ‘Not the first eleven exactly. But the near one a sitting duck meanwhile?’

  ‘I know, sir. Would have been. But – I’ve explained it in my report – highly frustrating, but –’

  Shrimp’s eyes on his, waiting to hear why he hadn’t used the last of his four torpedoes on this destroyer – in easy range, lying stopped, unmissable, and by that time its decks crowded with survivors. He – Shrimp – had strongly disapproved of another CO’s decision in similar circumstances a few months ago to leave escorts to their rescue work when he’d have had a good chance of sinking at least one of them. He’d pointed out to an assembly of his COs – staff conference – ‘Those destroyers – who’d do for you in two shakes if you gave ’em half a chance – and the pongos they’re picking up – hell, tank crews, gunners, SS, whatever – Afrika Korps anyway, for God’s sake!’

  Mike had known he’d be called on to explain this. He said, ‘The one fish I had left in a tube, sir, was a Mark IV.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, was it …’

  With Mark IVs, 1914–18 vintage, you couldn’t alter the depth-setting, as you could with Mark VIIIs, once they were in the tubes. So that deep-set torpedo would have run under the shallow-draft destroyer and been wasted, pointlessly. He added to Shrimp, ‘I thought of bottoming and putting a shallow-set reload in – would have taken half an hour though –’

  ‘By which time they’d have cleared off. The transport having sunk.’A nod. ‘Only reason for hanging around would have been to hunt you. And they could have had others join them and take over.’

  ‘Did seem wiser to skedaddle. I was a bit nervous of the air too – in those shallows. And as you say, sir, that close to Benghazi. I’ve roughed out a patrol report – only in longhand so far, but –’

  ‘I’m sure Miss Gomez will help out.’ Shrimp glanced at the sheaf of signal-pad pages in Mike’s hand. Miss Gomez was Shrimp’s secretary. ‘In the morning. She’ll have gone home by now. What about your mail?’

  ‘Hell, yes …’

  As if it hadn’t been in his mind, at least in the back of it, from the moment he’d walked in here. Well, for weeks. Only exercising restraint – whether or not Shrimp would have given a damn. But delving now in Ursa’s pigeon-hole, shuffling the pack and dealing out his own, two air-letters and a bill from Gieves the naval tailors – instantly recognisable, they’d been sending it repeatedly over recent months. With all respect to them, they rather encouraged late payment, by having allowed it to be known that when an officer who owed them money was killed on active service his debt was automatically written off.

  The air-letters were from his father, and Ann Melhuish. Hers familiar enough to him despite her having scribbled a fictional name and address as ‘Sender’, in that space on the back.

  He poked the Gieves envelope back into the hole, folded the air-letter forms together and stuffed them in a pocket. She was taking a hell of a risk, he thought. Might not have appreciated the degree of it, if she’d written this a few weeks ago – which she might have done, it could have been lying here, courtesy of Fleet Mail, while they’d been disporting themselves in and around Haifa. He followed Shrimp out into the arcade and to the right. ‘You mentioned not long ago, sir, that Charles Melhuish was joining us with a new U-class?’

  ‘Melhuish …’

  Giving it thought, the name as yet unfamiliar. Then getting there: ‘Melhuish – yes. Unsung. Sailing from Gib tomorrow, as it happens. Yes, that’s another.’ Counting on his fingers: ‘Three already out, those two on their way, three still to come from Aegean patrols – then Tango passing through and Swordsman on loan from the 8th Flotilla – and you, of course. Is Melhuish a contemporary of yours?’

  ‘Two or three years junior to me. Roughly that. Since his Perisher he’s had a training boat based on Campbeltown. Well, last I heard –’

  ‘Unsung’s his first operational command, then. Good Lord, hang on …’ Stopping, pointing at a Chief PO who’d saluted him in passing. Shrimp staring for a moment, then his face clearing.

  ‘Dennison.’

  ‘Spot on, sir.’ Broad smile. ‘Served with you in Porpoise. Killick torpedoman I was then, you put me through for PO.’

  ‘Haven’t wasted your time since, have you. Well done.’ Shaking hands. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘TGM in Unbowed, sir.’ The letters stood for Torpedo Gunner’s Mate. ‘Joined her in Haifa. Got sunk in Medway, then in Haifa so happened Unbowed’s TI got ’isself landed to hospital, so – pierhead jump!’

  ‘Sorry for the other chap, but lucky for you and for Unbowed, then. You’re off at cock crow, eh?’

  ‘We are that.’ Smiling again: ‘Good seeing you, sir!’

  ‘Very good to see you, Dennison. We’ll meet again before long.’ Returning the CPO’s salute, then rejoining Mike. ‘Small world, ours. Look here, you haven’t asked what’s lined up for you next, but how long d’you need?’

  ‘Store ship, fuel and water, torpedoes – make good a few minor defects –’

  ‘No dockyard assistance?’

  ‘No sir, we’re –’

  ‘Twenty-four hours then?’

  ‘Might I have thirty-six?’

  ‘All right. Sail first thing day after tomorrow. How’d Palermo suit you?’

  To which the answer might
have been ‘as well as anywhere else’; but Shrimp would no doubt explain presently why a patrol somewhere off Palermo on Sicily’s north coast might be productive at this juncture. Mike called to McLeod, who was still on Ursa’s casing – in conversation now with the fourth hand, Danvers – ‘Thirty-six hours, Number One. Push off at first light Wednesday.’

  ‘Right …’

  Saluting Shrimp then – since he happened to be looking at him. Shrimp returning the salute and not having to be told his name: ‘How’s the battle, McLeod?’

  ‘I think we’re winning it, sir.’

  ‘About bloody time we did.’ A jerk of the head to Mike then: ‘Come on. Ops Room.’

  He’d been deep in thought on the way to it: as had Mike – in his own case, thinking about Ann and the letter in his pocket, and her husband Charles who if he was leaving Gib tomorrow should be here in five or six days. Question being – at least, the immediate one – whether she’d be crazy enough to go on writing: how boring it would be if she stopped and how dangerous if she didn’t. Passing meanwhile through the barracks end of the old building – in which, when it had been Malta’s quarantine station, the poet Shelley had been incarcerated at one time and had gone so far as to carve his name and a couple of lines of doggerel in the soft stone up there – through to the tunnelled-out bomb-proof quarters and new Ops Room.

  ‘So here we are.’ Shrimp offered him a cigarette, and they both lit up. ‘What d’you think of it?’

  ‘Well – in just ten weeks –’

  ‘Deserve medals, all of ’em.’Swapping one chart for another on the table-top, and reaching for dividers to use as a pointer. ‘Several factors relevant now. One – not immediate but by a long chalk the most important, convoy operation from the west, code-name “Pedestal”. Not immediate, ships are only now assembling in the Clyde, but it’s going to be an all-out effort – escort from Gib eastward to include two battleships – Nelson and Rodney – and no less than three aircraft carriers. Unprecedented – simple reason being that if the siege isn’t lifted, Malta starves. This flotilla’s contribution will be eight or possibly even ten boats. And meanwhile – week, ten days, fortnight even – might as well use the time, eh, let the buggers know we’re back?’