As darkness closed around the surfaced submarine, Poulain, wrapped in his own flag, and Petty Officer Osborn, draped in his, were buried at sea.
Ainslie closed the prayer book and replaced his cap. Perhaps the simple burial was an omen. Or, better still, a symbol.
4
The Real Thing
COMMANDER GREGORY CRITCHLEY followed Ainslie into the Soufrière’s spacious cabin and said, ‘Better shut the door, Bob. I don’t want the whole boat to hear.’
Ainslie unslung the binoculars from around his neck and placed them beside his cap on the desk. Outside the pressure hull it was early morning and, as ordered, he had entered Singapore’s naval anchorage at dawn, to be met by a solitary tug and a watchful guardboat.
It had been an exciting passage from the little island, and Ainslie was proud of the way his company had got down to work to put their training and skills into operation. There had been several mistakes, but nothing really bad, and certainly nothing Lieutenant Lucas and his companions could not put right with a swift translation from French to English, or by taking over the offending instruments themselves.
Now, tied up to a high-sided depot ship, all but hidden from the base and the rest of the world, it was like an anticlimax, a slap in the face.
Critchley had been aboard the old depot ship, waiting, watching them as they had made fast alongside. He had said little so far, but Ainslie knew him well enough to recognize the signs. Frustration, anger, despair. He even managed to look his old crumpled self in his white shirt and shorts. There was a smudge of grease on his cap cover like a mark of defiance.
Ainslie said quietly, ‘She’s a fine boat, Greg. With a bit of work and a few spares I could get her on top line again. She was built when yards had time and money for good results. And to think that all we wanted to do was get her away from the wrong hands.’
Critchley watched fixedly as Ainslie poured two large Scotches, then almost snatched his glass as he exclaimed. ‘They’re all raving, bloody mad here!’ He put the glass down empty and stared at Ainslie. ‘When we got the signal that you’d pulled it off, I went straight to the chief of staff. I thought he’d be jumping up and down like me. Not a bit of it. Everything’s changed again, that is, if it ever did change originally as we thought! You saw the new arrivals, did you?’
Ainslie nodded. It had been impressive in the dawn glow. While they had picked their way through the buoys and anchored vessels, he had seen the two great warships towering above all else like grey cities. The hew battleship Prince of Wales and the battle cruiser Repulse, the most powerful units Singapore had welcomed for a long while. They might give heart to anyone who feared the Japanese would lose interest in their conquest of Indo-China and turn their attention nearer home. On the other hand, the people Ainslie had met so far on the island might see the show of force as further proof of their own invincibility.
Critchley exploded, ‘The fool said that the Navy is going to operate this new squadron much as the Germans are using their Tirpitz in Norway. A reminder, a warning if you like, to tie down enemy forces.’ He shook his head despairingly. ‘So I went to see the admiral, no less. But he was well genned up already if you ask me. He even suggested that the fact there was no protest from Tokyo or the Japanese Navy about your seizure of the Soufrière from under their noses proves their disinterest in us, and that they have no evil intentions towards Britain.’ He downed another whisky. ‘I ask you, Bob, what can you do?’
Ainslie watched him, picturing him darting from one office to another. ‘Well, we’ve got what we came for. Soufrière is still the biggest sub in the world. Put to proper use she will make a fine addition when we most need her. She could even run stores and ammunition to Malta, she’s big enough.’
Critchley said abruptly, ‘I’ve made a signal to the Admiralty. We’ll see who they back up. In the meantime I’ll do what I can about your spare parts, you know that.’
He looked around the cabin, seeing it for the first time since his outburst.
‘What a boat! I see what you mean. She’s different. Like something alive and breathing.’ His glance fell on the strip of carpet by the desk. ‘All the comforts.’
Ainslie also looked at the carpet. There was a bright patch on it where Sawle had cleaned away the bloodstain. Poulain had appeared even smaller, lying on his side, his eyes tightly shut at the moment of the pistol shot.
Critchley stood up and groped for a cigarette. ‘Word to the wise, Bob. If you want to keep this command, I suggest you get started right away.’ He watched the smoke being dragged into a deckhead fan. ‘The admiral and most of the top brass from miles around will be visiting the Prince of Wales. There’s a big party arranged for tonight, by the way. Nobody senior will be available to see you, or give you the praise you deserve for what you’ve just achieved. So put out your feelers, and do what you can to carry out the repairs. A vessel ready for sea is always a better argument than a dockyard job!’ He laughed shortly. ‘You’re still on the secret list. So far as the outside world is concerned, you are living aboard the tender, Lady Jane.’
He cocked his head as a speaker intoned, ‘Hands to breakfast and clean. Ordinary Seamen Booth report to the cox’n immediately.’
Then he said, ‘It should have been said with a French accent. She even sounds like one of ours now!’
Ainslie led the way through the control room and the ladder to the upper deck. Quinton was there, cap on the back of his head, while he chatted with a handful of petty officers and leading hands. It was his own special way of doing things. Informal, even casual, but the steel was always there when he needed it.
‘A word, Number One.’ Ainslie waited below the conning tower and said, ‘We’ll have a meeting after they’ve eaten. As soon as the French hands have been escorted ashore I want the wardroom to start on Operation Scrounge. We need those hydroplanes stripped and the motors disengaged. Until we can use them again we’re only a surface boat. Tell the Chief to begin taking on fuel. I’ll get the go-ahead from the base captain and the BEO. Check everything. If we need something, send an officer to get it, Beg, borrow or requisition for the duration, got it?’
Quinton grinned broadly. ‘Too right.’
Critchley pulled himself up the ladder towards the oval of bright sunlight.
‘I can see that you’ve done this sort of thing before.’
Ainslie nodded grimly. ‘A few times.’
For a while longer they stood together on the bridge gratings, protected from the glare by the depot ship’s tall side. Apart from the quartermaster and sentry at the brow, the deck and casing were deserted.
Ainslie touched his chin and realized he still had to shave. There was a lot to do yet, a hell of a lot. At first it had been just another doubtful operation, a calculated risk. Now the thought of losing the submarine because she was larger than the minds of those who were supposed to control her destiny was hard to accept. Soufrière’s presence here was much like his own. An embarrassment. Something which would go away if suitably ignored.
Feet clattered on the ladder and Vernon, the bearded petty officer telegraphist, climbed nimbly on to the bridge. He saluted and said, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but the first lieutenant sent me.’ He had a round Devonian dialect, a homely sound so far from England. He added quietly, ‘He said you’d want to deal with it, sir.’ Vernon held out a signal pad. ‘Able Seaman Booth. Signal just in. His parents were killed in an air raid.’
‘Thank you.’
Ainslie took the pad and looked at Vernon’s pencilled writing. Round like his voice. But he saw only the pathetic pile of bricks, the gap in a line of houses like a missing tooth.
‘Yes, I’ll see him now in my cabin.’
Critchley was already making his way down to the casing. ‘I don’t need seeing over the side, Bob.’ He paused on the ladder and their eyes met as he said, ‘The war has a long arm, doesn’t it?’ Then he was gone.
Ainslie made his way below, wondering why he had never got used to it.
I have to tell you some bad news. Or those dreadful letters he had written to parents of men killed in action. He died bravely. To a young widow. You would have been proud of him. But would they have understood? Could anyone see past loss and grief? That was why it mattered.
He saw the seaman named Booth standing outside his cabin with the fat coxswain nearby. Set against Gosling he looked like a child.
The door closed and Ainslie laid his cap on the desk. God, look at him. He’s guessed already.
‘I have to tell you some bad news.’
When Ainslie, accompanied by the tireless Critchley, was eventually summoned to the naval headquarters building, he found the chief of staff in an almost jovial mood compared with their first meeting.
It had been two busy days since their return to Singapore, during which time Ainslie’s Operation Scrounge had worked wonders. Spares, fuel, electrical gear, even ammunition for the French-made automatic weapons had mysteriously appeared on the jetty and had been whisked into the Soufrière’s hull with a minimum of delay.
It was so like the Navy, Ainslie thought. If you asked permission to do something the answer was usually no. If you went ahead on your own steam you always seemed to get away with it.
Perhaps the additional work had done more to weld the new company into a team than any routine training. They had worked all hours with little complaint, and the hull had echoed to the tune of drills, pumps and generators well into the night, until the depot ship’s people had complained about the din spoiling the film shows in their canteen.
Halliday and his French assistant, Lucas, had stripped the faulty hydroplanes and replaced them, and were eager to put them to a proper test. Lieutenant Ridgway, the torpedo officer, and his men had gone through the fore-ends and torpedo storage until they could operate the tubes and reloading tackle blindfolded. Even Farrant, stiff-backed and severe as the moment he had stepped aboard, had admitted a grudging satisfaction with his gun crews.
But perhaps the most contented man of all was Lieutenant Jack Christie, RNVR, the naval pilot who had been chosen to operate the Soufrière’s neat little seaplane.
Christie had been a stunt pilot before the war, reduced to doing five-shilling trips at seaside resorts when things had been bad. When things had been good, he had risked life and limb to give the spectators their money’s worth. He had been a misfit aboard a fleet carrier, and not much better ashore. He simply could not adapt to the Navy’s ways, and Ainslie suspected the Soufrière had been his last appointment merely to get him out of some senior officer’s hair.
The seaplane was in excellent order, although it had not been launched from its catapult for many months. With his equally dedicated observer, Sub-Lieutenant Jones, also RNVR, Christie had taken the aircraft apart.
Ainslie had heard Quinton telling him on one occasion, ‘God, Jack, if you bust that kite, remember it’s the only one we’ve got, right?’
Christie had given him his lazy grin. ‘She’ll go like a bird. You see.’
All in all, Ainslie was pleased with his company. It was certainly the largest he had yet commanded. Twelve officers, including himself, and one hundred and twenty ratings, many of whom had seen active service in other boats. The others, like the wretched Booth who had just lost his parents, would have to learn as they went along.
It seemed likely they would have more time than most, Ainslie thought. For although Singapore, like the forces in Malaya to the north, had been put on a partial alert until the Japanese intentions in Indo-China were fully understood, it seemed slack after Europe.
In the city lights blazed at all hours, and the shops gleamed with early stocks of gifts and goods for Christmas. The clubs were always full, and Ainslie had been dismayed to discover that there was still a rigid rule about which hotels and places of entertainment could be used by ‘other ranks’ and which were completely out of bounds to Indian and Malayan troops.
The chief of staff waved them to two comfortable chairs and said, ‘Sorry I’ve not had time to see you before this.’
Critchley said, ‘We’ve been busy too, sir.’
The captain eyed him searchingly as if to seek out some small hint of sarcasm.
He said, ‘The big ships have made quite an impression. Good thinking on someone’s part. Just the sort of gesture to make friends and enemies sit up and take notice. Pity about the carrier, though.’
Critchley leaned forward. ‘Carrier, sir?’
‘Yes. The new one, Indomitable, should have been in company, but she ran aground off Jamaica while she was working up. She’ll be along later, no doubt.’ He saw Critchley’s uncertainty and said cheerfully, ‘God, Critchley, don’t look so glum! We have our own air support in fields from here to the Siamese border, y’know.’
Critchley said calmly, ‘I know. Wildebeest torpedo bombers which make the Swordfish seem young by comparison.’ He watched his shots going home, cracking the other man’s confidence. ‘There are some old American Hudsons, and for fighter cover I understand there are a few obsolescent Brewster Buffaloes.’ He reached out for a desk lighter and held it to the inevitable cigarette. ‘Hardly a force to rouse enthusiasm, I’d have thought?’
The chief of staff turned to Ainslie. ‘Well, anyhow, that is not the point of this meeting, or your concern, gentlemen.’ His smile returned very slowly. ‘Your orders are to complete repairs.’ He touched the folder on his desk, the one Ainslie had signed just three hours earlier. ‘It seems the submarine was not so damaged as you imagined, eh?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘You will then take the Soufrière to sea for a final check.’
Ainslie watched him. It had been on the tip of his tongue to speak his mind. To tell this officer how hard his men had worked to make the Soufrière ready for sea in so short a time.
But he recognized the man’s comment as a challenge. It would be just like him to clamp down on local leave until they were ready to sail. His men deserved a whole lot more than that.
He asked quietly, ‘What are my orders afterwards, sir?’
‘You will be routed round the Cape to England. Then it will be up to Whitehall and Flag Officer Submarines.’ He tapped the folder again. ‘However, Commander Ainslie, should your report, your personal judgement, discover any fault in the submarine after your checks, I am instructed to remove her from any active duty. In which case you and your company will return to England without her.’ He could not resist it. ‘By sea this time, naturally.’
Critchley stood up. ‘Still no news from the Japanese, I suppose, sir?’
‘Did you expect any?’ He was starting to enjoy himself. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get the publicity you evidently expected. But we see things somewhat differently out here, you know. There are still standards.’
Critchley smiled wearily. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
Once outside the HQ building with its perfect square of grass surrounded by white-painted stones, Critchley said, ‘I prefer the intelligence department to shipboard life, I really do. But if ever their lordships are foolish enough to advance my promotion to captain I will personally pay my own fare to fly back here. Just to punch that pompous, bone-headed twit right on his gin-reddened nose!’
Ainslie smiled, ‘Forget him. I’ll tell you what we’ll do instead. We’ll have a party of our own when we’ve finished our trials. To say thank you to all the characters who have done their damndest to help us since we got here.’
Critchley rubbed his hands. ‘Fine. No security breach. Just a good, bucolic party!’
As they walked from one patch of shade to the next, Ainslie asked, ‘Was that true what you told Captain Armytage? About the old planes?’
Critchley nodded. ‘I’m afraid it was. Pity about the carrier being held up. They could do with her here right now.’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘I see this sort of thing all the time, though not as much as at the start of the war. There are so many people, not all in high appointments either, who still see the line of battle as the answer to everything. They’re f
ighting a modern war with the same ideas we had at Dogger Bank and Jutland.’ He shot Ainslie a warm smile. ‘It’s people like you who spoil everything, by going out and winning battles!’
Ainslie nodded. It was painfully true. And yet without proper air cover you could never win anything for very long.
Critchley said, ‘I’m off to see some people.’ He touched his gold-leafed cap to a saluting sentry and added. ‘Tell you something though. If in the unlikely event you do find more faults with the Soufrière after your trials, I’ll wager a year’s pay to a marine’s button stick you don’t tell friend Armytage!’
Ainslie watched him move away on to the roadway and smiled. Critchley was right. Soufrière might never replace the Tigress, but she had certainly become very important to him.
For two further days Ainslie’s company combed through Soufrière’s great hull from bow to rudder, checking, testing, replacing, and finally accepting that if she was not ready to do her test live she would never be.
Once again an air of secrecy hung over the anchorage as, with a sloop in the lead and a fleet minesweeper bringing up astern, Soufrière slipped her moorings and headed eastwards towards open sea.
The spot chosen for the first dive under her new ownership was definitely not submarine territory, with a maximum depth of some thirty fathoms. But it would have to suffice, and as Quinton had dryly commented, ‘We can always sit on the bloody mud and think where we went wrong!’
Twenty-four hours after leaving Singapore, Ainslie completed the first series of tests. Flooding and emptying the torpedo tubes, and training the powerful gun turret through ninety degrees while the sloop and the minesweeper watched from a respectful distance.
Once dived they would be on their own. Not before time, was the general feeling throughout the boat.
As the hands of the control room clock moved towards the deadline, Ainslie examined his own feelings, wondering how it would be. He had heard of it happening to others, had even seen some of the poor devils who had suffered the sudden shock and realization that their nerves had broken. Round the bend, bomb-happy, they called it. In wartime you had to make jokes about it. But just suppose it happened to you? Ainslie held out his hands in the harsh sunlight and studied them. To me?
Strike from the Sea (1978) Page 6
