“Nice work, Bomber. Glad you’re OK. You had me worried.”
“Took a little snooze, that’s all … Skipper, there’s corned dog hash below, when you’re ready for it. Shall one of us eat first, then—”
“Listen …”
Music. From the mainland side.
It sounded like a fiddle. And voices now, singing. He concentrated— wanting to identify the language—there’d be all the difference in the world between a bunch of Norwegians having a hooly and some German garrison … Also, the question of how near or far, and the matter of the battery having to be charged—it was absolutely necessary. To move out into midstream to do it was an unattractive alternative, with likely interruptions by patrol boats or other craft … The singing and the accompaniment climaxed and stopped. X-12 moving to her wire, sea-movement loud among the rocks …
A male voice—making a speech …
It was drowned in clapping. Brazier said quietly, “Sounded Norwegian.”
Paul thought so too; and the music hadn’t sounded at all Germanic. A door slammed like a distant pistol-shot, and the fiddle struck up again, then quietened as a woman’s voice rose—some kind of folk song, solo. There was no glimmer of light in that direction, or anywhere else either.
“Go on down, Bomber. Tell Louis to put on a standing charge. First man to finish his scoff can come up and relieve me.”
The day’s run south would have taken all the guts out of the battery, and they’d need all it had to offer tomorrow. With nets to negotiate you could expect to need bursts of full power; and having made the attack, the only way to withdraw would be dived, and perhaps at some speed, in the initial stages … He heard applause now, cheers and clapping and a general hubbub of party noise. With luck, the rumble of the Gardner wouldn’t carry that high and that far; another hope was that if anyone did hear it and stop to listen they might think it came from farther out, in mid-fjord or even from the far side.
It still sounded menacingly loud when it started. The rocky cliffs enclosed the sound, magnifying it … Then Gimber came up to take over. There was no chance of hearing any party noise now.
“Bomber tell you about the singsong?”
“Yeah. We had a listen in the hatch. Think they’ll be listening to us, now?”
“Doubt it. It’d be muffled, anyway, could be coming from miles away.”
“Sounds bloody loud to me.” Gimber added, “Plenty of hash left, you’ll be glad to hear.”
“Good.” He pointed astern. “That’s the danger sector. We could dive if we had to—trim her down right here and use the induction as a snort. Wouldn’t even need to break the charge—just dive, on the wire that’s holding us.”
“That’s a thought!”
According to intelligence reports, the enemy were developing a new class of U-boat that could run submerged on its diesels, using a tube called a “schnorkel” for the air inlet. One or two of the X-craft men had tried a similar technique using the induction pipe, but it was slightly hazardous because there was no automatic shut-off when the top of the tube “drowned,” and the helmsman had to be quick to shut the valve by hand.
Paul slid into the hatch. Gimber asked him, “Will you be coming up again when you’ve eaten?”
He’d stopped, halfway in. Diesel fumes acrid, more noticeable down at this level. The lop on the water was more noticeable too: if the wind held, it would be good cover for periscope work tomorrow. If the periscope worked … He answered Gimber’s question: “Expect so. Why?”
“Something I’d like to talk about. While there’s time and—” he’d checked, and caught his breath: “Christ, look!”
There’d been a flicker of light reflected in his eyes. Whipping round— to face into what he’d called the danger sector—Paul was looking into a blaze of it, just momentarily, then distant and changing, lengthening, the sword-like beam of a searchlight which as it swung round level with the sea had passed over them, illuminating and throwing a huge shadow from the light-structure above them: now it was silvering high ground on the island of Aaroy—which was four miles from here—and then, scything on clockwise, sweeping over the forepart and bridge superstructure of a warship. A giant warship. Immensely long, flared foc’sl, twin gun-turrets wide, flattish, powerful-looking; the forebridge behind them had a similarly squat look about it, and was dwarfed by the colossal director-tower.
Unmistakeably, it was Scharnhorst. At anchor, in the lee of Aaroy island.
“Is she under way?”
“No.” Paul was recovering from the shock of that sudden glimpse, that enormous enemy just across the water. It had almost literally taken his breath away. The searchlight’s beam fingered a steeply slanted funnel-cap, then abruptly switched off and died back, leaving them blinded in the dark, the diesel banging away … Gimber asked, “What’s that island called?”
“Aaroy … Hudspeth’s bound to have seen her there.” He was thinking aloud, more than talking to Gimber. “At least, I’d guess he would have.”
“Not if he made the southward run deep like we did. He could be at the Brattholms with the others, expecting to find her in Kafjord in the morning.”
Pure conjecture. They might all four be there, or some of them might not have made it. And there was no way of knowing when Scharnhorst might have moved—when, or for that matter why—out of the protection of her anti-torpedo nets. 26,000 tons of battleship, in an unprotected berth … There was no shred of light now, where a minute ago the colossus had been floodlit. It was dark in all directions and there’d be enemies in most directions, X-12 in the middle of them with her diesel grumbling throatily to itself, ignoring all of them … As to that question “why?”— well, the X-craft had been on their own for most of the past twenty-four hours, and there could have been all sorts of developments they’d have no way of knowing about. The battle group might be putting to sea, for instance—the report of Tirpitz changing her gun-barrels might have been wrong, or the intentions might have changed. He couldn’t imagine they’d leave Scharnhorst for long in such an exposed position: she’d have to be only pausing there, on her way either in or out …
Unless there’d been a scare, one of the other X-craft detected, and the Bosch at panic-stations?
“Give me a shout if anything looks interesting, Louis.”
Below, eating his supper and chatting with the others, he decided that before he went up to join Gimber he’d strip the periscope down again and dry it out. You couldn’t hope to do anything about the source of the problem, the leak—which would have been an external job, and you couldn’t show a light up there—so it would soon flood again, but at least he’d be starting this next vital phase with a periscope that worked.
“Best hash we’ve had yet. Whose masterpiece was it?”
Lanchberry’s eyebrows hooped. “Skipper, I’m amazed you’d find it necessary to enquire.”
Brazier had been checking over various pieces of equipment, including the packs of overland escape gear. He’d also examined and tested his own diving gear and the water-powered net-cutter—so Jazz Lanchberry said, staring meaningfully at Paul.
“Well, for God’s sake, how many times is that?”
Brazier looked embarrassed. Lanchberry said, “Every five bloody minutes, that’s all. Right, Bomber?”
“Better too often than not enough.”
“Ah, there’s wisdom for you!”
“Leaks can develop, Jazz, and valves can seize up, and …”
Paul asked him, “How about our stuff?”
Brazier nodded. “The DSEA sets are on the top line, skipper.”
DSEA stood for Davis Submarine Escape Apparatus, and sets comprising face-masks, harness, oxygen bottles etcetera were provided for the three non-divers. But all such equipment was in Brazier’s care for maintenance purposes.
“What time do we push off, skips?”
He put down his coffee mug. The air was as bitingly cold down here, with the rush of night air feeding the Gardner, as it was up
top. He told them, “About one-thirty. We’ll dive right away to eight feet and keep the periscope right up as long as the light’s dim. The leak’s most likely near the top, in which case if I can keep it above water long enough to get a bearing on Lützow before we go deep, we’ll be on the right track.”
Lanchberry nodded. “Good thinking.”
“Well.” Paul looked at Brazier. “He’s paying me compliments now.”
“Because you liked his hash.”
“Oh, that’s it.”
None of them felt like sleeping. Camouflaging taut nerves was a full-time job. For Paul it wasn’t only the prospect of tomorrow’s action— complicated by his boat’s two-fold disability—it was the possibility of there being no action, if the battle group were putting to sea. He didn’t mention this possibility to the others.
Gimber, on the casing a bit later, began abruptly, “Better talk about it, don’t you think?”
“About what?”
“Her. Jane.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. The engine rumbling on, and the light-structure a black etching against paler sky. Moonrise would throw no light into this chasm. Paul thought that if Gimber knew about his own affair with Jane, he’d been nursing the secret very guardedly. He said, “If you want to, Louis.”
“Remember what I asked you, that last night in the depot ship—about looking after her, if I bought it?”
“Yes, I do. But you’re alive and kicking, so we can forget it, can’t we.”
“I was pissed. And I knew it, and I was being careful. Particularly as we were just off. It wasn’t exactly a time to pick a fight.”
He’d have been sitting up here rehearsing this speech. In the middle of an Arctic night, surrounded by enemies, with his mind on a girl who’d two-timed him. If he knew that much, and it had begun to sound as if he might.
“I wouldn’t say this is much of a time for it, either.”
“It’s the only time we’ve got, though, for talking.” Gimber added, “I had an uncle who was terribly proud he’d ‘gone over the top’ in the last war. He said you saw things more clearly, when you were waiting for the whistle, although at the time you might be practically shitting yourself.”
“So?”
“What I tried to say that night was—well, if I didn’t get back and you did, would you please either leave her alone or—well, look after her.”
“I think you did say exactly that. But what exactly you meant …”
“You know damn well, Paul!”
“Sorry, but I don’t. For instance, by ‘look after,’ d’you mean marry her?”
“If, as I said, you got back and I didn’t—”
“Louis—we’re in the same boat, the odds are that either we both get home or neither of us does. But supposing it did happen as you suggest, why on earth should she want anything of the sort? From me, I mean?”
There was a pause. Gimber was a black shape hunched against the standard of the stub periscope. He said, “She’s fond of you. Despite … “
“For God’s sake, I’m fond of her, but …” He did a double-take. “Despite what?”
“The fact you’ve spent the last six months trying to get her into bed?”
Trying …
“I—what?”
The diesel’s steady rumble filled the darkness around them. “When did you dream this one up?”
“She told me herself. So I know it. Every time you were with her on your own. You never stood a chance—but she’s sorry for you, she thinks it’s just because you’re lonely. Lonely, for Christ’s sake! But that’s how she is, she’s so—understanding, sympathetic. And she’s dead straight, she doesn’t make things up, Paul, so I do know. She’s—decent, and loyal to the memory of her husband—all right, still in love with him, it’s been my main problem. I can tell you, I’ve been learning patience … But you, Paul—all you ever thought of was getting her to sleep with you!”
“Wasn’t it all you thought of? With all the others?”
If she’d told him—and she obviously had—there wasn’t much point denying it. He asked Gimber, “Wasn’t it, until you got involved with Jane?”
“You admit it, then.”
“I suppose one does—make passes … But look here, if you’ve had some such notion, why on earth would you have wanted me to go on seeing her, whenever I was down south?”
“It was the last thing I wanted, after she’d written to me about it. You were seeing her behind my back, by then. Not realising that she and I have no secrets from each other. She told me everything, you damn fool!”
Not quite everything …
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be abusive. But I happen to feel very strongly about her.”
“I think I gathered that much.”
“And you had when you were doing your best to seduce her, too. You also knew she was still in a state of—I don’t know, shock, perhaps—from her husband’s death.”
“Well, I wouldn’t altogether agree with you there. But can we cut this short now, Louis?”
“Just like that? Just …”
“I don’t want to go over and over the same ground. Jane, as I saw her, was a very, very attractive girl, and very much a party girl. Think of that first time you produced her—that night at the Bag o’ Nails?”
“She could give that impression, but …”
“Right. She did. You happened to take a different view, but my own was—is, I suppose—pretty well how it’s always been, vis à vis girls at parties. Same as yours was too—and the fact you’ve fallen for her doesn’t entitle you to call the kettle black, either. A year ago, if you’d taken a shine to some popsie I was nuts about, you’d have jumped in boots and all the minute my back was turned!”
“Not if I thought you were really, deeply …”
“Oh, balls!”
There was a stir below the hatch—one of the others coming up. Gimber began quickly, “What I’m asking you—look, if I get back, OK, no problem, I’ll look after her, and believe me you won’t get a look in. But if I don’t, Paul—well, I don’t want her treated like some cheap floozie. Either leave her alone, or—”
“Skipper?” Bomber Brazier was speaking through the open hatch. “Anyone want to get his head down? I’d quite like some freshers.”
“Hang on, Bomber. Give us room, and Louis’ll be right down.” He told Gimber, “All right. You have my word for it.”
“Swear it?”
“If that’s necessary. But we’re both going to get home, so it won’t arise, anyway … Will you go below now?”
You couldn’t have too many bodies on the casing at one time, in case you had to dive in a hurry. Gimber said, climbing into the hatch, “I’m glad we’ve had it out. No hard feelings, Paul.”
“Of course not.”
Jane obviously had fed Gimber that line of bull. Perhaps to hide the less acceptable truth behind it? And having her cake and eating it—enjoying the physical affair while still presenting Gimber with the image he treasured. And of course, if at some later stage Gimber had discovered that she and Paul had been lovers, it wouldn’t be her he’d have blamed.
Not bad, really. Watching the Bomber heave himself up through the hatch, he thought, Not bad at all … But it was also possible she hadn’t thought it out as purposefully as that, that she’d have done it on impulse— being as mixed-up as Gimber seemed to think she was, still in shock from the death of the fighter-pilot husband whom it was fairly evident she’d also two-timed. Happy memories tinged with guilt—but some sense of achievement too, because otherwise she wouldn’t have talked about it as she had!
He told himself, Forget it … In this time and place, it had been an extraordinary conversation. Louis, of course, must have had it churning around his head ever since they’d sailed from Loch Cairnbawn. On top of everything else, poor bastard … He looked round, at the vaguely defined bulk of his diver.
“Bomber, I’ll tell you something. True love’s a killer.”
“Ah.�
� There was a pause. Then: “Are you in love, skipper?”
“Like hell I am.”
Brazier asked him, after another pause, “Starting out at one-thirty, how will it go for the firing periods?”
The operation orders laid down a schedule of “firing periods” and “attacking periods.” The object was to reduce chances of X-craft blowing each other up. Attacking periods, which were for making the approach and placing side-cargoes under the targets, were from 0100 to 0800, 0900 to 1200, and 1300 to 1600, and the single hours in which charges could be set to explode were 0800 to 0900, 1200 to 1300 and 1600 to 1700.
He answered Brazier, “It should work out all right. Slip from here at one-thirty, and it’ll be an hour before the light’s much good. By that time I’ll have her round to the north of this island, and up to then it’ll be dark or semi-dark enough to show a lot of periscope—amongst other things, keeping the wet out, I hope. By about two-thirty I’ll have a clear view up Langfjord—I hope. We draw a bead on the target, go down to eighty feet, run in about two miles—so we’ll be at the nets by half-three, roughly. Allow one hour for you to go out and cut a hole and get back in when we’re through it, half an hour to lay side-cargoes, and another hour to get out … That’s maximum, allowing for snagging in nets, and so on, and with luck we’ll do better. But at the latest we should be clear by six o’clock, which leaves us two hours in which to bumble round the corner into Stjernsund. So we’ll be on our way out, and we’ll have the headland— Klubbeneset—between us and the whumpfs.”
“Just the job.” Brazier approved. “More so for us than for the others down in Kafjord.”
“Yeah. But I’d sooner be having a crack at the Tirpitz … I’m afraid the wind’s going down again.”
It had risen suddenly, and now it was dropping just as quickly. He’d had hopes of a broken surface, but by present indications there’d be another flat calm.
The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6 Page 29
