Go in and Sink!

by Douglas Reeman

  Petty Officers’ Mess and past the refrigerator compartment where a supply officer was engrossed in checking his lists against those pasted on the door. Every inch of space must be used. Every item checked. And then checked again.

  Forward into the torpedo stowage compartment, the long, gleaming fish in their racks. Here, most of the seamen would also live as best they could, sharing their daily meals and off watch relaxation with these sleek killers.

  A glance above to the forward escape hatch. A quick look down into the Asdic compartment and through the watertight door to the tube space. Six gleaming breeches, and lashed close by a great crate of tinned milk. That too had to share the boat’s most precious commodity, room to live and breathe.

  Once or twice he made quick notes on his pad as he allowed the submarine’s shape and area to form in his mind like some mental blueprint. His throat felt dry, probably the stink of diesel and new paint. Also the smell of the previous occupants. Even the other aromas and the boat’s brief flooding had not erased it completely.

  He could imagine the scream of the klaxon, the commander’s eye glittering in the periscope lens as it broke surface. All the world of attack and target being drawn through the small aperture into one man’s pupil and brain. For translation into action, and death.

  He shivered again. God knows, he had seen that sight often enough himself in the past months. The untidy cluster of ships swimming across his vision, in their alien silent world. Selecting the right one for attack, watching her as she moved so inevitably until she was caught enmeshed in the crosswires of his sights. Around and beneath him the boat would have been alive with quiet murmurs, the click of valves, and instruments. Another quick glance. Where was the escort now? Had she detected their presence? The feeling of ice water on the spine. The decision. Steady. Steady. Ignore the muffled pounding of screws as another escort swings dangerously through the convoy. Now. Fire One!

  `Are you feeling all right, Marshall?’ Browning’s face moved into his vision.

  `Sorry. Just thinking of comet.’

  Browning chuckled. `I can imagine.’

  Marshall looked away. What was happening? Perhaps he was already overstrained. Written off like so many he had known. To survive was not always enough. There were other considerations.

  He heard himself say, `I think that does it.’ He glanced at his watch. They had been aboard for two hours, yet it seemed like minutes. He looked at his companions, wondering how they felt about it. About him.

  Marker said, `If we go back aboard Guernsey I can fill you in on the latest reports.’

  Browning added, `Then you can get the check-up over and meet your new people, eh?,

  ‘Check-up?’ Marshall faced him.

  Browning shrugged. `You know how it is. After your last commission it has to be done. The P.M.O. will just make sure that all your limbs are still in the right place. Flag Officer Submarines would have my guts for garters if I didn’t go through the motions!’

  Nobody laughed.

  Marshall nodded. `Yes.’ That’s all I need now. To be found unfit. Be given some shore job, or end up like Browning. Watching others go off to fight.

  They climbed up the shining ladder from the control room in silence. How smooth the rungs felt. How many men had run blindly into the sunlight for a gun-action or to catch that first sight of home at the end of another patrol?

  On the bridge again the keen air drove some of his apprehensions away and he was able to look along the U-boat’s upper deck without flinching. It would be a new start. Not just another patrol on top of all he had done so far. He must think of it that way. Poor Bill had said, `Never thought we’d make it.’ And Tristram had outlasted all of her consorts. He had to see this as something quite fresh and different. Not as one more weight on the scales of survival.

  They had reached the depot ship’s steamy interior and Browning asked, `D’you know a chap called Roger Simeon, by the way?

  Marshall frowned. `Slightly. He was first lieutenant of an S-boat last time I saw him.’

  He got a brief mental picture of a square, reckless face. Short fair hair. A man who would excite any woman’s attention.

  `That’s the one. He’s promoted to commander now, of course.’

  Marshall waited. Of course? What did that mean?

  `Bright lad. He’s been heavily involved in Combined Operations, too. First-class brain, and a real goer. You’ll be meeting him shortly.’

  Marshall darted a quick glance at him. You hate his guts, don’t you?

  Aloud he said, `I never knew him other than casually at Fort Blockhouse.’

  ‘Er, yes.’ Browning waited for the other officers to move ‘away. `Lieutenant Commander Wade was a good friend of yours, I believe? I heard all about his boat being lost last year. Damn bad luck.’

  Marshall watched him warily. `We were pretty close.’

  The captain seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts. `You’d better hear it from me then. Get it over and done with. Wade’s widow married Commander Simeon last month.’ He looked uncomfortable. `Best to get it out in the open. This job is hard enough without—’ He did not finish it.

  Marshall turned to stare through a nearby scuttle, his mind cold. He tried to recall exactly what Bill had said in those last days. Had he been the same? Or had he just discovered about his wife? Christ Almighty, it was bad in any sense of the word to con a submarine out of Malta through those minefields. A captain, already worn out with combat and endless watchkeeping, would be strained to the limit. If Bill had her on his mind, had been thinking of what do and say when he reached England again, it would be more than enough. If only needed seconds. Those few precious moments when a lack of vigilance brought oblivion.

  He controlled himself with an effort, but when he spoke his voice was flat. Hard.

  ‘I think I’d better get on with my check-up, sir. Then we’ll know.’

  He saw the crestfallen expression on Browning’s face. In the reflected light he looked suddenly old and tired.

  He added quietly, `But thank you, sir. I’m glad you told me.’

  Browning removed his cap and ran his hand over his bald head. `Rotten business. The war has spoiled things for a lot of-‘ But when he returned he realised Marshall had already gone.

  He sighed and unconsciously touched the Victoria Cross ribbon on his chest. He could understand. In war you got very close to some people.. Even now, after all these years, he could still remember.

  He clapped on his cap and barked, `Muster the new company in the recreation space at iioo!’

  The quartermaster, who had been eyeing him with mild curiosity, saluted and watched him leave the lobby. Poor old sod, he thought, as he reached for the tannoy speaker. Past it. Then he switched on the microphone and raised his silver call.

  The pipe squealed from a dozen speakers throughout the ship. The sound even reached the outboard submarine with its fierce-eyed bull glaring towards the bows.

  A stronger gust sent an eddy of cat’s-paws along her broad saddle tank and made the mooring wires creak and jerk as if to break away.

  Whatever mere men had to contend with, U-192 was eager to be away. Back to the killing-ground. The only world she knew.

  For the next three days at least Marshall found little time to think of anything but the job in hand. With only brief respites for meals or ironing out unsuspected faults, he absorbed himself completely in putting his command through every situation he could envisage. From the moment he had completed his medical check-up and had confronted his new company for the first time he had realised that his task was going to be harder than he had

  imagined. Submarine crews were always allowed plenty of scope to work-up together, to get the measure of their new boat and each other before setting off on a patrol. This time, although no actual date had been announced, there was obviously going to be very little opportunity except for the most basic tests and trials.

  In some ways that was good, Marshall decided. Too much freedo
m to brood might lessen their chances of success. In addition, security was paramount, and every hour alongside the Guernsey seemed to offer a new threat to secrecy. Loch Cairnbawn was a good choice for their preparations. It had seen many experiments in the past, including the training of the midget submarines which had made their hair-raising attack on the German battleship Tirpitz. The location was not the real problem. It seemed to Marshall that too many people were becoming involved, and each day brought fresh faces to inspect his progress, be shown around the boat like so many visitors on peacetime outings. Two Members of Parliament, a couple of admirals and a whole trail of lesser fry. And it all took valuable time as well as adding to the real risk of a security leak.

  Curiously enough, his medical check-up had been the easiest part so far. The P.M.O. had been more interested in asking about his experiences in the Mediterranean than testing his qualities for this new role. There had been something unhealthy about the man. He reminded Marshall of the person who sits for days at the Old Bailey just to listen to the gruesome details of a murder or to watch the face of stricken witnesses and those under sentence.

  During the forenoon of the fourth day he was sitting in his cabin aboard the U-boat, re-reading the notes which had grown since his first inspection to a pad the size of a bulky novel. Gerrard was due to arrive that afternoon, and he would need to have every last detail at his fingertips so as not to confuse him when he began his own briefing around the boat.

  The submarine’s mood had certainly changed. It no longer felt like a floating schoolroom. It was filled with stores, ammunition, fuel and, above all, men. As he sat at his bulkhead desk he could hear the constant movement all around him. Feet on the casing above, the scrape of mooring wires and the clatter of metal from another session of gun drill. More bodies moved back and forth past his closed door, and in the wardroom nearby he heard the steward rattling crockery in readiness for lunch.

  He found himself thinking about his officers. Apart from himself and Gerrard, there were four of them. A mixed bunch, and still hard to see as a team.

  Lieutenant Adrian Devereaux, the navigator, would be a key member of their little community, yet he seemed vaguely out of place, and Marshall suspected it was largely his fault. Handsome and well-bred, with the easy drawling tone of one who could be slightly contemptuous of those around him.

  Lieutenant Victor Frenzel, the engineer officer, was a complete opposite. He had served in submarines since before the war and had worked his way to commissioned rank by the hardest route, and had first served as a lowly junior stoker. But despite his beginnings in life and his frequent use of crude language when getting the engineering staff to accept his set standards, he possessed real charm. He had dark curly hair, a broad grin, and seemed totally unimpressed by the job he had been given.

  The other two. were temporary officers. Lieutenant Colin Buck, the torpedo officer, had been a garage manager ‘and secondhand car dealer. Sharp-featured, cold-eyed, he would be a difficult man to know. Unless he wanted you to. Marshall thought. The wardroom’s junior member was Sub-Lieutenant David Warwick. As gunnery officer, and the one picked to deal with German translations, he had the outward innocence of a child. Fresh-faced and with almost delicate features, it was difficult to picture him as a man of action. Yet front his documents Marshall knew that after leaving university to enter the Navy, Warwick had passed his submarine and gunnery courses at the top of the list. So there had to be more to him than was instantly recognisable.

  The rest of the company were equally mixed. Some were old hands, like Starkie, the coxswain, or Murray, the Chief E.R.A. Others were straight out of the training school with the captured U-boat as their first-ever operational submarine. Perhaps they were better of . Only when they were sent to other boats would they find trouble. They would have to re-learn their basic training all over again.

  Marshall had seen very little of Browning since the day he had met his company aboard the depot ship. The captain had been kept busy with his own preparations, but there were other reasons for his staying away.

  Marshall blamed himself for what might show later as a rift between them. But as the U-boat was now his responsibility he had to begin in his own way. He had sensed that Browning was going to make some sort of .speech to mark the occasion. In the depot ship’s recreation space Marshall had watched the assembled officers and ratings, seeing them studying him while Browning introduced him as their new commander. Had the speech been made to civilians, or spoken over the radio to those not involved in actual warfare it would have had the desired effect. It was rousing and patriotic, but at the same time seemed totally out of date and remote from their surroundings. Browning had spoken of loyalty and keenness, when Marshall knew such things were taken for granted. They had to be. When U-192 finally slipped her moorings there would be fifty souls crammed within her toughened hull. Men who would need to rely on each other, have to know what to do if they became separated by accident or by the hideous necessity of slamming a watertight door to save the boat from destruction, but at the same time sealing a best friend in a steel tomb.

  He had been thinking along those lines when he had realised that Browning had turned to face him, that the whole of the assembled men were looking towards him. Waiting.

  He had let his glance move slowly along the uneven ranks, had heard his own voice like a stranger’s.

  `Some of you already know me. I have met you in other boats at other times. Most of you are as new to me as you are to the Service. I am only sorry we have not the time to alter that state of affairs before we begin our work.’ He had turned slightly so as not to see the hurt on Browning’s face. `There are just a few things I want to make clear. This is not some sort of game, nor is it an heroic escapade to boost morale. We are here to learn about this boat. To use it as a weapon and destroy part of our common enemy. We can trust nobody outside the hull. Ours may be one of the loneliest tasks ever undertaken at sea. It will certainly be one of the most dangerous.’ He had seen some of the older hands nodding grimly, the startled exchanges between the newer men. `Forget the fact that you volunteered or were hand-picked, such terms mean nothing once we are away from here. What you can do as a team, what you can endure when you have passed the margins of endurance are what count.’ He had paused to watch the effect of his words. Too blunt? Too brutal? It was hard to tell. ‘If we are successful, we will have done well. Very well. But again you will be unable to show your pride openly, for if we are to extend and exploit our worth then so must we hold our secrecy. Otherwise we and not the enemy will be the hunted.’ He had lowered his voice slightly, suddenly aware of the tension in his own limbs. Was it that he was trying to regain something in himself? `You will have one prize, however. One which you will be able to share amongst yourselves. The knowledge that you, and you alone, have taken the war amongst the enemy. On his own ground, by his own code. I will expect much from you, just as you will rightly expect the same from me.’ He had felt drained. `That is all. We will go to general drills at 1400.’

  There was a tap at the door. It was Lieutenant Devereaux, his face devoid of expression as he announced, `Captain Browning is approaching, sir.’ He held out a signal pad. `From the S.D.O. Lieutenant Gerrard has landed at the field. A car has been sent for him.’

  ‘Thank you, Pilot.’ Marshall stretched his arms and stood up. Browning was coming to make peace. Or otherwise `Your department all buttoned up?

  Devereaux shrugged elegantly. `Quite, sir.’

  Marshall smiled. The navigator was giving nothing away yet.

  Together they climbed to the bridge and met Browning as he heaved himself over the rim of the conning-tower. He looked at Devereaux. `Are you O.O.D.?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  `Good. Go aboard Guernsey and clear all your people off. I want ‘em mustered and accounted for within the hour, right?

  Devereaux opened his mouth and then shut it again.

  As he hurried down the ladder Browning murmured, ‘Pompous
prig. Still, he has a good record.’

  Once in Marshall’s small cabin he shut the door and said, ‘Sailing orders.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘I know what you’re about to say, and I agree. But something happened. I’ve had a signal from A.C.H.Q. in Iceland. They have confirmed that one of this boat’s original crew has escaped from the temporary prison camp. He may be dead, frozen stiff somewhere. He could be hiding out or searching for a neutral ship to carry him off the island. But we have to assume that he might be able to contact some unfriendly bastard and blow our secret to the winds.’

  `I see, sir.’

  Marshall walked to his cupboard and took out a bottle and two glasses. It was pointless to mention that Gerrard would arrive shortly with no knowledge of the boat in which he was first lieutenant. That they had not even done a dive together, and many other factors brought about by this unexpected flaw in the plan. Browning would have thought of them all.

  Browning watched as he poured out two full glasses of Scotch. Then he said, `Sorry we got off badly when I made that stupid speech.’ He sighed. ‘I was very much like you at your age. But time puts a rosy glow in things. Takes the pain out of bravery.’

  Marshall held out a glass. ‘I’m the one to apologise.’ He forced a grin. `Anyway, you said we’d have to rub off the rough edges as we went along!’

  Browning swallowed the whisky and added fervently, `By God, I wish you were taking me with you!’

  `So do I.’ Marshall was surprised to find that he meant it.

  Browning sank down into a chair and stared moodily around the cabin. `Makes you wonder about the chaps who’ve sat here, doesn’t it?

  Feet clattered on the casing and he said abruptly, `You can slip at 1630. It’ll be all but dark then. I’ve laid on the armed-yacht Lisna to guide you out. She’ll stand by for your test dive.’ He sounded tired. `After that, you’ll be on your own. My people have prepared a complete up-todate intelligence pack. Everything we know, and a lot we’re only guessing,’ He looked steadily into Marshall’s eyes. `But it’s your affair, your rules.’