Go in and Sink!

by Douglas Reeman

  `Thank you.’

  Marshall poured two fresh glasses. In his mind’s eye he could see the men filing into the hull, checks being made, nicknames emerging to wipe away the first reserve and uncertainty. They were getting the feel of their new situation. Only their captain had yet to prove himself.

  There was a tap at the door and Lieutenant Frenzel poked his head inside the cabin.

  `We were wondering if you would join us in the wardroom before we get busy, sir?’ He grinned at Browning `And you, of course, sir.’

  Marshall nodded. It was beginning. `Thanks, Chief. That would be fine.’

  Suprisingly, Browning stood up and said, `Sorry. Lot to do. But I’ll watch you leave, and I wish you all the luck in the world.’

  Frenzel nodded. `I’ll pass it on, sir.’ He looked at Marshall. `In about ten minutes then?’ He vanished.

  As the door closed Browning said harshly, `I couldn’t sit there drinking with him as if nothing had happened.’ He thrust one hand into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled signal. `Came just now. Frenzel’s wife and kid were killed in an air raid last night. If I told him it could do no good, and might put the whole mission in jeopardy.’ He reached for his cap. `But I couldn’t sit there acting like a clown, knowing all the time …’

  Marshall watched his despair. `He’ll understand. It is the only way.’

  They shook hands gravely, and Browning said, `When you get back. I’ll tell him then. My responsibility.’

  They walked out into the passageway and towards the brighly lit control room. Apart from the duty stokers it was deserted, and Marshall knew that, like himself, Browning was seeing it as it would be in a few more hours. The nerve centre. The place which would draw together all the fibres and the strength of the boat to one man. The captain.

  He followed Browning up to the bridge and watched him until he had disappeared aboard the depot ship.

  It was like the cutting of a wire, he thought. It was all his now.

  He looked down at the wet casing where the sentry stamped his feet noisily to keep warm, and beyond the raked bows towards the end of the loch. It was hard to find any pattern in what they were doing. Bill had died even as his wife planned to deceive him and leave him for another. A woman and her child lay buried in the rubble of their home while their man poured drinks in the wardroom for his captain, ignorant of this necessary deception. And in Iceland an anonymous German had triggered off yet another chain of events, one which

  Would send all of them to sea and an unknown challenge.

  Strangely, Marshall found that he was no longer afraid of what lay ahead. Perhaps after all it was the land which had created his apprehension, and like the boat which stirred uneasily beneath his feet, he was glad to go, no matter what awaited him elsewhere.

  3 Only the job in hand

  After all the tension and the brittle tempers brought about by last minute checks and frantic preparations, the actual moment of getting under way was almost a relief. The weather, perverse as ever, had worsened, and a stiff wind lashed the waters of the loch into a confusion of short, vicious whitecaps. It seemed as if every available man aboard the depot ship was lining the rails to see them off, and close by, her rakish hull rocking uncomfortably in the wind, the armed-yacht Lima lay hove-to to guide them clear of the anchorage and out to the open sea.

  Marshall stood high on the steel gratings in the forepart of the bridge, craning over the screen to watch the second coxswain, Petty Officer Cain, as he pushed his wirehandling parties into their various positions of readiness. Known as the Casing King, he was a good petty officer, and Marshall knew he was too experienced to let anything slip past him. Beneath his leather sea-boots he could feel the grating trembling and thudding to the powerful diesels and pictured Frenzel at his control panel, his eyes on the dials and his men nearby.

  Marshall was wearing an oilskin over several layers of clothing and had a thick towel around his neck. Even so, he was cold and could not stop his body from shaking. Nerves. He shouted, `Stand by!’ Below him a lookout repeated his warning into the voicepipe, and he heard a brief squeak above his head. Probably Gerrard taking a glance through the periscope. Getting his bearings. He had looked very tired when he had reported back from his short leave. He never had been much of a talker but was always a good man to be with. Reliable.

  A seaman yelled, `Three minutes to go, sir!’

  `Very well.’

  There had been no time at all to ask him about things at home. Just `How’s Valerie?’

  ‘Fine.’ Or, `What did she say about your leaving so soon? Reply, `Not a lot.’ Poor old Bob, she must have given him a rough time.

  He turned slightly to watch as Sub-Lieutenant Warwick strode from beneath the conning-tower to speak with the Casing King. Against the thickset P.O. and the shining black shapes of the other seamen he looked even frailer than usual.

  A few figures were on the little H-boat’s casing alongside, waiting to let go. One shouted, `Good luck, mate!’ Another, `Get some sea-time in!’

  Despite the familiar shouts, encouraging or derisive in their normality, Marshall could feel the strangeness all around him. Pointing away towards the tossing whitecaps he saw the U-boat’s forecastle like a long black arrowhead, the jumping-wire making a thin line across the skudding clouds and darkening sky.

  A light stabbed from the depot ship’s bridge and a few cheers echoed above the pounding diesels and insistent wind.

  Lieutenant Buck climbed up through the hatch and groped his way to the gratings, his pointed features very pale against the dull metal.

  `All ready, sir.’ He had a faint South London accent. `I’ve checked the list you gave me. I don’t think we’ve missed a thing.’

  Marshall waved his hand. `Let go forrard!’ To Buck he added, `Too late now if we have.’

  He felt the deck lift slightly as the wind edged the submarine’s bows easily away from the other boat. A wire splashed alongside and grated on steel as Cain’s men hauled it hastily inboard.

  `Let go aft!’

  More scampering feet, a man slipping and cursing in the wet gloom.

  `All clear aft, sir!’

  Marshall said sharply, `Make certain of that!’

  He saw Buck leaning over the rear of the bridge, knowing it would be all right. But to wrap a wire round one of the screws would put paid to their sailing on time. A bad start. Unlucky, some said.

  Buck reported, `All clear, sir.’

  Marshall nodded and turned to watch as the strip of trapped water between the two hulls widened still further. Faces on the other boat were already blurred, and on the depot ship it was impossible to distinguish men from fittings.

  `Slow ahead together.’

  He listened to the immediate response from the engines. Throaty, deeper than before, the screws lashing the water into bright froth astern before settling into a steadier pattern.

  `Steer two-nine-zero.’ He waited until the order was passed down the voicepipe and added, `Tell Number One to train the periscope on Lima. She’ll show her stern light in a moment. He can con the boat on that.’

  How quickly it had all happened. The boat was sliding away from the moorings. her sharp stem throwing up feathers of spray, while the bow wave sluiced aft along the fat saddle tanks.

  He heard one of the lookouts whispering excitedly -to his companion and said, `Keep silent! Watch your prescribed areas and save the chat for later!’

  Buck called, `First lieutenant reports all well in the control room, sir.’

  `Good.’

  A cluster of grills floated abeam, clucking irritably, trying to decide if it was safe to remain on the surface. In the fading light they looked like a discarded wreath.

  He shivered. The engines sounded very good indeed. He watched the armed-yacht turning steeply to lead them clear. She was beautiful. A millionaire’s plaything in happier times. Probably kept in the Med in those times. Warm nights. Tanned bodies and soft wine.

  He stooped over the
voicepipe. `Watch her head, ‘swain. There’ll be a stiff cross-current in about fifteen minutes.’

  `Aye, aye, sir.’ Starkie, the coxswain, sounded miles away.

  He was unusually small. Like a leathery ferret. What was he thinking, Marshall wondered? Starkie’s previous boat had been sunk by a dive bomber off the Hook of Holland. He had somehow survived with three others until picked up by an M.T.B. more dead than alive. Now he was back. Perhaps his wiriness had saved him. It was a fallacy that fat men survived better in the water.

  `Launch to starboard, sir.’

  Marshall trained his powerful glasses and watched it for several moments. One of Browning’s security boats. Making sure.

  `Well done. Disregard it now and carry on with your sweep.

  ‘Yessir.’ It was the lookout he had previously choked off for gossiping. But his voice sounded slightly mollified by the brief praise.

  On down the loch, with the swell growing more noticeable as they ploughed towards the sea.

  Gerrard seemed to have no difficulty in holding the yacht’s sternlight in his periscope. It would be good practice for him. Start with something simple.

  Warwick’s round face appeared above the bridge screen, shining with spray.

  `All wires secured and stowed, sir!’ He sounded breathless.

  `Very well.’ And there they will stay until we tie up again in a home port. `Unless’ … He said, `Fall out your people and send them below.’ He hesitated. `Then check the fore hatch again, Sub.’

  The boy vanished and Buck said, `I think he’s enjoying all this.’

  Marshall glanced at him. `Probably. What about you? You’ve been eighteen months in submarines, I understand.’

  Buck sifted through his answers and settled on, `Makes a change, sir.’

  Feet scraped on the ladder and a man tried to struggle on to the bridge even as the first of Warwick’s casing party crowded over the rear of the conning-tower.

  Marshall snapped, `What the hell are you doing?

  Buck said, `He wants to be sick, sir.’

  The seaman from the casing, already cold and sodden with spray, stared at the wretched man unfeelingly. One said, `Shove over, Ginger, and let the real men get below!’

  Marshall added, `Send him down. If he wants to be sick he’ll use a bucket.’

  He heard the man retching and bubbling as he dropped from view. He bit his lip. He had been harsh with the luckless seaman. But once at sea, with just the officer of the watch and his lookouts on the bridge at any given ‘time, one such incident could cause disaster. A sudden attack, the need to crash dive, and men could be struggling in an open hatch even as the boat plunged under. Gerrard, who was in charge of the control room, should have known better.

  Warwick came on to the bridge and shook himself like a puppy emerging from the rain.

  `All secure sir.’ He grinned. `Really.’

  Marshall smiled. Perhaps he had been like Warwick once. He must have been. It hardly seemed possible.

  `Right. You can go below.’

  Warwick asked shyly, `Can I stay here, sir?’

  `Of course.’ Marshall raised his glasses and watched the yacht lift and stagger across the first of the inshore swells. `But hold tight.’

  He tried to picture the land which was sliding into the darkness abeam. Nobody would see them pass. Somewhere above the clouds an aircraft droned faintly until it was lost in the noise of diesels. Marshall thought suddenly of Frenzel as he had been that lunchtime. Cheerful, confident that his department was ready to move. Above the engineer’s bunk Marshall had seen a picture of his wife and small son. That had been a bad moment.

  `Captain, sir!’ It was Gerrard on the voicepipe.

  `What is it?

  ‘Coming on to new course now. Two-seven-zero, that is if the Lima has checked her own compass properly.’ `Very good.’ He waited knowing, there would be more. `Sorry about that seaman, sir. Stupid of me.’

  `That’s all right Bob. I expect you’ve got your hands full.’

  A chuckle. Relieved, `Enough, sir. But the lads seem to be able to manage her. She handles very smoothly. Touch wood.’

  Marshall stood upright again. Gerrard’s personal worries could be almost anything. War or not, mortgages had to be paid, bills met, even if there was precious little to buy. His wife, Valerie, would be alone once more. He wondered if she was wearing the shawl Gerrard had bought her in Malta.

  Warwick asked, `Do you think we’ll get really close to them, sir?

  Them. `The ferries, you mean?’ He shrugged. `Could be. You’ll have to be all about if that happens.’

  Warwick murmured, `I’ll try, sir.”

  Buck said dourly, `He’ll look a right little kraut when he gets his gear on!’

  Marshall nodded. They had a selection of German uniforms on board. If they got close enough to need them, Warwick would have to be good indeed.

  Buck added suddenly, `You’ll be okay. David, don’t you sweat!’

  Marshall said nothing. Buck’s change of attitude had told him plenty. He was not quite the unfeeling man-of the-world he often seemed to portray.

  Warwick relaxed slightly. ‘It’s all right for you. Bloody great -torpedoes. They don’t need any language.’

  The bridge larched steeply and brought a curtain of spray dousing over the periscope standards. It was getting wilder, and on either bow there was no longer even a shadow of land.

  The blue sternlight was pitching in all directions, and he guessed that aboard the yacht things must be getting very uncomfortable. Her skipper was probably praying that the next two hours would pass without incident so that they could watch over the U-boat’s test dive and then scurry back to shelter.

  Marshall considered the prospect of diving. It would be an unhurried affair. The last time they would get to test their ability. After that….

  He pushed it from his mind and said, `Change the lookouts. And tell the steward to send me something hot to drink.’

  Throughout his command he could imagine his men sitting or standing at their stations. Watching their gauges and levers, listening to the engines’ pitch and the steady beat of screws. Others, as yet unemployed, would have more time to think, to examine their own feelings as each minute took them further and further from home. In a few days everything would be as familiar as any other boat. Well, almost. But he must not let it become too familiar. That could be equally dangerous. Fatal.

  `Able Seaman Churchill requests permission to come to the bridge, sir.’ The lookout could not restrain a grin.

  Churchill was a torpedoman, but also acted as wardroom steward. It was a difficult name to have in wartime.

  `Very well.’

  The man squeezed through the hatch carrying a jug and mugs against his chest.

  ‘Kye, sir.’ He poured some of the thick cocoa into a mug and squinted outboard at the tossing whitecaps. `Strewth !’

  Marshall held the hot mug against his face. `How are things, er. … Churchill?

  The steward eyed him curiously. `Great, sir.’ He was a Cockney, with an accent you could cut with a knife. `Cookie’s got a smashin’ ‘otpot -for later on.’

  Marshall watched him slither into the open hatchway.

  Only the job in hand 67

  One of the lookouts whispered, `Give our love to the War Cabinet!’

  Churchill’s head quivered in the hatchway. `Get knotted!’

  Buck said, `I hope the torpedoes won’t let us down. I’ve checked them over until I know each one by name. All the same, I hear Jerry has a fair share of duds.’ He shook his mug on the deck and added, `I’ll go forrard now, with your permission, sir.’

  `Yes.’ Buck’s arrival in the fore-ends would shake up his torpedomen. Keep them from pondering too much.

  When he had gone below Warwick asked, `Was that right, sir?

  Marshall lowered his glasses. `We have our share of duds, too. Nothing you can explain. It just happens sometimes.’ He craned over the voicepipe. `Watch your revol
utions. The yacht is making hard going of it. We’ll overtake her if we’re not careful.’

  He heard Starkie’s terse acknowledgement and pictured Gerrard and Frenzel translating his advice into action. Devereaux would be leaning on his chart table. Very little for him to do at present. Just watch everyone else, his handsome face set in a cynical smile.

  Warwick said, `There’s a lot to know, isn’t there, sir?

  Marshall looked at him. `I suppose there is. I hadn’t thought of it like that. It sort of grows on you.’

  Warwick was still watching him, eyes filling the pale shape of his face. This would not do at all. It sounded like some sort of awe. The birth of hero-worship. But Warwick had to be independent. Stand on his own two feet.

  He changed the subject. `Did you have any outside interests at university, Sub?’

  `I was a pacifist, sir.’

  Marshall grinned at his confusion. `No comment!’

  As the submarine pushed. further and further from the land the motion became worse, the noise of wind and sea louder even than the engines. In uncomfortable, swaying silence the four men on the open bridge withdrew into their own resources, gripping the wet steel, bracing their aching legs against the steep, dizzy plunges.

  Marshall watched the blurred sternlight across the bows until his eyes watered with strain. It would be better once they could clap on more speed. A U-boat was designed principally to run on the surface. To chase her quarry and overreach it. Then dive and await the kill. He could feel his stomach tightening to the boat’s antics and guessed that many of the new hands would be in real torment.

  At long last they arrived at the arranged position, and as the Lima rolled drunkenly in the steep troughs Marshall said, `This is it.’ He spoke into the voicepipe; `Everything ready below?

  Starkie called back, `Standing by, sir. Control room clock reads 1900.’

  Marshall straightened his back. `Signal the Lima.’ He waited until Warwick had picked up the small lamp. `Am about to carry out trim dive.’ To the lookouts he added, `Clear the bridge.’ He felt strangely calm. Detached.