Go in and Sink!

by Douglas Reeman

  Stern-first they edged clear of the towering depot ship, the water sluicing along the saddle tanks to make a sluggish arrowhead of white froth.

  From forward he heard the main hatch clang shut, the scrape of wires being stowed securely for sea. `Lima’s gathered way, sir.’

  `Very well.’ He crossed to the voicepipe. `Stop together.’

  He watched the pale blue sternlight and the wash from a passing trawler. `Slow ahead together. Port twenty.’ `First lieutenant here, sir. Follow the light again?’ ‘

  `Yes.’ He heard the periscope shift in its sleeve. `We will be taking on passengers in an hour’s time.’

  He felt the hull steady as the rudder came round, and knew that Gerrard had her under control. `Fall out casing party.’

  He raised his glasses and tested them for night vision. But the shoreline houses were hidden. He thought of the first time he had come aboard. The old lady and her cat.

  Buck’s head appeared over the side of the bridge. `The conning-tower screen is secured, sir.’ He sounded doubtful. `Proper Fred Karno’s effort that is.’

  The seamen came swarming into the bridge and down through the open hatch. Then Warwick, dragging his feet, his head towards the dark slab of land.

  `Keep a good lookout.’ Marshall glanced at Blythe’s outline. `The launch will signal. But check the code.’

  It would be just like Simeon to send an additional boat to check their vigilance against any trick.

  But he had to hand it to their organisation, his and Browning’s. It must take a lot to alert coastal patrols and uninvolved vessels to ensure that nobody would stumble on their departure and raise an alarm. And they still had a lot to do. Fuelling arrangements, security screening of those to be employed, a million things.

  He said to Buck, `Go below and make sure everything’s stowed all right. Don’t want any tins of jam rattling about in the fore ends!’ He knew it had been done but wanted to be alone with Warwick.

  Buck nodded. `Right, sir.’ He probably understood.

  Marshall looked at the Lima’s sternlight, the blue froth of her small wake.

  `I’m going to the after casing to see our “umbrella”, Sub.’ He saw him stiffen. `Number One has the con, but you keep an eye on Lima. She will sight any other craft before we do.’

  He lowered himself down the ladder, feeling the blown spray tapping against his oilskin as he groped along the handrail. The depot ship’s mechanics had done a good job with their harbour disguise. He tested the folded screen with the heel of his boot. But the first near miss from a depth-charge would rip it away in a second.

  He returned to the bridge and said, `Not like our other departure, Sub.’ He waited, feeling Warwick’s uncertainty.

  He replied, `It seems no time since we got back, sir. And now-‘ He did not finish it.

  `I know. Can’t be helped.’ Marshall twisted round to watch the last of the light fading above some hills. The loch was lost in complete shadow. `I wasn’t expecting to go back to the Med.’ The words just seemed to come out. `Not after fourteen bloody months of it.’

  He clenched his fists into his pockets. Saying it was enough. Fourteen months. How long would it be this time? What were the odds now?

  Warwick asked, `Was it that bad, sir?’

  He remembered his own words to Gail. Was it only last night? Anything to hold the show together.

  ‘No.’ He felt the sweat under his cap. Ice-cold. `Nothing we couldn’t handle.’

  He had to move away. Liar. Liar. Why don’t you tell him?

  He added harshly, `Tell the helmsman he’s too far on Lima’s port quarter! For God’s sake, Sub, you’re supposed to be able to stand a watch, so do it!’

  `Yes, sir. I’m sorry.’ Warwick groped for the voicepipe.

  Blythe watched them and sucked his teeth. Warwick was a good kid but wet behind the ears. The lads called him Bunny, but not unkindly. Thank the Lord it wasn’t one of the other officers on the bridge, he thought worriedly. That tough egg, Buck, or old Snooty Devereaux. They would have recognised the skipper’s trouble in a flash. He massaged his hands against the chill air, thinking of his wife in Gosport. He looked quickly at Marshall’s vague outline against the bridge screen. Poor bastard. He’s got to carry the whole bloody lot of us. But it’s him who needs help.

  On and on down the loch, following the light, with only a gentle swish of water against the hull to break the stillness.

  Then, `Control room to captain.’ It was Gerrard. ‘Should be making the pick-up at any minute now, sir.’

  `Very good, Number One. Tell Petty Officer Cain to get his men on deck at the double.’

  A pause and he heard feet hammering on the ladder behind him.

  Then Gerrard asked, ‘Everything all right up there, sir?’

  ‘What? Of course it is!’ He wiped his face with the back of his glove. `Sorry, Bob. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.

  Blythe called, `Signal from Lima, sir. Boat to starboard.’

  He raised his glasses. There it was. A black blob on the water.

  `Stop together. Tell Cain to stand by.’

  He watched the armed-yacht steering purposefully on her set course. Any unseen watcher would assume that all was normal.

  A small torch flashed across the loch and Blythe said, `It’s the proper signal, sir. On the button.’

  `Acknowledge.’

  He climbed on to the starboard gratings to watch the little launch as it chugged towards the idling submarine. It had to be fast.

  A shout, a heaving line, and the jolting groan of timber against steel. He watched the scrambling figures as they were hauled unceremoniously on to the casing, the boat already backing clear. Less than a minute.

  `Slow ahead together.’ The deck began to quiver again. `Increase the revs until you’re on station.’

  He heard the seamen and their passengers groping and stumbling through the hatch, wondered briefly what sort of men volunteered for such dangerous missions. He had carried several in the past. But he had never got to know any of them. It was just as well when you thought of what might happen to them. He took another long look around. This was the easy part.

  He said, `Tell Lieutenant Buck to come up and relieve me. I’d better greet our visitors.’

  Warwick said quietly, ‘I can do it, sir.’

  He hesitated, and even though Marshall could not see his features he could feel the intensity of Warwick’s eagerness. To prove something. To him or to himself: He said, `Of course, Sub.’ He touched his sleeve. `She’s all yours.’

  He hurried down to the control room, his gaze passing over the assembled figures, caught in their various attitudes of concentration and watchfulness. Gerrard was at the periscope, Devereaux was resting his hands on the coxswain’s chair, his eyes on the gyro repeater. He saw the young stoker, Willard, handing a pad to Frenzel who scanned and then initialled it.

  Willard turned to hurry aft and then saw Marshall watching him.

  Marshall gave him a quick nod. `Feeling better?’

  ‘Yessir. A lot.’ He grinned. `Thanks, Sir.’

  Frenzel looked across the stoker’s shoulder, saw their quick exchange and then turned back to his panel. Marshall pushed aside the wardroom curtain and almost cannoned into Churchill who was carrying a coffee pot.

  He was beaming.

  ‘Cor, wot a lark, eh, sir?’

  Marshall stared after him and then stepped into the wardroom. The three passengers were unbuttoning their hooded windcheaters, brushing droplets of spray from their arms and legs.

  One, tall and sharp-featured, turned and thrust out his hand. `I’m Carter. We’ll all try to keep out of your way, Captain.’

  Marshall smiled. `Good to have you aboard.’

  The man added, `This is Toby Moss, and I think you know our third member, Mrs. Travis.’

  She was pushing the hood back from her dark hair, watching his face with that same expression of tired gravity.

  Second time round asg
r />   He said quietly, `Yes. We have met.’

  She did not smile. `I can sleep anywhere, Captain. Don’t worry about me.’ She reached out one hand as Churchill re-entered with a full pot of coffee, `This is more like it. Thanks.’ She seemed to have forgotten Marshall completely.

  He said, `Mrs. Travis will have my cabin. We’ve two spare bunks in here, and there’s always one of us on watch.’

  He felt confused. `I’ll tell my Number One.’

  The smaller of the two men, Moss, who looked more Italian than anything, chuckled. `Home from home. I’m going to enjoy the trip.’

  The other man removed his jacket and sat down. He was wearing army battledress but no regimental flashes, just his rank. A major.

  He said, `I expect Commander Simeon has told you your part in things.’

  Marshall nodded slowly, his eyes on the girl. She was sipping the coffee, holding the thick mug with both hands. Like a child.

  `Yes. He did. Your equipment is stowed forrard.’ `Good show.’

  She looked up and saw him watching her. `I hope you enjoyed the party last night, Captain?’ Her eyes were very steady. Mocking or accusing, it was hard to tell.

  He replied flatly, `Some of it.’ She shrugged. ‘So it seemed.’

  `Captain on the bridge!’ The call echoed from the conning-tower.

  He ran from the wardroom, knowing that she had already turned away. Dismissing him.

  He reached the bridge and Warwick exclaimed, `I’m very sorry, sir. Lima signalled that she had sighted a small boat. But it was driftwood.’ He sounded as if he thought it was his fault in some way.

  `That’s all right, Sub.’ He took several deep breaths. `Better safe than sorry.’

  Through the open hatch he heard someone laugh. With her? At him? Perhaps she was a friend of Simeon’s. Had already told him she had discovered him with his wife. He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.

  And now this girl was here, permed up with the rest of them until…. He thought suddenly of her tenseness. Her way of watching and listening. God, she was just like him. Gcing back to something. Hating it. Not knowing how she was going to survive. The realisation helped to steady his jumbled thoughts, to understand, if only partly, what they were up against.

  He thought too of Simeon, with his wine and his borrowed chef; his car and his new wife. Managing all of them like puppets.

  Warwick turned, `Did you say something, sir?’ He stared at hire. I must get hold of myse f `Just thinking aloud. Forget it.’

  A light showed very briefly, far away, like a small yellow eye. Somebody opening a door to look at the night sky perhaps. All at once he had a craving to be over there near it. To feel the grass under his feet, to touch stone and brick instead of wet steel.

  He peered at his luminous watch. Thirty-five minutes before they made their dive to trim the boat and leave Lima to her own affairs.

  He trained the glasses over the screen, hoping to see the light again. But it did not reappear. The land had merged with the sky.

  `Good lookout all round.’ He let his words sink in. `When we leave Lima astern, every ship you see will be an enemy.

  In his mind’s eye he could picture their lonely journey as clearly as if he was looking at a chart. During the night they would slip out into the Atlantic, past those jagged, unlit islands with names as old as time itself. Then south through the Bay and further still around the untroubled coastline of Portugal and Spain. Gibraltar. The gateway. Back to the Med. How they would all have laughed if they had known he would be coming back commanding a captured U-boat. If there was such a thing as an afterlife, perhaps they would still be laughing. While they waited for his return. To put the record straight.

  Then he thought of the girl in the wardroom below his feet. Her feelings would be worse at this moment.

  He said, `Send for some coffee. We could all do with it.’

  He could almost feel their reactions around him. Relaxing. Getting back their confidence. He smiled bitterly. The cool, calm captain. Nothing worried him but the job in hand. The super-being. Unbreakable. He heard Churchill clattering up the ladder with his pot.

  So be it, he thought. The second time round.

  The first three days of the passage south towards the Bay of Biscay were marred by incidents and troublesome faults within the boat. With rest periods broken and interrupted and the urgent demands made on every department, many of the company wondered if they would have to return to base.

  Marshall was of the same opinion more than once, although he said nothing of his doubts to the others. After all the training and effort, and the fact they had already crossed the Atlantic to sink two enemy submarines without damage or loss to themselves made these unexpected setbacks irritating and worrying. Like a crude omen. As if the boat was telling them she was not completely tamed and obedient to her new masters.

  On the first day the forward periscope gland developed a leak. It could not have come at a worse moment as they were still manoeuvring in busy and dangerous waters and would pass through the approaches to the English Channel later that same day. Frenzel’s men were able to clear the fault with just an hour to spare, but the next day the officer of the watch called Marshall to report that one of the torpedoes was leaking in its tube, the air bubbling through the bow cap at an alarming rate. At periscope depth it could have been seen even by a partially-sighted lookout.

  To top it all, the starboard main motor bearing began to run hot, so that it became necessary to remain on the surface when still within range of local patrols and fighter aircraft.

  Curiously enough, the most worrying fault of all was when one of the suction valves jammed. Even Frenzel’s mechanics were about to admit defeat when a stoker discovered it was caused by a lump of waste left behind by some careless engineer from the depot ship. The fact that it was a simple human error added to their frustration.

  But then, it seemed, the submarine decided to give them a break. They increased speed and surfaced to charge batteries without further incident.

  During most of the time Marshall had had little opportunity to speak with his passengers, and the girl he had seen only a few times. Each time it had seemed as if she had not moved. Always sitting in the cabin chair, wide awake, looking into space.

  On the morning of the third full day he sat in the wardroom drowsing over a cup of coffee while Churchill removed the dirty breakfast plates and laid a fresh place for the next officer to be relieved from watch. The motion was sickening and uncomfortable for the boat was running on the surface, the diesels thundering and making every piece of furniture and fittings rattle in an insane chorus. The sea was rough and the visibility very poor. He had been on the bridge at first light and had marvelled at the sudden change in weather. It was not cold, but the waves which cruised up and over the low hull to smash against the conning-tower were more like those of winter than now.

  The coffee helped a lot. Gave him confidence when demands, endless interruptions to even the briefest snatches of sleep had played havoc with his reserves. They had, in spite of everything, done well, he thought. Whatever had gone wrong, they had mastered it. On their own. He hoped the less experienced men would appreciate that point.

  Around him, behind their various curtains, others slept, for the present free of responsibility or the need to strain their minds and bodies.

  It was surprising how much he had missed his own cabin. On the occasions when he had tried to sleep he had been conscious of the silence beyond his drawn curtains, as if the others were afraid to speak freely or resented his intrusion. It was quite ridiculous. Even if they had hated him they would have been too occupied in the past three days to care one way or the other.

  He grabbed his cup as the deck rolled heavily across another deep trough. He felt the hull fabric shake violently as a screw came dangerously near to breaking surface, heard the attendant oaths from men trying to work in the control room.

  When he looked up again he saw her standing in
the open doorway, clutching the swaying curtains to support herself.

  `Here, let me help you.’

  He reached over the table and took her wrist, piloting her to one of the bench seats below the bunks. She looked very pale and her skin felt damp.

  She said, `It’s terrible. I’ve just been sick.’

  Churchill padded into the wardroom and placed a cup between the table fiddles.

  ‘Wot would you like, miss?’

  Marshall shot him a warning glance, knowing how cruel experienced sailors could be about seasickness. He need not have troubled.

  Churchill said, `Brink the coffee while I think.’ He rocked easily to the motion, his face set in a frown. `Scrambled egg and some nice toast.’ He grinned down at her. `For you, miss, anything.’ He hurried away to the galley without waiting for a reply.

  She said weakly, `I don’t know. It might be disastrous! She looked up at the curved deckhead. `The smell of that oil! The noise!’

  `Yes.’ He watched her trying to swallow the coffee. In the dim lighting her face looked very young. `I’m sorry about the weather. The Bay is often like this, I’m afraid.’

  She stared at him. `Biscay? Are we there already?’

  `Allowing for error, we’re now about two hundred miles south-west of Brest. We’re pretty safe out here if we keep our guard up.’

  ‘Brest, I’ve been there several times.’ Her eyes had become distant. Wistful. `How soon will it be before we get out of this-this awful weather?’

  He smiled. `All being well we will be rounding the north-west of Spain tonight. Cape Finisterre. Then we’ll follow the coast, just outside Portuguese waters. It should be calmer there.’

  `I’m glad.’ She lapsed into silence, lost in thought.

  He asked carefully, `Your husband? Is he in France?’

  She shook her head. `Italy. We were working together. But I cannot talk about it.’

  `I hope my lads are looking after you?’ It was pointless to try and draw her out.

  `Thank you, yes.’ She looked around the untidy wardroom, the watchcoats hung up to dry, the pistol rack, the pile of tattered magazines. `It is like being with friends.’ She shivered. `I will miss this security.’