Go in and Sink!

by Douglas Reeman

  He said gently, `They’ll miss you, too. As I will.’

  The girl stood up, her features alert again. `I imagine that you will have much to fill your daily lives, Captain.’

  He watched her as she moved unsteadily round the table. `You were wrong about me, you know. It was something which happened a long while ago. It’s over now.’

  `It’s not my concern!’ She swung round and looked at him with something like anger. `I don’t care what you do!’ The deck tilted and she almost fell. `Just leave me alone.’

  `All right.’

  He saw Gerrard in the doorway, his eyes questioning. `Everything in order, Number One?’ His tone was clipped and formal. His only protection.

  Gerrard nodded and slid into a seat. `Course two-zero-four. Twelve knots.’ He rubbed his bristly chin. `God, I’m starving.’

  Churchill came in with the plate of scrambled eggs and Gerrard exclaimed, `What’s this then? The Savoy or something?’

  Churchill grinned. `For the lady, sir. Powdered eggs for the gents!’

  She dropped one hand on Gerrard’s shoulder and smiled at him. `It is all right. You have it. I’m afraid I cannot trust my stomach just yet. Please, I’d like you to.’

  Gerrard shrugged. `If you’re sure. Thanks a lot.’ To Churchill he said, `Powdered eggs indeed. You can just go and get lost!’

  She hesitated by the door. `Would it be possible to go on deck?’ She did not look at Marshall. `For a few minutes. The air might help.’

  Gerrard glanced over the table. `What d’you say, sir?’ He studied Marshall’s expression gravely. `It’s pretty lively up top but that’s all.’

  Marshall nodded. `Very well. Tell the bridge.’ He dragged his mind back to his command. `Warwick’s on watch now. Ask him to fit her with a harness.’

  Gerrard placed an upturned plate across his breakfast and left the wardroom.

  `Thank you, Captain.’ She was already putting on her windcheater. `I appreciate it.’

  Gerrard came back and watched her leave. `Nice girl. Pity she’s married.’

  `For Christ’s sake!’ Marshall stood up -violently. `I’m going out for a bit of peace!’

  `Good idea, sir.’ Gerrard munched the fresh toast and grinned. `The woman’s touch. You can’t beat it.’ Marshall strode into the control room, unreasonably angry with Gerrard and himself because of a casual comment. He looked at the chart and then crossed restlessly to the wheel. The helmsman’s shoulders were rigid, as if he too had sensed the captain’s mood.

  Apart from the watchkeepers, most of the company were turned in, taking what rest they could until they were needed again.

  He moved to the conning-tower ladder and looked up at the oval of sky far above. Pale grey, but here and there as the tower rolled sickeningly from side to side he saw fainter streaks of blue. Perhaps it would be clearing sooner than he had expected. He strode to the forward periscope, which was raised, a stoker dabbing grease on it without much enthusiasm.

  Marshall nodded curtly. `I‘11 just take a look round.’

  He swung the periscope very slowly in a full circle, watching the spray bursting over the hull and lifting high above the bridge in long tattered streamers. Visibility was still very poor. No more than a mile or so. He could picture Warwick and the lookouts with the girl, standing just below the periscope standards. He was below them, yet he felt as if he was perched over their heads, blind to what they were doing. Warwick would probably hear the periscope moving and tell her the captain was trying to watch them. They would make a joke of it. He thought of her hand on Gerrard’s shoulder, the way she seemed to get on with everyone. Except him.

  Savagely he swung the lens upwards towards the sky. Gail must have been right about him after all. And he had been the only one not able to see the change in himself.

  He froze and pressed his eye harder to the lens. There it was, a brief flash between the clouds. He stared as if mesmerised. It seemed like an age. There it was again. He was not mistaken.

  He thrust himself from the periscope and yelled, ‘Klaxon! Aircraft on the port bow!’ He saw the duty hands in the control room spring to life but he was already clawing his way up the ladder, his mind blank to every® thing but that brief, menacing shadow. It might not have seen the submarine in such turbulent waters, but one thing was certain, nobody on the bridge had seen it either.

  Marshall hauled himself through the hatch, feeling the air pulsing past him, sucked down by the hungry diesels.

  As the klaxon screamed out from below he saw the lookouts swing round, faces like masks as they sprang towards him. The girl was holding on to the screen, and Warwick was caught in the moment of pointing abeam, his arm still over the side as if stricken.

  Marshall yelled, ‘Aircraft! Port bow, crossing left to right!’ He tore at the girl’s harness. ‘Clear the bridge! Diving stations!’

  As the engines cut out and Frenzel’s men threw the electric motors into control, Marshall heard the plane’s approaching roar, like a train coming out of a cutting.

  Warwick was shouting, ‘Didn’t see it, sir!’ He was fumbling to close the voicepipes, his eyes wild. ‘I was ‘

  Marshall tore the harness free and pulled the girl towards the hatch. One lookout had gone, the other crouched on the lid ready to guide her down.

  It had all taken less than a minute. He could feel the hull beginning to dive, hear the air being forced from the ballast tanks, but everything seemed confused and drowned by the oncoming aircraft.

  A great wave burst over the conning-tower, drenching and choking them, knocking them about like flotsam.

  Even as he dragged the girl back on her feet he heard the sharp, impersonal rattle of machine-guns, the clang and whine of metal on metal all around them.

  A huge shadow swept across the bridge. The plane could only have been a hundred feet overhead.

  Despite the din, the urge to get below, Marshall could only stare at the seaman on the edge of the hatch. He had been hurled backwards, his hands like claws as they dug into his chest, the blood mingling with the spray and running down the man’s legs.

  Someone pulled him below, and Warwick almost fell after him, the girl’s hand in his as he stopped her from pitching straight down the tower.

  Marshall jumped on to the ladder, seeing the sea spurting up over the screen even as he slammed the hatch and spun the locking wheel over his head. Down the ladder, his boots treading on the other lookout, his fingers slipping on blood. It was still hot. Like oil from a fractured pipe.

  He had to shut his ears to the man’s terrible cries, to everything but the need to get the boat away.

  ‘One hundred metres! Group up, full ahead together!’ He pulled himself to the periscopes and wrapped his arms around the nearest one. ‘Shut off for depth-charging!’

  He saw Gerrard watching him, egg around his mouth and chin. He added between breaths, ‘Liberator. Must have extra fuel tanks.’

  They looked at the depth gauges and then at the telltales as the planesmen fought to pull her out of the dive.

  ‘Hundred metres, sir.’

  Something creaked violently while the hull took up the pressure. A man jerked with alarm, as if it had been a depth-charge.

  But none came, and he guessed the airmen had been as surprised as he had been with the sudden encounter. It was suddenly very quiet, and Buck said, `He’s dead, Captain.’

  Marshall turned and stared at the little group below the conning-tower hatch. The dead seaman flat on his back, eyes blank and staring, mouth wide, frozen in that last desperate scream. Buck and the girl on their knees beside him, and the other lookout vomiting helplessly on to the deck. Warwick was standing slightly apart, his hands at his sides, one of them splashed with the man’s blood.

  The girl looked up and said huskily, ‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone up there.’ She reached out and touched Warwick’s hand. `You couldn’t help it.’ There were bright tears in her eyes.

  Marshall recalled the darting shadow
in the lens. It was always the unexpected.

  ‘It was nobody’s fault.’ His voice sounded flat and without emotion. `You must always anticipate enemy bombers even when they’re not expected to be around.’

  What was he saying? It was a Liberator. One of their own. Probably winging back to base to report they had jumped a U-boat and gunned down some of the deck party. But it was somebody’s responsibility. His. Waking or sleeping, nobody else could share that.

  He continued, ‘Open up the boat, and take the body to the torpedo space. We’ll bury him tonight.’ He heard her sobbing quietly, her head bowed over the dead seaman.

  Gerrard asked, ‘Periscope depth again, sir?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes. Then we’ll take a look.’ He tried to smile. ‘Thanks for being here so quickly, Number One. It was a bad moment.’ He saw Blythe and one of the telegraphists coming aft with a folding stretcher and added quietly, ‘Our first casualty.’

  Then he swung round and took the girl’s arm. ‘Come on.’

  She tried to pull away, her eyes dull with shock. `Where?’

  ‘Wardroom.’ He stepped between her and the stretcher bearers. ‘We need some more coffee.’ She had stopped resisting and was watching his mouth like a lip-reader. `Both of us need it.’

  Fifteen minutes later they returned to periscope depth, and after a careful examination Marshall found that once more they had the sea and sky to themselves.

  `Stand by to surface.’ He looked at Frenzal. ‘You can start charging again, Chief.’

  Buck asked, `Shall I take over the watch, sir? I’m on after the sub anyway. It won’t matter to me.’

  Marshall turned to Warwick. ‘It matters to me. You can manage, can’t you?’ He kept his voice very calm.

  Warwick nodded dully. `Yes, sir.’

  `Good. Change the lookouts and keep on your toes.’ He lowered his voice, excluding the others nearby. `Put it behind you. It could have been any one of us.’

  Warwick said haltingly, `But you came up to get us, sir. You didn’t have to.’

  `Standing by to surface, sir.’ Gerrard looked at them impassively.

  Marshall nodded. ‘Right. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’ He forced a smile, feeling his mouth cracking with the effort. ‘Number One wants to finish his breakfast!’

  He glanced at the brass plate on the bulkhead, H-192, built in Kiel. Perhaps he had been wrong after all. She was not beaten, but was biding her time. He shuddered.

  `And when you get a moment, Chief, have your people take that bloody plate down. I don’t think any of us need reminding what it’s all about.’ He looked at the smudge on the deck where the dead seaman had lain. ‘Not any more.’

  8

  Three strangers

  Marshall stood by the chart table watching Devereaux’s fingers as they skilfully managed parallel rulers and dividers. The chart looked stained where they had rested elbows or rubbed out calculations and pencilled bearings.

  Around him he could feel gentle vibrations from the electric motors, the absence of unnecessary movement. The depth gauges showed they were cruising at forty metres, but otherwise there was little to identify with the navigator’s neat lines and figures.

  It was a week since that brief, nerve jarring confrontation with the patrolling bomber. Marshall let his eyes move back along Devereaux’s course, seeing each small cross or pencilled fix as a separate memory. Getting through the Straits of Gibraltar had been the most testing moment. Two British destroyers had been sweeping back and forth, probably carrying out their normal patrol of the area, or perhaps investigating some unexplained echo. Their presence had again reminded him of the need for speed and timing, and he had cursed Simeon and the other planners for cutting the arrangements so fine.

  Fortunately, an ancient, long-funnelled freighter had come to their rescue, albeit unknowingly.

  On one of his frequent searches through the periscope Marshall had seen a dense pall of smoke long before the ship had topped the western horizon and had headed for the Strait. He had examined her with growing interest, seeing the Turkish flags painted on her rusty hull, the careless indifference with which she had steamed towards the destroyers. It had been possible to see washing flapping from her derricks, the master himself on his bridge smoking a large pipe, his uniform cap at odds with a dirty ringlet and shorts.

  Cautiously they had turned to follow the unsuspecting freighter, keeping so close astern of her that the grating rumble of her single screw had sounded as if it might burst through the forward bulkhead at any moment.

  The Turkish ship had obviously been so familiar to the patrolling destroyers that she had not even slowed down. Just an exchange of waves from bridge to bridge. It was unlikely that the Turkish ship would bother too much with formal signals.

  Unseen past Gibraltar and along the Spanish coast, north-east to leave the Balearic Islands abeam and further still towards Corsica. Men cage and went about their duties, or slept to preserve the air supply, to restore their own private reserves of strength which were tested watch by watch.

  Several times they had been made to run deep as fastmoving vessels had pounded overhead, or some suspicious ship had been sighted nearby. There had been plenty of shipping in the area, Italian and neutral, and Marshall had watched one fat oil-tanker pass through his sights with a feeling of impotence. What would her crew have thought, he wondered, if they had known they were steaming within lethal distance of a full salvo? For this was enemy territory, patrolled by aircraft from Italy and Sardinia, warships from a dozen harbours, a backwater which usually lay undisturbed.

  Devereaux straightened his back and laid down the pencil.

  `That’s it, sir.’ He sounded pleased with himself. `We will be at the rendezvous point in thirty minutes.’ Buck had joined them by the table. `Are you sure, Pilot?’

  Devereaux glared at him. `I’m not stupid!’

  Buck grinned. `Oh, it’s an act, is it?’

  Marshall ignored them and studied the chart more closely. Depths and distances, the place to run and hide if things went wrong. The area to avoid, where the risks of driving aground were all too obvious.

  He rubbed his eyes, trying to hold back the tiredness. They felt painful, as if they were filled with grit. His mouth and tongue tasted stale. Like the air, the smell of men penned too long without freedom of movement.

  `Captain, sir?’ A messenger hovered by his elbow. `Major Carter asked if you’d mind joining him in the wardroom.’

  `Yes.’ Marshall pushed his fingers through his hair. `I’ll come now.’

  He had hardly seen any of the passengers since the Bay. Getting all the rest they could, going over their plans for their mission. For now.

  He glanced up at the vacant space on the bulkhead. They had used the builder’s brass plate to help weight the dead lookout’s corpse for the long journey to the sea-bed. It had been a bad moment for all of them. Unable to surface fully and open the fore hatch, they had been made to drag the canvas-sewn body up the same ladder down which he had been dragged screaming and dying. Marshall and two lookouts, Petty Officer Cain and one other man who had been the dead sailor’s friend. With the dark water surging towards the hull and breaking over it in great clefts of white foam it had been an unnatural experience. Five oilskinned figures huddled together, shining in the half darkness like seals on a rock, while amongst them, propped upright on the side of the tower, the dead man’s paler outline had been an additional onlooker.

  Marshall had not dared to use his torch to read from the prayer book. What, he had asked himself, was the point anyway? The others had watched him, embarrassed, not knowing how to break the moment.

  Marshall had said, `Right then. Let him go, lads.’

  The lookouts had turned swiftly to lend a hand. It did not take long. A quick slither, the grate of metal against the saddle tank as the weights carried the corpse clear and down.

  The dead man’s friend had craned over the screen, as if the truth had finally touched him.
He had shouted, `Good-bye, Jim!’

  Marshall had touched his arm. `That was a better epitaph than anything written,’ he had said.

  Down the ladder again. Diving stations. Back to business. Put it behind you, he had told Warwick. He had really been speaking to himself. It had been about then he had seen the girl watching him from the bulkhead doorway. Searching his face, her expression changing again as he had looked at her. He still did not know what she had discovered in those few seconds. Perhaps fear. Of him? Of what he had become?

  He shook himself from his thoughts. He was tired. Bone weary with the job of getting the boat to this pencilled cross on Devereaux’s chart undiscovered. Intact.

  He strode to the wardroom and then paused in the doorway with surprise. Gone were his three passengers, as he had first met them. The girl was wearing a black coat and sat on one of the bench seats, a suitcase on her lap. The man called Moss had changed into a leather jacket and wore a jaunty beret on his head, a half-smoked cigarette protruding from behind his ear. As for Major Carter, he could have been any businessman anywhere in the warring countries of Europe. The overcoat, once well-cut and respectable, was neatly darned around the cuffs. His hat, even his shoes, wore all the marks of privations, shortages, the lot of civilians at war.

  Carter asked slowly, ‘What d’you think, Captain? Good enough for first night at the Duchess Theatre?’ He grinned. ‘Take care of my army clobber, won’t you? Otherwise I’ll have it docked from my pay.’

  Marshall nodded, unhappy to see them go. ‘I’ve told Petty Officer Cain to have your gear taken to the fore hatch.’

  Carter sighed and looked at his companions. ‘Come on, Toby. We’d better check it before we leave.’ He winked at Marshall. ‘You know what these navy lads are like. Light-fingered lot.’

  They strolled out of the wardroom, two strangers in an unreal world.

  Marshall said quietly, ‘I hope everything goes well for you.’