Twelve Seconds to Live (2002)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Foley leaned forward, his mind suddenly clear. There was always talk of Germany building midget submarines. One had been taken overland to the Mediterranean, allegedly for use against the Russians in the Black Sea. It had seemed unlikely, but it had been sunk anyway by American fighter-bombers before it even left harbour. Others were reported under construction in Germany, and in occupied France. After the success of the X-Craft against Tirpitz, even the Führer’s well-known animosity towards his own navy might be tempered.

  Masters said, ‘That midget submarine is now safe and sound at Portland. Which is why I’m going to H.M.S. Osprey at this ungodly hour.’ He watched Foley, the emotions crossing his face. ‘You have an excellent record, in command and beforehand. Promotion, a half-stripe, is the next step, and you’ve more than earned it.’

  ‘We were all in it, sir.’

  Masters rubbed his chin again. So that was it. Not afraid of promotion, but the fear of losing his command and all she had become. Foley was the sort of person who would never accept that it was mainly because of his own work and influence that ML366 seemed different from all the rest.

  ‘Think about it, anyway. But you know the drill – the choice is not always yours in the end.’

  He turned as another tap came on the door, and without waiting for an acknowledgement it opened very slightly, and Brayshaw peered in at them.

  ‘Come in, Philip.’ He sensed that Foley was as relieved at the interruption as he was. But it was necessary . . .

  ‘Heard you were leaving for Portland, David. Just wanted to say I’m only sorry I couldn’t come with you. Heard some of it, guessed the rest. Besides which, the Old Man has some extra work for me to deal with.’ He almost winked, but not quite. ‘You may have forgotten with all this happening at once, but Trafalgar Day draws near, and the Old Man has no intention of allowing it to pass unnoticed. Standards, you know!’

  ‘You’ll have your hands full enough, I’d have thought. Rear-Admiral Fawcett is on his way, and there’ll be plenty of the top brass to keep you on your toes.’

  Brayshaw said, ‘I think your car has arrived.’ He turned his cap around in his bony hands. ‘By the way, your driver, Leading Wren Lovatt – heard a buzz about her yesterday.’

  Foley said, ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘Must be, Chris. I heard from her quarters officer. She’s asked to return to duty.’ He looked at Masters. ‘To her old job, if that’s possible.’

  Brayshaw had been there when the accident had happened, had made sure that the girl was delivered safely to the hospital. And the expression on Foley’s open face told the rest of the story.

  It should not interfere. The top secret signals between Portland and the Admiralty must have burned the wires red-hot. But it was not merely another gallant and exciting episode. It was right here in this scruffy office, in the front line again. The midget submarine was equipped for laying mines. There had not even been a rumour about that.

  But this was now. Personal.

  He said, ‘I think I can manage that. If not, I’m sure the Captain’s secretary will pull the necessary strings!’

  Afterwards, no matter what lay in store, he knew it had been worth it.

  9

  The Catch of the Season

  Portland seemed bleak and unwelcoming after a comparatively fast drive along the coast road. Mist had moved in from Weymouth Bay, and the Bill itself was partially hidden. It gave David Masters an uneasy feeling to be returning here so soon after his previous visit, although he had somehow expected it, and prepared himself. Everything was dripping from the early sleet, and he guessed it would freeze before the end of the day.

  There were delays at the gates, passes to be checked, vehicles examined, and he noticed that even incoming working parties were being mustered and counted before station cards were returned.

  H.M.S. Osprey, the main anti-submarine establishment and training school, was accustomed to distinguished visitors and the events which had drawn them, in wartime even more so. In the constant battle against U-Boats every kind of experiment was conducted, and the men who would eventually carry that knowledge to sea began here. Masters remembered his first experience as a sub-lieutenant, when he had opted for the submarine service: like a series of war games with models and complicated diagrams, to get the feel of things.

  An officer checked his identity and that of the Royal Marine driver, even though Masters knew his arrival was already logged and expected.

  The commander of the establishment was waiting to greet him. ‘Security? It’s a bit of a laugh at this stage,’ he said.

  On their way to the main building the commander described the arrival of the captured midget submarine at Portland, and although Masters could sympathize with him and his immediate responsibility he could barely hide a smile.

  Portland had had its share of the war. Bombing, the comings and goings of hard-worked escorts, minesweepers and rescue craft, shocked and injured survivors being landed, too often outnumbered by the dead. The triumphant Sunderland flying boat, being short of fuel, had been forced to return to its base, its vigil taken over by a low-flying Anson. Motor gunboats had eventually arrived, but the final task of securing the then motionless midget submarine was given to the minesweeper Quicksilver. Signals must have flashed back and forth, and by the time the sweeper had reached the base with her tow half the population had turned out to greet her, according to the commander.

  The minesweeper Quicksilver was a converted deep-sea trawler, and her R.N.R. skipper an ex-fisherman of the old school. ‘He must have used every flag in his locker,’ the commander had added. ‘Don’t know how he found the space!’ The skipper’s signal had proclaimed THE CATCH OF THE SEASON.

  Security had closed down immediately; furious signals had come from all directions, finally from the admiral himself. It was said that the trawler’s skipper was unrepentant, for reasons all of his own.

  There were two submarines in the harbour lying moored together, dark against the stonework, only their ensigns making splashes of colour.

  The commander had seen Masters’ expression. ‘Takes you back, does it? I can understand that. It’s never easy to change things.’

  Sooner or later everybody seemed to know about it. And it always seemed to come back at times like this.

  The commander said, ‘I’ve got to report to the Captain. I think he’s getting nervous about all the visitors.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The conference will be in the first dog watch – anyone who arrives later will have to wait in line.’ He grimaced. ‘The mess bills will be sky-high!’

  A midshipman was waiting to take Masters to ‘the Vault’, as it was known. He followed him through a heavy gate, and then to another gate, where an officer was waiting to check his identity once more. It was very polite and very formal. Masters thought of the triumphant Quicksilver and her return to Portland and could understand Bumper Fawcett’s concern about security and the stable-door policy.

  ‘I shall be outside, sir, if you need me.’

  The midshipman was new, pink, and nervous. Were we ever like that?

  The door swung open for him, and he lifted his foot automatically to step over the old iron coaming. It was exactly as he had remembered it, a great cavern of a place, concrete and high-roofed, vaulted to withstand the weight of the buildings above. And cold. Bitter cold.

  Powerful lights shone down directly onto the central area, and there were piles of chairs, still folded, for the expected visitors.

  The midget submarine stood beneath one cluster of lights, supported by improvised trestles. He knew something of the work done by Germany on these first small battle units, as they were listed. He stood motionless, oblivious to a group of figures who were standing beneath another cluster of lights; if anything, it was surprise that gripped him. It was so small, smaller than he would have thought capable of operating in open sea with any chance of success, or survival. Like two torpedoes, one clamped on top of the other, less than thir
ty feet long overall. The upper part, which in a true torpedo would have been the warhead, was a cockpit and the controls. The main and after part contained the power unit. He stooped to examine the lower section, where the real torpedo would be until the moment of release. Without effort he could recall the order and tension in the control room, as he had known and shared it, cherished, even in the face of danger. You were a submariner, until the end. He could not compare this, or imagine what it must be like for one man, alone and at the mercy of tide and wind, handling such a weapon.

  Where the actual torpedo would be hung there had been a container, now elsewhere being examined in readiness for the conference.

  He was close now, his hand touching the curved steel, as he might make the first contact with a beast. By standing on the lower trestle he was able to peer into the small cockpit. It was not just simple, it was almost crude: minimum controls, and as far as he could see no compass at all. The one-man crew, once installed in his narrow seat, was sealed in by a perspex-glass dome not unlike a dish cover. It was lying now on a bench, and he could see a notch in the perspex which was the aiming point when a torpedo was ready to be fired. The fore-sight was a plain iron spike at the forepart of the craft itself. Masters tried to imagine the countless problems and hazards the crewman or ‘pilot’ would have to overcome. He would have to operate in clear visibility and reasonably calm conditions if he was to get near enough to a potential target to have any hope of success. That would make his chances of being detected all the more likely. From the marks on the side of the carrier-torpedo, it seemed that the pilot’s head would be only a foot or so above the waterline.

  ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’

  Masters turned and saw a tall figure dressed in white coat and rubber boots watching him. He had thick hair, quite grey, even white beneath the glaring lights.

  ‘David Masters, isn’t it? We were expecting you.’ He held out his hand, but realized he was still wearing rubber gloves and withdrew it. ‘Come over here.’

  The little group by the other bench parted to let them through. They all wore white coats, and were comparing notes; one was putting a camera back into its case.

  ‘I’ve made sure the other items were set aside.’

  Masters glanced at the small collection of numbered objects, and the dead man on the table. Naked, pallid, pathetic. One fist was tightly clenched, the other open and flat as if feeling for something. His eyes were closed, but in the hard lighting there was a faint gleam, as if he were still watching, listening.

  ‘Already dead when the Sunderland spotted him, we’re pretty certain of that.’

  When Masters turned back the tall, grey-haired figure was being transformed, helped into his uniform jacket, that of a full captain, with scarlet cloth between the gold lace. As a surgeon it was not possible to rise much higher.

  From his own experience, Masters had always thought naval doctors looked more like medical students in uniform. Not this one.

  The surgeon captain was saying, ‘Exhaustion, strain, hardly surprising cooped up in that thing. Then breathing problems, oxygen failure – never knew what hit him.’

  Masters looked at the objects on the table. A compass, one which would fasten to the pilot’s wrist. A compact torch. A notebook and a folded chart; map would be a better description.

  He said, ‘How could they give anyone such a task? A small motor, no means of submerging as far as I can see, and a compass worn like a wristwatch, probably made totally inaccurate by all the gear in the cockpit.’ He turned over a canvas folder and saw a photograph of a young woman holding a child, smiling and waving at the camera. ‘What would make anyone volunteer for this?’

  The surgeon said evenly, ‘You’re the last person who should be asking that, I’d have thought.’ He smiled, and the mood was gone. ‘You don’t remember me, but I was at Haslar Hospital when you were brought in. You were a volunteer, as I recall.’

  Masters walked back to the submarine. In X-Craft like those which had laid their charges under Tirpitz, there was a four-man crew. Even the earlier Italian ‘chariots’ had carried two.

  He said, ‘A special kind of courage.’

  ‘You make him sound like a hero.’

  Masters looked back at the other table, where the corpse was now covered by a sheet. Listening . . .

  They walked out of the glare and into the shadows, Masters glancing back in time to see one of the surgeon captain’s assistants kicking off a rubber boot and steadying himself with one hand resting on the sheet.

  It was not even a true submarine; it might even be the only one of its kind so far. And had it been carrying a torpedo as intended, he might have heard nothing about it.

  But mines had been discovered. A new type of mechanism or charge, that made all the difference. He was involved; there was no escape. In his heart, he knew there never was.

  Outside the door the young midshipman was still on guard, Masters’ new greatcoat carefully folded over one arm.

  They would probably hold a Trafalgar Night dinner here in Osprey, although not on the grand but moving scale of pre-war times. As junior officers they had joked about it, the martial music from the Royal Marine orchestra, the feasting and the toasts, and a stirring speech from some senior officer to round it off. The Immortal Memory. And in its strange way, it had meant something. What would the little admiral think of this new navy? Guns that could fire twenty miles, torpedoes that listened, and honed onto a vessel’s engine noise. And the mines, contact, magnetic, and now what? Perhaps Captain Chavasse was right to hang onto a glorious past, and leave the other war to the daring and the desperate.

  ‘Shall I see you at the conference, sir?’ But the surgeon captain had gone.

  Osprey’s commander met him in the main lobby. ‘Saw it, did you?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘Rear-Admiral Fawcett’s office called. He’s arriving within the hour. Wants to see you immediately. Sounds full of it!’

  ‘Is he staying here, sir?’

  ‘Funny thing actually, no. He’s arranged to be billeted at a house in town. Owned by a friend of his, apparently. I was quite relieved. I’ll have enough top brass on my plate as it is!’ He beckoned to a petty officer and hurried away.

  Masters was escorted to one of the cabins used for officers undergoing training. A chief steward commented that it was not what he might have expected, but his tone implied that he was lucky to get it, under the circumstances.

  Two beds were made up, two others uncovered, the bare springs vaguely hostile. Alone again, Masters sat down and thought about the dead man in the Vault. Not old, not young. Not powerfully built, one of the Master Race. It had been an ordinary, unremarkable face.

  He touched his cheek and felt the scar. A hero, for all that.

  He was awakened in the chair by the same C.P.O. with a cup of tea, and the information that the conference was timed to begin in ten minutes.

  Masters realized that he had not eaten anything since he had arrived, nor had anything to drink. Which was probably just as well, he thought.

  Things were finally moving. It might even be constructive.

  But as he straightened his tie and adjusted his jacket he found himself thinking of the unknown German sailor, and the photograph he had been carrying when he had died.

  It was better, safer, not to see your enemy as something human, and ordinary. They were too often like yourself.

  Chris Foley sat on the bunk in his tiny cabin and waited for his companion to finish his drink. Even with the door closed and the wardroom, such as it was, between them and the forward section of the hull, the din from the messdeck was overwhelming. It would soon be over, the jokes and the recollections, the moans and the yarns about old runs ashore, never anything bad.

  Telegraphist Colin Bush was leaving ML366. Tomorrow his name might not even be mentioned. It was safer, or so sailors believed.

  Foley saw his companion look up. Lieutenant Dick Claridge was the same age as himself, but was strained and on edge
and appeared years older. Twenty-five, and there were grey hairs at his temple where his cap had left an impression. He was thinking of his own command, ML401, lying alongside; during rare breaks in the noise they could hear the squeak of fenders between the two hulls and the thuds of hammers, men working to repair the shot holes and other damage left by the E-Boat’s parting fusillade.

  Claridge said, ‘I lost four good men. What with the others in the sickbay, it’s like losing half your crew.’ He watched Foley pouring another gin. ‘Lucky we’re standing down, Chris. Tony Brock would be somewhat pissed off if we were unable to put to sea if so required!’

  Foley smiled. Brock was tough and unbending, and had never been known to turn and run, even against odds. But nobody really liked him. Maybe that was how he preferred it.

  He wondered how much everyone knew about the midget submarine, or if Claridge resented not being told. Not that I know much. He thought of Masters, in Portland right now, in the midst of some complicated conference. Hating it, a man of action but, unlike Brock, one you could go to if you were at odds with something. And he had not been afraid to share secret information. Trust was the bonus.

  Someone rapped on the door and called something. There was, if possible, even more noise.

  Claridge said, ‘It’s breaking up.’

  Foley looked round for his cap but decided against it. ‘Time to do our bit!’

  Claridge smiled for the first time and raised his glass, slopping some of the gin over his tie. ‘Yours, I think!’ But he stood up anyway.

  They were all making their way aft towards the main ladder. Bush was the only one properly dressed, already a stranger amidst the scruffy, seagoing gear and thick sweaters. There was a heavy smell of rum from carefully and illegally hoarded tots, no doubt kept for this very occasion.

  Bush paused outside the W/T office and thumped the bulkhead.

  ‘So long, you old taskmaster!’ The others cheered, and one almost dropped Bush’s suitcase.