Above Us the Sky

by Milly Adams

  Roddy Goad rushed all the forms to a sailor who was waiting at the head of the gangway – he would lodge them with the appropriate officer at base. Old Tom followed Goad up to the bridge, taking up position as they left harbour. The conning-tower hatch was open, and the breeze was sweet as the boat manoeuvred out of port. Coxswain Peters was at the helm. ‘Half ahead both’ was telegraphed and repeated in the motor room.

  Sammy stood behind Adrian. Isaac was on his way to deliver signals to the captain, and said quietly as he passed, ‘It’s the kiss that did it. Does she feel the same?’ Around them more orders were given by Old Tom.

  Sammy murmured to Adrian, ‘Don’t forget, lad, once at sea, keep your headphones on, and continuously sweep for the sound of vessels approaching or depth charging, however distant. Remember, continuously, got it? Even if we’re on the surface. Sometimes you can pick up something the lookouts up top can’t. If you pick up a signal, an engine, anything, tell the control room, and hone in on it. Be alert to the captain’s questions at all times.’ Isaac moved on.

  Sammy thought it was easier to issue advice than to answer Isaac. How the hell did he know Phyllie’s feelings, when he hadn’t even realised his own? It had been like a damn great depth charge going off in his heart and head. How he’d dragged himself away from her he had no idea.

  He looked up. He could tell from the rocking that they were out at sea. It was a relief to be here, doing what he did, because he’d be too busy to think. It was a relief that she was there, wherever there was, in safety. He didn’t want to think about Isaac’s question because what if she didn’t feel the same? He thought she did, because she had kissed him back, and her eyes … The boat was dipping and rising. They were obviously gutting through a long groundswell. They rolled. The wind was up. Old Tom was back in the control room, his hair wet, his face red from the wind. Lieutenant Walters had taken his place on the bridge, keeping an eye on the lookouts.

  Old Tom stood full-square. ‘Good few days in Gosport, Sammy?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Did you have a good leave?’ He turned. Old Tom was standing at the chart table, next to Sub Lieutenant Gerrard, reading the signals that Isaac had brought him. The captain’s hands were shaking and Sammy exchanged a look with Isaac who was on his way back to the shack. Tom Beer was on the edge, too tired, too shot, and grief was in the slump of his shoulders.

  ‘My leave?’ He looked up. His hair had gone grey over the last year, and his pallor almost matched his roll-neck sweater. When had he taken off his jacket? Probably while Sammy was nagging Adrian.

  ‘So so. So so.’ Old Tom walked across to Adrian. ‘Young Adrian, how does it feel to be on your first proper patrol? Beware; it’s a zoo here, but a friendly one. Just a few interruptions from time to time, bloody loud ones at that.’

  Adrian remained sitting; he slipped back one of his earpieces. ‘It feels fine, thank you, sir.’

  Old Tom moved back to the chart table, nodding to his number one, Lieutenant Roges, or the Jimmy, as the number one was called. Roges was in control for now and said, ‘They’re younger and younger, or am I just getting older, sir?’

  Old Tom grinned, as a swell rolled and twisted the boat. ‘Bit of both. Hey ho. On we go.’ Old Tom swayed easily with the motion. ‘Keep listening,’ he called back to Adrian. ‘That’s your job, young man. Listen for trouble, listen to our Sammy; he knows exactly what’s what, don’t you, Sammy?’

  Sammy smiled. ‘Sometimes, sir.’ Again he thought of Phyllie, the touch of her lips, the surprise of it all, and feared he knew a great fat nothing and didn’t want to push it, for they could never go back to being friends if it was a damn great no.

  As the hours wore on they continued to run on the surface, ploughing through seas whipped up by a north-easterly. Sammy left Adrian to it for the last part of the boy’s watch, and Old Tom gave him permission to take some air.

  He donned oilskins, and dashed up the ladder and through the hatch to the conning tower, then up again to the bridge. Looking down he saw the waves rolling and surging over the bulging saddle tanks. He always felt fond of the saddles, filled with the air that was keeping them afloat. The four lookouts were leaning their elbows on the rail of the bridge, binoculars to their eyes, sweeping, always sweeping, even when visibility was wretched, like today. They were seeking enemy ships, periscopes, planes, and friendlies too because collisions and friendly fire happened. Old Tom should, however, have left harbour with an idea of who was where, and each submarine was supposed to operate in its own area of grid.

  Stoker Stan Brewer was having a smoke, crouched down out of the wind. Lieutenant Walters was keeping an eye on the lookouts as the waves broke over the casing, the conning tower and the bridge. The water ran down all their oilskins, coursing inside their collars and draining out at the bottom. Sammy loved the water but though it was June his hands were numb, his face too, and the elements were wiping out most thoughts of her, of his friend, his love; but only most. Sometimes a huge rolling sea crashed down on the tower, and they hung on, up to their waists in water. The language was ripe, but snatched away by the wind.

  Before the watch changed, Sammy slid down the ladder, stripping off at the base of the tower, and drying off in the cacophony and heat of the engine room before joining Adrian at the Asdic desk. ‘Off you go, get your head down. Come back on watch in four hours.’ The lad was green. He staggered to his feet as the boat rolled and churned. ‘Go and see Coxswain Peters,’ Sammy added. ‘He’s got a cure for seasickness. Works a treat. Then get your head down.’

  All around the control room the men were grinning at one another at the thought of the coxswain’s cure. Sub Lieutenant Gerrard was tapping jazz on the chart table, 1st Lieutenant Roges was scanning the dials. The captain was in his cubbyhole, just off the passageway. He’d be writing up his log.

  Sammy watched Adrian go. It would work, it always did, but how the hell a piece of bacon tied onto a piece of string, and swallowed, only for the coxswain to pull it back up, could work, heaven only knew. Yes, you vomited fit to die for half an hour, and then it was over, you were as bright as a bleeding button for the rest of the patrol.

  At dawn Sammy was in his bunk, lying flat on his back, listening to the sounds of the boat being battered by the elements, feeling it too, knowing that likely as not his breakfast was going to be tipped into his lap, along with the plate. He slid sideways from the bunk, onto the floor, then traipsed to the heads, taking care to press the pedals in the right order, or it would all come back on him. Then into the washroom to wash hands and face and clean his teeth. At least he didn’t have to change from pyjamas to clothes. On board they never changed to night attire – that was a luxury too far.

  In the control room Old Tom was talking quietly with the Jimmy and the engine-room chief. Sammy caught that the chief thought one of the propellers was sounding rough.

  The chief added, ‘Bit bent, I reckon. They said in refit they’d sorted it but it’ll be all right for now. They’ll have to get it a hundred per cent when we get back, though.’

  ‘Ready, then, are we?’ Old Tom asked.

  Sammy saw Roges and the chief nod. It was what he expected and had been waiting for. Now Sammy reckoned they’d dive. Not only would that test the behaviour of the boat after its repairs, it would combine it with an exercise that Isaac had warned him was on the cards, judging from the signals as they were leaving harbour. He hurried to his shack, putting his hand on Adrian’s shoulder, keeping him in his seat. ‘Don’t go off watch yet, this’ll be good for you.’

  Adrian looked up at him, preoccupied. Good, he was listening hard to the things he should be concentrating on. The movement of the boat was easing, along with the wind. At bloody last. June should be a time of sweet thoughts and gentle seas. He half laughed to himself. Who the hell was he kidding? He could hear Old Tom talking to Gerrard who’d come down from the bridge a second before. They’d be checking the expected position of all friendlies in the vicinity.

  ‘Should be
all clear,’ Gerrard confirmed.

  Within two minutes the alarm klaxon resounded round the boat. Feet pounded, shouts and orders ricocheted. ‘Diving, diving.’ Walters and the lookouts shot down from the conning tower, the last one slamming the hatch shut, sliding into the control room, ripping off their oilskins, throwing them down, and rushing, dripping and soaked, to their posts.

  Sammy heard the engines stop. The main vents would be opening, the prow should be going down, but it wasn’t. The boat seemed glued to the surface. Surely it usually moved quicker than this? Sammy watched Adrian to make sure he kept listening, and then swung back to the control room, and after that, the dials. Old Tom’s eyes were on the depth gauge. He ordered the men forward. There was a rush through the control room to make the boat bow heavy. At last Vigorous shifted her arse and dived. Sammy checked his watch. It had only been thirty seconds, about right, but it had seemed an eternity.

  Men were working their way back up the incline to their posts, finding handholds on either side. There was no tight terror on their faces, because although only those in the control room actually knew this was an exercise, the rumour would have flashed around by now. Any concern would be centred on the boat’s performance.

  ‘Proceed to one hundred and fifty feet,’ Old Tom ordered, standing with his hands in his pockets, cap shoved to the back of his head. Everyone was watching the dials and listening for leaks: the telltale hiss, the call that would resound around the boat and culminate in the chief’s frantic tightening of seals. Eighty feet. Ninety feet. One hundred feet. Sammy was aware that he was holding his breath. Did he think it would help?

  One hundred and ten. One hundred and twenty. Still all right. God damn it. One hundred and thirty. One hundred and forty. One hundred and fifty. At last. The dive ceased. The boat was trimmed. The quiet was a relief after the heavy seas up top, the stability too, as Old Tom looked at Adrian and muttered, ‘Anything?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The chief’s team worked their way through the boat, checking for leaks; the coxswain was doing what he did; Adrian practised searches. Then Old Tom practised a stop trim, moving the men around, balancing the boat for what seemed like hours. Walters gave the order to surface slowly, nodding at his captain. ‘Periscope depth?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Old Tom shot another look at Adrian as they reached seventy feet. ‘Anything?’

  Adrian’s sweat was rolling down his face as he listened. Old Tom called again, his hand up to Walters. Adrian shook his head, ‘I don’t think so.’

  Old Tom shot Sammy a questioning look. The boat was still rising. Adrian looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights. His hands were shaking on the wheel of the hydrophone – shaking but not moving.

  Sammy wanted to wrench the headphones from him but what would that do to the boy’s confidence? ‘Wait one, sir. Give us more time. Come on, Adrian, turn the wheel, now. Scan continuously, like I told you.’

  The boat was still rising. Old Tom was standing by the periscope and didn’t respond. ‘Fifty feet, Captain,’ Walters reported.

  ‘Wait one, sir,’ Sammy said again.

  Adrian was scanning, and now swung round, his mouth working. Sammy snatched at the headphones, they caught on Adrian’s neck.

  ‘Thirty-five feet, Captain,’ Barry Walters called. The Jimmy was staring at Sammy, Gerrard had swung round at the chart table. Sammy hauled the headphones free. Old Tom was bending his knees, his hands ready. ‘Up periscope.’ He gripped the handles as the stoker in charge of the hydraulics obeyed. Old Tom thrust his head forward, swinging the periscope around, searching.

  Sammy heard propellers, and an engine in the headphones. ‘Sir,’ he shouted at the same time that Old Tom called, ‘Christ,’ horror in his voice.

  ‘Dive. Dive. Full ahead, flood Q. Keep fifty feet.’ He slapped shut the periscope handles, as Sammy shoved Adrian out of the seat, taking over. He could hear the engines, the thudding, thudding of the propellers; they all bloody could now, because it was almost overhead.

  The roar of the engines almost blew Sammy’s head away as the skimmer reached them. Vigorous was gaining depth, but too late, too slow. The rampaging roar of the engines filled the boat, clear for everyone to hear.

  ‘It’s one of ours, the skimmer’s one of ours,’ Old Tom said, despair in his voice as the ship took the periscopes with a rumbling and crashing. Vigorous shuddered, everyone grabbed for something. How much damage? Was this it? Adrian skidded to the floor. Sammy held his headphones tight against his ears, freeing his mind of all images, listening instead.

  The engines above faded in the control room. ‘Sammy?’ Old Tom almost whispered.

  ‘Astern, decreasing, sir.’ Sammy’s voice was measured and steady.

  ‘Barry, go to periscope depth,’ Old Tom said, panting as though he’d run a race. It was like a damned yo-yo. Up they went. The periscopes could not be moved. ‘Hold it steady at thirty feet,’ Walters said. ‘The bugger shouldn’t have been there.’

  Old Tom said, ‘Sammy?’

  ‘Astern, still decreasing, sir.’

  ‘Or perhaps we shouldn’t have been where we were, or I shouldn’t have been, Barry. Patience is a virtue, my old gran used to say. Our information could have been flawed, but now’s not the time.’ Old Tom shot a look at Sammy, who said, ‘Astern, decreasing.’

  Old Tom smiled at him. ‘Stay on the headphones for a while, Sammy. Let Seaman Smart catch his breath. Up you get, lad; no bones broken, eh? Pesky little buggers, these headphones, when you’re new to the game. No blame. Not for you, anyway.’

  Old Tom called, ‘Any leaks, any injuries?’ The answers came back negative. They stayed near the surface and fired smoke candles to warn of their presence should a friendly still be there, or the enemy, come to that. They were blind without periscopes and Sammy strained every fibre of his being to catch any sound as they continued to surface. Walters did as ordered, and dashed up to the tower with four lookouts, desperately sweeping with binoculars, while Sammy continued with the hydrophone, his palms sweating and slipping on the wheel.

  ‘All clear,’ he said repeatedly, knowing that at the moment he was only the backup eyes and ears, but would be far more if they had to dive without periscopes.

  Old Tom ordered Vigorous off patrol and back to harbour, though they were unable to radio their report for fear of giving away their position to the enemy. Sammy made Adrian stay in the shack for his watch and take the headphones, but he remained alongside, saying, ‘You need to get back on the horse when you fall off the bloody thing.’

  Though his voice was strong, inside Sammy was shaking fit to burst. Isaac, too; everyone would be, in fact. They had survived, but only just. Adrian would need to hang on to every bit of mental strength to come back from this because he should have heard. What’s more, he should have swept continuously, and bloody Samuel Williams should have made sure that he did. Yes, Old Tom should have waited, but they should have been better too.

  It was then that Old Tom came to them. ‘My responsibility, lads. I should have waited, given you a chance to sweep properly. You warned me, Sammy. Bloody stupid.’

  In that moment, Sammy loved Old Tom because he was bestowing on the two ratings the gift of exoneration.

  Old Tom seemed fine at first, but he spoke less and less; his shaking grew steadily worse. Roges, Walters and Gerrard watched him closely, as did everyone else in the control room, but they all knew he had lasted longer than most. Bastard, bastard war.

  As they neared Scotland they relaxed just a bit, because attack so close to shore was unusual. Isaac radioed their situation. Old Tom now sat at the chart table, immobile, unspeaking. He was shaking so violently that he couldn’t stand. Sammy never left the hydrophone, though Adrian took his time off. He must or he’d crack after the debacle, but how could Sammy leave, when the captain he had served for over two years, and whom he thought the world of, was crumbling before his eyes? Isaac had stayed on the radio, but Davy Weale, Isa
ac’s assistant, remained as well. He also wanted to honour guard his captain. Once they were just outside the harbour the Jimmy requested Isaac to radio for medical assistance.

  As they came into harbour the word went round, quietly and surreptitiously, but the men had already changed into their uniforms, all of them. Spruce and clean and tidy. They tied up, and Isaac gave the latest radio message to Lieutenants Roges, Walters and Gerrard over by the radio shack, whispering, ‘The medics are waiting at the end of the gangway. We just need to get him onto the casement. We need him to march off, sir, under his own steam. We must do that for him. The men are on the casement already, waiting.’

  They nodded grimly, and Barry Walters said, ‘You think we don’t know that, Isaac? But thank you anyway. He just doesn’t seem to hear.’ He and Roges were twenty-four, and very tired. None of the officers had slept either, as they would not leave their captain alone.

  Roges called quietly for the chief to come to the control room. He came, smart in a way that he never usually was, with his hair combed, his face clean and shaved, and his uniform pulled straight. Together the old friends stood by their captain, the chief and Roges, taking his arms, heaving him to his feet. Walters and Gerrard were just behind. Sammy heard the chief say, ‘Come on, sir, one last time, for the good of the crew. Up and standing. Then up the ladder, on your own. It will give them heart, just as you have given them heart for two years. How about it, old lad?’

  It was then that Sammy slipped across to Isaac. ‘Put on bloody Ellington, for God’s sake. It might reach him, one last time.’

  Davy found the record and handed it to Isaac as though it was the most fragile Limoges. Isaac put it on the turntable, dropped the needle arm and ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing if it Ain’t Got That Swing’ burst into life.