by Milly Adams
She stood up, held out her hand, and together, with Francois, they returned home, into the warmth of the kitchen, and Miss F.
That evening she walked to the farm. She could hear Joe in the milking parlour, so she carried on to the house, tapping on the door and entering. Andy was at the table, doing what looked like accounts in the dim light of the oil lamp. He stared at her. She came to the table, not stopping to remove her boots. ‘Thank you for saving the boys.’
He shrugged. ‘They shouldn’t have been on the ice in the first place.’
At that, she leaned forward, brought her arm back, and slapped him so hard across the face that her hand stung and he was knocked back in his chair. He put his hand to his cheek, his shock visible. He rose, thrusting back his chair. She didn’t give him a moment to respond, for she was rushing round the table, leaving clods of snow and mud on the flagstones, and she didn’t give a damn, let this bully clean them up.
‘You utter bastard,’ she shouted. ‘You know perfectly well I told them, even Mrs Campion told you that. What’s more, you know my boy well, so how dare you say he’s not to be trusted? Ron lied, my Jake did not go on the ice with him, he knows better.’ She was beating at his chest now, and his arms were up, shielding himself. She hit his stump, he cursed, grabbing for her hands but it was an uneven contest when you only had one.
She kept on hitting him. ‘You know what a troubled boy Ron is and how much he takes it out on Jake. How could you? Yes, you have problems; yes, you killed your friends; yes, you think you ran away, but you didn’t. You did the right thing and went for help, like Jake. So get over it.’ She was tiring, but still hitting and now he was letting her.
‘These things happen, and you can blame yourself, but not a little boy whose father is down under the sea. I hate you, Andrew Bartlett. For a moment, at Christmas, I thought you had a heart, but now I know better. You’re weak and cruel, and as much of a bully as Ron, but with nothing like the excuse. I have had enough of people like you.’ She stopped talking and hitting, quite suddenly. Instead she backed away, her voice hoarse, wanting to burst into tears, but she bloody well would not. She turned and left, slamming the door behind her, hurrying across the yard and back to her home.
Chapter Twelve
March 1941, HMS Vehement on patrol off Norway
SAMMY AND ISAAC grinned at one another, then looked back at the sky, the grey lolling seas, enjoying the taste of brine, the sense of space, before they took up their posts.
‘Same old, same old,’ Isaac said and yawned.
The light was clear, the sky streaked with white cloud. It was spring. The days were becoming longer and soon it would be summer. Sammy’s shoulders tensed. Everlasting light was the enemy of submarines, so even now, at three thirty in the morning, the lookouts ceaselessly scanned the sea and sky, ‘just in case’. Anyone else taking a break must do the same. German success meant the bastards could over-fly an increasing number of spotter planes from conquered Europe. These could discover their hidey-holes deep down in the clear springtime ocean depths and report their position. Recharging was a bugger too, because the nights were getting so short that it couldn’t be completed in the dark.
‘T-t-time up, lads,’ Lieutenant Stanning muttered, sweeping the horizon, along with the lookouts.
Sammy and Isaac slid down the ladder. Sammy presumed Vehement’s orders were still the same. Observe, report, discharge torpedoes only when necessary. On their last patrol a destroyer had come straight at them, but Diddy had fired one, two, three, four, and more torpedoes. They’d sunk it, and left the skimmer’s lifeboats alone to make for Norway, though they’d picked up oil-soaked stragglers.
There was no room or reason to keep them as prisoners. They had, instead, been dried, warmed, fed, and then rowed in Vehement’s inflatables under cover of darkness to the coast of Norway. It had been tense, with everyone praying that they didn’t meet any of the mines that had been laid months before. Once there, they’d been tipped out into the surf and safety.
Sammy reached his post and tapped Adrian on the shoulder. ‘Off you go, little ’un. Bed all warm and sweaty for you.’
Adrian eased his shoulders, and grimaced. ‘No dancing girls?’
Sammy laughed, and called to Isaac who was taking over from Davy. ‘These youngsters; enough is never enough, is it?’
Diddy called across from the chart table where he was using dividers, while conferring with Sub Lieutenant Roddy Rogers. ‘Old man you, Sammy – ready for the pension?’
‘That’s it; twenty-five last month, sir.’
The Jimmy, Lieutenant Michael Dorian, laughed.
They’d had days of inaction, days of boredom, of tension, wondering when it would break, but at least Adrian, who was handing him the headphones, had not been seasick again.
Sammy scanned. It might be light up top, but, as always, sometimes the hydrophones picked up what others couldn’t. He ached for Phyllie, because he hadn’t seen her in January as he had hoped. Instead, he had travelled to the village near Cardiff, desperate, because his father who was his pal, his idol, had suffered a heart attack. The sight of his son’s ugly mug had boosted his recovery, his dad had said.
Sammy had to make do with telephoning Phyllie from Harwich just before embarkation, thanking God that she lived with a headmistress who had to have a telephone. They’d talked for half an hour, he freezing off his bollocks in a public booth, with a queue of people waiting. Finally a stoker had threatened to stuff the receiver where the sun didn’t shine if he didn’t get out ‘right bloody now’. He’d heard Phyllie’s laugh.
‘Anything, Sammy?’ Diddy called, leaning back on the chart table.
‘Nothing, sir.’
Diddy scooted up the ladder onto the bridge. Sammy scanned. He’d talked to his dad and mum about Phyllie. They’d been unsurprised. His mother said, ‘Of course you’re getting married. You’ve been joined at the hip since you could walk and you’ve loved one another all your lives, daft boyo.’
He scanned ceaselessly. Their boredom had been broken by a skimmer three days ago. It must have spotted the periscope wake. Sammy hadn’t heard them; it was just one of those things, Diddy said later. Diddy had got off a couple of fish but they were both misses, and they’d dived pretty damn sharp. As the depth charges began they’d levelled off at two hundred and fifty feet. They’d silent run for three hours with batteries that had been fully charged so it had been no problem. No planes had come to spot them. They had survived.
He didn’t know why that one had got to Stanning as it had but since then he’d stammered. Lack of sleep? Perhaps. He felt a touch on his shoulder. It was Diddy again. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ Diddy grinned but it didn’t reach his eyes. It used to, when he first took over. He’d talked more to Sammy about moving on up in the Navy, and maybe he would. It would be good for the family because Sammy would like three children. He’d talk to Phyllie about it, but they’d have what she decided, because all he wanted was to make her happy.
Diddy moved off, round the control room, checking this and that. He went to his cabin, but he wasn’t sleeping. By the end, Old Tom hadn’t slept, but bloody hell, Sammy wouldn’t sleep if he had to think of everything, take chances, calculate, calculate. So did he really want more responsibility? What if he had to decide whether to attack, dive, run … He shrugged. The war wouldn’t go on for ever, he just had to survive it and the peacetime Navy would be different. But why stay in?
He and Isaac had trained in firing the 4-inch gun on their lay-off and so had Adrian and Davy. It was all part of being able to do what was necessary but how necessary was it in peacetime? Maybe operating hydrophones was more transferable? The problem was, he didn’t think he could bear to be away from Phyllie when it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
He smiled – he always did when he thought of her – then grew serious. She’d written about Andy and little Jake, but she’d said he was not to tell Isaac, for what could he do from a submarine? Sh
e’d also told him about Andy, how he’d been nice, and then changed at the party when Jake had mentioned the ring and she’d said Sammy was a submariner. How he’d mocked Sammy for being a hero. Well, you are, she’d written; and it must be hard for him, stuck at home.
Sammy wondered if Andy had thought Phyllie was available. If so, he’d punch his bloody lights out. His hand tightened on the scanning wheel, but then relaxed. No, there’d be no need because she’d said that she’d always loved him, and always would. It was just that sitting here, twiddling, listening, playing cards off duty, scratching your arse, talking of life, women, sport, women, things got to you.
He sighed. His catarrh was bad this trip. Seawater had got into the batteries in the last storm and there’d been some chlorine gas seepage which always set it off.
Diddy was back, pacing, then he went to the bridge. The captain was never officially on watch, but he might as well be. The boat was tossing and rolling now. The batteries were fully charged, must have been a few hours ago, but they made more speed on the surface; speed to where, though? Sammy knew his thoughts were chasing one another around. Diddy was back again. What did he know that they didn’t? Orders were in sealed envelopes, seen by his eyes only. Were they picking someone up again? Sammy glanced towards Isaac who was listening intently. He was pressing his earpiece hard against his head.
Diddy saw. ‘What?’ Dorian and Stanning swung round.
Isaac said, ‘Far distant, sir. One of ours stating position and situation.’
‘B-b-reaking radio silence?’ Stanning said, his tone telling the story. Surrendering or the end? Diddy was at Isaac’s elbow. He bent down, shared the earpiece. ‘Vanguard?’
Isaac nodded. ‘Variant is nearest.’
Stanning was checking all the dials.
‘We remain on sector,’ Diddy said. He checked his watch, looked up, nodded at Stanning. ‘Prepare to dive,’ came the order. Stanning was unsurprised. It was therefore an exercise. The lookouts slid down into the control room, the hatch was secured, the prow dropped, all hands knew what to do and where to do it. ‘Periscope depth, if you please.’
They stopped at thirty feet. The Jimmy took the periscope. First a quick all-round look for ships, and across the sky for aircraft. Now a slower look, carefully scrutinising every sector. Sammy listened, and waited for the periscope to lower. It, and its wake, must not be seen. They ran just beneath the surface for half an hour. Every five minutes the periscope was raised, the area was searched, they were blind except for that eye, and Sammy’s ears. The stoker in charge of the periscope hydraulics and Diddy seemed to have an almost telepathic understanding. The problem with boredom, Sammy thought, as he rolled his pencil between his fingers, was complacency. You forgot to stay alert, and this is why Diddy was geeing them up.
Stanning was with the new sub lieutenant, Roddy Rogers, examining one of the aides-memoires piled by the chart table. The officers needed to know their ships in order to calculate the performance and armament of their foe. Diddy, knees bent, hands flopped over the brass handles, was swinging the periscope round when he stopped, retraced, froze.
‘Sammy?’ he called.
‘Nothing,’ Sammy answered, concentrating. ‘Nothing.’
Stanning was on the scope now. Diddy and Dorian stood quite calmly beside him, which meant Diddy knew damn well what he’d seen, and it was something nasty. Stanning, looking through the search periscope, was adjusting the range finder. Not just observing, then? Is that what had been in orders? Sammy listened hard. He glanced towards Isaac, who was also concentrating, his hand to his earpiece.
Stanning nodded at Diddy, and stepped away. Diddy snatched a look through the scope. He stood. ‘Action stations, if you please.’
The leading seaman read off the range marker to Rogers, the torpedo officer. ‘Range is eighteen hundred yards.’
Sammy heard propeller noises now. Vehement was capable of nine knots submerged but only for a short time. If it was a pack of torpedo boats escorting a cruiser, well, they could do thirty knots. Shit. Sammy preferred boredom, if he was asked. In fact, he’d like to put in a request.
‘All tubes to the ready.’ The torpedo men would be letting water into the tubes from within the boat so the weight forward wouldn’t change.
‘Begin the attack.’ Diddy was at the periscope again. Sammy listened, they were closing on the skimmers. Rogers was plotting the relative positions between Vehement and the enemy. Dorian watched the controls, Stanning supervised the trim, Diddy was working out the range and bearing of the target, Rogers waited, and Sammy prayed he’d calculated correctly just how far ahead to fire the torpedo, or they’d miss and have a bloody lot of skimmers after them.
The control room was silent, the motors at slow ahead, using the attack periscope so the wake was minimal. Once again the bearing and range were read off. Diddy lowered the periscope.
The order was given and the torpedo men readied all ten forward-firing torpedoes, opening the bow caps.
Diddy signalled the stoker. Diddy scanned. A leading seaman reported, ‘Twenty-two hundred yards, bearing zero two zero.’
‘Shit and double shit; still doable, though. Fire a dispersed salvo, if you please, Mr Rogers.’
Mr Rogers pleased, the boat shuddered every six seconds as the torpedoes were released. Sammy confirmed they were running. As the water flooded in to balance the weight Stanning lost control of the trim, and the boat became bow heavy, diving below periscope depth. They were blind except for Sammy. Dorian and his men struggled to gain stability, and now the prow was rising, but, bloody hell, they must not break surface.
Diddy strolled slowly between his officers, waiting for Stanning to regain control but probably wanting to snatch the bloody boat into his own hands. The boat regained stability. Sammy picked up no explosion. The second hand on his watch ticked by. Then there was the sound of rending metal. Sammy nodded. Diddy shared the headphones. There was a second, then a third.
Diddy flicked his hand, the stoker sent up the periscope, Diddy peered. ‘Gotcha,’ he said. ‘Time we were away, gentlemen. The torpedo boats will be hot on our trail.’
He gave them the course. His eyes met Sammy’s, who nodded. He’d scan for his life now as they dived deep, engines full ahead moving them to the west, and then the south. After five minutes, engines were ordered to slow ahead, and silent running. The torpedo boats were hunting, all three of them, but the exploding ashcans were quite a way off. As a precaution they made way during the explosions, but lay stopped and silent when they ceased.
In time, as the hours passed, the air thickened and depth charges continued to explode all around – closer, but not on. When they stopped, Stanning trimmed the boat, using the crew much as if they were running up and down the length of a seesaw. The watch changed, Adrian took over the hydrophone, and Davy the radio while Isaac and Sammy sat on the mess deck plates, playing cards, or moving to prow or stern on orders, talking only in whispers, planning their futures when Rachel was back and Phyllie was Sammy’s wife. A plan began to form, as though they’d both made a decision during the last few hours, and ideas tumbled out. They would live near one another; they would never leave their families, so they would need civilian jobs.
Eventually, when they were sleepy from lack of oxygen, they chose Phyllie and Jake’s village. Why not? Another hour passed, there had been no ashcans for a while. Isaac slept, his head lolling, his cards scattered on the floor but now it was time to change the watch. Sammy kicked Isaac awake.
They hurried to the control room. Davy and Adrian left, relief clear on their faces. Sammy and Isaac took their positions as they rose to periscope depth. Diddy checked with Sammy. ‘Nothing, sir.’
The speed was reduced to minimise the wake, the stoker worked the hydraulics, and Diddy gave the honour of scanning for the enemy to Stanning, whose trimming had been exemplary. Dorian and Diddy exchanged a look. All eyes in the control room were fixed on Stanning as he assumed nonchalance, slapping down the brass han
dles, bending his knees and taking up the periscope, scanning round as quickly as it had ever been done, then again, more slowly. They all saw the lowering of his shoulders, and their own dropped. ‘All clear, sir.’
The stammer was gone.
Diddy nodded. ‘Very good, let’s take her up, and get Cookie on the food stakes. I’m bloody starving. I’ll be in my cabin, writing up my log.’
Once they were on the surface and the watch was in the control tower Sammy and Isaac were allowed to take their turn at the heads, desperate by this time, because of course they could not be used when they were being hunted: the bubbles would give away their position. As Sammy returned from the heads, he promised himself he’d set about devising a bathroom for the house he was planning. It would be the best money could buy. In fact, he’d start his own plumbing business. Yes, that’s what he’d do, then he’d never have to queue for a bog ever again.
Chapter Thirteen
March 1941, Little Mitherton
JANUARY AND FEBRUARY had been their usual harsh selves, with snow, ice and wind. The Home Guard had taken up lookout positions in the belfry rather than slip and slide in the lanes on exercise and on patrol, ending up with broken bones. The vicar had been heard to mutter as he cleared the snow from the path leading to the church, ‘Anyone parachuting down in this weather deserves a cup of tea, not a pitchfork up the bum.’
During these months the school children had gone straight home after school, not to the old barn at Joe’s farm. It had been at Phyllie’s suggestion, citing the dark evenings and the intemperate weather, and Miss F had agreed, after a prolonged pause.
Towards the end of March, Miss F, sitting in the old armchair to the left of the Aga, the one with a seat that sagged ‘just right’, dropped a stitch when they heard the presenter announce that the government was to freeze food prices. ‘At last. That Mr Samson in the town is profiteering, you know. The price of his pickle is disgraceful, and I’m sure it’s some the WI sent to the wholesaler.’ She fiddled with her knitting, caught the stitch and rectified the situation. Jake and Phyllie, sitting together on the sofa opposite, shared a grin.
