There’d been no bombs, anyway. The RAF had no doubt chased the intruders off, the all-clear sounding while he’d been getting dressed. Italians probably, their approach picked up on the island’s new top-secret long-range radar, and Spitfires intercepting. Things certainly had changed enormously for the better; as just minutes ago Mottram had remarked – ‘Amazing. Leave rack and ruin and bloody chaos, and come back to this!’
‘Could start up again, mind you.’
‘I’d say they’ve missed the bus. Should have invaded when they had us on our knees.’
‘When was that?’
A shrug, and the Robert Morley smile: ‘You know what I mean. When we thought they were going to invade at any bloody minute?’
Twelve or thirteen months ago, the time of Ursa’s arrival – a month or five weeks in which the flotilla had lost P.32, P.33, and Union – and the supply-runner Cachalot – at that time an intercepted report from the German naval staff in Rome had warned Berlin: The most dangerous British weapon in the Mediterranean is the submarine, especially those operating from Malta … A very severe supply crisis must occur relatively soon. And there’d been an Intelligence leak soon after to the effect that the Führer had finally been persuaded by Grossadmiral Raeder to let him press ahead with an invasion plan – Operation ‘Hercules’ – and in the run-up to it have Kesselring move his Fliegerkorps II into Sicily in order to obliterate the island. That was when things had begun to get quite bad. Methodical twenty-four-hours-a-day smashing-up of the island, virtual elimination of the airfields and aircraft, wrecking of this base and dockyard, submarines between patrols having to spend daylight hours on the bottom of the outer harbour while the bastards probed for them.
Mottram had added, ‘Weathered all that anyway, so –’
‘Do so again if necessary.’
‘Not if the population’s actually starving.’
‘Been at the point of it more than once, old man, haven’t they. Not all that far off it right now, for that matter.’A shrug. ‘OK just for the moment, but – hell …’ He quoted Mona Lott of the ITMA radio comedy series, a whine of ‘It’s being so cheerful keeps us going, huh?’Mike meanwhile had spotted Wiggy Bennett; he excused himself and went over to him: ‘How are you doing, Wiggy?’
‘Why, Mike, hello!’ To Hubert Marsham then – Commander, Shrimp’s deputy – shouting, ‘Another old lag back inside!’
‘Wiggy – what are my chances of getting Mark VIIIs in the morning?’
‘How many?’
‘Three. Better still, four – then I’d land one Mark IV, straight swap. That’d give me four Mark VIIIs in the tubes, Mark IVs as reloads. Better still, of course –’ holding up crossed fingers – ‘if you possibly could manage it –’
‘Up to old Sunny, Mike. I’m currently a bit out of touch in that area, tell you the truth it’s entirely his pigeon. We do know Tango’s bringing us half a dozen Mark VIIIs – but Sunny’s ashore tonight, and –’
‘I’ll get on to him first thing.’
Shrimp had mentioned that Tango (one of the T-class, of course, the largest submarines building in Britain at this time, twice the size of the little ‘U’s) would be passing through shortly on her way east from Gibraltar to the Levant. The 1st Flotilla, formerly based at Alexandria and now working out of Beirut, was composed entirely of ‘T’s, who on their way from Gib routinely dropped off vitally needed cargoes here in Malta. Aviation spirit in their ballast tanks, for instance. If this one was bringing some Mark VIIIs – and neither Ultra nor Unbowed embarking torpedoes, not having expended any on their way here – maybe Sunny Warne might feel he could be generous. Bennett was explaining his own detachment from the subject as the fact that for several days he’d been preoccupied with efforts to get torpedoes out of Pandora, in French Creek in the dockyard. She’d been sunk alongside Hamilton Wharf by dive-bombers at the beginning of April, taking two officers and twenty-three of her crew to the creek’s bottom with her, as well as the torpedoes in her eight tubes, if not the reloads in the racks. Parthian-class, completed in 1930, she was one of the large, cargo-carrying boats that had made the Magic Carpet supply run regularly; they might have used the space in her reload racks for other stuff, but otherwise it’d be a real bonanza, if all those fish could be got out of her. Bennett was saying what a tricky job it was to extricate them, warheads and all, from that heavy tangle of steel several fathoms down. Lacking more suitable diving gear, for instance, his artificers were using DSEA equipment – Davis Submarine Escape Apparatus – which allowed for only very limited periods actually on the job.
Mike moved on presently to where Jamie McLeod and young Danvers were in conversation with some of Ruck’s and Mottram’s officers.
‘A word, Number One.’
A grin, as he joined him. ‘Sounds ominous, sir.’
‘Torpedoes in the morning. I want all Mark VIIIs, if we can get ’em, and it’ll be up to Sunny Warne, who’s ashore tonight. We’ll be embarking three fish anyway, we’ve two VIIIs and two IVs in the tubes at the moment, so if they only give us three VIIIs we’ll load two of them in place of the IVs and settle for a mixed set of reloads. But I’ll get on to Sunny first thing and try to improve on that. There’ll be some reshuffling anyway, so warn Jarvis and the TI, huh?’
‘Only thing is, we’d planned to start storing ship at 0800.’
‘Msida Creek first. We’ll leave the cox’n and a few hands here, they can have the stores ready for loading as soon as we’re back alongside. Water-barge alongside while we’re storing, then, and oil-fuel say mid-forenoon.’
McLeod shrugged philosophically. ‘Dare say we’ll cope, sir.’
‘I’m sure you will, Jamie.’
Although it wouldn’t be exactly like falling off a log. The fore-hatch was the only entry point for both torpedoes and stores, and the TSC, or fore ends, the compartment right under that hatch, would as always have crates and sacks of provender packed in around the reload torpedoes in their racks as well as filling every other cubic foot of space. That compartment was also where about a third of the ship’s company lived, ate and slept. And moving torpedoes that weighed two tons apiece between the tubes and the reload racks wasn’t either a quick or an easy job; the compartment had to be cleared of all loose gear and internally re-rigged with various special equipment before you could even start.
McLeod tossed his gin back, shook his head. ‘Gawd ’elp us.’
Mike patted his shoulder. ‘Nice rest at sea soon, uh?’
3
Ursa was sailing for patrol not at first light Wednesday but at midnight Tuesday – tonight, in about an hour’s time. Shrimp had come up with this revised plan at midday, when Mike had been able to report her as ready for sea – torpedoes and stores embarked, oil-fuel and fresh-water tanks filled, CERA McIver’s maintenance jobs either completed or satisfactorily in hand. Shrimp had remarked – on their way down to the deep shelter, as it happened, there’d been an air-raid and some bombs had fallen on Senglea – ‘Your chaps have done well, Michael.’
‘They’re as good as any, sir.’
‘Your first lieutenant about due for his COQC, you mentioned recently.’
‘Coming up for it, yes. But as you pointed out, sir, as we’re likely to be sent home before very much longer –’
‘That’s certainly on the cards. Yes … Home with a strong recommendation – which I’ll gladly provide …’
COQC meant Commanding Officers’ Qualifying Course – also known as the Perisher, periscope course. McLeod might be a little young for command as yet, but with the rate at which new submarines were being built, Flag Officer Submarines was concerned to find COs for them. He – Max Horton – having commanded one himself in 1914–18 and knowing very well the kind of men he needed. But then again, good first lieutenants didn’t exactly grow on trees, and a ship’s company like Ursa’s deserved the best officers you could give them. Added to which, Mike didn’t much want to have to break a new man in: McLeod was good at his job,
and he was used to him.
Anyway – advantages of this midnight departure were (a) Ursa would be on her billet that much sooner, and (b) two other ‘U’s were due in from Haifa and Aegean patrols at or soon after first light, and you’d be out of their way – making sure of it incidentally by turning sharp left out of the swept channel and heading northwest up the north coasts of Malta and Gozo, on a track which he’d been assured was being mine-swept now, at – checking the time – 2310 …
‘One thing I had in mind to check on, sir – if Swordsman’s already on her billet north of Messina, odds are she’ll be leaving the area before I do?’
‘When the time comes, she’ll be routed from the vicinity of Stromboli on a track north of Ustica. If you’ve had to withdraw northwards prior to that, don’t worry, we’ll keep you well apart. She’s on loan to this flotilla, incidentally – be coming back here, not to Gib.’ A gesture towards the chart: ‘Your route now, Michael – thought about it?’
He nodded, having checked it over this forenoon during the loading of torpedoes. Several factors were involved: battery and air endurance, the need to get through that large minefield submerged, also to be dived throughout daylight hours – mainly not to be spotted by aircraft or become a target for some patrolling U-boat. He outlined his intentions: ‘Reckoning to spend tomorrow dived 0430 to 2100, leaves us seven hours on the surface getting the box right up’ – ‘box’ meaning battery – ‘diving 0430 Thursday for passage of the minefield. Which I thought I’d curtail slightly by cutting up thisaway.’
A pencil-point on the channel through the Engadi islands, inside Marettimo. Adding then, since Shrimp wasn’t showing any great enthusiasm, ‘Out of QBB a bit sooner, and saving a few hours overall.’
‘H’m.’ Slight frown: and fingering his gingery-stubbled jaw. It had been an early start to the day, seeing off Unbowed and Ultra in the dawn. Wide-apart grey eyes on Mike’s, now: ‘Why not hold on past Marettimo? All right, by the time you’re out of the mines the sun’ll still be up, keeping you down – thinnish air and a low battery, obviously – but no lasting harm in that, eh?’
‘Only thought to avoid the worst of it and get on the beat quicker, sir.’
‘Could be making worse problems for yourself, though. In fact I’d advise you to stay well clear of those narrows. I know boats have slipped through there on occasion, but the buggers could mine them at the drop of a hat, couldn’t they? E-boats out of Trapani here for instance. If they know we’re back on the job and guess there has to be a convoy operation soon, I’ve a hunch it’s what they might do.’
You could see he meant it, felt it.
‘All right, sir. I’ll hold on past Marettimo, stay down until – well, nine-thirty, I suppose. Jesus. Well – for the battery’s sake, I might make the QBB passage at two and a half or three knots instead of four – have a little more juice in hand.’
‘That’d make sense. Don’t let anything change your mind now, stay out of that channel. I’ve a feeling in my water about it.’
Mike looked awed. ‘Certainly respect that, sir.’
‘Bloody well hope so.’Sitting back from the chart, fumbling for a cigarette, ‘We’ll count on your being off Cape San Vito first light Friday – right?’
Charles Melhuish, moreover, would be here with Unsung by about the end of the week. Having about a thousand miles to cover from Gibraltar, and Shrimp had said he’d been due to sail today, Tuesday.
Hadn’t answered Ann’s letter. Not yet. Had written to his father – which would cover Alan, also Chloe. If fathers, brothers and little sisters didn’t hear either from or of you, they worried.
He’d more or less packed his belongings away in the two green suitcases, and completed that job now, so they could be stowed out of the way of whoever used this cabin next – CO of one of the boats due in tomorrow maybe, but there’d be numerous other arrivals and departures in the course of the next week or fortnight, anyway. His seagoing gear went into an old rucksack he’d always used for this. Spare shorts and shirt, sweater, plimsolls, towel, shaving gear. Two books – Scott Fitzgerald’s The Last Tycoon, which an aunt by name of Jennie – his late mother’s sister – had sent him for his last birthday. She lived in America, invariably sent books both to him and Alan and was a fan in particular of Fitzgerald’s. So – The Last Tycoon, for starters, and another American but published in England – John Steinbeck, The Moon is Down – which he’d borrowed from Hugo Short.
Write to Ann during the course of the patrol, he thought. Have it ready to bung into the post on return.
Eleven-forty now. He went on down to the boat. There was a berthing party of four men standing by to divest her of her ropes and wires, and at Mike’s appearance someone in or close to the fore-hatch called, ‘Captain coming aboard, sir!’ Jarvis, third hand, emerged then, followed by McLeod; Mike by this time halfway across the narrow, swaying plank, returning those two’s salutes.
‘Ready for sea, sir. All hands on board.’ That from McLeod; Jarvis asked him, ‘Single up, sir?’
‘Yes please. We can do without the forespring.’ He ducked into the hatch, swung himself down into the fore ends, the crowd and fug of it: torpedoes in the racks both sides, their bright-blue shellac paint almost dazzling where it wasn’t hidden by mounds of gear around them. Men were still stowing gear, finding room for things there wasn’t room for. When those hammocks were slung, you’d only get through this compartment on your hands and knees.
‘Evening, sir.’
‘Evening to you, TI.’
Coltart – Chief Petty Officer and actually Torpedo Gunner’s Mate, TGM, but invariably referred to on board as the TI, which was the older term for it, the letters standing for Torpedo Instructor. Straightening, having come through the oval of the watertight door in the after bulkhead below this ladder: he was tallish – about Mike’s own height and build – had boxed for the Portsmouth Division at one time. Mike asked him – knowing the answer but still asking, ‘Routines done, I suppose?’
‘All done, sir. Mark IVs an’ all, but oughter run straight.’ Touching wood, Mike agreeing that that was the main thing, and adding, ‘Come to think of it, I’ve never known one of yours that didn’t.’
It would have taken Coltart all afternoon and evening, carrying out maintenance routines on the fish they’d had on board to start with. He’d have had one or two of his torpedomen assisting him, but his own were the expert hands. The Mark VIIIs they’d embarked this morning would have been attended to ashore, and were now in Ursa’s tubes. Sunny Warne hadn’t been all that generous with his fish, but at least had gone that far, you were no worse off than you had been when leaving Haifa. Mike heading aft now with McLeod on his heels, along the passageway down the boat’s starboard side, passing on his right, port side, the POs’ and Leading Seamen’s mess, ERAs’ mess, then the even narrower slot of the galley – in which AB Cottenham, loader in the gun’s crew, also ship’s cook – unqualified but not bad at it, considering the problems – paused in clattering his pots and pans around.
‘Evening, sir …’
‘All set, are we? Big eats?’
‘Well – make do, I reckon –’
‘Darned sure you will.’ Moving on. A smallish but important element in submariners’ rations came from the farm which Shrimp had set up on Manoel Island early in ’41, using his own money to buy two pregnant Middle White sows and basic equipment such as troughs and the materials for building pens. At one time there’d been as many as seventy porkers on the flotilla’s strength; nothing like that now, the blitz having taken its toll, but there was a lot of pork in cold storage and the farm had diversified into rabbits, poultry and at times fresh vegetables, all such produce being free of charge to the base and to submarines.
Wardroom, now: having exchanged brief greetings while squeezing past a few other individuals. The passage wasn’t wide enough for two men simply to pass each other without manoeuvring. Wardroom now, anyway – about seven feet square, when you drew the curta
in that screened it from the gangway. Square wooden table in the middle, settee berths around it, Mike’s being the one on the for’ard bulkhead, with drawers and lockers fitted in below it and wherever possible, no inch of usable space being wasted. He slung his rucksack on to his bunk and went on through, past the chart table into the control room, where young Danvers was taking the wooden cover off what was called the ‘Fruit Machine’ – looked something like a one-armed bandit, was actually a calculating machine for the aiming and firing of torpedoes. Mike had a word with Danvers about their route to Cape San Marco, then moved on aft – passing the oily-shining pillars of the two periscopes on the centre-line, hydroplane controls and depth-gauges port side, diving and blowing panel starboard; at the compartment’s after end he paused to look into the W/T office, chat for a moment with Lazenby the Petty Officer Telegraphist – grey-headed, former schoolmaster, married with three school-age children. All of them doing well, apparently, although Plymouth had come in for rather too much of the Luftwaffe’s attention in recent months.
One knew about that. Including the fact they’d bombed the famous distillery, allegedly sending the best gin in the world running through the town’s gutters and giving rise to jokes about Hun atrocities. But London had been getting it too, of course – as both Ann and Chloe had mentioned in letters.
Submariner (2008) Page 4
