Submariner (2008)

by Fullerton, Alexander

  ‘What about maps, sir – for our own guidance?’

  ‘They’re on the way.’ Shrimp was stubbing out his cigarette. ‘You’re right – as an aid to countering pongo bullshit, if any.’

  ‘Well – right …’ Concentrating on the chart again. ‘Random thought, though. We’ve always gone for pick-ups reasonably close to landing areas. Might be worth a rethink perhaps? Landing-points much farther from targets, land if necessary the night before and lay-up all day, attacking if possible from the blind side –’

  ‘I don’t think so, Michael.’ Shrimp shaking his squarish head slowly. ‘For one thing, the pongos wouldn’t wear it. They want in and out double-quick, always, on this sort of lark. I can see major problems anyway.’ Shrugging, expelling smoke. ‘I haven’t time to go into it here and now, but all right, see what you can come up with. For all three teams. Settle yourself into a corner of the Ops Room at Lazaretto, tell the SOO he’s to let you have whatever charts, pilots etcetera you may want. What else now?’

  ‘Any thoughts on which other boats, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Unsung – Melhuish will be back I think on Monday, can’t leave it any longer than that. And Swordsman – Gerahty’s sailing tonight but if necessary I’d recall him – an “S” having a little more room for passengers than you do. Depends to some extent on the composition of the teams – if one’s larger than the others. But then again, if you and the Chief Pongo hit it off, might make sense to take him and his team in Ursa. See how it works out.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Give Carmella my regards.’

  Up the Lascaris steps into sunlight and the shade of the heap of shattered stone that had been the Royal Opera House until they’d destroyed it in that very bad time in the spring – one particularly bad night for the centre of Valetta, Kingsway in particular, where they’d flattened the Law Courts too. Ursa had been in dockyard hands, repairing depth-charge damage, had miraculously survived that and several more nights of the same, although others within virtual spitting-distance of her certainly had not. Although there’d been quite a few bombs that didn’t explode, including one out of town that everyone had talked about for weeks afterwards and Mike had (criminally) mentioned in a letter to his father; a large bomb said to be of Italian origin which had penetrated the dome of Mosta Church, bounced off a wall, skidded the full length of the building and ground to a halt without exploding. There’d been three hundred people attending a service at the time. In April, that had been. The vast majority of the bloody things had exploded, in the town and elsewhere but especially the dockyard and its surroundings, destroying virtually everything aboveground. That was when Senglea had been reduced to rubble and a number of ships sunk – two destroyers, three submarines, three minesweepers. There’d been a convoy brought in – some of a convoy – and the cruiser Penelope, which had been part of its escort, had been in dock with frantic round-the-clock efforts being made to complete essential repairs while under constant dive- and high-level bombing. The London press had nicknamed her HMS Pepperpot on account of the number of holes in her upperworks; but they’d got her away all right, despite continuing blitzkrieg. Having security and censorship in mind he hadn’t mentioned any of that in the letter to his father, only the miracle at the church.

  In Strada Reale again now. Down here on the right …

  11

  Carmella Cassar told him that Abigail had ‘taken a hard knock’: Mike having reminded her that Abigail had introduced them, at some time or other. In fact she did seem to remember the occasion, although he didn’t flatter himself that this was anything but her natural politesse. She was, as Shrimp had intimated, a fine-looking woman: she’d had her shop – same premises – since well before the war, and Shrimp had known her from that time, in his several pre-war visits to the island.

  Yes, she had gold lace in stock, and employed a seamstress who’d fix his things up for him. She could provide epaulettes right away – ones abandoned by lieutenant-commanders on promotion to commander. They’d cost him very little, in fact next to nothing; she’d have to look them out, they weren’t of recent origin. Congratulations were presumably in order?

  Abigail … Well, poor darling. But she was back at work now. Colonel Ede had given her a couple of weeks off, and she’d spent that time not in her little flat on South Street but at the Wingrave-Tenches’ at St Julian’s. Which had been perfect for her, of course. She’d come back to work yesterday, but for the time being was still at the Tench place. She’d dropped by at lunch-time yesterday, as it happened.

  She’d paused, Mike had been trying to get a word in edge-ways, asked her now, ‘What kind of “knock”?’

  ‘Oh. Forgive me. I had assumed you would have heard. But let her tell you, Commander.’

  ‘Commander. Didn’t stay long as a two and a half, did I?’

  ‘Hah! I dare say you won’t. Any case I’m sure Abigail would very much like to see you – and to hear your good news. Do you know where it is, that building?’

  ‘I think so. But if she’s only just back at work, poor kid –’

  ‘Don’t worry. A person likes to be visited by her friends, especially at such times. Give her a surprise, why don’t you?’

  Actually he didn’t know Abigail all that well. Had met her a couple of times at Pembroke House, the Wingrave-Tench place, and once at the Union Club at a lunch given by her friend Nico Cornish. There’d been an air-raid alarm between the soup and the fish, they’d trooped through the kitchens into the cellar, the raid had gone on for hours and so had the party, and they’d never had the fish. Either it had gone off or someone must have eaten it. Mike had liked Abigail and Cornish too, also a character by the name of Andrew Cohen who was – or had been – oh, impressive title, Deputy Civil Administrator or – no, Assistant to the Lieutenant-Governor; and others including a stunningly beautiful girl, Diana something or other, tall and blonde, whom he’d also met at Pembroke House.

  Where on one occasion he’d played chess with Abigail – and lost several times, he remembered. She was about five-four or -five, had rather wild brown hair and blue eyes; she swam and sunbathed quite a lot, by this time of year was deeply tanned, could at first sight have been taken for Maltese – Italian, even, one of the languages incidentally in which she was completely fluent – only wasn’t, her family home was somewhere in the Home Counties and she’d worked in the War Office in London before they’d sent her out as a special assistant to the Defence Security Officer, Malta – Lieutenant-Colonel Bertram Ede of the 4th Hussars, the one who must have given her her sick-leave, following the ‘hard knock’. For the moment, that was about all one knew about her. Oh, except she was in her mid-twenties, a cipher wizard and a linguist.

  This was the building. Hadn’t been sure until he was inside it. He told a Maltese corporal sporting thick-lensed metal-framed spectacles, ‘Lieutenant Nicholson to see Miss French, please.’

  ‘Miss French expecting you, sir?’

  ‘No. But tell her Mike Nicholson, would you?’

  ‘If you would take a seat, sir.’

  He did. He’d done a fair amount of walking on Valetta’s hard stone pavementless streets, in the course of the forenoon. Must get some exercise, he thought, in the next week or two or however long it’s going to be. Thinking also about this Special Operation and especially the reminder that there’d been one in progress during ‘Pedestal’, that while he’d been disporting himself off Palermo Pat Norman had been landing a team at Catania, halfway up Sicily’s east coast. All one knew about it was that the commandos had apparently not made it to the airfield, let alone to their later rendezvous with Una, must all have been either killed or gone into the bag. Gloomy enough outlook, therefore.

  Although Shrimp might be right in his assumption that the Wops wouldn’t be expecting another attempt so soon after that failure; and it was certainly arguable that hitting three airfields at once, if it could be done efficiently – from the military point of view he supposed on the basis of �
�lessons learnt’ – should have a better chance of achieving its objective or at least some of it than just one team of six or eight canoeists against a whole damn Fliegerkorps, or whatever their air-bases’ defences might consist of. Couldn’t be more than six or eight commandos, plus their folboats, in the confines of a U-class submarine. Maybe numbers didn’t count all that much, in the commando science of shock attack, but confusion did: and if they hadn’t known there was a convoy on its way – or touch wood didn’t get to know of it this next time, therefore mightn’t be exactly on their toes … First step in one’s researches, he thought, might be to get all available details of that Catania action, plans, operational orders and of course Pat Norman’s patrol report. The commandos, as Shrimp had observed, would have their own intentions cut and dried for implementation after hitting the beach or beaches, and one’s aim would be to combine all that with suggestions for less obvious landing-places, withdrawal routes and R/Vs for re-embarkation. Inshore depths – within a few thousand yards of the coast, say – might for instance be only a few fathoms in the southern part of Catania Bay – south of Catania itself – but further north, nearer San Croce, for instance –

  ‘Mike Nicholson. What a nice surprise!’

  He was on his feet, with her hands in his. She was very attractively shaped: and with her tan and the contrastingly light-blue eyes – at this moment actually dancing eyes, and slightly trembly lips – ‘Lovely surprise, Mike!’

  ‘Carmella Cassar said you wouldn’t mind, and I happened to be in the neighbourhood, so –’

  ‘She was dead right. Mike, someone mentioned you the other day and I said “Oh, he spends all his time at sea.” Haven’t seen you for ages! Of course I know you were all away for ages, but since then quite a few of the others –’

  ‘Got in yesterday. Had thought with any luck I might run into you at the Tenches’. But Carmella tells me you’ve been in some kind of trouble?’

  She’d nodded. ‘Perfectly all right now, though. Everyone’s been extremely kind, and I’ve been – well, rather gave in to it, I’m afraid. Mike, if you’ve say half an hour to spare –’

  ‘Exactly what I do have!’

  ‘– might take a stroll, or –’

  ‘I’d really love that, Abbie.’

  ‘Fact is, I have to go out to Hamrun in about half an hour. Transport’s laid on – van actually … What about the Barracca meanwhile, sit in the sun for a while? Then you might even come with me to Hamrun – just for the ride? You know – or perhaps you don’t – government offices all moved out there – well, before you lot cleared out, anyway, and we’ve only just moved back in. Hope to God we can stay put now. I’m going out there to look round and make sure nothing’s been left in drawers or cupboards that might be of interest to – well, anyone … But, Mike – ’ they were outside, now, she taking the lead, making for a shortcut over the cobbles into Zachary Street – ‘you saw Carmella this morning, you say?’

  ‘As a customer, so happens.’

  ‘Let me guess. Lace for the old folk back home, someone’s birthday?’

  ‘Bad guess. Might not be a bad idea some time, though.’

  ‘She’s a sweet woman, isn’t she?’

  ‘You introduced me to her. Come to think of it, you were buying lace, on that occasion.’

  ‘Isn’t much else, is there.’ Flipping a hand towards a tall, bomb-scarred building they were passing. ‘Information Office. Nico’s left us, did you hear?’

  ‘Haven’t had time to hear much, yet. But by “left us” –’

  ‘Transferred to Gibraltar, bigger and better job, although he’d have preferred to stay put. He was doing a terrific job, you know. But there you are … Mike, did I ever mention my brother to you?’

  ‘Brother.’Taking her arm, looking down at her. This might be the start of the ‘hard knock’ story. Shaking his head: ‘I don’t think so …’ It had occurred to him that Cornish’s departure might have had something to do with her problem. Bit of a coincidence maybe if it hadn’t – seeing that Cornish had been generally thought to be her lover. On the other hand her boss surely wouldn’t have given her sick-leave for that – broken heart, whatever. Not unless the Colonel was a remarkably soft touch as well as more than normally liberal-minded. She was saying, ‘Bob – my brother – was RNVR, a lieutenant, in destroyers.’

  Was RNVR, he’d caught, guessed from the past tense at what was likely to be coming, and slid an arm round her shoulders. They’d arrived at the Barracca; she turned inside that arm, leant against him. ‘Big brother – twenty-six, two years older than me. Very much like you, in a lot of ways – younger, of course, you’re about thirty, aren’t you?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘Oh.’ Surprised look. ‘Anyway you’d have liked each other. I’d thought that when or if he was here I’d introduce you, if you were around. Saying “when or if” because I’d no idea how long he might have been here or in what circumstances, he’d said in this letter “Might come calling one of these days. If I do, what would you like – brandy, champagne, silk stockings?” And I’d answered saying “All three, you stingy bugger, but best of all bring yourself.”This was – I don’t know, three or four weeks ago, and I was thinking that if he did turn up I’d give a party for him, and who I might have, including you, and at the Gravies’ one evening I asked one of your submariner friends where you were then or were likely to be in the near future, and he said he thought you’d be back soon but probably not for long. Bob hadn’t given me any date – couldn’t have, couldn’t even have known his ship’d be coming in, only that it was a possibility, which in fact was saying more than he should have, wasn’t it? Enough to thrill me in any case – we’ve always been as close as twins, hadn’t seen each other literally for years – for the past year or more he’s been in HMS Robust –’

  ‘Robust. Oh, crikey, the Ohio.’

  ‘I saw that part of it happening.’ Turning in Mike’s arms, pointing with her head. ‘I didn’t notice that one of them was a peculiar shape. What I’ve since discovered is that what they call the Director Tower had been smashed, most of it just – you know, gone. And then I didn’t know it was the Robust. The other one was the Penn. Then when the broadcast got going, you know, the thing Nico used to organise, the new man does it now and not half so well – telling the people here and in the streets what was going on – Spitfires over us too, tremendous noise, you could only hear a few words now and then but I was – well, crazy with excitement. I raced back to the office, tried to get through to Nico’s deputy and couldn’t, so – cutting this part short, my own boss got on to it for me, had a signal made to the Robust asking for Lieutenant French to communicate with his sister at – you know, DSO number on the Fortress exchange, so forth – and after about two hours I got a message to go to Lascaris right away and ask for Lieutenant-Commander Jobling, the Robust’s captain. Which I did, and he told me – Bob had been killed the day before, at about the height of the convoy battle. He was Gunnery Control Officer, you see, and –’

  ‘The Director Tower.’

  One could imagine it, see it. Tower gone, chances were the GCO would have gone with it.

  ‘I had some sort of heart attack, apparently. Quite a long period I don’t remember at all. Some of that was in hospital. I know I was desperate to go on board and see where – be where he – well, senseless maybe, but –’

  ‘Abbie, I’m so sorry …’

  What was there that one could usefully say? Like Guy Mottram writing to Jimmy Ruck’s wife – what was the good of saying any bloody thing? Still holding Abigail, getting odd glances from passers-by, and as it were letting go, more or less talking for the sake of talking, telling her, ‘Abbie, there’s damn-all one can say that’d really help. I could say oh, I’m so sad for you, so sorry, but that’s nothing, is it – I am more sorry than I can say – but so what? Yesterday – listen, similar situation, about writing to the wife of a CO – one of ours, boat overdue from patrol, presumed mined. A man eve
ryone liked, plus his officers and crew, thirty-two of them – well, OK, maybe she’ll be glad to have a letter or letters from us –’

  ‘Of course she will. Of course, Mike!’

  ‘You’ll have written to your parents, obviously.’

  ‘Yes, and telegraphed.’

  ‘They’ll be thanking God they still have you. Have you thought of asking for compassionate leave?’

  ‘I’ve written asking them if they’d like me to. Colonel Ede suggested it.’

  ‘What d’you think they’ll say?’

  ‘Probably –’ she’d moved slightly and he’d released her – ‘probably “come home if you feel you need to, but otherwise not just for us”. Something of that kind. As much as anything, thinking of Bob, what he’d have – you know, expected of us. I’m not being wet over this, Mike, anyway trying not to be, I know there’s a bloody war on and – these things happen, no one’s immune. Inviolate, I should have said. I keeled over I suppose not just from – well, the hideous fact of it, but – the circumstances, one minute madly excited and one’s mind full of him, then – there, right under one’s eyes, sort of –’

  ‘But now you’ve done your crying.’

  Looking at him surprisedly for a few seconds before nodding, accepting it. ‘Yes. I have. You’re right. Do you have brothers or sisters, Mike?’

  ‘One of each, both younger than me.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Alan drives a bomber, mostly over Germany, and Chloe’s in London training as an orthopaedic nurse.’

  ‘Parents?’

  ‘Father. Retired quack now back in harness.’

  ‘Good for him. One more nosy question?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Well – how about girls?’

  ‘Heavens, this is wide-ranging.’ He shrugged, smiling. Rather pleased with himself, and surprised at having said something that actually had helped, that comment ‘Now you’ve done your crying’. Answering her question about girls with ‘A few, here and there. And you – lovers galore, no doubt?’