Submariner (2008)

by Fullerton, Alexander

  Once this was over.

  The breakages that most concerned one were of battery containers. There was no way of telling how many had been smashed without actually getting into the battery tanks, opening them up, which could only be done when you were home and in dockyard hands. There were two tanks – batteries – number two here under the control room and number one for’ard of it, under the ERAs’ and POs’ messes, each containing fifty-six cells, glass-enclosed and standing waist-high with cross-sections about sixteen inches square, each cell needing at least two men and usually a crane, to lift it. In the two steel tanks, 112 of them. When the glass containers were cracked or broken the acid content of course leaked out, and was contained in the tank; it smelt, and could be set on fire, but worst of all, if salt water got into it – the tank itself holed for instance, acid escaping into the bilges – you got chlorine gas, which kills unpleasantly.

  For the moment, the battery was still providing power. If it could keep on doing so until dusk – and of course the Partenope and others stayed away …

  Well, they might. That was a matter of pure luck now. The real threat was the battery. If it chucked its hand in, the answer might be to bottom. Simple evolution made slightly tricky by the echo-sounder being out of action. Although it might be better not to use it anyway, with the risk of having its impulses picked up on Wop hydrophones. But bottom, anyway. How much water you were in you’d find out when you hit the putty. Then shut down everything, lie bottomed until nightfall, when you’d blow some main ballast, float her to the surface, start the generators and head for home – getting a signal out if possible, although wireless might not be operable – experience telling one that the main aerial might well be done for. If on the other hand it was OK he’d ask for air-cover to be provided at first light. Alternatively, trust to luck – plug on homeward through the night and probably the first hours of daylight, eventually identifying oneself by Aldis light to the Castile signal station on arrival in the swept channel.

  ‘Number One.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘If we’re left to ourselves now, we’ll turn south in about an hour, and if the box conks out we’ll bottom, sit tight until dark then surface and get cracking on generators.’

  ‘Home like a bat out of hell.’

  ‘As near as possible like that.’ Thinking, albeit slightly crippled bat … ‘Here and now, though, we’ll open watertight doors. Cottenham issue tea and buns, whatever, you and I’ll confer with the Chief, and no doubt there’ll be a run on the heads – if Ellery here passes them as OK to use.’ He’d glanced at Ellery, who muttered ‘Long as I get first crack, check ’em out.’

  ‘Outside ERA’s perks, fair enough.’ Turning to the chart, checking soundings in the vicinity of the last DR position, he startled himself with the news that bottoming was right out of the question: you wouldn’t find bottom at much less than 400 or even 600 feet anywhere within about fifty bloody miles. Well – ten miles, you’d have a chance – but ten miles, at this present rate of progress, which one daren’t exceed …

  0840, and peace and quiet still prevailing. Had even read a few pages of Robert Graves’ I Claudius, to take his mind off other things – which oddly enough it wasn’t doing, and he thought he’d probably give it up. He’d only persevered with it – as far as he had – for Abbie’s sake, he realised – and there was no reason she’d actually give a damn. He wished he hadn’t given Ormrod’s two P. G. Wodehouse titles to Colour-Sergeant Gant; but he had, and it was probably a good thing to have done.

  Ursa now on course 200 – gyro duly fixed – running on her starboard motor at slow grouped down, which he reckoned was giving her about a knot and a half – and at eighty feet in the hope she’d be invisible to overflying Cants, while not suicidally deep in terms of sea-pressure and her injuries, especially the shaft-glands. He thought a hundred would be unnecessarily deep, sixty maybe dangerously shallow.

  And bottoming now out of the question, no matter what.

  He’d put Abbie’s book down, and McLeod looked up from Miss Blandish, asked him quietly as their eyes met, ‘If the box jags in, sir, what’s the solution?’

  ‘Might better put it as when the box jags in, Jamie.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘What would your answer be?’

  ‘I think bottom. Praying for a shallow patch and – well, continuance of our famous luck, maybe?’

  ‘Spotted any charted shallow patches?’

  ‘No, sir. Small ones often aren’t though, and –’

  ‘Fancy the idea of trimming her down further and further past her limits knowing that eventually something’s going to crack?’

  ‘Don’t fancy it exactly, no –’

  ‘She’s already damaged, she wouldn’t stand for it, would she? Imagine those shaft-glands blowing in like champagne corks. The only realistic option’s to surface, take that chance.’

  McLeod held his stare for a moment. Then: ‘Taking on the Partenope and its four-inch guns maybe.’

  ‘Partenope or whatever else.’ After two hours it was a fact that the Partenope was very much less of a danger than it had been, but he didn’t need to tell McLeod that. He said, ‘Tactic then might be to turn tail and run.’

  ‘At eight knots.’

  ‘Yes. Well, exactly …’ Voice down to a murmur – knowing he could have been heard from the galley if there’d been anyone in it, or the wardroom if any Blue watchkeepers had been tuned in – Danvers, or the helmsman who’d be either Farquhar or Llewellyn, or ’planesmen Hart and Brooks – since some of these prognostications were likely to be dire enough. One didn’t want any of this to be overheard, was all. Continuing with ‘Likely as not, Jamie, we’d find ourselves on our tod and remain so, continuing on generators – well, as you say, eight knots with luck, depending on that screw – Lewis guns in the bridge, of course – hell, Stoker PO Franklyn up there singing “Land of Hope and Glory”, if you like … If on the other hand when we break surface we find ourselves in close company with Wops of any kind –’

  He’d been going to say – murmur – ‘Probably nothing for it but abandon ship, send her down with the hatch open’ – but instead was silent, listening – eyes on the deckhead port side aft, HE having quite suddenly become audible from that quarter. Not fast HE – overhauling, obviously, but a target running at not much more than one knot didn’t take a lot of overhauling, and this whatever it was would be listening-out on hydrophones,hence the low revs. He called to Danvers, ‘Silent running, Pilot. Diving stations when the bastard’s left us.’ Then in a flash of inspiration and – all right, change of mind, lunacy or tactical innovation – told McLeod to take over the trim, stop starboard and see how she coped with that – whether she’d be able to hold her depth for the few minutes it might take this Wop to pass on by.

  20

  The convoy had made it intact, been brought in on Sunday, consequently were still discharging cargo, those at moorings in Grand Harbour here using their own gear to discharge into lighters alongside, others’ masts and upperworks visible across the water in French and Dockyard creeks. One Union flag, two Stars and Stripes, one Dutch red-white-and-blue. And at anchor in midstream the cruisers Orion and Euryalus, dotted around in other berths half a dozen Hunt-class destroyers. Others of the escort had already started back, apparently, and the light cruiser Arethusa who’d been torpedoed in a night attack by Savoia-Marchettis had made it home to Alex under tow. She’d had 155 of her men killed in that attack, Shrimp had told Mike in his office in Lazaretto an hour ago. It was past midday now, a fine, cool day on the Upper Barracca, Grand Harbour actually a thrilling sight, illustrative of the turning of the tide after the long period of siege. Ships’ boats all over, smoke drifting from merchantmen’s and warships’ funnels, ensigns fluttering, dghaisas busy as fleas on a dog’s back. Not that sight-seeing was primarily what he was here for; after the meeting with Shrimp he’d telephoned Abbie at the Defence Security Office and asked her when she came on the line, ‘How a
bout the Upper Barracca in about thirty minutes, you incredibly lovely creature?’

  ‘Oh. Well.’ Then: ‘I suppose I might manage it.’ Further pause, and ‘– Whoever the hell you are.’

  ‘Can’t guess?’

  ‘Don’t want to seem stand-offish anyway. OK, I’ll take a chance. Nearer forty-five minutes than thirty, though?’

  Could hardly have been a happier time. To have got back was one thing, imminence of reunion with her another. Shrimp hadn’t exactly hauled him over the coals, and just a few minutes before he’d called her there’d been a message from Colour-Sergeant Gant, who’d gone in the ambulance with Marine Newton, that the surgeon who’d be operating on him later in the day had told Gant there was no reason the patient shouldn’t come out of it as good as new. So after the call to Abbie he’d nipped back aboard Ursa to pass this to the coxswain – who’d been overjoyed, not only at the news itself but at having been apprised of it. Also on board at that time had been Commander Sam MacGregor, the flotilla engineer, making decisions, lists and notes, with Chief McIver at his elbow disputing practically every point. MacGregor had said, ‘You put her through the wringer this time, didn’t you. We’ll have her in dock at least a couple of months.’

  They’d discussed this. It was roughly what Mike had expected. As well as the things they’d known about before she had a cracked engine bed-plate, which had made itself known when he’d surfaced her in the late afternoon and started the generators. The need to take it easy had slowed them down considerably in their night’s passage on the surface.

  He’d asked the engineer, ‘What about Unsung?’

  ‘Oh, two or three weeks’ll have her in shape. So we’ll fix her up first. Do her here mostly, shift this one to the dockyard.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Rotten luck, Nicholson. Bagged a destroyer though, I’m told.’

  ‘A tiddler. But with respect, sir, outstandingly good luck, overall. We were at 150 feet, this was just one pattern of five charges, and I heard the clicks of pistols cocking themselves. Despite which the Chief and I are here talking to you …’

  ‘Enormously to your credit.’

  ‘Bloody lucky.’

  ‘That too. Still a remarkable achievement.’

  McIver had growled, ‘An experience I personally could’a done wi’oot.’

  There’d been letters, including one from his father which he’d opened and skimmed through in case it contained news of Alan – which it did, but not the kind against which one habitually steeled oneself. Much to the contrary – Alan had been promoted and was being moved to an air station in Sussex. The letter was back in Mike’s pocket, to be read more thoroughly later, and meanwhile he thanked God … If one didn’t, next time it might be bad news.

  All right – more out of superstition than fear of the Almighty. But if it went any distance towards averting anything so absolutely frightful – well, thank Him night and day and twice on Sundays.

  ‘Why the grim regard, Signo?’

  Abbie. Looking – well, actually he’d forgotten how fantastic … Was on his feet, were then in each other’s arms. Telling her he didn’t know, in any case couldn’t possibly be looking grim now: only staggered, overwhelmed, happier than he’d ever been. ‘Just the sight of you, Abbie. You’re blindingly attractive. Beautiful if you like, but it’s more than that, it’s something else entirely. Even more so than I’ve had you pictured for the past five days. Five, please note?’

  ‘Oh, duly noted!’ Laughing, or could have been crying, or a mix of both. ‘Crazy for you, Mike!’

  ‘Enough to marry me?’

  ‘For that one doesn’t have to be crazy at all. One can be just sort of medium stupid.’

  Laughing more, hugging; he still had his arms round her and they were attracting notice. With Grand Harbour as busy as it was now there were a lot of spectators lingering on these stone galleries – people enjoying their lunch-breaks in the fresh air, children out of school, so forth. She’d stopped laughing, told him seriously, ‘Straight answer right between those anxious eyes of yours because I’ve been giving it quite a bit of thought – yes, more than crazy enough, if we still want to when we’re home, that is. But you’ll be going home now, won’t you – and OK, so will I, one day, maybe in six months or a year – by which time they’ll have sent you to Japan or –’

  ‘You’re going to have me around some while in any case, my darling. Ursa’s going to be in dock about two months – so I was informed half an hour ago –’

  ‘More wrong with her than there was before?’

  ‘What I’m pointing out is if we were to announce our engagement it would make things a hell of a lot easier –’

  ‘What I asked was have you been in some kind of trouble in these past five days?’

  ‘Well, yes. Haven’t been at my most brilliant.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He’d grimaced. ‘Got depth-charged. Does happen, on occasion. Sooner not talk about it, though. Not supposed to, either. I do terribly want to kiss you, Abbie. To be frank, I don’t think I can wait. Scoot along to Strada Mezzodi, might we?’

  ‘Oddly enough, I’d thought we might. And we’d better, if you’re going to start behaving badly. Did you get in last night, or this morning?’

  ‘If I’d got in last night, my darling, I’d have –’

  ‘All right – first thing this morning, then –’

  ‘Not quite first thing. Mid-forenoon. Then there was a lot to see to, and the usual grilling by old Shrimp, and I was looking for Charles Melhuish, who’d got in a few hours before I did, but he’d turned in, apparently. Shrimp did mention he’d seemed all-in. I expect I’ll see him this evening. Abbie – Strada Mezzodi now?’

  Shrimp had said when he’d come on board after Mike had secured Ursa in the Lazaretto wardroom berth in mid-morning, ‘Had us in a blue funk, Michael. Your radio given up the ghost, or something?’ It had, of course, they’d simply turned up in the swept channel, identified themselves by light to the Castile signal station and come on in, been directed to this berth. Then after Mike had told him most of what there was to tell, he’d summarised it with ‘So your patrol report will tell me that you achieved the primary objective – put ’em ashore and brought ’em off – incidentally they most certainly did their job –’

  ‘Deep regrets about Ormrod, sir.’

  A nod. ‘Damnable. But then you saved Unsung from getting a worse pasting than she did get – could have been a lot worse, apparently.’

  ‘But I have to admit I shouldn’t have been anywhere near her, sir. Should have cleared out, left her to it.’

  ‘But Melhuish shouldn’t have been where he was. You took a hell of a chance, and you’re right, you had no business doing anything of the sort, and – well, I don’t have to read you the riot act, all you’ll be doing from here on is taking Ursa home when she’s mended. On which subject, Michael, I’m still not saying you’re stale, in fact you’re obviously not, but – a touch overconfident, perhaps?’

  ‘I’ll admit to an error of judgement, sir.’

  ‘You also happened to sink a Partenope, you say.’ Shrimp had shrugged, glancing at his watch. ‘Let’s have it on paper, Michael. See Miss Gomez gets it for typing first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Aye, sir. Possibly before the close of business.’

  ‘How long were you in daylight on the surface?’

  ‘About four and a half hours, sir. Had no option, the box had had it. Aircraft I thought were going to be the main danger – had the Lewis guns rigged of course – but not a bit of it. Earlier I’d thought of bottoming and waiting for dark, but –’

  ‘Bottoming in what depth, Michael?’

  ‘Well, exactly – with shaft glands leaking even at eighty feet. But having confessed to that, sir, mind if I brag about one I’m quite proud of?’

  ‘Brag all you like.’

  ‘At eighty feet on one motor slow grouped down, and having realised I couldn’t bottom – in fact I’d just
told McLeod we might wind up taking our chances on the surface –’

  ‘Time of day?’

  ‘Forenoon. Nine, ten …’

  ‘Not such good chances, then.’

  ‘No, sir. But it wouldn’t have been all that great if they’d caught us as we were, either. We had no asdics, incidentally. She couldn’t have stood much more rough stuff – or gone deep or used the port motor – and battery mostly broken glass – and then bloody hell, there’s HE coming up on the quarter. Turbines, but low revs, obviously its ears flapping –’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We couldn’t afford to be detected, and as likely as not we would have been, so I stopped that screw, she turned out to be heavy aft, went down by the stern. Couldn’t use the after ballast pump incidentally – had been doing so but it was noisy and running hot, so –’

  ‘Despite all of which you got away with it.’

  He’d nodded. ‘Not what you’d call a stop-trim, exactly – she was at about a hundred and forty feet with a twenty-one-degree stern-down angle on her by the time we’d lost all sound from our Wop and put the motor ahead again.’

  ‘And it – complied.’

  ‘Well, yes. Hadn’t been too sure it would. But it did, and since nothing else came near us –’

  ‘You deserve to be alive, Michael.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I won’t put all that in the report.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Rather a lot of typing for Miss Gomez?’

  Finally, Shrimp had told him that Unsung’s commandos had done a good job on the Gela airfield but that only three of the eight had made it back to the rendezvous, the other five either killed or taken prisoner. And that Melhuish’s reason for having been so far out of station and still on the surface when he’d been put down by the Partenopes had been a whole crowd of fishing-boats he’d had to get round, and did so that way about because earlier on there’d been Mas-boats the other side of Gela. ‘Yes, it’s a little complicated.’