Nothing wrong with Andrew Swann. Only that in this flotilla Shrimp was not actually replaceable.
Mike wasn’t seeing as much of Abbie as he’d have liked. She’d understood from the start that he wasn’t going to be able to spend whole nights out of the base,and maybe because they were getting about a week together before the new routine commenced it hadn’t seemed so bad. She’d been able to take a long weekend, that first one, so they’d had Saturday to Monday and then the Tuesday and Wednesday nights. They’d swum twice and dined once at the Gravies’, made a trek across the island, over the same route he’d taken with Jarvis and Danvers. Abbie missing Vera the donkey, who Pop Giddings had told Mike was slightly lame. Abbie had asked Mike to visit the animal and wish her an early recovery, and he’d said he would although as yet he hadn’t. He had taken Abbie to the base, though, shown her round a visiting T-class boat and spent some time with Johnno, whom she’d liked and had met a couple of times at the Gravies’.
That trip across the island, though – during their stop for picnic lunch and sunbathing etc. before swimming across the head of St Paul’s Bay she’d murmured at a certain point, ‘Vera should be with us. Not just for transport – essential scenery, remember?’
‘Beauty and the beast and Maddalena Bay as background to something not far removed from heaven – yes, I remember.’
‘I will all my life.’
‘Good. Mind you, there’ve been other – times, moments, not easily forgettable – at least I’d –’
‘– remember them all –’ a hand freeing itself for a sweeping gesture indicating their surroundings, situation generally: then – ‘Oh, Mike, blimey –’
They’d returned to Valetta by a more direct route than he’d taken with the lads, thus shortening it by a mile or two. But it had been a good day. It wasn’t in fact easy now to be out of touch with the base for more than an hour or so. The picture was changing fast as the Eighth Army powered westward, 10th Flotilla boats effectively blockading the desert ports to starve Rommel’s forces of food, fuel and ammunition, and surface forces from Malta in it too now – Force K, primarily, cruisers and destroyers intercepting Axis convoys – a few nights ago ruining /wrecking one completely, by all accounts half a dozen freighters and their escorting destroyers blown out of the water, gone. On other nights they – Force K – were bombarding the island of Pantellaria, obviously in preparation for its capture. That would be an important E-boat base eliminated, and an essential step towards the projected invasion of Sicily; before which was to come an even more massive assault, the operation Shrimp had referred to vaguely and was presumably why the planners had wanted him in Cairo. It was likely, Mike thought, that he’d be consulted on plans for ensuing operations as well. Sicily, for one thing, as a prelude to Italy; and as the desert advance pushed on west into Tunisia and Algeria – well, if the 10th Flotilla moved west it would need a base, and the obvious place might be Cagliari: which would mean invading Sardinia.
He’d have Ursa back in the UK by that time, he thought. Would have handed her over to her builders in Chatham for virtual rebuilding. If U-class submarines were still wanted then. Meanwhile they were wanted here all right: and doing as well as ever. Shrimp would be proud of them when he got back – any day now. There’d been two boats lost since his departure: sickening, as always, but also to be expected, in all the circumstances, particularly in view of the greatly improved effectiveness of Wop A/S forces. Mike’s own recent experience in Ursa had been an example of that – quite possibly some new development in target depth-assessment – and if so, probably of German origin, the Germans in recent months having taken a hand in their allies’ training and re-equipping, according to Intelligence reports.
He stopped swimming,put his legs down,found the beginnings of the rocky foreshore and climbed up to join the girls. The sun was hot now and they were both flat out on their backs, Greta with a straw hat covering her face and forehead, protecting that fair skin. Removing it, to squint up at him: ‘You were miles out. Much fitter-looking too than you were before.’
‘Something to be said for the sedentary life.’
‘Which Abbie tells me you’re not having.’
‘Actually not. Things are somewhat frantic.’
Abbie was saying she’d like a cigarette, when his hands were dry, and Greta asked, ‘What’s frantic that you’re allowed to tell us about?’
‘Damn-all really – I mean that’s discussible. Current local news is that Unsung’s completed her sea trials – which is a good thing, she’ll be off in a day or two. Guy Mottram’s due in this evening, in Unbowed – he knocked down a fair-sized tanker, very much to his credit – but Johnno and I are on our own now, Hugo Short having got away in Thane.’
‘Thane?’
‘T-class from Beirut, en route Gibraltar.’
‘Just Gib, or all the way home?’
‘Home. Done her time. CO landed with a burst appendix.’ He squatted beside Abbie, lighting cigarettes for her and for himself. ‘Greta – sorry – didn’t ask – have you still given up?’
‘Yes – still don’t. By the skin of my teeth. But when you’ve smoked those, might get ourselves some lunch? Gravy’ll be home any minute, may want a dip before scoffing, but –’
‘The two of you are blooming marvellous.’ Abbie, exhaling smoke. ‘You really are. So hospitable, and –’
‘Balls. We just enjoy our friends, and are lucky enough to have this rather super house. Tell me something, though – why don’t you two get married?’
That had been Saturday. Sunday he’d been in or around Lazaretto all day, Monday he’d spent most of the afternoon with Abbie at her flat, and on Wednesday, business being slack and Broadbent happy to cope with it on his own, he took Abbie in the ferry from Customs House steps to Sliema, had a few glasses of Red Biddy and a fish supper at the Chocolate King.
While sipping the fairly atrocious, rum-flavoured ‘wine’, she asked him why at Pembroke House on Saturday, when Greta had asked why didn’t they marry, he’d remained silent, not looking at either of them, only gazing out to sea – leaving it to her to tell Greta that they’d discussed it all right but – ‘Look – Mike’ll be off home when Ursa’s ready. Not much more than about a month now. I’ll be here another six months at least. By the time I’m back he could have been sent anywhere. I mean, what’s the point? When the bloody war’s over – how long, a year, three years – if we still want to –’
‘So you do want to?’
She’d shaken her head. ‘What I’m trying to explain – I don’t want a fiancé on the other side of the bloody world!’
At that point Mike had about finished his cigarette, flicked the stub away across the rocks, smiled at Greta. ‘Lunch, you said?’
Abbie asked him, ‘Does it mean you’re leaving it to me now, don’t give a damn, or what?’
‘It means I disagree with you strongly, but on your insistence agreed not to quote go on about it, unquote, which is why I haven’t raised the subject since, and I certainly wouldn’t want to start a row with you in front of Greta or anyone else.’
‘You could express your opinion, without actually –’
‘Not discussing it is the only alternative to quarrelling. You know, I quite like this appalling brew …’
The fish, straight out of the sea, was very, very good. And Abbie,in the glow of Mediterranean dusk,unbelievably lovely. The sun was already a dying influence when they caught the last ferry out of Sliema Creek and around the point, back into Grand Harbour. The climb up to the Barracca, more or less vertical and something like a couple of hundred feet, was enough to make him regret having had quite that much Red Biddy. At the top, the upper level, sagging in exaggerated exhaustion against the railing, she suggested that he should go on back to the base on his own, leaving her to make it on her own to South Street.
‘I’ll do no such thing.’
‘As you like. What a damn bore, though.’
That he had to go back ‘aboard’
– i.e. to Lazaretto, rather than spend the night with her on her rattly little bed. She was saying it again, or words to the same effect, when they were almost at her flat and saw the light, also a motorbike parked on the cobbles not far from her door.
Royal Marine commando’s khaki battledress uniform. A corporal in ‘Shrimp’s private army’ whose name Mike happened to know. Crash of heels as he saluted.
‘Evening, Perriman. What brings you to these parts?’
‘Evening, sir. Evening, Miss. Urgent dispatch, sir, from Lieutenant-Commander Broadbent.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘I think you’re supposed to read it, sir.’
‘Am I. Well, inside, in the light. Abbie, you might make him a cup of tea?’
‘If you’d like that, Corporal?’
‘Wouldn’t half, Miss!’
‘Come on up, then.’ She’d let them in. Asking Mike, ‘What can it be?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Switching on lights. ‘But if you have coffee –’
‘What passes for it, yes. Corporal – ?’
‘Tea for me, Miss. But if I might use your –’
‘In there.’
Mike had ripped open the khaki OHMS envelope. Inside he found a sheet of signal-pad on which Broadbent had scrawled: Mike – sorry to do this to you. As you know, Unsung sails tomorrow at dusk. As you did not know, she’ll be doing so under your command. Charles Melhuish tried to kill himself this afternoon – did not succeed but has been removed to hospital.
He let Abbie read it.
‘My God. Poor devil. But – oh, God …’ The kettle was boiling in her tiny kitchen: she’d gone to it. Sound of the plug being pulled. Mike snapped out of a thirty-second trance, told the corporal ‘I have to get back to Lazaretto. Might cadge a lift on your pillion?’
‘You’re welcome, sir.’
‘One tea, two so-called coffees. Sugar in the tin if you want it, Corporal.’
‘Much obliged, Miss.’
‘Well, sit there, look – I just want a very quick word with
Commander Nicholson. Won’t be a minute. Mike?’
‘Yes.’ In the bedroom, holding each other. ‘No point hanging about, you realise?’
‘Of course. You’ll need to be there first thing in the morning – if not before.’
‘Neither of us would sleep, in any case.’
‘Or much else, either.’
He kissed her. ‘I’ll be back, don’t worry.’
‘Well, of course you will!’
‘I mean in about a fortnight. If in doubt about anything, ring Johnno.’
‘You know what you’ll be doing, do you?’
‘Oh, yes. But tell Greta you’re on your own, and – just hang on. Eat properly, sleep well –’
‘I’ll dream of you.’
‘Ditto. I love you, Abbie. No, none of that – no business crying, no reason whatsoever – remember that now …’
Showell, Unsung’s first lieutenant, joined him at breakfast. He was properly concerned for his own CO but apparently glad to have someone he already knew as the replacement. There was no news of Melhuish, only the assumption that he was still alive. Johnno Broadbent had said last night that Charles had had a second letter from his wife in a mail that had come that morning; it had been filed with his other papers, in readiness for whatever kind of inquiry might be ordered. It seemed likely that the answers would be found in those two letters. Mike would have tried to visit him, but even if they’d allowed it he wouldn’t have had time. He’d collected his patrol orders from Shrimp’s office after breakfast; he’d drafted a good part of them himself, so it was no great revelation that Unsung was to join two other boats patrolling off Taranto. A very large landing operation was about to take place in northwest Africa, and emergence of Italian surface forces from their main bases was considered likely – from the Royal Navy’s point of view, sincerely hoped for.
In taking over command of Unsung there was a lot to check on and discuss. Everything from charts to torpedoes, including the boat itself; variations in design which one should know about and could lead to problems if one didn’t; signals and W/T gear, asdics including a mine-detection unit of which he’d had no practical experience; and of course personnel – meeting and needing some time with his officers, heads of departments and technicians. He’d said to Guy Mottram during a quick snack at lunch-time, ‘A week’s work in one day.’
‘You’ll catch up on it at sea and on the billet, old cock.’
‘Dare say I will, but the more one can do now –’
‘Anyway, good luck. I’ll be there to wave goodbye if I can. Six, six-thirty?’
‘Aiming for six.’
Unsung was in the wardroom berth, alongside, and storing ship had been in progress then, under the supervision of Showell and the coxswain, a Chief PO by name of Gladwich, thin as a boathook and about nine feet tall, Geordie accent, Conspicuous Gallantry Medal. They weren’t a bad lot at all, was his first impression. None of them said anything about Melhuish.
Storing ship was completed by five and the light beginning to change by six. He’d written and posted a quick letter to the Old Man, spent half an hour in conclave with Captain Swann, and was on board a few minutes before six, bringing his old seagoing rucksack containing as much gear as he’d need. It was precisely six when Showell reported all hands on board and ready for sea. Gladwich and the signalman, name of Horrobin – slight stutter and in need of a haircut – were already in the bridge, Showell ditto, Mike and his navigator – a sub-lieutenant whose name for the moment he’d forgotten – now joining them in the rapidly cooling evening air. He told Gladwich, ‘When we’ve cast off, Cox’n, I’ll get her clear of this lot and you can then take her out.’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
Obviously pleased. Which was a good start. He told Showell, ‘Leave me the back spring to turn on, get everything else off her.’
‘Aye, sir.’ He left him and the casing party to it, called down to the control room to group down.
‘Group down, sir.’ Ready for when the ropes and wires were off her and he’d put one motor slow ahead, swing her stern out. For the moment, glancing across at the softly-lit upper gallery, from where there’d been a call in the voice of Guy Mottram of ‘Good luck, Mike!’There were other well-wishers too – a considerable gathering – including Ursa’s officers – along the forefront of the old building. Swann, Shrimp’s replacement, more or less central to it, flanked by Commander (Submarines) and Sam MacGregor. Movement amongst them now – in the centre there, Broadbent pushing in, and Mottram making way for – Christ – Abbie?
Abbie. Incredibly … In the care of Johnno. Made no sense but –
Waving, and laughing – she was – at his surprise, he supposed – and Johnno beside her cupping his hands at his mouth and bawling, ‘Mike, she told me about your engagement not having to be secret any longer, and asked just this once might she come see you off. Captain S/M very kindly agreed, so –’
‘Congratulations, Nicholson!’
‘Thank you, sir. Thanks a lot, Johnno. Abbie – bless you!’
Fore spring gone, and the after breast. Fore breast cast off and being hauled in ashore. Enormous amount of cheering and clapping from the gallery. Nice of them: and brilliant of her. Life-lastingly brilliant, what she’d done. Must have called Johnno earlier in the day; his manner at lunch had been a little furtive. Mike had called down, ‘Slow ahead port’; he asked CPO Gladwich, ‘Ready to pipe, Cox’n?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Showing it in his palm – strangely-shaped tin whistle of a kind that had been in use in English fleets since the Middle Ages. Mike had stopped that motor and ordered both of them slow astern – nodding to Showell to have the casing party take that spring off her. She was beginning to slide away from the building stern-first now. He told Gladwich, ‘Pipe.’
All of them at attention, he and Swann at the salute, for the ‘Still’ – a thin, high note that was supposed to last eight seconds, then the
‘Carry On’, a similarly high but then steeply falling call cutting out abruptly after five. Formalities observed, and Unsung backing away quite fast now, dark water swirling; he’d ordered ‘Stop both motors’, and Showell was passing that down, while for a last sight of his fiancée he focused his glasses on her, saw her still waving frantically, and under that yellowish overhead light a glistening on her cheeks that couldn’t be anything but tears. Explicitly forbidden, on more than one occasion – but surely not to be held against her. Nothing to be held against her, ever.
Submariner (2008) Page 33
