by David Black
‘Then you wrote me that letter, and just smashed it all up.’ There had been a silence while they’d both contemplated the way the sun still caught the huge bay windows of the town houses along Park Terrace above them, then she’d said, ‘You stupid, stupid arse,’ without a hint of emphasis. When Harry had turned to look at her, her eyes were starting to fill. He made to embrace her.
‘Don’t touch me!’ A pause, then, ‘I don’t want you to touch me. I know when I wrote to you, after what had happened, I was clumsy, without any sophistication. A silly, romantic girl. But I was sincere. And that rubbish you replied. That maudlin, self-pitying whine like you were saying to yourself, “I’ll just lay it on thick, that’ll shut her up”. How dare you, you patronising bastard? You were mocking me. Demeaning me.’
Sitting there in the wardroom gallery on that cool Malta night, Harry couldn’t quite remember how he’d replied in the end. He remembered the shock he’d felt though, at hearing things he knew himself to be true, spelled out so succinctly. They had very briefly, and clumsily, become lovers on his previous leave, she, fresh from driving her ambulance during the Clydebank blitz, and him, his head full of whatever rubbish. She had written to him afterwards, telling him she loved him, and asking did he feel the same. And Harry, unable to take his eyes of a certain Polish nightclub singer, had procrastinated in reply.
Sitting there in the Kelvingrove Park, he’d muttered something to her about how the war had hardened him, made him callous, selfish; and he remembered there had been a “sorry”, in there somewhere. Likely the “sorry” had been the cue for her suddenly swivelling in her seat and turning that appraising gaze on him.
‘I was just a girl when I knew you first. And yes, very naive,’ she’d said. ‘But I’m a big girl now. All grown up since you sailed away in your tin bucket. I know a lot more about the world now, and about myself. Certainly enough to tell you to stick your “sorry” up your bum! Go away and play with your medals.’
He’d been smart enough to let that one hang for a while before opening his mouth again, choosing his words carefully to agree that what she’d been saying was probably true but that deep down he was still the same old Harry she remembered. But she’d interrupted.
‘I don’t think of you as a “Harry” anymore.’
He remembered frowning.
‘I think of you as a “Hugh” now.’
‘Hugh?’ he’d said, lost.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and like that Roman god that faces both the past and the future. Janus. In fact that’s what I call you every time I think of you. Hugh Janus. The two-faced, big arsehole.’ She’d been lolling in the seat as she spoke, and had put her hands behind her head, with a self-satisfied smirk, like she’d just said something she’d been longing to say for ages.
He’d laughed out loud at that; how could he not?
‘That’s just so filthy!’ he’d managed to reply, eventually, his head shaking, not wanting to laugh again, but finding it hard to suppress. ‘Where on earth did you learn to even think things like that, let alone say them?’
She’d smiled demurely over her shoulder, ‘The mechanic at the ambulance depot. He’s one of those self-taught didactics who also manages to possess a mind like a cess-pit. Little Gerry Little. I mix in low company now, you know. You’re not the only person corrupted by this war.’
Shrimp Simpson was leaning against one of the pillars at the opposite end of the gallery, watching Harry sitting alone, lost in his reverie. Shrimp had been on his way to tell him to grab his gear, but decided to stop and observe for a moment. And as he watched, he couldn’t help smiling to himself. Lt Harry Gilmour; if he lived to be a hundred, he would never become a proper, straight-up-and-down, squared-away Royal Navy officer in the finest traditions; he wouldn’t have a clue how to. Not an ounce of spit or polish in him and congenitally incapable of displaying any military bearing whatsoever. But then war had come along and suddenly the Navy had desperately needed men – all the men they could get – and it been amazing what the tiny island called Great Britain had offered up when the call had gone out, this Gilmour fellow being a classic example. How long must he have been in now? Two years? Must be near as dammit. Before that, an undergraduate student, studying for some artsy-fartsy degree. And how long had he, Shrimp Simpson, known the lad? He hadn’t a clue any more. It would be months, but it seemed like forever. And now the lad was one of his captains; with the makings of being a bloody good one. Funny old world; funny old war. You worked with what they sent you, and sometimes you got lucky. Shrimp hoped this was going to be one of those times – in fact, he was banking on it.
Nine
‘Captain to the bridge!’
Harry, sitting at the wardroom table with his mug of Ky, pouring over the chart for the North African coast, was out of the banquette and half way down the passage before he had to turn back and grab his gloves and cap, slapping the cap on his head before he shot up the conning tower ladder and into the chill, crystal clear dark of another Mediterranean night.
He was furious with himself. Barely a day out of Malta, he’d decided he’d spend all the night watches on the surface, on the bridge. He’d only gone below for five minutes to get the hot drink, and snatch a quick look at the chart.
The bridge when he got there, was crowded: four huddled figures, three of them lookouts in their balaclavas and dun-coloured watch duffle coats, and Lt Nick Farrar RN, HMS Scourge’s Jimmy-the-One, the man who’d summoned Harry.
‘The tiniest flare of light, fine on the port bow, sir,’ said Farrar, standing from where he’d been leaning to rest his night glasses. He pointed, indicating a line running parallel to the shore, almost north to south, the shore being a quarter of a mile off their starboard beam, but Harry, with his notorious night vision could see only shadow. Even Farrar’s finely wrought features were a pale blur as his eyes took forever to accustom themselves to the dark.
‘It looked like someone lighting a cigarette,’ said Farrar, and as he spoke a voice came up the pipe, ‘Bridge, Asdic. HE on one one zero. Closing. Low revs, and she sounds a bit wheezy, sir. Target is not big, or fast.’
Harry said, ‘Where are we, Number One?’ He had a general picture in his head of this part of the Libyan coast from staring at the chart he’d just left, out there, looming over his right shoulder as it dog-legged south towards the Egyptian border. He knew that hereabouts it wasn’t the usual flat, featureless waste typical of this part of the world, but a series of escarpments that dropped into the sea, and that were deeply scarred by sheer-sided wadis that sliced their way inland. But he wanted to know exactly where.
‘We’re about three miles north of Bardia, sir,’ said Farrar. Bardia was a tiny inlet and settlement, with its own jetty, an ideal bolt hole for the coast hugging traffic they were out here to hunt.
Farrar offered his night glasses, but Harry waved them away, ‘No thanks, Mr Farrar.’
With his god-awful night vision he knew he’d be able to see bugger all.
‘Bridge, Asdic. HE crossing our bows. She’s steady on one eight five.’
‘Ship, fine on the starboard bow!’ called one of the lookouts.
Farrar’s night glasses shot up, and he bent to peer into the dark. After a second or two, he whispered, ‘I have her. A queer looking thing … Not big … Quite high out the water … Just a superstructure aft. I think she’s a bunkering tanker. They’re obviously pressing any old tub into action.’
A battle had opened around that fly-blown railway halt away to the east of here, the one Hubert Marsham had told him about. It was the Eighth Army’s long-awaited offensive, and Jerry was rushing forward everything – reinforcements, ammunition, fuel – in a bid to run the British push into the sand.
That was why Harry had been rushed aboard Scourge, to take command and get her to sea fast, and why she had been ordered to this coast with the utmost dispatch.
Shrimp had told him. ‘Scourge is moored up at the torpedo store. Grab your kit and get round the
re now. If you’re fast, you might catch Commander Bayliss before he leaves. It won’t be much of a handover, but it can’t be helped. Here is your letter of appointment and your orders. When you’ve topped off your tanks, let Commander Jerome know. He has a minesweeper standing by to see you out through the swept channel. Good hunting.’
And that had been it. Harry’s temporary skipper days were over. He was now Captain of His Majesty’s Submarine Scourge, a “second group” S-class boat of 670 tons, 209 feet long and 24 foot of beam, armed with six 21-inch torpedo tubes forward, and two non-reloadable tubes fitted externally either side of the casing aft; a three-inch deck gun and a conning tower-mounted .303 machine gun. Her crew was now him, assisted by four other officers, and 32 ratings.
Harry reached for Farrar’s night glasses this time. His eyes were getting used to the dark now. No moon – it wasn’t due to rise for a couple of hours – but there was a riot of stars in a huge, majestic band across the sky that delivered just enough illumination. He could make out the shape of a ship, coming towards them at an angle.
Working back from the pebbling little bow wave to the dark block of her bridge right aft, he reckoned she was turning towards now, closing at about 20 degrees off Scourge’s bow; and inshore of them. From the chart, Harry knew there was barely enough water out here for them to dive: they were right on the s/o line – the “surface only” line. Further in, it would be even shallower. Also, Farrar was right: she was high out the water; she must just have unloaded at El Salloum or closer to the fighting at Marsa Matruh.
Almost instinctively he knew a torpedo would be too risky; without her load of fuel, the target’s draught would be just a few feet, so any kipper he fired was liable to pass underneath her. And the water that close inshore would be very shallow and shoaling. A torpedo could even hit the bottom. Being an old Tenth Flotilla hand, Harry had learned to be very jealous of his torpedoes.
Harry called, and hit the general alarm, ‘Close up for gun action!’
Harry watched the gun crew as they came tumbling out of the gun tower hatch immediately below his perch on the bridge front. Among them, he recognised Leading Seaman Hooper.
Harry had spent the three days and four nights – including this one – that it had taken to cover the 800 miles from Malta to this patrol billet, learning the quirks of his new command – how the boat performed, her vices and her virtues. He’d also had some questions for her Jimmy about her crew. Not chapter and verse right away; Scourge was a submarine, not some floating parade ground like that battleship he’d begun his own naval career aboard. He’d take his time to get to know his crew. And them, him. This was the Trade, after all – if you treated men like pegs to be hammered into their allotted holes, it could end up killing you. You needed to know them to get the best out of them, at least that’s what sailing with the likes of Andy Trumble and Malcolm Carey had taught him, and with that martinet Clive Rais too, when it came to what not to do.
So Harry had asked, ‘What’s Scourge really good at?’
And Farrar, her Jimmy, had replied without hesitation, ‘Gunnery. Leading Seaman Hooper, our gunlayer. He’s a crack shot. I am sure you will find we’re all good at what we do, sir. But Hooper’s special.’
In the seconds it had taken to notice Hooper, the man had loaded the gun and called, ‘Ready!’ so fast, Harry had for a moment forgotten it was up to him to identify the target. He bent to the TBT – the “target bearing transmitter”. Farrar had hauled it up earlier, right after they had surfaced to begin their night stalking for targets, being the diligent Jimmy he was. Harry, leaning over it, called the bearing and the range then shouted, ‘Commence firing!’
There was a terrific bang, and while his ears were still ringing, Harry saw through the coiling smoke in front of him a sudden, tiny gout of flame and a billowing cloud of smoke and debris burst out at the base of the target’s superstructure. He stood up. It was obvious Hopper, the crack-shot gunlayer, didn’t need any more firing instructions; another shell was already on the way, and as Harry looked down to the casing, the three-inch gun breach was already snapping open again, ejecting the spent shell case, and Hooper’s loader was already ramming a third round in.
‘They’re abandoning ship,’ said Farrar, standing right beside him. ‘Look. There are men going over the bridge wing.’
Harry looked up to see the target was also slewing round and heading for the beach.
BANG!
Another round was on the way, and this time it hit the derrick platform near her midships. Now he had a good look at her, Harry could see she was indeed a bunkering tanker and not all that small, maybe 700 or 800 tons. He watched mesmerised as one of the small samson posts toppled onto her deck, and other wreckage began splashing into the sea around her.
BANG!
Hooper had fired again; the rounds were going out fast and Harry was conscious of a mild curiosity as to where this next one would land. He wouldn’t swear to it afterwards, but he thought he actually saw a hole open up in one the tanker’s saddle tanks just aft of the derrick platform. Except, in the instant it took for the thought to form, the entire night was ripped by a huge flash, and the entire centre section of the tanker disappeared in a fountain of tumbling debris.
A second or two later, a huge thumping roar and pressure wave from the explosion hit them, and Harry stared wide-eyed as smaller pieces of blown-up ship began to pitter the surface just ahead.
‘That’s why they were jumping,’ observed Farrar, laconically. ‘Wouldn’t you want to get off before we ignited the petrol fumes left in their cargo tanks?’
Harry started laughing, and Farrar, a little unsure at first lest he was being presumptious, started laughing too.
‘Bloody good shooting, Hooper!’ Harry called over the bridge front. The leading seaman looked up and beamed at him.
****
Scourge swung out to sea, giving the wreckage a wide berth. The tanker’s back had been broken by the explosion, and several small fires aboard lit up the surrounding water so that her crew could clearly be seen splashing ashore. The wireless room had confirmed the tanker had failed to broadcast any distress call, but Bardia wasn’t that far away and it had been a pretty big bang and flash when the tanker had gone up, somebody might have noticed and be on the way to check. The watch changed: Farrar went below and Scourge’s Number 4 came up; the two lookouts swapped with their reliefs. Harry opened the voice pipe and told Leading Seaman Biddle in the Asdic room to keep a sharp listening watch for any HE coming up the coast.
They hadn’t long to wait.
‘Bridge, Asdic,’ it was Biddle. ‘High-speed HE, a bit of a way off still, but closing fast, fine on the port bow … it’s light stuff … two of them … line abreast, like they’re carrying out a sweep, sir.’
Then one of the lookouts had them: little cream lines of wake in the darkness, with dark hulls riding on them, more blobs than shapes, too indistinct at this range and in the dark. But Harry knew what they were anyway. Italian MAS boats. Harry had encountered them before, on many occasions.The term MAS was an acronym for Mezzi d’Assalto, or assault vehicle being the literal translation, and they were beautiful, fast, little beasts of 30-odd tons, capable of over 40 knots and armed originally with a couple of 450mm torpedoes and a single anti-aircraft pop-gun. Not very deadly compared to the Jerries’ E-boats, but then the Italian Navy had been modifying them, arming them with a few depth charges and Breda 37mm quick-firing canons that could lob 3lb high-explosive shells at you at the rate of 120 rounds a minute, at an effective range of over 4000 yards. Harry decided to steer well clear, and ordered Scourge trimmed down so the water was washing over her decks, and a course change to take them further to out to sea. It might only be a quarter moon tonight, but it was due to rise soon.
The MAS boats passed them by, charging up the coast, the noise of their engines in the darkness soon being drowned by Scourge’s own diesels, one pushing her out to sea at a gentle five knots and the other pumping charge
into her batteries.
The officer of the watch, young Tom McCready, was an RNVR sub-lieutenant much like Harry had been. And at least he showed no sign of being uncomfortable, unlike the boat’s other officers who, when forced to share the bridge with their new skipper every time they’d come on watch, had become positively twitchy.
Harry had taken to remaining topside since early in the long passage from Malta, not through any grand plan for discharging his new responsibilities of command, but mainly because remaining below, pretending to rest, he found simply impossible. On the first night out he had stretched out on his tiny bunk – the one luxury aboard, for anyone – eyes wide open, listening the rhythm of a boat he did not know yet, wondering what was happening on the bridge, even though he knew what was happening on the bridge, and in the control room and the engine room and in the radio cubby and everywhere else on board.
He knew they were proceeding on the surface to their billet on the far-off Egyptian coast at a steady 10 knots; he knew that there was an officer of the watch and two lookouts on the bridge. In the control room, the helm would be manned, and the dive board and the two hydroplanes. There would be a telegraphist on duty in the radio cubby and a full watch in the engine room. During the hours of darkness, the watch would change every four hours, and the chart marked with their course and position. At first light, he’d be called and the boat would submerge, the crew going to watch diving.
Harry had spelled out in great detail to every watch officer, shortly after they had cast off from the pontoon at the torpedo store, exactly what he expected from each of them in every eventuality. Even if it was just the weather changing, the captain was to be called to the bridge; in fact, if anything happened out of the ordinary, the captain was at the very least informed, if not actually called to the bridge. And if in doubt whether to actually call him to the bridge, the officer of the watch was to dive the boat first, then tell him later. No-one would be held to account for diving the boat first, then wondering whether to call. No-one.
