Turn Left for Gibraltar

by David Black

  But they’d made it back, and Harry was here now with the letter he’d so wished he’d read before, because he’d been convinced he was going to die on that last patrol, because as he’d said to himself often these days: Why not? Everyone else is.

  He’d brought his last scotch with him, so he took a belt, and then slid his fingers along the letter’s seal. It had been many places, this letter, following him through the Navy’s labyrinthine mail service, posted from Glasgow, all those months ago. A lot had happened since. He’d been halfway around the world and back, and he wondered what had happened to Shirley in that time. He knew she was still alive from his mother’s letter, lying open on the bed beside him. And that she was still driving an ambulance in Glasgow. And that she still asked for news of him.

  It wasn’t much of a letter, he could see that right away – no newsy, chatty ramble like she used to write to him. But then he hadn’t been expecting that. Not this time.

  On a hill behind the town, he’d been back on leave after that battle in the Russian fjord that officially never happened, back to recover from his wounds, and awash with self-pity that he intended to wallow in. And Shirley too was back for a wee rest, because she too had been through things, driving her ambulance in Glasgow. And she had come looking for him, knowing where to find him, because she needed him. But Harry hadn’t been interested in what had happened to her – Had you, Harry? asked the little voice in his head.

  So when Shirley had sex with you, Harry, there on the hill, it had come as something of a surprise.

  You only found out later what she’d been taking a wee rest from. Cleaning up after the Clydebank Blitz. And in need of someone to make her feel alive again, because all the people she’d met there hadn’t been.

  He waited until the little voice shut up, then he started reading:

  My dearest Harry, I am sitting down to start this letter, and I don’t know how to. But I’ve been putting it off for too long. What do I want to say to you? The truth, I suppose. Well, as I see it. Then I hope you’ll write and tell me if you see it that way too. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? You always told me everything and always told me the truth, even when it did not make you look very manly or heroic. So I owe you nothing less. We both know what happened that day, so there is no need for me to spell it out here. But what I want to spell out is why. I needed comforting that day and that was why I came looking for you. Not for your sake, but for mine and I wasn’t prepared to wait. Or ask. You didn’t see that, did you? You weren’t paying attention. You were somewhere else. But I took what I needed anyway. And in keeping with the spirit of truth telling, I want to tell you now that I am not sorry I did. Because I love you. There, another truth. Now, I want you to tell me the truth. Tell me what you feel, Harry. I would like to know. It will be better for me to know. Whatever you tell me, I will understand. And I will swear to you now, never to take anything from you ever again that is not freely given.

  God keep you safe, my darling,

  Your loving Shirley XXX

  John, the Maltese steward, was passing by the junior officers’ cabins with a tray full of glasses to be washed when he heard sobbing come from one of them. He stopped half a step to listen, then carried on. Best to. If they were sobbing, they were letting it out. Whoever it was would be all right eventually; he knew his boys.

  Two other Tenth Flotilla submarines were in from patrol apart from Umbrage, and Harry was slumped on one of the wardroom gallery’s easy chairs, wreathed in smiles and sipping pink gins with the CO of one of them: his old friend and former First Lieutenant on Trebuchet, Malcolm Carey.

  ‘We’ll have din-dins here,’ said Malcolm, deciding, him being a Lieutenant and therefore senior. ‘Then we’ll head over to Sliema to the ERA Club. I’m not going to the Union Club, Katty Kadzow or no Katty Kadzow. We won’t be able to hear ourselves think in there, and I want to hear all your news.’

  Harry could barely conceal his pleasure at finally catching up with Carey, glad that Umbrage had still been in dock when Nicobar, Carey’s boat, had come in. But then Umbrage was going to be laid up for some time. That depth charge, the one that hadn’t gone off, had done considerable damage to her periscope hoists and sealing glands; the conning tower hatches needed reseating too, and repairs were not progressing well, or so he’d heard. And, having been temporarily co-opted on to Shrimp’s staff, he was in the best place to hear.

  Harry had wanted to know about Nicobar’s last patrol. ‘A peach,’ Carey had said. ‘We must have shortened the war by at least ten minutes.’ He was being modest, of course. Nicobar had sunk a total of six thousand tons’ worth of Eyetie merchant shipping in just one outing. But what Carey really wanted to talk about was what Harry had been up to, especially with their old friend Grainger. But first Harry told Carey about his wheeze with the bundle of Italian coastal pilot books he’d found, and that Shrimp now had him working on, full-time, translating. Carey had listened and had concluded, ‘You know, Andy Trumble always said you were a sneaky little bastard, Harry. And he was right. Thank God you’re on our side.’

  Now they were talking about Umbrage’s last patrol, their voices hushed. The tall, always smiling Aussie’s obvious pleasure at seeing Harry again had disappeared, replaced by a very glum face. The long, stretched-out pose had gone too, and he was sitting scrunched up, listening to every word.

  Harry did not discuss morale aboard Umbrage. He wasn’t out to do a hatchet job on his CO, and he knew Malcolm Carey enough to know he wouldn’t have wanted to hear one. All Harry would say about Rais and Grainger’s relationship was that it was ‘difficult’. Carey, who already knew Grainger from his time on Trebuchet, filled in the rest for himself.

  But the main reason Harry had broached the subject was that he needed to talk to someone about the trip back with no periscope.

  ‘The weather was good to us,’ said Harry. ‘No overcast, just the usual tramontane streamer stuff, so we were getting lots of good star sights, so we always knew where we were when we surfaced at night. But it was surfacing without an all-round look first. I don’t mind telling you, I couldn’t believe how much it worked on my nerves, but it did . . .’

  Carey let out a small guffaw. ‘Really?’ And then both of them had a little laugh at that, knowing exactly what the other meant.

  ‘Our ASDIC man, Tuke, he was bloody good,’ said Harry, ‘probably saved us a few times . . . But without a damn periscope, you can only know so much about what’s waiting for you. Your ASDIC man can’t hear a shagbat overhead, or a MAS-boat just drifting, so her cook can catch a load of lampuki for their tea.

  ‘Anyway, it was daylight, late afternoon, we were off the mouth of the Golfo di Cofaro, waiting for nightfall so we could surface and get down to Marittimo with our diesels getting a full charge on, so we could dive and do our run through the minefield the following day. And what happens? We pick up a lot of HE, coming up behind us. It was the enemy convoy the latest intelligence report was alerting all boats about. And there we were in a perfect attacking position, but we couldn’t see. Yet the CO decided he was going to attack anyway, on ASDIC. The two torpedoes were readied. Our ASDIC lad counted five separate contacts. Three, he reckoned were destroyers. One was likely a small merchantman, the other something quite a bit bigger. He explained to Rais it was impossible to know the range – ASDIC doesn’t do accurate range – but you know that. Rais didn’t seem to, and wouldn’t listen. Christ, he shouldn’t have needed telling. “Guess,” he said, having spent the entire patrol and all previous ones, bawling Tuke out because he’d been guessing. So we got on what we thought was the track angle, dialled in Tuke’s estimate for target speed, range and bearing into the fruit machine, and we fired a two-shot salvo on the deflection angle that came out. And one minute, twenty-seven seconds into the torpedoes’ run, bang! And that’s when they turned on us.

  ‘Five hours it lasted,’ Harry added. ‘It wasn’t as bad as what Jerry flung at us off North Cape. But bad enough. And we couldn’t go too deep,
because no matter how much the Wrecker kept trying to repack the periscope glands, every time we went down, they unpacked themselves and pissed water all over the control room. There were shorts . . . sparks . . . bangs, and not many of the crew had been through a depth-charging before. So you can imagine. Still, no reports of vented bowels or bladders. They were good lads, everyone handled it.

  ‘But even when we thought it was over, and it was dark, we still daren’t risk surfacing.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Carey. ‘Your CO got that right. The destroyer’s favourite trick. If they lose you, ring all stop and wait and see if you come up to check if the coast is clear. Then they run you over.’

  ‘It got really rank in the boat,’ said Harry. ‘The air was really bad. And what with all our charging about trying to dodge them, and me not knowing from one moment to the next whether I was going to have to change my nappy, I didn’t know exactly where we were. All I knew for certain was that out there were a lot of little islands and a bloody great minefield that stretched all the way to North Africa.’

  Carey exhaled, long and loud. ‘Bloody hell, chum. But you made it back.’

  ‘We did,’ said Harry. ‘Thanks to our CO. He’s a bastard. He’s not interested in his crew and he’s reckless, but he sinks ships and he gets away with it. And that’s all any of us know about him. I don’t even know where he is now.’

  Carey considered his drink. Eventually he said, ‘I know where he is, and a bit about him too. So does Shrimp’, and he paused, as if reflecting how much to confide. Then he decided, ‘I’m not sure Shrimp will have approved of your ASDIC attack. He’s very strict on how his Skippers calculate their risk. Every boat here is worth its weight in gold. And so are their experienced COs. Horton apparently told him to treat us like Derby winners. Don’t go barging in unless you’re confident – and that was his exact word, confident – that you’re going to get away with it, or the prize isn’t really worth the candle.’

  Harry nodded, then asked, ‘What do you know about Rais?’

  ‘I’m not gossiping, so don’t expect me to.’

  ‘Heaven forefend!’

  Carey snorted. ‘Okay. But mum’s the word. He goes and stays with a family up on St Paul’s Bay. Some retired diplomat. A civilian cup-bearer to a past HM Governor. Your CO has been here before. Med Fleet. But he has other connections too. When he’s in mufti. Big-time connections.’

  ‘He told me he didn’t have any connections,’ said Harry.

  ‘Really?’ said Carey archly. ‘Well, maybe not the ones he wants. I’m led to understand, however, that he moves in rarefied circles. So one of the senior pongoes told me. One of the ones with an “Hon.” in front of his double-barrelled moniker. But there are complications apparently. It’s a matter of Lieutenant Rais not being quite “the thing”, if you get my meaning. Apparently some of his fellow “circlers” are not exactly on side. And some are downright sniffy. So I’m told. So a lot of chips on shoulders.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Harry.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Harry,’ Carey sighed. ‘I thought you Poms were tuned into all that subtlety stuff. His pedigree on daddy’s side is top hole, unfortunately he was born on the wrong side of the sheets.’

  Harry’s eyebrows shot up. Everything suddenly made sense. Well, well, well, young Clive, Harry said to himself. You must really be out to prove yourself, and then some. ‘How rarefied a circle are we talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘How rarefied do you want to go?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Harry, Wykham, Lieutenant Hume and two other Subs had walked off Manoel Island to have lunch at one of the local cafés on the Sliema seafront. It was one of Hume’s favourites, and the owner especially liked him, because, despite it being really against the rules, Hume always brought him bags of real coffee, almost impossible to get now for the local Maltese.

  It was early afternoon, and although it was another bright, sunny day, there was a chill in the air. The young officers sat round, muffled up, drinking from a large glass jug of sharp-tasting vino blanca and tucking into a huge plate of fried sardines and pimentos. Harry was just taking a napkin to his greasy lips when he saw him come on to the far end of the café’s patio. Tall, with his hair blowing in the light breeze from beneath that RAF cap that still looked as if it had been slept in, and still wearing the khaki battledress tunic and the Oxford bags and the disreputable suedes.

  The patio was mainly full of other officers, a mixture of all three services, the locals being too sensible to sit out in the cold. A waiter emerged, and the new arrival stopped him. Harry wasn’t quite close enough to hear what he was asking, but when the waiter pointed in the direction of Harry’s table, he heard him say, ‘They’re the submariners . . . the scruffy ones?’ The new arrival walked over. No one but Harry had noticed or heard, but they were each being scrutinised in turn.

  ‘Is one of you . . .’ the RAF officer began, and then his face lighting on Harry’s, he said in a voice laden with arrogant presumption, ‘You’re Harry Gilmour, right?’

  Harry, looking back at him with the same candour, thinking, Cheeky bastard, replied, ‘And you’re Twally.’

  The RAF officer didn’t like that. ‘Chally,’ he said, ‘but only to my friends.’

  ‘Really,’ said Harry. ‘Well, I had better call you Toby then, Flight Lieutenant Challoner.’

  Chally didn’t like that either, and Harry got an inkling Chally wasn’t used to people talking back to him like that. He went back to eating his sardines, leaving Chally just standing there, seemingly at a loss what to say next.

  Harry, growing up, would never have been so abrupt with anyone, but Harry, a serving submariner, couldn’t be arsed humouring arseholes.

  ‘I wanted to meet this chap my girl is always talking about,’ said Chally eventually.

  Harry fed himself another forkful of sardine, dabbed his lips with the napkin, then scooped up his wine glass and sat back with an insouciant smile. He could tell Chally expected him to say something, so he didn’t. The others around the table were just starting to notice someone else had joined them. When Hume looked up, he recognised Chally immediately, and put down his fork and wine glass to do the introductions.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, with an expansive gesture, but not bothering to get off his backside, ‘it’s the Great Chally-ostro! The D.W. Griffith of photoreconnaissance! Every film an epic!’ And while he talked, he pulled a chair out, and Chally sat. ‘Do you know that when this man popped over to Taranto last year, to do a last-minute count of the Italian Fleet,’ Hume continued, ‘just to make sure they’d be in when Illustrious’s Swordfish came a-calling, he flew so low so as not to miss any, that they found a ship’s aerial wire wrapped around his tail wheel when he landed. Now that was just showing off, oh great Chally-ostro! Admit it!’

  Harry turned to look at Chally, expecting him to be embarrassed at all this ham adulation, but what he saw instead was the man lapping it up.

  ‘I met your boyfriend yesterday,’ said Harry, as he dropped the past few days’ translation on Katty’s desk to be typed up. He saw her head go down slightly, like someone preparing to hear bad news, the kind she’d heard before. ‘He’s invited me along to see your set on Friday night,’ Harry added, and she looked up again, a smile, coupled with a wrinkle of perplexity, on her face.

  ‘I’ll be nervous, knowing you’ll be in the audience,’ she said, all faux modesty, ‘and I’ll be terrible!’

  Looking back on it, the days Harry spent on Malta through November 1941 all seemed to run into each other. If it hadn’t been for the Italians’ half-hearted attempts at air raids most nights, it might have been a holiday.

  During the day, he worked his way through Capitano Massimo’s remarkably elegant prose, then he delivered the results to Katty who typed and bound them while the RAF photo lab reproduced and appended any relevant illustrations. And then he carried the finished briefings back to the Lazaretto’s wardroom, where th
e Navigators from boats going out on patrol could refer to the particular stretch of coast they were headed for, and update their charts.

  Two consequences of the work were that he got to spend numerous hours killing time and idly dallying with the glamorous Katty while she worked, talking away about nothing in particular. That was the good one. The other consequence was that he frequently found himself the butt of endless tedious wardroom jokes about being Shrimp’s swot – doing extra homework for teacher: ‘Did you get a gold star in your exercise book for that one, Harry, or just a silver?’ – and the odd barbed ones, too, about his ‘going-inshore-made-easy’ guides, and how good was his Italian anyway? One adjectival clause, mistaken for a subordinating conjunction, and some poor bloke could end up killed.

  Then on his odd days off he got to borrow a bicycle from one of the base officers, which meant he could go anywhere on the island within the ‘get back before dark’ radius, but only on the understanding that he filled the saddlebags with any harvestable vegetation, dead birds or animals, or general rotting gash he came across.

  ‘For the pigs,’ was the explanation given by Lieutenant Commander Pop Giddings, a former wine merchant and reservist, now turned base Executive Officer: for the Tenth had its very own herd of porkers, and if Harry wanted to continue eating bacon, he’d better start foraging. ‘You don’t have to think it’s edible, lad,’ the elderly Pop had explained, ‘as long as the pig does. You’re not looking for “food”, you’re looking for what “food” likes to eat.’

  It was hard work pedalling up the hills behind Valletta, but the views up the island, when he got there, made it all worthwhile: the barren, white, sun-blasted rock of the place, almost treeless. A landscape of stunted scrub and thin soil, where what there was of it was shielded from being blown into the sea by a vast, interlinking network of thousands of low limestone walls, like a patchwork quilt across the whole island. Sometimes, if he started early, he could get to the small towns of Mdina, Imtarfa, Rabat and back easily in a day. These little white stone hilltop fort settlements, with their church towers and red tile roofs peeking over their bastions – it was beautiful, otherworldly for a lad from the north, almost biblical. Malta: all you got was a mere 120 square miles of it, according to the maps. On paper, it didn’t sound much: smaller than the Isle of Wight, almost half the size of the Isle of Man. But it was the views from up in the hill towns that showed you how small that really was.