Go In and Sink! (3 page)

What had he gone to tell her? That he had seen Bill before he had slipped out of Malta? That they had shared drinks together in a bar the night before?

He had almost decided to order the taxi back to Portsmouth and forget the whole idea. He need not have bothered. The house where he had spent many hours in the past had been occupied by total strangers. She had moved away. No, they did not know where. Nor care, by the sound of the voices.

Perhaps she had gone back to her parents. Or maybe she had just immersed herself in some sort of war-work to keep her hurt from familiar faces and voices from the past.

Either way, he had returned to Fort Blockhouse feeling tired and depressed. When he had passed the pier he had stared with something like disbelief.
Tristram
had already gone, her berth taken by another boat. For the first time in so many months he felt at a loss. It was unreal, disconcerting. He was being flown to Scotland in the morning, but nobody could or would tell him where or why. His command had been spirited away as were her company, and he was completely alone.

He had gone to his room, avoiding familiar faces in the wardroom bar, open stares from the new intake of
sub-lieutenants
like a man with some terrible disfigurement or guilt. It was ridiculous, and destructive, and he told himself so again and again.

The old naval pensioner who tended over his needs required no explanation. He had seen too many like Marshall come and go. He brought him a bottle of gin, watched him sign the chit, and left the room without a word. Not even about the weather, which was surprising in England.

The flight north to Scotland was a bumpy one. The February skies were thick with cloud, and the aircraft sounded as if it had known better days. The journey too seemed like a dream sequence. Even the handful of passengers were unusual. A pale-faced seaman handcuffed to an escort being taken back to his ship to face charges of desertion. A young Wren officer who fell asleep immediately on take-off and did not stir until the plane touched down outside Rosyth. A lieutenant with a terrible twitch who looked as if he was on the extreme brink of a breakdown, and a sergeant of marines who repeatedly massaged one ankle as if it was hurting him. In fact, he was trying to see up the Wren officer’s leg.

The bottle of gin had not helped Marshall to face the uncomfortable flight. His mouth was like raw flesh, and he was grateful for the coffee and sandwiches brought by one of the aircraft’s crew.

At the airfield a harassed R.N.V.R. lieutenant ushered him to yet another plane. A small, single-engined job with a pilot who seemed too young to be out of school.

North and still further north. On their shouted conversations over the intercom Marshall was able to glean a little more of his destination.

The pilot bellowed, ‘Just south of Cape Wrath, sir!’

It was far enough. Much more and they would drop into the Atlantic.

Despite the base captain’s caution, Marshall had still expected to be going to the Holy Loch. Submarines did a lot of working-up there, as well as sailing on operational patrols. But Cape Wrath was the north-westerly tip of the British Isles. He could not imagine what they could have up there.

Occasionally he caught sight of humped hills and rain-washed roads through gaps in the cloud. The Mediterranean was drawing farther and farther away with each turn of the prop, and not merely in distance.

Eventually the pilot shouted, ‘Coming into the field now, sir!’

The
field
proved to be little more than a strip of tarmac surrounded by mud, a couple of dismal looking Nissen huts and a wind-sock. If the flight had been overtaken by darkness, Marshall doubted that either the plane or its occupants would have survived.

Some oilskinned figures emerged reluctantly from one of the huts and ran towards the plane, their bodies bowed to a steady drizzle which looked as if it had come to stay.

As they gathered up Marshall’s luggage, a burly marine provost sergeant squelched across to meet him and threw up a stiff salute. Despite his rain-spattered waterproof cape, muddy boots and leggings he still managed to make Marshall feel crumpled and untidy.

‘’Tenant Commander Marshall, sir?’ The eyes moved swiftly from top to toe. ‘Identity card, if you please, sir.’ He took it and held it beneath his cape. ‘Fair enough, sir. Now we’d better be off.’ He gestured towards a dripping Humber car. ‘Not far. Good ’ot meal waiting for you,
sir
.’ He swung on his heel, barking at the men with the luggage to ‘
get a bleedin’ move on
.’

Marshall turned to look back as the small plane taxied round and began to lurch along the shining strip of tarmac. The youthful pilot had already forgotten him. One piece of freight safely delivered. Now back to the field, and probably some girl.

Marshall smiled into the drizzle. Good luck to him.

The sergeant called, ‘Now then, sir, we don’t want to to be late, do we?’

Marshall climbed into the car and held to a strap as it churned noisily across the furrowed ground.

The sergeant squinted through the windscreen and said, ‘Loch Cairnbawn, sir. That’s where we’re ’eading.’ He swore as a sheep ambled across the narrow track. ‘If we’re spared!’

Marshall relaxed slightly. He was allowed that piece of information now that he was safely inside the car and the aircraft gone. What would this sergeant do, he wondered, if he ordered him to drive back to the airstrip? Pretend not to hear, probably.

It was all but dark by the time they reached the loch, but after the savage jerking motion and the sergeant’s constant swearing, albeit under his breath, Marshall hardly cared. Faces and flashlights loomed against the side windows, barbed wire and armed sentries slid away into the gloom as they continued more smoothly between a line of huts.

‘This way, sir.’ The marine held open the door and snapped his fingers to some more anonymous figures to collect the luggage again. ‘There’s a launch waiting to take you out to the depot ship. You are expected.’

‘I should bloody well hope so after getting this far!’
Marshall
was surprised at his own anger. ‘Thanks for looking after me, sergeant.’

The marine watched him walk towards a small police light at the end of the pier and chuckled indifferently.

More barbed wire, and once again his identity card was scrutinised, a torch flashed across his face.

A lieutenant came out of the darkness and said apologetically, ‘I’m sorry about all this, sir. Security’s pretty tight here.’

Marshall nodded, half-blinded by the torch. He could see no sign of any depot ship.

The lieutenant waved his torch towards a small motor boat which had been swaying and pitching a few yards from the pier.

‘The old
Guernsey
is moored out in the loch, sir. The buoys were laid especially for her.’

Marshall watched the motor boat as it came alongside. The
Guernsey
was not unkown to him. Nor any other submariner who had been aboard her. A very old depot ship, coal-fired, and extremely uncomfortable, she rarely appeared anywhere these days, except as a temporary accommodation vessel.

The boat’s coxswain stood in the sternsheets as Marshall climbed into the small cockpit. Marshall watched him as he waited for the luggage to be loaded forward and found some small sense of belonging. The familiar tally on the man’s cap,
H.M. Submarines
, showed that even up here on this desolate, freezing loch there was a world he could understand.

It did not take long to reach the moored ship. As the boat plunged and dipped around her outdated stern Marshall saw two submarines tethered alongside, but that was all. The boat swung to the opposite side, and after
a
snarl of churning propeller, came to rest against the accommodation ladder.

The Officer of the Day, shining brightly inside the square of the entry port, saluted smartly and said, ‘Nice to have you aboard, sir.’

Marshall removed his cap and shook it on the deck. With the screens dropped across the entry port again he was conscious of being swallowed up. The start of a new process.

He heard rapid pistol shots, the sound of thundering horses.

The O.O.D. grinned. ‘There’s a Western in the ship’s canteen, sir. They’ve all seen it before, of course, but up here there’s not much else to do.’

‘I see that you have a couple of boats alongside.’

The lieutenant looked past him. ‘Did you, sir?’ He did not go on. Instead he said, ‘Captain Browning left strict orders that you were to be given your cabin, a good meal and anything else you need immediately.’ He glanced meaningfully at the bulkhead clock. ‘He will see you at 2100.’

Marshall felt the same unreasoning anger returning It was like being a raw trainee.

He snapped, ‘Is it all right to be told what’s on the menu?’

The lieutenant flushed. ‘Cottage pie, sir.’ He dropped his eyes. ‘I’m only obeying orders.’

A steward led the way down two companion ladders and into a neat panelled cabin. Probably first-class originally when the
Guernsey
had began her long life as a cruise ship.

A piping-hot bath, a change of clothes and what proved to be a very good cottage pie helped to ease some of his
resentment
. The meal was laid at the end of a long table and he was served by at least three stewards. There was not one single officer present, and he pictured them elsewhere, maybe watching the Western.

He leaned back in the chair and sighed. Poor Gerrard would get a shock when he joined him again. It was more like a monastery than a submarine depot ship.

‘I’d like a glass of port.’

The steward glanced at his watch. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I don’t think you’ve got the time just now.’

Marshall twisted in his chair. ‘
A glass of port!
’ He saw the stewards exchanging unhappy glances. ‘And I may want another!’

Outside the sealed scuttles he could hear the wind getting up and rain slashing against the ship’s tall side. He thought he heard a motor boat chugging abeam, and wondered if it was some sort of security patrol, or maybe on a night exercise. While he sipped his port he thought about Gerrard and wondered what he was doing. In his wife’s arms. Or still explaining why he was being sent away again so soon.

He glanced at his watch. He was five minutes late for his meeting with Captain Browning. He smiled despite his previous anger.
Buster
.

He could almost feel the stewards sighing with relief as he rose and left the table.

The captain’s office was below the main bridge superstructure, and in a small outer compartment Marshall was confronted by a bespectacled lieutenant seated at a desk. He had white cloth between his gold stripes.

He snapped severely, ‘I’m Morris, Captain’s secretary.’ He seemed about to remark on the time but said, ‘He’s
waiting
.’

The inner office was very large and ran the whole width of the superstructure. Like much of the ship, it was panelled, and held an air of shabby opulence.

Captain Giles Browning stood with his back to a steam radiator, eyes fixed on the door as Marshall entered, his hands hanging at his sides like huge chunks of meat. He was not tall but extremely broad and full-bellied, so that he appeared to be leaning backwards to adjust the weight.

He waited until Marshall had crossed the room and thrust out one large hand. ‘Glad to have you, Marshall.’ His voice was thick and resonant, his grasp hard. He gestured to a chair and then crossed heavily to a decanter and glasses.

Marshall watched him warily. Browning was bald, with just a few tufts of grey hair above his ears which joined sparsely at the back of his collar. But his bald pate was very tanned and freckled, and he decided that with hair it would somehow seem wrong on the man. The face too was interesting. Crumpled and uneven, and he guessed he had been a boxer or rugby player in younger days.

The captain offered him a glass.

‘Nice drop of port.’ His eyes fixed on Marshall’s. They were ice-blue and very clear. ‘I gather you enjoy it,’ he added dryly.

Marshall sipped it slowly. An apology was pointless. And any man who took pains to find out what he had been drinking at dinner would see through it in a flash.

Instead he said, ‘I understand I’m to to take command of——’

Browning interrupted him curtly, ‘All in good time. Drink your drink and relax. I know a lot about you. Now
I
want you to know a bit about me.’ He seated himself carefully in a big chair. ‘I admire professionals. Always have. And you’ve been damn good to achieve your record. I was good myself once, but I could no more take a submarine into action now than speak Yiddish. And it doesn’t follow that
you’re
any use for what I want!’

Marshall came up in the chair with a jerk.

But Browning held up one of his massive hands. ‘Keep calm. I speak my mind. And as I’m far senior to you, I can speak mine first, right?’

A grin spread very slowly across his battered features. Like sunlight on some old ruin, Marshall thought vaguely.

But he found himself smiling. ‘
Right
, sir.’

‘Good. This job is very hush-hush. Has to be. Hence me. Hence you.’ He reached for the decanter. ‘You’ve been a long time in the Med. You know the picture out there. It’s been a hard struggle, but now the Germans in North Africa are on the run. With our Eighth Army pushing from the east and the Americans from the west, Rommel will be out of Africa by the spring.’

Marshall leaned back in his chair again. Browning spoke with such calm assurance that it was fascinating.

‘The next thing will be an Allied invasion of Europe.’ The blue eyes vanished in a crinkle of lines. ‘That’s a secret, too! But one thing is certain, we’ll need many more troops than we have available now. They’ll come from America and Canada, and round the Cape from Australia and New Zealand for such a massive operation.’

Marshall glanced at the Victoria Cross ribbon on Browning’s jacket. It was not all that hard to picture him in his own boat.

Browning asked sharply, ‘Do you know what a
milch-cow
is?’