Go In and Sink! (5 page)

With the left handle he swivelled the top lens upwards,
towards
the dull sky. Where the prowling aircraft would be. Waiting and noiseless for a submarine to surface. The most vulnerable moment.

Browning must have seen his quiet smile as he had studied the little scene ashore for he said, ‘You seem happy with her. Got the
feel
already, eh?’

Marshall looked at him gravely. The captain’s guard had momentarily dropped. It was all there on his battered face. Plesaure, pride. But most of all, envy.

Envy. Poor old
Buster
he thought. He’s been left too far behind to understand.

‘Something like that, sir. I’d like to do a full tour of the boat and then compare my notes with your fitness reports.’

The other officer said, ‘As you know, she mounts six tubes forrard and two aft. She carries twelve spare torpedoes inboard and nine more on the after casing in pressure-tight compartments.’

Browning said quickly, ‘A total of twenty-nine tin-fish, eh?’

They all looked at him. Marshall realised with a start that Browning was already feeling out of things. His scheme, his plan to pull off the impossible, had been made to give way to the real professionals.

He said quietly, ‘Not like
your
last command, I expect sir?’

Browning beamed. ‘Too true. Even that little H-boat alongside would have seemed like a liner to me then!’

The one called Marker said, ‘The diesels are excellent. Will give you eighteen knots on the surface. The electric motors can do eight submerged.’

Marshall asked sharply, ‘You’re not so happy about those?’

‘My people have stripped them down and they
seem
fair enough. But they probably said that when she left Kiel. You’ll have to watch ’em.’

They moved forward through the pressure bulkhead and past the main switchboard where three artificers were crawling amongst a complex of wire and gauges. There was a gentle hum of power, a sense of some latent energy which made the hull feel alive.

Marshall saw a door marked ‘
Kapitan
’ and faltered. In
Tristram
he had shared the wardroom with his officers, had been made to display his confidence and doubts off duty as well as on. Here at least he would have somewhere to be alone, no matter how briefly, with his thoughts. Be able to shed his outward mask of assurance, have no need to shield his anxieties.

A quick glance inside. The shelves on the bulkhead were already filled with British publications as well as the original ones.

Browning called from the passageway, ‘You will have one officer who speaks fluent German. Two of your telegraphists are also hand-picked for their work with enemy codes and transmissions.’

‘That was thoughtful, sir.’

He hid a frown. What was the matter with Browning? Was he worried about his ability to command, or his own problems in getting the boat prepared? To have trained operators and an officer who was equally versed in German was obvious. Or should have been.

Occasionally men squeezed past them as they carried on with their inspection. Marshall saw their glances. The
word
would soon get round. The new C.O. was aboard. What’s he like? Wait and see. You never know with officers. And so on.

And here was the wardroom, where he would meet his officers. Assess them, as they would him.

Petty Officers’ Mess and past the refrigerator compartment where a supply officer was engrossed in checking his lists against those pasted on the door. Every inch of space must be used. Every item checked. And then checked again.

Forward into the torpedo stowage compartment, the long, gleaming
fish
in their racks. Here, most of the seamen would also live as best they could, sharing their daily meals and off watch relaxation with these sleek killers.

A glance above to the forward escape hatch. A quick look down into the Asdic compartment and through the watertight door to the tube space. Six gleaming breeches, and lashed close by a great crate of tinned milk. That too had to share the boat’s most precious commodity, room to live and breathe.

Once or twice he made quick notes on his pad as he allowed the submarine’s shape and area to form in his mind like some mental blueprint. His throat felt dry, probably the stink of diesel and new paint. Also the smell of the previous occupants. Even the other aromas and the boat’s brief flooding had not erased it completely.

He could imagine the scream of the klaxon, the commander’s eye glittering in the periscope lens as it broke surface. All the world of attack and target being drawn through the small aperture into one man’s pupil and brain. For translation into action, and death.

He shivered again. God knows, he had seen that sight often enough himself in the past months. The untidy cluster of ships swimming across his vision, in their alien silent world. Selecting the right one for attack, watching
her
as she moved so inevitably until she was caught enmeshed in the crosswires of his sights. Around and beneath him the boat would have been alive with quiet murmurs, the click of valves, and instruments. Another quick glance. Where was the escort now? Had she detected their presence? The feeling of ice water on the spine. The decision.
Steady. Steady
. Ignore the muffled pounding of screws as another escort swings dangerously through the convoy.
Now. Fire One!

‘Are you feeling all right, Marshall?’ Browning’s face moved into his vision.

‘Sorry. Just thinking of something.’

Browning chuckled. ‘I can imagine.’

Marshall looked away. What was happening? Perhaps he was already overstrained. Written off like so many he had known. To survive was not always enough. There were other considerations.

He heard himself say, ‘I think that does it.’ He glanced at his watch. They had been aboard for two hours, yet it seemed like minutes. He looked at his companions, wondering how they felt about it. About him.

Marker said, ‘If we go back aboard
Guernsey
I can fill you in on the latest reports.’

Browning added, ‘Then you can get the check-up over and meet your new people, eh?’

‘Check-up?’ Marshall faced him.

Browning shrugged. ‘You know how it is. After your last commission it has to be done. The P.M.O. will just make sure that all your limbs are still in the right place. Flag Officer Submarines would have my guts for garters if I didn’t go through the motions!’

Nobody laughed.

Marshall nodded. ‘Yes.’ That’s all I need now. To be
found
unfit. Be given some shore job, or end up like Browning. Watching others go off to fight.

They climbed up the shining ladder from the control room in silence. How smooth the rungs felt. How many men had run blindly into the sunlight for a gun-action or to catch that first sight of home at the end of another patrol?

On the bridge again the keen air drove some of his apprehensions away and he was able to look along the U-boat’s upper deck without flinching. It would be a new start. Not just another patrol on top of all he had done so far. He
must
think of it that way. Poor Bill had said, ‘
Never thought we’d make it
.’ And
Tristram
had outlasted all of her consorts. He had to see this as something quite fresh and different. Not as one more weight on the scales of survival.

They had reached the depot ship’s steamy interior and Browning asked, ‘D’you know a chap called Roger Simeon, by the way?’

Marshall frowned. ‘Slightly. He was first lieutenant of an S-boat last time I saw him.’

He got a brief mental picture of a square, reckless face. Short fair hair. A man who would excite any woman’s attention.

‘That’s the one. He’s promoted to commander now, of course.’

Marshall waited.
Of course?
What did that mean?

‘Bright lad. He’s been heavily involved in Combined Operations, too. First-class brain, and a real goer. You’ll be meeting him shortly.’

Marshall darted a quick glance at him. You hate his guts, don’t you?

Aloud he said, ‘I never knew him other than casually at Fort Blockhouse.’

‘Er, yes.’ Browning waited for the other officers to move away. ‘Lieutenant Commander Wade was a good friend of yours, I believe? I heard all about his boat being lost last year. Damn bad luck.’

Marshall watched him warily. ‘We were pretty close.’

The captain seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts. ‘You’d better hear it from me then. Get it over and done with. Wade’s widow married Commander Simeon last month.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Best to get it out in the open. This job is hard enough without——’ He did not finish it.

Marshall turned to stare through a nearby scuttle, his mind cold. He tried to recall exactly what Bill had said in those last days. Had he been the same? Or had he just discovered about his wife? Christ Almighty, it was bad in any sense of the word to con a submarine out of Malta through those minefields. A captain, already worn out with combat and endless watchkeeping, would be strained to the limit. If Bill had her on his mind, had been thinking of what do and say when he reached England again, it would be more than enough. If only needed seconds. Those few precious moments when a lack of vigilance brought oblivion.

He controlled himself with an effort, but when he spoke his voice was flat. Hard.

‘I think I’d better get on with my check-up, sir. Then we’ll know.’

He saw the crestfallen expression on Browning’s face. In the reflected light he looked suddenly old and tired.

He added quietly, ‘But thank you, sir. I’m glad you told me.’

Browning removed his cap and ran his hand over his bald head. ‘Rotten business. The war has spoiled things for
a
lot of——’ But when he returned he realised Marshall had already gone.

He sighed and unconsciously touched the Victoria Cross ribbon on his chest. He could understand. In war you got very close to some people. Even now, after all these years, he could still remember.

He clapped on his cap and barked, ‘Muster the new company in the recreation space at 1100!’

The quartermaster, who had been eyeing him with mild curiosity, saluted and watched him leave the lobby. Poor old sod, he thought, as he reached for the tannoy speaker. Past it. Then he switched on the microphone and raised his silver call.

The pipe squealed from a dozen speakers throughout the ship. The sound even reached the outboard submarine with its fierce-eyed bull glaring towards the bows.

A stronger gust sent an eddy of cat’s-paws along her broad saddle tank and made the mooring wires creak and jerk as if to break away.

Whatever mere men had to contend with, U-192 was eager to be away. Back to the killing-ground. The only world she knew.

For the next three days at least Marshall found little time to think of anything but the job in hand. With only brief respites for meals or ironing out unsuspected faults, he absorbed himself completely in putting his command through every situation he could envisage. From the moment he had completed his medical check-up and had confronted his new company for the first time he had realised that his task was going to be harder than he had
imagined
. Submarine crews were always allowed plenty of scope to work-up together, to get the measure of their new boat and each other before setting off on a patrol. This time, although no actual date had been announced, there was obviously going to be very little opportunity except for the most basic tests and trials.

In some ways that was good, Marshall decided. Too much freedom to brood might lessen their chances of success. In addition, security was paramount, and every hour alongside the
Guernsey
seemed to offer a new threat to secrecy. Loch Cairnbawn was a good choice for their preparations. It had seen many experiments in the past, including the training of the midget submarines which had made their hair-raising attack on the German battleship
Tirpitz
. The location was not the real problem. It seemed to Marshall that too many people were becoming involved, and each day brought fresh faces to inspect his progress, be shown around the boat like so many visitors on peacetime outings. Two Members of Parliament, a couple of admirals and a whole trail of lesser fry. And it all took valuable time as well as adding to the real risk of a security leak.

Curiously enough, his medical check-up had been the easiest part so far. The P.M.O. had been more interested in asking about his experiences in the Mediterranean than testing his qualities for this new role. There had been something unhealthy about the man. He reminded Marshall of the person who sits for days at the Old Bailey just to listen to the gruesome details of a murder or to watch the face of stricken witnesses and those under sentence.

During the forenoon of the fourth day he was sitting in his cabin aboard the U-boat, re-reading the notes which
had
grown since his first inspection to a pad the size of a bulky novel. Gerrard was due to arrive that afternoon, and he would need to have every last detail at his fingertips so as not to confuse him when he began his own briefing around the boat.