Strike from the Sea (1978) (8 page)

He cocked his head as a speaker intoned, ‘Hands to breakfast and clean. Ordinary Seamen Booth report to the cox’n immediately.’

Then he said, ‘It should have been said with a French accent. She even
sounds
like one of ours now!’

Ainslie led the way through the control room and the ladder to the upper deck. Quinton was there, cap on the back of his head, while he chatted with a handful of petty officers and leading hands. It was his own special way of doing things. Informal, even casual, but the steel was always there when he needed it.

‘A word, Number One.’ Ainslie waited below the conning tower and said, ‘We’ll have a meeting after they’ve eaten. As soon as the French hands have been escorted ashore I want the wardroom to start on Operation Scrounge. We need those hydroplanes stripped and the motors disengaged. Until we can use them again we’re only a surface boat. Tell the Chief to begin taking on fuel. I’ll get the go-ahead from the base captain and the BEO. Check everything. If we need something, send an officer to get it, Beg, borrow or
requisition for the duration,
got it?’

Quinton grinned broadly. ‘Too right.’

Critchley pulled himself up the ladder towards the oval of bright sunlight.

‘I can see that you’ve done this sort of thing before.’

Ainslie nodded grimly. ‘A few times.’

For a while longer they stood together on the bridge gratings, protected from the glare by the depot ship’s tall side. Apart from
the quartermaster and sentry at the brow, the deck and casing were deserted.

Ainslie touched his chin and realized he still had to shave. There was a lot to do yet, a hell of a lot. At first it had been just another doubtful operation, a calculated risk. Now the thought of losing the submarine because she was larger than the minds of those who were supposed to control her destiny was hard to accept.
Soufrière
’s presence here was much like his own. An embarrassment. Something which would go away if suitably ignored.

Feet clattered on the ladder and Vernon, the bearded petty officer telegraphist, climbed nimbly on to the bridge. He saluted and said, ‘Beg pardon, sir, but the first lieutenant sent me.’ He had a round Devonian dialect, a homely sound so far from England. He added quietly, ‘He said you’d want to deal with it, sir.’ Vernon held out a signal pad. ‘Able Seaman Booth. Signal just in. His parents were killed in an air raid.’

‘Thank you.’

Ainslie took the pad and looked at Vernon’s pencilled writing. Round like his voice. But he saw only the pathetic pile of bricks, the gap in a line of houses like a missing tooth.

‘Yes, I’ll see him now in my cabin.’

Critchley was already making his way down to the casing. ‘I don’t need seeing over the side, Bob.’ He paused on the ladder and their eyes met as he said, ‘The war has a long arm, doesn’t it?’ Then he was gone.

Ainslie made his way below, wondering why he had never got used to it.
I have to tell you some bad news.
Or those dreadful letters he had written to parents of men killed in action.
He died bravely.
To a young widow.
You would have been proud of him.
But would they have understood? Could anyone see past loss and grief? That was why it
mattered
.

He saw the seaman named Booth standing outside his cabin with the fat coxswain nearby. Set against Gosling he looked like a child.

The door closed and Ainslie laid his cap on the desk.
God, look at him. He’s guessed already
.

‘I have to tell you some bad news.’

When Ainslie, accompanied by the tireless Critchley, was eventually summoned to the naval headquarters building, he
found the chief of staff in an almost jovial mood compared with their first meeting.

It had been two busy days since their return to Singapore, during which time Ainslie’s Operation Scrounge had worked wonders. Spares, fuel, electrical gear, even ammunition for the French-made automatic weapons had mysteriously appeared on the jetty and had been whisked into the
Soufrière
’s hull with a minimum of delay.

It was so like the Navy, Ainslie thought. If you asked permission to do something the answer was usually no. If you went ahead on your own steam you always seemed to get away with it.

Perhaps the additional work had done more to weld the new company into a team than any routine training. They had worked all hours with little complaint, and the hull had echoed to the tune of drills, pumps and generators well into the night, until the depot ship’s people had complained about the din spoiling the film shows in their canteen.

Halliday and his French assistant, Lucas, had stripped the faulty hydroplanes and replaced them, and were eager to put them to a proper test. Lieutenant Ridgway, the torpedo officer, and his men had gone through the fore-ends and torpedo storage until they could operate the tubes and reloading tackle blindfolded. Even Farrant, stiff-backed and severe as the moment he had stepped aboard, had admitted a grudging satisfaction with his gun crews.

But perhaps the most contented man of all was Lieutenant Jack Christie, RNVR, the naval pilot who had been chosen to operate the
Soufrière
’s neat little seaplane.

Christie had been a stunt pilot before the war, reduced to doing five-shilling trips at seaside resorts when things had been bad. When things had been good, he had risked life and limb to give the spectators their money’s worth. He had been a misfit aboard a fleet carrier, and not much better ashore. He simply could not adapt to the Navy’s ways, and Ainslie suspected the
Soufrière
had been his last appointment merely to get him out of some senior officer’s hair.

The seaplane was in excellent order, although it had not been launched from its catapult for many months. With his equally dedicated observer, Sub-Lieutenant Jones, also RNVR, Christie had taken the aircraft apart.

Ainslie had heard Quinton telling him on one occasion, ‘God, Jack, if you bust that kite, remember it’s the only one we’ve got, right?’

Christie had given him his lazy grin. ‘She’ll go like a bird. You see.’

All in all, Ainslie was pleased with his company. It was certainly the largest he had yet commanded. Twelve officers, including himself, and one hundred and twenty ratings, many of whom had seen active service in other boats. The others, like the wretched Booth who had just lost his parents, would have to learn as they went along.

It seemed likely they would have more time than most, Ainslie thought. For although Singapore, like the forces in Malaya to the north, had been put on a partial alert until the Japanese intentions in Indo-China were fully understood, it seemed slack after Europe.

In the city lights blazed at all hours, and the shops gleamed with early stocks of gifts and goods for Christmas. The clubs were always full, and Ainslie had been dismayed to discover that there was still a rigid rule about which hotels and places of entertainment could be used by ‘other ranks’ and which were completely out of bounds to Indian and Malayan troops.

The chief of staff waved them to two comfortable chairs and said, ‘Sorry I’ve not had time to see you before this.’

Critchley said, ‘We’ve been busy too, sir.’

The captain eyed him searchingly as if to seek out some small hint of sarcasm.

He said, ‘The big ships have made quite an impression. Good thinking on someone’s part. Just the sort of gesture to make friends and enemies sit up and take notice. Pity about the carrier, though.’

Critchley leaned forward. ‘Carrier, sir?’

‘Yes. The new one,
Indomitable,
should have been in company, but she ran aground off Jamaica while she was working up. She’ll be along later, no doubt.’ He saw Critchley’s uncertainty and said cheerfully, ‘God, Critchley, don’t look so glum! We have our own air support in fields from here to the Siamese border, y’know.’

Critchley said calmly, ‘I know. Wildebeest torpedo bombers which make the Swordfish seem young by comparison.’ He watched his shots going home, cracking the other man’s
confidence. ‘There are some old American Hudsons, and for fighter cover I understand there are a few obsolescent Brewster Buffaloes.’ He reached out for a desk lighter and held it to the inevitable cigarette. ‘Hardly a force to rouse enthusiasm, I’d have thought?’

The chief of staff turned to Ainslie. ‘Well, anyhow, that is not the point of this meeting, or your concern, gentlemen.’ His smile returned very slowly. ‘Your orders are to complete repairs.’ He touched the folder on his desk, the one Ainslie had signed just three hours earlier. ‘It seems the submarine was not so damaged as you imagined, eh?’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘You will then take the
Soufrière
to sea for a final check.’

Ainslie watched him. It had been on the tip of his tongue to speak his mind. To tell this officer how hard his men had worked to make the
Soufrière
ready for sea in so short a time.

But he recognized the man’s comment as a challenge. It would be just like him to clamp down on local leave until they were ready to sail. His men deserved a whole lot more than that.

He asked quietly, ‘What are my orders afterwards, sir?’

‘You will be routed round the Cape to England. Then it will be up to Whitehall and Flag Officer Submarines.’ He tapped the folder again. ‘However, Commander Ainslie, should your report, your
personal
judgement, discover any fault in the submarine after your checks, I am instructed to remove her from any active duty. In which case you and your company will return to England without her.’ He could not resist it. ‘By
sea
this time, naturally.’

Critchley stood up. ‘Still no news from the Japanese, I suppose, sir?’

‘Did you expect any?’ He was starting to enjoy himself. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get the publicity you evidently expected. But we see things somewhat differently out here, you know. There are still standards.’

Critchley smiled wearily. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

Once outside the HQ building with its perfect square of grass surrounded by white-painted stones, Critchley said, ‘I prefer the intelligence department to shipboard life, I really do. But if ever their lordships are foolish enough to advance my promotion to captain I will personally pay my own fare to fly back here. Just to punch that pompous, bone-headed twit right on his gin-reddened nose!’

Ainslie smiled, ‘Forget him. I’ll tell you what we’ll do instead. We’ll have a party of our own when we’ve finished our trials. To say thank you to all the characters who
have
done their damndest to help us since we got here.’

Critchley rubbed his hands. ‘Fine. No security breach. Just a good, bucolic party!’

As they walked from one patch of shade to the next, Ainslie asked, ‘Was that true what you told Captain Armytage? About the old planes?’

Critchley nodded. ‘I’m afraid it was. Pity about the carrier being held up. They could do with her here right now.’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘I see this sort of thing all the time, though not as much as at the start of the war. There are so many people, not all in high appointments either, who still see the line of battle as the answer to everything. They’re fighting a modern war with the same ideas we had at Dogger Bank and Jutland.’ He shot Ainslie a warm smile. ‘It’s people like you who spoil everything, by going out and winning battles!’

Ainslie nodded. It was painfully true. And yet without proper air cover you could never win anything for very long.

Critchley said, ‘I’m off to see some people.’ He touched his gold-leafed cap to a saluting sentry and added. ‘Tell you something though.
If
in the unlikely event you do find more faults with the
Soufrière
after your trials, I’ll wager a year’s pay to a marine’s button stick you don’t tell friend Armytage!’

Ainslie watched him move away on to the roadway and smiled. Critchley was right.
Soufrière
might never replace the
Tigress,
but she had certainly become very important to him.

For two further days Ainslie’s company combed through
Soufrière
’s great hull from bow to rudder, checking, testing, replacing, and finally accepting that if she was not ready to do her test live she would never be.

Once again an air of secrecy hung over the anchorage as, with a sloop in the lead and a fleet minesweeper bringing up astern,
Soufrière
slipped her moorings and headed eastwards towards open sea.

The spot chosen for the first dive under her new ownership was definitely not submarine territory, with a maximum depth
of some thirty fathoms. But it would have to suffice, and as Quinton had dryly commented, ‘We can always sit on the bloody mud and think where we went wrong!’

Twenty-four hours after leaving Singapore, Ainslie completed the first series of tests. Flooding and emptying the torpedo tubes, and training the powerful gun turret through ninety degrees while the sloop and the minesweeper watched from a respectful distance.

Once dived they would be on their own.
Not before time,
was the general feeling throughout the boat.

As the hands of the control room clock moved towards the deadline, Ainslie examined his own feelings, wondering how it would be. He had heard of it happening to others, had even seen some of the poor devils who had suffered the sudden shock and realization that their nerves had broken. Round the bend, bomb-happy, they called it. In wartime you had to make jokes about it. But just suppose it happened to you? Ainslie held out his hands in the harsh sunlight and studied them.
To me?

He tossed the feeling aside, irritated with himself. Then he lowered his head to the gyro repeater, next to the control room voice-pipe.

Quinton was there waiting. ‘Two minutes, sir.’

‘Here we go again, Number One.’

Quinton chuckled. ‘Looks like it, sir.’

Ainslie steadied himself against the voice-pipes, recalling the little French commander, Poulain, his last moments on earth.

‘Make to escorts, Yeoman. Am about to dive. Will release smoke-float when satisfied.’

He turned away, shading his eyes to watch the hazy horizon. Nothing in sight. No land. Not even a seabird.