Submariner (2008) (23 page)

Mike, like Shrimp, wasn’t all that keen on Special Ops. Especially not on stunts dreamt-up by Staff the best part of a thousand
miles away.

‘Oh, hello there …’

Frank Dean – whom Shrimp had mentioned as sailing for patrol this evening. Red-headed, pale-skinned, mid-twenties, one of
the newer COs. Shaking hands: ‘Heard you
were in – and some patrol, uh? Darned great oiler and a tank-transport?’

‘They came along, Frank, that’s all. Pure luck, nothing else – except the fish ran straight. Where
you
off to this time?’

‘Kerkennah Banks, thereabouts. Not my favourite billet, but there you are.’

Tunisian coast – Sfax, Gabès, approaches from the north and northwest to Tripoli. Mike nodded. ‘Good luck, anyway.’ He’d never
much liked those shallows, especially the Kerkennah end of it. ‘Off at dusk, are you?’

Heading for
Ursa
’s mail slot; Dean accompanying him across the cavern-like wardroom, apparently to check the contents of his own – getting
there first and extracting a message slip which by the look of him he wasn’t too happy with. Telephone message, probably.
While Mike was finding precisely nothing – pigeon-hole empty, nothing in it for him or for anyone else. Repeating to Dean,
‘
Very
best of luck, Frank.’ There’d no doubt have been mail for McLeod and the others, one of whom must have nipped ashore for
it while he’d been closeted with Shrimp. Would have left
his
, though – skimmed through whatever there was, and put his back. As he, being always first ashore, normally did with the others’
stuff. Someone might carelessly have taken his with the rest of it? Or asked Walburton to clear the box for them, for some
reason. Mike had given his own letters to Walburton – including the much-thought-over reply to Ann’s last one, which he’d
written during the return passage of the minefield, and the signalman as per routine would have delivered them with other
homebound mail to the appropriate office here in Lazaretto.

McLeod would have sent Jarvis or Danvers to clear this box. All there was to it. Dean enquiring sympathetically, ‘No joy?’
Mike shrugged: ‘Box has been cleared, anyway.’ Plain truth being nothing from
her
: which might in fact have come
as something of a relief, rather than this disappointment. While as for the others – hell, last time in he’d heard from the
Old Man, you couldn’t expect him to spend
all
his time writing letters. He nodded to Dean, said again, ‘Good luck, Frank.’ Dean’s boat,
Usurper
, was alongside here at the steps, the ‘wardroom berth’, with ‘Groggy’ Grogan’s
Urbane
outside her, with the usual chaos – last-minute embarkation of stores etc. prevailing – and Guy Mottram here, presumably
to see them off, whatever – accompanied by his own –
Unbowed
’s – first lieutenant, name of Brocklesby. Thin as a rake, freckled, expression of permanent amusement, Mottram about twice
his height and girth. Mike stopped, put a hand out: ‘Guy.’

‘Mike. Heard about Jimmy Ruck, I suppose.’

‘Yes.’ Shake of the head: ‘Shrimp says no clue how or when. A mine, most likely … You were somewhere up that way, weren’t
you?’

‘Crotone. Cape Colonne to Punta dell’Alice. Got back this forenoon.’ Making way for Brocklesby, who was boarding one of the
boats alongside. Mike asking Mottram – change of subject, conventional enquiry – ‘Any luck this time?’

‘Oh – started well enough.’ Shrug of the heavy shoulders. ‘Steamer loading at the chemical factory – from a certain bearing
one could see funnel-tops and so forth, so I hung around and on day two she came out, deep-laden. Three and a half thousand
tons, escort of Mas-boats and a Cant. I fired two fish, hit with one and she blew up. After which, having muddied the waters
of course, damn-all for a week except trawlers and A/S schooners making nuisances of themselves. You had another good one,
I’m told.’

‘Two good targets and no problems.’He changed the subject back to
Ultra
. ‘You know Jimmy’s wife, don’t you?’

‘Widow. Yes. I’ll write, of course. Saying God knows what that could make it any less bloody for her, mind you.’

‘Well – what a great chap he was, and we’re all devastated?’

‘Something original like that.’ A shrug. ‘Plain truth, for sure, but –’

‘Guy – she’s alone, bereft, and you’re a chum of long standing … Look, why not tell her you’re writing for the whole crowd
of us?’

‘Yes. Yes,
not
a bad idea …’

Ultra
’s record on the flotilla scoreboard was still open-ended, hadn’t been ruled off yet. Ruck had sunk a hell of a lot though,
the little thumbnail sketches of his kills in the numbered columns of patrols, starting a few months before
Ursa
had joined the flotilla and ending with his one-from-last, one of only two in which he hadn’t scored. This final one would
have an inch-long U-boat’s silhouette pencilled into it:
then
the ruling-off. Mike didn’t look at
Ursa
’s, for some reason. A mental crossing of the fingers? Leaving the board anyway. The big wardroom was already crowded, and
looking around it he could have put names to nearly all the faces, only a few third and fourth hands of newly-arrived boats
being as yet unfamiliar: and looking over the heads of nearer groups towards the centre, the massive stone fireplace which
was the customary gathering-point for COs and senior base staff – Shrimp not there as yet but his deputy Chris Hutchinson,
Commander (Submarines), who’d recently taken over from Hubert Marsham – and who as CO of
Truant
in the spring of 1940 had sunk the German cruiser
Karlsruhe
, in the Skaggerak – was chatting with Guy Mottram, Jack Brodie of
Unslaked
and old Pop Giddings, who ran the Manoel Island farm.

This
was
a wake, though. Expressions mostly sombre, tones subdued. As it tended to be, until the worst of it wore off.

‘Evening, sir.’

Jamie McLeod – and Jarvis with him. Mike asked them whether they’d had mail, and the answer was yes, they had,
Danvers had cleared the box as usual, soon after
Ursa
had secured. McLeod added, ‘Pretty miserable, sir. I mean
Ultra
.’

‘More than that.’ He noticed their near-empty glasses. ‘Ready for another?’

‘Well, thank you, sir –’

‘Steward!’

‘I was just saying, sir – lucky old Paul Everard, getting promoted out of her just before this patrol.’ Jarvis, offering cigarettes. ‘There
but for the grace of – well, of Ruck, recommending him for that Number One’s job –’

Mike was telling the Maltese steward, ‘Three, please.’Then happening to see Danvers on his way to join them, called ‘No – make
that four.’ If you didn’t specify an alternative, that meant four gins. Back to Jarvis. ‘Everard – yes. Went to be Number
One of
Tomahawk
, right?’

Paul Everard had been Ruck’s third hand, torpedo officer; RNVR sub-lieutenant when he’d joined him, then lieutenant, and very
recently transferred to the 1st Flotilla formerly based in Alexandria but now Beirut, replacing that boat’s first lieutenant
who was being sent home for his Perisher, the command course. Jarvis adding, ‘Paul always thought Ruck was tops. As of course
he was.’

‘Must be weird.’ Danvers. ‘All your mates gone, and you – you know, still around. Must wonder Christ, why
me
…’ Looking at their glasses and Mike’s lack of one: ‘This supposed to be my round, or –’

‘It’s on order.’ Jarvis added reprovingly, ‘Generosity of your Commanding Officer.’ Adding, ‘The
next
round’s yours.’

Mike left them before that time came, to join the group now comprising only Mottram, Jack Brodie and Dan Gerahty of
Swordsman
. Brodie, tallish, angular and balding, greeted him with ‘Mowing ’em down in droves, we hear.’

‘Oh, by the dozen, Jack …’

‘Seriously, though – a couple of whoppers?’

He shrugged – tired of questions to which the questioners already knew the answers, word having gone round as it always did
within minutes of one’s return. But he noticed that Brodie was leaning on a stick, and stared at it: ‘What’s this about?’

‘Got stung on the knee – some awful bug. Clearing up now, but crikey –’

‘So –
Unslaked
–’

‘Hugo Short has the loan of her. Benghazi, or thereabouts. He’d better bring her back intact, that’s all.’A hand on Mike’s
arm: ‘Appalling loss, poor old
Ultra
.’

‘Yes. Here’s to them.’

‘Been a lot of
that
going on. Oh, here’s the boss …’

Shrimp grey-faced, joining Hutch and a lieutenant-commander by name of – oh, lost it – who was taking over as Staff Officer
Operations. Gerahty and Guy Mottram were there too. Mike meanwhile accepting Brodie’s offer of a refill, Giddings rambling
on about two litters of piglets having been born in the course of this last weekend, and the SOO switching to subjects of
wider interest such as Generals Alexander and Montgomery having assumed command in the desert, where Rommel was still being
held on the Alamein line; Brodie agreeing with Mike’s ‘
Holding
the bugger’s not much use’, although Mike had immediately wished he hadn’t said it – good men were being killed and maimed, just
holding him – but before he could take it back Shrimp intervened with ‘Give me a minute, Michael?’

‘Sir.’

Out past the scoreboard, into the gallery: no boats along-side now, five including
Ursa
out at buoys – which meant about another half-dozen currently on patrol. Strains of
Forces’ Favourites
from open fore-hatches out there in the creek. Shrimp said quietly, ‘I mentioned that we had more than one thing to discuss.
One being this projected Special Op – and
I’ll tell you about that in the morning – Lascaris at 1100 – right?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘It’s not exactly imminent, I’d guess we may have a couple of weeks. On the other hand it could come at short notice, we need
to be on the top line for it and I want you in on the planning right from the start. The other thing, Michael –’ a glance
around – ‘is that you are now a lieutenant-commander.’

‘But – no, I –’ beginning to laugh, but seriously baffled – ‘can’t be, I’ve –’

‘You’ve five months to go, I know that. But you’ll have heard of accelerated promotion? They’re giving you six months – in
lieu of another gong. Great deal more use, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But this is hardly an evening for celebrating, is it.’

‘Certainly is not.’

‘Why I kept quiet about it earlier, you see. And for the moment let’s do that. Give
Ultra
forty-eight hours. Wednesday evening we’ll wet the half-stripe. Meanwhile, Michael – warmest congratulations.’

He had supper early, to leave time for writing to the Old Man – who’d be tickled pink. And to Ann? Maybe not: think about
it. It was worth a bit though – in the long run would be. The system being that you acquired a certain degree of seniority
from the results of your sub-lieutenant’s courses, and this set the date of your promotion to lieutenant roughly two years
later; normally you did eight years as a lieutenant (two stripes, and equivalent to an army captain) before becoming a lieutenant-commander
(two and a half, matching the rank of major), after which there was a further set period before you became eligible – subject
to performance, nothing automatic about it – for a brass hat, commander’s rank, three stripes on your sleeves and/or epaulettes,
oak-leaves on the peak of
your cap. With the award he was getting now he could aspire to that eminence six months sooner than he would have otherwise.

If one (a) stayed alive, and (b) kept one’s nose clean. The first being in the lap of the gods and the second depending on
how one handled things from now on.

He decided on the way up to his cabin that he would not send Ann this news. If he did, she might well comment on it to Charles,
and there was only one way she could have got to know about it. Better to let Charles tell her – as he would, having no reason
not to. Write just to the Old Man: Something jokey like
Please note when replying to this that the correct form of address is now Lieutenant-Commander M. J. Nicholson R. N. No idea
why – wasn’t due until some time next year. Probably just a cock-up – but there it is, there’s no arguing with their Lordships.
Actually I’m having an early night, as I’ve been away a while
…

After a bath and leisurely breakfast, then a visit to
Ursa
, half of whose crew had already been bussed to the rest-camp at Mellieha – where in the blitz period sailors bathing in St
Paul’s Bay had often enough been individually targeted by Me 109s’ cannon and machine-guns. The Messerschmitts had patrolled
Marsamxett as well as Grand Harbour and Sliema Creek at two hundred feet or less in perfect safety because the shortage of
ammunition had led to our gunners being barred from shooting at anything but bombers. Those men had had to grin and bear it,
all right. Recalling those times and – admit it, privately – that degree of taken-for-granted courage – he crossed to the
Valetta side by
dghaisa
and climbed Ferry Steps into the old town’s narrow stone streets and alleys. Eventually – strolling, killing time, through
to Palace Square – the Palace, governor’s residence, Governor being Field Marshal Lord Gort VC now in place of the long-serving
and
generally revered Sir William Dobbie. It was all a lot tidier than it had been a couple of months ago.

He’d been nosing around, taking his time and enjoying it, but still had the best part of half an hour before his assignation
with Shrimp; found himself eventually on the Upper Barracca with its superb views over Grand Harbour and Valetta’s ancient
fortifications. Directly across the water for instance to the Three Cities – Vittoriosa, Conspicua, Senglea, Fort St Angelo
a massive foreground centrepiece;and, training right, Dockyard and French creeks with Senglea’s docks and the suburb behind
them all bombed flat, no more than stone ruins separating the two waterways. A minesweeper at anchor in the approaches to
French Creek, sailors moving like white ants on her decks;
dghaisas
like black beetles clawing across blue water, a tug with a string of lighters, and in mid-harbour, off Floriana, the bottomed
remains of a burnt-out steamer. That was to his right from here: back this way and right across from him the sun was already
high and blinding over St Angelo and more distantly San Rocco and the group of W/T masts at – Rinella, was it? Fort Ricasoli
just in one’s arc of sight – harbour entrance, eastern side – although the other headland, Fort Elmo, was hidden by the bulge
of Valetta’s massively-bastioned coastline. Inside the Ricasoli promontory though – seaward side of St Angelo – what he guessed
might be the largely submerged wreck of the
Ohio
lay alongside that stretch of breakwater. Something to have seen, he thought – when the tales come to be told. But then before
St Angelo, Bighi, the RN hospital, which in the months of round-the-clock blitzkrieg had suffered badly from the Luftwaffe’s
attentions. They’d gone for all the hospitals – Bighi, St Andrew’s, St George’s at Floriana – all marked with huge red crosses
which had served to make them natural targets for those bastards. Would be like that again too, all of it – if it started
again, which in the mess last evening some
had guessed it
might
, others preferring not to take the question seriously.