Submariner (2008) (31 page)

If when the time came one even approached her door. Pausing on that line of thought: with a sense of surprise at being unable
to predict one’s own movements or intentions – impulses, maybe. Quite genuine surprise, genuine inability …

Fudge it by substituting ‘two or three months’ for ‘six or eight weeks’?

Other bits and pieces in any case:
I’m writing now, anyway, since as you know there are frequent intervals when I can’t, so grabbing the chance while there is
one … And – Have seen Charles a few times. He seems to be in good health and enjoying himself. Enjoying incidentally considerable
success, as well. Wouldn’t be surprised if you were to get my great news from him as well.

Not much of a letter, he thought. In fact, rotten. Racking his brain for a moment for some way to give it even a hint of the
sense of excitement it so plainly lacked; then adding a PS –
Please
do
write?
Not much, but better than nothing, maybe. He sealed it, stamped it ‘Passed by Censor’, took it ashore to see it safely on
its way, returning on board just minutes before the transport should have arrived. Since it hadn’t and for a while didn’t,
he had McLeod muster the port watch in the control room, told them the next patrol would be their last in this flotilla, and
warned them as the initially rowdy reactions quietened that it was possible they’d have only a few days at Mellieha, so make
the most of it. Couldn’t say for sure, but orders for this last one might come at unusually short notice. None of them had
seemed to care much about this – the rest-camps weren’t all that marvellous, especially with autumn on its way in now – whereas
shaking the stone-dust of Malta off one’s feet – well, Jesus, hearth and
home well before Christmas! Then the truck arrived and the sun-tanned starboard watch were crowding round to congratulate
him on his promotion, at the same time receiving and enthusing over the
big
news right, left and centre.

He was on his way ashore when he re-encountered the TI, CPO Harry Coltart, who’d emerged from the Chiefs’ and POs’ mess, on
his way into the Torpedo Stowage Compartment. Turning as Mike stepped through the latched-back watertight door right behind
him, temporarily filling it, as he had, the two of them being much of a size.

‘Er – Captain, sir –’

‘Yes, TI?’

‘Well.’Wave of an arm towards the upper reload racks port and starboard, from which the torpedoes had of course been landed.
‘Folboat stowage is it, sir? Special Op, this trip?’

‘Christ.’ Standing with a hand on the fore-hatch ladder, looking from the Chief to the empty racks and back again. A shake
of the head. Back aft there he’d been saying he had no idea what they’d be doing this time. ‘Not easy, keeping secrets, Chief.’

‘Never was, sir. I won’t draw attention to it.’

To Pembroke House then, covering some longish downhill stretches at the double. The Gravies had already returned from church
and – well,
wow
, Abigail – taking his breath away …

Shrimp’s conference with the commandos being set for ten-thirty, Mike left the base at ten, crossing as usual by the flotilla’s
attendant
dghaisa
and finding himself within easy distance of the Lascaris headquarters with ten or twelve minutes to spare. Brief visit therefore,
rather than sit waiting in that outer office, to the Barracca, where one week ago his telling Abigail she’d done enough crying
had somehow worked the miracle, certainly added a new dimension to his own life.

Grand Harbour itself had a sombre look this morning, the warmly oppressive wind and heavy overcast dulling and stirring up
water that had previously mirrored the surrounding bulk of stone ramps, galleries and bastions built four hundred years ago
by the Knights of St John of Jerusalem; the harbour was defended by them under the leadership of Jean Parisot de la Valette
against ten times their own number of invading Turks under Suleiman the Magnificent in cahoots with the equally savage Algerian
corsair Dragut Reis, in what was generally held to have been the bloodiest siege in history – in the course of it, for instance,
the heads of prisoners being used as cannonballs. And Fort St Elmo falling to the Turks, de la Valette fighting on from Fort
St Angelo across the water there, where today Wrens in their coarse black stockings manned typewriters and answered telephones.

But Abigail precisely
here
, one week ago exactly. Hardly knowing her, at that stage: more acquaintance then than friend – let alone lover, for Pete’s
sake. And yet none of it surprising – neither Maddalena Bay, nor yesterday, when after a cold lunch they’d basked for a while
on the Lido rocks and then been driven by Gravy in his Morris to the flat which was in a house near the bottom of South Street,
aka Strada Mezzodi. Abbie throwing garments into cupboards and Mike poking through a couple of shelves of books, while Gravy
stalked around offering help, pausing at Abigail’s narrow windows to admire the views of flat stone roofs and streets like
caverns, and the two of them doing their best to disguise their longing for this extremely kind, generous and impressively
efficient man to finish his fourth or fifth cigarette and push off.

Later then – just a little later – his own voice asking, ‘What’s happening to us, Abbie?’ and her sleepy answer, ‘Don’t you
know
?’

* * *

In the Lascaris submarine office Mike shook hands with the two soldiers – Ormrod with major’s crowns on the shoulders of his
khaki shirt, a dark, wiry-looking man of about his own age and size, and Haigh who was shorter, square-built, already balding.
Also present as well as Shrimp himself were Johnno Broadbent the flotilla’s comparatively new Staff Officer Operations, and
Shrimp’s paymaster-midshipman, who’d be taking notes. Performing introductions, Shrimp had told Ormrod, ‘Nicholson is skipper
of the submarine
Ursa
, also responsible for the outline scheme I gave you.’

‘Sound stuff too, sir, usefully informative for us, we’ve been reconsidering some details of our own programme in the light
of it.’ To Mike then: ‘Not that there’s room for much variation – once you’ve put us ashore, you know?’

‘I’d imagine not. The object was to give ourselves as well as you some idea of special problems we might be up against. I
hope I’m wrong, but it still looks decidedly touch-and-go to me, one way and another.’

‘From your point of view, or ours?’

‘Oh,
yours
.’

Shrimp cut in with ‘Let’s sit.’A wave of one broad, stubby hand. A pongo each side of him, Mike on the other side of Ormrod
and facing Haigh. Shrimp setting things going by asking Ormrod, ‘Any comments on the proposed launching points and/or times?’

‘Not really, sir. Agreeing the Gela set-down that far east of target, in fact, is the main one of your proposals we’re accepting
as making better sense, one way and another, than landing closer to the target as
we
’d proposed. Ditto times of launching, since obviously you can’t surface close inshore before it’s good and dark. Depending
on weather to some extent, but near enough 2200 hours in all instances, give or take fifteen minutes, say. Weather prospects
don’t look too great at the moment, do they?’

‘At this time of year it’s a toss-up anyway. Not all that far into September yet, I know, but the end of August’s as often
as not a time for change. In this central basin anyway. This sirocco doesn’t have to worry us too much – could be as flat
as a pond tomorrow or the day after. But if it’s looking bad or doubtful when the whistle blows, I’d suggest departures as
scheduled, decisions whether to go ahead or abort at the latest possible time, which would be a little after sunset on Dog
minus two.’

‘Just short of the launch points.’

‘Yes. Two days before the assaults as scheduled.’ Shrimp explaining this mainly for the note-taking midshipman’s benefit,
Mike realised. At the same time he’d given himself a cigarette and pushed the tin of Senior Service in Ormrod’s direction.
Continuing the explanation: ‘D-day, D for Dog, Dog-day, meaning the day of the assault. In our own outline we’d guessed at
that starting in the small hours, on previous form usually something like 0200, but in the light of
your
presentation, action commencing the day before at 2300 – which therefore becomes Dog-day, the assault actually
finishing
in the small hours of Dog plus one – giving you several additional dark hours for disengagement and holing up again.’ He
asked Ormrod, ‘Am I reading it correctly?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

Mike nodded too: the snotty had also indicated comprehension. Broadbent, SOO, had been jotting down notes which he now ran
over as a nutshell summary: ‘Dog minus one to Dog plus two, as far as Gela and Comiso are concerned: Dog minus two, submarines
move inshore for float-off at 2200, commandos hide canoes and set off for lie-up positions. Dog-day minus one, teams attack
at 2300, completing the assaults at about 0200 on Dog-day, when they return to hides and lie-up until dark, start out then
for return to beach – Dog plus one – pushing off at about 0300
for R/V positions, submarines standing by to recover them between 0300 and 0400.’

‘All right.’ Shrimp had allowed a pause for any comments, returned now to the bad-weather question. ‘And the final decision
whether to proceed or abort will be made by 2100 Dog minus two. Earlier perhaps if conditions are obviously unsuitable. Right?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Broadbent again, marking his own schedule. ‘An hour before float-off.’

Ormrod didn’t like it. ‘Better make it earlier than that. 2000, latest. We have to get the boats and gear ready and ourselves
kitted up, weaponry checked, so forth. Don’t want a bugger’s rush at the last minute, and I’d sooner not start until I know
I’m going through with it.’

Shrimp agreed. ‘Deadline 2000 Dog minus two, then.’

‘The decision being yours, sir, and applying to all three teams?’

‘Of course. The signal – mine – will be addressed to submarines under my command. What would you expect, Major?’

He looked surprised at having been asked the question. Ormrod shook his head. ‘Point taken, sir. Only to have it cut and dried.’
Mike put in, ‘But in our orders, sir, I imagine you’ll be calling for a weather report at some slightly earlier stage?’

‘Yes. That is, if there’s any doubt about it. If there isn’t, as touch wood might be the case, we can do without any of that.
Next point now – question of which boats for which targets. The obvious choice for Catania, since an S-class is faster than
a “U”, is
Swordsman
– Lieutenant Dan S. Gerahty, who as it happens returns from patrol this evening. Distances and boats’ speeds, incidentally,
are noted in Nicholson’s screed there. All right?’

‘Your choice entirely, sir. But you’re for
Swordsman
, Fergus.’ Ormrod explained, ‘There are factors which tie him to the Catania job, sir. And one aspect of it I’d guess you’ll
like is
that his team won’t be looking for a pick-up. When she’s put them ashore – not exactly where you suggested, but pretty close
– you might have the submarine hang around for a few hours in case of disaster of some kind – we could agree an emergency
rendezvous position just short of first light, perhaps. But otherwise she could simply buzz off home.’

‘What happens to Haigh’s party, then?’

Ormrod was stubbing out a cigarette. He smiled at Mike. ‘Good question, but no easy answer except they’ve other tasks. Might
say they simply fade into the wild blue yonder.’

Haigh grinned. ‘Vanish singing “
We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when
”
–
’

Shrimp observed, ‘Might be all right if you could sing it in Italian. But the other two boats now, for Gela and Comiso – any
thoughts, Major?’

‘Well – I’m opting for Comiso, myself. Originally because it looked like a tall order, that distance inland. Now of course
Gela’s also a long haul – more straightforward on the face of it, they have a coastline to follow whereas we’ve got to dodge
around Ragusa. But that’s it – me Comiso, Billy Flood Gela.’

More notes were being made. Mike suggested to Shrimp, ‘I’ll take Major Ormrod and his team in
Ursa
– if that’s all right, sir.’

‘All right with you, Major?’

‘Very much so.’ A nod to Mike. ‘Thank you.’ To Shrimp then: ‘Leaves Billy Flood – Captain, Welsh Fusiliers – for Gela.’

‘And he –’ Shrimp put his hand on a clip of signals – ‘is due here some time tomorrow, was it?’

Ormrod nodded. ‘With a staff sergeant by name of Hazlett and half a dozen Royal Marines plus weaponry and explosives. And the
third detachment – which needs to be pretty close on their heels, incidentally – consists of an RM colour sergeant and the
rest of them with all our canoes. Wednesday at the latest, I’d guess. Colour Sergeant Gant RM is my own
number two in the Comiso team.
We’ll
meet both those parties though, and settle them in at Ghain Tuffieha with all their gear – and their own rations for consumption
here, by the way, as well as iron rations for use later.’

Mike said, ‘And RAF transport in attendance, we were told. So all we have to do is be ready to receive them on board the submarines
an hour or so before departure – whenever that’s to be.’

Broadbent added, ‘Better not be before Thursday – huh? With your third detachment still to come?’

‘But both lots might be touching down tomorrow. And as long as your chaps are ready for us –’ Ormrod, telling Shrimp this
– ‘we’re fast on our feet, you’ll find.’

‘I’ll ask Cairo when we can expect them, anyway.’ Shrimp made another note. ‘Otherwise, I think that’s covered the broad essentials,
don’t you? We’ll meet again when your man Flood’s here, and bring Gerahty and Melhuish into it.’ He assured Haigh, ‘Gerahty’s
a very sound man, you’ll find.’

‘I’m sure, sir.’

Ormrod waited a moment before asking, ‘And Melhuish?’

‘Oh, Flood ’ll find himself in good hands. Charles Melhuish is fairly new as a CO but an experienced submariner.’