Submariner (2008) (43 page)

‘Beauty and the beast and Maddalena Bay as background to something not far removed from heaven – yes, I remember.’

‘I will all my life.’

‘Good. Mind you, there’ve been other – times, moments, not easily forgettable – at least
I
’d –’

‘– remember them all –’ a hand freeing itself for a sweeping gesture indicating their surroundings, situation generally: then
– ‘Oh, Mike,
blimey
–’

They’d returned to Valetta by a more direct route than he’d taken with the lads, thus shortening it by a mile or two. But
it had been a good day. It wasn’t in fact easy now to be out of touch with the base for more than an hour or so. The picture
was changing fast as the Eighth Army powered westward, 10th Flotilla boats effectively blockading the desert ports to starve
Rommel’s forces of food, fuel and ammunition, and surface forces from Malta in it too now – Force K, primarily, cruisers and
destroyers intercepting Axis convoys – a few nights ago ruining /wrecking one completely, by all accounts half a dozen freighters
and their escorting destroyers blown out of the water,
gone
. On other nights they – Force K – were bombarding the island of Pantellaria, obviously in preparation for its capture. That
would be an important E-boat base eliminated, and an essential step towards the projected invasion of Sicily; before which
was to come an even more massive assault, the operation Shrimp had referred to vaguely and was presumably why the planners
had wanted him in Cairo. It was likely, Mike thought, that he’d be consulted on plans for ensuing operations as well. Sicily,
for one thing, as a prelude to Italy; and as the desert advance pushed on west into Tunisia and Algeria – well, if the 10th
Flotilla moved west it would need a base, and the obvious place might be Cagliari: which would mean invading Sardinia.

He’d have
Ursa
back in the UK by that time, he thought. Would have handed her over to her builders in Chatham for virtual rebuilding. If
U-class submarines were still wanted then. Meanwhile they were wanted
here
all right: and doing
as well as ever. Shrimp would be proud of them when he got back – any day now. There’d been two boats lost since his departure:
sickening, as always, but also to be expected, in all the circumstances, particularly in view of the greatly improved effectiveness
of Wop A/S forces. Mike’s own recent experience in
Ursa
had been an example of that – quite possibly some new development in target depth-assessment – and if so, probably of German
origin, the Germans in recent months having taken a hand in their allies’ training and re-equipping, according to Intelligence
reports.

He stopped swimming,put his legs down,found the beginnings of the rocky foreshore and climbed up to join the girls. The sun
was hot now and they were both flat out on their backs, Greta with a straw hat covering her face and forehead, protecting
that fair skin. Removing it, to squint up at him: ‘You were miles out. Much fitter-looking too than you were before.’

‘Something to be said for the sedentary life.’

‘Which Abbie tells me you’re not having.’

‘Actually not. Things are somewhat frantic.’

Abbie was saying she’d like a cigarette, when his hands were dry, and Greta asked, ‘What’s frantic that you’re allowed to tell
us about?’

‘Damn-all really – I mean that’s discussible. Current
local
news is that
Unsung
’s completed her sea trials – which is a good thing, she’ll be off in a day or two. Guy Mottram’s due in this evening, in
Unbowed
– he knocked down a fair-sized tanker, very much to his credit – but Johnno and I are on our own now, Hugo Short having got
away in
Thane
.’

‘
Thane?
’

‘T-class from Beirut, en route Gibraltar.’

‘Just Gib, or all the way home?’

‘Home. Done her time. CO landed with a burst appendix.’ He squatted beside Abbie, lighting cigarettes for her and for
himself. ‘Greta – sorry – didn’t ask – have you still given up?’

‘Yes – still don’t. By the skin of my teeth. But when you’ve smoked those, might get ourselves some lunch? Gravy’ll be home
any minute,
may
want a dip before scoffing, but –’

‘The two of you are blooming
marvellous
.’ Abbie, exhaling smoke. ‘You really are.
So
hospitable, and –’

‘Balls. We just enjoy our friends, and are lucky enough to have this rather super house. Tell me something, though – why don’t
you two get married?’

That had been Saturday. Sunday he’d been in or around Lazaretto all day, Monday he’d spent most of the afternoon with Abbie
at her flat, and on Wednesday, business being slack and Broadbent happy to cope with it on his own, he took Abbie in the ferry
from Customs House steps to Sliema, had a few glasses of Red Biddy and a fish supper at the Chocolate King.

While sipping the fairly atrocious, rum-flavoured ‘wine’, she asked him why at Pembroke House on Saturday, when Greta had
asked why didn’t they marry, he’d remained silent, not looking at either of them, only gazing out to sea – leaving it to
her
to tell Greta that they’d discussed it all right but – ‘Look – Mike’ll be off home when
Ursa
’s ready. Not much more than about a month now. I’ll be here another
six
months at least. By the time I’m back he could have been sent anywhere. I mean, what’s the point? When the bloody war’s over
– how long, a year, three years –
if
we still want to –’

‘So you do want to?’

She’d shaken her head. ‘What I’m trying to explain – I
don’t
want a fiancé on the other side of the bloody world!’

At that point Mike had about finished his cigarette, flicked the stub away across the rocks, smiled at Greta. ‘Lunch, you
said?’

Abbie asked him, ‘Does it mean you’re leaving it to me now, don’t give a damn, or what?’

‘It means I disagree with you strongly, but on your insistence agreed not to quote go on about it, unquote, which is why I
haven’t raised the subject since, and I certainly wouldn’t want to start a row with you in front of Greta or anyone else.’

‘You could express your opinion, without actually –’

‘Not discussing it is the only alternative to quarrelling. You know, I quite
like
this appalling brew …’

The fish, straight out of the sea, was very, very good. And Abbie,in the glow of Mediterranean dusk,unbelievably lovely. The
sun was already a dying influence when they caught the last ferry out of Sliema Creek and around the point, back into Grand
Harbour. The climb up to the Barracca, more or less vertical and something like a couple of hundred feet, was enough to make
him regret having had quite that much Red Biddy. At the top, the upper level, sagging in exaggerated exhaustion against the
railing, she suggested that he should go on back to the base on his own, leaving her to make it on
her
own to South Street.

‘I’ll do no such thing.’

‘As you like. What a damn bore, though.’

That he had to go back ‘aboard’ – i.e. to Lazaretto, rather than spend the night with her on her rattly little bed. She was
saying it again, or words to the same effect, when they were almost at her flat and saw the light, also a motorbike parked
on the cobbles not far from her door.

Royal Marine commando’s khaki battledress uniform. A corporal in ‘Shrimp’s private army’ whose name Mike happened to know.
Crash of heels as he saluted.

‘Evening, Perriman. What brings you to these parts?’

‘Evening, sir. Evening, Miss. Urgent dispatch, sir, from Lieutenant-Commander Broadbent.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘I think you’re supposed to read it, sir.’

‘Am I. Well, inside, in the light. Abbie, you might make him a cup of tea?’

‘If you’d like that, Corporal?’

‘Wouldn’t half, Miss!’

‘Come on up, then.’ She’d let them in. Asking Mike, ‘What
can
it be?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Switching on lights. ‘But if you have coffee –’

‘What passes for it, yes. Corporal – ?’

‘Tea for me, Miss. But if I might use your –’

‘In there.’

Mike had ripped open the khaki OHMS envelope. Inside he found a sheet of signal-pad on which Broadbent had scrawled:
Mike – sorry to do this to you. As you know,
Unsung
sails tomorrow at dusk. As you did not know, she’ll be doing so under your command. Charles Melhuish tried to kill himself
this afternoon – did not succeed but has been removed to hospital
.

He let Abbie read it.

‘My God. Poor devil. But – oh, God …’ The kettle was boiling in her tiny kitchen: she’d gone to it. Sound of the plug being
pulled. Mike snapped out of a thirty-second trance, told the corporal ‘I have to get back to Lazaretto. Might cadge a lift
on your pillion?’

‘You’re welcome, sir.’

‘One tea, two so-called coffees. Sugar in the tin if you want it, Corporal.’

‘Much obliged, Miss.’

‘Well, sit there, look – I just want a very quick word with

Commander Nicholson. Won’t be a minute. Mike?’

‘Yes.’ In the bedroom, holding each other. ‘No point hanging about, you realise?’

‘Of course. You’ll need to be there first thing in the morning – if not before.’

‘Neither of us would sleep, in any case.’

‘Or much else, either.’

He kissed her. ‘I’ll be back, don’t worry.’

‘Well, of
course
you will!’

‘I mean in about a fortnight. If in doubt about anything, ring Johnno.’

‘You know what you’ll be doing, do you?’

‘Oh, yes. But tell Greta you’re on your own, and – just hang on. Eat properly, sleep well –’

‘I’ll dream of you.’

‘Ditto. I love you, Abbie. No, none of that – no business crying, no reason whatsoever –
remember
that now …’

Showell,
Unsung
’s first lieutenant, joined him at breakfast. He was properly concerned for his own CO but apparently glad to have someone
he already knew as the replacement. There was no news of Melhuish, only the assumption that he was still alive. Johnno Broadbent
had said last night that Charles had had a second letter from his wife in a mail that had come that morning; it had been filed
with his other papers, in readiness for whatever kind of inquiry might be ordered. It seemed likely that the answers would
be found in those two letters. Mike would have tried to visit him, but even if they’d allowed it he wouldn’t have had time.
He’d collected his patrol orders from Shrimp’s office after breakfast; he’d drafted a good part of them himself, so it was
no great revelation that
Unsung
was to join two other boats patrolling off Taranto. A very large landing operation was about to take place in northwest Africa,
and emergence of Italian surface forces from their main bases was considered likely – from the Royal Navy’s point of view,
sincerely hoped for.

In taking over command of
Unsung
there was a lot to check on and discuss. Everything from charts to torpedoes, including the boat itself; variations in design
which one
should know about and could lead to problems if one didn’t; signals and W/T gear, asdics including a mine-detection unit of
which he’d had no practical experience; and of course personnel – meeting and needing some time with his officers, heads of
departments and technicians. He’d said to Guy Mottram during a quick snack at lunch-time, ‘A week’s work in one day.’

‘You’ll catch up on it at sea and on the billet, old cock.’

‘Dare say I will, but the more one can do now –’

‘Anyway, good luck. I’ll be there to wave goodbye if I can. Six, six-thirty?’

‘Aiming for six.’

Unsung
was in the wardroom berth, alongside, and storing ship had been in progress then, under the supervision of Showell and the
coxswain, a Chief PO by name of Gladwich, thin as a boathook and about nine feet tall, Geordie accent, Conspicuous Gallantry
Medal. They weren’t a bad lot at all, was his first impression. None of them said anything about Melhuish.

Storing ship was completed by five and the light beginning to change by six. He’d written and posted a quick letter to the
Old Man, spent half an hour in conclave with Captain Swann, and was on board a few minutes before six, bringing his old seagoing
rucksack containing as much gear as he’d need. It was precisely six when Showell reported all hands on board and ready for
sea. Gladwich and the signalman, name of Horrobin – slight stutter and in need of a haircut – were already in the bridge,
Showell ditto, Mike and his navigator – a sub-lieutenant whose name for the moment he’d forgotten – now joining them in the
rapidly cooling evening air. He told Gladwich, ‘When we’ve cast off, Cox’n, I’ll get her clear of this lot and you can then
take her out.’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

Obviously pleased. Which was a good start. He told
Showell, ‘Leave me the back spring to turn on, get everything else off her.’

‘Aye, sir.’ He left him and the casing party to it, called down to the control room to group down.

‘Group down, sir.’ Ready for when the ropes and wires were off her and he’d put one motor slow ahead, swing her stern out.
For the moment, glancing across at the softly-lit upper gallery, from where there’d been a call in the voice of Guy Mottram
of ‘Good luck, Mike!’There were other well-wishers too – a considerable gathering – including
Ursa
’s officers – along the forefront of the old building. Swann, Shrimp’s replacement, more or less central to it, flanked by
Commander (Submarines) and Sam MacGregor. Movement amongst them now – in the centre there, Broadbent pushing in, and Mottram
making way for – Christ –
Abbie
?

Abbie. Incredibly … In the care of Johnno. Made no sense but –

Waving, and laughing –
she
was – at his surprise, he supposed – and Johnno beside her cupping his hands at his mouth and bawling, ‘Mike, she told me
about your engagement not having to be secret any longer, and asked just this once might she come see you off. Captain S/M
very kindly agreed, so –’