Go In and Sink! (17 page)

Marshall relaxed slightly. That was more like the man.

Simeon held out his hand. ‘Good luck then.’ He swung himself over the side of the bridge and dropped quickly to the deck below.

Marshall smiled and buttoned the collar of his oilskin coat. He moved to the voicepipe, hearing the brow being hauled away as Simeon strode across the other boat.

‘Control room. This is the captain. Prepare to get under way. Main motors ready.’

The bridge quivered as the motors purred into life. There was no point in bothering with the diesels if they
had
to manoeuvre against some small boat in total darkness.

He peered over the screen. ‘Stand by!’

Buck waved his fist. ‘Singled up to bow and stern ropes, sir!’

The lookouts stepped up on to their respective gratings and made a big show of adjusting their night-glasses, knowing Marshall was just behind them.

Blythe said, ‘There’s
Lima
, sir. Just coming round
Guernsey
’s bows.’

‘Good.’

He thought suddenly of Gail. The feel of her skin under his fingers. The smell of her hair.
It’s turned you into a machine
. He found he was clenching his fists. Damn her. What the hell could he do about it?

A light stabbed from the
Guernsey
’s bridge and Blythe was shuttering his acknowledgement with the hand-lamp before the signal had died.

‘
Proceed when ready
, sir.’ He turned and looked at him. ‘
Good hunting
, sir.’

‘Very good. Inform the control room.’ He hesitated, knowing Blythe was waiting. It was expected. The thing to do.

‘Make to
Guernsey
, Yeoman.
Thanks for your help
.’

The depot ship would probably be embarked on a new scheme within a day or so. An experimental submarine, some new underwater device, a floating pier which the army had been asking for since he could remember. He watched Blythe’s light reflecting from the ship’s pitted plates. He doubted if they would ever tie up alongside her again.

He shook himself angrily. ‘Let go aft!’ He waited, keeping his mind empty as the soft breeze pushed the hull
reluctantly
clear of their small consort. ‘Slow astern together.’ He waved to Buck. ‘Let go forrard!’

Stern-first they edged clear of the towering depot ship, the water sluicing along the saddle tanks to make a sluggish arrowhead of white froth.

From forward he heard the main hatch clang shut, the scrape of wires being stowed securely for sea.

‘
Lima
’s gathered way, sir.’

‘Very well.’ He crossed to the voicepipe. ‘Stop together.’ He watched the pale blue sternlight and the wash from a passing trawler. ‘Slow ahead together. Port twenty.’

‘First lieutenant here, sir. Follow the light again?’

‘Yes.’ He heard the periscope shift in its sleeve. ‘We will be taking on passengers in an hour’s time.’

He felt the hull steady as the rudder came round, and knew that Gerrard had her under control.

‘Fall out casing party.’

He raised his glasses and tested them for night vision. But the shoreline houses were hidden. He thought of the first time he had come aboard. The old lady and her cat.

Buck’s head appeared over the side of the bridge. ‘The conning-tower screen is secured, sir.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘Proper Fred Karno’s effort that is.’

The seamen came swarming into the bridge and down through the open hatch. Then Warwick, dragging his feet, his head towards the dark slab of land.

‘Keep a good lookout.’ Marshall glanced at Blythe’s outline. ‘The launch will signal. But check the code.’

It would be just like Simeon to send an additional boat to check their vigilance against any trick.

But he had to hand it to their organisation, his and Browning’s. It must take a lot to alert coastal patrols and uninvolved vessels to ensure that nobody would stumble
on
their departure and raise an alarm. And they still had a lot to do. Fuelling arrangements, security screening of those to be employed, a million things.

He said to Buck, ‘Go below and make sure everything’s stowed all right. Don’t want any tins of jam rattling about in the fore ends!’ He knew it had been done but wanted to be alone with Warwick.

Buck nodded. ‘Right, sir.’ He probably understood.

Marshall looked at the
Lima
’s sternlight, the blue froth of her small wake.

‘I’m going to the after casing to see our “umbrella”, Sub.’ He saw him stiffen. ‘Number One has the con, but you keep an eye on
Lima
. She will sight any other craft before we do.’

He lowered himself down the ladder, feeling the blown spray tapping against his oilskin as he groped along the handrail. The depot ship’s mechanics had done a good job with their harbour disguise. He tested the folded screen with the heel of his boot. But the first near miss from a depth-charge would rip it away in a second.

He returned to the bridge and said, ‘Not like our other departure, Sub.’ He waited, feeling Warwick’s uncertainty.

He replied, ‘It seems no time since we got back, sir. And now—’ He did not finish it.

‘I know. Can’t be helped.’ Marshall twisted round to watch the last of the light fading above some hills. The loch was lost in complete shadow. ‘I wasn’t expecting to go back to the Med.’ The words just seemed to come out. ‘Not after fourteen bloody months of it.’

He clenched his fists into his pockets. Saying it was enough.
Fourteen months
. How long would it be this time? What were the odds now?

Warwick asked, ‘Was it that bad, sir?’

He remembered his own words to Gail. Was it only last night?
Anything to hold the show together
.

‘No.’ He felt the sweat under his cap. Ice-cold. ‘Nothing we couldn’t handle.’

He had to move away.
Liar. Liar
. Why don’t you tell him?

He added harshly, ‘Tell the helmsman he’s too far on
Lima
’s port quarter! For God’s sake, Sub, you’re supposed to be able to stand a watch, so
do
it!’

‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry.’ Warwick groped for the voicepipe.

Blythe watched them and sucked his teeth. Warwick was a good kid but wet behind the ears. The lads called him Bunny, but not unkindly. Thank the Lord it wasn’t one of the other officers on the bridge, he thought worriedly. That tough egg, Buck, or old
Snooty
Devereaux. They would have recognised the skipper’s trouble in a flash. He massaged his hands against the chill air, thinking of his wife in Gosport. He looked quickly at Marshall’s vague outline against the bridge screen. Poor bastard. He’s got to carry the whole bloody lot of us. But it’s him who needs help.

On and on down the loch, following the light, with only a gentle swish of water against the hull to break the stillness.

Then, ‘Control room to captain.’ It was Gerrard. ‘Should be making the pick-up at any minute now, sir.’

‘Very good, Number One. Tell Petty Officer Cain to get his men on deck at the double.’

A pause and he heard feet hammering on the ladder behind him.

Then Gerrard asked, ‘Everything all right up there, sir?’

‘
What?
Of course it is!’ He wiped his face with the back
of
his glove. ‘Sorry, Bob. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.’

Blythe called, ‘Signal from
Lima
, sir.
Boat to starboard
.’

He raised his glasses. There it was. A black blob on the water.

‘Stop together. Tell Cain to stand by.’

He watched the armed-yacht steering purposefully on her set course. Any unseen watcher would assume that all was normal.

A small torch flashed across the loch and Blythe said, ‘It’s the proper signal, sir. On the button.’

‘Acknowledge.’

He climbed on to the starboard gratings to watch the little launch as it chugged towards the idling submarine. It had to be fast.

A shout, a heaving line, and the jolting groan of timber against steel. He watched the scrambling figures as they were hauled unceremoniously on to the casing, the boat already backing clear. Less than a minute.

‘Slow ahead together.’ The deck began to quiver again. ‘Increase the revs until you’re on station.’

He heard the seamen and their passengers groping and stumbling through the hatch, wondered briefly what sort of men volunteered for such dangerous missions. He had carried several in the past. But he had never got to know any of them. It was just as well when you thought of what might happen to them. He took another long look around. This was the easy part.

He said, ‘Tell Lieutenant Buck to come up and relieve me. I’d better greet our visitors.’

Warwick said quietly, ‘I can do it, sir.’

He hesitated, and even though Marshall could not see his features he could feel the intensity of Warwick’s
eagerness
. To prove something. To him or to himself.

He said, ‘Of course, Sub.’ He touched his sleeve. ‘She’s all yours.’

He hurried down to the control room, his gaze passing over the assembled figures, caught in their various attitudes of concentration and watchfulness. Gerrard was at the periscope, Devereaux was resting his hands on the coxswain’s chair, his eyes on the gyro repeater. He saw the young stoker, Willard, handing a pad to Frenzel who scanned and then initialled it.

Willard turned to hurry aft and then saw Marshall watching him.

Marshall gave him a quick nod. ‘Feeling better?’

‘Yessir. A lot.’ He grinned. ‘Thanks, sir.’

Frenzel looked across the stoker’s shoulder, saw their quick exchange and then turned back to his panel.

Marshall pushed aside the wardroom curtain and almost cannoned into Churchill who was carrying a coffee pot. He was beaming.

‘Cor, wot a lark, eh, sir?’

Marshall stared after him and then stepped into the wardroom. The three passengers were unbuttoning their hooded windcheaters, brushing droplets of spray from their arms and legs.

One, tall and sharp-featured, turned and thrust out his hand. ‘I’m Carter. We’ll all try to keep out of your way, Captain.’

Marshall smiled. ‘Good to have you aboard.’

The man added, ‘This is Toby Moss, and I think you know our third member, Mrs. Travis.’

She was pushing the hood back from her dark hair, watching his face with that same expression of tired gravity.

He said quietly, ‘Yes. We have met.’

She did not smile. ‘I can sleep anywhere, Captain. Don’t worry about me.’ She reached out one hand as Churchill re-entered with a full pot of coffee. ‘This is more like it. Thanks.’ She seemed to have forgotten Marshall completely.

He said, ‘Mrs. Travis will have my cabin. We’ve two spare bunks in here, and there’s always one of us on watch.’ He felt confused. ‘I’ll tell my Number One.’

The smaller of the two men, Moss, who looked more Italian than anything, chuckled. ‘Home from home. I’m going to enjoy the trip.’

The other man removed his jacket and sat down. He was wearing army battledress but no regimental flashes. Just his rank. A major.

He said, ‘I expect Commander Simeon has told you your part in things.’

Marshall nodded slowly, his eyes on the girl. She was sipping the coffee, holding the thick mug with both hands. Like a child.

‘Yes. He did. Your equipment is stowed forrard.’

‘Good show.’

She looked up and saw him watching her. ‘I hope you enjoyed the party last night, Captain?’ Her eyes were very steady. Mocking or accusing, it was hard to tell.

He replied flatly, ‘Some of it.’

She shrugged. ‘So it seemed.’

‘Captain on the bridge!’ The call echoed from the conning-tower.

He ran from the wardroom, knowing that she had already turned away. Dismissing him.

He reached the bridge and Warwick exclaimed, ‘I’m very sorry, sir.
Lima
signalled that she had sighted a small
boat
. But it was driftwood.’ He sounded as if he thought it was his fault in some way.

‘That’s all right, Sub.’ He took several deep breaths. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

Through the open hatch he heard someone laugh. With her? At him? Perhaps she was a friend of Simeon’s. Had already told him she had discovered him with his wife. He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.

And now this girl was here, penned up with the rest of them until.… He thought suddenly of her tenseness. Her way of watching and listening. God, she was just like him. Going back to something. Hating it. Not knowing how she was going to survive. The realisation helped to steady his jumbled thoughts, to understand, if only partly, what they were up against.

He thought too of Simeon, with his wine and his borrowed chef, his car and his new wife. Managing all of them like puppets.

Warwick turned, ‘Did you say something, sir?’

He stared at him.
I must get hold of myself
.

‘Just thinking aloud. Forget it.’

A light showed very briefly, far away, like a small yellow eye. Somebody opening a door to look at the night sky perhaps. All at once he had a craving to be over there near it. To feel the grass under his feet, to touch stone and brick instead of wet steel.

He peered at his luminous watch. Thirty-five minutes before they made their dive to trim the boat and leave
Lima
to her own affairs.

He trained the glasses over the screen, hoping to see the light again. But it did not reappear. The land had merged with the sky.

‘Good lookout all round.’ He let his words sink in. ‘When we leave
Lima
astern, every ship you see will be an enemy.’

In his mind’s eye he could picture their lonely journey as clearly as if he was looking at a chart. During the night they would slip out into the Atlantic, past those jagged, unlit islands with names as old as time itself. Then south through the Bay and further still around the untroubled coastline of Portugal and Spain. Gibraltar. The gateway. Back to the Med. How they would all have laughed if they had known he would be coming back commanding a captured U-boat. If there was such a thing as an afterlife, perhaps they would still be laughing. While they waited for his return. To put the record straight.