Go In and Sink! (2 page)

Marshall smiled. He remembered this room well enough.
The
base captain of the time had had him here on the carpet. Had given him the most severe dressing-down over some lapse or other. Later, that same captain had called him to tell him his father had been lost at sea. The two extremes of that particular captain seemed to sum up the whole submarine service, he thought vaguely.

Glasses filled, everyone turned expectantly towards him as the captain said, ‘Welcome home. You and your people have done a fine job.’ His eyes dropped to the breast of Marshall’s reefer. ‘A D.S.C. and bar, and damn well earned.’

They all raised their glasses, and it was then that Marshall caught sight of himself in a wall mirror behind them. No wonder he felt different. He
was
different, from these officers anyway. His dark hair, unruly at the best of times, had grown too long over his ears. There had been no time for a haircut during their last stop in Gibraltar, and anyway the starboard motor had been playing up. Again. He had noticed only that morning while he had been shaving that there were tiny flecks of grey in his hair. Very small, but they were there all right. And he was twenty-eight years old. He smiled briefly at his twin in the mirror and saw the shadows below his grey eyes momentarily vanish, the mouth twitch upwards, so that he was young again, for just a moment.

The staff officer who had hurried them to this room said, ‘The maintenance commander is ready to have
Tristram
moved to the dock area, sir. As soon as her crew are paid and have got their ration cards and travel warrants they can be sent on leave.’ He swivelled his eyes to Marshall. ‘Unless …’

Marshall raised his glass to his lips for the first time. It was neat whisky. He could feel it searing his throat,
stirring
his insides like a returning confidence.

He said quietly, ‘I will speak with them first, if I may.’

The captain nodded. ‘Of course. It must be quite a wrench after all this time, eh?’

‘Yes.’ Marshall emptied the glass and held it out to the hovering steward. ‘It is.’

He was behaving badly but could not do anything about it. They meant well. Were doing their best to make him welcome when most of them probably had a hundred jobs to do.

Quite a wrench
.

Perhaps it was the way the urbane staff officer had written off his command already. Just so much steel and machinery. Material of war. He wondered if some of the
Tristram’s
company were feeling as cut-off and lonely as he was right now. Would they be able to talk about what they had faced and endured? The chilling suspense of a depth-charge attack. The nerve-grinding tension of stalking their prey, the order to fire, the ticking seconds before a telltale boom of a torpedo finding its target.

Tristram’s
return was special, the captain had said. In one way he was right. Five other boats of the same class had left Portsmouth for the Mediterranean. With many more they now littered the sea-bed, their companies sealed inside them.

The captain said evenly, ‘I was sorry to hear about young Wade.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The whisky was like fire. ‘He was due to come home the week after it happened.’ He did not notice that the others had fallen silent as he continued in the same unemotional voice, ‘We did our
Perisher
together, and even when I got
Tristram
he was given
Tryphon
. We were always running into each other.’

A new voice asked, ‘How did it happen?’

The captain shot the man a fierce stare, but Marshall replied, ‘We were on the bread-run.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘Taking food and ammunition to Malta. Nothing but a sub could get in. Even then we had to lie on the harbour bottom during daylight to avoid the bombers.
Tryphon
left Malta before dawn that particular day. She was never heard of again.’ He nodded slowly, ‘A mine, I expect. God knows, there were enough of them about.’

Even as he spoke he could recall exactly that last meeting. Bill Wade with his black beard and huge grin. The drinks and the ancient Maltese playing a piano in the next room. Almost his last words had been, ‘Never thought we’d make it, old man. I guess we were just meant to survive.’ Poor Bill. He had been mistaken about that.

The base captain glanced at his watch. ‘I think we’d better get things moving.’ He nodded to the others. ‘I’ll just put Lieutenant Commander Marshall in the picture.’

The officers filed out of the room, each pausing to murmur a word of congratulation or welcome, and finally the steward, who closed the door noiselessly behind him.

‘Sit down.’ The captain moved to his desk and squatted comfortably on one corner. ‘Did you have any plans for leave?’

Marshall rested his arms on the sides of the chair. The whisky and the warm room were making him drowsy. Detached.

‘Not really, sir.’

It was easy to make it sound so casual. No plans. His mother had died before the war after being thrown from a horse. She was a beautiful rider, a superb horsewoman. But she had died nonetheless.

His father had been axed from the Navy some years after the Great War, but had been recalled immediately when the Germans had marched into Poland. After his mother had died, Marshall’s father had withdrawn into his own private world, so that they had drifted very much apart. Some of his old spirit had returned when he had been recalled to the Navy, even though he was to be employed in merchant ships. As commodore of a westbound Atlantic convoy he had been attacked by a U-boat pack. His own ship and several others were sunk. It was a common enough story.

‘I thought as much.’ The captain seemed to be hesitating over something. Playing for time. ‘Fact is, there’s a job waiting for you, if you’ll take it. I’d not be so blunt about it if there was more time. But there isn’t. It could be dangerous, but you’re no stranger to that idea. It might even be a complete waste of effort. But the appointment demands every ounce of experience and skill.’ He paused. ‘It needs the best man available and I think it could be you.’

Marshall watched him gravely. ‘You’d want me to decide right away?’

The captain did not answer directly. ‘Ever heard of Captain Giles Browning?
Buster
Browning they called him in the last war. Got the Victoria Cross among other things for taking his submarine into the Dardanelles during the Gallipoli fiasco. A real ball of fire to all accounts.’

Marshall nodded. ‘I read about him somewhere.’ It was not making any sense. ‘Is he involved?’

‘He was out of the Service soon after the war. Axed, like your own father. He came back to do various jobs, training depots and so forth, but now he’s been landed with some special appointment in Combined Ops.’ He smiled. ‘It’s all very vague, but it has to be.’

Outside the thick walls a tug hooted mournfully, and Marshall pictured
Tristram
resting at her moorings. Soon she would be empty, with only a few damp and tattered pin-ups, the pencilled doodlings around the chart table where the navigator had controlled his nerves during each attack to mark their passing.

Why not? There was no point in spending a whole leave going from one hotel to another, visiting friends, or.…

He said suddenly, ‘But I’m not to be told what it is, sir?’

‘It’s a new command.’ The captain was studying him intently. Searching for something on Marshall’s impassive features. ‘If you accept, I’ll have you whistled up to Scotland tomorrow morning where you’ll meet Captain Browning.’ He grinned. ‘
Buster
.’

Marshall stood up. His limbs felt strangely light.

‘I’ll have a go, sir.’ He nodded. ‘I can but try.’

‘Thank you. I know what you’ve been through, so do all those concerned. But you, or someone like you, are what we need.’ He shrugged. ‘If things change, you’ll take your leave, and there’ll still be a command waiting for you. You might even get
Tristram
again if the refit works out all right.’

The staff officer peered round the door. ‘Sir?’

‘Lieutenant Commander Marshall has agreed.’ The captain added softly, ‘You’d better send for Lieutenant Gerrard and brief him.’

The door closed again.

Marshall turned sharply. ‘What has my first lieutenant got to do with this?’

The captain eyed him calmly. ‘He will be
asked
to volunteer to go with you.’ He held up one hand. ‘Your
company
will be mixed. Some new, some old hands. But we
must
have a perfect team at the top.’

Marshall looked away. ‘But he’s married, sir. And he’s due for a commanding officer’s course at the end of his leave. Because of me he’ll be pitchforked straight into another boat after fourteen months in the Med.’

‘I know. Which is why I did not tell you about him first.’ He smiled sadly. ‘But I’ll let him have a couple of days at home before he follows you up north.’ The smile faded. ‘Can’t be helped. This is important.’

‘I see.’

Marshall thought of Gerrard’s face as the early daylight had found them in the Solent that morning. Like a child seeing a Christmas tree for the first time. It had been an intrusion just to watch him.

But as the captain had said, nothing could be done now. It had probably been decided days, even weeks ago that this was going to happen. A new command of some urgency. Maybe an experimental boat full of untried equipment which might shorten the war, or blow up the lot of them.

He picked up his cap.

‘I’d like to go and see my people over the side, sir.’ He faltered. ‘They’ve been a good crowd. The best.’

‘Certainly.’ The captain frowned as a telephone started to ring. ‘There’s a new class of sub-lieutenants going through here at the moment. Would you care to dine with them this evening? The sight of a real veteran might broaden their outlook a bit.’

Marshall shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir. But no. I’ve a couple of people to see. Some letters.’

‘Very well. Take yourself off and relax for a bit. I’ll see you before you go tomorrow.’

He watched him leave and then picked up the telephone. When Marshall had been suggested for the appointment he had had no doubts at all. His record, his list of sinkings and other operations spoke volumes. The fact that he had survived was proof enough. But now, having seen him, he was no longer so sure. Yet he could not put his finger on it. Marshall was good all right. On paper, the best man for the job. But there was something missing. He sighed deeply.
Youth
. That was what Marshall had lost. Somewhere back there in
Tristram’s
wake. It had been ground right out of him.

He snapped tersely, ‘Yes?’

The voice was complaining about supplies and spare parts. The captain tried not to think of Marshall’s eyes. Lost? Desperate? He pushed it from his thoughts and concentrated on the voice in his ear.

After all, it was no longer his affair.

If Marshall harboured any doubt as to the urgency of his secret appointment he was soon made to think otherwise. With first light little more than a grey blur over Portsmouth Harbour he was accompanied by the base captain in a staff car to a Fleet Air Arm station a few miles inland.

Once strapped into a seat aboard a noisy and apparently unheated transport plane, he turned up his greatcoat collar and considered his experiences of the previous day. For the most part they had been disappointing, even fruitless. It had all begun badly with his farewells to
Tristram
’s
company. Despite being so close for so long, the mood of sentiment and parting seemed to elude them all. It was often so in the Service. Embarrassment perhaps at showing true feelings. Eagerness to be away and to find what awaited them at home.

He was still not too sure what Gerrard thought about the sudden change of plans. He seemed more worried about what his wife would think than anything. Of his proposed command course he had said nothing, which had surprised Marshall. Gerrard was a good submarine officer, and as the base captain had remarked, they made a comfortable team together.

When the last man had hurried ashore and the dockyard workers had clattered on to the deserted casing, Marshall had taken a last look round. It was stupid to give any boat character. Maybe that staff officer’s attitude was safer. Steel and machinery. Spare parts and fuel.
Men
made a submarine work. It was a weapon, not a way of life.

And yet, as he had hesitated inside the tiny wardroom, had glanced at the stained curtains on each bunk which had given them their only brief privacy, he had found such reasoning hard to accept. The footsteps on the casing above had seemed muffled, remote, so that the boat had appeared to be listening, like himself. For those other familiar voices. The mixed accents and dialects which made up her company. The wits and the hard-cases, the dedicated and the ones who looked upon work as a disease. Separated, or seen as individuals in some peacetime street, you would not have noticed more than a handful. But bound together within
Tristram’s
toughened steel they had become an entity, a force to be reckoned with.

Having discovered where he was to sleep that night, and arranged to be called in time for the ride to the air station, he had gone ashore. A rare taxi had carried him to the house on the outskirts of Southampton, and each mile of the journey he had wondered what he was going to say to Bill’s widow, the girl his best friend had married just two months before they had sailed for the Med. He remembered her well. And so he should. Small and dark, with the vitality and wildness of a young colt.