Go In and Sink! (35 page)

‘Who will they be?’

Simeon eyed him without expression. ‘An Intelligence chap from Army H.Q., and of course, er, Travis.’ His eyes flickered very slightly as he said the name. ‘All right?’

‘Travis.’ Marshall stared at him. ‘What the hell for?’

‘Browning got his way over meeting this Italian
friend
of his. But apart from the Old Comrades Association, we need something else to bargain with. To impress this wavering Eye-tie brasshat.’

‘You mean you persuaded the Staff to have Travis along. Is that what happened?’

‘Insurance.’ Simeon relaxed. ‘If the Italian gentleman is to understand what might happen if he goes against us on
the day
, or even if he tries to remain neutral, Travis is the man to do it. With his knowledge of the bomb’s potential, and how the Jerries intend to use ’em, who better?’

‘I see.’

Marshall turned away. Remembering the man as he
had
last seen him. Dark, with deepset eyes. It was easy to see him as some sort of fanatic in the way Doctor Williams had described. And now he was to be aboard again. Forgiven. With a place in affairs once more. It made him feel sick.

Simeon said, ‘Can’t make choices in wartime, you know. Today’s friend is tomorrow’s enemy. It’s always been so.’

The deck gave a quick tremble as Frenzel tested some part of his machinery. Marshall watched Simeon’s reactions. A nervous tightening of the jaw, but it gave something away. He was almost sorry this was to be such a straight-forward job. Browning had informed him of the plan’s loose outline only that morning. The general had been contacted by British Intelligence agents working in Sicily. He had been given Browning’s personal message, and he had not exploded or started an alarm. Phase two would be the rendezvous at sea with some suitable craft which the general would arrange. If he agreed. If not, then nothing would happen, and they would have to report as much to the Chiefs of Staff.

It was a strange way to fight a war, but everything else had changed, so why not that?

Marshall asked slowly, ‘Will he be under guard, sir?’

Simeon smiled. ‘
Watched
.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘But he will mess with us. Give him a sense of belonging again.’

Marshall regarded him gravely. You bastard. You know. About Chantal. You’re enjoying it. Getting your own back.

Aloud he said, ‘As far as I’m concerned, he can go to hell.’

Simeon nodded, his features very serious. ‘Of course,
old
chap. You run the boat, and leave the diplomacy to us, eh?’

‘Thank you.’ Marshall walked past him. ‘I’m going on deck.’

By the time he had reached the bridge he was feeling calmer. After all, it was obvious that neither he nor Simeon had anything in common, and if Simeon had some idea of finding an outlet for his hostility, he was hardly likely to make this the moment. Nobody in his position, and with so much at stake, would even consider it.

He leaned over the screen and saw some of the deck party taking lashings off the mooring wires under Petty Officer Cain’s watchful eye. Warwick was nearby, one foot resting negligently on the guardrail while he chatted with Blythe, and in the warm bronze light of evening it all looked very peaceful. On every hand ships and harbour craft gleamed dully in the strange light, and as the guardboat swept fussily around the depot ship’s buoy, its bow wave shone like liquid metal.

The harbour was full. There were plenty of landing craft, he noticed. Low, chunky hulls with no claim to beauty or a shipbuilder’s pride. Built for the job. To carry men and tanks to the beaches. They would be gathering all along the North African coastline now. They had waited so long for a chance to start back along the road to victory that now it was drawing near it was hard to accept.

Devereaux pulled himself through the hatch and crossed to his side.

‘I’ve got the charts marked, sir. Just as you told me.’ He shaded his eyes to watch the guardboat. ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult.’

‘I hope not.’

Marshall waited. Devereaux was not one to waste words. He had no need to explain about the charts. They were his job.

‘I was thinking, sir.’ He smiled casually. ‘After this one. Any chance of my being recommended for a course at Fort Blockhouse?’

‘First lieutenant’s course?’ Marshall nodded. ‘Every chance. I’ve already made the suggestion.’

Devereaux pouted. ‘Well, that’s just it, sir. I’ve done quite a bit of time in submarines now. I was acting Number One in my last boat when the chap in question broke his leg. All practical work.’

‘But you still have to take the course.’

Devereaux hurried on, ‘And I’ve acted first lieutenant aboard this boat too, sir, more than once.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I was hoping I could go straight in for a commanding officer’s course.’

Marshall looked away. So that was it. He could feel for Devereaux’s impatience. But for this unexpected commission in U-192 he would most likely be halfway to his goal.

‘You know how it is, Pilot. You can’t buck the system.’ He smiled. ‘Not even if you’ve earned promotion to admiral!’

‘I’m afraid I’m not taking it so lightly, sir.’

Marshall faced him. ‘For God’s sake, don’t start getting pompous with me.’

Devereaux said stubbornly, ‘Well, it’s not fair, sir. I was going to make an official complaint, but.…’

‘What about?’

The sharpness in his tone made Devereaux hesitate, but only for a second.

‘Number One’s getting rattled, sir. On our last billet he nearly lost control.’ He added quickly, ‘You weren’t there, sir. But it happened.’

‘That’s enough.’ Marshall stared at him, seeing the picture as clearly as if he had been aboard at the time. ‘I’d thought better of you. Not that you’d go bleating about a fellow officer behind his back.’

‘I see it as my duty. An obligation, sir.’

‘Well, leave it right there and carry on with your other
duties
.’

Devereaux made as if to leave. ‘I suppose that’s goodbye to my recommendation for anything now, sir?’ Then he dropped down the ladder.

Marshall looked at his hands. They were clenched into tight fists. He had underestimated the navigator badly. Now, if he tore up his recommendation, Devereaux would scream to the world that it was because he had dared to criticise Gerrard. The captain’s friend. But if he did nothing, Devereaux might well end up with a command of his own. In just a few sentences he had shown his true value, or lack of it, and his total misunderstanding of responsibility, of comradeship, which was the very strength of every submarine. If it was to survive.

A seaman in gaiters and carrying an empty sack climbed up the ladder from the casing and saluted.

‘Just took the mail ashore, sir.’ He held out an envelope. ‘For you. By hand, from a Doctor Williams.’

Marshall nodded and almost tore it from the man’s fingers. Something had changed. She had broken down. It was to tell him not to——

He stared at the photograph which he had pulled from the envelope, his mind racing with anxiety. There was a small note attached, with the hospital’s address in one
corner
. Williams had scrawled, ‘
Got it developed as fast as I could. Thought it might help
.’

It had caught her exactly. She was looking just as she had when they had been alone together. Sad, happy, wistful. She could not have known he was taking it. He stared at it fixedly, remembering her voice when she had said,
I might hurt you
. After all she had endured, and experiences he could only imagine, she had been thinking of him. Afraid she would be unable to let him hold her. Love her.

He put the picture carefully in his wallet. The little doctor had done far more than he knew. He would be back in his hospital now. Probably looking from his window, watching the lonely soldier by the flowers.

He swallowed hard, and had to restrain himself from taking out the photograph once more.

Warwick called from the casing, ‘Prisoner and escort coming aboard, sir!’

Marshall shook his head as he watched the little group climbing down from the depot ship’s side. ‘Not a prisoner, Sub.’ He saw Warwick staring at him with astonishment. ‘Mr. Travis is to be treated as a passenger, nothing more.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Warwick looked at Blythe. ‘I’ll see to it at once.’

Travis was dressed in new khaki drill, and carried a brief-case. He was accompanied by an army captain who was staring at the U-boat with obvious dismay. Travis climbed up the ladder and greeted Marshall with a curt nod.

‘We meet again.’ He looked at the open hatch and wrinkled his nose. ‘Ugh. It’s all coming back again.’

The soldier said, ‘I’m not much of a one for ships, sir.’

Marshall replied, ‘It should be calm enough.’ He
watched
Travis’s deepset eyes. But not so calm inside the hull, he thought. ‘If you go below, I’ve arranged for you to be accommodated in the wardroom.’

He turned his back on them and stared across the harbour again, watching the shadows creeping away from the anchored ships and touching the water with deeper blue. He was still on the bridge when Captain Browning arrived, panting, but obviously excited by the prospect of his trip in a submarine.

Marshall saluted. ‘You’re very welcome, sir.’ He added quietly, ‘I’ve put you in the wardroom as you insisted. I hope you’ll find it comfortable.’

Browning beamed at him. ‘I’m looking forward to it!’ He tapped a leather satchel which he had clipped to his belt. ‘I’ve got it all here. I have a feeling we’re going to be lucky, Something
worthwhile
, and that means a lot to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Marshall watched him as he touched the voicepipes and peered down the oval hatch.

Browning asked, ‘All went off all right, I hope?’ His eyes vanished into his wrinkles. ‘I can
see
it did, boy!’ The grin spread across his face. ‘I’m glad. Give you something to live for.’

Later, as the deck picked up the steady quiver of Frenzel’s motors, and the line-handling parties stood fore and aft on the casing, Blythe said, ‘Control room, sir.’ He was smiling, ‘Cap’n Browning requests permission to come to the bridge.’

Marshall nodded, watching the faces which lined the depot ship’s rails. U-192’s secret could not last much longer. Too many people knew about her. It was natural enough.

Browning heaved himself through the hatch, his girth almost sealing it like an extra lid.

He said, ‘Won’t be a bother, Marshall. I’ll keep well out of your way.’

Marshall adjusted the glasses round his neck.

‘That’ll be fine, sir.’

He studied the ripple of a breeze on the water, the way the headrope sagged and tautened away from the ship’s side.

‘Stand by.’

He saw the blink of a light from the depot ship, heard Blythe say, ‘
Proceed
, sir.’

‘Let go forrard.’

He could feel Browning just behind him, hear his heavy breathing as he lived each separate function and movement.

‘All clear forrard, sir.’

‘Slow ahead port. Let go aft.’

‘All clear aft, sir.’

Starkie’s voice now. ‘Port motor slow ahead sir. Wheel’s amidships.’

‘Slow ahead starboard.’ He lowered his eyes to the gyro. ‘Port ten.’

Blythe said, ‘Here comes our guide, sir.’

‘Good. Make our number to him.’ It was the same motor gunboat, very graceful in the fading light.

‘Midships.’

He saw the M.G.B. swinging round with a great show of wash.

Buck called, ‘All secured for sea, sir!’

‘Very well. Fall the hands in for leaving harbour.’

He looked at the two swaying lines of seamen on the casing, with Buck right forward in the bows. He saw
too
the look in Browning’s eyes and knew what it must mean to him.

He saluted and said, ‘She’s all yours, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘If you’d like to take her out.’

Browning stared at him for several seconds, as if he had misunderstood. Then he stepped up heavily on to the fore gratings and tugged his cap firmly over his eyes.

Marshall stood aside, and was glad he had made the offer.

A voice called, ‘Control room to bridge.’

The massive head moved very slightly. ‘Bridge?’

The other voice sounded surprised. ‘Commander Simeon requests permission to come up, sir.’..

Browning glanced aft at the lookouts and let his gaze rest momentarily on Marshall. Then he bent over the voicepipe again.

‘Denied.’ was all he said.

MARSHALL LOOKED AT
the control room clock and then at Gerrard.

‘Take her up. Fourteen metres.’

He shivered slightly in the dank air, and wondered why he was feeling so tense. It had taken six days to reach their present position off the north-west coast of Sicily. A careful, steady run, avoiding all shipping, which had been easy enough, and surfacing only briefly to charge batteries at night. And yet the strain was there, all around him. Like the moment when they had passed through the minefields between Sicily and the North African coast. He had watched Gerrard at his controls, seen the unblinking concentration on his face. Remembering the last time.

‘Fourteen metres, sir.’

The hiss of compressed air died away, leaving the boat as quiet as before.

‘Up periscope.’

He crouched low, his fingers snapping the handles into position even as the lens broke surface.

It was evening, the sea was very dark, like moving silk in the fading light. He moved around the well, searching for a light, a feather of spray. Nothing. He swivelled the lens upwards, noticing the first pale stars and one tiny cloud like a piece of jagged metal, holding the sunlight which was otherwise hidden below the horizon.

He swung the periscope towards the land and switched it to full power. The coastline was not much more than a blur of grey-blue, but the nearest headland was prominent enough, and familiar. Like an old friend. Or enemy.

‘Bearing now?’

Devereaux replied, ‘One-five-zero, sir.’

‘It’s Cape St. Vito. A good fix.’

He heard Devereaux’s quick breathing, but nothing was said. The navigator was careful to say very little now. Since their talk on the bridge at Alex.