Go In and Sink! (36 page)

‘Down periscope. Take her to ninety metres again.’

He stood back as the tanks rumbled to the inrush of water, and saw Browning watching him from beside Frenzel’s control panel. Despite the stubble on his heavy jowls, which was almost white, he looked ten years younger. True to his word, he had done all he could to keep out of everyone’s way, but was always ready to offer help in more routine duties. While the army Intelligence captain had moaned and retched through most of the passage, and Simeon had made a great show of going over his folios of secret information, Browning had somehow gained in stature.

If he noticed the tension between some of the officers, and more particularly Simeon’s watchful hostility, he made no comment. Instead, he dominated the crowded wardroom, eating huge meals at each opportunity, and keeping them interested in tales of
his war
, as he put it.

Marshall said, ‘All being well, we should be nicely placed tomorrow night for the contact, sir.’

Browning sighed. ‘I hope the old bugger keeps his promise.’ He smiled. ‘It takes a lot of guts to do what he’s been asked.’ He ambled to the chart table and pulled out a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. ‘General Cappello will
meet
us in some sort of launch, with just a handful of close, trusted men. That part should be fair enough. Most of his officers and the troops under him are from his own city or round about. They’ll trust him before they will the bloody Germans.’ He moved one finger across the chart. ‘I see you’ve marked the place.’

Marshall nodded. ‘You said that we’ve got to take the general on board. For that reason I think we’d better close the land from the north’rd. Give us time to have a good look round.’ He smiled gravely. ‘No sense in being
too
trusting.’

‘Makes sense.’ Browning glanced at the tell-tales and depth gauges. ‘God, she’s a smooth boat.’ He sounded vaguely uncertain. Maybe he felt guilty for admiring the enemy’s workmanship. He cheered up just as quickly. ‘Let’s get some coffee.’

They found Simeon at the wardroom table making notes on his personal chart. The army captain, whose name was Hart, sat at the far end, his face the colour of cheese as he stared fixedly at a steaming cup of coffee.

Marshall saw Travis slumped in one corner, a magazine on his lap.

Simeon asked, ‘Satisfied, sir?’

‘Quite, thanks.’ Browning seated himself in a chair and watched Churchill with his pot. ‘Tomorrow night, God willing.’

Travis remarked, ‘Not too soon for me.’ He appeared totally umoved by their attitudes towards him. To Marshall it seemed as if he was able to shut them off, as he had his wife.

Simeon looked at him thoughtfully. ‘What’ll you do after this war’s over?’

‘Go back to work, I expect.’ Travis watched him calmly. ‘Why?’

‘Just wondered.’ Simeon looked away, as if to dismiss the matter.

Marshall looked from one to the other.

Travis said curtly, ‘I know what you think. I couldn’t care less. Your bosses appear to know my real value. What you choose to believe is a matter of complete indifference to me.’

‘I’m glad of that.’ Simeon smiled. ‘I was merely wondering about your
wife
.’

‘None of your damned business.’ Travis’s composure was rapidly fading. ‘I’ll decide without any help from you!’

‘Yes.’ Simeon glanced idly at Marshall. ‘How was she when you saw her in Cairo? Pretty fit?’

Browning interrupted harshly, ‘That’ll do. There’s enough to keep us occupied for the next day or so without you snapping at each other!’

Simeon held up both hands apologetically. ‘Sorry. sir, if I put my big foot in something?’ He looked at Marshall, his eyes opaque. ‘Didn’t realise it was like that, old boy.’

Marshall felt the anger rising inside him like a flood, but saw Browning’s face. Anxious. Almost pleading.

He said quietly, ‘Well you know now, don’t you, sir!’ He turned to Churchill. ‘I’ll take mine in my cabin.’

But the coffee stood untouched, and it took him several minutes to cool his anger.

So Simeon hoarded more than mere resentment. He was using Travis to get at him. To needle him into saying or doing something stupid. It was Gail. It had to be. After all this time, Simeon was still brooding over the fact that he and Gail had been lovers. He had taken her away from Bill, but that, in his book at least, was different. To know that Marshall had been first was like seeing a man who
had
somehow soiled something he owned. His pride was smarting.

Marshall could recall the moment when Gail had telephoned aboard the depot ship. While the young stoker, Willard, had stood wretchedly to await punishment for desertion. Simeon might have known she was phoning. Might even have planned it to prove or disprove some secret suspicion.

He leaned back in the chair and carefully removed the photograph from his wallet. It helped just to see her. To know she was safe. That she would never be made to suffer again. He thought of Travis’s sudden anger and replaced the picture in his wallet. Travis would never touch her again either. Of that he was quite certain.

All that night the submarine steered north-east around the corner of Sicily and into the Tyrrhenian Sea, taking her time, gaining room before turning once more to the south for a gradual approach towards the rendezvous.

Once or twice they detected propeller noises, patrolling warships some distance away, but otherwise they looked inwards on themselves.

During the morning watch Devereaux stood by the sheathed periscopes, his eyes on the helmsman’s shoulders. Thinking about Marshall and Gerrard. And about Simeon. At first he had taken a firm dislike to Simeon, but now he realised he was the one man who could help him. When this operation was done, Browning would probably be relieved for some desk job, and it was even more likely that Marshall would get his promotion to commander. That left him isolated once again. Maybe to be drafted to some other boat, with one more bloody-minded captain who would refuse to see his value. Simeon was obviously destined for important things. With his help he might …
he
saw the gyro needle tick momentarily out of true and snapped, ‘Watch your helm, damn you! You need a white stick!’

The quartermaster ground his teeth and replied, ‘Sorry, sir.’ Inwardly he pictured himself kicking Snooty Devereaux’s arse right through the main bulkhead.

In the motor room, his back bowed against the after torpedo stowage space, Frenzel peered at his racing machinery, a gloved hand steadying him against the vibration. What would he do next, when this job was over? Go back to Fort Blockhouse. Another course. Another boat.
Leave
. Suppose they made him go on leave? He felt the pain coming back again. What would he do? Go and stare at a mass grave? Try to remember what she had felt like in his arms? How his kid had laughed when he had made some joke or other?

Aloud he said, ‘Oh Jesus, why
them?
’

The artificer on watch who was standing less than two yards away heard nothing. Even the muted motors were loud enough to keep Frenzel’s agony a secret.

In his bunk, his fingers interlocked behind his head, Warwick stared up at the darkness. They were making for another rendezvous. More danger. He found he was unmoved, and yet he could recall his sick horror on that first time when his men had gunned down the waving German’s as if it were yesterday. He had changed completely, but for good or bad he did not know. A heavy drip of condensation plopped on his face, and with a grunt he rolled over into the damp blankets and fell asleep.

In the dimly lit wardroom Captain Hart of the Intelligence Section drooped weakly in a chair, his eyes almost shut as he watched Travis by the table. Hart knew all about Travis. Probably more than anybody else aboard.
In
his earlier days Hart had revolted against men like him. Traitors, double-agents, liars, and those who killed without qualms or even understanding the reason for their orders. Or caring. But as the war had gathered momentum he had been made to share his everyday life with such people. Use them. Make them work. Discard them.

Hart had known Travis’s wife. He also knew what happened to agents caught by the Germans.

But despite all this knowledge Hart was conscious of only one thing. He must rest. Lie down and take advantage of the first day he had free of sickness since coming aboard this terrible boat. He could feel the nausea lurking in his insides, and he had to swallow hard to hold back the lump in his throat. And in the morning there would be another breakfast. Fatty bacon. Tinned sausages. He gulped miserably and wiped his face with his hand.

Travis put down a magazine and said, ‘Why the hell don’t you turn in? You’ll be damn-all use to anyone tomorrow in that state.’

Hart stood up and groped along the curtained bunks. He did not even trust himself to reply.

Travis watched him vanish behind the curtains and then stood up in the empty wardroom.

In a bunk opposite the door Buck lay on his side and watched Travis through a cigarette hole in the curtain. Something must have awakened him, he thought angrily. Probably that damned soldier. He had been with Travis when he had last looked. He saw the other man standing in the wardroom, opening and closing his fingers and staring fixedly at nothing. He was suddenly another person. Not sulky or arrogant as before. There was something frightening about him. Unbalanced.

Buck waited until Travis had climbed into his bunk
and
then relaxed slightly. Travis would need watching. Hart imagined he knew about men like him. Buck thought of Travis’s eyes. He was way out of Hart’s league. Anyone who could do what he had done was not going to change overnight.

A hand jerked the curtain aside and a bearded seaman said cheerfully, ‘Time for yer watch, sir!’

‘I’ve only just got to sleep, damn it!’

The man waited until Buck had staggered down to the deck. ‘Shame, annit, sir?’ He walked away, humming to himself.

Buck grinned. Unfeeling bastard. Then he walked unhurriedly to the control room where other members of his watch were taking up their stations.

Devereaux handed over to him, confining himself to the bare details of course, depth, revolutions and trim.

Buck said wearily, ‘Quiet as a bloody grave, Pilot.’

Devereaux paused by the bulkhead door and looked at him dully. ‘And we’re in a damned expensive coffin, if you ask me!’

Buck shook his head.

Then to the control room at large he said, ‘Right then. All the way to Blackfriars Bridge! Hold tight!’

Several of the men chuckled and Buck felt slightly reassured. He thought about the C.O. Marshall had told him earlier that he had written to recommend him for a D.S.C. for getting the boat free from the mine. His stubbled face broke into a broad grin. What would they say in the Wandsworth Road when they heard about that?

Then with a sigh he went through his usual check of each department. Medals were one thing, but to him machinery came first.

Marshall waited beside the periscope well and watched the busy preparations around him. How many times had he stood in this position, he wondered? In this boat, in
Tristram
, and others before that. You never really got used to it. Not enough to take anything for granted.

All day they had prowled back and forth, well clear of the land, but as evening had drawn near he had ordered a change of course, one which would take the submarine directly south to the rendezvous.

It had been a long day. Long and brittle, and one which even Browning had failed to enjoy. Last minute conferences, but with nothing new to add. Plans for a quick escape if things went wrong. Alternative routes should they run into an unexpected patrol.

But according to all the reports they did not have too much to fear.

There was a regular anti-submarine patrol to the north of the rendezvous area, and by day there were plenty of aircraft on the lookout for intruders. Fortunately, the Italians seemed loath to do anything at night. Which was just as well.

He looked at the clock. Nearly midnight.

Gerrard was speaking quietly to the coxswain, and he saw Frenzel examining his panel with unusual care, his face set in a small frown.

Below the conning-tower the lookouts stood wearing dark glasses so that their vision would not be impaired by the control room lights. They looked like two blind veterans, he thought.

‘No H.E., sir.’

‘Good.’

He turned as Browning came into the dimmed lighting. He was dressed in fresh khaki drill and wore his oak-leaved
cap
at a jaunty angle. He had shaved, and against the others nearby looked like a stranger.

He grinned and said apologetically, ‘Mustn’t let the side down. Want to look my best, eh?’

The seaman by the ladder smiled broadly. They all seemed to like Browning. It was not surprising, Marshall thought.

‘Ready when you are, sir.’

‘Yes.’ Browning fiddled with his belt. Postponing the moment. Then he said, ‘Let’s get it over with.’

Marshall nodded. ‘Take her up, Number One. Periscope depth.’

He knew that Simeon and his companions were in the wardroom. Keeping out of his way. This was his part of it. After that they would take over.