Submariner (2008) (5 page)

‘Here’s to it.’ Sam MacGregor, engineer commander, who since late 1940 when the flotilla had first moved in here had worked
hand-in-glove with Shrimp, performing his own technical miracles in the most difficult of circumstances. Raising his glass
as Shrimp took his own from a Maltese steward’s tray. Shrimp certainly didn’t spare himself: his visit to the Combined Services
HQ in Valetta, since briefing Mike, would have meant crossing by
dghaisa
to Ferry Steps, climbing stone stairs to Palace Square, thence making his way virtually the length of the bomb-blasted Strada
Reale with the
stone wreckage of what had been the opera house at the end of it. Must have done it there and back at a trot if not a canter
–
and
since then cleaned up and changed into Red Sea rig as he was now – despite, incidentally, there having been an air alert
when Mike had still been in his bath – luxuriating in it, thinking mostly about Ann – all that – while knowing he
should
move, get down to the shelter.

There’d been no bombs, anyway. The RAF had no doubt chased the intruders off, the all-clear sounding while he’d been getting
dressed. Italians probably, their approach picked up on the island’s new top-secret long-range radar, and Spitfires intercepting.
Things certainly had changed enormously for the better; as just minutes ago Mottram had remarked – ‘Amazing. Leave rack and
ruin and bloody chaos, and come back to
this
!’

‘Could start up again, mind you.’

‘I’d say they’ve missed the bus. Should have invaded when they had us on our knees.’

‘When was that?’

A shrug, and the Robert Morley smile: ‘You know what I mean. When we thought they were going to invade at any bloody minute?’

Twelve or thirteen months ago, the time of
Ursa
’s arrival – a month or five weeks in which the flotilla had lost P.32, P.33, and
Union
– and the supply-runner
Cachalot
– at that time an intercepted report from the German naval staff in Rome had warned Berlin:
The most dangerous British weapon in the Mediterranean is the submarine, especially those operating from Malta … A very severe
supply crisis must occur relatively soon
. And there’d been an Intelligence leak soon after to the effect that the Führer had finally been persuaded by Grossadmiral
Raeder to let him press ahead with an invasion plan – Operation ‘Hercules’ – and in the run-up to it have Kesselring move
his Fliegerkorps II into Sicily in order
to obliterate the island. That was when things had begun to get quite bad. Methodical twenty-four-hours-a-day smashing-up
of the island, virtual elimination of the airfields and aircraft, wrecking of this base and dockyard, submarines between patrols
having to spend daylight hours on the bottom of the outer harbour while the bastards probed for them.

Mottram had added, ‘Weathered all that anyway, so –’

‘Do so again if necessary.’

‘Not if the population’s actually starving.’

‘Been at the point of it more than once, old man, haven’t they. Not all that far off it right now, for that matter.’A shrug.
‘OK just for the moment, but – hell …’ He quoted Mona Lott of the
ITMA
radio comedy series, a whine of ‘It’s being so cheerful keeps us going, huh?’Mike meanwhile had spotted Wiggy Bennett; he
excused himself and went over to him: ‘How are you doing, Wiggy?’

‘Why, Mike, hello!’ To Hubert Marsham then – Commander, Shrimp’s deputy – shouting, ‘Another old lag back inside!’

‘Wiggy – what are my chances of getting Mark VIIIs in the morning?’

‘How many?’

‘Three. Better still, four – then I’d land one Mark IV, straight swap. That’d give me four Mark VIIIs in the tubes, Mark IVs
as reloads. Better still, of course –’ holding up crossed fingers – ‘if you possibly could manage it –’

‘Up to old Sunny, Mike. I’m currently a bit out of touch in that area, tell you the truth it’s entirely his pigeon. We do
know
Tango
’s bringing us half a dozen Mark VIIIs – but Sunny’s ashore tonight, and –’

‘I’ll get on to him first thing.’

Shrimp had mentioned that
Tango
(one of the T-class, of course, the largest submarines building in Britain at this time, twice the size of the little ‘U’s)
would be passing through
shortly on her way east from Gibraltar to the Levant. The 1st Flotilla, formerly based at Alexandria and now working out of
Beirut, was composed entirely of ‘T’s, who on their way from Gib routinely dropped off vitally needed cargoes here in Malta.
Aviation spirit in their ballast tanks, for instance. If this one was bringing some Mark VIIIs – and neither
Ultra
nor
Unbowed
embarking torpedoes, not having expended any on their way here – maybe Sunny Warne
might
feel he could be generous. Bennett was explaining his own detachment from the subject as the fact that for several days he’d
been preoccupied with efforts to get torpedoes out of
Pandora
, in French Creek in the dockyard. She’d been sunk alongside Hamilton Wharf by dive-bombers at the beginning of April, taking
two officers and twenty-three of her crew to the creek’s bottom with her, as well as the torpedoes in her eight tubes, if
not the reloads in the racks. Parthian-class, completed in 1930, she was one of the large, cargo-carrying boats that had made
the Magic Carpet supply run regularly; they might have used the space in her reload racks for other stuff, but otherwise it’d
be a
real
bonanza, if all those fish could be got out of her. Bennett was saying what a tricky job it was to extricate them, warheads
and all, from that heavy tangle of steel several fathoms down. Lacking more suitable diving gear, for instance, his artificers
were using DSEA equipment – Davis Submarine Escape Apparatus – which allowed for only very limited periods actually on the
job.

Mike moved on presently to where Jamie McLeod and young Danvers were in conversation with some of Ruck’s and Mottram’s officers.

‘A word, Number One.’

A grin, as he joined him. ‘Sounds ominous, sir.’

‘Torpedoes in the morning. I want all Mark VIIIs, if we can get ’em, and it’ll be up to Sunny Warne, who’s ashore tonight.
We’ll be embarking three fish anyway, we’ve two
VIIIs and two IVs in the tubes at the moment, so if they only give us three VIIIs we’ll load two of them in place of the IVs
and settle for a mixed set of reloads. But I’ll get on to Sunny first thing and try to improve on that. There’ll be some reshuffling
anyway, so warn Jarvis and the TI, huh?’

‘Only thing is, we’d planned to start storing ship at 0800.’

‘Msida Creek first. We’ll leave the cox’n and a few hands here, they can have the stores ready for loading as soon as we’re
back alongside. Water-barge alongside while we’re storing, then, and oil-fuel say mid-forenoon.’

McLeod shrugged philosophically. ‘Dare say we’ll cope, sir.’

‘I’m sure you will, Jamie.’

Although it wouldn’t be exactly like falling off a log. The fore-hatch was the only entry point for both torpedoes and stores,
and the TSC, or fore ends, the compartment right under that hatch, would as always have crates and sacks of provender packed
in around the reload torpedoes in their racks as well as filling every other cubic foot of space. That compartment was also
where about a third of the ship’s company lived, ate and slept. And moving torpedoes that weighed two tons apiece between
the tubes and the reload racks wasn’t either a quick or an easy job; the compartment had to be cleared of all loose gear and
internally re-rigged with various special equipment before you could even start.

McLeod tossed his gin back, shook his head. ‘Gawd ’elp us.’

Mike patted his shoulder. ‘Nice rest at sea soon, uh?’

Ursa
was sailing for patrol not at first light Wednesday but at midnight Tuesday – tonight, in about an hour’s time. Shrimp had
come up with this revised plan at midday, when Mike had been able to report her as ready for sea – torpedoes and stores embarked,
oil-fuel and fresh-water tanks filled, CERA McIver’s maintenance jobs either completed or satisfactorily in hand. Shrimp had
remarked – on their way down to the deep shelter, as it happened, there’d been an air-raid and some bombs had fallen on Senglea
– ‘Your chaps have done well, Michael.’

‘They’re as good as any, sir.’

‘Your first lieutenant about due for his COQC, you mentioned recently.’

‘Coming up for it, yes. But as you pointed out, sir, as we’re likely to be sent home before
very
much longer –’

‘That’s certainly on the cards. Yes … Home with a strong recommendation – which I’ll gladly provide …’

COQC meant Commanding Officers’ Qualifying Course – also known as the Perisher, periscope course. McLeod might be a little
young for command as yet, but with the rate at
which new submarines were being built, Flag Officer Submarines was concerned to find COs for them. He – Max Horton – having
commanded one himself in 1914–18 and knowing very well the kind of men he needed. But then again, good first lieutenants didn’t
exactly grow on trees, and a ship’s company like
Ursa
’s deserved the best officers you could give them. Added to which, Mike didn’t much want to have to break a new man in: McLeod
was
good at his job, and he was used to him.

Anyway – advantages of this midnight departure were (a)
Ursa
would be on her billet that much sooner, and (b) two other ‘U’s were due in from Haifa and Aegean patrols at or soon after
first light, and you’d be out of their way – making sure of it incidentally by turning sharp left out of the swept channel
and heading northwest up the north coasts of Malta and Gozo, on a track which he’d been assured was being mine-swept
now
, at – checking the time – 2310 …

‘One thing I had in mind to check on, sir – if
Swordsman
’s already on her billet north of Messina, odds are she’ll be leaving the area before I do?’

‘When the time comes, she’ll be routed from the vicinity of Stromboli on a track north of Ustica. If you’ve had to withdraw
northwards prior to that, don’t worry, we’ll keep you well apart. She’s on loan to this flotilla, incidentally – be coming
back here, not to Gib.’ A gesture towards the chart: ‘Your route now, Michael – thought about it?’

He nodded, having checked it over this forenoon during the loading of torpedoes. Several factors were involved: battery and
air endurance, the need to get through that large minefield submerged, also to be dived throughout daylight hours – mainly
not to be spotted by aircraft or become a target for some patrolling U-boat. He outlined his intentions: ‘Reckoning to spend
tomorrow dived 0430 to 2100, leaves us seven hours on the surface getting the box right
up’ – ‘box’ meaning battery – ‘diving 0430 Thursday for passage of the minefield. Which I thought I’d curtail slightly by
cutting up thisaway.’

A pencil-point on the channel through the Engadi islands, inside Marettimo. Adding then, since Shrimp wasn’t showing any great
enthusiasm, ‘Out of QBB a bit sooner, and saving a few hours overall.’

‘H’m.’ Slight frown: and fingering his gingery-stubbled jaw. It had been an early start to the day, seeing off
Unbowed
and
Ultra
in the dawn. Wide-apart grey eyes on Mike’s, now: ‘Why not hold on past Marettimo? All right, by the time you’re out of the
mines the sun’ll still be up, keeping you
down
– thinnish air and a low battery, obviously – but no lasting harm in that, eh?’

‘Only thought to avoid the worst of it
and
get on the beat quicker, sir.’

‘Could be making worse problems for yourself, though. In fact I’d advise you to stay well clear of those narrows. I know boats
have slipped through there on occasion, but the buggers could mine them at the drop of a hat, couldn’t they? E-boats out of
Trapani here for instance. If they know we’re back on the job and guess there has to be a convoy operation soon, I’ve a hunch
it’s what they
might
do.’

You could see he meant it,
felt
it.

‘All right, sir. I’ll hold on past Marettimo, stay down until – well, nine-thirty, I suppose. Jesus. Well – for the battery’s
sake, I might make the QBB passage at two and a half or three knots instead of four – have a
little
more juice in hand.’

‘That’d make sense. Don’t let anything change your mind now, stay out of that channel. I’ve a feeling in my water about it.’

Mike looked awed. ‘Certainly respect
that
, sir.’

‘Bloody well hope so.’Sitting back from the chart, fumbling
for a cigarette, ‘We’ll count on your being off Cape San Vito first light Friday – right?’

Charles Melhuish, moreover, would be here with
Unsung
by about the end of the week. Having about a thousand miles to cover from Gibraltar, and Shrimp had said he’d been due to
sail today, Tuesday.

Hadn’t answered Ann’s letter. Not yet.
Had
written to his father – which would cover Alan, also Chloe. If fathers, brothers and little sisters didn’t hear either from
or of you, they worried.

He’d more or less packed his belongings away in the two green suitcases, and completed that job now, so they could be stowed
out of the way of whoever used this cabin next – CO of one of the boats due in tomorrow maybe, but there’d be numerous other
arrivals and departures in the course of the next week or fortnight, anyway. His seagoing gear went into an old rucksack he’d
always used for this. Spare shorts and shirt, sweater, plimsolls, towel, shaving gear. Two books – Scott Fitzgerald’s
The Last Tycoon
, which an aunt by name of Jennie – his late mother’s sister – had sent him for his last birthday. She lived in America, invariably
sent books both to him and Alan and was a fan in particular of Fitzgerald’s. So –
The Last Tycoon
, for starters, and another American but published in England – John Steinbeck,
The Moon is Down
– which he’d borrowed from Hugo Short.

Write to Ann during the course of the patrol, he thought. Have it ready to bung into the post on return.