Go In and Sink! (18 page)

Then he thought of the girl in the wardroom below his feet. Her feelings would be worse at this moment.

He said, ‘Send for some coffee. We could all do with it.’

He could almost feel their reactions around him. Relaxing. Getting back their confidence. He smiled bitterly. The cool, calm captain. Nothing worried him but the job in hand. The super-being. Unbreakable. He heard Churchill clattering up the ladder with his pot.

So be it, he thought. The second time round.

The first three days of the passage south towards the Bay of Biscay were marred by incidents and troublesome faults within the boat. With rest periods broken and interrupted and the urgent demands made on every department, many of the company wondered if they would have to return to base.

Marshall was of the same opinion more than once,
although
he said nothing of his doubts to the others. After all the training and effort, and the fact they had already crossed the Atlantic to sink two enemy submarines without damage or loss to themselves made these unexpected setbacks irritating and worrying. Like a crude omen. As if the boat was telling them she was not completely tamed and obedient to her new masters.

On the first day the forward periscope gland developed a leak. It could not have come at a worse moment as they were still manoeuvring in busy and dangerous waters and would pass through the approaches to the English Channel later that same day. Frenzel’s men were able to clear the fault with just an hour to spare, but the next day the officer of the watch called Marshall to report that one of the torpedoes was leaking in its tube, the air bubbling through the bow cap at an alarming rate. At periscope depth it could have been seen even by a partially-sighted lookout.

To top it all, the starboard main motor bearing began to run hot, so that it became necessary to remain on the surface when still within range of local patrols and fighter aircraft.

Curiously enough, the most worrying fault of all was when one of the suction valves jammed. Even Frenzel’s mechanics were about to admit defeat when a stoker discovered it was caused by a lump of waste left behind by some careless engineer from the depot ship. The fact that it was a simple human error added to their frustration.

But then, it seemed, the submarine decided to give them a break. They increased speed and surfaced to charge batteries without further incident.

During most of the time Marshall had had little opportunity to speak with his passengers, and the girl he had
seen
only a few times. Each time it had seemed as if she had not moved. Always sitting in the cabin chair, wide awake, looking into space.

On the morning of the third full day he sat in the wardroom drowsing over a cup of coffee while Churchill removed the dirty breakfast plates and laid a fresh place for the next officer to be relieved from watch. The motion was sickening and uncomfortable for the boat was running on the surface, the diesels thundering and making every piece of furniture and fittings rattle in an insane chorus. The sea was rough and the visibility very poor. He had been on the bridge at first light and had marvelled at the sudden change in weather. It was not cold, but the waves which cruised up and over the low hull to smash against the conning-tower were more like those of winter than now.

The coffee helped a lot. Gave him confidence when demands, endless interruptions to even the briefest snatches of sleep had played havoc with his reserves. They had, in spite of everything, done well, he thought. Whatever had gone wrong, they had mastered it. On their own. He hoped the less experienced men would appreciate that point.

Around him, behind their various curtains, others slept, for the present free of responsibility or the need to strain their minds and bodies.

It was surprising how much he had missed his own cabin. On the occasions when he had tried to sleep he had been conscious of the silence beyond his drawn curtains, as if the others were afraid to speak freely or resented his intrusion. It was quite ridiculous. Even if they had hated him they would have been too occupied in the past three days to care one way or the other.

He grabbed his cup as the deck rolled heavily across
another
deep trough. He felt the hull fabric shake violently as a screw came dangerously near to breaking surface, heard the attendant oaths from men trying to work in the control room.

When he looked up again he saw her standing in the open doorway, clutching the swaying curtains to support herself.

‘Here, let me help you.’

He reached over the table and took her wrist, piloting her to one of the bench seats below the bunks. She looked very pale and her skin felt damp.

She said, ‘It’s terrible. I’ve just been sick.’

Churchill padded into the wardroom and placed a cup between the table fiddles.

‘Wot would you like, miss?’

Marshall shot him a warning glance, knowing how cruel experienced sailors could be about seasickness. He need not have troubled.

Churchill said, ‘Drink the coffee while I think.’ He rocked easily to the motion, his face set in a frown. ‘Scrambled egg and some nice toast.’ He grinned down at her. ‘For you, miss,
anything
.’ He hurried away to the galley without waiting for a reply.

She said weakly, ‘I don’t know. It might be disastrous.’ She looked up at the curved deckhead. ‘The smell of that oil! The noise!’

‘Yes.’ He watched her trying to swallow the coffee. In the dim lighting her face looked very young. ‘I’m sorry about the weather. The Bay is often like this, I’m afraid.’

She stared at him. ‘Biscay? Are we there already?’

‘Allowing for error, we’re now about two hundred miles south-west of Brest. We’re pretty safe out here if we keep our guard up.’

‘Brest. I’ve been there several times.’ Her eyes had become distant. Wistful. ‘How soon will it be before we get out of this—this awful weather?’

He smiled. ‘All being well we will be rounding the north-west of Spain tonight. Cape Finisterre. Then we’ll follow the coast, just outside Portuguese waters. It should be calmer there.’

‘I’m glad.’ She lapsed into silence, lost in thought.

He asked carefully, ‘Your husband? Is he in France?’

She shook her head. ‘Italy. We were working together. But I cannot talk about it.’

‘I hope my lads are looking after you?’ It was pointless to try and draw her out.

‘Thank you, yes.’ She looked around the untidy wardroom, the watchcoats hung up to dry, the pistol rack, the pile of tattered magazines. ‘It is like being with friends.’ She shivered. ‘I will miss this security.’

He said gently, ‘They’ll miss you, too. As I will.’

The girl stood up, her features alert again. ‘I imagine that you will have much to fill your daily lives, Captain.’

He watched her as she moved unsteadily round the table. ‘You were wrong about me, you know. It was something which happened a long while ago. It’s over now.’

‘It’s not my concern!’ She swung round and looked at him with something like anger. ‘I don’t care what you do!’ The deck tilted and she almost fell. ‘Just leave me alone.’

‘All right.’

He saw Gerrard in the doorway, his eyes questioning. ‘Everything in order, Number One?’ His tone was clipped and formal. His only protection.

Gerrard nodded and slid into a seat. ‘Course two-zero-four.
Twelve
knots.’ He rubbed his bristly chin. ‘God, I’m starving.’

Churchill came in with the plate of scrambled eggs and Gerrard exclaimed, ‘What’s this then? The Savoy or something?’

Churchill grinned. ‘For the lady, sir.
Powdered
eggs for the gents!’

She dropped one hand on Gerrard’s shoulder and smiled at him. ‘It is all right. You have it. I’m afraid I cannot trust my stomach just yet. Please, I’d like you to.’

Gerrard shrugged. ‘If you’re sure. Thanks a lot.’ To Churchill he said, ‘Powdered eggs indeed. You can just go and get lost!’

She hesitated by the door. ‘Would it be possible to go on deck?’ She did not look at Marshall. ‘For a few minutes. The air might help.’

Gerrard glanced over the table. ‘What d’you say, sir?’ He studied Marshall’s expression gravely. ‘It’s pretty lively up top but that’s all.’

Marshall nodded. ‘Very well. Tell the bridge.’ He dragged his mind back to his command. ‘Warwick’s on watch now. Ask him to fit her with a harness.’

Gerrard placed an upturned plate across his breakfast and left the wardroom.

‘Thank you, Captain.’ She was already putting on her windcheater. ‘I appreciate it.’

Gerrard came back and watched her leave. ‘Nice girl. Pity she’s married.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Marshall stood up violently. ‘I’m going out for a bit of peace!’

‘Good idea, sir.’ Gerrard munched the fresh toast and grinned. ‘The woman’s touch. You can’t beat it.’

Marshall strode into the control room, unreasonably
angry
with Gerrard and himself because of a casual comment. He looked at the chart and then crossed restlessly to the wheel. The helmsman’s shoulders were rigid, as if he too had sensed the captain’s mood.

Apart from the watchkeepers, most of the company were turned in, taking what rest they could until they were needed again.

He moved to the conning-tower ladder and looked up at the oval of sky far above. Pale grey, but here and there as the tower rolled sickeningly from side to side he saw fainter streaks of blue. Perhaps it would be clearing sooner than he had expected. He strode to the forward periscope, which was raised, a stoker dabbing grease on it without much enthusiasm.

Marshall nodded curtly. ‘I’ll just take a look round.’

He swung the periscope very slowly in a full circle, watching the spray bursting over the hull and lifting high above the bridge in long tattered streamers. Visibility was still very poor. No more than a mile or so. He could picture Warwick and the lookouts with the girl, standing just below the periscope standards. He was below them, yet he felt as if he was perched over their heads, blind to what they were doing. Warwick would probably hear the periscope moving and tell her the captain was trying to watch them. They would make a joke of it. He thought of her hand on Gerrard’s shoulder, the way she seemed to get on with everyone. Except him.

Savagely he swung the lens upwards towards the sky. Gail must have been right about him after all. And he had been the only one not able to see the change in himself.

He froze and pressed his eye harder to the lens. There it was, a brief flash between the clouds. He stared as if mesmerised.
It
seemed like an age. There it was again. He was not mistaken.

He thrust himself from the periscope and yelled, ‘Klaxon! Aircraft on the port bow!’ He saw the duty hands in the control room spring to life but he was already clawing his way up the ladder, his mind blank to everything but that brief, menacing shadow. It might not have seen the submarine in such turbulent waters, but one thing was certain, nobody on the bridge had seen it either.

Marshall hauled himself through the hatch, feeling the air pulsing past him, sucked down by the hungry diesels.

As the klaxon screamed out from below he saw the lookouts swing round, faces like masks as they sprang towards him. The girl was holding on to the screen, and Warwick was caught in the moment of pointing abeam, his arm still over the side as if stricken.

Marshall yelled, ‘Aircraft! Port bow, crossing left to right!’ He tore at the girl’s harness. ‘Clear the bridge! Diving stations!’

As the engines cut out and Frenzel’s men threw the electric motors into control, Marshall heard the plane’s approaching roar, like a train coming out of a cutting.

Warwick was shouting, ‘Didn’t see it, sir!’ He was fumbling to close the voicepipes, his eyes wild. ‘I was——’

Marshall tore the harness free and pulled the girl towards the hatch. One lookout had gone, the other crouched on the lid ready to guide her down.

It had all taken less than a minute. He could feel the hull beginning to dive, hear the air being forced from the ballast tanks, but everything seemed confused and drowned by the oncoming aircraft.

A great wave burst over the conning-tower, drenching and choking them, knocking them about like flotsam.
Even
as he dragged the girl back on her feet he heard the sharp, impersonal rattle of machine-guns, the clang and whine of metal on metal all around them.

A huge shadow swept across the bridge. The plane could only have been a hundred feet overhead.

Despite the din, the urge to get below, Marshall could only stare at the seaman on the edge of the hatch. He had been hurled backwards, his hands like claws as they dug into his chest, the blood mingling with the spray and running down the man’s legs.

Someone pulled him below, and Warwick almost fell after him, the girl’s hand in his as he stopped her from pitching straight down the tower.

Marshall jumped on to the ladder, seeing the sea spurting up over the screen even as he slammed the hatch and spun the locking wheel over his head. Down the ladder, his boots treading on the other lookout, his fingers slipping on blood. It was still hot. Like oil from a fractured pipe.