Go In and Sink! (21 page)

He gave a slow grin. ‘Now you can ball me out,
sir
. I suppose I had it coming.’

Marshall thrust his hands into his pockets. He could feel them shaking against his hips.

‘I’ll try and bear what you’ve said in mind.’ He wanted to display anger or laugh it off, but nothing came. It was like watching someone else, an onlooker in a dream. He heard himself say, ‘But like it or not, we’re going through the Otranto Strait tonight. After that we’ll find the dock.’ He swung round and stared at him coldly. ‘Unless you have any further objections, Number One?’

‘Very well, sir.’ Gerrard’s eyes were hurt.

As he made to leave Marshall called him back. ‘It doesn’t help to
know
. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘I understand.’ Gerrard watched him sadly. ‘And I’m sorry.’

Marshall sat down again. ‘So am I.’ He began to stuff the papers into his safe. ‘But you know what they say. You shouldn’t have joined if you can’t take a joke.’

Gerrard stepped out into the passageway. ‘Some joke, eh?’

‘Yes.’

He waited until Gerrard had gone and then leaned his head on his hands. It had been a near thing. He had felt it boiling up inside him like a dam bursting. He had actually wanted to tell Gerrard everything, blurt it out, try and share the strain which was twisting him apart.

As he had done that night to Gail, as he had wanted to with the girl who was now somewhere in Italy. Gerrard with his new-found happiness had almost seen through his guard, but not quite. Gerrard who might never see his wife again and was more often than not worrying about their separation, had more than he had.

Frenzel peered through the door, wiping his fingers on a piece of waste.

‘Spare a moment, sir? I’d like to discuss the fuel situation and a few other things.’

Marshall nodded slowly. There was never any time for regrets.

‘Park yourself, Chief. Now, what’s the problem?’

Thirty-six hours later found them creeping around the Gargano Peninsula, one hundred and twenty miles into the Adriatic. It had been easier than Marshall had dared to hope to slip through the Otranto Strait between Italy’s heel and the opposite coast of Albania. They had sighted one patrolling destroyer, and had picked up some fast-moving H.E. on the Asdic which had suggested the enemy had also got some E-boats in the area. They were probably more worried about the comings and goings of countless small craft than they were about a solitary submarine. That was someone else’s problem.

The Strait had been very busy with these coastal craft. Schooners and caiques, tiny steamers which looked as if they had been built at the time of Victoria’s jubilee, the sea abounded with their haphazard movements. It must be a nightmare for the enemy to keep track of them all. Marshall knew that some of them were used as supply vessels for Yugoslav partisans, others for the mysterious operations of the Navy’s Special Boat Squadron. Unlike his own mission, their task was to avoid open confrontation with the enemy. A war of stealth and cunning with little hope of quarter if they were caught.

Marshall stood by the conning-tower ladder, arms folded as he watched Devereaux working on his chart. The
regular
ping of the echo-sounder was a constant reminder of the sea-bed. The water was shallow here. Shelving to a mere twelve fathoms close abeam. But they must stay inshore as long as possible. He pushed the thought that the dock had already reached Bari from his mind. Or perhaps it had not even sailed yet? They had crept towards Bari the previous day. Quite a lot of activity, but no sign of the dock. Something that size, and it was the largest in the Mediterranean, should have been visible.

Devereaux twisted round to look at him. ‘The Tremiti Islands are about thirty miles ahead, sir. Do you want a course to seaward?’

‘No. We might miss the target if we go round them.’

Devereaux pursed his lips. ‘Not much depth in the main channel, sir. Twenty-one fathoms at the most.’

The echo-sounder pinged in the background as if to back up his warning.

‘I’ll bear that in mind, Pilot.’

He saw the quick exchange of glances, the way Petty Officer Cain was watching him as he waited to relieve the helmsman.

He had to think. Empty his mind of everything else. If they did not meet with the floating dock in the next few hours, what would he do? Keep going all the way to Trieste where it was supposed to have started from? He seemed to hear those same words again.
It’s your pigeon
.

Then there was what Frenzel had told him. The matter of fuel. The arrangements for taking more on board. Fresh water might become a problem, and then there was——

A voice said sharply, ‘H.E. bearing three-one-zero.’ A pause. ‘Slow reciprocating, sir. Still very faint.’

Marshall thrust himself from the ladder. ‘Periscope depth.’ He tried to relax his limbs. It did not sound like the target, but worse, the newcomer might mean they would have to alter course in order to avoid meeting her in Devereaux’s channel.

‘Fourteen metres, sir.’

Marshall said, ‘Very slowly.’ He ducked down and waited for the periscope to hiss smoothly from its well. He could feel his palms sweating on the handles, the pain in his jaw as he clenched it to steady his nerves.

The sunlight was searing, and he had to blink to clear his vision. A quick look around and overhead and then on to the bearing. He licked his lip, tasting oil. There was a lot of mist about and the sunlight on the gently undulating water was almost blinding. Then he saw the other vessel.

He said, ‘A motor-yacht.’ He brought the lens to full power. ‘Painted grey.’ He watched the distant vessel twisting and extending in the haze. It was just possible to see the tiny flag on her mast. ‘Italian. Anti-submarine patrol.’

Behind him he heard somebody murmur, ‘Thought it was the old
Lima
coming to look for us!’ Someone laughed.

He snapped the handles inwards. ‘Down periscope.’ He looked at Gerrard without seeing him. ‘That’s a bloody nuisance.’

The Asdic operator called, ‘Getting more H.E. sir, same bearing. Heavier but very faint.’

Marshall watched the back of the man’s head. ‘Warship?’

‘No.’ The head shook. ‘Too slow.’

Gerrard said quietly, ‘One of the tugs maybe. How many would a dock like this one need?’

The Asdic operator interrupted. ‘Getting jumbled H.E. now, sir. Could be back echoes from the shallows.’ It sounded like an accusation. ‘Might be another ship.’

‘Up periscope.’

Marshall swung it round and then brought it back on the little yacht. The haze was making it very difficult. He edged round slightly and saw the far off strip of green coastline. The hump of hills further inland. It looked very peaceful.

Something picked up the sunlight and he steadied the lens, following the little shining dot until it had drifted out of sight.

‘There’s a plane, Number One. Probably nothing, but it might be some sort of escort.’

He was just talking to delay the decision. It was too dangerous to attack anything here. The yacht would soon pick them up with her Asdic, and in these shallow waters would hold the contact until help arrived. What should he do? Wait for dark? That was too long. He might lose her while he manoeuvred out of their way and lost valuable time in taking up another position.

He felt his heart thumping against his ribs. It was like looking at a giant building which had somehow got swept out to sea. It loomed through the mist, half shrouded in haze and the smoke from a tug, although the latter was completely submerged in vapour. He couldn’t lose it now.

‘Action stations, Number One.’ He straightened his back. ‘Down periscope.’ He looked at the clock, shutting his ears to the grating klaxon. Then he said, ‘Tell Warwick to get ready. We’re going in surfaced.’

They might just get away with it. They would have the sun behind them in those first precious seconds. He had
told
himself in the past, it was always the unexpected which caught you. Well, the same went for the enemy, too.

He snapped, ‘Stand by to surface. We will start the attack.’

AFTER THE COOL
damp of the enclosed hull the heat was unexpectedly fierce. Even before the last of the receding water had surged clear of the casing and gurgled through the bridge scuppers the sun had raised a thin curtain of steam from the dripping plates.

Marshall trained his glasses on the distant yacht, his eyes almost level with the screen. He found he could ignore the figures who were still clambering through the open hatch or running towards the deck gun below the conning-tower. But as he watched the other vessel he was vaguely conscious of other things, like the growing warmth across his shoulders, the strong fishy smell which greeted his starved lungs after being so long submerged.

‘Escort bears Green one-five.’ He dropped his glance to the bridge sight again. ‘Range oh-one-five.’

He lifted the glasses and held them on the yacht’s low hull. She was zigzagging slowly, her raked stem making a show of spray in the bright sunlight, whether it was a normal practice, or some additional cover for her massive charge, it was impossible to tell. But it could make things more difficult.

He felt Buck beside him, heard him adjusting the sights, his breath coming fast and uneven.

From below the screen Warwick shouted, ‘All guns closed up, sir!’

‘Good.’ Without lowering the glasses Marshall said, ‘The
escort’s
skipper’s not even seen us yet. When he does, be ready.’

Then he glanced at Buck with something like surprise. In his German cap and leather coat he was like a stranger. He shifted his gaze to the casing below. There too it seemed as if the boat had been returned to her original owners. Warwick in his cap and shorts, a Luger hanging prominently from one hip, and beside him the gun’s crew similarly attired, their lifejackets making bright patches against the grey steel and armour plate.

When he looked again at the yacht he saw the towering shape of the dock looming astern of her, its outline still halved in sea-mist. But there was heavy smoke mingling with the haze, and more beyond the slow-moving huddle to betray the presence of another tug. The latter would be needed to act as a sea-anchor if the dock was caught in a sudden squall or in some offshore current.

Buck had his chin almost on the voicepipe. ‘Dock bears Green three-oh. Range oh-five-oh.’ He glanced at Marshall. ‘What d’you think, sir? Shall we fire a full salvo right away?’

Marshall shook his head, wondering if the Italian lookouts were all asleep. ‘No. We’ll need minimum settings on all torpedoes. Otherwise they might pass right under the dock. There’s no telling what it draws. If we fire now we might hit the yacht and waste the whole thing.’

Behind him he heard the yeoman snap, ‘They’ve seen us, sir!’

Seconds later a light blinked from the yacht’s bridge. It was almost invisible in the sunlight.

But Blythe seemed satisfied. ‘The same old challenge, sir.’ He lifted his hand-lamp. ‘Reply?’

‘Not yet. Let ’em sweat for a bit.’

Marshall tried to regain a mental picture of his boat as she would look to the oncoming vessels. The U-boat’s number had long since been replaced by a large Iron Cross. It too had been badly scored by sea and slime, but should appear authentic enough. There were said to be three or four U-boats operating with the Italians in the Mediterranean. Not enough to be that familiar.

‘There it is again, sir.’

‘Very well. Make the reply.’

Through a voicepipe he heard one of Buck’s team intone, ‘All tubes standing by, sir.’

Marshall licked his lips, tasting the salt. ‘Depth setting of three metres. But we must close the range still further. We have to be
sure
.’

He ignored Buck’s quick instructions and concentrated on the yacht. She was still zigzagging back and forth, and her course was bringing her slowly towards the submarine’s starboard bow. He could see a few figures in white uniforms on her deck and more grouped around a businesslike looking gun just forward of the bridge.

He said, ‘Tell the control room I want a constant lookout for aircraft on the main periscope. Put a good man on it. One who won’t be tempted to watch what we’re doing.’

Blythe asked, ‘Shall I hoist the Colours, sir?’ He chuckled. ‘It seems the thing to do.’

Marshall nodded. ‘Yes. We’ll go the whole way.’

He heard the squeak of halliards and saw the flag’s dark shadow flap over the motionless gun’s crew as it rose to the periscope standards. When he took a quick glance at the big scarlet flag with its black cross and swastika he was again surprised, even though he knew what he was going to see.

The girl was right. He could no more do her sort of job
then
fly. You had to be ready for everything. Deception, guilt, suspicion.

Buck said, ‘Pilot says that we should alter course to starboard soon, sir.’

‘Negative.’

He wiped the spray from his glasses and trained them on the dock. About two miles away now. Devereaux was right to warn him. There were shallows somewhere to port, but they had to keep between the land and their main target. Any change now and the enemy might realise what was happening. There was probably an airfield within ten miles of where he was standing.