Go In and Sink! (12 page)

It was to be hoped that some shore leave, being able to mix with ordinary, everyday people would make a difference. Otherwise, valuable or not, he would have to recommend that Warwick be transferred out of submarines for good. Like many others had been. Too much depended on each of them. They needed one another’s strength, not despair.

At the arranged time, as dusk had eased some of the hostility from the sea’s face, they had turned towards the land. The sound of a small charge being detonated under
water
had told them their guide had arrived, and firing a smoke float to the surface they had gone to periscope depth again, he picked out
Lima
’s blue sternlight and had followed her towards the shore.

Surfacing for the last haul along the loch, Marshall stood on the gratings, leaving the conning to Gerrard and the mooring preparations to Buck. Loch Cairnbawn seemed exactly as before. It was April now, but the air was as keen as a knife, the choppy water just as dark as when they had left the place with the same stealth as now. So unlike his other patrols, he thought. No welcoming signals or cheering ships’ companies lining the guardrails to watch them pass, their Jolly Roger showing some new conquest or successful attack.

He touched his face, thinking of the bath and change of clothes he would get once they had reached the old
Guernsey
’s side again. He had shaved an hour or so earlier, but it was not the same. He felt dirty and unkempt. That at least was normal enough.

A motor boat chugged out of the gloom and turned easily to run parallel with them. He found himself wondering how those men would have reacted if the enemy had captured a British submarine and were now escorting her right into their own base.

He saw the swift exchange of signal lamps, a show of lights close to the water where the mooring parties were ready and waiting.

‘Slow ahead together.’ The motors thudded uneasily and some spray burst above the bridge screen like hail. ‘Port ten.’ He watched a torch revolving slowly, saw it reflect against the tall side of the depot ship. ‘Midships.’ He heard Buck calling hoarsely at somebody beyond the bows but kept his eyes on the torch for the last few
yards
. ‘Slow astern starboard.’ She was swinging nicely, and he saw the heaving lines snaking across the torch beam, heard the shouts from the waiting seaman, the grate of mooring wires.

‘Stop together.’ The hull gave a quick shudder and he felt the bridge begin to roll as the loch’s uneasy waters took charge.

‘All fast forrard, sir!’

More shouts, the sounds of padding feet along the small H-boat to which they were making fast. He wondered if she had been out while they had been away.

‘All secure aft, sir!’

‘Very good.’ He lowered his face to the voicepipe. ‘Ring off main motors.’ He waited until Gerrard had passed his orders and added, ‘Home and dry, Bob. Send some extra hands up to help rig the awnings around the conning-tower. Just in case we’re still on the secret list.’

He tried to recapture some of the old feeling. Elation, pride at getting his command, his men back without loss.

Buck clattered on to the bridge banging his hands together. ‘Permission to open forehatch, sir?’ He jumped as the generators rumbled into life. ‘Hell, I’m getting edgy!’

‘Yes, carry on. The depot ship’s people will be giving the boat a going over at first light. Might as well get our gear moved.’

More feet on the casing and a head appeared over the rim of the bridge. It was the bearded commander, Marker.

He thrust out his hand and said, ‘Bloody good to see you!’ He peered down the oval hatch, his eyes glinting in reflected lights below. ‘No trouble with the engines then?’ He dropped his voice. ‘Captain Browning is waiting for you, but he wants to see your engineer officer first.’

‘Yes.’ Marshall knew Buck was listening and said slowly, ‘Tell him, will you?’

The commander turned away. ‘What a rotten welcome for him.’

Marshall watched him running his hands along the bridge screen. You’re more excited about getting your toy back than caring about Frenzel’s family, he thought bitterly. And why not? Marker had become hardened. Watching boats go out and never return. Seeing the empty seats in this and other depot ship wardrooms. Nobody ever mentioned the missing. They were made to disappear. As if they had never been.

Frenzel thrust himself through the hatch, he was still wearing his stained boiler suit, and asked, ‘What’s all this, sir? I’ve a lot to do before those depot ship loafers get their hands on my engines!’

Marshall said quietly, ‘Get along over to Captain Browning. Your chief E.R.A. will watch things till you come back.’

Frenzel opened his mouth and shut it again. After a pause he replied, ‘Very well.’ He looked at the commander but did not seem to see him. ‘I’ll be off then.’

Marshall watched him go.
He knows. By God, he’s guessed already
.

The commander cleared his throat. ‘Now, if you’ll come with me, old chap, I’ll get down a brief report.’ He dropped his eyes. ‘While we’re waiting.’

Marshall walked to the voicepipe. ‘Control room. This is the captain. Inform the first lieutenant that I’m going to the depot ship.’ He snapped down the cover, feeling the smoothness of the brass despite being so long under water.

Had things turned out differently it would be a German’s
hand
closing the voicepipe now. Another harbour, another set of rules.

He took a quick glance at the men working by the forward hatch. But the same bloody war.

Marshall walked into the big cabin below the
Guernsey
’s bridge and heard the commander withdraw behind him, closing the door very quietly. Browning was standing by the desk, his eyes empty as he shuffled a pile of signals with one of his huge hands. Then he turned and studied Marshall with something like surprise.

‘Sorry. I must be getting old.’ Some of the burden seemed to slip away and he strode across the carpet, both hands outstretched. ‘I can’t say what it means to see you back safely. And you’ve done well. Damn well.’

Marshall watched as the other man moved heavily to the decanter and glasses on the small table. Browning wasn’t joking. He looked ten years older.

He was saying. ‘I saw Lieutenant Frenzel. Told him as best I could.’

‘How did he take it?’

Marshall took the proffered glass, noticing the stains on his faded reefer. Against the bluff captain he looked like a tramp.

‘Didn’t say much.’ Browning turned the glass round in his fingers. ‘I think he knew why I’d sent for him.’ He raised the glass. ‘Well, here’s to you anyway. I’m bloody proud of you.’

It was whisky, neat and fiery. After two months without so much as a sniff of it Marshall could feel it going to his head like a drug.

They both sat down opposite each other, momentarily separated by their thoughts of Frenzel, what it might do to him.

‘I expect you’re dog-weary, so I’ll try to get things moving.’ Browning seemed unwilling to begin. ‘You’ll be wondering about the recall.’ He swallowed some whisky. ‘Well, the second supply boat was sunk in harbour. Never made it to the rendezvous. She and a sister boat in the same dock. The R.A.F. laid on a big raid. Lost twenty planes there and back, but did a fine job. It’ll keep the Jerries hopping for a few months. And now you’ve bagged the main one, which the enemy’ll be relying on still. We’ve heard nothing to suggest they know you sunk her.’ He shook his head. ‘And you caught another U-boat for good measure.’ He sounded bewildered. ‘Marvellous.’

Marshall listened to the wind sighing against the hull. Despite the cabin’s steamy heat he felt cold. He needed to bath and change. Adjust his mind to an absence of danger and fear. But something in Browning’s attitude worried him. Playing for time, as he had when they had first met.

Browning said suddenly, ‘Fact is, the Admiralty has required us to hand over the captured codes. Escort group commanders, hunter/killer frigates and the rest will use ’cm to full advantage and be able to exploit what you’ve started. Their lordships insist that for the next month or so it will do far more good than individual operations like yours.’

Marshall let the whisky burn across his tongue.

‘I expected that, sir. But of course it will mean that the enemy will realise what’s happened just that much sooner. The codes will be changed. Maybe the tactics, too.’ He saw again with stark clarity the mounting orange ball
of
fire as the supply boat had gone up. Tons of fuel and ammunition. Torpedoes and men. A cameo from hell. He sighed. ‘And what of us? Do we become
His Majesty’s U-boat
and take a conventional place in things?’

Browning looked at the carpet. Where Marshall had been standing were two small oily marks from his boots. Like little horseshoes.

He did not smile, ‘Well, not exactly. It is felt that you can do a lot to help in the same unorthodox way as before——’

He broke off as the door opened and a voice asked crisply, ‘All right to join the party, sir?’ He did not wait for permission but strode into the cabin, a brief-case under one arm.

Marshall made to rise but the newcomer waved him down. ‘Not to bother. You look bushed.’ He smiled, showing very even teeth. It was a smile without warmth.

‘This is Commander Simeon.’ Browning sounded unusually formal. ‘He’s running our liaison with Intelligence and the S.O.E.’

Marshall eyed Simeon thoughtfully. Much as he remembered. Square face, neat fair hair. Well-pressed and impeccable. The man who had married Bill’s widow.

Simeon said swiftly, ‘Just read part of the report you gave to Marker. Good stuff. The very thing to make the top brass take notice.’ He chuckled. ‘Try hard enough and you eventually get through even the thickest skull at the Admiralty.’

He unlocked the brief-case and flicked open the top in one movement. Well practised, Marshall thought. Like everything else about him. He did not seem the sort of man who would ever act wastefully. Deed and effect.

Simeon was saying, ‘Captain Browning has told you
about
the captured codes, I imagine? But I’m not sorry. We’ve got a perfectly good U-boat at our disposal. It would be tragic waste to employ her on dreary, everyday patrols, eh?’

‘I’ve never found them
dreary
.’ Marshall could not hide the bitterness.

Simeon regarded him calmly. ‘No. Maybe not. However, when I explain.…’ He glanced at Browning and nodded. ‘I’ll take a glass if there’s one going.’ He showed his teeth. ‘Sir.’

Marshall darted a quick glance at the elderly captain. It was sickening to see the way he shambled over to get a drink for a man who was officially his subordinate.

Simeon removed a pink file from the case and opened it, one hand outstretched for the whisky. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Here’s to us, then.’

Marshall watched him coldly. No wonder Browning was in awe of him. Simeon was going somewhere, no matter who got in his way. It was written all over him. Clear mind, quick grasp of events. A man with his own destiny very much in the forefront of things.

Simeon frowned and ran a finger down the file. ‘Strange how luck comes into even the best-laid plans. That Jerry who escaped from the Icelandic camp, for instance. He was found half-dead with cold less than a quarter of a mile from the place. But the fear of his escape was enough to get things
moving
. To send you off to sea double-quick when if the brains in Whitehall had had any say in it, you’d have been rotting here in the loch for weeks.’

Browning said, ‘I was doing my best. They couldn’t have stopped U-192 from sailing for much longer anyway. The enemy would have got wind of it. Marshall might have run slap into a trap!’

Simeon turned on him. ‘You think that would have moved them? Their idea of warfare is watching films made twenty years ago!’ He brought back a smile just as quickly. ‘But as I just said. Luck stepped in. U-192 proved what a submarine can do when not required to slam tin-fish into merchantmen who can’t hit back, eh? His eyes came round to Marshall. ‘No offence to you, of course.’

Marshall tried to relax. ‘I did wonder.’

Simeon nodded. ‘That’s the ticket. Keep wondering. That way we’ll get on like a house on fire.’ He looked at Browning again. ‘By the way, sir, I’ve asked Marker to lay out U-192’s report. He has it in the operations room. I think he’d like your—’ he paused as if searching for the right word, ‘—your opinion.’ He walked to the table and picked up the decanter. ‘About now, I think, sir.’

Browning walked to Marshall’s chair, his face heavy with suppressed anger. ‘I’ll see you later. Damn good to have you back.’ He did not turn towards Simeon as he added hotly, ‘to see a real submariner again.’ He strode to the door and slammed it behind him.

Simeon shook his head. ‘Pathetic. Nearly four years of war and we’re still bogged down with fogeys like him. I often wonder if Admiral Dönitz is plagued with old-age pensioners, too!’ It seemed to amuse him.

Marshall sipped his whisky, his limbs suddenly relaxed. Simeon was trying to provoke him through Browning. Or something very like that.

He replied evenly, ‘Not too many pensioners about with Victoria Crosses, I’d have thought?’ He smiled. ‘Sir.’