Go In and Sink! (28 page)

He made two small marks on the chart. ‘Lay your course
to
allow for my alterations, Pilot. If we are to get these people off it has got to be perfect. No second tries, right?’

Devereaux swallowed hard. ‘You’re asking a lot to get that close, sir.’

‘No, I’m
telling
you.’ He thought of the girl who had been sacrificed in order to reach the one man who had, and most likely still was, betraying her and his country. He added coldy, ‘And it’s going to work. It has to.’

He thought about the man they would try to bring back for questioning. It hardly made sense. An Englishman who had betrayed his country. A German bomber pilot who had saved their lives from their own people.

Without another word he turned on his heel and walked to his cabin.

When Buster Browning’s staff had put the captured U-boat back into service they had only the haziest idea of what they were starting. He sat down at his desk and opened the captain’s log. It was to be hoped they would know how to finish it.

The air in the wardroom was clammy and unmoving, and even the anti-condensation paint on the deckhead was shining wetly and dripping on Marshall’s chart which he had placed on the table.

The others crowded round him, their breathing very loud as they stared at the chart and its criss-cross of pencilled calculations.

Marshall tapped it with his dividers. ‘This is where we are.’ He saw Cowan and his two companions peering at it doubtfully. ‘We are in the Gulf of Gaeta.’ The dividers
moved
slightly. ‘Naples is down here, sixty miles to the south-east of our position. We are about three miles south of this cape. Cape Circeo.’

Cowan nodded. ‘Seems all right to me. There’s an old ruined monastery just inland. Used to serve the villages of the Pontine Marshes once upon a time.’ He jabbed it with his finger. ‘Our people will be here. All being well.’

Marshall waited and then asked, ‘Anything we ought to know?’

The finger shifted on the chart. ‘Nearest place of any size is Terracina. About ten miles east of where we’ll be.’ He shrugged. ‘Mostly Italian guardposts in the past. But now, with this flap on, the Jerries will probably have brought their Panzer troops up from Naples. We’ll just have to see.’

Marshall straightened. Just have to see. It sounded easy.

He looked at each of them in turn. Buck, still strained and hollow-eyed after his struggle to cut away the mine. But he was listening and watching, his thin mouth turning slightly at the majors words Devereaux seemed fairly calm. His had been almost the worst part. For during the two and a half days since the episode with the mine he had been made to alter his calculations again and again. Once past the Bay of Naples they had been forced into a long detour to avoid two small groups of islets. It was reported in the secret files that the enemy had laid some sort of underwater detection cables on the sea-bed. It might be false intelligence. But they could not take unnecessary chances on the inward journey. Other times they had to run deep when air and naval patrols had come dangerously near. But they had kept at it. On and on up the Italian coast, groping like men in the dark. Taking quick glimpses through the periscope only when a fix was really needed,
or
some unidentified echo was picked up on the Asdic.

Now it was almost time to play the last part. Marks and diagrams on a chart would become sand and rock. Intelligence reports could be changed into savage gunfire and cold steel.

Marshall said, ‘Number One will give you landing instructions.’ He glanced at Gerrard. ‘We will surface in fifteen minutes. If it all seems quiet I shall get closer inshore and watch for the signal. Then, and only then, we’ll open the fore hatch and launch the boat. Questions?’

Cowan shook his head and then dragged a heavy automatic from his belt. ‘None from me.’ His companions seemed satisfied, too.

Gerrard said, ‘If the signal is satifactory, sir, we can point the boat to seaward. In case we have to run for it. Otherwise we’ll be bogged down in those shallows. It would take time to work clear. On the surface.’ He was speaking quietly but very fast. As if he expected an interruption.

Marshall replied, ‘Can’t do that. If we were fired on from the land, I wouldn’t be able to use the gun to cover the rescue. We’ll try and lie parallel.’ He smiled, keeping his eyes on Gerrard’s tight mouth. ‘Best of both worlds.’

Buck stood up. ‘I’ll get forrard and check the dinghy again.’ He glanced at the three passengers. ‘Good luck. I hope you get ’em safely.’

With most of the fans off to minimise noise, the foul air was making them sweat. In the yellow glare they looked like a group of frightened men, Marshall thought.

He said, ‘We’ve tried to think of everything. So let’s get on with it.’

They followed him to the control room, and while Gerrard made his checks with Frenzel and the other watch-keepers, Warwick gathered his gun crew in readiness
below
the conning-tower. Nobody spoke except in whispers. It was almost unnerving.

Marshall looked at Devereaux. ‘You’ve done a good job, Pilot.’

The navigator was already reaching for another chart, a pencil between his teeth. But he managed to smile. Pleased with his captain’s thanks, or relieved to be handing over his responsibility for the next phase.

Cowan said, ‘I’ll go up to the front, Captain.’ He licked his lips. ‘God, this part gets you down.’ Then he was gone.

Marshall looked at his watch, then at the bulkhead clock. ‘Ready, Number One?’

Gerrard’s eyes glittered in the dimmed lights. ‘Yes, sir.’ His face was shining with sweat, and it was running down the stubble around his chin.

Marshall nodded gravely. ‘If we get a hot welcome we’ll head out to sea. Fast.’ He tried not to face up to it. ‘There’ll be no point in waiting if that happens.’

He walked to the ladder. ‘Open lower hatch.’ He checked over the assembled men. Making sure they would emerge on deck in the right order.

‘Time, sir.’

‘Very well.’

He walked to the periscope and waited until it had risen to eye-level. He felt the trickle of sweat on his spine, the way his palms slipped on the handles. He concentrated on the small, soundless picture. The few stars, the small spurt of spray from the slow-moving periscope. There was a tiny light stabbing the darkness. Miles away.

Devereaux, who was watching the brass ring around the periscope, breathed out slowly. ‘Right bearing, sir. That’s the temporary buoy the Eye-ties laid earlier this year.’
Surprisingly
, he chuckled. ‘Perfect if I say so myself.’

‘Down periscope.’ Marshall looked at him. ‘I didn’t think you ever had any doubts about it.’

He walked to the ladder, and this time did not turn back.

‘Surface, Number One. We’re going in.’

As usual, the noise seemed unending and deafening, and as Marshall and Warwick clambered out on to the slippery gratings he found it hard to believe nobody ever seemed to hear. Yet inwardly he knew that a submarine’s antics as she broke surface were barely audible beyond half a cable.

Two lookouts followed through the hatch, and he knew the yeoman was on the top of the ladder, waiting to call out the gun crews if the way was clear.

Warwick had opened the voicepipes. ‘Control room reports nothing on Asdic, sir.’

‘Good.’

He moved his glasses very slowly to port. The small flashing buoy had vanished around the great cape at the top of the Gulf. It was very dark. But the air was like wine. After enforced diving stations for days on end it got better each time they came up. Cool and sweet. It made your head swim. He tensed and held the glasses on a long dark shape, but relaxed just as quickly as the sluggish offshore swell smoothed the shadow away.

Warwick whispered, ‘Control room say five minutes, sir.’

They both turned to stare at a blink of light far away across the starboard bow. A car with unmasked headlamps perhaps. A citizen taking down his blackout ready for tomorrow’s new day.

How quiet it was. Just the easy murmur along the saddle tanks, the gentle pulsing of the motors through his leather sea-boots.

Warwick raised his head from the voicepipe. ‘We’re now in twenty fathoms, sir.’

‘Right.’

He could distinguish the land now. It was an uneven edge below the stars. As if some of them had been painted out by a giant brush. It was damn shallow just here. But against that it was a safer approach than coming in at right angles hell for leather. He thought of Gerrard and wondered. Concern, too much strain. But not fear. No more than they all endured at times like these.

‘Come up, Yeoman.’ He heard Blythe gasping thankfully in the clean air. ‘We can do with a few good eyes.’

‘Eighteen fathoms, sir.’

‘Thank you, Sub.’ He tried to sound relaxed. ‘Keep it up.’

Blythe said, ‘
There
, sir! Starboard bow!’

In the pitch-darkness the signal seemed incredibly bright. N … N … N … N … N.

Blythe whispered fiercely, ‘Acknowledge?’

‘No. They should know the drill. They’ll stop in a minute. Wait for another set period.’

He had to clamp his teeth together to restrain his sudden anxiety. The light was too brilliant, and even though it was pointing seaward … he relaxed as the darkness closed in again.

‘Open fore hatch. Gun crews close up.’

Warwick passed the orders and then said, ‘Pilot says we’re about one thousand yards offshore, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Suggests you start your turn now.’

‘No. Must get closer. Another cable at least.’ He waited, hearing stealthy feet on the hatch and round the sides of the bridge. ‘We have to give them a chance, Sub. Imagine what it will be like. Paddling that damn dinghy there and back.’ He tensed. ‘There’s the signal again!’ He touched
Warwick’s
arm. ‘Get down to your gun and train it on the light. Be ready for anything.’

‘Fourteen fathoms, sir.’ Blythe had taken his place at the vacant voicepipe.

There was a brief clank of steel, and through the gloom Marshall saw figures moving around the big fore hatch as they hauled the dinghy on to the casing.

‘Ten fathoms, sir.’

There was another light. It must be an inland road. So safe that the locals had become careless, he thought vaguely.

‘Standing by forrard, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ He moved slightly to the voicepipe. ‘Starboard fifteen. Stop the starboard motor.’ He held his eyes against the gyro repeater. ‘Midships. Slow ahead starboard.’

He looked over the screen. How black the land was. Yet in daylight it would be one great panorama of depth and colour. He saw the gun’s long muzzle pointing across the beam, like a finger above their tiny wash. ‘Stop both motors.’ He touched Blythe’s hand. ‘Pass the word forward. Slip the dinghy.’

‘Nine fathoms, sir.’

Marshall ignored the regular reports. He watched the little boat bobbing clear. Just one more shadow. They had the paddles out now. Fully armed and dressed in their combat gear, they would find it warm work.

N … N … N … N … N.

Blythe swore under his breath. ‘Bloody hell! Must think we’re blind!’

Marshall said quietly, ‘They don’t even know if we’re here. That anybody’s coming for them.’

Blythe stared at him, his face pale against the sky. ‘Sorry, sir. Forgot. It was a stupid thing to say.’

Marshall looked at his luminous watch. Wait for the major’s own signal and then get under way. By the time they had made a full circle to arrive back here again, the dinghy should be ready and waiting. He found he was clenching his fists with sudden desperation. She had to be safe. After getting this far, and enduring anguish he could only guess at. She just had to be here.

‘Signal, sir.’ Blythe licked his lips loudly. ‘The major’s made contact.’

Marshall lowered his mouth to the voicepipe. ‘Slow ahead both motors. Take her round again, Pilot.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Devereaux could not resist adding, ‘We are now in six fathoms, sir.’

The deck shivered as the submarine swung slowly towards open sea, the gun pivoting to cover the land until it was masked by the conning-tower.

Marshall removed his cap and ruffled his hair. It was wringing wet. Yet still he felt nothing more than he had endured in the past. Building up inside him like water behind a dam. Biding its time. He waited, testing his reactions. Perhaps he really had become a machine. Feeling nothing.

Then he thought again of the girl out there in the darkness, and knew it was a lie. And for once, he was grateful.

‘
THERE’S THE DINGHY
, sir!’ Blythe pointed over the screen, his voice hoarse with excitement.

Marshall held his glasses very steady while the submarine lifted and plunged lazily in an isolated trough. Blythe was right. He could just make it out now, its shape defined by the busy splash of paddles.

He heard Warwick passing his orders on the casing, and knew the deck gun was already swinging round to cover the boat’s slow approach.

‘Casing party, stand by.’ Marshall lowered his glasses and massaged his eyes. After staring so long into the darkness they felt twice their proper size. To Blythe he added, ‘Can you see if they’re all there!’