On the Beach (7 page)

Commander Towers held this signal in his hand, and glanced at the Lieutenant. “Say, do you know anything about this guy?”

“He’s here right now, sir. He arrived this morning. I put him in the wardroom and got the duty officer to allocate a cabin for him for tonight.”

The captain raised his eyebrows. “Well, what do you know! What does he look like?”

“Very tall and thin. Mousey sort of hair. Wears spectacles.”

“How old?”

“A little older than me, I’d say. Under thirty, though.”

The captain thought for a minute. “Going to make things kind of crowded in the wardroom. I think we’ll berth him with Commander Holmes. You got three men aboard?”

“That’s right. Isaacs, Holman, and de Vries. Chief of the Boat Mortimer is on board, too.”

“Tell the Chief I want another cot rigged on the forward side of Bulkhead F, transverse to the ship, head to starboard. He can take one out of the forward torpedo flat.”

“Okay, sir.”

Commander Towers ran through the routine matters in the other signals with his officer, and then sent the Lieutenant to ask Mr. Osborne to come to the office.
When the civilian appeared he motioned him to a chair, gave him a cigarette, and dismissed his officer. “Well, Mr. Osborne,” he said, “this is quite a surprise. I just read the order posting you to join us. I’m glad to know you.”

“I’m afraid it was rather a quick decision,” the scientist said. “I only heard about it the day before yesterday.”

“That’s very often the way it is in service matters,” said the captain. “Well, first things first. What’s your full name?”

“John Seymour Osborne.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Okay. Aboard
Scorpion
, or aboard any naval vessel, you address me as Captain Towers, and every now and then you call me ‘sir’. On shore, off duty, my name is Dwight to you—not to the junior officers.”

The scientist smiled. “Very good, sir.”

“Ever been to sea in a submarine before?”

“No.”

“You’ll find things just a little cramped till you get used to it. I’m fixing you a berth in Officer’s Country, and you’ll mess with the officers in the wardroom.” He glanced at the neat grey suit upon the scientist. “You’ll probably need clothing. See Lieutenant-Commander Holmes about that when he comes aboard tomorrow morning, and get him to draw clothing for you from the store. You’ll get that suit messed up if you go down in
Scorpion
in that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The captain leaned back in his chair and glanced at the scientist, noting the lean, intelligent face, the loose, ungainly figure. “Tell me, what are you supposed to be doing in this outfit?”

“I’m to make observations and keep records of the radioactive levels, atmospheric and marine, with special reference to the sub-surface levels and radioactive intensity within the hull. I understand you’re making a cruise northwards.”

“That’s what everybody understands but me. It must be right, and I’ll be told one day.” He frowned slightly. “Are you anticipating a rise in the radioactive level inside the hull?”

“I don’t think so. I very much hope not. I doubt if it could happen when you are submerged, except under very extreme conditions. But it’s just as well to keep an eye on it. I take it that you’d want to know at once of any significant rise.”

“Sure I would.”

They proceeded to discuss the various techniques involved. Most of the gear that Osborne had brought with him was portable and involved no installation in the ship. In the evening light he put on an overall suit lent him by the captain and went down with Dwight into
Scorpion
to inspect the radiation detector mounted on the aft periscope, and formulate a programme for its calibration against a standard instrument as they went down the Bay. A similar check was to be made upon the detector installed in the engine-room, and a small amount of engineering was required at one of the two remaining torpedo tubes for the sampling of sea water. It was practically dark when they climbed back into
Sydney
, to take supper in the great, echoing, empty wardroom.

Next day was a turmoil of activity. When Peter came aboard in the forenoon his first job was to telephone a friend in the Operations Division and point out that it would be courteous, to say the least, to tell the captain what was common knowledge to the Australian officers
under his command, and to make a signal requesting his comments on a draft operation order. By evening this signal had come in and had been dealt with, John Osborne was suitably clothed for life in a submarine, the work on the aft door of the torpedo tube was finished, and the two Australians were packing their gear into the little space that had been allocated to them for personal effects. They slept that night in
Sydney
, and moved into
Scorpion
on Tuesday morning. A few more chores were finished in a couple of hours, and Dwight reported readiness to proceed upon sea trials. They were cleared for sea, had lunch at noon beside the
Sydney
, and cast off. Dwight turned his ship and set a course at slow speed down the Bay towards the Heads.

All afternoon they carried out their radioactive trials, cruising around a barge with a mildly radioactive element on board anchored in the middle of the Bay, while John Osborne ran around noting the readings on his various instruments, barking his long shins upon steel manholes as he clambered up and down the conning tower to the bridge, cracking his tall head painfully on bulkheads and control wheels as he moved quickly in the control room. By five o’clock the trials were over; they left the barge to be disposed of by the shore party of scientists who had put it there, and set course for the open sea.

They stayed on the surface all night, settling into the sea routine as they proceeded westward. At dawn they were off Cape Banks in South Australia, in a fresh southwesterly breeze and a moderate sea. Here they submerged and went down to about fifty feet, returning to periscope depth for a look round once an hour. In the late afternoon they were off Cape Borda on Kangaroo Island, and set course up the strait at periscope depth towards Port Adelaide. By about ten o’clock on Wednesday night they
were looking at the town through the periscope; after ten minutes the captain turned around without surfacing and made for the open sea again. At sunset on Thursday they were off the north of King Island and setting course for home. They surfaced as they neared the Heads and passed into Port Phillip Bay at the first light of dawn, and berthed alongside the aircraft carrier at Williamstown in time for breakfast on Friday, with nothing but minor defects to be rectified.

That morning the First Naval Member, Vice-Admiral Sir David Hartman, came down to inspect the only ship in his command that was worth bothering about. That took about an hour, and he spent a quarter of an hour with Dwight and Peter Holmes in the office cabin, discussing with them the modifications that they had proposed to the draft operation order. He left then for a conference with the Prime Minister, at that time in Melbourne; with no aircraft flying on the airlines, Federal Government from Canberra was growing difficult, and parliamentary sessions there were growing shorter and less frequent.

That evening Dwight rang Moira Davidson, as he had promised. “Well,” he said, “we got back in one piece. There’s just a little being done on board the ship, but nothing very much.”

She asked, “Does that mean I can see her?”

“I’d be glad to show her to you. We shan’t be going off again before Monday.”

“I’d like to see her, Dwight. Would tomorrow or Sunday be the best?”

He thought for a moment. If they were to sail on Monday, Sunday might be busy. “I’d say tomorrow would be best.”

In turn, she thought rapidly. She would have to run out on Anne Sutherland’s party, but it looked like a dreary
sort of party anyway. “I’d love to come tomorrow,” she said. “Do I come to Williamstown station?”

“That’s the best way. I’ll meet you there. What train will you be coming on?”

“I don’t know the times. Let’s say the first one after eleven thirty.”

“Okay. If I should be all tied up, I’ll get Peter Holmes or else John Osborne to go down and meet you.”

“Did you say John Osborne?”

“That’s right. Do you know him?”

“An Australian—with C.S.I.R.O.?”

“That’s the one. A tall guy with spectacles.”

“He’s a sort of relation—his aunt married one of my uncles. Is he in your party?”

“Definitely. He joined us as scientific officer.”

“He’s dippy,” she informed him. “Absolutely mad. He’ll wreck your ship for you.”

He laughed. “Okay. Come down and see it before he pulls the bung out.”

“I’d love to do that, Dwight. See you on Saturday morning.”

He met her at the station the next morning, having nothing particular to do in the ship. She came in a white outfit, white pleated skirt, white blouse with coloured thread embroidery vaguely Norwegian in style, white shoes. She was pleasant to look at, but there was concern in him as he greeted her; how in hell he was going to get her through the cramped maze of greasy machinery that was
Scorpion
with her clothes unsullied was a problem, and he was to take her out in the evening.

“Morning, Dwight,” she said. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Just a few minutes,” he replied. “Did you have to start very early?”

“Not as early as last time,” she informed him. “Daddy drove me to the station, and I got a train soon after nine. Early enough, though. You’ll give me a drink before lunch, won’t you?”

He hesitated. “Uncle Sam doesn’t like it aboard ship,” he said. “It’ll have to be Coke or orangeade.”

“Even in
Sydney?”

“Even in
Sydney”
he said firmly. “You wouldn’t want to drink hard liquor with my officers when they were drinking Cokes.”

She said restlessly, “I want to drink hard liquor, as you call it, before lunch. I’ve got a mouth like the bottom of the parrot’s cage. You wouldn’t want me to throw a screaming fit in front of all your officers.” She glanced around. “There must be a hotel here somewhere. Buy me a drink before we go on board, and then I’d just breathe brandy at them while I’m drinking Coke.”

“Okay,” he said equably. “There’s a hotel on the corner. We’ll go in there.”

They walked together to the hotel; he entered and looked around, unsure of his surroundings. He led her into the Ladies’ Lounge. “I think this must be it.”

“Don’t you know? Haven’t you ever been in here before?”

He shook his head. “Brandy?”

“Double,” she said. “With ice, and just a little water. Don’t you come in here?”

“I’ve never been in here,” he told her.

“Don’t you ever want to go out on a bender?” she enquired. “In the evenings, when you’ve got nothing to do?”

“I used to just at first,” he admitted. “But then I went up to the city for it. Don’t mess on your own doorstep. I gave it up after a week or two. It wasn’t very satisfactory.”

“What do you do in the evenings, when the ship’s not at sea?” she asked.

“Read a magazine, or else maybe a book. Sometimes we go out and take in a movie.” The barman came, and he ordered her brandy, with a small whisky for himself.

“It all sounds very unhealthy,” she observed. “I’m going to the Ladies. Look after my bag.”

He managed to detach her from the hotel after her second double brandy and took her into the dockyard and to
Sydney
, hoping that she would behave herself in front of his officers. But he need have had no fears; she was demure and courteous to all the Americans. Only to Osborne did she reveal her real self.

“Hullo, John,” she said. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I’m part of the ship’s company,” he told her. “Scientific observation. Making a nuisance of myself generally.”

“That’s what Commander Towers told me,” she observed. “You’re really going to live with them in the submarine? For days on end?”

“So it seems.”

“Do they know your habits?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“All right, I won’t tell them. It’s nothing to do with me.” She turned away to talk to Commander Lundgren.

When he offered her a drink she chose an orangeade; she made an attractive picture in the wardroom of
Sydney
that morning, drinking with the Americans, standing beneath the portrait of the Queen. While she was occupied the captain drew his liaison officer to one side. “Say,” he observed in a low tone, “she can’t go down in
Scorpion
in those clothes. Can you rustle up an overall for her?”

Peter nodded. “I’ll draw a boiler suit. About size one, I should think. Where’s she going to change?”

The captain rubbed his chin. “Do you know any place?”

“Nothing better than your sleeping cabin, sir. She wouldn’t be disturbed there.”

“I’ll never hear the last of it—from her.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” said Peter.

She lunched with the Americans at the end of one of the long tables, and took coffee with them in the ante-room. Then the junior officers dispersed to go about their business, and she was left with Dwight and Peter. Peter laid a clean, laundered boiler suit upon the table. “There’s the overall,” he said.

Dwight cleared his throat. “It’s hable to be greasy in a submarine, Miss Davidson,” he said.

“Moira,” she interrupted.

“Okay, Moira. I was thinking maybe you should go down in an overall. I’m afraid you might get that dress pretty dirty down in
Scorpion.”

She took the boiler suit and unfolded it. “It’s a comprehensive change,” she observed. “Where can I put it on?”

“I was thinking you might use my sleeping cabin,” he suggested. “You wouldn’t be disturbed there.”

“I hope not, but I wouldn’t be too sure,” she said. “Not after what happened in the boat.” He laughed. “All right, Dwight, lead me to it. I’ll try everything once.”

He took her to the cabin and went back to the anteroom himself to wait for her. In the little sleeping cabin she looked about her curiously. There were photographs there, four of them. All showed a dark haired young woman with two children, a boy eight or nine years old
and a girl a couple of years younger. One was a studio portrait of a mother with two children. The others were enlargements of snapshots, one at a bathing place with the family seated on a spring-board, perhaps at a lake shore. Another was apparently taken on a lawn, perhaps the lawn before his home, for a long car showed in the background and a portion of a white wooden house. She stood examining them with interest; they looked nice people. It was hard, but so was everything these days. No good agonising about it.