Not Thinking of Death

by Not Thinking of Death (retail) (epub)

  Peering over Chalk’s shoulder then, his expression changed. Chalk swung round, and saw his CO, Ozzard, looking their way as he paused near the entrance to the shed.

  Chalk transferred the cigarette to his left hand, and saluted.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Morning, Chalk.’ He’d returned the salute. ‘I want a word with you.’ A jerk of one thumb towards the offices. ‘In my caboosh?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘All set for today week, are you, Dymock?’

  ‘Just about, sir.’ Dymock added, ‘You’ll be with us, I gather.’

  ‘Was to have been. Come on, Chalk…’

  He saw Nat Eason in his office. As always, the engineer had a cigarette in his mouth, eyes narrowed through its smoke as he glanced up from a blueprint. Removing the stub now with a nicotine-stained finger and thumb, opening his slit of a mouth – wanting a word too, evidently… Chalk put his head in the doorway, told him ‘With you in two shakes, Chief’, and followed Ozzard into the office marked COMMANDING OFFICER.

  ‘Take a pew. Smoke?’

  Chalk took one, although he’d trodden on the remains of the last only seconds ago. Flicking his lighter into action as he sat down: Ozzie was lighting his own.

  ‘About Trumpeter’s trials this day week. As you’d know initial test dive’s normally made in the Gareloch here. Can’t be in this case, because the loch’s closed to all and sundry, still will be next week. Acoustic experiments, all hush-hush. And, it’s been decided at some dizzy height that she can’t do it in Kilbrannan Sound or Inchmarnock Water or the Arran side of the Firth either. Too much traffic, is the reason given. Including some minesweeping exercise – which is fair enough… Oh, and destroyers using the measured mile off Arran. What it comes down to is Trumpeter’s first dive’ll be in Irvine Bay – between Ardrossan and Lady Isle, roughly.’

  ‘Longish way to go.’

  Ozzard’s deepset eyes blinked at him under the shaggy brows. ‘And the outcome as far as you and I are concerned is I’m being shanghai’d into acting as trials liaison officer on board an escorting tug. So I can’t go out in Trumpeter – and consequently you can. I’ve fixed it with Jacko Pargeter. All right?’

  Chapter 9

  To a submariner’s eye Trumpeter was a lovely sight – new paint, polished brass, brand-new White Ensign whipping in the breeze. There was an air of purpose –even excitement –about her. To Chalk’s slightly envious eye, anyway – envious because it was going to be such a long time before Threat reached this stage… They’d moved Trumpeter out of the fitting-out basin yesterday evening and secured her alongside in this entrance/exit channel, with catamarans between her bulging saddle-tanks and the sheer stone wall; she was subject to tidal movement here of course, so that hemp breasts and wire springs and the lashings on the plank would have been adjusted a few times during the night. And even in that, there was a certain return to normality: the routine of a gangway watch, and the watchkeeper or sentry having to keep his eye on the moorings.

  Now – 0920, twenty minutes past the promulgated embarkation-time for passengers – the tide was well up and the plank from shore to ship was more or less horizontal. Chalk, and the group of others with him – Andrew Buchanan, Nat Eason and two commissioned engineers from T-class boats building at Scott’s – were waiting to be invited to go on board.

  ‘What’s this?’ Buchanan, in corduroys and a golfing-jacket over a Fair Isle pullover – nodded towards an approaching van. ‘Not more food?’

  They’d been watching two men from a catering firm carrying luncheon stores aboard: and with the Clydeside Chandlers van barely out of sight this other one was drawing up. Navy blue with an RN number-plate and – Chalk saw who it was, suddenly – Mike Searle, Trumpeter’s torpedo officer, slamming the passenger door shut.

  ‘What you got there?’ Eason, calling to Searle as he came over to the edge of the quay – a smallish, neat man, tanned from the cricket field. Eason asked him, ‘Forgot the champagne, did they?’

  Searle’s glance swung from the engineer to Buchanan. ‘Leg-irons for the passengers, that’s all.’ He called down to the submarine’s casing, ‘Four hands up here please, Second.’

  Addressing the Second Coxswain, an outsize leading seaman who at this moment was climbing around the side of the tower, coming from the after casing. Second Cox’ns had charge of submarines’ casings, ropes and wires and anchor gear. Searle, joining Chalk’s group, glanced up at the mainly blue sky with its streaks and patches of high white cloud. ‘Nice day for it. We’re lucky.’ Then to Eason, answering his question, ‘Extra DSEA sets – passengers for the use of.’ A nod to Buchanan. ‘Morning, sir. Don’t worry, we won’t need ’em.’

  ‘You’re Searle – right?’

  ‘Absolutely right, sir.’ He looked round as some sailors came over the plank. ‘Two boxes of DSEA in the back there. Weigh about half a ton apiece. Break ’em open if you have to.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Twenty-eight sets to the box.’ Chalk narrowed his eyes, working it out. ‘How many passengers?’

  ‘Forty.’ Eason corrected himself: ‘Forty-five, could be.’

  He’d only won himself a place on this trip at the last minute. The list was compiled and controlled by his opposite number in Trumpeter, Lieutenant (E) Wally Bristol, whose orders from Pargeter had been that the total number of souls on board shouldn’t exceed one hundred. So as Trumpeter’s own officers and crew totalled fifty-three, Bristol had tried to keep the passenger list down to forty until he’d been sure there’d be no additional late-coming senior officers to be accommodated. Additional, that would have been, to the pair of four-stripe captains and one commander who were on board already. As were a large contingent from Barlows’, half a dozen Admiralty officials and a few others who could claim to be directly concerned with the trials and/or the Barlows’ contract. Those left in this small group waiting to be allowed on board – Chalk, Eason, Buchanan and the two commissioned engineers – were strictly joy-riders. Buchanan could of course have gone straight on board, but he’d elected to wait – admitting to Chalk, ‘I must be the least useful chap in this whole shebang…’

  The cases had been unloaded and were being dragged towards the plank; the van was leaving. Searle came back to them. ‘Were to have been more observers than there are, Hennessy says. He was holding five places for chaps coming up from Birkenhead, and they cancelled, A “T” at Cammell Lairds due for trials next month, apparently, so they were told to save the rail fares and hotel bills, wait for that one. Parsimonious bastards.’

  ‘Who? Blockhouse, or Admiralty?’

  ‘Well – Admiralty. Bloody civil servants. Even if FOSM had to make the signal… Anyway – despite those drop-outs – passenger total I think is forty-six.’

  Eason trod on a cigarette stub. ‘Not countin’ the ship’s cat.’

  Buchanan fell for it… ‘Is there one?’

  ‘Problem is—’ Eason told him – ‘in DSEA terms, I mean – you need a special set. Tricky, see, fitting a nose-clip on a cat.’ Nodding seriously to Buchanan. ‘And takes some training.’ Glancing at Chalk, he broke into a snigger, overcome by his own humour, and others laughed with him. This was a jaunt, a day out, there was a holiday spirit in the air: even the Barlows’ bowler hats had looked quite jolly as they’d filed on board.

  ‘Seriously, though—’ Buchanan asked Chalk – ‘and cat or no cat – do we get trained?’ He tapped his own chest: ‘Do I, I mean. But it could apply to some of our chaps as well… If they had to use these masks and stuff, not knowing a thing about it?’

  ‘I’ll give you a demonstration.’ Chalk added, ‘Not – as Searle mentioned – that you’re likely to need it.’

  Eason had turned away to chat to the other two engineers. Chalk meanwhile was doing some more mental arithmetic. Trumpeter’s, complement of officers and men – 53. Regulations were that there should be DSEA sets on board for all hands plus one third of that number as spares, in case sets
might be damaged or otherwise defective. 53 plus a third – 71, and sets came in boxes of 28, so the least they could have drawn from stores was three boxes – 84 sets that would already be on board, most of them in the sealed steel lockers provided for them. And now with the number of ‘souls’ on board increasing to about a hundred, for God’s sake – but say 99, for mathematical convenience, so you’d add 33 – the figure became 132. Five boxes, therefore – 140 sets. QED…

  It was going to be very crowded, though. Nearly twice as many on board as there’d normally be.

  Buchanan was saying, ‘Your skipper’s going out on some tug, I gather.’

  ‘Official title Trials Liaison Officer.’ Chalk added, ‘All he has to do in practice is make sure other shipping stays clear of us. Main problem could be trawlers – fishermen. But he’s not going out, he’s gone. Tug’s slower than we are, it was due to shove off at about first light. My good luck that they wanted anyone of Ozzie’s seniority for such a boring job.’

  ‘We’ll meet him down there in the Firth, I suppose.’ Buchanan said, ‘Nice fellow, Ozzard. He’s lunched with us a few times.’

  ‘Be daft not to, if your lunches are always like that one you gave me.’

  Thursday or Friday of last week, this had been. Commanding Officers could lunch in the directors’ dining-room every day if they wanted to, but Chalk had been Buchanan’s guest primarily to thank him for having agreed to act as his ‘minder’ on this trip. Meaning, effectively, make himself available to answer any questions on technical and/or other naval subjects. Which was no imposition at all – as he’d told Zoe last night when she’d telephoned from London ostensibly to ask him whether it was true that he’d be taking care of her husband. And was it really dangerous? He’d told her yes, he’d be looking after him, and no, it wasn’t dangerous at all. In fact no Royal Navy submarine had been lost on trials since the war. She’d seemed happy enough with these assurances, and shifted to her standard theme – when would he, Rufus, be coming down to London? And a new one: why didn’t he ever telephone her? He’d got her number, hadn’t he?

  Actually he hadn’t. Although she’d given it to him half a dozen times.

  Eason came back to them, counting on his fingers. ‘There’s twenty-eight Barlows’ fellers on board, plus six from London, then the Blockhouse team – that’s four – plus us lot here, plus other odds and sods – it is a hundred, near enough! Crikey, what a bloody scrum—’

  ‘Scum?’

  ‘Yeah, that too… Hang on, here’s Prince Charming.’

  Dymock, coming over the gangway. Looking exceptionally smart. Best superfine uniform – not as a rule worn when seagoing – and a blindingly clean white cap-cover – with a cap-cane inside it too, by the look of it, not at all the crumpled piece of headgear he normally affected… Behind him, on Trumpeter’s casing, sailors were moving to stand by ropes and wires. Searle was there – chatting to the Second Cox’n – a huge man, towering over the Torpedo Officer. There was only one hand in the bridge, as yet. Probably the signalman. Dymock raised his voice: ‘Would you come aboard please, gentlemen? Skipper sends his apologies for having kept you waiting. Getting things stowed and settled below. Rather cramped, I’m afraid…’ To Buchanan, then: ‘CO was asking where you were, sir. We thought you’d have boarded with your other chaps.’

  ‘Preferred to wait with my minder.’ A movement of the head in Chalk’s direction. ‘Thank you, all the same.’

  Noticeably cool tone. Not a very friendly manner either. Dymock had noticed it too. His glance, quick and sharp, shifted from the civilian to Rufus Chalk, then back again. Chalk meanwhile aware of a twinge of discomfort: having his own view of Dymock now but thinking of recent telephone conversations and wondering – especially in Buchanan’s presence – whether the pot might not be calling the kettle black.

  He couldn’t stop her telephoning him. Well – on the face of it, he couldn’t. Admittedly he hadn’t tried to… But that – he was able to reassure himself – was the full extent of his transgression. He’d no intention of telephoning her – ever… All he really wanted was an uncomplicated life – meaning, to avoid unnecessary complications or involvements and to concentrate on Diana. On her and on his job, and to hell with all the rest of it.

  Zoe included.

  ‘After you.’ He ushered her husband towards the plank. Behind them, Dymock was apologizing to the two engineers for having kept them kicking their heels here for so long. Their names were – he racked his memory, mostly for the mental exercise – Melhuish, and Cheyney. Both were old buddies of Eason’s: who was muttering as they filed along the casing to the fore hatch, ‘Standin’ room only below, I reckon. Fuck this for a bloody lark…

  Chalk rather agreed. He thought – while waiting for some hold-up in the vicinity of the hatch to clear so they could go on down into the submarine – that if he’d been Pargeter he wouldn’t have allowed the number on board to climb anywhere near a hundred. Although the only passengers one could obviously have done without would have been himself and Eason and this pair of plumbers. And Buchanan, at a pinch. And Barlows’ might have been persuaded that they didn’t need as many as twenty-eight of their men on board. He’d have argued for a maximum of twenty: you’d have the total down to nearer eighty, then.

  But of course – this hit him suddenly – some would be disembarking, transferring to the tug, before the dive anyway. It was what always happened: he’d forgotten it. You’d be losing those Barlows’ men who were only concerned with the engine and steering trials, and of course the caterers – who were only on board to serve lunch – and perhaps a few others.

  So all right: the only drastic overcrowding would be between now and the start of the diving trial. With a distinct feeling of relief, he tapped Buchanan on the shoulder… ‘When Jacko says sorry for not having dragged you on board sooner – as he’s bound to – why not tell him you’d like to be on the bridge – or gundeck – accompanied by your minder, naturally – for the trip down-river and the surface trials?’

  ‘I suppose I could.’

  ‘Be a lot more comfortable. And scenery to enjoy.’

  ‘All right.’ A nod. ‘I’ll ask him.’ Stooping into the hatch then, turning to clamber backwards down the steel ladder. Chalk followed – frontwards, the proper way – and paused at the bottom, on the TSC’s corticene-covered deck but clear enough of the ladder, looking around him at gleaming white enamel and the sparkle of brass valve-wheels here and there. A few sailors were stowing gear – or re-stowing it, to save space – and beyond them, right up forward, watertight doors port and starboard stood open, allowing a view of the rear doors of the upper four torpedo-tubes. All of it immaculate – the new white enamel, and every piece of brightwork highly polished. Familiar odour of shale oil – shale being the fuel on which torpedoes ran, but it was also used as a cleaning and polishing fluid for the corticene. The scent of it was as familiar – and as appropriate here – as linseed oil was in a cricket pavilion.

  Looking for’ard, still, he was remembering the wrongly-placed bowcap indicators, and that potentially confusing system with the operating levers.

  But they’d have come to terms with it by now. As he’d have to himself, since the same gear was to be installed in Threat. Making way for Eason and his friends to pass on their way aft… Buchanan, who’d been peering into the thick glass window in the forward escape chamber, turned back and pointed at the empty reload torpedo racks, ‘No torpedoes yet?’

  ‘Not in the tubes either.’ Chalk told him, ‘She’ll get those later.’

  ‘Will they have what-d’you-call-’ems – explosive heads?’

  ‘Warheads. Not at this juncture.’ He added, ‘Soon enough, no doubt.’

  ‘Well. Darned little doubt… What do they have in place of warheads?’

  ‘What we call blowing heads. There are collision heads as well, which just crumple, but it’s the blowing kind we have normally. At the end of the run compressed air blows the water out so the fish will
surface and float, nose up, and boats can pick ’em up. That’s to say, get a line on and tow ’em to some crane. The practice heads are painted bright orange so they can be spotted easily even in a rough sea.’

  ‘So you don’t actually hit any practice target.’

  ‘No. You set the depth mechanism so they’ll run under. Running right under counts as a hit.’

  ‘I see. But – sorry, one more question?’

  ‘Many as you like.’

  ‘Well – the absence of them – of all that weight – must affect the submarine’s trim quite considerably?’

  At least the man asked reasonably sensible questions. Chalk told him, ‘It’s allowed for. Apart from the fact we’ve got a lot more bodies on board than usual – extra weight – the trim’s adjusted by the amount of water that’s either put into or taken out of the auxiliary and compensating tanks. Did Jacko explain the trimming system to you?’

  ‘I didn’t quite take it all in, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll explain it, presently. Let’s go aft now?’

  * * *

  By ten o’clock Trumpeter had the Tail o’ the Bank ahead of her, Greenock abaft the beam to port and Helensburgh – a smear of whitish seafront with the hills enclosing it on all sides except the sea frontage – on the starboard bow. Diesels rumbling steadily and the sea washing over her tanks, swirling white and noisy below this gun-platform and the bridge. She was making about fifteen knots, Chalk guessed. He was on the gun-platform with Buchanan, also a Lieutenant-Commander Quarry and Harry Calshot, a lieutenant whom he knew well. They were both visiting from the Gosport submarine headquarters. And now, just arrived, Nat Eason and his two pals – arriving as the rest of them had via the bridge, the conning-tower hatch and the iron rungs down the tower’s sides. There were two hatches giving direct access to the gun for its crew, but they were kept shut and clamped, partly as a routine safety precaution but also because the wardroom, at the bottom end of this guntower, was far too crowded for the access ladders to be rigged. Down below there, Eason had confided to Chalk, there was barely room to fart.