Silent, staring seaward. Then: ‘Optimism or not, I could have done it. Should have offered to – to Pargeter, when he talked about it.’ Chalk shook his head. ‘Anyway – the four that came up after us were that friend of Eason’s and a leading stoker – name of Franklyn – who were shepherding one of the caterers and one of Hughes’ assistants, a civil servant. Forget his name… The minesweepers’ boats picked them up, I think. They weren’t brought on board Hoste, anyway. The other ships, incidentally, were two Halcyon-class sweepers and a boom-defence vessel – Dabchick – which had come down from the Gareloch. She had lifting gear for’ard – projecting bow with a large sheave in it – you know the sort of thing – and a steam winch. The tug Clansman was still there too, I dare say one of the boats was hers. Also a minelayer was said to be racing down to us with a team of artisans and cutting-gear – from Barlows’, I suppose – and – for as much as this was worth – a salvage vessel was en route from the Orkneys. Imagine that. Not the slightest possibility she could arrive in time. And meanwhile, whether George Random was getting any response to the request for air-hoses and compressors I didn’t know. He was up in Hoste’s W/T office most of the time, and I dare say the air was turning blue. He was in charge of all rescue operations, with Ozzard as his number two. I’d seen Ozzard, of course – for about five minutes. If anyone could have got things moving, he and Random would have. But we weren’t geared to submarine disasters at that time. We didn’t have the equipment or the expertise – even the will, really. Admiralty thinking for some while had been that getting men out was up to the submarine herself, outside assistance wasn’t really practical. You won’t find this anywhere in black and white, I’m sure, but it was the attitude, all right – quite evident too, from the lack of both readiness and gear.
‘Ozzard had given me a brief rundown of the part he’d played, this far. He described how he’d watched Trumpeter every second of the hour or so when she’d been trying to dive and couldn’t, then he’d seen the sudden bow-down disappearance – very sudden, it had worried him a bit but then he’d thought hell, Jacko’d been having problems getting under, might have opened bowcaps by way of a solution, or flooded some bow tank they’d forgotten until then. But – he’d know what he was doing. Ozzie took a fix anyway, by shore bearings, and marked it on the chart as the spot where Trumpeter had dived, but apart from that he just carried on, keeping clear of the submarine’s planned course and watching for signals – smoke-floats… When she’d been down more than three hours, of course, he started worrying and passed a signal over his R/T via the local signal station to all the responsible authorities – Admiralty, C-in-C, Blockhouse. Trumpeter’s smoke-float hadn’t ignited, by the way, and when divers finally got down to her they found the marker-buoy’s line snagged round her periscope standards. Hoste had located Trumpeter by searching around Ozzie’s charted position with her rather primitive A/S equipment, shortly after dawn.
‘So much for the view from the surface. Ozzie’s anyway. From my own – grandstand view from Hoste’s quarterdeck – they’d lent me dry clothes and never ceased offering me coffee, brandy, etcetera – well, I saw the next three come up. Three alive, one dead. Another of the Admiralty team, that was. Apparently he’d died of heart failure. Making two – that Barlows’ chap had passed out in the Tube Space, you’ll remember. Incidentally, if they hadn’t kept the door open while Eddington dragged him out – the TI should have ordered it shut – then only the Tube Space would have been flooded and more than ninety lives saved. I think you’ll find that in the Inquiry’s findings. But – the three who came out alive were Harry Calshot, a telegraphist by name of Carter and one of the Barlows’ fitters. Name, if I remember rightly, Campbell.’
Chalk was stuffing tobacco into his pipe – perching on the terrace wall, his back to the sea. This by the way was the afternoon of our third day of interviews. Two days to go… He told me – jerkily, getting the pipe going – ‘We waited, expecting the next batch to break surface after something like the same interval. I was thinking it was about time they made use of the for’ard chamber too. Deeper – the pressure bugbear and a longer ascent – but perfectly usable, anyway by trained men. But after a while – well, nothing at all was happening: which suggested that something of another kind must have happened. I kept telling myself “Any minute now” – but less and less convincingly, knowing how little time they had. And remembering what the air had been like an hour or two earlier.’ He flicked a second match away. ‘Then we got word – Calshot’s. When they’d pulled him out of the drink he hadn’t been making much sense, apparently, but he’d told Random now that they’d tried to use the for’ard chamber soon after our own escape – while the after chamber was still draining down, in fact. Pargeter had sent out only two trained men with one reasonably fit passenger in their care – because of the greater depth and pressure – and they’d found they couldn’t open the hatch. They’d made two or three attempts, with a change of personnel for the third, and then given up. We heard – a couple of months later, after they’d raised her – that the hatch had been jammed by distortion of the hull, obviously when she’d hit the bottom.’
Puffing smoke…
‘So – for’ard escape chamber u/s, and nobody coming out of the after one. Some of them – possibly all – would be dead by this time. One knew it – and still waited. Saying prayers in one’s head – you know… I was – they told me, afterwards – more or less gibbering by then. Late forenoon. I do remember demanding to be told why the hell no air-hoses or divers had come. Why not by flying-boat, for God’s sake? The minelayer with the cutting gear had arrived and anchored – and a lot of use that seemed to be, at this juncture… So – Hoste’s quack got his way, finally, gave me a shot of something or other – needle in the arm – that laid me out. And it was while I was out cold that – you know all this, you were only a schoolboy but you’d have seen photos of it on all the papers’ front pages, Trumpeter’s stern end sticking up out of water?’
I did remember, very well. Also the impression given by the news reports that all would now be well, having ‘got her stern up’ all they’d have to do was cut a hole and pull them out.
Chalk was saying, ‘A shift of the tide had caused it. Coupled with the extent to which they’d lightened her during the night. Anyway, Random got the boom-defence vessel to up-anchor and move in – not easy, mind you, with the swell still running, and it must have taken quite a long time – but eventually they managed to pass the bight of a wire over Trumpeter’s tail, taking up the slack for’ard of the after hydroplanes so it couldn’t slide off. Put a bit of tension on it, I suppose, then made it fast. Meanwhile there were more aircraft making low passes than ever. Word had got out, and the Press were airborne with their cameras. And the cutting gear had arrived – did I mention that? Right… There was hope, you see – if they weren’t all dead by then. Even if some of them were only half-dead, they might have been brought out and resuscitated. But before those fellows could get on to her tail with their acetylene burners – it was getting near sunset, but they’d have worked with ships’ searchlights on them – at that crucial moment she shifted again, pirouetting on her nose very suddenly as the tide swung her, and putting an enormous strain on the wire, which snapped. And she slid under. Finish, gone. When I heard about it, I was glad I hadn’t been up there to see it.’
He’d paused. Then: ‘As to why there’d been no more escapes – perhaps you heard about it?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘No. Well… For obvious reasons none of this was published. We didn’t bruit it about, either. But – when the divers went down, prior to raising her, they found the hatch jammed half-open with two bodies in it and two more in the chamber. One in the hatch had no mask on, and the other’s mask was full of vomit. I’m not going to tell you who they were. It’s not in the Tribunal’s report either.’
Chapter 13
The survivors came back to Greenock that Thursday night, arriving in th
e early hours of Friday. The Admiralty had put out a communiqué earlier regretting that no hope remained for the 90 men still on board HM Submarine Trumpeter, and that rescue attempts had consequently been abandoned. There’d been 101 men on board apparently, and 11 had come out of her.
Ozzard travelled back in the minesweeper with them. Random stayed down there in Hoste, anchored close to the wreck, awaiting the arrival of the salvage vessel from Scapa some time next day.
Chalk’s memories of the arrival at Greenock were that they’d landed at some quay, from which the Press had been successfully locked out, at about two or three in the morning. There was a crowd of wives and families there, and volunteers with cars. Helen Pargeter had been one of these – in a state of private misery but preoccupied with comforting and helping others. Maggie Ozzard was there too, of course. Chalk’s car was where he’d left it, at Barlows’; he and Ozzard had arranged to meet in the submarine office at noon – he’d get there by tram – and by that time Ozzard would have conferred on the telephone with their superiors at Submarine Headquarters, should know what the future held for them. The probability was that they’d be wanted down there, at Blockhouse. There’d be a Court of Inquiry of some kind, obviously, and Chalk would be a key witness: if it looked like being a lengthy affair they might well relieve him of his job in Threat.
Ozzard asked him as they were driving off, ‘Sure you’ll be all right to get in under your own power in the morning?’
‘Well – I would be, but—’
‘Hang on.’ Stopping at locked gates, putting his head out and calling for them to be opened. His wife was beside him in the front: she’d expected to drive, but he’d told her ‘You look more whacked than I am. Go on, move over…’ She did look exhausted: she and Helen Pargeter had been running a round-the-clock transport service, this past day and the night before it, for distraught wives and families desperately seeking news at the Barlows’ offices.
‘Sorry Chalk – you were saying?’
‘Cheek to ask you this, sir, but – second thoughts – could you drop me at Barlows’ so I could pick up my car?’
‘Wouldn’t the forenoon be soon enough?’
‘I need to see Mrs Eason. I know it’s hardly the time for a visit – and I could get a taxi, anyway—’
‘Of course we’ll take you to Barlows’.’ Maggie, glancing back at him. Then: ‘Poor Mrs Eason. God, one feels so helpless.’
Press cameras had flashed as the gates were opened and they drove through. Ozzard muttered, ‘I should go along too, I suppose. We could do that on our way – if you know where the Easons live?’
Lived… Chalk told him diffidently, ‘I knew Eason quite well, sir, and he was the last man I spoke to before I – baled out. If you came too, it might seem to her more official than personal.’
‘All right.’ He asked his wife: ‘Have you seen her?’
‘Yes. She’s – no weakling, that’s for sure. Rather a fine character, actually. Going to her parents, she said – London, somewhere… But she’ll be asleep now, Rufus.’
‘Have to wake her, that’s all. Especially if she’s about to disappear. Then, I’ve got to get in touch with Andrew Buchanan’s wife. Messages for her too.’
Maggie reached back to him: he took her hand. ‘On top of what you’ve been through—’
‘I’m all right. I slept all afternoon. Quack stuck a needle in me.’
She’d taken her hand back, and found a handkerchief.
‘It’s unbelievably awful.’ She’d taken her hand back and found a handkerchief. Her husband put his left arm round her; steering one-handed through the grey, empty streets, headlamps washing along the dull glint of tramlines. Chalk thinking – to get it straight, keep it straight – Mrs Eason – Zoe Buchanan – Suzie. And Diana – probably there by now… He leant forward again. ‘If I’m to go down to Gosport, I’d suggest I might take the night train on Monday. My fiancée’s flying herself up to Glendarragh – and this is the Cameron-Green family, the girl Toby Dymock was engaged to marry?’
Ozzard was silent while he thought about it. Then: ‘All right. I’ll say you’ll be there about mid-week.’ They were already almost at Barlows’. ‘If you’re to stay down there – which isn’t unlikely, is it? – I imagine you’d take your car down?’
* * *
It had taken a lot of starting – with the crank, as was usual in the mornings. And the nightwatchman who’d opened the gates for them wanted to know whether various men of whom Chalk had never heard had survived.
It wasn’t going to be easy – answering questions, delivering messages from men who’d known they were going to drown or suffocate. Even in one’s own mind it wasn’t likely to be easy for quite a long time, he guessed. An oppressive sense of guilt at being alive oneself didn’t help much, either.
The Easons’ landlord was grumpy at being woken, then caught on to the fact that this tall, red-headed and unshaven man had been in the lost submarine and escaped from it, and it had then been necessary to fend off his questions.
A spectator’s questions. He had no-one to cry for.
He’d knocked. ‘Mrs Eason?’
‘Yes?’
Immediate answer: she couldn’t have been asleep.
‘It’s Rufus Chalk. Mrs Eason, I’m very sorry to disturb you – middle of the night—’
The door opened. ‘Lieutenant Chalk?’
‘Could I come in for a moment?’
‘Of course.’ Her composure was impressive. She’d been crying but she was completely in control now. Dark eyes, medium-blonde hair tied back, strong jawline. A good-looking woman who must have been a very pretty girl. Her eyes raw, bruised-looking, though. She’d turned away, leaving him to shut the door in her landlord’s face.
The small sitting-room was sparsely furnished but now cluttered in the disorder of packing. Two suitcases – green canvas with EASON stencilled on them – and a box half-filled with groceries. Clothes lay around; some had been Nat’s. He wondered how she’d manage that box of bottles and cans if she was leaving by train.
‘My husband—’ turning, facing him – ‘There’s no hope, is there?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ He tried to explain, ‘I came because – well, to say how sorry I am, how very sorry… I liked him – very much indeed. Hadn’t known him all that long, but – I felt I had – and – well, I was looking forward to serving with him—’
‘He thought you were all right, too.’ Suddenly, surprisingly, she was in his arms and he was hugging her. A scent of lavender… ‘It’s a bloody nightmare. I can’t get it out of my head he won’t come walking in that door. Every step I hear – yours, just then—’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘I’ll never – well, no, that’s not right, I’ve got to – get used to it, believe it…’
‘Mrs Ozzard tells me you’re going to your parents – in London?’
‘Yeah.’ Separating… ‘Bloody submarines.’ She sat down: but more a collapse than sitting. Shaking her head: ‘Filthy bloody things!’
‘I know – how you must feel—’
‘You do?’ A touch of bitterness: and he didn’t blame her. But what was there to say? He went on, ‘Thing is, I’ll most likely be going down there myself – in my rattly old baby Austin. Probably about Tuesday. If you’d like a lift south, and company of sorts…’
She’d said thanks, but no. The offer had pleased her, he thought, but she wanted to get away at once. Understandable enough… He explained briefly, then, how he’d come to escape – being picked for a team to get a message out, a vain attempt at saving the boat and all hands. Aware that she hadn’t asked for any such explanation, that it was his own need he was dealing with now, his guilt at being here when her husband wasn’t. Their roles – fates – could easily have been reversed – he could have been down there in the black water, Nat Eason here… Then they were talking about Nat again: and after some hesitation but then deciding that she could take it, that it was so typical of him she’d
want to add it to her memories – he’d told her the last words he’d heard from him: double Johnny Walker, and no water…
She’d laughed, cried, recovered, apologized for being ‘silly’ and commented that that was Nat, all right. Nat to a ‘T’, that was!
‘Tell you what – I’ll drink it for him. Not whisky, though – double gin, straight.’
‘There’s one thing I ought to tell you. I don’t want to upset you more than I may have already, but – sooner or later you’ll be wondering, so—’
‘So go on?’
‘I’m pretty sure they’d have just gone off to sleep. I was getting close to it myself. I had a headache – I think a lot of others did too – and we were all short of breath. But apart from that, if I’d been left to myself I think I’d have just – well, flaked out. Come to think of it, a lot of them had already.’
‘Just gone to sleep…’
He nodded. ‘And when he made his joke about the Johnny Walker, I believe he meant it – taking it for granted we’d soon be knocking a few back together.’
‘Might’ve passed on happy, then.’
‘Yes. Without ever really knowing—’
‘Didn’t say nothing about me? Didn’t ask you to come and see me – like you are now?’
‘No. And that’s another reason to believe he expected to get back.’
‘Just got his old nut down, then…’
He was glad he’d been to see her. Although there was no real help that one could give. Only palliatives, at best – tiding them over, as it were. Driving out to Dunbarton with the first streaks of dawn in the eastern sky he’d found himself thinking about the war that was surely coming: how much better not to be married, risk inflicting that depth of grief. Because that was where it really hit, where the full price was paid.
At Mrs Blair’s – having overcome first her bad temper at being woken, then her astonishment and jumbled questions – he tried to get Zoe’s telephone number from Enquiries, but failed to raise them. He wished he’d been less pig-headed, made a note of the number which she’d given him about half a dozen times.
Not Thinking of Death Page 24