‘What I was thinking was I wouldn’t want Johnny Mottram’s job.’
‘Special Op – canoeists?’
‘In the land of the midnight sun.’
‘Well—’ Jake Sibbering, captain of Sabre – he’s only got to sneak in dived, surface for a minute to send ’em on their way, get under again damn quick and move back in again at pick-up time. Uh?’
‘So where and when does he get his box up?’
Meaning, how does he charge his batteries… Ogden growled, ‘Are you going to shake those bloody dice, or aren’t you?’
* * *
‘Going to roll ’em, are you, Chris?’
Matt Caulfield, the boat’s engineer officer, peered at him across the wardroom table. Tracker was lying bottomed in a Norwegian fjord. Caulfield had broken into Chris Van Sommeren’s thoughts in no more than a murmur, but in the pervading silence it might have been audible in the next compartment. It was dead quiet, and warm, the boat absolutely motionless, with all non-essential auxiliary machinery stopped and lights either switched off or glowing only dimly. In contrast to the semi-darkness in the gangway, the light over their heads in here spread a pool of almost dazzling brilliance. Caulfield added, ‘She’ll still be there when we get back, you know.’
‘Rather obvious, Chief, but true enough. ’ Johnny Mottram, the boat’s scrawny, bearded skipper, watched as his replacement first lieutenant shook the cup and turned it over, then took a quick look under it. Mottram added, ‘She’s a pilot, Rufus Chalk mentioned? Delivers Spitfires hither and yon?’
He nodded. ‘In the ATA – Air Transport Auxiliary. Rufus’ wife is in it too.’
He hadn’t talked about his wedding plans, or Suzie, in the two and three-quarter days he’d been on board. He’d got over his initial shock and resentment at the turn of events, but was still aggrieved enough to feel protective of his private life – that it wasn’t any of their damn business. He knew these people – you did know just about all your brother officers, in your own flotilla – but he wasn’t part of this team and he was as conscious of it as they were. Thinking more about this than about the game as he slid two aces from under the cup, shook the other three dice, peered at them under cover and left them hidden – glancing at Hugh Bellamy, then, the navigator, who was on his left.
‘There’s a third ace under here.’
‘Oh, bound to be…’
Bellamy was RNR, a pre-war Merchant Navy cadet. Balding quite seriously, at twenty-two. It gave him a donnish look, and his quiet voice matched it. Although in fact they were all speaking in not much more than murmurs: partly because most of the ship’s company were asleep, and partly from consciousness of sitting here killing time under about a hundred feet of water in enemy-occupied territory. Although it didn’t make much sense to be whispering to each other, considering that in a few hours’ time you’d be surfacing to run a charge – starting the submarine’s two 2500 BHP diesels and keeping them at it all forenoon, charging her batteries. You’d have to shout then to be heard, anywhere near them, and the fjord would be fairly echoing with their racket.
Bloody lunacy, perhaps: but no option…
Bellamy had reluctantly accepted the proposition of three aces. Chris asked Mottram, ‘Did they expect to make it back to us in the one day, sir?’
The Norwegians, he was asking about, the three they’d brought here. One major, one lieutenant and one civilian, a doctor. On board, they’d kept to themselves, hadn’t spoken much to anyone except the skipper. He’d shrugged: ‘They hoped to. Hoped this chap they’ve come for might be so to speak wrapped up and ready for collection. In which case –depending on whether or not they run up against any Germans, I suppose…’
‘Funny lot, weren’t they?’
‘You mean aren’t they.’
‘Yes. Of course…’ The engineer asked Bellamy cynically, ‘What d’you want me to believe you’ve got there?’
They’d bottomed her in Mursteinfjord, just inside the entrance. In position – according to Bellamy’s navigator’s notebook – 64 degrees 38’ North, 10 degrees 54.3’ East. Mottram had nosed her in close to the fjord’s entrance at periscope depth a few hours ago, surfaced her within spitting distance of the islands out there – or rather semi-surfaced her, keeping her trimmed so low that only her bridge and periscope standards were awash – and brought her in slowly, still on main motors, between islands named on the chart as Lokoy and Bangoy, then passing even closer to other islands, islets and rocks, conning her through the narrowest of navigable channels and turning sharply to starboard into this very small bay off the east coast of Skjingen. It had been necessary to surface more fully then to get the canoes out through the fore hatch, but it was an evolution they’d practised before with these Norwegians in the Firth of Tay, and it had been completed in a very few minutes – during which time he’d been turning the submarine to point back the other way, ready for her exit. Being in the fjord at all was hair-raising enough, sitting in full view on the surface made it worse, and those minutes with the hatch open had been fairly heart-stopping. Mottram had been alone on the bridge – knowing he might have had to dive in a hurry, once the fore hatch had banged shut – while Chris had been at his own action station in the Control Room, only able to guess at what was happening up top from the orders that came down the voicepipe. The Norwegians had been up on the casing, launching their folboats with the assistance of the boat’s torpedo officer and the second coxswain and his winger: they’d embarked, two in one boat and one in the other – with an empty cockpit for the man they hoped they’d be bringing back with them – and paddled away, and as soon as the fore hatch had been shut and clipped Mottram had ordered main vents opened, and Chris had trimmed her down slowly to lie bottomed where she was now.
With a three-quarter used-up battery – hence economy with lighting – and in sixteen fathoms, with rocks and islands close all round and the nearest mainland coast about a mile to the east. The canoeists had headed southeast, aiming for some small fishing village in an indenture of that coast: how they’d proceed from there on was their own business. But the low battery was Tracker’s Achilles’ heel.
Chris lifted the dice cup, under which he’d been told there reposed two more aces and a ten, but which in fact had been covering only two tens and a nine. Mottram was left holding that baby: muttering that he’d be glad to get his own first lieutenant back, he gathered the dice and prepared to start another round.
No rounds of drinks, in this game. At sea in submarine wardrooms there was no drinking, ever. Let alone in a situation like this one: although the known and accepted risks would have been sobering enough. Chances of getting away, if Tracker was caught inside the fjord, being roughly nil. Whatever the three Norwegians were up to, whoever it was that they were aiming to bring out, it had to be some issue or person of considerable importance – to be worth a submarine and fifty lives. Even getting this far had been due to luck as much as skill: with no darkness and no knowledge of German defensive positions, lookout stations or inshore patrols – or air patrols, which in the next few hours might become a major threat. The skipper had shrugged it off: ‘Cross that hurdle when we come to it.’
Hurdles all along the way. Arrival here and entry to the fjord, for instance, had felt like Russian roulette: in a fairly calm sea – barely ruffled surface with very little white on it – German coastal lookouts with Zeiss binoculars might have been watching the periscope’s white feather on and off for an hour or more before she’d surfaced and crept in between the islands.
Mottram had briefed him on the first evening out of Lerwick, with Tracker making fifteen knots northeastward on the surface. There were to be two days like that, then a single day dived, motoring eastward at periscope depth. (That was how they’d spent the day – yesterday: it was a little after 0400 now, 23 June.) So then – he’d explained – they’d enter the fjord, send the canoeists on their way and lie bottomed until they reappeared with their rescuee. Same procedure in reverse thereaf
ter: leave the fjord on the surface but trimmed right down as before, dive as soon as she was clear of navigational hazards. Out of sight of land, surface and run for home.
‘Only way to do it. What looked like the obvious way at first sight – when we first chewed this over, in Dundee – the obvious thing was to close the shore dived, surface to send the canoes away and then retire seaward, coming back in later. Well, if we had dark nights to hide in, that might have been the way to do it, but round-the-clock daylight changes everything.’
‘Isn’t the box a problem? After a whole day running in on the motors?’
‘Of course it is. Even if there’s just enough juice left to get us out to sea again.’ Light-blue eyes probing into Chris’, across the wardroom table: ‘You with me?’
The point he was making was that if you ran into trouble – like having to evade anti-submarine craft – without adequate reserves of power you wouldn’t be able to dodge, use bursts of high speed, and so on. Having to conserve the amps you’d be helpless – like a mouse for the cats to play with.
Mottram had nodded. ‘The other way, the battery problem would have been worse. Two long trips inshore, an absolute need to run a full charge out there – in open sea, full daylight – and perhaps a bigger problem still if we came in the second time and our boys weren’t there. What then – all the way out again – or hang around just offshore, either way exhausting the box again?’
‘Right.’
‘So the answer – don’t faint, now – what we’re going to do is put on a charge while we’re inside that fjord and our passengers are doing their stuff ashore. It’s hellish risky, but – no option, really. Well, there is – if for some reason we can’t stay up, or run the donkeys – all right, we’ll simply take a deep breath and play mouse. If we haven’t stirred up the ants’ nest by then we might even get away with it.’ He’d got up from the table: ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
At the chart-table, then, he’d pulled out Admiralty Chart 3503, and pointed at its title – Namsenfjorden. ‘This may be to our advantage. Mursteinfjord – see, right next door to Namsenfjord – here – and this is the big one. The Germans will obviously be making use of it – bags of room, numerous anchorages, and here at the top is Namsos itself – sizeable port, major centre for the whole area. With any luck they’ll be ignoring Mursteinfjord – graciously leaving it to the fishermen, maybe.’ He pointed with a pencil-tip: ‘We’ll enter by this marked channel, and lie bottomed in this little hole here.’
‘Little hole’ being a space about the size of Lerwick harbour, between the indented eastern side of an island called Skjingen and south of a smaller one, Lokoy, several minute islets and spurs of rock. When they surfaced to put on the charge, Mottram hoped that with the upper hatch only just clear of water the little of Tracker that would be showing might itself resemble a half-tide rock – to a passing air patrol for instance, or anything less than a deliberate search.
‘We’ll use the drowned exhaust, of course.’
Submarine diesels when running on the surface – the only way they could run, as they needed a huge intake of air – could have their fumes exhausted either above or below the surface. The so-called ‘drowned’ exhaust blew bubbles and slightly reduced efficiency, but it also reduced the noise and eliminated the exhaust haze which might otherwise attract attention.
In the liar game, Chris had lost a round. He’d lifted the cup on Mottram’s claim of a high straight, and there it was. Glancing at the bulkhead clock, he saw that it was nearly four-thirty, and therefore a good time to duck out. ‘I’ll give French a break – and stay on till six, sir.’
They were going to surface and start charging the battery at six. Then – all being well – which was no small hope – dive at about midday and bottom again, wait until 2230, zero-hour for the Norwegians’ return. Mottram had arranged with them that if they hadn’t appeared by ten minutes past the hour he’d go back to the bottom and come up four hours later, continuing that routine for a second twenty-four hours; if by then they still hadn’t shown up he’d assume they’d come to grief, and that would be the end of it. Tracker would withdraw, return to base.
But touch wood, Chris thought, she’d be on her way tonight – with the Norwegians and their prize on board. At the latest, anyway, by say midnight tomorrow, 24 June. Two days’ passage to Lerwick, two more from there to Dundee – 28th. Or say 29th – to be on the generous side. And Tumult – allowing her a fortnight in harbour – wouldn’t leave for her next patrol before about 6 July. So, if the wedding could be laid on at short notice, and Suzie could make it – first week of July?
He took over the watch from Harry French, Tracker’s torpedo officer. French had been sitting on the after ’planes-man’s stool, engrossed in Brighton Rock. He was a sub-lieutenant, about twenty-one years old – ginger-headed, two days’ worth of ginger stubble on his cheeks and jaw. Standing now, stretching: ‘Jolly decent of you, Number One. Want to borrow this?’
‘Thanks, I’ve read it.’
‘Not bad, eh?’ He sloped off, and Chris glanced around the Control Room. The watch, apart from himself, comprised an artificer, an asdic rating with his ears clamped to his skull by headphones, and one leading seaman. As much as you needed, when watchkeeping amounted only to staying awake and keeping an eye on the depthgauges and gyro compass, and an ear open for any movement like scraping along the bottom.
He’d checked those readings. There’d been no change, no hint of any movement. So far there’d been no evidence of any tidal effect in this small cove… He sat down, where French had been, covertly glancing at the faces of his fellow watchkeepers and putting names to them. He’d been making efforts in that area, in the past two or three days. The asdic operator’s name for instance was Talbot. And the killick seaman was the gunlayer, name of – Clark. He’d nodded to him, murmured, ‘Clark, isn’t it?’ Talbot if addressed would have had to remove an earphone and ask for a repetition. The ERA was reading, but he’d glanced up, a rather blank-faced stare: he was an older man than most – hair greying at the temples, and a ridged forehead: Chris, having searched his memory again, asked him, ‘All right, Wilson?’
‘So far we seem to be, sir.’
An educated voice, and a slightly dismissive tone; he’d looked down again already at the battered-looking Penguin book which he was having to hold tilted to catch some light. Chris wondered whether he knew that the penguin emblem had been designed by a man who was now a submariner, had survived a DSEA escape, was currently a first lieutenant tipped for early command. He almost surely didn’t; by the look of him mightn’t have given a damn either. But thinking about that – the grudging manner – he realized that if he’d been joining this boat as its permanent first lieutenant there’d have been quite a different attitude, on his own part to some extent but from the ship’s company especially. Submarine crews were used to having officers they knew well. Whether or not they liked or disliked this or that individual, they’d know what to expect from him: whereas this Lieutenant Van Whatsit was an unknown quantity, a stranger who’d remain a stranger, and at the end of his patrol they’d be glad to revert to normality – to the devil they knew and might even like. Chris understood this, would have felt the same himself and didn’t resent it in the least.
Didn’t need anything to read, either. With Suzie to think about, he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on it anyway. Suzie, and getting back to her…
Thinking of the battery-charge, too. Maintaining the surfaced but very nearly submerged trim would be his own job, and with the top hatch only just clear of the surface he’d be watching points very, very carefully, from start to finish. Admittedly the prevailing calm would help – as long as it lasted. This close to the fjord’s entrance, if there’d been any appreciable sea running you’d certainly have felt it here; Mottram would have his work cut out too, manoeuvring in an extremely confined space to keep her off the surrounding rocks.
With luck, it would stay calm. Please God, it woul
d.
The reason for waiting until 0600 was that it was still technically night-time, and the locals – not excluding whatever German garrison there might be – would have their heads down even if the sun was shining. The diesels’ racket ought to be less noticeable, too, at an hour when fishing boats and other craft might be on the move.
Please God the Norwegians would make it by tonight’s 2230 deadline. Then – out, away…
Six days to Suzie. Seven if they didn’t make it.
She’d have been dumbfounded by Chalk’s news – if he’d been able to contact her by this time. He would have, surely: Tumult should have got into Dundee yesterday afternoon, and calling her would have been his first priority. Wherever she was – ‘stuck out’, or not, he’d have got through to her. In fact if he’d had any sort of hold-up you could bet she’d have been on to him – she’d have been fretting already, without this. Chalk would have realized that, and broken it to her as gently as he could, but however carefully he’d handled it – well, poor kid…
He’d sighed, a long, hard intake of breath, and the artificer had glanced up, stared at him for a moment then looked down at his book again. Chalk’s voice, meanwhile, like a recording in his brain: ‘Not the end of the world, Chris. Really should be only a couple of weeks’ delay…’
He’d hung on to that. Still did: except that a couple of weeks had come down to one. Thinking about it – how you got used to things, found they weren’t so bad after all – he was studying the white-enamelled deckhead with its labyrinth of pipes of various dimensions, tracing one visually – it was an HP airline – tracing it right through to the blow on number three main ballast – and remembering then having seen Chalk on board this submarine at a party they’d both been invited to, Chalk seemingly doing this same thing – pipe-tracing, which was a conscientious submariner’s habit in idle moments – but then he’d realized that actually his skipper was in an entirely different kind of preoccupation: grim-faced, no party spirit whatsoever, and he’d seen it in a flash of insight: Of course – Trumpeter…
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