Not Thinking of Death

by Not Thinking of Death (retail) (epub)

  Tracker shifted, at that moment – such precise timing that for a moment he thought it was his imagination. A scraping – steel on rock – and a small lurch to port. He and the ERA were on their feet – seeing the for’ard depthgauge showing 95 feet – it had been at 94 – and the bubble now two degrees aft. She was motionless again: the scraping had lasted only seconds. Gyro heading hadn’t changed, still read 141 degrees: it almost might not have happened. But Mottram had shot in, was making his own check of those telltale readings – which in fact told no tale at all beyond the fact that her hull was or had been in contact with solid rock at some point or points, and that she’d shifted on it or slipped off it.

  ‘I’ll have the bilges checked, sir.’ He looked round at the gunlayer: ‘Clark – shake the Chief Stoker, will you.’

  Better safe than sorry.

  * * *

  Chalk woke early, although he’d been dog-tired the night before. He’d been the first to leave the poker-dice game, and before he’d gone up to turn in he’d resisted the urge to try Patricia’s number again.

  The point was, though, she had to get back some time: so what would be wrong with now, this minute? Or half an hour ago? He could see it: an SIS car dropping her at the door of her block of flats: she’d be entering the foyer, crossing it to the lift…

  He’d dreamt of her. He couldn’t remember any detail of where they’d been, or doing what, only that she’d been with him. He’d try again, he decided, before going into breakfast. If there was still no answer – forget it.

  As if one could…

  He’d have rung them at Glendarragh, in ordinary circumstances, but wasn’t keen to do so because he knew that her parents – Lady C-G especially – disapproved of her seeing him as often as she did. A married man, Patricia! It was just as well the old girl didn’t know the whole truth of it: even though she’d probably suspect it. Patricia had told him that for the sake of a quiet life she’d given up mentioning him at all, and Mama had taken to slipping in little questions… Which, since Patricia could run rings round her, probably saw the questions coming before her mother had thought of them, didn’t get her ladyship very far.

  He’d leave Glendarragh out of it, he decided. If she’d been going up there she’d have sent him a note anyway.

  Christ – if she was back, she’d be on the ’phone, wouldn’t be just sitting there waiting for him to call her, for God’s sake!

  He was shaving when he remembered the other dream. He’d been in Trumpeter again: same scene, same circumstances: he’d had a DSEA set strapped on and had been about to enter the after escape chamber; Chris Van Sommeren had asked him, ‘Tell Suzie I love her – will you?’

  He’d answered – he thought he had, but recollection faded as it came to mind – ‘You can tell her yourself, Chris!’

  It might have been his subconscious reaction now – a split second ago. What his answer would have been – and was now, in a sense, when he thought of Tracker up there on 65 degrees north, in those 24-hour days…

  Mottram knew his business, though.

  It was a few minutes past seven when he dialled Patricia’s number again. If she’d been late last night, had thought – as he had – that it was too late to be calling…

  Ringing.

  Imagining her waking up: then giving her time to get her thoughts together, reach for the ’phone.

  Still ringing. Even if she’d been in the tub…

  Bath towel wrapped around that lovely, slim, damp body: a bare arm reaching to the ’phone – now!

  He let it ring three more times, then hung up.

  * * *

  Mottram called down, ‘Start the charge.’

  Twelve feet on the gauges. Her bridge was well up though, and the top hatch was open. Mottram had French up there with him. Chris, with his hand still on the trimming-order telegraph, glanced over his shoulder to check that Caulfield had heard the order: the engineer had vanished into his own domain, so you could assume he had. Anyway, this trim was all right: Chris turned the knob on the telegraph round to ‘Stop pumping’, and ordered, ‘Shut “O” port and starboard.’ At that moment the port-side diesel burst into action: you felt the draught at once, the rush of cold air which the diesel was sucking down through the tower. Noise increasing as the revs built up. They were using only one of the two diesels, leaving the starboard motor available for manoeuvring, as might be necessary to keep her clear of rocks.

  Hazy-blue sky up there, a bright disc of it visible when he looked up through the lower hatch. There’d be some mist on the water, he guessed. Beautiful, no doubt, the kind of scenery described in travel books as ‘rugged grandeur’, but in his own capacity as first lieutenant, responsible for everything inside the boat while her CO was on the bridge, he’d never get to see it.

  It was cold, in the flood of air; he shifted to stand just forward of the ladder, out of the mainstream of it. Leaning there behind the ’planesmen’s backs – his left arm out to put some of his weight on the ladder’s shiny steel, the coxswain’s broad back was in front of him at the after ’planes, second coxswain at the fore ’planes to his right. Bellamy, who’d come from the chart-table for a quick look up through the tower, shouted above the diesel’s pounding, ‘If we can get away with this, anyone can get away with anything!’

  Smiling contentedly, as he went back to his chart-table. One of those people, evidently, who seemed to come to life at times like this, seemed to thrive in dangerous situations. Chris felt a certain empathy: he supposed he might be rather like that himself. Or – second thoughts – might have been…

  Having Suzie – the prospect of Suzie – to get back to now, might have changed him?

  Checking the time – six-fourteen. Then the gauges: the trim was static. No worries on that score, with the upper hatch about three feet clear of water, which still had virtually no movement on it.

  Bellamy was bloody right, though.

  He crossed over to the voicepipe. ‘Bridge!’

  Mottram answered, ‘Bridge.’

  ‘Captain, sir – d’you want to stay at diving stations?’

  ‘Yes. For the time being.’

  The alternative would have been to relax to what was called ‘patrol routine’. ‘Diving stations’ was the equivalent of what in surface ships was called ‘Action stations’, or ‘First degree of readiness’. Which probably was the right degree of readiness to be in, in present circumstances. Although it would have been nice to have had a smoke – which at patrol routine, with the hatch open and fresh air rushing through the boat, would have been permissible. ‘Control Room!’

  The Control Room messenger answered it: ‘Control Room?’

  ‘First lieutenant on the voicepipe.’

  Chris went to it, and Mottram told him, ‘Remain at diving stations, as I said, but let them smoke.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’

  ‘And Number One—’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Send up my cigarettes and lighter, will you?’

  * * *

  At six-forty, the same call again: ‘First lieutenant on the voicepipe.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Be on your toes, Number One. Seaplane flying down-coast, looks like passing a bit close.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ He left the pipe, and passed on the warning to the men around him.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell.’ The coxswain, a Chief PO, turned on his stool and jerked two fingers upwards towards the hatch, the sky. He and the fore ’planesman were just sitting there, both smoking, ready for when the hydroplanes might be needed. ‘Dive, will we, sir?’

  ‘If he shows interest, I suppose.’ Chris was under the hatch, looking up. With the diesel’s noise so close and in this confined, steel-enclosed space you wouldn’t have heard any aircraft engine even if it was right on top of you. He glanced at Berkley, the ‘outside’ ERA at his station at the diving panel: figuratively speaking he was on his toes, all right – even his hands half-raised and ready to snatch the main-vent levers open if the
‘dive’ order came.

  It would be possible to dive: but they could then blast the area with bombs. And whether she’d be able to get out of the fjord dived, twisting and turning – more or less blind – through that narrow channel… Mottram might be asking himself the same question, he guessed.

  Six forty-two. Needles in the gauges still motionless at twelve feet. Diesel pumping away: the charge wouldn’t be having any effect yet, but at least the battery wouldn’t be getting any flatter. Mottram had used the port motor only once, running slow astern with some helm on; keeping her pointing the right way, probably.

  ‘Control Room.’

  Chris was there: ‘Sir?’

  ‘Our seaplane’s continued down-coast. Perhaps we’re invisible.’

  ‘Hope so, sir.’ He passed the news on, raising his voice over the diesel’s racket. Bellamy muttered, shaking his head after a long draw at his cigarette, ‘Beats everything.’

  * * *

  Just before 0700, when an LTO had come from the motor room to test the electrolyte in the pilot cells – the density should have begun to rise, by now – there was some kind of excitement in the bridge. Chris, with an ear to the voicepipe, heard French shout, ‘Turning towards us, sir—’

  Then after a moment, Mottram’s voice in the tube: ‘Control Room.’

  ‘Van Sommeren here, sir.’

  ‘Fishing-boat approaching. Chaps waving at us. Stand by for – whatever.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir—’

  French’s voice: ‘That’s the lieutenant!’

  ‘Control Room. Send one hand up to take this boat’s lines.’

  Chris told the messenger, ‘Up top, quick!’ Peters, his name was: his legs were already vanishing upwards through the lower hatch. Chris was back at the voicepipe, hearing confused shouting – at some distance, from the fishing-boat presumably – then Mottram’s ‘Go on down, Sub. And you, Peters.’ Down on to the casing – which would be under water, they’d be wading. There was a heavy thump as the boat ran alongside: Chris wincing, realizing that the submerged bulge of the saddle-tanks must have taken the full impact.

  * * *

  The boat had pushed off and was heading out towards the channel. Two Norwegians were running it, a middle-aged one in a woollen hat and a boy of about fourteen. The man was in the shelter for’ard, where the wheel was, the boy in the open stern which was heaped with nets. Mottram asked the Norwegian lieutenant, ‘What about them?’

  ‘They – fishing. Maybe OK. Maybe.’

  The major and the doctor were far from OK, apparently. The major had been shot, was either dead or badly wounded, and the other one, the doctor, was in German hands. In fact there were two doctors – the one left behind and this older man whom Kjellegard had brought with him on the boat – the man they’d been sent to fetch. Grey-haired, about fifty, ill-looking and – apparently – for God’s sake – a German. In a soaked grey suit… French had taken him below, guiding him down the ladder. Kjellegard had told Mottram he had no doubt at all the man who’d been taken prisoner – the civilian doctor who’d been one of the team – would try to save his own skin by telling the Germans whatever they wanted to know – which obviously would include how they’d got here. He mimed it, his English being somewhat limited – mimicking the doctor’s answer to that question – ‘In Royal Navy submarine, please!’ – and then, as to where had they been expecting to reboard her – ‘Mursteinfjord, island Skjingen if you please, Mein Herren!’

  ‘Why bring that kind of man with you, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Was not Major Olsen choosing. Your people, I think. Doktor Heiden we know is sick, doctor is necessary. This one – Kjempe.’ He spat over the side – looking up, watching the sky…

  Mottram asked him, ‘How come you and Heiden got away?’

  ‘Our friends helping. Doktor Heiden with them – has been two month, I think. Kjempe—’ the lieutenant mimed it again, throwing his hands up: ‘“Kamerad!” Major Olsen going back – shoot him, maybe, but—’ another gesture, a sound like poom – ‘dead. Olsen I’m telling you is dead. I hope… Me—’ he pointed – ‘in the boat, also Heiden. Captain – we go now?’

  ‘Wait.’ Mottram and the Norwegian eye to eye: one in doubt, the other frantic. ‘I want a straight answer, now – understand? Are you certain? Not just guessing – out of panic or—’

  ‘Panic?’

  ‘Fright—’

  ‘Fright – me, yes!’ A jerk of the head: ‘They know… Certain, Captain!’

  ‘All right.’ Mottram nodded. ‘All right. God damn it.’ Stooping to the voicepipe: ‘Control Room. Break the charge. Out port engine-clutch, stand by main motors. Cox’n on the wheel.’ He straightened. ‘What should we expect – aircraft?’

  ‘I think. Stuka, maybe. Also—’ pointing eastward, as the diesel cut out – ‘destroyers in Altfjorden. My friend tell me, in the boat. From here five miles, maybe. Airplanes also, sure—’

  ‘Charge broken, engine clutch out, sir!’

  ‘Very good. Lieutenant Bellamy on the bridge with the chart, please. Group down, slow ahead together. Steer—’ he sighted over the gyro repeater – ‘one-four-two.’ All right for a start, but he’d need his navigator and the large-scale chart, to retrace the route they’d come in by, that narrow channel. At a pinch it might have been done submerged, but it would have been very tricky, and slower. Tricky enough as it was – which was why he’d put the coxswain on the wheel – and it couldn’t be rushed. Get stuck, then have the Stukas over: you’d have dramatic proof then of the old adage More haste, less speed. Less anything… He glanced at the Norwegian again – as Bellamy appeared, clambering out of the hatch with the rolled chart under one arm – wondering whether he was right to take the man’s word for this. He seemed steadier now, must have begun to feel safe, or something… Knowing nothing about the near-flat battery, of course, or that a single hour’s charging would have made next to no difference to it.

  Chapter 18

  In mid-forenoon Chalk bumped into Threat’s CO, Tim Hart, in the corridor outside the flotilla staff offices, and Hart told him that ‘young Van Sommeren’s fiancée’ had telephoned shortly after he, Chalk, had left the building on his way down to the dockyard. Hart had asked her if she wanted to leave a message; Suzie had asked him who he was, then said, ‘Well, perhaps you could help. My name’s Susan Cameron-Green, I’m engaged to Chris Van Sommeren—’

  ‘Who’s on temporary loan to Tracker. Wedding thus postponed, I heard. Rotten bad luck, Miss – er—’

  ‘You said Tracker?’

  ‘Shouldn’t have, should I. Walls having ears, all that.’

  ‘It’s what I wanted to know. Tracker. Thank you so much. Goodbye…’

  Clunk.

  Hart told Chalk, ‘No message, that’s all there was to it.’

  Chalk stared at him. ‘All, you say.’

  ‘Not out of order, was I?’

  He could have hit him. Minutes later, wondered why he hadn’t. But why he of all people had had to take her call… He shook his head: he wasn’t going to discuss Suzie or her problems or potential problems with Tim Hart. He told him, ‘I’d suggest you leave it to the stewards to take messages in future, Tim. Mine, anyway.’ He’d pushed on past him: he’d had a summons to report to Captain (S), who by this time would no doubt have read his patrol report, might also be able to tell him how long he’d have before the next one. Hart’s voice sounded plaintive behind him: ‘God’s sake, I was only trying to be helpful!’ He didn’t look back. He had his own work to do and also his first lieutenant’s – actually letting Sutherland, his third hand, do most of it, but having to keep a supervisory eye on him – and Patricia’s absence, those ghastly visions which in the small hours had one sweating – and Diana, for whom he was beginning to feel a cold dislike – on top of all that, now, a gratuitous contribution from Tim bloody Hart.

  The only hope was that the name Tracker wouldn’t mean anything to Suzie.

  He knocked on Captain Bertie W
eaver’s door, went in and shut it behind him. Still thinking about her: as anxious for her suddenly as he’d been nearly four years ago. ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Chalk. Morning. Sit down.’

  He couldn’t understand why she’d have telephoned like that anyway. She hadn’t pressed him for the boat’s name last night. He’d have to ring her – this evening…

  Captain (S) finished reading the patrol report.

  ‘Not your usual good luck, Chalk. But there you are, fact of life – if the targets aren’t there, you can’t sink ’em… Cigarette?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He took one and lit it. Weaver had a pipe going.

  ‘However – it was an ill wind, in the long run. If you’d fired all your fish and we’d recalled you early you wouldn’t have crossed paths with Mottram. And as there’s no Spare Crew first lieutenant at Lerwick at the moment, God knows what he’d have done.’

  ‘Unusual to be going north at this time of year, sir?’

  ‘Indeed. Quick trip, mind you – if it goes as it should. There was a lot of pressure on us to extricate this fellow. A lot of pressure on Northways, I gather – so you can guess where it came from.’

  Chalk guessed he meant Churchill. Northways was the wartime headquarters of Admiral (Submarines), who wasn’t exactly renowned for giving way to pressure from anyone at all. Winston, of course, would be the exception.

  ‘Am I allowed to know who they’re picking up, sir?’

  ‘A Jerry – believe it or not. Anti-Nazi, scientist of international repute, potentially of value to us because he has inside knowledge of various projects and so forth. For your private information only, Chalk.’

  He nodded. ‘But if he’s anti-Nazi, how would he have this inside knowledge?’

  Weaver smiled his approval of the question.