She’d nodded. ‘About that. Unless they’ve brought more up.’
‘If there aren’t enough for all of us, you drop out, Suzie.’
‘How you do go on!’
‘Anyway, why not let Harriet fly the Anson this time, give yourself a break?’
‘Don’t want a break. Coffee’s what I want. Coming?’
* * *
‘Still holding the contact, sir.’ Talbot moved the asdic set’s training-knob fractionally clockwise. ‘Other one’s moving left to right, low revs.’
‘Bearing?’
‘Dead astern, sir. Red one-seven nine…’
Tracker was lying with her bows pointing due west, and Talbot’s last guess at the range was three-quarters of a sea mile, fifteen hundred yards. Mottram said from the chart-table, ‘Puts ’em close to the largest of the islets. So large it actually has a—’
A depthcharge exploded. It was nowhere close, but being completely unexpected it had some of the shock-effect of one much closer.
The booming echo faded, and Mottram finished what he’d been saying about the islet: ‘– actually has a name.’ He came back into the centre of things. ‘Harper.’ The messenger: fairheaded, pock-marked. ‘Go for’ard quietly, Harper, pass the order – whisper it – for diving stations. Nobody’s to hurry or make a sound. All right?’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The ERA on watch offered, ‘Pass the word aft, shall I, sir?’
‘Good man…’
Depthcharges usually came in patterns, groups, normally about five close on each others’ heels, not single explosions like that. Whether consciously or subconsciously you were waiting for the next one. Like waiting for a jab from a blunt needle, Chris thought. He’d moved to his own diving station, under the trimming telegraph. Mottram murmuring – half to himself – ‘Must have a static target there. Or they think they have. Must think it’s a bottomed submarine, in fact.’
‘In other words – us.’
‘Well…’ A nod. ‘As you say.’
It could be some old wreck. Or even not old at all: not every submarine loss had been accounted for. Could be a U-boat: during the Norway campaign Troubadour had sunk one not far from here. Chris watched men moving quietly to their diving stations: coxswain and second coxswain already on their stools, the helmsman now, and the communications number – who manned the telephone and kept the log – and Grant, the signalman. Electrical Artificer – Stavely, his name was. Expressions on the faces that showed any at all were of surprise or mild apprehension, or some degree of both.
Mottram ordered quietly, ‘Without any noise, shut off for depthcharging.’
It meant shutting certain hull-valves: it was completed quickly, the reports came through to Chris and he in turn confirmed to Mottram that the boat was ‘shut off’. PO Wootton, who’d taken over again on asdics, reporting meanwhile that one destroyer was still lying stopped but transmitting, and the other— he paused, concentrating… ‘Stopping engines now, sir. Both of ’em’s stopped.’
Nice easy targets, Chris thought. If you’d been up there. One fish in each…
But they must have been thinking they had a bottomed submarine there. Nothing else would explain their lying stopped now. Having dropped one charge on it – probably right on it, the two ships working together could have fixed its position within a yard or so. And they knew the charted depth – so often the imponderable factor that saved your life. A depthcharge had only to burst within ten feet of a submarine’s hull to blast a hole in it. They’d be watching now to see what came up: oil, woodwork, clothing, bodies. Listening out meanwhile on their hydrophones for such sounds as it might make if by some miracle it had survived and was trying to move away: motors, propellers, or before that a ballast-pump running to lighten her, get her off the bottom.
And there, but for the grace of God—
‘One’s moving, sir. Red one-seven-eight, right to left.’
Mottram warned, ‘Another charge due shortly, then.’ He looked round, and told Bellamy – who was at his chart-table – ‘Take a walk through the boat, pilot, tell ’em what’s happening. They’re attacking a wreck, probably. As long as they stick to it, then think they’ve sunk it – then bugger off – eh?’
‘Aye aye—’
A second crash: even from that distance the boat felt it, the impact jarring her steel hull. Actually, Trumpeter’s steel hull… Expressions around the Control Room might have become more wooden: but that was all. Wootton reported as the echo sang away, ‘New HE on red two-five, sir. Fast turbines, closing. More than one, sir.’
‘Three, probably.’
Coming back. Summoned back, no doubt.
* * *
A rather embarrassing phenomenon troubling Suzie now was that when she held a cup and saucer she couldn’t stop them rattling: although on an aeroplane’s controls her hands were as steady as they’d ever been. Lesson in it somewhere: such as the sky being her natural habitat, perhaps? The thought crossed her mind when she was trundling the taxi Anson towards the Henley huts and hangars, and had become conscious of a yearning for a cigarette and yet another cup of coffee.
One answer to the problem might be to remain permanently airborne. A more practical one, though, would be to ask for a mug instead of a cup. And for the mug not to be filled right up, so she wouldn’t slop it and have them glancing at each other as if they thought she was drunk or something. She braked the machine to a halt, told Jill Blessington, ‘Thanks. All yours now. See you at Cosford.’ Looking back at the others: ‘Beat her up on the way, shall we?’
When they overtook her in their Spits, she meant – but only jokingly, they’d obviously do no such thing. Trying to sound light-hearted, that was all. In fact one never did fool around: ATA rules were strict, and you’d be out on your ear if you did. Safe delivery of aircraft was the guiding principle. ATA pilots, for instance, didn’t fly over cloud: it was all ground-contact flying, you were expected to have terra firma in sight all the time. Pilots did get caught out sometimes by bad weather – cutting it too fine, or misled by an erroneous forecast – and not having any form of communication with the ground it could be frightening when it happened. But 99 per cent of the time you had rivers, roads, railways, villages, even individual country houses in sight that you knew and recognized.
On the ground and heading for the huts, Jane Ascoli joined her – trotting up from the rear, then shortening her stride to match Suzie’s. She was a tall, dark, angular girl, quite a bit older than her, and engaged to a major in Alastair’s regiment – now in the Western Desert.
‘Well, Suzie – last trip, huh?’
She nodded. ‘Should be.’ She wondered what might be coming next: something like Why don’t you take a breather, let the rest of us polish it off?’
‘Awfully sorry to hear your wedding’s postponed, Suzie.’
‘Seems to be the topic of the day, doesn’t it?’
‘Why – I’d have thought it was quite natural—’
‘Well, look – the Germans invaded Russia yesterday, didn’t they. You’d think that’d be of slightly greater interest. Or – closer to home – the fact they’re still bombing all the ports. Which of them got it again last night – Portsmouth, was it?’
‘You’re even closer to home, Suzie. We’re all quite fond of you – in case you didn’t know.
‘Fond enough to do me a great favour?’
‘No. Definitely not!’ Liz Cavendish had joined them, on Suzie’s other side. Jane asked Suzie, ‘What kind of favour?’
‘Just not to go on about my bloody wedding. Or my state of health, for God’s sake. I’m perfectly all right, and the wedding’s only off until Chris gets back from sea. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to think about it, so—’
‘Point taken. Reluctantly.’ Jane put her arm round Suzie’s shoulders and squeezed her: everyone seemed to be doing it, today. Diana, for instance…
It was like remembering being struck by lightning. About as near to it as you could ge
t. That phrase one read in stories – ‘her heart stopped’ – her own heart had, she thought: had missed a few beats, at least. For Tracker, read Trumpeter…
None of these worried fellow-pilots knew anything about that, thank God.
She’d see them in the cafeteria hut, she’d said – after she’d checked in at the office.
‘Suzie…’
Jane Ascoli had slowed – with that arm still round her, so she had to follow suit, while the rest of them carried on. ‘Suzie, listen. Please, just for a moment?’
‘Well—’
‘I can understand that you want to keep going, stiff upper lip, all that, and I admire you for it – in a way. But you’re not in a state to be flying, Suzie. God almighty, your hands are shaking like some old hag’s!’
‘Not on the control column, they’re not.’
‘I hate to drag this up, Suzie, but – remember Amy Mollison?’
‘Of course I remember her! Drag what up – what’s Amy got to do with anything?’
Amy Mollison had killed herself a few months earlier – in January. She’d been a long way off her course and over cloud: there were some peculiar circumstances, but the accepted conclusion was that she’d been lost, circling in the hope of finding a break in the clouds, and her Oxford had run out of gas and crashed. Into the Thames estuary.
Jane Ascoli told her, ‘She had a lot on her mind, Suzie. Personal problems.’
‘I see what you’re driving at. I’d heard that, anyway, Diana Chalk told me. I’d forgotten. It’s only speculation, isn’t it.’
‘Well – either way—’
‘Nothing like that’s going to happen to me, Jane.’
‘Amy was the most experienced pilot we had, wasn’t she? I don’t expect she thought it could happen to her, either. Suzie, you could easily make sure it doesn’t—’
‘Report sick, you mean.’ She shook her head, decisively. ‘I’m not sick. And there’s no similarity between me and my – my temporary upset—’
‘There’s a shake in your voice, at times—’
‘– and Amy and whatever problems she may or may not have had… Jane—’ she pointed at the door marked OPERATIONS – ‘I’ll get this done, then I’ll see you in the cafeteria – OK?’
‘OK. I think you’re wrong, but – I’ll get you a coffee.’
‘In a mug, please, not a cup?’
She knocked on the door, and went in.
‘Oh—’
‘Susan Cameron-Green, is it?’
She admitted it. She hadn’t seen this one before. Dumpy, greying, with an engaging smile. ‘I’m Sally Jordan – adjutant, standing in for Marge Verity – whom you’ve met three times today – or is it four? How d’you do…’
They shook hands. Suzie had papers to hand in, delivery receipts for the last lot they’d flown up to Cosford. ‘Only this one batch to go now, isn’t it?’
‘That’s correct. And only five aircraft – but there are six of you, aren’t there?’
‘Well.’ Suzie shrugged. ‘One of us can twiddle her thumbs in the Anson. I’ll sort that out.’
‘But there’s another thing. I’ve been on to your pool about it, incidentally. There’s a Hurricane here for Silloth – and with our local chaps all away, and you with a pilot to spare – would you help out?’
She checked the time. Silloth, on the Solway Firth, was an RAF repair and storage unit. She’d made deliveries there, also landed en route from A to B, several times. She nodded. ‘Hurries take ninety gallons, don’t they. So – one hop – should make it before dark, easily. Weather permitting?’
‘The forecast’s good. You’ll do it yourself, will you?’
‘Don’t see why not. Will you tell Hatfield?’
‘They know.’ Sally Jordan had a nice smile. ‘That’s to say they guessed you’d take it on. But yes, I’ll confirm it to them, and I’ll tell Silloth to expect you.’
* * *
At the end of the working day Chalk rang the ATA at Hatfield and asked for Suzie, but the duty Operations Officer told him she was on her way to some place called Silloth, should have got there by now but hadn’t rung in yet. She’d be stuck out for the night, obviously – probably in Carlisle, but until she heard from her she couldn’t say for sure. If he’d call again in about an hour, say? With any luck she’d be able to tell him then.
He went up and bathed and changed, and listened to the news, read by Alvar Liddell. The Luftwaffe had hit both Plymouth and Portsmouth last night, the Finns had invaded Karelia, and the butter ration was to be reduced.
Patricia was constantly on his mind… Might ring the Cameron-Greens, he thought: despite their reported disapproval of his friendship with Patricia. (Whatever suspicions they might have, that was all they could know it was.) In fact he wasn’t supposed to know he was in their bad books, that Suzie had told him he was; so, with the postponement of the wedding and their future son-in-law being one of his own officers, it might seem a bit odd if he didn’t get in touch. And Patricia might, conceivably, have told them before she left how long she thought she might be away. If one knew that she’d expected to be away this long, it would help a lot.
Downstairs, he called the Hatfield number again, and the same girl told him that Suzie had arrived at Silloth, where the RAF were giving her a meal and then laying on a car to take her into Carlisle. She gave him the number of the hotel where he could get her later on. Try at about ten, she suggested: Carlisle was quite a few miles from Silloth.
He got back to the exchange, and asked for the Glendarragh number. He was holding on, waiting for the connection, when Tim Hart brought him a gin and water: ‘By way of apology for my indiscretion this morning, Rufus.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘Better drink it while we’ve got it. Bastards hit the distillery last night. They say Plymouth gin was running through the gutters, matelots flat on their bellies lapping it up.’
‘I don’t believe it… Hello? MacKenzie? Is Sir Innes there? Rufus Chalk…’
They didn’t talk for long, and Sir Innes wasn’t able to tell him anything about Patricia’s comings or goings.
‘We’ve never heard from her as often as we’d like to. Any particular reason for – anxiety, at this stage?’
‘Only that she’s been gone what seems like an awfully long time. And the nature of her work – one does worry. I’m sure you must too. I expect you know that she and I see quite a lot of each other – whenever we can, that is, with our respective jobs. I’m very fond of her…’
‘And how is Diana?’
‘She sounds very well. Unfortunately, we rarely manage to see each other.’
‘In my view that’s a great pity.’
‘Yes. It is. But it’s – a fact… Any news from Alastair?’
‘He writes occasionally. Those one-page forms they photograph or something… More frequently to Midge, I may say. Well – natural enough. And she keeps in touch, you know… When d’you think you’ll have young Chris back?’
‘Impossible to say, sir. But when I have any news I’ll telephone again.’
It was getting noisy in the bar. There was a party getting under way: Sabre had got in that afternoon from a successful patrol in the approaches to the Jade – Wilhelmshaven – and her officers were celebrating. Having no doubt promised themselves early nights – as one invariably did. He went through, bought a round of drinks, heard the story about the Plymouth gin distillery again: it was a major blow against the war effort, everyone agreed.
Not that it was anything to joke about, in the wider sense. In the last couple of months all the ports had been heavily attacked, with very large numbers of civilian casualties. The Clyde, Mersey and Hull, as well as the southern ports, and London. In the Mersey area, he’d heard, something like a hundred thousand civilians had been left homeless.
After supper, he tried to ring Suzie at the Carlisle hotel, but its number was engaged, and when he tried again ten minutes later, he got through but was told Miss Camer
on- Green had not yet arrived.
He was worried about her: had tried to convince himself he wasn’t, that she surely would not know of Tracker’s origins: but it was quite possible that she did. The fact she hadn’t ever mentioned it proved nothing: she wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it.
He was caught up in the festivities then, couldn’t get out of a game of vingt-et-un until about eleven. It hadn’t worried him too much: rather than call every ten minutes, he’d thought he might just as well give her time to get there.
Actually, he realized now, it was a bit late. Hearing eleven strike, leaning against the wall beside the telephone, waiting for the connection to be made. Finally he was through to the hotel, asked for Miss Cameron-Green, and again had to wait. Lighting a fresh cigarette, one-handed. He was smoking too much these days, and knew it.
‘Hello?’
‘Suzie – Rufus…’
‘Rufus! Oh God – you’ve had news—’
‘No. I haven’t – couldn’t hope for it this soon. Are you all right, Suzie?’
‘Did you hear I wasn’t?’
‘No – just that with Chris away—’
‘It’s damn late, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry. Worried for you, that’s all. Did I wake you?’
‘Not exactly, but I was half undressed and I’m downstairs now. You shouldn’t worry about me. I’ve been telling people all day I’m perfectly all right – had a very busy day, as it happens?’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘It’s all right. I’ll survive.’ She laughed, added, ‘Although I did have a bit of a narrow squeak today.’
‘What kind of narrow squeak?’
‘Problem with an undercarriage. Mechanical fault, not mine.’
‘Well, take care – please. Chris’ll want to find you intact, Suzie.’
‘Which, thanks to you—’
‘Enough of that… You tried to get me this morning, I heard.’
‘Yes. I had to know which one Chris has gone in. Simply to know it. I write to him, when he’s away, and—’
‘Write the same as always – Tumult, care of GPO.’
Not Thinking of Death Page 37