Surface!

by Surface! (retail) (epub)

  “Snake? Ah, that’s it! Snake! Boy – three more from the old snake. Then I’ll tell ‘y all about it. I’m up from C’lombo. Terrible.”

  “I’ve heard it’s rather nice.”

  “Nice? Boy, it’s all loose women! Looser ‘n you’ve ever set eyes on. I tell y’, I’m here for a rest. Couldn’t stand it! At me all day, they were. Terrible. A man like me doesn’t stand a chance. Not a chance!” He was excited, the veins swelling blue on his white temples: he swept out his arm in a violent gesture that threw his glass off the counter: the crash coincided with the opening of the club-house door. An ambulance man beckoned to the Pioneer.

  “Come along now, sir.” The voice was quiet, assured in its power of command. “Come along, sir.”

  “He wants to take me away!” The thin figure detached itself from the bar, stood hesitant, rather bent, eyes darting to and from the man in the doorway. His whole body shook, not only his hands.

  “Wants to take me away!” he repeated, more loudly, staring crazily at Chief. His face began to crumple like a child’s before the tears, and while the ambulance man stood there watching and the barman slowly wiped the counter the Pioneer’s feet edged forward towards the door that stood open to receive him. The barman picked up a glass that was already clean, frowned at it while he twirled it in the towel.

  Chief pushed away his unfinished drink.

  “Jesus Christ!” he muttered. “There are worse things than war…”

  * * *

  Number One and the Sub faced each other across the wardroom table. They sat with their feet up on the lockers, for the battery boards that formed the deck had been removed to allow the electricians to top up the cells of the battery with distilled water.

  The Sub said, “There’s a dance tonight, at the Club. Wish to God there were some more women in this blasted place.”

  Number One smiled. “I’m going to ring up Mary-Ann.” He was still smiling to himself as he climbed across the framework of the deck and went into the Control Room. Smiley Martin had been a fly in the ointment for many months. Kneeling down, he cracked a joke with the Leading Electrician as he examined the top of a cell: he was looking forward to tonight.

  Sub thought for a moment, undecided. He reached for a cigarette and was about to strike a match when he remembered that the battery was open: no smoking. The unlit cigarette in his month, he went for’ard, up the ladder and over the plank, up the long gangway into the Depot Ship. In the wardroom entrance he lit his cigarette, then picked up the phone and asked to be connected with the Wrennery.

  “Mary-Ann? This is John Ferris. Sub of Seahound. Yes, I met you once at a party, with Smiley… Look, is anyone taking you to the dance tonight? … That’s marvellous! … Can I pick you up at the Wrennery? … About seven? … Fine. See you then.” He rang off, went back to work.

  In the submarine, Number One looked at him and asked, “What are you looking so pleased with yourself about?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just my usual cheerful self.” He thought for the first time: This is going to be a little awkward by and by. It was a dirty trick, but he consoled himself with the idea that love and war justified any extraordinary behaviour.

  “Isn’t it about time to knock off?”

  Number One looked at him. “No, not for another half-hour. If you’ve nothing to do I can give you plenty.”

  “Oh, I’ve lots to do, thanks. I’m thirsty, that’s all.”

  “Are you ever not thirsty?” Sub ignored the question, went for’ard to talk to Rawlinson.

  At lunchtime he was drinking quietly in the bar with Tiny, when he heard his name almost shouted from a distance of about a couple of feet. It was his First Lieutenant, scarlet in the face.

  “Come with me.” He followed Number One out of the wardroom.

  “Sub, you’re required on board as Duty Officer tonight and every night for a week. I think you’ve been getting rather above yourself.”

  “Damn it, Number One! You can’t do that! … I’ve got a date tonight, in any case.”

  “No, you haven’t. I’ve explained that you’d forgotten you were Duty. She quite understood. I’ll be looking after her. You’re Duty for a week, and if there’s any argument you can see the Commander, now. All right?”

  “All right.” You couldn’t always be clever, he thought. He moved back into the bar, and Tiny gave him a gin.

  “Trouble?” asked Tiny.

  “Oh, no. Cheers.” Seven days on board, in this heat. It was largely the fault of the heat, anyway. And there was Sheila, or rather the lack of her.

  * * *

  Next day, at about six-thirty, Number One and Tiny were drinking the inevitable pink gin in the bar of the Depot Ship, when Sub strolled in. He had been loading torpedoes into Seahound’s tubes all afternoon, which had been a hot and tiring way of spending an afternoon when it was too hot even to light a cigarette without regretting the extra heat of the match.

  “Hello, John,” called Tiny. “What’ll it be?”

  “Pinkers, please.”

  Jimmy asked him, “Don’t you ever do any drinking in the accommodation ship?”

  “Oh, yes. When I’m not Duty.”

  “Run two wine bills, I suppose?”

  “Sh!” Sub had seen the Commander of the flotilla enter the bar. The Commander had an Army major with him, and they ordered drinks at the other end of the long bar. It wasn’t often that guests were seen in this ship, and Army men were like men from Mars. It was almost a surprise to see that they drank like other people. The Commander looked round, and his eye rested for a long moment on the junior officers. Number One had a nasty feeling that he was about to be informed of something wrong in the appearance of his submarine: the Ensign not flying free, perhaps, some gear left on the casing.

  “You Seahound people. Come here.”

  Number One and the Sub dutifully left Tiny and approached the two at the other end.

  “Evening, sir,” said Number One.

  “Evening. Want you to meet these young fellows, Major. Lieutenant Wentworth, Sublieutenant Ferris, of the Seahound. Major Worth.” The Major was a hard-looking soldier with a bayonet scar on his cheek.

  They shook hands, and the Commander ordered fresh drinks. He said to the Major, “I’m afraid Lieutenant Commander Hallet won’t be back off leave for another week or so. But you’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

  Later, Sub said to Number One, “Looks like we’re taking the Army to sea, this time.”

  “A very clever deduction. God damn it: I hate these Special Operations.”

  “Why? Makes a change.”

  “A hell of a change. Overcrowded in the wardroom, then an operation that’s likely to be bloody dangerous and not even a sinking to show for it. I wonder if the Old Man knows about this?”

  “Come to think of it, I reckon he does. He said something about not taking any reload torpedoes, this patrol.”

  “Not any?”

  “No, just the six in the tubes. That means canoes, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Several canoes. And that means it’s not only the Major, but all his pals as well. Christ, why does it have to be us?”

  * * *

  The Captain and Chief were having a party in the small lounge of their hotel. There were the two of them, and two girls: one was a Wren officer, the other an American. They were drinking, and dancing to a radiogram that had seen better days. The Captain had taken first claim on the American girl, and the Chief had the Wren.

  Late in the evening, as they put the corks back in the bottles, the Captain made a suggestion.

  “Let’s climb the mountain tomorrow, shall we?”

  Chief groaned. “It’s a hell of a long way up,” he said.

  “Sure!” The Captain’s girl-friend approved. “Let’s go up that Ragalla, or whatever they call it. O.K., Jean?”

  “Why, yes. It’ll do us all good,” agreed the Wren, looking at Chief. He winced.

  Next morning after breakfast they wer
e given a lift in an Army car up to where the slopes steepened towards the wooded mountain, and from that point the climb began. It was not really a climb, but more of a steep uphill walk.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, the American girl stumbled: the Captain grabbed her, held her up.

  “Wow!” she shrieked. “That was my ankle! Guess I’ll have to take your arm from here on, Arthur boy.”

  Chief and Jean kept well ahead after that. The Captain said, “Those two seem to be hitting it off pretty well.”

  Sal laughed. “Jean’s in love with the Navy,” she said. “I guess if she married one of you fellers she’d hang the guy over the back of a chair and hop into bed with the uniform.”

  She was leaning her weight on him, and she leant with her body half-turned to his. She knew all about her figure, and she liked to see the effect it had on him. She herself was not unmoved.

  Chief and Jean were a good thirty yards ahead.

  “Honey,” murmured Sal, “I guess we don’t have to get to the top of this darned hill, do we? How about we wait here and let them go ahead?”

  The Captain shouted to Chief, “You two go on. Sal’s ankle’s bad. We’ll see you on your way down.”

  Stumbling through a short stretch of forest they came to an open space, the forest behind them and a drop of a thousand feet in front.

  Sal laid her long body down: the Captain stood for a moment, looking down into the valley.

  “Honey,” she said, “I need some comfort for my ankle.”

  * * *

  His week of penance over, Sub joined the others in the afternoon boat ashore: they took the Major to Sweat Bay, and taught him their own game of “submarines”. For this game it was essential to have Tiny in the party, since his size made him an ideal “convoy”. The others split up into two teams, one of which formed the escort for the convoy and the other a wolf-pack of submarines. The convoy had to proceed from one fixed point to another, and was allowed to zigzag or to make emergency turns, which it signalled in the correct manner to its escorts. The submarines submerged ahead or around the convoy and endeavoured to surface underneath it after avoiding the screen of escorts. To claim a sinking it was necessary to strike the target in its belly: a submarine was sunk when an escort managed to tread on it.

  The Major proved to be an excellent submarine, having a remarkable endurance under water and a very accurate aim at close quarters. After three or four attacks the convoy begged to be excused, on the grounds that it was waterlogged.

  * * *

  “I’m afraid we’re going to crowd you out rather, in your little wardroom,” remarked the Major.

  “Won’t be too bad there,” the Captain told him. “Two of your officers on hammock mattresses on the deck, under the table, and one in the Control Room. You’ll have a bunk, of course, and my officers will have to work ‘hot bunks’. Every bunk full all the time, you see, but one man always on watch. When he comes off watch he turns in to the bunk his relief came out of.”

  “I see. Can’t be very pleasant when it’s hot.”

  “Oh, you get used to it. But the Petty Officers’ Mess will be a bit crowded, I’m afraid, with your four sergeants. Can’t be helped.”

  The party was to consist of the Major, three other officers and four sergeants. Four canoes were to be stowed in the racks where normally the spare torpedoes were kept. Each canoe would be manned by one officer and one sergeant. The three officers and the sergeants were due to arrive next morning, before they sailed.

  “Well,” remarked the Captain, “you can keep your job. I’ll stay in my nice safe submarine.”

  “Oh, nonsense. My job sounds a lot more dangerous than it is.”

  “It’ll be a good subject for a book, after the war.”

  “When the war’s over, people won’t want to read about it. Not for a few years, anyway. As a matter of fact, I have tried writing a few things, but the only really good things that I’ve produced have been after a lot of whisky. That’s all right, but it gets better and better until I can’t read what I’ve written. I wouldn’t be surprised if the world had lost a number of literary masterpieces that way.”

  They were sailing next day. In the flotilla, people pretended not to notice the soldiers, their equipment, weapons and canoes. It was all very hushed, and nobody knew anything about it. The monkeys were interested, though: from the bow of the Depot Ship a long cable ran to a palm tree on the shore, and in the cool of the evenings the monkeys used to sit on it, swing by their feet and dip their hands in the water. When they saw the canoes being lowered one by one into the submarine’s for’ard hatch, they danced and gibbered more than ever.

  Chapter 6

  Able Seaman Rogers divested himself of his shorts, and stared with considerable disfavour at the canoes which lined the bulkheads of the for’ard Mess. It was not that they took up any more room than the torpedoes which normally occupied the racks, but the mere fact that this was something different and slightly foreign to the normally accepted routine of submarining.

  “And where the flippin’ ’ell are we taking these flippin’ punts to?” he asked his messmates. Seeing them there was like being handed a cup of coffee when he’d asked for a cuppo’.

  “We’ll know, soon enough,” muttered Parrot. “Don’t make much odds, do it?”

  Rogers looked sternly at him. “I like to know what I’m flippin’ well doing,” he said.

  “Well,” put in Shadwell, “what about puttin’ something over yer nasty looking be’ind, for a start?”

  There was a click and a humming noise as the broadcasting system was switched on from the Control Room. Rogers quickly pulled on a pair of dirty overalls.

  “D’you hear there? D’you hear there?” came the Captain’s voice.

  “We can ‘ear,” muttered Rogers.

  “We have on board a party of military personnel. We are going to land them, in about a week’s time, on a Jap beach. The job they have to do will take them about two days to complete. After that time we’ll pick ‘em up again.

  “Now, listen. This is the biggest thing we’ve ever done. I can’t go into details, but I can tell you that it’s absolutely vital. We can only do it properly and come home again if every man in the ship’s company does his job with one hundred per cent efficiency. One slip, and we’ve had it. I’m not doubting the ability of any of you. I’m only telling you that if you’ve ever been on your toes, you’ve got to be now.

  “We’re honoured in being given this job. Every one of us. You all know that up to now we’ve been limited as to how far down the Straits we can go. Well, the limit’s off. We’re going through the minefields. We’ll be closer to Singapore than any of His Majesty’s Ships has been since we lost the place. And what our Army friends are going to do down there is going to hurt the bloody Nips more than they’ve been hurt for a long time. That’s all.”

  The broadcast switched off, and Rogers buttoned up his trousers.

  “Thanks for the bleedin’ honour,” he said.

  Number One was standing in the Control Room, looking disgruntled, when Sub dropped off the ladder beside him.

  “Look here, Sub,” he said, pointing to the grey tin boxes of Oerlikon ammunition which Rogers had stowed in the corner by the helmsman’s seat. “We can’t have all your department’s rubbish in the Control Room, you know.”

  “Sorry, Number One. But where the hell can we stow it? The magazine’s full, we can’t put another sausage for’ard: poor buggers haven’t got room to spit as it is with all those bloody tommy-guns and things.”

  “That’s your worry. Get this stuff out of here, now.”

  “God blast all First Lieutenants,” thought the Sub. He was careful not to voice the thought. He shouted, “Rogers in the Control Room!”

  “Want me, sir?” Rogers had been standing behind him.

  “Oh. Yes, get these boxes of ammo out of here. Find some other place for them.”

  “Blimey,” muttered Rogers. He set off for’ard again,
peering into corners which were all full of something.

  Presently the Gunlayer came along. “Sir: them boxes of Oerlikon. I could put ’em down below by the magazine, but the Engineer’s gear’s all down there.”

  “Oh, it is, is it? Well, put it out, and put these boxes down there instead.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Sub joined the crowd in the Wardroom. There certainly wasn’t much room to spare. The Major introduced him: Captain Selby, Captain Bowers, Lieutenant Montgomery.

  “Any relation to the man in the black beret?”

  “None at all. I don’t even like being photographed.”

  The Chief Engine-room Artificer spoke from the gangway.

  “Engineer Officer, sir?”

  “Oh, hell. Yes, Chatterley?”

  “It appears, sir, that the Gunlayer ’as thrown our stuff out of the machinery space ‘ere. According to ’is orders, ’e says.”

  “Sub!”

  “Hello, Chiefy.”

  “You can tell him to put it all back, if you value your skin.”

  “I don’t. And I can’t. That’s my stowage space. Look at the orders.”

  “And where the hell do you expect me to put my stuff?”

  “Wherever you bloody well like, old boy.”

  “I’ll see Number One about this.”

  “Do. That’s where I started from. Ask him if you can put it in the Control Room. There’s an empty corner by the helmsman.”

  Chief lurched away to find Number One. The Chief E.R.A. followed him, shaking his head sadly.

  “Do any of you play bridge?” asked Captain Bowers, who had taken some cards out of his pack and was shuffling them quietly in the corner.

  “No,” answered the Sub. “Don’t get time. We play Liar Dice, mostly.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “You’ll soon learn.’’ Sub thrust his hand into a pigeon-hole in the correspondence locker and brought out five ivory dice. He threw them on the table.