A face parted the curtains and a seaman whispered, “Nearly time, sir. I’ve got some tea ready.” He vanished.
Allenby lowered himself to the deck and saw Quinlan and his first lieutenant, Lomond, already at the table, their faces deep in thought.
Quinlan looked at him and nodded. “Pretty calm up to now, they tell me.” He sounded edgy, not nervous. He probably wanted to get into his own boat, he would be at home then.
The speaker on the bulkhead said, “Diving stations, diving stations.” Even the man’s voice was hushed, as if he was afraid someone outside the hull might hear him.
The others picked up their bags, and Allenby made a quick check on his special satchel. He remembered seeing the submarine captain’s face when he had lowered himself down the conning tower with it.
Allenby had said, “It’s all right, sir. Nothing risky!”
He had known what the man had been thinking. A year or so back some agents had been taken aboard a submarine for landing later on the enemy coast. One of the agents had some small bombs in his pocket, the kind which would explode under pressure. When the boat had dived one of them had exploded. It had killed three men, but somehow that skipper had got his command to the surface.
It was not something they would forget in this exclusive service.
They moved out and into the control room. In the dulled orange glow the place seemed crowded. It was difficult to keep out of everyone’s way.
“Silence in the boat!” The submarine’s captain, a big bearded lieutenant commander, seemed too large for the job he did, Allenby thought, but he moved easily, a bit like Ives.
Watches and gauges were consulted. Above and around them the sea was silent. Allenby had looked at the plot and knew that the submarine had made a wide detour of the islands to ensure they would approach in deep water.
The bearded captain joined them by the chart table.
“I have to put you over now. The forehatch will be opened, so we must get a move on. With that thing open we’re very vulnerable and can’t dive.” He looked questioningly at Quinlan. “All buttoned up? Rendezvous, signals, emergency stuff?”
Quinlan said, “Should be all right.” They all looked at Allenby. Quinlan added, “Our chum here has got the worst job.”
The captain sensed the mood, the danger it could create. He said curtly, “Good luck. Let’s get the show on the road.”
He crossed to the center of his world by the shining periscope standards. His eyes passing over his team, the coxswain and second coxswain watching the hydroplanes, a stoker at the periscopes, first lieutenant checking the trim of the boat, lookouts by the ladder ready to dash to the bridge. They wore dark glasses to prepare their eyes for the night sea. They looked like blind men, Allenby thought.
Throughout the submarine’s hull men would be waiting and listening, very aware of any time spent on the surface. They were only five miles from land.
The captain waited for the hydrophone operator to make a final report. “No HE, sir.” His way was clear, as far as he could tell.
“Periscope depth, Number One.”
The captain ran his fingers through his thick hair and then stooped in readiness.
“Thirty feet, sir.”
Apart from the sound of the pumps Allenby felt little.
“Up periscope.”
The captain caught the handles and snapped them into place as he made a slow circle around the periscope.
“Down ‘scope. Stand by to surface. Tell the dinghy party to shift themselves, Number One.”
The lower hatch was opened, the captain moved to the ladder, his glasses slung about his neck, a towel wrapped round beneath his duffel coat to repel the spray. It will be cold up top, Allenby thought.
Quinlan gave the captain a mock salute and they began to make their way forward, to the dinghy.
Allenby heard the first lieutenant call, “Ready to surface, sir!” He took a quick glance through the periscope, watched by the captain from the ladder.
“All clear, sir!”
” Surface!”
The noise seemed deafening after the stealthy silence of cruising depth. The roar of compressed air bursting into the ballast tanks, the sudden vibration as the boat was released from her hydroplanes and rolled freely on an offshore swell.
Before the forehatch was opened the captain, lookouts and gun’s crew would be in position, ready to fire, ready to dive.
Although Allenby was well wrapped up in his waterproof Ursula suit he was unprepared for the icy wind which seemed to cut his face like wire. Men tumbled around him, and the rubber dinghy was in the water and being warped aft before he knew what was happening. Quinlan and his own crew went with them. They were used to it, and what seemed like sudden pandemonium was part of a practiced drill.
They were still moving ahead into the darkness so that the dinghy and its towline would not foul the screws. The submarine was just a black shadow, her waterline only visible because of the small bow wave.
`Jump!”
Allenby jumped and was hauled breathlessly into the dinghy which instantly began to fall astern from the parent submarine. Spray swept over them from the busy paddles and then Allenby saw another shadow coming towards them, the X-Craft on her own towline.
There were brief exclamations and greetings, and Allenby felt someone slap him on the shoulder as if to wish him luck. He turned to speak but the dinghy was already moving back along the towline.
Quinlan guided Allenby to an open hatch; the other three were already below, their voices unreal as they completed their first checks after taking over.
He crouched shivering by a forward bulkhead as the hatch was held open in the bitter air. The hull was even smaller than he had expected. These little submarines were only fifty-one feet long, and most of that was machinery. The control room was so small there was no way a man could stand up except under one small dome in the deckhead.
He saw the engineer, a chief ERA, sitting at the wheel, Lomond, the first lieutenant, clung to the lowered periscope, a stick compared with the other submarine’s, and the third member a young sub-lieutenant named Eastwood, who was the boat’s diver, waited with the captain for the signal to cast off the tow.
There was an oval door which led to the forends of the hull. The heads were in there, Allenby had discovered, also an extra, temporary, bunk. But in action the space, called the Wet and Dry, was used for flooding and releasing their diver for work outside the tough little hull.
“Signal! Cast off!”
The hull yawed violently as the tow was released. Their umbilical cord. Allenby could sense rather than feel the sudden roar of water as their parent boat flooded her tanks and dived once more.
Quinlan glanced at his first lieutenant. “I’ve got her, Charles. You get something hot to drink as soon as we’ve dived.”
Allenby watched. The passenger. The first lieutenant sat aft facing to starboard. He was adjusting the pump controls. The ERA was at the wheel, his eyes alert as he watched the gyro compass. The diver had removed a spare bunk from over the chart table and was busy with his pencil and dividers.
The hatch was closed and the air became a little warmer.
Quinlan raised his small periscope and grimaced.
“Dive, dive, dive. Thirty feet, 850 revolutions. Course zero-nine-zero.”
Allenby listened to the immediate inrush of water as the vents were opened and pictured the two great crescent-shaped charges which were fitted to either side. Each was of two tons of amatol. Enough to blast a battleship, as Tirpitz had found out.
The small crew completed another set of checks-course, speed, depth, pumps, everything-until Quinlan was satisfied.
Allenby pictured the other submarine already running deep and away from this tiny pencilled cross on the chart.
They were completely alone.
He tried to concentrate on that day at Joanna’s home. How he had thrown all caution to the winds. How he had wanted her, and had needed her to kno
w it.
But it became more difficult to recall each sequence of events. He opened his Ursula suit and put his hand inside to make certain he had a spare set of tools. It always made him feel like a burglar. Instead, he remembered the drive back to the river. Her head on his shoulder, the words almost torn out of her when he had kissed her. “No, a proper one!”
It seemed to steady him. He would get back from this. Somehow.
14
Cold Courage
LIEUTENANT QUINLAN ROLLED back his sweater sleeve to look
at his watch. “Time for a quick look. It must be getting light.” He moved to the chart table and waited for Allenby to join him. The boat was swaying and pitching, caught in the race of currents that converge on the Channel Islands.
Allenby watched the points of the dividers touch the chart.
Quinlan said, “This is a tough bit of coast, rocks all over the place. But thank God the Germans with their usual efficiency have built a big radio mast there.” The dividers moved slightly. “Should get a good fix on that for the last run-in. “
Allenby’s stomach felt queasy. The confined space with its clinging smells was making him retch.
“Many local patrol vessels, d’you think?”
“Not really. There’s a minefield along this stretch.” He jabbed the charge again. “See?”
“When will we reach that?”
Quinlan gave a rare smile. “We’re in it now.”
He became businesslike again. “Take her up, Charles. Periscope depth. “
The compressed air hissed like a great serpent and the deck tilted while Lomond juggled with his pump controls:
“Nine feet, sir.”
Quinlan bent down and pressed the periscope button. Allenby watched his set features and tried .to gauge what was happening. The periscope came down and Quinlan bustled to the chart table again. Over his shoulder he said, “Alter course. Steer one-one-zero.”
The ERA turned the wheel with great care. So close to the surface it was easy to lose control of pumps and hydroplanes. If they broke surface, it could be disaster.
Quinlan stared at the chart and grunted. “Another look. “
The periscope was raised and Allenby saw Quinlan turning very slowly. Then he stopped and snapped, “Plemont Point and radio mast bears Green four-five.” He took another quick look around and beckoned to Allenby. “Here. But be bloody quick.”
Allenby pressed his eye to the rubber guard and stared with sudden surprise at the land. It looked as if you could touch it. Rocky slopes and long patterns of green above. They still lacked colour in the dawn light. He saw a beach too. Spray dashed over the lens and he ducked involuntarily. It was like swimming without moving.
Quinland took over the periscope and had another careful search on both sides of the hull.
He lowered the periscope and said, “I think we’ve got it right. We’ll put down on the bottom now. We should be safe enough. The reef will hold off the worst of the current.”
Allenby said, “I saw the radio mast.”
Quinlan nodded. “Without that, well-” He did not have to spell it out.
“Take her down, Charles. Thirty feet. Then we’ll touch bottom. It seems safe according to the chart. Hard sand and-” They all looked up as something scraped slowly along the side of the hull. Like someone feeling his way. A blind man. The noise stopped right beside Allenby and he heard Quinlan mutter, “It’s caught on the starboard side-cargo.”
Then it moved on and the sound stopped altogether.
Quinlan said, “Carry on, Charles.”
Eventually they steadied at thirty feet.
Allenby cleared his throat. “Was that a mine?”
The first lieutenant grinned. “Why? Did you want to get out and defuse the thing?”
They all laughed. Quick and nervous. The sound bouncing back and forth in the damp control room which had nearly become a tomb.
They touched the seabed at exactly the estimated time.
Frazer would approve of Quinlan’s skill as a navigator, Allenby thought.
Quinlan listened as the motor was stopped. Nothing. There was not even a sense of being at any depth.
He said, “We’ll have a hot meal.” He watched the ERA as he knocked off the clips on the after bulkhead door and then vanished into the tiny engine and motor room. Then he said, “We’ll rest as much as we can. The air’s not too bad at present, but it’s sensible to save it.”
Allenby sat beside his satchel. If I am taken prisoner. He had thought about it many times. He had still not found an answer.
The young diver was whistling as he unpacked some mugs and plates.
He thought suddenly of the brigadier and his casual questions. Universities, hotels. They did not count for very much down here. Joanna would be getting up soon, he thought. In his heart he knew she had not gone back to her home to finish her leave. She would be at the Wrennery, maybe even on duty at their new HQ where Prothero would be fretting and waiting for the first reports to come in.
Allenby remembered how troubled Prothero had seemed when they had left Falmouth. He had spoken to him and the X-Craft crew in an old customs shed in the harbor. Looking back, he should have understood the reason. Prothero would never be able to get down a conning tower. He smiled to himself. There might be no reports at all. Just an Admiralty statement. God knows there were enough of those. “The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of HMS so-and-so. Next-of-kin have been informed.” It was probably just as well the weary, embattled British public never saw the substance of those cool statements.
He thought of Joanna again, and the way she had stood by his chair, and touched his hair with her fingers. It was not difficult to remember it, or the moment he had held her. She had pretended to rebuke him, but her eyes had said otherwise.
Or was it another delusion, one more dream in his lifetime of dreams?
The ERA bent over him with a mug. “One lump or two, sir?”
Allenby smiled. What a pity the public never saw men such as these.
Quinlan said, “According to my orders you will be met at twenty-two hundred exactly. It will be cutting it fine.” He glanced past Allenby, his eyes watching the instruments and the depth gauge while half his mind concentrated on his written instructions.
“I shall pick you up at the rendezvous same time tomorrow after I’ve done my job. If you miss it-” he shrugged, “I shall come again the next day. It’s all I can manage.”
Allenby nodded. It was plain enough. The little X-Craft could not move on the surface to charge her precious batteries by running the diesel engine.
He peered at the chart. One final look. He was being met by three men. No names. Better not to know, Prothero had stressed. The radar station was about two miles inland near a place called Champ Donne. They would have to get a move on to be back in time for the pick-up.
“Stand by, everyone.” Quinlan looked at his watch again. Then he said to Allenby, “You will take the inflatable dinghy ashore and hide it. They’ll know the best place. But when you return leave it where it will be found by the patrols. There’s a bag of other gear too. This has got to look like a commando job.” He moved to the periscope.
“Two-five-oh revolutions. Periscope depth.”
Allenby listened to the electric motor, the slight vibration as the boat nosed upwards towards the surface.
As the depth needle settled at nine feet, Quinlan raised his periscope once more.
A quick look around. It would be very dark by now, Allenby thought.
Quinlan looked at him. “Ready for the off?”
Allenby picked up his satchel, suddenly loath to leave. “Surface!”
The boat shuddered and lurched into some short, steep waves. The hatch banged open and dead, cold air blasted away the torpor of being submerged.
The diver hauled the dinghy onto the casing and Allenby followed with his satchel. Quinlan joined him and held firmly to the small guardrail.
; “Good luck.” His eyes moved along the black wedge of land. It was hard to think of it as being any other color. Allenby slithered into the dinghy and used the paddle to move away from the low hull.
He took a quick bearing and began to paddle strongly towards a pale line of breakers.
He soon lost sight of X-19, although he did not know if it was on the surface or had already dived. Quinlan would probably wait to the last safe moment.
The small dinghy grated on hard sand and Allenby caught his breath as some dark figures loomed up amongst the rocks. He expected a challenge or a shot. To walk into an ambush with a nightmare waiting for him.
But the first one to reach him patted his shoulder and said, “Good to have you here.”
The second one whispered hoarsely, “We cannot wait.” He had what Allenby guessed was a Breton accent and was obviously very nervous. They pulled the dinghy into a deep cutting between some rocks and Allenby heard them covering it with seaweed which they must have prepared earlier.
The first man, obviously the leader, took Allenby’s arm and guided him up a small, shelving beach. There were traces of rusting barbed wire and some concrete “teeth” near the one and only path, although it was unlikely that any Allied tank would ever want to-land here.
One man went on ahead and the little party halted every few minutes to make certain the way was clear. They crossed a narrow road, their feet suddenly loud, and the leader murmured, “An armored car comes along here every half-hour.” He chuckled. “You are not supposed to wander around here at night.”
Allenby recalled something Prothero had said. This unknown man was an engineer who worked for the Germans. He had no choice. He would certainly be able to move about freely when he wanted to.
There were three bicycles hidden in a clump of coarse bushes. Allenby felt light-headed in the bitter air. How did they know he could ride one? Joanna had not asked him either. The thought of her helped to steady his nerves, to prepare him for the work ahead.
His guide said, “We can ride most of the way, but we must watch out. You never can be sure of the Germans!” He called to the third man who was obviously remaining by the road to warn them of danger if or when they returned. “See you soon, Harry.”
The Volunteers Page 20