Rigby muttered, `Don’t fancy that job. Not with a bloody screw buzzing round my arse.’
Buck shouted, `If you stop the motors, sir, the weight of the cable will pull the mine into our stern.’
Marshall called, `Any ideas?’
Buck looked at Rigby and winked. `A few.’
Marshall waved one hand. `Tell me if you need any extra hands then.’ He turned away towards the forepart of the bridge, his unruly hair rippling in a small breeze.
Buck banged his palms together and looked at his small group of helpers, `Right lads. Four of you get ready to boom that mine clear if it comes any closer. Petty Officer Rigby will take charge on deck.’ He was already stripping off his shirt. `I’ll do the cutting.’
He took off his watch and handed it to a seaman. `Take care of it. I won it at poker.’ Cod, they had only been surfaced for ten minutes. It seemed an age since they has stumbled out into the sunlight.
He saw the men laying out the tools, the big wire-cutter, and a bowline to tie around his waist.
Rigby grimaced. `Watch out for the undertow, sir. There’s always a nasty tug under these boats.’
Buck nodded. He had sounded as if he cared. He fixed some goggles over his eyes and sat down gingerly on the edge of the casing. The metal was already warm, but felt slimy, repellent.
He eased himself outboard and down, holding his breath as the sea explored his loins. It was like ice. A shock after the sun’s warmth.
He thought suddenly of the publican’s wife in Scotland, the sheer wantonness of their passion together. It had gone on and on, neither of them willing to allow a climax of their need, each striving to break the ether’s last defence. Once, she had lain on top of him, moving deliberately to the tuneless piano in the bar below. That time, he had given in first.
Buck held his breath and ducked under the water, peering at the wire. It was coated with rust and growth, and as jagged as some relic of the trenches. His father had often gone on about the First World War, The tingling horror of night raids, armed with clubs and sharpened shovels. Hand-to-hand, waist deep in mud. Yet he often spoke of it with a kind of nostalgia, a sense of loss. Buck had been very young when his father had died. It had been that same war which had finally killed him. Gas, which had eaten away his lungs. He could still hear him coughing in the small back bedroom. Cough, cough, cough. Day and night. But when it had stopped, the silence had been all the more terrible.
Buck dragged himself into the warm air again and pushed the goggles on to his forehead.
`Never do it with these tools. Tell the Chief to rig a power cutter and be bloody quick about it .’
He looked up at the sky. He could push himself away from the hull and swim. Go on and on.
He heard Marshall questioning the man who had gone forward with his message. He was a. good bloke. Not a bit like some of the stuck-up sods he had first encountered. He remembered when he had enlisted with the peacetime R.N.V.R. Just to get away from Wandsworth with its dirt and teeming houses. The constant bicker and shrill cries of children. The noisy arguments and worse on a Saturday night when the fathers came home drunk from the pubs, spewing in passageways or knocking their wives about. And the coppers who had come from the nick at Lavender Hill, pushing and shoving, jovial but deadly. Cone on, mate, what’s all the fuss then? A few thumps and silence before the old police van dragged their haul off to the cells for the night.
The temporary Navy had been the only way for Buck to get away from all that. With his father dead, he had become the breadwinner, working at that stinking garage off Battersea High Street. The owner had been on the crook. Cutting up stolen cars for spare parts, or selling them. whole with false plates outside London. But jobs were hard to come by, and he had three sisters as well as his mother to support.
When the war had started, Buck had been a leading torpedoman, and although his part-time training had been carried out on obsolete equipment, and given by instructors, many of whom had learned their trade in his father’s war, he had had the edge on many of his fellow recruits. He had learned the hard way in that crooked garage. Not only when to look the other way, and pocket a small share for doing so, but how to take a bit of wire and produce heat or power. It had lifted him well above better educated men, as it had in peacetime.
Buck was twenty-eight, but when he had been twenty he had become his own boss, manager of the garage, which if it was still spared by the bombing, would be waiting for him. A foothold. A stepping stone.
He had a thick skin, too. Even the thinly-veiled hostility from some of the regular officers when he had been granted a temporary commission, some of which amounted to contempt, had failed to shake him. Quite the contrary, he knew that on several occasions he had been deliberately revolting, just to get his own back. To see their noses go up in the air.
It all seemed a long way back now. The Navy was overwhelmingly officered by men like himself and peacetime sailors. The old hidebound types were being forced into their shells. He grinned to himself. Or promoted, like that twit Simeon.
But a few of the other sort, men like Marshall, had made it all worthwhile. Anyway, it was different in submarines. He never grew tired of them. Sometimes he wondered if he really could face going back to any garage after this.
The seaman called, `Cutter’s being rigged, sir,’ He shaded his eyes to look at the sky. `Nobody about yet.’
Rigby snapped, `Too bloody early, I s’pect.’
Buck ignored them, thinking of the Scottish pub. His fishing rods had never left their case. Christ, what a woman she was. She had matched him. Drained him. Left him weak but still wanting more. She had cried when he had left. Funny that. He had not thought she would cry.
He heard Warwick calling something to his gun crews. He’d never had a woman in his life. It was bloody obvious. Buck’s first conquest had been, he frowned, trying to remember. Outside the school? Or on that church outing to Brighton? He shrugged and rubbed the spray off his skin, He’d have to find one for young Warwick. Bunny.
Rigby said, `Here comes the cutter, sir.’
Two seamen were dragging the electric cable aft, the powerful cutter between them like the head of some forgotten monster.
Buck nodded and leaned out to watch the screw. One slip. Just one, and it would be his lot.
Rigby said anxioulsy, `Watch out for your legs, sir.’
Buck adjusted his goggles. `It’s my family jewels I’m worried about.’
Rigby grinned despite his doubts. `If you lose them, I’ll get the Chief to run you up something in his machines shop. No woman’ll ever know the difference!’ But Buck had already ducked under the surface. He said, `Keep a tight hold on his lifeline. Check that cable, too.’
From his position on the gratings Marshall saw Buck’s head vanish below the surface, and half expected to hear the sound of the electric cutter at work. But there was nothing. The cutter was a useful piece of gear. Most U-boats carried one so that a diver could work on deck while the hull was submerged to hack through antisubmarine nets and booms across harbour entrances.
Warwick asked, `How long will it take, sir?’
He shrugged. `Half an hour. Hard to tell.’ Despite the risk, he was glad Buck had gone himself. If anyone could do it….
He swung round as Warwick said, `From control room, sir. Fast-moving H.E. at one-five-zero. Closing.’
Marshall ran to the rear of the bridge and levelled his glasses. There was some more haze now. Rising with the sun’s mounting glare, marking the darker line of the horizon.
`Keep a good lookout. Maybe it’ll go away.’
Warwick said, `Lieutenant Buck, sir. Shall I pass him the word?’
`Negative. I don’t want him to get flustered. He’s enough on his plate at the moment.’ He glanced at the mire. Hating it. Fearing what it could do.
Warwick followed his gaze and said, `But for that thing, we’d be safely on our way, sir.’
Marshall did riot answer. But for running deep to avoid those other destroyers, the
y would have hit the mine squarely instead of getting entangled with its cable.
`Tell the control room to keep us informed.’
He saw Buck emerge gasping beside the hull, sucking in air and shaking his head like a dog.
What would he do if this unknown ship found them? It was almost certain to be British or American. With the Germans out of North Africa, it seemed unlikely there would be any other vessels about. He could not dive with the mine still in tow. It would hamper their movements, and even a badly aimed depth-charge would explode it and rip off their stern like the tail of a shark. But if he stood his ground and tried to exchange signals, it was equally unlikely any destroyer captain would be inclined to postpone battle. LT-192 did not exist, and any German submarine on the surface was too good to miss. He toyed with the idea of rigging their false screen again. But that too was pointless. There would still be the risk of misunderstanding. Worse, it might foul the mine’s jagged cable which was clearly visible around the bandstand. A quick jerk, some unexpected slackening, and the mine might surge ahead and touch them, or at best pitch Buck into the whirling propeller blades.
`H.E. steady on same bearing, sir. Still closing. Range approximately twelve thousand yards.’ Warwick raised himself from the voicepipe and added quietly, `Two ships, sir. Speke thinks they may be destroyers.’
Marshall rubbed his chin, trying to picture the chart, their change of course, the nearness of the Sicilian coast. The same two destroyers? He pushed them to the back of his mind. It did not matter much whether they were the same ones or not.
A lookout said, `Lieutenant Buck’s gone under again, sir. That’s five times.’
Marshall peered up at the main periscope. It was raised to full extent and trained away across the starboard quarter. Soon now, it had to be.
‘Tell the yeoman to come to the bridge. We may have to make a signal.’
Blythe appeared in seconds, his eyes like slits against the harsh glare.
He looked at the mine and said, ‘Pity we can’t take a pot-shot at the bugger.’ He sighed. `It’s too damn close.’
Marshall looked away. Thinking of Bill Wade. What it must have been like. The sudden explosion. The inrush of water, pressing men higher and higher, until their lips were against the deckhead, sucking those last morsels of air even as the hull nose-dived for the bottom.
He heard Gerrard’s voice quite clearly from the other end of the bridge. `Control room to bridge. Ships in sight. Bearing Green one-four-five.’
A lookout yelled. `I’ve got `em, sir E’ He was crouched over his glasses, like a hunter watching the approach of his quarry.
Marshall waited, holding his breath as he allowed the gently heaving water to glide across the lenses. A dull patch of grey, almost lost in the horizon mist. But no doubt about it now.
Warwick said between his teeth, `Coming out of the sun. We’ll be sitting ducks!’
Marshall held his glasses on the same bearing. The two ships were probably in line ahead. They might even have made contact with their R.D.F., or the new radar scanner with which some of the ships were fitted.
He knew that Rigby was staring at him from right aft, It did not take a genius to know something was happening.
He said to Warwick, `Go and find out how they’re managing.’ He gripped his arm. `Easy now. Don’t start a minor revolution!’
Warwick stared at him blankly. He seemed to be searching for something in Marshall’s face. Something he could recognise and share.
Blythe snapped. `They’ve opened fire, sir!’
Marshall tensed, watching the far off haze swirling like smoke in some 18th century sea battle. Seconds later he heard the echoing crash of gunfire, and twisted round to see twin waterspouts burst skywards directly in line with the hull, but well clear. The hull gave little more than a shiver to mark their explosions.
`Cut of range, but not for long.’
He ‘lowered his glasses and wiped the lenses with his shirt. When he looked again there were two enormous white rings to show where the shells had dropped.
Bl y the said, `Two together. They’ll try for a straddle next.’
Marshall pictured the other captain as the reports started to come in. A U-boat on the surface. Hasn’t dived, therefore damaged. The chance of a lifetime. All the months of fighting off attacks. Seeing ships burn. under U-boat attack. The pitiful survivors too stricken to speak. No, lye would not hesitate now.
Marshall tighened his jaw. Any more than I would.
Two more columns shot up from the blue -water, hanging in the sunlight like glittering crystal curtains before dropping reluctantly as before. Closer. Those two had been a bare half-mile clear. The destroyers would be working up to full speed. Charging through the sea like the thoroughbreds they were. Marshall had been a sublieutenant in one. He knew what it felt like, even if it had been in peacetime.
Warwick came back, panting hard. `Nearly through. s . Just a few strands more and the bight will be easier to free from the plane.’ He winced as two more shells burst. Wider apart. Feeling forwards. Getting the range.
Blythe muttered, `To think they’re our own blokes out there!’ He cursed and waited for another pair of shells to explode. This time the hull gave a sharp jerk. `It’s not bloody fair!’
Marshall lowered his glasses. It was madness just to wait for a straddle. The mine would explode anyway. They would all die for nothing.
`We’d better try a recognition signal, Yeoman.’
He took a quick glance with the glasses again as Blythe went for his lamp. The two destroyers were visib’e row. In line ahead, the leader cutting through the surface haze like a powerful scythe through corn. He saw more flashes, heard the abbreviated whistle as her shells smashed down into the sea barely four cables away. The leading ship had edged round so that she was almost dead astern. With two guns firing in unison she could drop shells on either beam, and then, if the U-boat still tried to dive, she would be ready to start her run-in with depth-charges.
`Aircraft, sir!’ The lookout seemed to come out of a trance. `Starboard bow!’
It was moving desperately slowly, and shining so brightly in the sunlight it was impossible to identify it. Marshall heard the Vierling pivot round. It was all they needed. An air attack to finish their deception once and for all. No matter what higher authority might say you could never keep a secret like this, even if they were still alive to argue their case.
Warwick said urgently, `German, sir. Dornier 17Z. Turning towards us.’ He was thinking aloud. `God, I thought the old “Flying Pencil” was a thing of the past.’
Marshall watched it fixedly. About four miles away, he could easily recognise the planes narrow outline. It was a fair nickname, he thought. Twin-engined bombers, these Dorniers had borne the main share of the Luftwaffe’s early probes into Allied territory. But now they were too slow, their bomb loads too small for the war’s new sophistication. He ducked involuntarily as more shells exploded. One was dead abeam. He heard splinters sighing into the sea nearby. Spent, but still dangerous.
Blythe swore savagely. `Bloody lamp won’t work, sir!’
Warwick stared at him. `I forgot to mention it. The cutter’s cable is connected to that circuit. It was the only way it would reach.’
Blythe said in a flat voice, `Now, he tells me.’
Marshall watched the `Flying Pencil’ as it swept purposefully towards them. Through the twin arcs of the propellers
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he could see the black crosses on wings and fuselage, the reflected glare from its bulging perspex nose.
The pilot had weighed up the situation. A friendly submarine, a German one at that, was being pinned down on the surface by two powerful destroyers. He would do what he could.
The Vierling hovered and then steadied on the slowmoving bomber.
`Hold your fire!’ Marshall looked at the gun crews. ‘He might be able to give us time.’
Blythe said, `No chance of that, sir. With their firepower t
he destroyers will blow that kite right, out of the bloody sky!’
The Dormer roared sedately overhead, its bomb doors open, the forward machine-guns already swinging from bow to bow as if to sniff out the enemy. The pilot was starting to climb, and even as he swung slightly to port the air around the plane erupted in several blobs of dirty brown smoke. The short-range weapons would be even deadlier, Marshall thought grimly. Any destroyer which hoped to survive in the Mediterranean was well equipped. A floating gun.-platform. The bomber -was still climbing. It seemed like a great effort, as if it could hardly be bothered, despite the growing pattern of flak burst all around it.
There was a hoarse cry from aft. “VA/ire’s cut, sir!’
When he lowered his gaze Marshall saw the mine spiralling away and Buck being hauled aboard like a corpse, the cutter still in his slime-covered hands,
`Diving stations!’
Marshall winced as another shell exploded. Very near. But for the Dornier’s appearance he guessed it might have been right alongside.
Men were tumbling down the ladder, hurling tools and equipment through the hatch while others unclipped the machine-guns. Only the Vierling’s crew stood fast.
Marshall watched the bomber. It was rocking dangerously, and he imagined it had been hit by fragments. The German pilot had unwittingly sacrificed himself and his crew, but had given them time to get rid of the mine. The destroyers would still close in for a depth-charge attack. Their thirty-odd knots against the U-boat’s best underwater speed of nine would soon begin to tell. But at least they would have a chance, if only he stared as a bomb detached itself from the Dormer’s belly and plummeted into the sunlight.
Blythe said hoarsely, `Lost his nerve. Don’t blame him. He’s too far away even to frighten ‘em off!’
Marshall saw Buck being dragged into the bridge, his hands and body running blood from a dozen grazes and cuts from the rough plating.
‘Vierling crew below!’
He felt the shockwave of a shell overhead, saw it burst directly beyond the bows. The next one would be on deck,
`Clear the bridge! Dive, dive, dive!’
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