Surface With Daring

by Douglas Reeman

  As Tom Latham, Niven’s predecessor, had said hoarsely, ‘God must be saving us for something really nasty!’

  Seaton reached up for the hatch, the memory becoming less sharp as he turned away from it.

  He thought momentarily about his leave. Although Scottish by birth, he had lived for much of his life in England, and before the war had been understudy and assistant to the manager of a large Hampshire estate. It was strange when you thought about it. While Latham had sold cars, and Drake had explored the depths, and both Niven and Jenkyn had followed the ways of the Navy, he had helped to watch over land and animals, tree planting and caring for the houses of the estate tenants.

  It had given him time to be on his own whenever he had wanted it. When he had enlisted with the nearest unit of the R.N.V.R., the officer in charge had snorted, ‘I’d have thought you’d be more use in the damned cavalry!’

  Then the war had come and everything had changed. Seaton had been appointed to a ship, and months later when he had gone to the old estate he had known that nothing could ever be the same again.

  The man who had owned the estate, as generations of his family had done before him, had been getting on in years, and just as Seaton was being trained to take over from an elderly manager, so too the owner had been putting all his hopes in his son. The son had died at Dunkirk, and the old man had sold up and gone away.

  The fields and little houses were still there, but tanks, not horses and tractors, churned up the earth, and instead of the local cricket match outside the pub, the only activity was the stamp of feet and the bark of commands. A new army in the making.

  Seaton’s parents had got divorced while he was still a boy at boarding-school. His mother had gone out of his life completely after re-marrying, and his father had gone through a succession of young girls, and had alleged he was ‘just beginning to live’.

  And he was still trying. But he drank too much, and had got a lot older. On this last leave Seaton had felt really sorry for him. He had been in a pub buying a drink when he had heard a man say to his friend, ‘Look at the stupid old sod. Thinks he’s a real dog. Can’t he see that bloody girl’s laughing at him?’ It had been Seaton’s father. Red in the face, tweedy suit, and buying drinks for everyone in reach. The unknown man had been right. The girl who had been knocking back the gins had been laughing, not with him, but at him.

  Perhaps it was why the marriage had broken up. In those few moments Seaton had felt that he had known his parents for the first time in his life.

  He slammed the hatch and looked along the curved hull with something like affection.

  It was risky work, but a man could die crossing the road in the blackout.

  He thought of Drake, and looked at his watch. Almost time for the meeting. He had better catch a boat ashore. But the gently-pitching submarine held him a moment longer. At least you were your own master, he thought. Well, almost.

  The people you worked with became real and open. Unlike some of the synthetic gentry you met in the wardrooms of bigger ships. There was no use for sham in one of these little chaps. He swung on his heel and headed towards the depot ship’s ladder.

  Captain Clifford Trenoweth, D.S.O., Royal Navy, sat back in his leather chair, his fingers interlaced comfortably across his stomach.

  He was very broad and heavy, with ginger hair, although very little of it, and a pair of bright twinkling eyes. He was a happy man, and often found it hard to be magistrate, executioner and general presence to H.M.S. Syren, of which he was the captain.

  In the Great War he had been a submariner of some distinction, at a time when underwater craft were quite prone to dive and stay dived. Between the wars he had climbed slowly up the ladder of promotion, and then with the rank of commander only just announced he lost a leg while trying to rescue a merchant seaman who had been trapped in a blazing freighter.

  Trenoweth had been a passenger in the ship which had gone speeding to answer the S.O.S. He had joined in the rescue without hesitation, and the master of the vessel in which he had been travelling had been more than grateful for his aid.

  Then there had been an explosion in the burning ship’s engineroom and the injured man had been killed. Trenoweth had been trapped, his leg caught between two jagged plates like a bear trap.

  There had been no time. It had been a race between the rising water and the flames.

  The merchant ship’s master had sent his doctor across, and Trenoweth’s left leg had gone down with the wreck.

  H.M.S. Syren, formerly The Lodge Hotel, had needed a man like Trenoweth. Someone who could train and inspire the stream of volunteers who came to learn about midget submarines, how to endure and, if necessary, how to die with a minimum of fuss.

  If anything, the bluff captain’s jerky walk added to the old sea-dog image and helped to break down the barriers of rank and profession, of class and status.

  And to the captain himself, what had first sounded like ‘better than nothing’ after being invalided out of the Navy, now seemed an immeasurable reward.

  The base, the depot ship and her tenders, the two training submaries from his own, earlier war, and the X-craft themselves gave him a pride he would have found hard to credit a few years back.

  He looked around his dark panelled office with its glass cases of large fish, caught and mounted many summers ago. As if the previous occupiers of the building had left them just to prove their true ownership and to mark their rightful claim once the war was over.

  Outside he heard a man’s voice and then a woman’s quiet laughter. The former was Edgecombe, his operations officer, and the girl with the laugh was Second Officer Helen Dennison, a delicious creature who acted as secretary, communications officer and Trenoweth’s secret weapon against interfering spies from the Admiralty and Whitehall in general.

  There was one here now. Captain Venables. He was the cause of all the flap, the signals and the eventual recall. As if it couldn’t have waited. Any man on the base, even the old ‘stripey’ who kept the boilers going to heat this building, had more than earned a nice long leave.

  He frowned. Venables was so different from himself. More like a bishop than a sailor, with the same booming and insincere tones you heard on traditional state occasions. But he was important. His retinue, and his communications priority, proved that.

  The voices beyond the door fell silent, and seconds later it opened. Captain Walter Venables was tall and lean, with polished dark hair and deceptively mild eyes.

  He nodded. ‘Good morning.’ He sat. ‘May I?’

  Trenoweth struggled to hold the smile on his face. ‘Of course. Right on time, I see.’ With a man like Venables the remark sounded superfluous.

  ‘Quite.’ Venables folded his arms carefully, as he did everything else, and studied him. ‘There is to be an operation. Absolutely top secret.’

  ‘Is it all right for me to know?’ Trenoweth sighed. It was useless trying to joke with this one. It only made him feel foolish into the bargain. He added, ‘It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, of course, up here one would tend to get a little out of touch with the mainstream, so to speak. In London, however …’ That last word spoke volumes.

  Mercifully, there was a tap at the door and Second Officer Dennison peered in at them.

  ‘The three commanding officers are here, sir.’

  She was not pretty, but had a pleasant, lively face. Captain Trenoweth was very fond of her, and hated being so much older, and having only one sound leg.

  Unknown to him, she did not care about the difference in their ages. She thought she might not mind about the leg either.

  ‘Send them in, please.’

  The door closed and Venables remarked, Seems a nice enough girl.’

  ‘She is.’ It came out more firmly than intended, but Venables was getting under his skin.

  ‘I will only need the one boat, of course.’ Venables was on another tack. ‘But we must be ready for last minute setbacks.’

>   Trenoweth thought of the letters he had had to write to parents and widows. Setbacks.

  The door opened again and three lieutenants entered and stood hesitantly across the carpet like actors waiting for a prompt.

  Seaton was on the left. Next to him, Lieutenant Rupert Vanneck, D.S.C., R.N.R., a merchant navy officer before the war, and now the successful survivor of several missions, both in X-craft and prior to that in the two-man crew of a ‘chariot’, a human torpedo. He was darkly aggressive, with a heavy jaw, and a way of standing with his head thrust forward as if seeking an argument.

  Against him and Seaton, Lieutenant Gervaise Allenby was completely at odds. A very elegant, well-groomed regular officer of twenty-four, he possessed a face which was totally lacking in expression, like a smooth, slightly contemptuous mask.

  Venables looked at them gravely. From Seaton’s crumpled battledress and scuffed boots, across Vanneck’s barely concealed irritation, and finally to Allenby’s protective shell of well-being.

  He said, ‘I was sorry to have you recalled, gentlemen. We all were. But ...’

  He turned, frowning slightly, as Trenoweth said, ‘Sit down, please, chaps.’

  They sat. Seaton found a place by the bookcases where the captain kept all his official reading. From there he could watch the rest of them, and wondered how this Captain Venables would see them. He felt something touch his foot, and when he glanced down saw it was Trenoweth’s old labrador. Originally brown, he was getting very grey and faded, and spent much of his time in front of a fire, stretched out as he was now. His name was Duffy, and he was something of a mascot around the base. Even as their eyes met, Duffy’s closed again and he gave an ecstatic yawn.

  Venables coughed. ‘Now, gentlemen.’ But he kept his gaze on Seaton. ‘I am sure you all thought that much of your role had been made redundant at this stage of the war by recent events and successes. But roles, like war itself, adapt to fit a changing pattern. You have been trained to use your undoubted skills in a certain way. Those skills will be vital in your future operations. Some of your people will have to adjust, of course.’

  He looked swiftly at Trenoweth who was leaning forward as if to voice a protest, and continued coolly, ‘My department has been in full consultation with the Chiefs of Staff and Flag Officer, Submarines.’

  Seaton glanced from one captain to the other. Venables was a swift mover. He had displayed his power, and the support he could muster, if need be.

  Venables was saying, ‘In the past we have been feeling our way. In future your missions will be even more personal, individual. One boat, one job, with no risk of being accidentally betrayed. Obviously I cannot discuss this new mission, but I want you to keep it in mind while you are preparing yourselves. The target will be in Norway.’

  Seaton heard Vanneck gasp, and knew what he was thinking. With the attack on Tirpitz only three months old, Norway would be a hornets’ nest.

  Captain Trenoweth asked quietly, ‘Asking for trouble, surely?’

  Seaton tried to relax his muscles. Good old Trenoweth. Moving in to protect his charges like a roused bear.

  ‘So much the better.’ Venables smiled wryly. ‘In this case. You are all seeing the operation like those gone before. It’s plain on your faces.’

  It sounded like a well planned speech. A sales talk.

  ‘The problems of the long tow to the proposed attack area. Crew transfer. Getting through the defences undetected. All these hazards before you can even begin. No wonder the strain has been too much for some.’ He looked at each lieutenant in turn. ‘But suppose, gentlemen, just for a hypothetical exercise, suppose you were in position before the target?’ He nodded very slowly. ‘I can see it makes a difference in your minds.’

  Vanneck said bluntly, ‘There’s still a question of fuel consumption, sir.’

  ‘True,’ Venables was enjoying himself. As much as he could. ‘But again, imagine there was fuel available for you inside the target area?’

  Vanneck shrugged. ‘I’d say the Jerries had gone bloody mad, sir.’

  Trenoweth said quickly, ‘Less of that, if you please!’

  Venables turned to Allenby. ‘What do you think? From all your experience ...’

  He faltered as the elegent lieutenant drawled, ‘Actually, sir, I am the very least experienced of we three.’ He gave a gentle smile. ‘Lieutenant Seaton will be a better guide, I’d say.’

  Trenoweth felt his heart pounding warmly. Venables had played the dirtiest stroke so far. Setting up Allenby against the others because he was a regular officer and they were not. He did not know anything about Gervaise Allenby if he thought that would work.

  Seaton said, ‘I can’t see how it could be arranged, sir. But if it was, it would make the mission a one-way affair, and halve the risk.’

  He glanced at Allenby and saw one eyelid blink. Allenby didn’t give a damn for anybody. He came of an old naval family, but he really didn’t care. It was no act with him. Spicer, his first lieutenant, said he was raving mad, but would go with nobody else.

  ‘Exactly.’ Venables took out a silver case and examined a cigarette very intently before lighting it. He did not offer one to anybody. ‘As I said earlier, we must adapt. The Department of Special Operations at the Admiralty has of course been interested in your work from the beginning.’

  Seaton releaxed slightly. He was getting Venables’ measure. The way he used the words ‘of course’ whenever he needed to show that all possible arguments were quenched before they were put. Special Operations had always helped. He was right there. They, whoever they were, had often provided intelligence reports and advice which could only have come from agents and men of the Resistance in any of the occupied countries. Ship movements, local patrols and strongpoints, navigational aids or the lack of them. It took iron nerve to discover such things, more still to pass the information to London on one of those tiny radio sets.

  If they were caught the Gestapo would ensure that they lived as long as possible under the most hideous torture, whether they divulged any secrets or not.

  Seaton had often found himself wondering what might have happened if the Germans conquered Britain. If they succeeded in the future. There would be the same mixture of traitors and heroes as in Norway or France, he thought.

  Trenoweth asked, ‘I still don’t see where the difference lies?’

  The other captain looked at him calmly. ‘Distance mostly. Before, it has been a matter of laying charges or attaching mines to some valuable target and then getting away without giving the enemy a chance of detection and so taking avoiding action. Now,’ the word hung in the unmoving air, ‘our people will have guidance from here and from whatever territory they are using. Military and Naval Intelligence, as well as the more unconventional units, have built up an excellent chain of agents in every important area under German control. When the next mission is put into operation, and it will be weeks, not months, I am afraid, those involved may meet some of the people who have risked their lives to help our cause and their own.’

  Seaton did not look at his companions. Another twist of the screw. He had imagined at first that Venables’ visit was to boost morale and try to sweep away the anticlimax. At the other X-craft base and depot ship further along the loch, he had heard much the same feeling existed. Venables had changed all that. Seaton was not sure if he was excited or alarmed by the news.

  Venables continued in his dry tones, ‘There will be risks, of course. But it will be of great value, and with any sort of luck should tie down even larger units of enemy troops when they are needed elsewhere. Next year, for instance, I shouldn’t wonder if our soldiers are treading French soil once again. We have made a good beginning. It is up to all of us,’ he looked at each of them again, ‘and especially to officers like yourselves, to pave the way.’

  Trenoweth cleared his throat, and Duffy awoke by the fire, startled.

  He said, ‘That will be all, gentlemen. Tell your people the bones of the job, and be ready to meet
Captain Venables’ er, assistants after lunch.’

  They filed out of the room, and Vanneck said fiercely, ‘We don’t know anything else to tell them, do we, for Christ’s sake?’

  Allenby picked up his cap and smiled at Second Officer Dennison. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t exactly say that, old son. In this sort of work there are two main categories, either it’s rewarding or a challenge. The first means there’s no extra money in it, the second implies likelihood of a premature death.’

  Vanneck grinned. ‘You cheerful bastard!’

  Along the passageway and left into a wide, low room with a good floor. Snooker and billiards had been the pastimes here, but now it was hung with charts and maps, and littered with cheap folding chairs. Syren’s operations room.

  The rest were already gathered. The crews of the three boats, two staff officers and three lieutenants who would act as passage crew stand-ins whenever required.

  They separated into their own little groups, and Seaton explained to Drake and the others what might be expected of them. That now, as from the beginning, any man could drop out. But later would be too late.

  Each member of the three crews was then given the usual medical examination by the base M.O. He was such a vague character that Seaton suspected he would have missed even a case of mumps.

  Then across to the Cephalus by launch, and a quick rundown on the boats with the base engineer officer. Next, lunch.

  At the back of the grey stone building was a broad paved yard. Originally for horses and vehicles, the outbuildings which surrounded it were now used mainly for garages and naval stores. Promptly at 1400 the three crews of nine officers and three petty officers assembled in the yard, getting as much cover from the biting wind as they could. Lieutenant Commander Edgecombe, the operations officer, consulted a list, and Captain Trenoweth tried not to look anxious or protective as he watched from the opposite side.

  Venables was not to be seen, but right on cue a straight-backed marine major, still impeccable despite his loose leather jacket and rubber gumboots, marched into the yard and saluted Trenoweth.