Fiona hugged herself against him. She muttered through clenched teeth, “Thank God for a bit of warmth!”
They’d had no luck finding a taxi when they’d left the nightclub. London was gripped in a freezing fog, air like ice and the colour of dirty bathwater. They’d walked all the way to Eaton Square, and the flat felt like an igloo too. She’d piled extra blankets on the bed, they’d torn their clothes off at frantic speed and leaped into it. Trembling, she pressed her mouth against his chest: his hand slid down over the hollow of her back, and cupped her bottom. He said through gritted teeth, “Hell, but that’s cold!”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
His hand was warm there, though. And getting warmer. Warmth creeping right through her from that hand. Except she still couldn’t feel her feet.
England had been cold for weeks now. Right through February and now into March. People said it was the longest cold spell the south had had for centuries.
Jack kissed her neck. “Just lie still, while we thaw out.”
“I’m thawing a bit already.”
“We don’t have to get up before midday or so, do we?”
“I think I’m here for the duration.”
The manic state she’d been in after she’d swallowed the benzedrine tablet hadn’t lasted. It might have been frozen out of her, he guessed. And he felt strangely sober, considering how they’d spent the night. Sober, and soberly aware of how little time he had left to spend with her.
Except he would come back …
“Listen. While the ice melts, I want to explain something.” His chest hair tickled her nostrils and made her sneeze. He added, “Thanks. Cold shower’s just what I needed.”
“Sorry.”
“Listen. This thing I’m doing—about to do. It’ll be soon, now. I don’t know for certain, but I doubt if I’ll be seeing you for a while … Did I tell you that earlier on?”
“Only nineteen times.”
“You can believe it, anyway.”
“You didn’t say ‘for a while,’ though. It was going to be permanent.” She rubbed her face against him, like a cat rubs itself on furniture. “Or so I was given to understand.”
“That’s what I want to explain.”
“All right, go ahead.”
“It’s another fact—which is why I’m bound to tell you that the odds against me ever seeing you again are fairly daunting. When I say it’s fact, I mean my boss, for instance, would tell you so if he was talking openly and honestly. He warned me about it when I took the job on, and now I know more about it I know he wasn’t talking through his brass hat either. Follow me, this far?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, the other side of it is that although I know it, I don’t feel it. I feel like anyone else does—with a life ahead. I don’t know if that’s only because it’s a natural way to be—you know, nobody ever believing the bullet’s got his name on it—or whether the idea of being separated from you is—well, it’s inconceivable, it couldn’t happen … Are you getting any of this?”
“I’m not stupid. And you will come back.”
“Is that an order?”
“Yes.” The thawing process was more or less complete. “Yes, it is.”
“So what about Nick?”
“What about him?”
“If I come back, for Christ’s sake … If I don’t—all right, you’ll marry him, I can see that. But suppose I—”
“Jack, wait.”
He waited.
“Listen. If I say I’ll marry you—you, not Nick—would you do two things for me in return?”
He’d stopped breathing.
“Jack?”
He whispered, “I’d do a hundred things. Anything.”
“Two’ll be enough. First, come back from whatever this beastly thing is. Second, stop hating Nick, so we can be his friends if he’ll let us.”
Near-dawn: and surely it was time to get under, out of sight, Paul thought. The sea was lively, white-streaked, seething around the gun and pounding against the front of the bridge, foaming away along the after casing and sluicing out along Ultra’s sides. Spray flew over streaming as she pitched and rolled. It didn’t take much of a sea to put quite a lot of motion on any surfaced submarine, and these little U-class boats only displaced 600 tons.
The port screw was driving her. The starboard tail clutch was out, the engine on that side providing a standing charge to the batteries. At about three o’clock Ruck had decided he could afford to slow down a bit, since the night had been uneventful and they’d made uninterrupted progress eastward.
Nearly five-twenty now. He took one of his last bits of periscope paper out of the Ursula pocket, to clear the front lens of his binoculars. Salt spray on them did nothing to improve one’s vision … Darkness definitely thinning now, though. Ruck was chancing his arm somewhat, in order to have the battery as well up as possible, presumably; also, to dive as near as he could get to what was alleged to be the troop convoy’s track.
It would be a convoy of soldiers bound for the desert, reinforcements for Rommel. The sort of target you longed for: big ships, the kind it was vitally important to stop, destroy … He was sweeping slowly across the bow and down the starboard side. Acutely aware of the possibility of encountering another boat from their own flotilla—and of the need, if he did see one suddenly, to flash the challenge and identify oneself. Also of the likelihood that a flotilla-mate, having no reason to suspect that a friendly submarine might be here, would be readier to fire first and regret it afterwards. Instant response to threat was part of the submariner’s equipment, essential to survival …
Still, if either got a good sight of the other, the difference between these U-class submarines and the bigger German and Italian U-boats ought to be fairly obvious.
Ought …
Training back towards the bow: and thinking that one submarine bow-on and about to fire would look very much like another. “Captain coming up, sir!”
And thank God. They’d be diving now—getting down to where it was safe and peaceful, and some shut-eye before breakfast. “Morning, sir.”
“We’re about there, Sub. They’re breaking the charge.” As he spoke, the starboard engine’s noise died away. Ruck hadn’t bothered to get dressed up for this quick visit to the bridge. He had his glasses up and he was examining the horizon on the port bow, the sector from which the troop convoy might appear. He muttered, lowering them and blinking at the sky, “It’s damn near light, for God’s sake!”
He’d cut it finer than he’d intended.
“Starboard tail clutch in, sir, engine clutch out!”
“Half ahead on starboard main motor. Stop port, out port engine clutch.” Straightening from the voicepipe as the other diesel cut out, Ruck glanced behind him. “All right, look-outs. Down below.” The silence without engine noise was sudden and dramatic. It wasn’t silent, of course, but the sea made all the noise, now. Ruck said, “Down you go, Sub.” Moving quickly to the hatch Paul saw Ruck shut the voicepipe cock. “Call down to open main vents will you?”
Diving quietly “on the watch”—without waking the men who were off-watch. But Wykeham was in the control room yawning behind the planesmen as the submarine slipped under.
Bob McClure boasted, as Paul pushed by to get his Ursula outfit off, “That was a spot-on fix I took, boy.”
“Might even find you’re earning your keep one of these days, Shortarse.”
“Here. Look at it!”
According to his starsights, they were within half a mile of the spot Ruck had been aiming for. At normal dived speed it would take all day now to reach the position they’d been ordered to by S10. He heard Wykeham’s report of “Twenty-eight feet, sir” and the helmsman’s “Course three-four-five.” So Ultra had already swung her sharp snout towards Taranto. Wykeham murmured, “Slow ahead together,” as the trim settled. The asdic operator was reporting that there was nothing to be heard, all clear all round.
“All right, Number
One. I’m going to get my head down.” Ruck hadn’t slept much during the night, and he was delaying any attempt at it now, stopping beside McClure at the chart. “Let’s have a look at some alternatives, pilot. Suppose those boys left Taranto at dusk yesterday. Giving them—oh, let’s say twenty knots.”
“That much, sir?”
“Troop convoys are always fast-moving. Always well protected, too. Two big liners should have about four destroyers, I’d guess. Plus maybe a seaplane or two … If they sailed at eight last evening, at twenty knots, what time do we run into them?”
Paul took over for the last half-hour of his watch. All that stuff was just guesswork, he thought. They’d meet the convoy, or they wouldn’t. Today, or just as likely tomorrow … Except that the signal had said “now loading,” and maybe you didn’t put troops into ships unless you were going to sail them quite soon?
Down here at periscope depth there wasn’t a hint of any movement. It was still, and warm, and quiet, shale-scented. He glanced at Summers: “Up periscope …”
Lunch was corned beef, pickles and baked beans. They were drinking so-called coffee in the wardroom at 1415 when McClure went next door, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, to take over from Wykeham. Then the first lieutenant’s contrastingly tall figure drifted in and folded itself down at the table, and Shaw brought him his ration of corned beef.
“Special today, sir.”
“What’s special?”
“Had me thumb in the beans, sir.”
Wykeham sighed. He said to Ruck, “Troopers usually get a solid destroyer screen, don’t they?”
“Usually.” Ruck smiled. “What’s the matter? Nervous?”
“I was only thinking—these lads of ours”—he gestured towards Paul, and nodded in the direction of the control room—”haven’t heard any really close depthcharging yet. Might be their day of baptism.”
Paul thought he’d seen enough of other kinds of action to be able to put up with most things. Of course, depthcharging would be frightening, and one didn’t expect to enjoy it, exactly … Ruck observed, “There’s one benefit can apply sometimes, with troopships. If you put enough men in the water, their own side aren’t usually so keen on dropping charges.”
Paul nodded. “That’s a happy thought.”
“Don’t count on it,” Wykeham said, chewing. “If the troops are Germans, the Wops mightn’t be so squeamish.”
Tea was produced at 1600. There were biscuits too. Ruck and Wykeham stayed in their bunks, merely stretched out to the table, but Paul was due on watch at a quarter-past so he’d turned out. In any case from his own bunk, which was one of the hinged top ones, he’d have needed arms five feet long.
He heard McClure’s quiet order, “Up periscope.” And it was time to go in there and take over, except the tea was too hot to drink quickly. He decided he’d take it along with him, and he was on the point of moving when the Scots voice turned sharp and loud: “Captain in the control room!”
Ruck’s departure was like an act of levitation. He’d been here, horizontal, and now he was in there, vertical.
McClure’s voice: “Seaplane, sir. Last on green two-oh flying left to right.”
Thump of the periscope stopping. Wykeham slid off his bunk. “Here we go.”
Ruck said, “Messenger. I want Able Seaman Newton closed up on asdics, now.”
The messenger shot for’ard past the wardroom. Ruck murmured— he’d be at the periscope—”No reflection on you, Flyte. I want the expert, that’s all.” Then: “Depth?”
“Twenty-nine—”
“Keep her up for Pete’s sake!”
“Sorry, sir … Twenty-eight feet now.”
The broken surface would be a help, today. In a sea that was patched white a periscope was like a needle in a haystack. Newton, following the messenger, came shambling past. They heard Ruck telling him, “We’re expecting a convoy from somewhere ahead. Probably two big ships, with destroyer escort.”
“Aye, sir …”
Periscope going down. Now it was coming up again. You never let it show for too long at a time. Just quickly dipping it made it much less likely to be spotted.
“Depth now?”
“Twenty-eight feet, sir.”
“Come up to twenty-six.” Wykeham slid out into the control room. Ruck was muttering to himself: “The Cant seaplane’s there … Only one,
I think … And—ah!” He paused for about long enough to blink, then: “Diving stations.”
Paul stayed clear of the sudden rush. He only had about one yard to move, and that spot, his diving station at the fruit machine, made for a bottleneck. He heard Ruck announcing, “Destroyer foretops—two of ‘em so far … Newton, hear anything?”
“Trying to sort it out, sir. There’s HE—faint—red five to green one-four. Seems like several different—”
“Starboard ten, steer oh-one-oh. Sixty feet. Group up, half ahead together.”
“Ten of starboard wheel on, sir…”
Turning to cut across the line of advance of the oncoming convoy? But he couldn’t know yet whether or not it was zigzagging, or what pattern of zigzag it might be following …
“Tell me when we’ve run five minutes, pilot.”
McClure started his stopwatch. Paul trying to guess at what was in Ruck’s mind, what the surface picture might be.
“Five minutes, sir.”
“Group down. Slow together. Twenty-eight feet.”
There’d been some report from Newton, and then questions and answers between him and Ruck. Lost in thought, Paul hadn’t caught it. He’d been remembering a remark of Shrimp Simpson’s, at that interview he’d had with him: Shrimp had said that at the present rate of submarine losses and replacements, a sub-lieutenant brand-new to the job today could, if he was right up to scratch, hope to get his own command in two years. It was a mind-boggling thought …
“HE extends from red oh-five to red two-nine, sir.” Newton listened with his eyelids drooping, training his receiver slowly to and fro across that sector. Then he amplified, “Three destroyers, sir, two big ships.” He gave the destroyers’ bearings.
“What about the troopships?”
“Red eleven, sir. Two hundred revolutions. And—red one-five, sir. Same.”
Wykeham reported, “Thirty feet, sir … Twenty-nine …”
“Up.”
The day’s brightness reflected down the tube through its prisms and lenses, flashed and flickered in Ruck’s eyes. Greenish-glowing, like a cat’s in the gloom. He’d taken a quick check on his target: then he spun right around before settling on it for a longer look.
“Target is a troopship, three-funnelled, about twenty thousand tons. Start the attack. Bearing is—that. Range—that. I am—thirty-five on his starboard bow.”
He’d slammed the handles up: the tube was already speeding downwards. Paul read off from his machine, “Enemy course one-three-five, sir.”
“Probably dead right.” Ruck nodded. “Starboard ten. Blow up all tubes, open one, two, three and four bow-caps.” He muttered, watching the circling hand of his stopwatch, “There are two of them, as expected. About the same size. One with three funnels, one with two. And only three destroyers. I’m going for the leading troopship. Set enemy speed twenty.”
“Twenty knots set, sir.”
Ruck told McClure, “He’s on the port leg of his zigzag, pilot. So the starboard leg will be one-nine-five. But he might steer the mean course between those stretches.” A glance at ERA Quinn: “Up periscope.”
They knew the convoy had come from Taranto on a mean course of 165. And if he was steering thirty degrees to one side of that course now, he’d have to spend just as long steering thirty degrees the other side of it too.
“Midships. Steer oh-three-oh.” The periscope was in Ruck’s hands; he put his eyes to the lenses. “Bearing—that. I am—forty-five on his starboard bow. Down.”
Chief ERA Pool had read off the figures again. He was a tall man, which fitted him fo
r the job, because he had to see over Ruck’s head.
“Enemy course still one-three-five, sir.”
McClure offered, from his track chart, “Enemy speed nineteen, sir.” “Set nineteen.”
Paul adjusted the setting on the machine. Newton said, answering Ruck’s questioning stare, “Two hundred revolutions, sir.”
He nodded, thinking about it. You reckoned about ten revs to the knot, for merchant ships, but obviously there were variations to the rule. Everything depended now on the zigzag pattern: whether at the next alteration the enemy changed course by thirty degrees to the mean course—or sixty, to the zigzag’s starboard leg … “Up periscope.”
“Target is on red one-two, sir.” Newton, from the asdic set.”Destroyers are—right ahead, and—red five, and—third one’s—”
“All right.” Grabbing both the handles, jerking them down. “Stand by. Bearing that. Range is—that. I am—eighty on his starboard bow. Down …”
He’d stepped back—breathing fast … “Seaplane was right over the top of us, blast it.” Glancing at Quinn, hands curling upwards; Quinn stopped the periscope, brought it shooting up again. Ruck said, with his eyes against the lenses, “Zigging now.” He pulled his head back, and shot a glance over the planesmen’s heads at the depthgauges. “Twenty-seven feet, Number One.”
“Twenty-seven—”
“Bearing that. Range that. Target’s steadying. I am—fifteen, on his starboard bow.” He shoved the handles up and Quinn depressed the lever.
“Makes enemy course one-nine-five, sir.”
As predicted. Thirty to starboard of the mean course.
McClure reported, “Averaging the enemy speed over all those stages and over the whole distance suggests nineteen point five, sir.”
“Set that.”
Paul did it. “Nineteen and a half knots set, sir.”
“Sir—” McClure, looking down at his track chart—”problem over here …”
Ruck went over. Impatient, frowning. McClure pointed out,”He must stay on this leg at least this distance—same as the other leg. So here’s where he might alter to the mean course. Or he might hold on as he’s going. But isn’t that where you’d expect to fire, sir? And if he zigged there—”
A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4 Page 8