But the service was over. Divisions were called to attention. On – caps! Right – turn! Quick – march! In drumbeat time – though shuffling somewhat, on account of limited space ahead where the platoons tended to become compressed before they could be halted and dismissed – with the Royal Marines crashing out ‘Hearts of Oak’. For the ship’s company now there’d be the daily rum issue, followed by what was known as ‘dinner’. For himself, a quick change out of his best uniform – Solange could make do with him in serge, not superfine – then he’d land here over the floating brow and take a gharry into town.
* * *
He heard before he landed that the Italian force which had drawn Vian’s cruisers out had turned back, as had the convoy which it had been covering, and that the cruiser squadron was therefore returning to Alexandria. The Staff assessment was that the enemy had funked it because of the concentration of British submarines on their convoy routes.
Upright, for instance, had sunk two large merchant ships yesterday, and Utmost had damaged another, and today – this was the first Currie had heard of it – Urge had scored either two or three torpedo hits on the battleship Vittorio Veneto.
Rommel wouldn’t be getting any supplies at all, the way things were going out there on the convoy routes. What would happen, Currie wondered, when he ran out of petrol altogether, couldn’t even continue the retreat?
And the Navy would be pushing supplies in through Derna, soon enough. Then Benghazi. Happy thoughts, indeed.
Darker ones behind them, though. Definitely oppressive, some of them. The naval losses of recent date – not solely in this theatre, but Prince of Wales and Repulse for instance – and the obvious question arising from that tragedy, what might be happening out there now? They’d been sunk within a couple of hundred miles of Singapore, those two great ships. And as it had been considered necessary to rush them out there in the first place, what about Singapore itself now?
Well. It was supposed to be impregnable…
Solange had invited him to lunch at the Seydoux house, where he found her waiting for him with Candice and their brother Bertrand. Their parents were attending some lunch party elsewhere. Bertrand said to him, when they were alone for a moment before going in to the meal: ‘You lost a battleship since we last met, I believe.’
‘Do you mean we’ve mislaid one, or—’
‘Sank – torpedoed—’
‘Oh, that…’
He shrugged, as if the subject was old-hat. In fact everyone had heard of Barham’s sinking. The fleet had set out with three battleships and come back with only two, and with escorting destroyers laden with survivors. Every felucca man in the harbour had to know about it: which meant the whole of Alexandria did, immediately. The world in general didn’t know about Ark Royal, though. The enemy knew, obviously, but Lord Haw-Haw had announced the Ark’s destruction half a dozen times, and their claim didn’t have to be believed now any more than it had on any earlier occasion.
Currie said to Bertrand, over lunch: ‘Talking about ships being sunk, Bertrand—’
Solange chipped in – ‘Were you?’
‘Bertrand was. He’s rather pleased, I think, that the battleship Barham was torpedoed last month.’
‘Why should I be pleased?’
‘God knows. Makes your Italian friends happy, I suppose. I did have a clear impression that you were rather bucked about it.’
‘I am – indifferent. Quite indifferent.’
Solange sighed. ‘We apologize for him.’
‘For me, you—’
‘Tell you something.’ Currie nodded to him. ‘Since you like hearing about ships being sunk. We sank two Italian cruisers, and a destroyer that was with them, off Cape Bon in Tunisia, night before last. Four of our destroyers did it. Ran into the Italians – two cruisers, two destroyers – and only one destroyer got away. Ran like hell, I expect. To be precise – in case you want to pass the glad tidings to your friends – it happened at two-thirty yesterday morning.’
‘Indeed.’
Candice said: ‘Felicitations. They don’t make very good sailors, do they, the Italians?’
‘They make splendid opera singers.’ Solange asked Currie: ‘More salad?’
‘Thank you.’ Making a mental note that there might be even more to her than he’d begun to suspect. The fresh sardines were delicious, too… ‘Seen Lucia lately?’
‘Last evening. She was here for supper.’
Bertrand frowned. ‘Nobody told me she was coming.’
‘It’s possible—’ Solange glanced at Currie, then back at her brother - ‘that the fact you were not going to be here was the reason she accepted my invitation.’
‘You’re extremely rude – d’you know that?’
‘Probably my fault.’ Currie admitted. ‘I’m a bad influence on her.’
‘That is – conceivable.’ Bertrand put his napkin down. ‘I think – if you’d excuse me—’
Candice nodded, with her mouth full. ‘Pleasure.’
‘I shan’t be in this evening.’ Standing, he looked down his nose at Currie. ‘Feel free to make use of my parents’ house. As always.’
‘Something tells me—’ Currie looked at Solange, as Bertrand stalked out of the room – ‘that your brother isn’t fond of me.’
‘Are you fond of him?’
‘Well – frankly—’
‘I don’t see how you could be. Although, believe it or not, he used to be quite sweet.’ She shook her head. ‘We’re hoping it’s just a stage he’s passing through. But – how anybody could. As he is now, I mean. Except a few like Ettore Angelucci… Incidentally, he threatened Lucia, she told me.’
‘Angelucci did. Yes, I know.’
Candice reached over, touched his arm: ‘Josh, may I ask you something?’
‘Why not?’
‘Do you think Ned will marry Lucia?’
‘Good God, girl… I haven’t the least—’
‘I’d have thought you’d have some idea?’
‘Hasn’t occurred to me even to think about it. He’s certainly – very keen, but—’
‘Is he genuinely in love with her, d’you think?’
‘Well, again, how would one know? I’d guess he is, but—’
‘So why shouldn’t—’
‘There could be all sorts of reasons.’ Solange interrupted.
‘A girl in England, for instance. Well, there might be… Or the fact she’s half Italian.’
‘I doubt that would affect the issue.’ Currie frowned. ‘Mind you, this is purely hypothetical, I’ve no idea how either of them might feel about it. It’s none of my business, either. But if that mattered to him he’d hardly have – well, pursued her in the first place. Anyway her father was anti-Fascist, and her mother’s French…’ He shrugged. ‘Would she marry him, d’you think, if he asked her?’
Candice squeaked: ‘If she didn’t, she’d be mad!’
‘You’re speaking for yourself, you silly child.’
‘I am not! I’m not a child, either!’
She’d flushed. Solange asked Currie: ‘Speaking hypothetically, as you say – would your authorities not object?’
‘I couldn’t say. But I don’t see why they should. After all, our own ambassador has an Italian wife.’
‘That’s a point!’
‘The normal form is he’d need his commanding officer’s permission. The captain commanding the submarine flotilla, that would be. And he – I don’t know – might refer it up the ladder. Might have to. War in progress, enemy national involved – technically. But I honestly don’t know. And as we’ve no reason to believe either of them has any such thing in mind—’
‘I’ll bet Lucia has!’
‘Really, Candice.’ Solange frowned at her. ‘You don’t know anything about it. You only like the idea of it because you like Ned so much.’
‘I like them both so much!’
‘Josh – there’s only ice-cream and fruit, I’m sorry—’
‘Fruit would be perfect.’
‘What are we doing this afternoon?’
‘How about a walk? There’s no rain about. Nuzha Gardens, if you like – or around Lake Hadra – or—’
‘Anywhere. Be lovely.’
Candice asked him: ‘May I come?’
He looked at Solange. ‘May she?’
‘If you don’t mind—’
‘Please, Candice. We’d love it.’
* * *
He had Solange to himself in the evening, though, and took her to Nico’s, which he’d never been to but which Mitcheson had recommended. It was a very pleasant evening, but her mother gave him funny looks sometimes and he was still conscious of the difference in their ages, didn’t want to seem to be leading her astray. Although – well, she was coming up for her 21st, for Pete’s sake, was undoubtedly a grown woman.
Maybe her mother didn’t know it. But she did. Damn well did. And he might not for ever be able to behave as if he was some sort of uncle. He was crazy about her ears – amongst other things. They were so small – really tiny, under that mass of hair – brown but with golden lights in it, lovely in this candle-light… Smiling – at the little ears – with his hand on hers on the Greek’s checked table-cloth. She was not only full-grown, she was extremely pretty.
Perhaps Maria Seydoux was on her guard because of the example set by Mitch and Lucia, he thought. Solange had hinted that she was rather less than enthusiastic about that relationship.
Or hedging her bets on the final outcome of Afrika Korps versus 8th Army? That was possible. It wouldn’t be a typical attitude for a Greek, but there were plenty of all nationalities in this town who were ready to jump either way. And bloody Bertrand must surely get some sympathy at home from someone?
Anyway, he took Solange home at what was by Alexandrian standards quite an early hour, and was back on board the flagship not long after midnight. At just about the time, in fact, that the cruiser Galatea, back from Vian’s pursuit of Italians who’d made tracks for home, was torpedoed – just outside, at the end of the swept channel.
He didn’t hear about it until breakfast time in QE’s wardroom. He finished his eggs and bacon quickly and went up to the Staff Office, to check on this disaster and whatever else was happening, what chores might have been allocated to him on this rather dismal Monday. Drizzling: grey sky over a grey, cold harbour. At least not all the ships were grey, these days.
About 150 survivors, he learnt, had been picked up from Galatea at about the time he’d been turning in. That would mean roughly three-quarters of her ship’s company had gone. She’d been hit by two torpedoes just before midnight, and had sunk quickly. Vian was putting out to sea again this morning – now, in fact – with his flag in Naiad, as before, and with Euryalus, the AA cruiser Carlisle and seven destroyers, escorting the hard-worked Breconshire on another fast run to Malta.
What else…
In his own pigeon-hole, another wad of Italian intercepts for translation. Some German stuff, too. Transcripts of U-boat signals, by the look of it. Plain language signals, though? Anyway, he’d deal with them first, and take the others ashore to Henderson later in the forenoon. Find out when a boat might be going to Ras el-Tin, otherwise get one laid on. Riffling through the log, meanwhile, the clip-file of signals – purely out of interest, curiosity, and while he happened to be here. It was only sensible, while the Staff were making use of him as they were, to take advantage of opportunities to keep himself informed. He stopped suddenly – he’d flipped past it, but his eye had been caught by the sender’s name – Spartan…
Unless he’d imagined it. No – here…
To S.I. repeated C.-in-C. Troopship estimated 8000 tons inbound to Lindhos torpedoed and sunk in position 35 degs 58’ N 28 degs 07’ E at 1620. Time of Origin 1955 A/14.
He glanced up from the log. ‘Where’s Lindhos, Thomas?’
‘Lindhos… oh, Rhodes. East coast of. That sinking by Spartan, eh?’
‘Right. Her C.O.’s a friend of mine.’
‘Is he, indeed…’
Good for old Mitch, he thought. Knocking ’em down like ninepins. And off Rhodes, not Leros.
* * *
On the 16th Sciré ran into the belt of foul weather which had been predicted, and Borghese decided that while it lasted he’d spend as little time as possible on the surface even in the dark hours. The submarine’s batteries had to be charged, of course, but as soon as the density readings were high enough he’d dive and get under all the turbulence. He explained to the team: ‘It’s for the pigs’ sake as much as yours. Need you lads in good shape, certainly, but they’re probably more fragile than you are, eh?’
Damage through being banged around in their canisters en route to Gibraltar was reckoned to have caused most of the earlier failures. This time Borghese and everyone else concerned had done their level best to ensure against such eventualities, and he didn’t want to see all the hard work wasted now. It wasn’t bad for the men, anyway, to get down into the quiet and peaceful depths, after a few hours of being flung around. Diving and surfacing in fact broke the monotony of prolonged inaction; and after fifteen or sixteen hours under water in the overcrowded boat the air got to be foul and thin, so that it was a relief to surface, have the diesels start up and suck clean night air in through the boat, venting carbon dioxide and other poison out through their exhausts. Then, just about when you’d had enough of the violent motion – down, into stillness and soporific warmth, silence except for the motors’ soft purr.
Borghese visited them several times in their mess, in these quiet times. On the day they hit the rough weather, for instance, the 16th: he’d been laughing at de la Penne, who hardly ever got out of his bunk and when he happened to wake up had only to reach a long arm down to a drawer in which he’d stashed a ready-sliced fruit cake.
‘You’ll become monstrously fat, de la Penne!’
‘Keeping my strength up, sir, that’s all.’ Nodding towards Emilio: ‘Wouldn’t want to end up a shrimp like Caracciolo there.’
The irony was a little heavy. Emilio was shorter than him – than Martellotta and Marceglia too, for that matter – but his bull-like physique had been the subject of jokes and jibes all through the months of training, and he’d thought they’d tired of it by this time.
‘He’s got a girl in Rome.’ Marceglia, who was far too long for his bunk, winked at the others. ‘It’s what keeps him so trim. Couple of hours in the sack with her, he says—’
‘You’re right.’ Martellotta nodded seriously. ‘It’s the only reason he bothers with her. I suppose it is more fun than lifting weights and—’
‘You’re so damn funny…’
‘Her name’s Renata – right?’
Emilio stared at him. ‘How d’you know?’
‘Don’t you know you talk in your sleep?’
Roars of laughter – Emilio shaking his head, muttering to de la Penne: ‘Fact is she’s a hell of a nice—’
‘Listen, fellows.’ Borghese quietened them. ‘The subject of submarine rendezvous arrangements after the attack. Details have now been finalized. Assuming we release you on the night of the 18th–19th—’
‘18th–19th? But – sir, I thought—’
‘Twenty-four hours postponement. Sorry about it, but with this weather now—’
‘Yes. Of course.’
Faces had fallen, though. Another whole day…
‘Only snag is, sir—’ Emilio looked at de la Penne – ‘will the fruit cake last out that long?’
‘Cheeky bugger—’
‘All right, all right.’ Borghese shook his head. At times they were more like a bunch of schoolboys on some outing than a team of highly trained men about to put their lives at risk and in the course of it quite possibly change the outcome of the war. ‘Be quiet for a minute, listen to me. I’m as aware as you are that chances of making the rendezvous are pretty slight, but it’s a possibility, and if we can get you back – some of you, anyway – we’d rather like
to – odd as that may seem. So – I’ve had the dates and the names of the submarines now. First – at first light on the 21st – the Vulcano, and subsequently – dawn 22nd and 23rd – the Zaffiro. And to identify yourselves – I know this may seem unnecessary, but there are such things as Intelligence leaks, even traps, and these boats’ll have to be on the surface, only a few miles offshore – right? So – all you have to do is shout the name of the submarine, and your own name – or names.’
Then they won’t shoot us, eh?’
‘Let’s say they’ll be less quick on the trigger.’
‘No pick-ups after the 23rd?’
‘No. You’re either out by then, or—’
‘Or in the slammer. Nice time for Christmas.’
Christmas. That was a thought. A week ahead, no more. Emilio saw others shrugging it off, as he was. Christmas – this one, anyway – would be enjoyed by other people.
Martellotta growled, ‘All depends on there being boats around that we can get hold of, anyway. If there aren’t – well, too damn far to bloody swim—’
‘We’ve had assurances that there will be – always are — fishing-boats on that beach.’ Borghese asked Emilio, ‘Do you know that Rosetta coastline?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s to say, I’ve been there. Don’t remember all that much detail, but – well, it’s the edge of the Nile delta—’
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