Pryce was on his feet, describing the situation with his usual precise efficiency, and without giving too much away. He did not even mention Richard Tsao by name, and Ross wondered what the others might think if they had heard his rare disclosure, which on recollection Pryce himself would regard as a weakness. I wish to God I was coming with you. Ross had come across plenty of people who had said as much, knowing that in fact they were quite safe from any such risk.
He saw Second Officer Blandford watching him thoughtfully, tapping a pencil against her teeth. Victoria should have been here, and yet in his heart he was grateful that she was not.
Pryce was saying, ‘This is probably the most intrepid and daring operation we have undertaken. Some might even suggest it is impossible. But they said the Bismarck was unsinkable, and others claimed that nobody would ever be able to penetrate the fjords of Norway and blow the bottom out of the Tirpitz, the world’s mightiest battleship. But it was done, gentlemen, and there will always be men to attempt such impossible missions.’
Ross saw Commander Crookshank, sweating in the crowded room, his face composed and empty of doubt. Others far more senior would bear the true responsibility.
Pryce said, ‘It will be weeks rather than months, so let us waste no time.’ He was looking directly at Ross.
Waste no time. It was like an epitaph.
15
No More Time
HIS MAJESTY’S SUBMARINE Tybalt lay close alongside her depot-ship, her casing and conning tower busy with boiler-suited artificers and mechanics. Large tarpaulins were spread over much of the work, a normal precaution in Trincomalee where blistering sunshine and soaking rain could come in liberal proportions. To the casual onlooker and passing boat, she looked what she was: a submarine undergoing another overhaul and refit.
Only down below, away from the snaking power-lines and diamond-bright welding torches, was it possible to appreciate the change.
Lieutenant Charles Villiers entered the control-room and glanced at the base engineers, the ‘plumbers’ as they were nicknamed, studying a rough pencilled plan and making notes to be passed on to their team of experts.
Villiers had felt the difference. It was if the submarine had been suddenly abandoned without warning, the officers and ratings swept away like some modern Marie Celeste. Lockers left open, but with a few scraps, remnants left behind to remind anyone who cared of the men who had lived, worked and survived as one company. A few garish pin-ups, a newly-darned sock, forgotten in the haste to leave the boat as ordered. Only in the control-room was there a sense of purpose, something preserved. The chart table and plot, the tightly-packed and well-thumbed publications close to hand. Time and tide tables, recognition manuals, some of the regularly-used charts, and of course the navigator’s bible, The Nautical Almanac. But how quiet and still. The only power, which came from the depot-ship, was muffled; even the plumbers spoke quietly, like people in church. Villiers grimaced. Or at a funeral.
Less than a week, and they had barely paused for breath. Two containers had been fixed just aft of the conning tower. Each one would carry and conceal a chariot, a two-man torpedo, as some still called them. They had even erected something like a bandstand at the rear of the bridge, where a U-Boat would normally carry her anti-aircraft weapons. The structure had then been buckled to match the damaged conning tower. It was often said that a lookout only saw what he expected to see. How many bobbing pieces of wood, like broom-handles, had been mistaken for enemy periscopes? And vice versa, when it had already been too late.
When he had walked from forward to the control-room, Villiers had realized, perhaps for the first time, what it all meant. The many cases of high explosives, the treble system of fuses in case one failed. Tybalt, within one week, had become a floating bomb.
He heard Ross’s level voice, and turned to see him clap the two engineer officers on the shoulders. Did he ever doubt? Did he see even the remotest chance of survival, let alone the success of this attack?
Villiers had worked in and from submarines often enough, and in his papers at Special Operations he was described as an explosives and demolition officer, but the classrooms and the experiments at H.M.S. Vernon, the Navy’s mine and torpedo school, had been nothing like this.
Ross walked over to him. He wore overalls which had once been white, but were now streaked with grease and blotchy with oil. He must have been right over the boat, Villiers thought, and he wondered if Ross had felt the ghosts watching as he passed.
Ross said, ‘They’ve done well, Charles. Just got to top up the bunkers and fix the guns . . .’ He hesitated and glanced along the narrow passageway, the line of oval-shaped watertight doors, now open from torpedo tubes to engine- and motor-rooms. He was speaking his thoughts, his mind checking and re-checking. Villiers could almost feel it. But then, Ross was a true submariner, and he had once heard him say that he had even served in one of the original Thunderbolt Class boats. Like this one, Tybalt. Good, dependable craft. A maximum of twenty-two knots surfaced, and eleven submerged. She was armed with ten twenty-one-inch torpedo tubes. Villiers had quickly noticed that they carried no extra torpedoes. It was obviously considered unlikely that there would be time or room for a reload. It was a chilling thought.
Ross had seen his emotions: Villiers had too open a face to hide anything. He felt the hull quiver as something heavy was moved overhead. It was as if the boat was resisting, trying to assert herself. He thought of Pryce’s words to her stricken skipper: A submarine is a weapon, to be used to its best advantage. Some might agree. Ross glanced again at the deserted spaces where men had been packed together under every kind of condition. As he had been. Hoping and dreaming. Holding back the fear which was a constant crewman on every patrol.
Even now many of Tybalt’s company would be on their way, perhaps to a different theatre of war. Some to be drafted to other submarines, others glad to be leaving, grateful to be going home. Home . . .
He touched the lowered attack-periscope and felt the grease on his fingers. Not just a weapon. As Mike Tucker would say, it was a way of life.
Feet scraped on a ladder, and tall khaki figures ducked beneath unfamiliar obstructions. Major Trevor Sinclair grinned broadly at them. ‘Thought you might be here. This is my second-in-command, Captain Pleydell, Royal Marines.’
Ross shook hands with the newcomer and wondered what it must be like to work with Sinclair. Pleydell looked very young, and the large moustache he sported made him appear even younger. Like some of the R.A.F. pilots Ross had seen, the high-fly boys as Pryce had termed them. There would be a landing-party of marines with them, and a few Gurkhas who were well trained, and unmoved by the prospect of working behind enemy lines. It reminded him again of Peter Napier and what he had said about Sinclair.
‘We’ll go over it again with the N.C.O.s, Bobby.’
Pleydell, ‘Bobby’, nodded, frowning at the same time. ‘A bit dicey, I’d have thought, Major?’
‘If you can’t do it, say so, and I’ll get some bugger who can!’
Villiers said, ‘I know what he means, sir . . .’
Sinclair eyed him. ‘Bully for you, Lieutenant Villiers. But when I need advice I shall ask for it.’ He gave the huge grin again. ‘Or more likely yawn, eh?’
Ross said, ‘We’ll all discuss it when we get the word.’ He looked from one to the other, feeling the tension, especially where Villiers was concerned. The cracks were beginning to show. He would have to watch it. Step on it, if need be.
Sinclair was looking at a list. ‘Come along, we’ll see where they’re putting our chaps. Must have room to strip their weapons and lay out the gear.’ He was quite calm again, as if nothing had been said.
Ross glanced at Villiers. Could Sinclair know about him and his wife? It was unlikely, but not impossible. He half smiled. God, I’m getting as bad as him.
They stood beneath the conning tower and looked up at the two open hatches, the upper and lower lids. It seemed wrong not to see an oval of blue sky.
Just canvas, and a dangling drill on a cable.
They climbed the ladder to the bridge. How many times had the klaxon screamed out from here, to the tilt of the deck and the fierce inrush of water?
They stepped out into the sunshine, and Villiers said quietly, ‘Will you come back to submarines afterwards, sir?’
So simply said. Afterwards. The operation, the whole bloody war – what was afterwards?
He saw a boatswain’s mate in smart belt and gaiters peering at him anxiously from the catamaran. The Commodore, Submarines did not go in for oily sweaters and scruffy grey flannel bags in his depot-ship.
‘What is it?’
The sailor saluted. ‘Captain Pryce has come aboard, sir. He’s with the Commodore.’ He made a clumsy point of not including Villiers. ‘When you’re ready, sir.’
Ross jammed his cap on to his tousled hair. The Commodore would just have to put up with the overalls for once. He said, ‘I have the strangest feeling that the balloon is about to go up to an enormous height, Charles.’ He tried to lighten his tone. ‘Do you want a run ashore with me?’
Villiers hesitated. ‘If you don’t mind, sir. I’ve a letter to write.’ He looked lost, rather helpless. ‘I want her to know . . .’
Ross said, ‘I understand.’
Villiers watched him, seeing someone very different from the man he had come to hold on to as a friend. Then he said, ‘She means so much, you see.’
Ross looked at the glittering water alongside. Villiers was speaking for both of them.
Colonel Basil Mackenzie leaned back in his cane chair and watched with some amusement while Ross topped up his pink gin with water. ‘You Navy chaps. I don’t know how you can drink that stuff. It rots your guts!’
Ross looked across the veranda at the lush gardens, with their heavy flowers and winding paths, carefully swept. So peaceful.
Mackenzie said, ‘She won’t be long. She was having a swim. I don’t think she was expecting you quite so soon.’ He smiled. ‘Glad you could get away.’
The information had been verified. The converted depot-ship had arrived. She would soon be moving to her new anchorage, not far from the place where the chariots had blown up the motor anti-submarine boats. Peter Napier’s first-ever operational job, and almost his last.
Pryce had been definite. ‘We’re putting real pressure on the Japs now – they’re even falling back in some places. We’ve got a new army in the field: tough, hard and determined. So if we can pull this one off, it will be a real stab in the back for the Japanese as well as the Germans.’ He had glanced at his ever-present folder. ‘Operation Trident. It will make a few people sit up and take notice!’
Surely, Ross thought, it must mean more than that?
Mackenzie had been watching him steadily. ‘Having a rough time, are you?’
Ross smiled. ‘Sorry, sir. Does it show?’
Mackenzie brushed something invisible from his immaculate white jacket. ‘It’s something you never forget. I never have.’ He looked at him very directly. ‘There’s something in the air, right?’ He held up one hand. ‘I don’t expect you to tell me.’ He sighed. ‘You don’t need to.’
‘I want to tell you something, if I may, sir.’
The bushy eyebrows rose and fell. ‘How you feel? That you’re afraid for Victoria, the one living creature I care about?’
‘Something like that.’ He had always thought it wrong to become too deeply involved because of the war: he had seen too many heartbreaks to allow it to happen to himself. Until now.
He said quietly, ‘I love her. I want to ask her to marry me.’ The Colonel said nothing but stared into his gardens, his eyes distant. ‘It’s just that . . . if anything goes wrong . . .’
Mackenzie said, ‘If you think like that, then it will. I’ve seen it happen.’ He glared round for his servant and gestured at their empty glasses. ‘For one so young you’re a funny sort of chap, a bit old fashioned. I’m told you don’t think so much of yourself as you do of others.’ He paused. ‘I like that. Pretty rare these days. All mouth and trousers now, as my old batman would put it!’ He was suddenly very serious. ‘I know you love her. Saw it the first time you were here together. I have to admit I was bloody jealous at the idea of losing her. Eventually.’ He leaned over and gripped his wrist. ‘You’re right for each other. Don’t fight it. Take it while you can!’ He released him and added, ‘She’s coming.’
She wore a white bath-robe and was rubbing her hair with a towel when she saw them together. She looked from Ross to her father, her eyes steady and questioning, one bare foot on the lower step like that other time.
Then she said, ‘I knew.’ She nodded as if to confirm or accept it. ‘I have to go back tomorrow. I’ll be on stand-by, they said.’
Then she walked towards him, the towel falling unnoticed to the floor. ‘I prayed. But deep down, I knew it was going to happen.’ She moved against him as he put his arms around her, her hair damp against his face. It seemed so natural, as if it had never been any other way. Then she did look up. ‘When?’
He watched her eyes, and the way she was holding her head. For his benefit and for hers. She tried to smile. ‘You may as well tell me. I will know tomorrow anyway.’
He turned her towards the garden. ‘Twenty-four hours. After that . . .’
She tried to give herself time. ‘What have you two been talking about?’ But when they looked round, the Colonel had discreetly disappeared.
Ross held her for several seconds, so aware of her, her breathing, her private anguish.
‘I told your father I want to marry you, if you’ll have me.’ She watched him, her eyes never leaving his face as he said, ‘When this is over, we can talk.’ He shook her gently. ‘Talk and talk. I can tell you what you might be letting yourself in for . . .’
She answered in a whisper, ‘When this is over, Jamie? That is beyond time. How can we wait?’
He brushed the hair from her forehead. ‘Will you?’
She looked away. ‘Do you have a handkerchief?’
He gave her his and watched her dab her eyes with it.
She said lightly, ‘I’m all right, Jamie. I’m not going to spoil it. Twenty-four hours? They might cancel it, whatever it is – I’ve known it happen before. So must you?’ She looked at him, her eyes pleading. ‘It happens, doesn’t it?’ Then she threw her arms around his neck and exclaimed, ‘But you don’t think so. You know, don’t you?’
He touched her hair, and her neck where he could feel the thin gold chain she always wore. ‘Too much at stake, Victoria.’ So many lives, reputations too; no, they would not cancel it unless the enemy were one jump ahead. He held her even closer. Am I afraid? Like poor David. Would I know if I was afraid?
He thought of Villiers and Sinclair, and the young Royal Marine captain with the absurd moustache. And all the others. Mike Tucker would be there as well. He would know, too. Mike had changed in some way: there were fewer jokes now, and he had acquired a calm maturity which had taken Ross by surprise. After being a prisoner he must have seen how narrow was the margin between hope and despair. He had come through it, but what had really changed him?
He said quietly, ‘I love you so much, Victoria.’ It felt as if he had shouted it aloud. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more. You deserve so much more than I can offer.’ He touched her mouth and throat. ‘But nobody could love you more.’
She thrust her hand through his arm. ‘That’s settled then. It’s up to us.’ They paused by one of the pillars. ‘Now kiss me, as if you mean it.’ She smiled up at him, some small tears on her dark lashes unheeded. ‘Just keep on loving me!’
He kissed her. The smile was still on her lips, and he could taste the salt of her tears.
Second Officer Celia Blandford looked around the operations room and plucked the shirt away from her damp shoulder. There were two sailors on duty beside the array of telephones and one glanced up to watch, but averted his eyes when he saw her irritation.
She compared
this to the operations room where she had served before: the bustle, the orderly comings and goings of messengers, senior officers and other Wrens like herself. She glanced at the damp, curling notices and faded maps on the walls. This place was a shambles, more like a seedy club than the springboard of Special Operations.
She recalled Pryce’s precise instructions about signals and Intelligence reports. He at least was a true professional, whereas some of the others . . .
Then there was Lieutenant-Commander Ross. What was he really like? The Victoria Cross should have said it all, but it only scratched the surface. Also there was that half-Chinese Wren petty officer. She had confessed out loud that she was in love with James Ross, had even seemed rather shy about it: perhaps she would have been more open with Jane Clarke. Love – what could she know about it? Although she had an influential father; she would be very wealthy one day . . .
It was so unfair. But get a commission? She smiled quickly. They needed good officers in the Wrens, but there were standards, limits. Perhaps she ought to take her aside and have a talk with her.
She looked up, frowning, as the door opened very slightly and a khaki arm came around it. For a moment she thought it was that dashing Major Sinclair, who had made such a name for himself in Burma and Malaya, and whose fierce manner intrigued her. But it was not. Anyway, Sinclair was married, or so she had heard.
‘Yes? Do you wish to see somebody here?’ It came out more sharply than she had intended, and she tried to soften it. ‘I’m Second Officer Blandford . . .’
The officer entered the room. He was wearing smart khaki drill, well pressed, somehow at odds with the tanned, lean features and steely eyes above it.
He said calmly, ‘I know who you are. I want to see Captain Pryce.’
A Dawn Like Thunder Page 26