So give it a go …
‘Port ten.’
Premature, maybe. Passing the order in little more than a whisper: Smithers murmuring acknowledgement, the brass wheel glittering as he span it, Mike adding just as quietly, ‘Steer three hundred degrees.’
‘Three-oh-oh, sir …’
Danvers whispering that course to himself as he ran his parallel rule from the compass rose to Ursa’s pencilled track on a plotting diagram. Distances by speed and stopwatch timing, since the log was switched off as part of the silent-running. Ursa running northwestward now, Italians holding on eastward still, please God. Mike querying this in a glance at Fraser, getting what might have been a qualified affirmative.
Touch wood – edge of the chart table – Danvers shifting to give him room and a sight of the plotting diagram if he wanted it. Mike thinking, two hours on this course now, if we can get away with it, get well out there in the open, then come round to – oh, 220, say. After one hour in fact might speed up a little. Four knots, say, through the rest of the daylight hours. Two-thirty now, so six hours, six and a half. But give it just half an hour, then half ahead together instead of slow on just one. Surface about nine and be getting the box up while paddling around Marettimo. And a signal to old Shrimp of course, soon as we’re up. He reached for a pencil and the signal-pad, roughed it out for enciphering: To S.10 – etc. – from Ursa. Returning by outward route, only one torpedo remaining. ETA – but Danvers could fill that in. Then, German tank-carrier Sassnitz sunk in position – Danvers again, co-ordinates and time – after leaving Castellammare northbound in ballast with destroyer escort. Then – as always – time of origin, zone time and date. He slid the pad along: ‘Fix that up, Pilot, have Lazenby bung it out when we surface.’
‘Aye, sir …’
His slightly surprised, pleased look was reflected in other faces. The more or less casual reference to surfacing would be one heartening ingredient, and the intention of returning right away to Malta another. He’d mentioned having only one fish left as the reason for that unilateral decision. Well – proposal – Shrimp would stop you in your tracks if starting back immediately raised problems. If Swordsman for instance might be passing through the mines at anything like the same time, or some other boat making the passage eastward. But to stay on patrol with only one fish wouldn’t make much sense: he’d only saved that one, using three instead of four on the Sassnitz: this way you weren’t completely toothless, were still capable of drawing blood if that was how things went.
He asked Fraser: ‘Well?’
‘Same, sir. Fading on green one-five-five.’
‘Fading. Isn’t that nice.’ General agreement, laughter masking relief – and an easing of cramped positions. Another answer he might have given Ann that afternoon in Falkirk, he thought, would have been ‘We do our best not to have charges dropped on us, you see.’
10
Lazaretto then, a few days later, Mike facing Shrimp across the desk in his newly tunnelled-out office, half an hour after parking Ursa out there in the creek between mooring-buoys. He’d surfaced and announced himself to the signal station within minutes of the time Danvers had given as their ETA – not all that astounding an achievement, in point of fact, but satisfying in its way – at any rate to Danvers. And of course Shrimp had been there to welcome them, making a somewhat hazardous transit of the floating brow before the boat was properly secured, boarding athletically to shake Mike’s hand and congratulate him and all the rest of them, admire the now even more crowded Jolly Roger – which Maltese in dghaisas and on a harbour ferry had already cheered. Ursa then with her casing party lined up fore and aft, White Ensign as well as Roger flying, motoring in past the head of Sliema Creek and Fort Manoel with the mid-afternoon sun already lowering itself a little over Floriana. The Malts’ fierce enthusiasm was always heartening: Shrimp’s approbation of course rather more so.
Even a sad Shrimp’s – as he was now. Ultra having failed to respond to her recall from patrol. Jimmy Ruck’s billet had been in the southern approaches to Messina; on his third day he’d reported having sunk an Italian submarine, and since then nothing, no acknowledgement of the twice-repeated call. Shrimp growling to Mike on their way ashore over the floating walkway, ‘One of the best.’ Stony-faced: anger in it as much as sadness. ‘Or say more of the best.’
But at his desk now, eyes narrowed against the smoke of his cigarette, and swiftly totting up figures on a sheet of signal-pad. Immaculate in his whites – Mike somewhat less so in seagoing khaki – cocking an eyebrow as he underscored his total. ‘Looks like 63,750, Michael.’
Mike had got the same result in a spasm of instant calculation four days ago, within minutes of sinking the Sassnitz. Which, Shrimp had reminded them all, in the course of his visit on board, had been the only transport capable of embarking and discharging Tiger battle-tanks that the enemy had possessed, since the mining of her sister-ship the Ankara; the Wops would have been sweating blood to get her out of that dockyard and back into service. He’d asked Mike a minute ago whether he realised what Ursa’s score was now – ‘score’ meaning tonnage sunk, and Mike looking vague, or trying to …
‘Must be getting on for – well, crikey –’
‘It was 40,750 when you sailed. Add 14,000 for the Alessandria and nine for the Sassnitz?’
‘Be damned …’
‘Puts you top of the heap, Michael.’
Long breath. Then: ‘If Jimmy Ruck hadn’t bought it –’
‘He’d still have been marginally ahead. Yes. But – fact remains, a highly effective patrol – despite nothing coming your way from the convoy operation.’ Stubbing out the remains of that cigarette: he was more or less chain-smoking, Mike had noticed. ‘Except the cruiser you made a present of to your friend Melhuish, eh?’
Friend …
Slightly over the top – in all the circumstances. But hardly explainable or contestable: so go with it, at least let it go – if that was the impression Charles had given, which presumably it had been. He shrugged, admitted, ‘I ballsed that up, all right. Stroke of luck you had him there as longstop.’
‘Disappointing for you at the time, obviously, but hardly a balls-up. More of a toss-up. As it was for us here, of course. And a cracking good start for Melhuish. I’ve sent him to have a go at railway tunnels in the vicinity of Taormina, by the way. Unsung like Unbroken being blessed with a three-inch gun with proper sights on it – let him get his eye in on that – and an inshore reconnaissance of Cape Molini on his way back. But – on the subject of this recent convoy operation, Michael – you’ll have heard a few broadcasts –’
‘Very little, except –’
‘We lost nine merchantmen out of fourteen. Also a carrier – Eagle – and two cruisers – sunk, that is. Brought in four freighters and a tanker – the Ohio, who did bloody marvellously to get through – well, they all did. I’m not sure you’d have realised – but you must have, Gravy wasn’t exactly keeping it to himself, was he – how close to the edge we were? We’d darn near had it – food stocks for a week or thereabouts – and thanks to the five who made it we’re good for a month now – huh?’
‘But nine cargoes lost, as well as –’
‘– as well as an aircraft carrier and two cruisers sunk, two others torpedoed, a destroyer sunk.’ Shrimp’s look and tone were grim.‘Eagle was hit by all four of one salvo of torpedoes, sank in eight minutes. Victorious was hit – bomb, big one – but her armoured flight-deck saved her, and Indomitable had her flight-deck so ploughed up her aircraft had to land on Victorious. Furious had flown her load of Spitfires off to join us here – twenty-nine arrived, I think out of thirty-six. The convoy had very little air-cover left to them by the time they were changing formation for the Skerki Channel, and of course the bastards made a meal of it. E-boats in it too then – from Pantellaria, I’d guess – cruisers Cairo and Nigeria hit by U-boats – those were the convoy’s fighter-direction ships, what’s more – and E-boats or Mas-boats got Manch
ester – she had to be sunk next day – and E-boats got another four or five of the merchantmen. Others at about that stage in highly co-ordinated air attacks – 88s, Stukas, Savoias –’
‘The lot.’
Shrimp nodded. ‘But late in the day, from their point of view. Hence the size of that effort, Michael. Frantic effort, might call it. If they’d kept up the pressure back in April – or been allowed to – and invaded, used their fleet –’
‘I remember you were sure they would.’
‘Damn fools not to. As by this time they must realise. Anyway – in the Narrows, about the height of it – well, the Ohio got a real pasting, but kept going – and a few more were sunk. I think apart from the Ohio only the Brisbane Star survived that stage. Kenya was hit – torpedoed, but held on …’ Shrimp’s hands moved: ‘Only bits and pieces this, as I’ve picked it up, but it gives you the broad picture. The Ohio must have come in for it again – stopped, dead-in-the-water for a while – the Rochester Castle set on fire and the Dorset stopped – so down to three then, and they had the good fortune to find some of our short-range Spits over them by midday or thereabouts. Those being – oh, the Port Chalmers, Melbourne Star, and the burning Rochester Castle. The Ohio damn near foundering, but under way again – under tow, nursed in by the destroyers Penn and Robust and two sweepers. And the Brisbane Star got in on her own a few hours later. Just those five, out of your fourteen starters.’
‘Without any surface-ship intervention at all, all that.’
‘None. Consequently this flotilla didn’t get a look in. Except through just being here, which may have been something of a deterrent. I had nine boats out there, and not a sausage – except that cruiser. Don’t like to risk their own ships if they can help it, do they. Plain fact though, Michael, getting those five in has saved us. If they hadn’t made it we’d have been done for, starved into surrender of the island, lost our base – and thanks to them we haven’t. All right, there’ll have to be another convoy pretty soon; not out of the woods yet, only seeing daylight through the trees – at long last.’
‘“Pedestal”’s rated a success, meanwhile.’
‘As it bloody well should be. Just some of ’em getting through makes it so. Huge cost, sure – that’s simply to be expected, accepted. As it always has been, if you think about it.’ Glancing at his watch, the second time in a minute. Mike put in, ‘Changing the subject slightly, if I may –’
‘Long as it’s quick. I’ve two boats sailing this evening. Dean’s and Grogan’s.’ Pushing his chair back, Mike asking as he followed suit, ‘Torpedo situation, sir – only wondering how that is now.’
‘Better than it was, thank God. Mark VIIIs, too. Yes, that is looking better. During “Pedestal” we had no less than three deliveries – Otus, Rorqual and Clyde. Torpedoes, ammunition and high octane in their ballast tanks. One thing “Pedestal” confirmed, incidentally, was aviation spirit can’t be brought through in surface ships. Ohio only made it by the skin of her teeth, and she’s scrap-iron now. But as for Ursa’s future now, Michael – barring emergencies you can expect a week or ten days’ rest. Only had about ten minutes in last time, didn’t you. Then probably – for your private info at this stage – a special operation, which to be frank I don’t much care for, stunt dreamt up by the Staff in Alex. I’m not what you’d call consulted, only told to lay it on.’ One hand on the door, but holding it shut while adding quietly, ‘Commando jaunt. Not our own gang either, the intention’s to fly in a bunch from Ismailia. As usual, a bugger’s rush – on the face of it with good reason, but – look, we’ll talk tomorrow. More than just that to talk about, as it happens.’
Heading for the wardroom, to pick up whatever mail there might be, with this lingering image of old Shrimp mastering a sadness to which by this time he was no stranger. He’d said to Mike once, in the course of an evening about half a year ago that had had something in common with a wake, ‘Times like these, mine’s a foul job. Best chaps ever left the womb – and all of us knowing the bloody odds …’ Shake of the head – dog coming out of water, shaking it off – ‘Had one too many, Michael, getting bloody maudlin …’ But thinking also about this Special Op – landing commandos, and not the 10th Flotilla’s, Shrimp’s private army of one officer and however many other ranks it consisted of now, who most of the time were kept kicking their heels with damn-all to do except help in reconstruction, bomb damage etc., and naturally didn’t look with much favour on others being sent in to do jobs they were here for. Which had happened a few times because there was a commando training establishment at Ismailia – down-Canal from Port Said, and first right – turning out canoeists and other cut-throats briefed in the latest tactics and equipment; Staff planners liked to employ them, rather than the old hands one had here.
Mike, like Shrimp, wasn’t all that keen on Special Ops. Especially not on stunts dreamt-up by Staff the best part of a thousand miles away.
‘Oh, hello there …’
Frank Dean – whom Shrimp had mentioned as sailing for patrol this evening. Red-headed, pale-skinned, mid-twenties, one of the newer COs. Shaking hands: ‘Heard you were in – and some patrol, uh? Darned great oiler and a tank-transport?’
‘They came along, Frank, that’s all. Pure luck, nothing else – except the fish ran straight. Where you off to this time?’
‘Kerkennah Banks, thereabouts. Not my favourite billet, but there you are.’
Tunisian coast – Sfax, Gabès, approaches from the north and northwest to Tripoli. Mike nodded. ‘Good luck, anyway.’ He’d never much liked those shallows, especially the Kerkennah end of it. ‘Off at dusk, are you?’
Heading for Ursa’s mail slot; Dean accompanying him across the cavern-like wardroom, apparently to check the contents of his own – getting there first and extracting a message slip which by the look of him he wasn’t too happy with. Telephone message, probably. While Mike was finding precisely nothing – pigeon-hole empty, nothing in it for him or for anyone else. Repeating to Dean, ‘Very best of luck, Frank.’ There’d no doubt have been mail for McLeod and the others, one of whom must have nipped ashore for it while he’d been closeted with Shrimp. Would have left his, though – skimmed through whatever there was, and put his back. As he, being always first ashore, normally did with the others’ stuff. Someone might carelessly have taken his with the rest of it? Or asked Walburton to clear the box for them, for some reason. Mike had given his own letters to Walburton – including the much-thought-over reply to Ann’s last one, which he’d written during the return passage of the minefield, and the signalman as per routine would have delivered them with other homebound mail to the appropriate office here in Lazaretto.
McLeod would have sent Jarvis or Danvers to clear this box. All there was to it. Dean enquiring sympathetically, ‘No joy?’ Mike shrugged: ‘Box has been cleared, anyway.’ Plain truth being nothing from her: which might in fact have come as something of a relief, rather than this disappointment. While as for the others – hell, last time in he’d heard from the Old Man, you couldn’t expect him to spend all his time writing letters. He nodded to Dean, said again, ‘Good luck, Frank.’ Dean’s boat, Usurper, was alongside here at the steps, the ‘wardroom berth’, with ‘Groggy’ Grogan’s Urbane outside her, with the usual chaos – last-minute embarkation of stores etc. prevailing – and Guy Mottram here, presumably to see them off, whatever – accompanied by his own – Unbowed’s – first lieutenant, name of Brocklesby. Thin as a rake, freckled, expression of permanent amusement, Mottram about twice his height and girth. Mike stopped, put a hand out: ‘Guy.’
‘Mike. Heard about Jimmy Ruck, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’ Shake of the head: ‘Shrimp says no clue how or when. A mine, most likely … You were somewhere up that way, weren’t you?’
‘Crotone. Cape Colonne to Punta dell’Alice. Got back this forenoon.’ Making way for Brocklesby, who was boarding one of the boats alongside. Mike asking Mottram – change of subject, conventional enquiry – ‘Any luck this
time?’
‘Oh – started well enough.’ Shrug of the heavy shoulders. ‘Steamer loading at the chemical factory – from a certain bearing one could see funnel-tops and so forth, so I hung around and on day two she came out, deep-laden. Three and a half thousand tons, escort of Mas-boats and a Cant. I fired two fish, hit with one and she blew up. After which, having muddied the waters of course, damn-all for a week except trawlers and A/S schooners making nuisances of themselves. You had another good one, I’m told.’
‘Two good targets and no problems.’He changed the subject back to Ultra. ‘You know Jimmy’s wife, don’t you?’
‘Widow. Yes. I’ll write, of course. Saying God knows what that could make it any less bloody for her, mind you.’
‘Well – what a great chap he was, and we’re all devastated?’
‘Something original like that.’ A shrug. ‘Plain truth, for sure, but –’
‘Guy – she’s alone, bereft, and you’re a chum of long standing … Look, why not tell her you’re writing for the whole crowd of us?’
‘Yes. Yes, not a bad idea …’
Ultra’s record on the flotilla scoreboard was still open-ended, hadn’t been ruled off yet. Ruck had sunk a hell of a lot though, the little thumbnail sketches of his kills in the numbered columns of patrols, starting a few months before Ursa had joined the flotilla and ending with his one-from-last, one of only two in which he hadn’t scored. This final one would have an inch-long U-boat’s silhouette pencilled into it: then the ruling-off. Mike didn’t look at Ursa’s, for some reason. A mental crossing of the fingers? Leaving the board anyway. The big wardroom was already crowded, and looking around it he could have put names to nearly all the faces, only a few third and fourth hands of newly-arrived boats being as yet unfamiliar: and looking over the heads of nearer groups towards the centre, the massive stone fireplace which was the customary gathering-point for COs and senior base staff – Shrimp not there as yet but his deputy Chris Hutchinson, Commander (Submarines), who’d recently taken over from Hubert Marsham – and who as CO of Truant in the spring of 1940 had sunk the German cruiser Karlsruhe, in the Skaggerak – was chatting with Guy Mottram, Jack Brodie of Unslaked and old Pop Giddings, who ran the Manoel Island farm.
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