Shrimp’s conference with the commandos being set for ten-thirty, Mike left the base at ten, crossing as usual by the flotilla’s attendant dghaisa and finding himself within easy distance of the Lascaris headquarters with ten or twelve minutes to spare. Brief visit therefore, rather than sit waiting in that outer office, to the Barracca, where one week ago his telling Abigail she’d done enough crying had somehow worked the miracle, certainly added a new dimension to his own life.
Grand Harbour itself had a sombre look this morning, the warmly oppressive wind and heavy overcast dulling and stirring up water that had previously mirrored the surrounding bulk of stone ramps, galleries and bastions built four hundred years ago by the Knights of St John of Jerusalem; the harbour was defended by them under the leadership of Jean Parisot de la Valette against ten times their own number of invading Turks under Suleiman the Magnificent in cahoots with the equally savage Algerian corsair Dragut Reis, in what was generally held to have been the bloodiest siege in history – in the course of it, for instance, the heads of prisoners being used as cannonballs. And Fort St Elmo falling to the Turks, de la Valette fighting on from Fort St Angelo across the water there, where today Wrens in their coarse black stockings manned typewriters and answered telephones.
But Abigail precisely here, one week ago exactly. Hardly knowing her, at that stage: more acquaintance then than friend – let alone lover, for Pete’s sake. And yet none of it surprising – neither Maddalena Bay, nor yesterday, when after a cold lunch they’d basked for a while on the Lido rocks and then been driven by Gravy in his Morris to the flat which was in a house near the bottom of South Street, aka Strada Mezzodi. Abbie throwing garments into cupboards and Mike poking through a couple of shelves of books, while Gravy stalked around offering help, pausing at Abigail’s narrow windows to admire the views of flat stone roofs and streets like caverns, and the two of them doing their best to disguise their longing for this extremely kind, generous and impressively efficient man to finish his fourth or fifth cigarette and push off.
Later then – just a little later – his own voice asking, ‘What’s happening to us, Abbie?’ and her sleepy answer, ‘Don’t you know?’
* * *
In the Lascaris submarine office Mike shook hands with the two soldiers – Ormrod with major’s crowns on the shoulders of his khaki shirt, a dark, wiry-looking man of about his own age and size, and Haigh who was shorter, square-built, already balding. Also present as well as Shrimp himself were Johnno Broadbent the flotilla’s comparatively new Staff Officer Operations, and Shrimp’s paymaster-midshipman, who’d be taking notes. Performing introductions, Shrimp had told Ormrod, ‘Nicholson is skipper of the submarine Ursa, also responsible for the outline scheme I gave you.’
‘Sound stuff too, sir, usefully informative for us, we’ve been reconsidering some details of our own programme in the light of it.’ To Mike then: ‘Not that there’s room for much variation – once you’ve put us ashore, you know?’
‘I’d imagine not. The object was to give ourselves as well as you some idea of special problems we might be up against. I hope I’m wrong, but it still looks decidedly touch-and-go to me, one way and another.’
‘From your point of view, or ours?’
‘Oh, yours.’
Shrimp cut in with ‘Let’s sit.’A wave of one broad, stubby hand. A pongo each side of him, Mike on the other side of Ormrod and facing Haigh. Shrimp setting things going by asking Ormrod, ‘Any comments on the proposed launching points and/or times?’
‘Not really, sir. Agreeing the Gela set-down that far east of target, in fact, is the main one of your proposals we’re accepting as making better sense, one way and another, than landing closer to the target as we’d proposed. Ditto times of launching, since obviously you can’t surface close inshore before it’s good and dark. Depending on weather to some extent, but near enough 2200 hours in all instances, give or take fifteen minutes, say. Weather prospects don’t look too great at the moment, do they?’
‘At this time of year it’s a toss-up anyway. Not all that far into September yet, I know, but the end of August’s as often as not a time for change. In this central basin anyway. This sirocco doesn’t have to worry us too much – could be as flat as a pond tomorrow or the day after. But if it’s looking bad or doubtful when the whistle blows, I’d suggest departures as scheduled, decisions whether to go ahead or abort at the latest possible time, which would be a little after sunset on Dog minus two.’
‘Just short of the launch points.’
‘Yes. Two days before the assaults as scheduled.’ Shrimp explaining this mainly for the note-taking midshipman’s benefit, Mike realised. At the same time he’d given himself a cigarette and pushed the tin of Senior Service in Ormrod’s direction. Continuing the explanation: ‘D-day, D for Dog, Dog-day, meaning the day of the assault. In our own outline we’d guessed at that starting in the small hours, on previous form usually something like 0200, but in the light of your presentation, action commencing the day before at 2300 – which therefore becomes Dog-day, the assault actually finishing in the small hours of Dog plus one – giving you several additional dark hours for disengagement and holing up again.’ He asked Ormrod, ‘Am I reading it correctly?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
Mike nodded too: the snotty had also indicated comprehension. Broadbent, SOO, had been jotting down notes which he now ran over as a nutshell summary: ‘Dog minus one to Dog plus two, as far as Gela and Comiso are concerned: Dog minus two, submarines move inshore for float-off at 2200, commandos hide canoes and set off for lie-up positions. Dog-day minus one, teams attack at 2300, completing the assaults at about 0200 on Dog-day, when they return to hides and lie-up until dark, start out then for return to beach – Dog plus one – pushing off at about 0300 for R/V positions, submarines standing by to recover them between 0300 and 0400.’
‘All right.’ Shrimp had allowed a pause for any comments, returned now to the bad-weather question. ‘And the final decision whether to proceed or abort will be made by 2100 Dog minus two. Earlier perhaps if conditions are obviously unsuitable. Right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Broadbent again, marking his own schedule. ‘An hour before float-off.’
Ormrod didn’t like it. ‘Better make it earlier than that. 2000, latest. We have to get the boats and gear ready and ourselves kitted up, weaponry checked, so forth. Don’t want a bugger’s rush at the last minute, and I’d sooner not start until I know I’m going through with it.’
Shrimp agreed. ‘Deadline 2000 Dog minus two, then.’
‘The decision being yours, sir, and applying to all three teams?’
‘Of course. The signal – mine – will be addressed to submarines under my command. What would you expect, Major?’
He looked surprised at having been asked the question. Ormrod shook his head. ‘Point taken, sir. Only to have it cut and dried.’ Mike put in, ‘But in our orders, sir, I imagine you’ll be calling for a weather report at some slightly earlier stage?’
‘Yes. That is, if there’s any doubt about it. If there isn’t, as touch wood might be the case, we can do without any of that. Next point now – question of which boats for which targets. The obvious choice for Catania, since an S-class is faster than a “U”, is Swordsman – Lieutenant Dan S. Gerahty, who as it happens returns from patrol this evening. Distances and boats’ speeds, incidentally, are noted in Nicholson’s screed there. All right?’
‘Your choice entirely, sir. But you’re for Swordsman, Fergus.’ Ormrod explained, ‘There are factors which tie him to the Catania job, sir. And one aspect of it I’d guess you’ll like is that his team won’t be looking for a pick-up. When she’s put them ashore – not exactly where you suggested, but pretty close – you might have the submarine hang around for a few hours in case of disaster of some kind – we could agree an emergency rendezvous position just short of first light, perhaps. But otherwise she could simply buzz off home.’
‘What happens to Haigh’s
party, then?’
Ormrod was stubbing out a cigarette. He smiled at Mike. ‘Good question, but no easy answer except they’ve other tasks. Might say they simply fade into the wild blue yonder.’
Haigh grinned. ‘Vanish singing “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when” –’
Shrimp observed, ‘Might be all right if you could sing it in Italian. But the other two boats now, for Gela and Comiso – any thoughts, Major?’
‘Well – I’m opting for Comiso, myself. Originally because it looked like a tall order, that distance inland. Now of course Gela’s also a long haul – more straightforward on the face of it, they have a coastline to follow whereas we’ve got to dodge around Ragusa. But that’s it – me Comiso, Billy Flood Gela.’
More notes were being made. Mike suggested to Shrimp, ‘I’ll take Major Ormrod and his team in Ursa – if that’s all right, sir.’
‘All right with you, Major?’
‘Very much so.’ A nod to Mike. ‘Thank you.’ To Shrimp then: ‘Leaves Billy Flood – Captain, Welsh Fusiliers – for Gela.’
‘And he –’ Shrimp put his hand on a clip of signals – ‘is due here some time tomorrow, was it?’
Ormrod nodded. ‘With a staff sergeant by name of Hazlett and half a dozen Royal Marines plus weaponry and explosives. And the third detachment – which needs to be pretty close on their heels, incidentally – consists of an RM colour sergeant and the rest of them with all our canoes. Wednesday at the latest, I’d guess. Colour Sergeant Gant RM is my own number two in the Comiso team. We’ll meet both those parties though, and settle them in at Ghain Tuffieha with all their gear – and their own rations for consumption here, by the way, as well as iron rations for use later.’
Mike said, ‘And RAF transport in attendance, we were told. So all we have to do is be ready to receive them on board the submarines an hour or so before departure – whenever that’s to be.’
Broadbent added, ‘Better not be before Thursday – huh? With your third detachment still to come?’
‘But both lots might be touching down tomorrow. And as long as your chaps are ready for us –’ Ormrod, telling Shrimp this – ‘we’re fast on our feet, you’ll find.’
‘I’ll ask Cairo when we can expect them, anyway.’ Shrimp made another note. ‘Otherwise, I think that’s covered the broad essentials, don’t you? We’ll meet again when your man Flood’s here, and bring Gerahty and Melhuish into it.’ He assured Haigh, ‘Gerahty’s a very sound man, you’ll find.’
‘I’m sure, sir.’
Ormrod waited a moment before asking, ‘And Melhuish?’
‘Oh, Flood ’ll find himself in good hands. Charles Melhuish is fairly new as a CO but an experienced submariner.’
‘The name’s familiar, somehow.’
‘Mid.’ Shrimp addressing the young paymaster: ‘Tell Janet we’d like coffee, will you?’
That evening there was a telegram from his father congratulating him on the promotion – Blooming marvellous, Michael lad, and so say all of us!
By now, Mike thought, he might have had the second instalment, news of an early homecoming. Might get another few lines away to him before ‘Backlash’ – at least let him know I’ve had this wire.
15
For ‘Dog-day’ now read Saturday. You could forget the ‘Dog’ stuff, which was really only useful in the planning stages, like an x, y or z in an algebraic equation, and start calling days by their proper names. This now was Thursday. Shrimp had received the news last night, Wednesday, the duty officer at Lascaris getting it from the Naval Cipher Office in a sealed envelope marked Top Secret and stamped ‘By Hand of Officer’, sending it on here to Lazaretto by hand of Eleanor Kingsley, 3rd Officer WRNS; Shrimp receiving it and her in his office, inviting her to sit down and smoke a cigarette while he perused the signal and then sent for Mike. Eleanor in fact knew Shrimp and Lazaretto well, working as she did in the Joint Services HQ and often visiting for one purpose or another, not to mention Jamie McLeod being one of her boyfriends – possibly even her main one, at any rate when Ursa was between patrols. She was a redhead with an elegantly long, slim neck and slanty eyes. Mike, anyway, having studied the signal and conferred briefly with Shrimp, had suggested that McLeod – with whom he’d been talking in the wardroom on the subject of things to be done in the next day or two – would be the man to escort her back to wherever she’d be heading now – the Lascaris fortress or the Wrennery – and when they’d gone he and Shrimp had discussed Operation Backlash as it looked now with dates on it.
Ursa’s domestic plans were reasonably well in hand – McLeod’s, as discussed earlier in the evening and amended slightly just minutes ago, the list headed now with getting the port watch back from Mellieha right away. This in fact had been initiated, by telephone. Then, arrange to store ship, and top up fresh-water tanks. Bunkers were OK – had fuelled on Monday and not used any since. Battery-charge – again, McLeod’s job, all day Friday, standing charge both sides, in order to sail with the box right up. And check with Ormrod whether he’d like to embark his gear – especially canoes – tonight, Thursday. He probably would, Mike thought – and in that case he’d better leave a couple of his own men on board to keep an eye on it all, especially weaponry and bombs. It would make things easier on Friday to have that done. The commandos were taking two varieties of bomb with them, Ormrod had told him, ‘little buggers’ for attaching to aircraft propellers, quicker and easier to fix as well as more effectively destructive than the charges they’d used to set on wings or fuselages, and small enough to carry in fair quantity; and heavier, much more powerful jobs they called ‘thermos’ that were for use against airfield targets such as fuel storage, bomb dumps and the generators that powered floodlights illuminating perimeters and runways. Ideally you’d get these planted with their time-fuses already fizzing before starting on the lines of parked 88s and 87s, very large explosions and sheets of flame not only wrecking the whole place shortly afterwards but also throwing Wop guards on the field into some degree of panic, with luck distracting them from whatever you were doing by that time.
‘Guards among the aircraft?’
‘As often as not two to each ’plane. And we work in pairs, usually. One clipping time-fused tiddlers on to props and the other using a Sten and/or whatever else to discourage interference. Number One of each pair has that job as his speciality – to shoot or stab any Wop they’re faced with. Grenades for groups of them of course – although that can have its problems. Speed and a fair degree of athleticism’s the guts of it, really. And confidence – knowing you can do it and get away with it.’
‘Because you have done.’
‘Well, yes. Not always with the desired smoothness and celerity, but –’
‘Got away with it.’
‘By hook or by crook, you know?’
‘Fascinating. Not quite as fascinating as your last revelation, mind you –’
A laugh, shake of the head … ‘That, really …’
He’d asked him to forget it. Having enquired – a day or two ago – rubber-necking in Valetta, Mike having time to kill before Abigail could rendezvous with him at her flat, Ormrod also at a loose end – Tuesday afternoon, it must have been – ‘Is your man Melhuish married, by any chance?’
‘Melhuish?’ He’d been thinking about Abbie, naturally enough; came abruptly down to this much less attractive subject. ‘Yes, he is. Why?’
‘I may have known his wife. You ever meet her?’
Sharp glance: subject gaining interest. ‘Several times.’
‘And?’
‘Startlingly attractive.’
A nod: ‘Getting warm. For “startlingly” might one substitute “compulsively”?’
‘As a matter of fact, one could envisage –’
‘Not by any chance called Ann without an “e” on it?’
‘I’ll be damned.’ They’d both stopped: on Palace Square, where what had been the Grand Master’s Palace faced another ancien
t and impresssive pile known as the Main Guard. Mike asking, ‘Are you honestly saying you – well, obviously you know her –’
‘Knew. Unless there’s another one of that name – absolute dish, and – well, in and around Edinburgh mostly, several years ago, when her name was Ann Morton.’
‘“Irresistible” being your word for her, you didn’t just know her, you –’
‘I’d have married her like a shot. Parents wouldn’t have stood for it, though. Hers, I mean. Money was the main problem – my lack of it, nothing except my pay. But – we had a training base on the west coast and another on the Clyde, one got moved around a bit, buzzed off to Norway at one stage, things like that – but several leaves in Edinburgh, and there was a pub up near Fort William – well, crikey –’
He’d stopped. ‘Forget I mentioned her?’
‘Off her own bat, would she have married you?’
‘I thought I had a chance, if I stuck to my guns. But there you are, parents felt otherwise. Dreary people, I can tell you; frankly, pompous arseholes. And then out of the blue, damn it, doesn’t she write to me saying more or less look here, piss off – in a nice, regretful way, you know, and a week or two later some people I knew in Edinburgh sent me this cutting, “Engagement announced and marriage shortly to take place between Ann Penelope, daughter of these Morton turds, to some submariner name of Melhuish”.’
‘Who happened – happens – to be rich.’
‘Well, I heard that!’
‘His father owns hotels.’
‘In fact I dare say I’m well out of it. The money angle for one thing, but worse still – well, imagine being stuck out here, and a wife back home who looks like she does – and to be perfectly frank acts like she does … I mean, out of this bloody world, but –’
‘She’s in London.’
‘Yeah, well, there you are – London …’
‘Jim, hang on a minute. Changing the subject rather more than slightly – that marble plaque there? Commemorates Malta voluntarily joining the British Empire – 1815, thereabouts. Napoleon had installed a garrison, Malts didn’t like them, asked for our help and got it – actually from Nelson, just after the Nile.’
Submariner (2008) Page 24