by David Black
His other thoughts were, By God it’s hot, and, There better not be an effing dress code up here. The sun’s glare was already hurting his eyes and he was squinting, so he didn’t see the jeep sitting at the bottom of Maidstone’s gangway until he’d practically walked into it, or that Farrar and Harding were sitting in it.
‘We’d like to buy you a drink, sir,’ said Harding, stepping out and offering Harry the passenger seat. Usually it wasn’t done for a captain to go carousing with his officers. Harry squinted.
‘I know,’ said Farrar, not bothering to specify what he knew, seeing as everybody knew already. ‘But it’s a nice day, and we think you could do with a drink, with a couple of friendly faces.’
‘Am I going to get caught riding in stolen property?’ asked Harry.
His two officers laughed. ‘No, sir,’ said Harding. ‘It belongs to Eighth Flotilla’s wardroom. They “bought” it off some Yank anti-aircraft battery for considerations, unspecified. We’re just borrowing it.’
Harry swung into the seat. ‘Champagne,’ he said. ‘I feel like champagne. Enough to kill a large furry animal.’
Their venue was a beach club that looked like it hadn’t long re-opened, in the shade of a 15th century ruin called Fort de l’Eau. The club was nearly all terrace, overlooking a long shallow bay with white sand and a deep blue Med beyond. It was all trellis frames woven with wisteria for shade, with shifty-looking Arab men in white patrol jackets darting everywhere, balancing trays heavy with drink and food. All the clientele were officers, mostly British First Army, but some Yanks too. All were immaculate in crisp uniforms, shirts and ties, and creases in their trousers. Harry and his officers, who were in the same state of deshabille as their captain, drew a lot of funny looks when they walked in.
None of them noticed the sniffy sneers as they threaded through the terrace, or heard the low voice from over their shoulders, ‘…bloody submariners. Bloody Navy lets them away with it you know, scruffs and tramps. Ten minutes with my RSM, that’d it sort them out.’
They were a bottle of champagne in when a lot of noise and dust erupted outside the club’s front gate. From where they were sitting, Harding could just see the road.
‘It’s a couple of scout cars,’ he said, ‘and a Chevvy signals truck,’ he said.
A group of men came shambling out onto the terrace. At first it wasn’t apparent they were even soldiers, let alone officers. It was only because all of them had side arms on their hips and sand goggles round their necks, and one of them was wearing a battledress jacket and a beret that gave them the benefit of the doubt. That and the bags of swank they had about them.
The one who looked to be the oldest was just in a grey pullover, green corduroy trousers and a pair of desert boots. All of their grime-rimmed faces were the colour of old furniture, and they all walked like they were absolutely full of it.
It wasn’t until they’d ambled right into the middle of the terrace, looking about them like they owned the joint, that Harry saw the Army patches on the battledress – the white shield with the gold cross – that he realised who they were looking at.
Eighth Army. The legends – in the flesh. Fresh from chasing Hitler’s greatest general non-stop for sixteen hundred miles, all the way from El Alamein to Tunis, and here they were strutting like they didn’t care who knew it.
The other clientele were staring with various expressions of disapproval at these total scruffs in their midst, but not even the two or three senior officers at other tables stood to challenge them, for the other thing about these men was that they all looked extremely dangerous. Yep, this was Eighth Army all right. The first, and so far the only Allied army to go toe-to-toe with Jerry and win. And not just win, but kick seven shades of shite out him. Ask Rommel.
‘What are Eighth Army doing this far west?’ asked Farrar.
The terrace was packed, and the men were looking for seats. The only seats available however, were at Harry’s table. The three sailors were grinning at each other, enjoying the floor show. Harding said, ‘A signals unit. Probably doing some liaison nonsense.’ He stood up and waved, ‘Seats here chaps!’ And he winked at Harry as he sat down again.
Green corduroys squinted and walked over, eyeing up the three Royal Navy officers slouched round their champagne bucket. It was only when he got close you could see the grey flecks in the sun-bleached hair, and the little wire glasses on the end of his nose, which he was frowning over.
‘Do your mothers know you go out dressed like that?’ he said in a deep, raspy and very pukka voice, and followed it with a tut. ‘Ruffians. What’s the Senior Service coming to …’
Harry stood up, trying not to laugh, ‘Lieutenant Harry Gilmour, of His Majesty’s Submarine Scourge,’ he said holding out his hand.
Green corduroy squinted even harder, if that were possible, ‘Major Gussie Tutton, 9th Lancers. Did you say submarines?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry, ‘Allow me to present my officers …’
‘Your officers?’ said Major Gussie.
‘Yes, sir. I’m Scourge’s captain.’
‘Fuck me,’ he said, eyes arched in incredulity. ‘But you’re only twelve!’ Then he turned to his pals. ‘On me, we’re amongst friends here!’ He said, and he raised his arm and waved the group over.
‘We like submariners in Eighth Army,’ said Major Gussie, as the group decisively made themselves at home. ‘Monty’s never done telling us how you keep sinking all Rommel’s sweeties, and at great personal risk to boot. Especially your chums on Malta. So you tell them that we are especially grateful.’
‘We are a Malta boat,’ said Harding. ‘Tenth Flotilla. We’re temporarily re-assigned here for being excessively reckless.’
Major Gussie fixed all three naval officers with a grim resolution in his eyes, and without taking those eyes off them, called over his shoulder, ‘Rory! I think we’ve found the very occasion we’ve been looking for. Go and get it.’
Seconds later Rory came striding back, and thumped down onto the table a 40oz bottle of 15-year-old Glenlivet single malt whisky.
The afternoon wore on, most agreeably, and the conversation ranged far and wide.
‘You’d never get me down on one of those tin cans,’ said Rory. ‘Why do you do it? Do they have to prod you down the hatches with cutlasses?’
‘We’re all volunteers,’ said Harding, with a blithe smile on his increasingly squinting face.
‘You jest, young man,’ said Major Gussie, putting his utter pukka on display once more.
‘Actually it’s a quiet life,’ said Harding to a few guffaws from their guests. But Harry suddenly found himself all ears, just as eager now to hear Harding’s take on life in the Trade as the soldiers were.
Everybody had their own theory about what could possibly possess a man to dive in a submarine, even amongst members of the Trade themselves. On the face of it, life on a submarine was nasty, claustrophobic, smelly and short. But for those who had actually lived it, Harry had long ago realised, the prospect of life in a blue suit anywhere else in the old Andrew was infinitely worse.
‘Well maybe not exactly quiet all the time,’ said Harding, making the concession, ‘but given that we’re all fighting a war, life’s not actually that dangerous, or unpleasant. Honest. Think about it.’
The soldiers did, but only for the most fleeting of seconds. ‘Your arse!’ said one, summing up the group’s thoughts.
‘Well, for a start,’ said Harding, ‘Unlike with you epic desert warriors, no-one is ever going to expect any great deeds of glory from us. All that’s asked of a submariner is that he turns up and does his job. No need for him to think about it too much. As far as the ordinary Jack is concerned he might as well be on an exercise in the Solent. Because the thing about submarines is, there’s only one bloke on board who actually does the war stuff … the fighting … who knows what’s actually happening and is actually expected to do anything. And that’s the skipper, because he’s the only one who can see out.
He’s the only one actually taking the risks, and all that’s required of the rest of us is to place our lives in his hands, and hope he knows what he’s doing. It’s all about trust. Admittedly that trust can sometimes start to look somewhat misplaced, especially when the depth charges start coming down. But that only happens if your skipper gets sloppy. Yes. Sloppy skippers are a risk.’
‘Rather a bloody horrible way to die, though,’ put in one of the other soldiers.
‘Is it?’ said Harding. ‘There’s only one really unpleasant way to go on a submarine, and that’s if salt water gets into your battery acid and you’re all suddenly breathing chlorine gas … but it’s never for long. And if you actually get sunk, what’s the worst that can happen to you? You either end up on the bottom, never to rise again – the carbon dioxide builds up, you go to sleep and don’t wake up – or if it’s in deep water, you go on sinking until you reach crush depth … your shipyard will tell you that’s four hundred feet, but in reality most boats won’t pop until they reach six or seven hundred feet. And when that happens you won’t know about it. Because you’ll have just been hit by three hundred and thirty-four point eight two tons of water pressure.’
‘You think a lot about this?’ asked Major Gussie, now thoroughly amused.
‘Me? Good grief no,’ said Harding. ‘But Jack does. Or rather he thinks about the alternative: life as a surface skimmer. In a submarine, you can dive and get out the way. Indeed, the business demands and expects it of you, to leg it and hide in the face of the enemy. Especially an enemy who’s out to get you. But you can’t on a ship. You just have to sit and take it. Dive bombers, shells from Eyetie cruisers, even torpedoes from the likes of us. You’ve got to remain at your station, resolute and true. Which can be unpleasant, as the thing you find out quick on a ship is: everything burns if the temperature is right. Including steel. And you. There’s flash burns, blast burns, burns from being trapped in a blazing compartment. Then there’s splinters. We’re not just talking shrapnel, but what happens when bits of your ship get blown off. Steel splinters can be bigger than you are, and they don’t just wing you in a mentionable place. They carry on right through at whatever angle they choose, leaving you lying on the deck with the Stukas all around and possibly a large section of you sliced away so you’re looking down at your own internal organs, all bluey, and pumping and pulsing, wondering when the shock is going to wear off and it’s really going to start to smart. Not pretty. Better off tip-toeing away under water, and living to fuck another day. Also, the food’s much better.’
Laughter. And Harry, listening, marvelling at the fact that every last word of what Harding had just said had been specifically accurate, and not remotely true. He found himself wondering whether his navigator was destined for a life in politics – if he survived the war.
Later, Harry asked about Monty.
‘He seems to be winning the war,’ offered Harry. ‘D’you all love him?’
This was greeted with sardonic laughter, then someone said, ‘I don’t know about you Rory, but I personally draw the line at heavy petting.’
‘Don’t be a silly bugger,’ Major Gussie told Harry. Then after a considered pause, he deigned to elaborate, ‘Monty? What do you want me to say? He’s a preposterous little prig …’ then he raised his eyes as if about to address heaven, ‘… but thank you dear God, for at last sending us one of those fuckers with general’s tabs up who at least knows what he’s supposed to be doing!’ Then he gave Harry a level look, ‘So, what can I say? We seem to be getting along fine, really. All-in-all, it’s been a bloody good show so far,’ and he lifted the Glenlivet. ‘Another jag, Captain?’
Nineteen
Harry was on Scourge’s bridge. There was a two-thirds moon, flicking in an out of high scudding clouds, so it was really quite easy to make out the all activity on the fore-casing as the boat lay hove-to on the short swell, about six miles off the French harbour at Port Vendres, just north of the Spanish border.
The French had a rudimentary blackout in force, although God alone knew why on this far-flung corner of the Mediterranean; on the neutral Spanish side of the border, the coastal lights blazed like the pre-war Blackpool illuminations.
But Harry wasn’t paying attention; he was going back again, in his head, to his last chat with Captain “the Bonny Boy” Bonalleck, like he was going back to scratch an itch. He was dimly aware of the pale shape of a figure standing below him like a ghost, until he realised it was one of the stokers, in a swimming costume, with only a Davis set covering his bare chest – the poor sod who’d lost the draw to be the diver for this escapade.
Harry wondered what the Bonny Boy would have thought of his new protégé’s latest exercise in belligerent inventiveness – for getting through the very active minefield that the Bonny Boy had himself so blithely dismissed.
The forward torpedo hatch was open, and Farrar was in charge of everything and right now that meant the two shiny cylinders sprouting welded fins at impossible angles coming up through the hole and being laid either side of the casing on the several coiled lengths of line arrayed there. Harry could only hear the orders being issued as a murmur, but knew what was going on; after all it had been his idea after the first attempt to get through the minefield had almost got them sunk.
He couldn’t quite see Farrar’s face, but he certainly looked in much better control of himself than when he and Harding had had to sneak him back aboard Scourge after their afternoon drinks with Eighth Army. What a wheeze, eh?
Getting the first lieutenant up Ellan Vannin’s gangway, across her decks and safely onto Scourge under the eyes of the depot ship’s officer of the watch and all the regulating petty officers, who would have lived off any tale of detaining a drunken Jimmy for the rest of their careers. At the time it had felt like they were conducting some desperate clandestine op; but to Harry looking back on it, it seemed more like a Three Stooges movie. Still, they got there in the end and those of Scourge’s crew who had been watching, hidden and tittering, did live off the tale of the escape of the drunken Jimmy for the rest of their careers.
It had been less than a week ago, a couple of days after their drunken escapade; the Bonny Boy had led him on a morning walk, up onto Ellan Vannin’s fo’c’sle, in among all the anchor chains and the windlasses and the huge hawsers securing her to the mole.
‘Let’s get out the way,’ he’d said. ‘Away from all the flapping ears.’
He’d wanted to talk about enemy blockade runners, particularly the ones coming up from Spain carrying bauxite for Jerry’s aluminium industry.
‘They sneak out of Spanish territorial waters disguised as safe-conduct ships,’ he’d elaborated. ‘Pretending to be one of those neutrals we let through because they’re carrying medical supplies and drugs and Red Cross parcels for our POWs. They head up the coast inside Spanish waters all lit up at night and flying neutral flags as big as boxing rings. Then the next thing you know, they’ve made the dash into Port Vendres and started unloading.’
He’d given Harry a potted history about the Royal Navy’s previous attempts to stop it, and how Vichy France had responded by laying minefields all along that short stretch of coast, deploying a destroyer flotilla and flying non-stop air patrols. Gibraltar had stopped sending submarines over two years ago, and the RAF never had the right aircraft types to spare for any sustained air campaign against the route. So Harry had guessed what was coming next.
‘We have intelligence now that storm and current has thinned out the minefields, considerably,’ said the Bonny Boy, turning to face him.
Here we go … the big pitch, Harry remembered thinking at the time.
‘I have a signal from C-in-C Mediterranean Fleet ordering Twelfth Flotilla to test the feasibility of resuming offensive operations against this blockade runner route,’ said the Bonny Boy. ‘It’ll be one submarine, and it’ll be a risky operation.’
He’d left it hanging for some time before he’d come at Harry again.
‘
You know, Napoleon never used to ask whether any of his generals were ever any good or not,’ he’d said. ‘Only whether they were lucky. You, Captain Gilmour are good, and lucky. And that’s why I’m asking you to undertake it.’
Harry remembered smirking to himself at “asking” – a Captain (S) never “asked”.
‘Go up there and test the water,’ his Captain (S) had continued, ‘and if it looks like it’s not going to work, don’t waste your boat or your crew. You’re too valuable, and no-one will think any the less of you. But remember this. This is a strategic mission. I’m not sending you out for just another tactical scrap with just another convoy. Jerry needs this bauxite to keep on fighting. That’s how important stopping it is.’
And so here he was, off Port Vendres, trying out the latest bright idea for ending the war quicker. With a lot on his mind.
Apparently, not only was he the Bonny Boy’s old war chum and shipmate now, he was also his chosen man. Yet this was never just going to be about negotiating minefields and anti-submarine patrols: this game had added features. Like, how it fitted with the Allies’ relationship with Vichy, not to mention how to handle the very close proximity of the neutral Spanish border, and who decided what was a neutral ship anyway. If ever an op cried out for a more experienced man, this was it. Yet here he was, Harry Gilmour; just a 23-year-old Wavy-Navy two-ringer with barely three years in a blue suit. From this distance, the Bonny Boy’s smiles all seemed to be paling, and he never felt more like he was being played.
There was a splash below him, and when he looked, the stoker in the swimming trunks was in the water, and leaning back to give the thumbs up. All Harry could see was the big rubber mouthpiece and the nose clips and goggles of his Davis gear, and then he was gone.