Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  *

  Towards the end of the meeting with Yale, his tone became reflective.

  ‘File note says you did well in Sicily last month,’ he said. ‘At that bridge.’

  ‘We took a lot of casualties. The drop didn’t go—’

  ‘I mean you personally. Word is you practically took the thing single-handed.’

  ‘Not true, sir, I can assure you.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Yale was studying the floor. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Well, it was, um, difficult, and very tough. The whole operation, I mean. We only had a third of our intended strength and the German response was very, um, vigorous.’

  ‘Much close-quarters fighting?’

  ‘Some, yes, but not as bad as Tunisia. Mostly it was about surviving the barrage. We had this COBU officer, Vere Hodge his name was, he saved—’

  ‘How do you feel about that? Killing at close quarters, I mean.’

  He didn’t know. He tried not to think about it. And certainly not ‘feel’ anything about it. And in the heat and smoke and fury of battle, the kick of the pistol, the flash of the blade, the sickening crack of a rifle butt against a man’s head didn’t register as real, or calculated, or pre-planned. It was simply an instantaneous reaction. Like a conditioned reflex. ‘It’s not easy to say.’

  ‘I would imagine.’

  ‘I think it’s best not to, you know, dwell on these things.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Yale nodded, then tapped the holster on his hip. ‘I’ve never fired this, you know. Not in anger anyway. Probably never will. I’m destined to fight my war in an office, rifling through files and shouting down telephones.’

  ‘Yes, but your work, the work of the SOE, well, it’s important, and complicated, and needs to be properly managed...’

  ‘So I’m told.’ Yale smiled. ‘Nor am I apologizing for it, you understand.’

  ‘No, sir. Sorry.’

  ‘But, you know, this training course.’

  ‘The SOE one.’

  ‘The thing is, Theodor, much of it will cover ground you’re already familiar with, from the training you did with 2 Commando, and 11 Special Air Service and the Paras for Colossus and Biting and so on.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But there are other things you’ll learn. To do with making difficult decisions, alone and on the spot. Life-or-death decisions even, sometimes. And that’s something I do know about. Making life-or-death decisions. Such as sending people to very dangerous places, knowing they might not come back. Knowing they might get caught. And executed, or worse. And you need to be clear about how you’ll handle these decisions. Clear in your own mind. Because they tend to be irrevocable.’

  ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘And you have to live with them for ever.’

  Hello Anders my boy!

  The governor got an address for you at your barracks at Bulford which is down Wiltshire way so I believe. Are you down there now or off gallivanting in France again? Maybe they’ll forward mail to wherever you are, like we used to in the mail office at the E. Surreys. A right chore that was too. How have you been, son? I’ve still got six months left on my ticket, but then home free thank the Lord as this place is driving me mad. Never again I tell you it’s the straight and narrow for old Vic from now on. Vi pops in regular and she told me how you brought some biscuits for her and a dolly for Nancy, which is why I’m writing, to thank you for that as it was really most decent of you. Also while you’re at it and seeing how you’re in regular employ with the King’s shilling and that! I wondered could you send me a money order or two, so that I could pass it on to Vi to buy shoes and so on for Nancy. Times are very hard what with my present predicament I’m sure you understand and this would count as a great favour to your old Dad. We’re only allowed to accept postal orders here strictly no cash or cheques, but that shouldn’t be a problem, just send the postal orders to me, V. Trickey, care of the Governor’s Office, HMP Wandsworth, London SW. Soon as you can, thanks a ton and all the best son.

  Sincerely

  Vic (Dad)

  He read through his mail again, sitting on his kitbag in the shade of a tent on the edge of camp. The sun was setting, the sinking air felt cool and calm at last after the day’s heat and noise. He wasn’t allowed to finish OCTU, not even the lecture on maps, nor was he allowed to speak to the other students or staff. His orders were to pack his belongings, tidy his affairs, make a will, pay his bills, write and post any mail, say nothing to anybody and wait to be picked up.

  He didn’t mind; the solitude seemed to cloak him like the evening calm. Although apprehensive for the future and fearful of the dangers it held, he felt the thrill of release, of being untied to pursue a purpose, as though falling free from a web of constraint and limit. And he sensed the predestiny of this mission, as though everything else had been preparation. Like a calling. Examining his life, and rereading his mail, he saw that he belonged nowhere and was responsible to no one, except perhaps his destiny, wherever that may lie. And that too was fine. Proper, even. A line of poetry came to him, from a lesson long ago in a secret classroom in Bolzano. ‘Fremd bin ich eingezogen, Fremd zieh’ ich wieder aus.’ A man called Müller had written it, Nikola had told them, and another called Schubert had set it to music. The story of a lonely man’s journey. ‘A stranger I arrived, and a stranger I depart...’

  The final letter awaited him. The one enclosed in Eleni’s envelope. More a large paper sheet than a letter, it was folded many times until small and tight and thoroughly bound with tape. It took him a while to open without damaging it.

  ... For my journey I may not choose the time;

  I must find my own way in this darkness,

  The moon’s shadow with me as my companion.

  Gradually the page opened and grew. It wasn’t a letter, it was a drawing, large and colourful, of a smiling man wearing khaki uniform, holding hands with a smaller figure, a blond-haired girl with a laughing mouth and green-spotted dress. In her free hand was a third figure, much smaller, a little doll with yellow plaits. Two words, in child’s writing, were written at the bottom of the page: ‘brother sister’.

  CHAPTER 11

  At dusk on 15 August 1943 the British T-Class submarine HMS Tribune slipped her moorings in Valetta’s Grand Harbour, passed the defensive boom and torpedo nets guarding its entrance, and nosed out to sea for the four-day journey from Malta to Barletta on Italy’s Adriatic coast. On board were her regular crew of fifty-six, plus four passengers. Conditions, in common with most wartime submarines, were cramped and claustrophobic, and the journey, though relatively short, was fraught with danger, requiring her to negotiate anti-submarine patrols, minefields and the narrow gap between Italy’s heel and Albania, before creeping 150 miles up the coast to her destination. That first night, with Tribune steaming at fourteen knots on the surface, her captain and first officer called the passengers to the wardroom for a briefing.

  ‘Welcome aboard, gents,’ the captain began, tugging a little curtain shut around them, ‘and sorry about the squash. Thankfully it won’t be for long.’ He eased himself behind the table. ‘I’m Sam Wood, Tribune’s captain, and this is my first officer Peter Scrivenor. He’ll be looking after you for the duration.’ There then followed a grim lecture from Scrivenor, who seemed disapproving of the passengers, during which he listed many procedures and instructions, amounting mainly to keeping out of the way, especially in emergencies, ‘when things can get bloody busy’. As guests of the captain, he told them, they would be based in the wardroom, which was little more than a curtained-off cupboard, and must remain there as much as possible, including for meals, so as not to distract from the smooth running of the ship. Social interaction with the crew was not encouraged: ‘The men have a job to do and need to stay on their toes.’ As for sleeping, two of the passengers would be allocated hammock space in the forward torpedo room, one somewhere aft, and Theo was to camp under the war
droom table. Amid some leg-pulling he stole a rueful glance: below the table the space was restricted and smelled of disinfectant but was clean enough. ‘We call it the dog kennel,’ Scrivenor joked without smiling. What he said next provoked even less mirth.

  ‘Air consumption, gentlemen, after enemy attack, is our single biggest problem.’ His fist was clenched, Theo noted, and lightly thumped the table for emphasis as he spoke. ‘In these waters we must stay submerged at all times during daylight. That amounts to sixteen hours at this time of year. T-Class subs are designed to stay under for a maximum twelve hours with a full crew; much more and the air becomes unbreathable. Our lads have learned to cope as needed, up to a point, but even so by the time we finally surface some of the older hands are struggling. And so will you...’

  Voices were heard passing beyond the curtain, from further off came the crackle of a radio, while Tribune’s hull hummed and vibrated from her diesel motors.

  ‘… especially as we now have four extra bodies aboard consuming our oxygen.’ Scrivenor looked round the table. ‘So the men would greatly appreciate it if you avoid exerting yourselves, lie down and relax as much as possible, and switch to breathing in slow time during the day.’

  ‘And how the hell do we do that?’ Theo’s neighbour muttered in Italian.

  ‘I think he’s pulling our leg,’ replied another.

  ‘He doesn’t look like it.’

  Later that night they were allowed up to the bridge one at a time to see the view. A strong draught buffeted him as Theo mounted the ladder – air being sucked down for the engines, he was told – then he was clambering past the hatch and up into the open. Narrow and curved with a waist-high coaming, the bridge was cramped and cluttered with tubes and wires and pipes and festooned with radio aerials. Two periscopes rose from a plinth in the middle, steps at the front led to a platform with a deck gun, while a smaller Bofors anti-aircraft gun was mounted at the back. Ahead the pencil-thin hull rose and fell to the swell, piercing the black waves and leaving a long V- shaped wake behind. The wind was moist and tangy, pleasantly refreshing after the stuffy interior. Four men with binoculars stood at each corner keeping watch, with Captain Wood moving among them.

  ‘Biggest risk at night is Jerry aircraft or E-boats,’ he said, scouring the horizon. ‘That and hitting a mine.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’ve lost a few like that lately.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Wood shrugged. ‘Goes with the job.’

  Well before dawn a klaxon sounded, the bridge was cleared, the hatch thumped shut, the diesel engines stopped, and the ballast tanks were blown of air with a rumbling sound like far-off thunder. Theo felt the bows tip down and, with only the distant whine of her electric motors for sound, Tribune slipped beneath the waves and made for the safety of the deep. Bedding down in his kennel as best he could with blankets and cushions, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  He awoke five hours later to the murmur of voices above. A watch was changing, officers arriving and departing the wardroom for food and rest. Soft-soled shoes surrounded the kennel; nobody paid him any attention, although someone kicking his leg did mutter an apology. Soon they were gone and he returned to sleeping. The next time he woke his head felt thick and heavy, as though from too much wine. Surfacing from the kennel he rubbed blearily at his neck, noting from the wardroom clock that it was still only noon. Another seven or eight hours remained, he estimated, before the hatch would open and fresh air return. He risked a glance around the curtain. The control room was dimly lit, a thin vapour hung in the air like mist, and men sat quietly at control wheels and switch panels or pored over a navigation table covered in charts. To one side a radio operator in a cubbyhole jotted notes on a pad. Peter Scrivenor looked up from a chart, shook his head at Theo and then went back to his work. Theo dropped the curtain. Curling cheese sandwiches and a water jug stood on the table; he helped himself, munching blearily, and began running through his orders once more, slowly and in detail, partly to refresh his memory, partly to kill more time.

  His drop-off point was a stretch of beach to the north of the seaside town of Barletta. He was third in line to go, two operatives leaving before him, one after. He didn’t know these men; once ashore from Tribune they were expected to go their separate ways and have no contact. All were to be dispatched on the same night, so timing was tight. Somewhere at the front of the submarine were his two suitcases, waterproof clothing, and his ‘Folboat’, a collapsible canoe small enough to fit through Tribune’s hatch yet big enough to carry him and his baggage. Once in position a mile or so offshore, Tribune would surface, he would exit through the hatch on to the forward deck, assemble his boat, load and launch it, and paddle off into the night. Tribune would then leave, and there would be no coming back. Once ashore he was to hide or bury the canoe and waterproof clothing, change into his civilian attire and lie low until dawn. Then walk ten miles or so inland, carrying his suitcases to the town of Foggia where he would catch a train north to the town of Campobasso, which was situated in Campania’s hilly interior, midway between Italy’s two coasts, and about fifty miles east of Naples. There at the station he would be met by his partisan contact.

  By the time the 6 p.m. watch change came round he felt as though he was drowning. Any breathable air left aboard Tribune was all but gone; what remained was stale and poisonous, and like toxic gas to inhale. His chest seemed constrained, as though by belts. He felt flushed and light-headed, a pulse rang in his neck like a warning and, try as he might to breathe in ‘slow time’, he knew he was gasping like an overworked dog. Two of his colleagues were with him at the table, one had his head lolling in his arms and was groaning through each laboured breath, while the other, panting, was staring round in wide-eyed panic. Their only comfort was that a furtive check past the curtain confirmed the crew were in little better state, the mist in the control room had thickened to a fog, one man was propped on the floor with his head on his knees, and several others looked close to collapse. No one spoke a word. Tribune motored on like a ghost ship; everyone kept glancing at the clock.

  Yet it was nearly two hours more before Captain Wood rose slowly from his command chair, moved to the men at the trim wheels and nodded. Slowly the wheels turned and Tribune tilted nose-up. Minutes more and she was levelling off again. Wood went to the periscope, which slid upwards with a hiss, and with excruciating thoroughness spent minutes walking in slow circles peering through the eyepiece.

  Finally he snapped up the handles. ‘Surface the boat.’

  The relief was like waking from a nightmare, euphoric and instantaneous. Compressed air rumbled, the boat rose, the hatch opened, a trickle of water fell, a clatter of machinery came from aft and the diesels thundered to life, drawing a gale of fresh air down and through the ship. Within minutes men were joking and chatting as though nothing had happened. Lookouts in oilskins clambered up to the bridge, another watch changed below, joshing men came and went past the wardroom, while Theo and his colleagues waited at the table, inhaling deeply. A while later Lieutenant Scrivenor appeared.

  ‘See what I mean?’ he said, pouring himself water. ‘This is what we have to go through for the likes of you.’

  The fourth night was the worst. Nearing the Adriatic coast, Wood waited until dusk before risking the periscope. His plan, he explained, was to surface briefly and replenish the air, before diving once more until midnight, prior to landing Theo and the others. But barely had he raised the periscope than he was snapping it down again.

  ‘Like Piccadilly Circus. Fishing caiques, couple of patrol boats, even some bloody yacht swanning about. Not going to risk it.’ Instead he ordered Tribune to back away, then vent ballast until she sank, all engines stopped, to settle with a bump on the ocean floor. She then went into a strange limbo state where all but essential stations were left unmanned, unrequired equipment was turned off, the lights were dimmed and everyone was ordered to their bunks to ‘silent rest’, breathing through special survival masks
called rebreathers. Scrivenor distributed the masks to the passengers; Theo sat at the wardroom table trying to fit it to his head. After a while Captain Wood appeared.

  ‘All set in here?’ He grinned.

  ‘I’m not quite sure how...’

  ‘Here, let me help you.’ Wood began adjusting the straps. ‘It’s not so much the lack of oxygen that’s the killer, you see, it’s the increasing levels of carbon dioxide. The mask traps it so we can extract more of the air’s oxygen. Clever, no?’

  ‘Yes, I see, sir, thank you.’

  ‘No problem. I expect you’ll be glad to get off this tin tube.’

  ‘It’s certainly been an experience. I had no idea...’

  ‘How could you? And don’t think we don’t appreciate the work you chaps do either. Submariners just have a funny way of showing it!’

  ‘I understand. Um, Lieutenant Scrivenor especially.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Have we done something? To offend him, I mean.’