A Dawn Like Thunder (3 page)

He did not realize that the injured youth had opened his eyes and was watching him fixedly as he gently kissed the photograph and whispered, ‘Oh, Evie, where are you?'

He felt the deck tilt and heard the muffled bark of commands.
Going up.

He began to put his wallet into its pouch, but looked once more at the photograph. He gave a great sigh. ‘Here we go again, Evie. I'll be back!'

After the stale, oily atmosphere inside the boat, the sea air and stinging droplets of spray were exhilarating, and Ross felt a sense of freedom which never failed to surprise and
excite him. It was still very dark, or appeared so, but he could see the cruising white cats'-paws breaking against the rounded hull, and feel the slow roll that was making some of the deck handling party reach for handholds as they stooped over the chariot, fixed to the saddle-tank by special fittings which they had collected at Portsmouth.

He vividly recalled their doubts and uncertainties when, in those early days, they had been introduced to their first human torpedo. About the same size and length as a normal twenty-one-inch torpedo, it carried a ballast tank, pumps and hydroplanes, together with a battery motor that could offer a steady three knots for a limited period. In something rather like a car dashboard, it mounted a compass and an instrument panel fitted with luminous dials. And a joystick. Ross could remember his first trial run, the red-faced instructor's words ringing in his ears. ‘Like ridin' a bike – just take it nice an' easy.' They must have been simpleminded to believe that.

He touched Tucker's arm, glad he had been given him as a partner: a professional seaman, a leading torpedoman, mature and dependable. It made a change from the many volunteers who made up the Special Operations. Telegraphists, cooks, stewards and signalmen: you would never guess their employment from the badges they wore on their uniforms, on the rare occasions when they were wearing them.

Apart from a quiet reserve, the first things you noticed about Tucker were his strength and the light way he moved. His hands were square and powerful, and Ross recalled a time in Scotland when they had been receiving instruction in self-defence and close combat from some battle-tested marine commandos. One, a burly sergeant, had whipped his arm around Tucker's throat from behind and at the same time jabbed an imitation blade up into his ribs. His grin had
changed to a cry of agony as Tucker had seized his wrist with one hand and squeezed it. The sergeant's triumph had given way to anger and humiliation. ‘You nearly broke my arm, you mad bugger!'

Tucker had given his gentle smile. ‘Only nearly, Sarge? I must be losing my touch!'

A petty officer whispered, ‘Ready when you are, sir.'

Ross lowered himself astride the chariot and felt Tucker watching him now, his outline suddenly sharper against a sky criss-crossed by the submarine's jumping wire. It was so cold. He found he could smile. That was the first thing new recruits noticed about the Med. Too many cruising posters before the war made them imagine the place was full of sunshine, warm seas and smiling Italian girls.

The sky was getting brighter. He could imagine the submarine's skipper up there on his swaying bridge, gripping his night glasses. He smiled again.
Or wiping his hands on his jersey.
He tightened his jaw. He had known men crack even at the simplest reminder, a joke, a face, a memory.

He tested his nose clip; it hurt, but they usually did, especially after so many dives. He adjusted the rubber mouthpiece and fixed the air and oxygen lock until he could breathe easily. He could feel the sailors on the deck-casing staring at him. Willing him to go. The big forehatch was already sealed; if the boat had to dive, these same men would need to race aft to the conning tower, climb it and tumble down to safety with seconds to spare. But this final check could not be rushed. That submerged wreckage, or whatever it had been, might have displaced or damaged something. Pressure-gauge, time-fuse for the massive detachable warhead . . . he looked up and nodded. Tucker climbed on board like a pillion-rider, his position close to the locker where the cutters, wires and magnets were stowed within easy reach.

Ross raised his arm and saw the dark shapes of the seamen on the casing begin to fade, to merge with the conning tower. Only the petty officer remained until the propeller spluttered into life and the sea surged over the legs of the two charioteers. They were free. Then, with a casual wave, he too was gone.

The submarine seemed to move away, the sea trembling as the water roared into her tanks, her hydroplanes already set for diving. Some violent turbulence and more spray like tropical rain on his bare wrists, and then the sea was suddenly theirs.

Ross re-checked his instruments and peered at the small luminous compass. According to all the calculations, it would take two hours to find the inlet and the unsuspecting
Galatea
from Taranto. Unless something had gone wrong, careless talk, like the posters were always warning. Two hours, then; from this to bright sunlight, according to the submarine's navigator. The skipper's friend: you could see it, like something living between them. He tried to shut his mind to it. Like David . . .

He reached back and took Tucker's hand, strong and firm and apparently impervious to the cold water that surged around them, moulding their suits to their limbs and bodies, making them creatures of the sea once again. Tucker knew what to do. All they needed was trust. The grip of his hand gave him that message.

He turned back to his controls, but the thought would not release him.

It was not like David at all. David was dead.
And you killed him.

Waiting was the worst part.

The submarine's first lieutenant wiped the lenses of his powerful binoculars and jammed his elbows against the wet
plating while he took another slow sweep from bow to bow. It was getting cooler, or perhaps his nerves were playing up. Behind him, the two bridge lookouts were doing much the same, searching for the slightest movement or shadow, while the hull beneath them glided almost imperceptibly across the last great splash of sunset. It was unreal and awesome, one great brushstroke of the deepest red defying even the keenest eyes to discern the darker line separating sea and sky.

Too long. Too bloody long.
He bit his lip, imagining for a second that he had spoken aloud. But neither of the lookouts had noticed anything. Noticed what, he thought bitterly. That their first lieutenant had just about taken all he could?

All day, since dropping the chariot at dawn, they had tried to keep out of trouble. These waters were not good for submarines, and he had studied the chart too often to be able to forget it. Twelve fathoms at this point, a mere seventy-two feet. He tried not to think about it. The height of an office building – it was like steering the submarine down a street.

It was too long.
Perhaps the chariot had come to grief, or even now was creeping out from the land to look for them. The lieutenant had been on several cloak-and-dagger operations in the Med, dropping agents to work behind enemy lines. It must be a kind of madness which drove them to it, he thought, and they were all the same. Tense, on edge, and yet in some way eager to go, to use and depend on their own resources. One of the agents had been a young French girl; he had tried not to imagine her fate if she were captured and handed over to the Gestapo. One thing was certain: they had never seen the same agents twice.

The skipper would be up in a moment. His decision,
then, to remain on the surface or to decide to leave it.
His decision.

It was strange when you thought about it. He had been recommended for a command course himself, the perisher, as it was called. But after being first lieutenant to this skipper, and briefly with a previous one, he was far from sure. He had watched what command could do, what it
was
doing to their young skipper.

Almost the worst thing was that shortly after parting with the chariot they had received a brief signal. The mission was aborted. The two charioteers were to be withdrawn. It had already been too late when some bloody stupid staff officer in London had suddenly had a change of heart on the matter. How often did it happen, he wondered. Men thrown away, like the coloured pins on the wall-charts that were dropped so easily into a little box when some ship or other bought it. He stifled a yawn. A sign of nerves. Even fear.

They had run for deep water during the day after seeing a pair of aircraft, like glass chips against the clear sky. It was never good to dwell on the possibility that the enemy had been forewarned about this particular attack, and imagine that these aircraft were just the first of many which were being alerted.

Then, while they had changed course for the rendezvous, the hydrophone operator had picked up the faint effect of a small vessel's engine. Far astern to the south-west, but it was always there. The H.E. was not that of a powerful warship or motor anti-submarine boat, but the Italians, like the Royal Navy, were known to have converted a lot of fishing vessels for the task, and depth-charges were just as deadly no matter who threw them.

He watched the red smear across the sky. A few stars already, but no moon. Soon it would be as black as a pig's belly.
No chance.

A lookout murmured, ‘Skipper's on his way, sir.'

How did he sound? Nervous, or merely eager that the skipper was coming up to take over? To get them all the hell out of it.

‘All quiet, Number One?' He was already raising his glasses, his ear pitched for every sound and movement. He added, ‘H.E. is still on the same bearing. May be a fisherman, of course.'

He gave a dry laugh, and one of the lookouts flinched as if he had yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Marsala's over there to the nor'east. Had a lovely lobster there once when I was a young snotty. It was really something, I can tell you.'

His mood changed and he said crisply, ‘You think we should let it go, don't you?'

‘It's not for me to say.'

‘My decision. I know. Look at it this way. There are two chaps out there, maybe hurt for all I know. Depending on us. It matters!'

‘I know that, sir.' He added savagely, ‘Makes you sick – the job was aborted anyway.'

The skipper was staring at him in the encroaching darkness, his cap-cover touched with red by the strange glow. When that went, they would have to pull out. He said, ‘We'll hang about a bit longer. Tell the control-room.'

The smaller of the two lookouts said, ‘Aircraft, sir. Starboard bow.'

They listened to the uneven drone until it was swallowed up by the sea noises.

The skipper said, ‘Jerry moving some gear, I expect.' He could have been remarking on the weather.

The first lieutenant was still there. He asked, ‘Anything else, sir?'

‘No. Go below and get ready. It won't be long now.'

He knew, even as the lieutenant's head disappeared through the hatch that he had not understood.

He levelled his glasses again. How many millions of times, he wondered. Seeking out a kill, trying to avoid the hunters. And they all depended on him, on his eyes, on his conclusions after sighting a target.

This boat had been depth-charged several times, but somehow they had got out of it. He thought he heard the aircraft again, but it was something else.

He felt the small lookout stir and asked, ‘You all right, Nobby?'

The lookout was actually grinning. ‘Still thinkin' about your lobster, sir. I'm more used to cod an' chips, or a pint of whelks down th' Old Kent Road!'

The skipper looked away, but was greatly moved.
One of his men.
The characters he had come to know and respect; and it went even deeper than just good sense. Like the little seaman from the Old Kent Road. He had seen him at the defaulters' table several times, or had heard him being dragged aboard drunk by a shore patrol. And yet he was able to joke about it. To stand here if ordered until he dropped.

He knew they were staring at him as he leaned over the voicepipe.

‘Stand by, control-room. In just a few minutes . . .' He wheeled round as the other lookout gasped, ‘There they are, sir! Port bow – I wasn't sure for a second, an' then!' He was almost beside himself.

The skipper snapped, ‘Belay that, Number One. Open the fore-hatch. Two good hands and a heaving line,
chop chop!
'

The chariot was suddenly right here, swaying alongside, so much smaller without the six-hundred-pound warhead.

‘One of them's injured.' He gripped the screen with his hand until the rough steel steadied him. He saw Ross's
vague outline, could feel his concern as the handling party hauled his Number Two on to the deck casing.

The chariot was drifting away and already settling down, scuttled to save time. Another minute? How long would he have waited? Then, and only then, did he look up. Tiny bright stars; the red brushstroke had gone.

‘Clear the bridge.' He jabbed the klaxon and heard it scream through the hull beneath him. The forehatch was shut, the deck empty. He closed the voicepipe cock and bent over the hatch. The small lookout was just about to drop down the ladder when something made them all look up. A great flash lit up the horizon, and the boom of the explosion rolled across the water to sigh against the saddle-tanks like something solid.

Somebody gave a wild cheer in the control-room, but all the tough little seaman could think of was the emotion in the skipper's eyes.

Through the control-room and forward to the petty officers' mess, the skipper was himself again. He could ignore the grins and the thumbs-up. It was relief, prayers answered, nothing more.
His men.

He found Ross struggling out of his suit, and two of the deck party cutting away the Number Two's equipment and mask.

The man called Tucker gasped, ‘Bloody wire, it was. Gashed my suit. Filled with water. Couldn't breathe.' His chest was heaving painfully.