Shrimp had turned from his own brief perusal of the board. ‘Your estimate of eight thousand tons for this troopship – reasonably
sure of that, are you?’
‘Could have been nearer eight and a half, sir.’ A shrug. ‘I’d settle for eight, though.’
‘The true figure’s eight seven-fifty. Forget her name, but we have it – show you, in a minute, in the office. There was an
RAF report – they’d been after her earlier in the day, a Blenheim got shot up apparently. Escort of two destroyers – right?’
Mike nodded. ‘One of ’em put me deep just as the DA came on – on an eighty track, rather close inshore. I’d got one fish away,
fired a second by asdic on the way down, heard one hit, and held on – didn’t have room to do much
else, must’ve passed just about right under him. HE had stopped, but I knew pretty well where he was – wasn’t all that much
water in there though, so I turned sharpish, came up for a look and there he was, already bow down. I thought one more’d make
sure of it, used number three tube and hit amidships. Well – would’ve been a disgrace if I hadn’t, frankly.’
‘The escorts meanwhile not troubling you?’
It wasn’t an
idle
question: Shrimp’s eyes were hard, analytical. Mike told him, ‘They were both to seaward of him. If they’d had much savvy
they’d have had me boxed in – couldn’t have realised the last hit had been on his starboard side. Extraordinary, but – anyway
they were picking up survivors, troops going over the side in droves, and maybe they didn’t want to know – any charges they
dropped – well, must’ve been hundreds still in the water. I gave it a few minutes, couldn’t go deeper than forty feet, came
up for another shufti and the bugger was still afloat –
just
– one destroyer practically alongside his after-part – by the look of it still getting men off as well as out of the drink
– and his mate out in the deep field somewhere – transmitting, incidentally, which goes to show –’
‘Not the first eleven exactly. But the near one a sitting duck meanwhile?’
‘I know, sir. Would have been. But – I’ve explained it in my report – highly frustrating, but –’
Shrimp’s eyes on his, waiting to hear why he hadn’t used the last of his four torpedoes on this destroyer – in easy range,
lying stopped, unmissable, and by that time its decks crowded with survivors. He – Shrimp – had strongly disapproved of another
CO’s decision in similar circumstances a few months ago to leave escorts to their rescue work when he’d have had a good chance
of sinking at least one of them. He’d pointed out to an assembly of his COs – staff conference – ‘Those
destroyers – who’d do for
you
in two shakes if you gave ’em half a chance – and the pongos they’re picking up – hell, tank crews, gunners, SS, whatever
– Afrika Korps anyway, for God’s sake!’
Mike had known he’d be called on to explain this. He said, ‘The one fish I had left in a tube, sir, was a Mark IV.’
‘Oh. Oh,
was
it …’
With Mark IVs, 1914–18 vintage, you couldn’t alter the depth-setting, as you could with Mark VIIIs, once they were in the
tubes. So that deep-set torpedo would have run under the shallow-draft destroyer and been wasted, pointlessly. He added to
Shrimp, ‘I thought of bottoming and putting a shallow-set reload in – would have taken half an hour though –’
‘By which time they’d have cleared off. The transport having sunk.’A nod. ‘Only reason for hanging around would have been to
hunt
you
. And they could have had others join them and take over.’
‘Did seem wiser to skedaddle. I was a bit nervous of the air too – in those shallows. And as you say, sir, that close to Benghazi.
I’ve roughed out a patrol report – only in longhand so far, but –’
‘I’m sure Miss Gomez will help out.’ Shrimp glanced at the sheaf of signal-pad pages in Mike’s hand. Miss Gomez was Shrimp’s
secretary. ‘In the morning. She’ll have gone home by now. What about your mail?’
‘Hell, yes …’
As if it hadn’t been in his mind, at least in the back of it, from the moment he’d walked in here. Well, for
weeks
. Only exercising restraint – whether or not Shrimp would have given a damn. But delving now in
Ursa
’s pigeon-hole, shuffling the pack and dealing out his own, two air-letters and a bill from Gieves the naval tailors – instantly
recognisable, they’d been sending it repeatedly over recent
months. With all respect to them, they rather encouraged late payment, by having allowed it to be known that when an officer
who owed them money was killed on active service his debt was automatically written off.
The air-letters were from his father, and Ann Melhuish. Hers familiar enough to him despite her having scribbled a fictional
name and address as ‘Sender’, in that space on the back.
He poked the Gieves envelope back into the hole, folded the air-letter forms together and stuffed them in a pocket. She was
taking a hell of a risk, he thought. Might not have appreciated the degree of it, if she’d written this a few weeks ago –
which she might have done, it could have been lying here, courtesy of Fleet Mail, while they’d been disporting themselves
in and around Haifa. He followed Shrimp out into the arcade and to the right. ‘You mentioned not long ago, sir, that Charles
Melhuish was joining us with a new U-class?’
‘Melhuish …’
Giving it thought, the name as yet unfamiliar. Then getting there: ‘Melhuish – yes.
Unsung
. Sailing from Gib tomorrow, as it happens. Yes, that’s another.’ Counting on his fingers: ‘Three already out, those two on
their way, three still to come from Aegean patrols – then
Tango
passing through and
Swordsman
on loan from the 8th Flotilla – and you, of course. Is Melhuish a contemporary of yours?’
‘Two or three years junior to me. Roughly that. Since his Perisher he’s had a training boat based on Campbeltown. Well, last
I heard –’
‘
Unsung
’s his first operational command, then. Good Lord, hang on …’ Stopping, pointing at a Chief PO who’d saluted him in passing.
Shrimp staring for a moment, then his face clearing.
‘Dennison.’
‘Spot on, sir.’ Broad smile. ‘Served with you in
Porpoise
. Killick torpedoman I was then, you put me through for PO.’
‘Haven’t wasted your time since, have you. Well done.’ Shaking hands. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘TGM in
Unbowed
, sir.’ The letters stood for Torpedo Gunner’s Mate. ‘Joined her in Haifa. Got sunk in
Medway
, then in Haifa so happened
Unbowed
’s TI got ’isself landed to hospital, so – pierhead jump!’
‘Sorry for the other chap, but lucky for you and for
Unbowed
, then. You’re off at cock crow, eh?’
‘We are that.’ Smiling again: ‘Good seeing you, sir!’
‘Very good to see
you
, Dennison. We’ll meet again before long.’ Returning the CPO’s salute, then rejoining Mike. ‘Small world, ours. Look here, you
haven’t asked what’s lined up for you next, but how long d’you need?’
‘Store ship, fuel and water, torpedoes – make good a few minor defects –’
‘No dockyard assistance?’
‘No sir, we’re –’
‘Twenty-four hours then?’
‘Might I have thirty-six?’
‘All right. Sail first thing day after tomorrow. How’d Palermo suit you?’
To which the answer might have been ‘as well as anywhere else’; but Shrimp would no doubt explain presently why a patrol somewhere
off Palermo on Sicily’s north coast might be productive at this juncture. Mike called to McLeod, who was still on
Ursa
’s casing – in conversation now with the fourth hand, Danvers – ‘Thirty-six hours, Number One. Push off at first light Wednesday.’
‘
Right
…’
Saluting Shrimp then – since he happened to be looking at him. Shrimp returning the salute and not having to be told his name:
‘How’s the battle, McLeod?’
‘I
think
we’re winning it, sir.’
‘About bloody time we did.’ A jerk of the head to Mike then: ‘Come on. Ops Room.’
He’d been deep in thought on the way to it: as had Mike – in his own case, thinking about Ann and the letter in his pocket,
and her husband Charles who if he was leaving Gib tomorrow should be here in five or six days. Question being – at least, the
immediate one – whether she’d be crazy enough to go on writing: how boring it would be if she stopped and how dangerous if
she didn’t. Passing meanwhile through the barracks end of the old building – in which, when it had been Malta’s quarantine
station, the poet Shelley had been incarcerated at one time and had gone so far as to carve his name and a couple of lines
of doggerel in the soft stone up there – through to the tunnelled-out bomb-proof quarters and new Ops Room.
‘So here we are.’ Shrimp offered him a cigarette, and they both lit up. ‘What d’you think of it?’
‘Well – in just ten weeks –’
‘Deserve medals, all of ’em.’Swapping one chart for another on the table-top, and reaching for dividers to use as a pointer.
‘Several factors relevant now. One – not immediate but by a long chalk the most important, convoy operation from the west,
code-name “Pedestal”. Not immediate, ships are only now assembling in the Clyde, but it’s going to be an all-out effort –
escort from Gib eastward to include two battleships –
Nelson
and
Rodney
– and no less than three aircraft carriers. Unprecedented – simple reason being that if the siege isn’t lifted, Malta starves.
This flotilla’s contribution will be eight or possibly even ten boats. And meanwhile – week, ten days, fortnight even – might
as well use the time, eh, let the buggers know we’re back?’
Mike nodded. ‘Right.’
‘Palermo, now.’ He’d swung a lamp over the chart, and switched it on: the overhead light wasn’t all that brilliant. Continuing: ‘I’d
say it’s not unlikely the Wops’ll be expecting a convoy operation now. One’s very much overdue, last attempt failed miserably,
and they aren’t stupid, must know we’re not far off starvation – so we might reasonably expect fleet movements, deployments
in advance. I’d guess particularly of cruisers, and in this bailiwick as likely as anywhere to Palermo – Cagliari, for that
matter, but –’
Glancing round – Mike too – as a door was opened and Hugo Short, Spare CO – he’d been on the arcade steps earlier to see
Ursa
slide in and tie up – told Shrimp, ‘Those orders are ready for your signature, sir. Want them now, or –’
‘On my desk, I’ll sign ’em when we finish here.’
‘Sir.’ Gone, door shut. Spare COs were there to stand in for other COs when they needed a break, were sick or otherwise indisposed;
and between such outings worked as staff, Shrimp’s back-up. Shrimp back to Mike’s briefing, however: ‘So –
might
find a cruiser or two coming your way. And of course their convoys to the desert are still running – Tripoli, Homs, Misurata,
as well as Benghazi, I’m deploying boats accordingly. Here, see for yourself.’
Off Crotone, he saw, and Cape dell’Armi. Those were to be Mottram’s and Ruck’s billets: Ruck watching the Messina Strait, Mottram
with a longer haul in front of him, to Crotone and the route south from Taranto. Other boats already on patrol were disposed
between Pantellaria, Lampedusa and Tripoli – from where they’d be readily enough redeployable to other convoy-covering positions
south of Pantellaria and west of Marettimo. Distances – well, with the U-class boat’s regrettably low surface speed of ten
knots flat out a good night’s progress –
if
uninterrupted – was something like seventy nautical miles.
Feeble enough. But Shrimp would have adequate notice
of the need to redeploy. And might leave those two where they were, he guessed. Especially if he had as many as ten boats
at his disposal by that time.
Touching the Menorca to Malta chart with his dividers. ‘I’m putting you twenty miles northeast of Cape San Vito, Michael.
Prime position for anything coming down from Naples either for Palermo or to pass west of Marettimo. You could move in closer
to Palermo if you had reason to; alternatively, withdraw north or northeastward, vicinity of Ustica. But stay to the west
of Alicudi – otherwise you could fall foul of
Swordsman
– Dan Gerahty, d’you know him?’
‘Lord, yes.’
‘He’s between Lipari and Cape Vaticano – northern approaches to Messina, of course.’
Swordsman
, S-class – on loan from the 8th Flotilla in Gibraltar, Mike guessed. Gib flotilla temporarily expanding eastward during the
10th’s absence, no doubt: and when she left her billet, might well be passing through or close to
his
. A point to check on, before departure. Nodding, mentally crossing fingers. Shrimp hadn’t of course needed to mention that
to get round to Sicily’s north coast in the first place
Ursa
’s track would be through – or rather under – the QBB 255 minefield. There was no great problem about that, nothing in the
least unusual; the established routine was that you dived to 150 feet off Cape San Marco and paddled northwestward on course
300 for fifty-five miles under the bloody mines before turning up around the island of Marettimo. Alternatively – shortcut
to where
he
was going – inside it, through the channel between those islands.
Do that, he thought. Get on the billet sooner. He nodded again. ‘Clear enough, sir.’
‘We’ll give it to you on paper in the morning. And – fuel, stores, water-barge and Msida, all of that by noon – right?’
‘Yes.’ Msida Creek had the torpedo depot at its head.
Ursa
would be embarking three, to replace the three she’d fired. Mark VIIIs, he hoped – but that would be up to ‘Wiggy’ Bennett,
the base torpedo officer, and his right-hand man, Commissioned Gunner ‘Sunny’ Warne. Lick their boots, if that would help.
Well, it wouldn’t … Anyway, getting it all done by midday would be aimed at giving most of the lads the rest of the day to
themselves, preferably for fresh air and exercise.
‘See you for a gin later, sir?’
‘My dear fellow,
that
’s a novel idea …’