‘It went well, sir.’ He sensed the other man’s uneasiness. It was rare for Wykes, he thought. But it was too late. Either it was on, or it would have to be cancelled.
He had gone over it a hundred times. The midget would be carried on a special trestle on the casing of a conventional submarine, complete with the container which held the mines, not an easy job for any submarine
commander. The boat which had been chosen was
Trojan
. Another twist of fate: she was the same class as his own command.
Wykes said, ‘It’s yet to be confirmed, but all our information points to Monday. That gives us five days. The Germans have kept the area well sealed, as you can imagine. All the mines will be loaded into one ship, which will transport them to St. Malo.’ He snapped his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Piece of cake to them. In St. Malo they will be offloaded into big naval lighters, like those they used in the Med. After that, we’ve lost them. The next time we meet will be in deadly earnest.’
Masters saw the chart in his mind, surprised how easily it had all come back to him, after the desk and the ‘incidents’ he had visited in one role or another.
Time was the enemy. The midget submarine was too slow to make a safe approach under its own power.
Trojan
would have to get them as close as possible before being launched. Even then there could be problems. As one artificer had commented, ‘After all, sir, it hasn’t been done before!’
Masters had seen their faces, and could guess what most of them were thinking. Another death-or-glory type. Somebody with nothing to lose.
He could even smile about it. They were wrong on both counts.
A seaman brought some mugs of tea, and when he departed Wykes produced a flask and topped up each one with brandy. ‘Keep the ruddy cold out!’
It
was
cold, and the wind across Plymouth and Devonport Dockyard promised snow. Nobody really
knew what it would be like once the midget was cast adrift and left to her limited resources, and the man at the helm.
Masters had thought about it when he had unfastened the wrist compass, the same one he had seen lying by the corpse of the previous pilot.
Wykes was sipping the hot tea. ‘We shall know by this time tomorrow.’ He half smiled. ‘
I
shall know, and I will tell you myself. You know the drill. Any letters you want to leave, I can deal with.’
It was still early, but already growing dark outside the building. When the dockyard workers went home another team would move the midget into one of the basins, and on board the waiting submarine. There must be no breach of security at this critical stage.
Wykes said, ‘She told me you’d been to see her, by the way.’
‘I don’t see that anyone could object to that, after all she’s been through.’
‘I’d have done the same. She’s a fine woman, a brave one too. Things often jump the rails on these missions. There’s always the risk of betrayal, or some misguided interference. She could have been killed, I know that, and all because a handful of “patriots” were ready to condemn her, simply because she was her father’s daughter!’ He was getting angry. ‘It was pure luck that some of our people were there and quick to act.’
‘She told you about the scars on her back?’
‘I saw them. Her hair, too. We shall have to accept that in any occupied country most people just want to be left alone, to survive, until by some miracle the enemy
is not there any more. Maybe it would have been like that here, if . . .’ He took out the cigarette case. ‘But
if
is often the margin, eh?’
‘I’d like to call her when things start moving, sir. I tried a few times before I was driven down here.’
Wykes watched the smoke floating over the stove. ‘I know. I thought it best to prevent it.’ He shrugged. ‘In my place, God help you, you’d have done the same. But we’ll see. R.H.I.P.’
Somewhere a door slammed, and Masters heard a car splashing across the yard. So typical, he thought. Timed to the minute.
Wykes replaced his cap and said, ‘I must be off. I’ll be in London until
Pioneer
is completed.’
‘I don’t envy you, sir.’
Completed.
One way or the other.
Wykes glanced around. ‘C-in-C Plymouth is in charge as of now. His staff will fill you in on conditions, and timing.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Good luck. And remember, one hand for the King, eh?’
Masters watched him leave. He had first heard that sentiment as long ago as Dartmouth, when he had been a cadet. ‘One hand for the King,’ an old instructor had told him, ‘but keep the other one for yourself!’
A lieutenant coughed politely, the same one who had hardly been out of Masters’ sight since his arrival in Plymouth.
‘I can show you to your quarters, sir.’ Again, that curious glance.
Cell, more likely. ‘Thanks. Lead the way.’
He would write a letter. In the same breath, he knew he would not. It would help neither of them if he were killed or captured.
But she would know.
Operation
Pioneer
had begun.
H.M.S/M.
Trojan
left Devonport Dockyard under cover of darkness, guided almost as far as Plymouth Sound itself by a powerful harbour launch. Only a small, hooded blue sternlight led the submarine through crowded moorings and past heavier, anchored warships. It was bitterly cold, the conning tower and casing treacherous for the remaining watchkeepers on deck.
Once in open water all the usual checks were carried out, especially the trim of the boat, to allow for the midget’s extra load abaft the conning tower. For Masters it was a strangely unsettling experience. He had never been a passenger in a submarine before, except when he had been under training, and even then he had been given enough to do. But in
Trojan
he soon found time on his hands. Too much time.
He had met
Trojan
’s commanding officer two or three times; he could not recall exactly when or where. It was like that in submarines. The same rank as himself, an experienced skipper who had seen plenty of action in home waters and in the Mediterranean. He would not need to be reminded of this latest responsibility. He must keep to a time factor, and avoid every kind of shipping, which was hard enough in these waters. If enemy contact was made it would be up to him, his skill and determination, to give them the slip. One depth
charge, even a near miss, would finish everything. There would be nothing left.
Perhaps he had expected it to be easier, to be accepted, to fit in.
Trojan
was, after all, a twin of his last boat. He had noticed when they were at diving stations that the navigating officer had wedged his enamel mug under the ready-use chart rack, exactly as he had done during his short time in
Tornado
. When he glanced around he sometimes imagined different faces, heard other voices.
They had made him welcome enough, and had cheerfully found room for the four artificers who would have the final word on the midget’s readiness.
They surfaced at night, but no cancellations or new orders were received on the W/T. They had the sea to themselves.
Masters spent most of his time studying the chart and the drawings which Wykes’ staff had carefully marked, with notes about known local hazards.
Trojan
’s commander had joined him several times, and had checked the calculations which were already prepared for the midget’s solitary passage. On the chart the course appeared more roundabout than necessary, considering that speed was essential, but allowances had to be made for tide and current to obtain the best result with minimum delay.
Trojan
’s commander had remarked, ‘Five knots is no pacemaker, David, but in those waters it’s much safer!’
Masters sat on a locker with his back to the control room’s bulkhead, where he was least in the way. Where
he could see and feel everything, as he had done before. Until that day.
In those waters, the commander had said. Masters leaned forward and felt the waterproof tunic drag across his shoulders. Where had the time gone? They were in
those waters
now.
The soft, purring vibration of the electric motors, the tension, and the smell. People said that metal did not have a smell. How could it? They had never served in submarines. It had a smell, and a taste all of its own.
He watched the faces. The hydroplane operators, hands moving occasionally on their wheels, studying the tell-tale dials, holding the trim. The navigating officer at his table, feet wide apart, staring at his notes and licking the point of a pencil. And the coxswain, somehow always the centre of things, eyes never still. Compass, depth gauge, revolution counter. Like a submarine’s heartbeat.
All exactly the same, he thought. Even the firing controls, the ‘fruit machine’, as it was called, which translated what the submarine commander’s eye saw in the crosswires into action. The bearing and range of the target. The estimated speed and course, even when the target was zigzagging. It was all fed into the machine.
Trojan
, like the other boats of her class, mounted eleven torpedo tubes, with reloads for good measure.
Her skipper would be thinking of that, too. If he sighted the most tempting target in the world he would have to let it slip through his crosswires. Until his passenger, his liability, had gone, he and not the enemy was a target.
Masters turned to glance at the control room clock but checked himself. If he had overlooked something it was too late now. Or soon would be.
The commander walked away from the periscope well and stooped to speak to him. Without his cap he looked somehow younger. More vulnerable. Did he have a girl back in England? How would she be taking it?
‘Won’t be long, David. I’m going up to have a look-see.’ He looked over at the navigator and added, ‘Pilot thinks we’re in the most suitable place.’ They grinned conspiratorially at one another.
Diving or surfacing, the two most dangerous moments for any submarine. And yet there was no outward show of anxiety or hesitancy. It was not even like a well-practised drill, more as if they were simply doing what was quite natural to them. And yet, even in a well-used boat like
Trojan
there had to be someone doing it for the first time. Perhaps hating the unwanted passenger with his lethal cargo. Lookouts had appeared near the vertical ladder to the conning tower and the bridge. Each wore dark glasses, so that after the control room lighting, dimmed though it was, they would be instantly ready. Swaying very slightly to the motion, they looked like a group of blind men waiting to be guided somewhere.
‘Sorry we didn’t get much time to yarn, David.’ He sounded very calm, but his eyes were on the gauges. ‘When you get out of it, we shall be listening for your signal.’ He touched his shoulder. ‘Here we go, then.’
He could have been discussing a quiet drive in the countryside.
Masters felt his body tense, as if he was standing there by the well.
The hydrophone operator reported, ‘All quiet, sir!’
The commander looked at the sealed watertight door. A company of about sixty, plus the four artificers. Masters saw one of the lookouts reach out and grip the arm of the man beside him. Friends, or simply two people thrown together by the war? Sealed in a steel coffin if the worst happened. Every door clipped shut. Final.
The first lieutenant was ready, his slide rule in one hand, always aware of the need for a perfect trim, so that water could be pumped from tank to tank, his responsibility at times like this.
Masters looked at the depth gauge. Ninety feet. As deep as it was safe to run in these waters, unless it was an emergency. A last chance.
The commander stood by the well, outwardly relaxed, his eyes on the curved deckhead with its wires and pipes, as if he could somehow see through and beyond the hull itself.
‘Thirty feet, Number One.’
The response was immediate. The subdued trembling of air forcing water from the ballast tanks. Not an emergency, but firmly controlled.
Masters imagined the submarine rising towards the surface, the hydroplanes keeping the process stealthy, like the hands of a swimmer heading for the surface.
Like a great shark, a shadow. The officers and ratings merely incidental.
Something clicked loudly and the coxswain shot the
offending equipment a hard stare, a rebuke, as if it were something human.
‘Periscope depth, sir!’
The commander made a quick gesture and bent over as the periscope hissed smoothly from its well, then snapped down both grips and pressed his forehead to the pad and waited for the lens to clear as it broke surface.
Another gesture, and the periscope rose a little more, the commander moving slowly around the well, his feet brushing against the coaming with practised familiarity.
It would be dark on the surface, or nearly so. But there was always a last-minute risk. Masters saw the commander snap the grip handles into place and straighten his back.
‘Down periscope!’ He stepped clear as it hissed down into its well.
A torpedoman was holding out a stained old duffle coat and he slipped his arms into it, his expression completely absorbed, his eyes on the coxswain’s back. ‘Stand by to surface, Number One!’ The quick gesture once more. ‘Open the lower lid!’
He strode to the ladder, but paused to glance at the control room. His world. His eyes passed over Masters without seeing him, then he gripped the ladder and began to climb.
Masters found that he was holding his breath, as if he was there, doing it.
Each man had to be packed exactly into the tower so that no space or time was wasted. The lookouts and gun’s crew. But first the skipper, with only the bridge hatch, still clipped, between him and the sea.
Even now he would be considering, preparing for unforeseen hazards. Surface vessels, engines stopped, perhaps warned of their presence at this pencilled cross on the Pilot’s grubby chart. Or an aircraft, unseen in the periscope, diving out of nowhere to straddle and rake the dark shadow.
‘Surface!’
Masters heard the air booming into the tanks, saw the hydroplane operators swinging their wheels, holding her down until the last moment, when she would break surface, the sea parting across her dark flanks, and he could imagine that first bitter taste of salt water as the hatch was flung open.