With the coast of Ceylon in sight, all hands were turned-to to make Seahound look her best. This was to be their hour, probably Seahound’s last and greatest performance. Not the smallest piece of brass was left unpolished: by the time they were in the Bay, when Sub and the casing party came up, they felt as though they shouldn’t walk on the bridge or touch any part of it. The Gunlayer gave his beloved gun an admiring glance as he passed it.
“All right, sir?”
“Not at all bad, Layer.” No submarine gun had never looked better. Nobody would have thought that this submarine had been on patrol, and nobody would ever have dreamt that she had had such a rough handling. It was a strange thing, but understandable to a war-time flotilla, that a submarine arriving from her home port after a peaceful voyage could look weathered and battered, while the same submarine returning from a hard patrol could look like a showpiece for Navy Week.
Still out in the bay, they came in sight of the Depot Ship, and from her tall bridge a lamp flashed, a signal demanding that the submarine identify herself. The Signalman looked proud as he sent Seahound’s signal letter and number flashing across in answer. On the casing, Sub’s party had the gear ready for going along-side, and now the men were lined up fore-and-aft, their white uniforms gleaming cleanly in the evening sun.
Over the submarine’s bridge flew the Jolly Roger, their personal flag. Above and just to the left of the grinning skull was a new red bar that stood for the cruiser, and in the centre at the bottom was a white dagger, the sign of a Special Operation. Everything that they had done or destroyed was there on the flag, the record of their victories.
As Seahound swung into the gap in the boom defences, a shrill V-sign hooted from the siren of the little boom-vessel. On her grimy bridge stood an officer and three ratings, shouting and waving their caps. The Captain gave them a friendly wave as the submarine swept through and past: ahead lay the Depot Ship, her decks lined thickly with sailors. Seahound crossed the stern of the big ship, and the two exchanged salutes, the thin pipe and the lordly bugle-call in answer. As the last note of the bugle fell silvery across the harbour, a thousand men began to cheer, a barrage of applause, their caps raised high, a sea of white over the massed brown faces.
This welcome, this salute from a ship so big to one so small, from so many men to so few, this was the highest praise that a submariner could ever know. Nothing could ever, so long as they lived, put such a thrill of pride into their slightly hardened hearts: for here submariners were being saluted by submariners, and who could know better than submariners when such a salute was deserved, who know better than submariners how much it meant?
Slowing, the submarine slid alongside. Heaving lines flew high to fall across the casing: rapidly they were hauled over, dragging the heavier ropes. A moment later Number One shouted over the front of the bridge, “Heave in for’ard!” And as he shouted he thought to himself that if all his life had been spent to accomplish the last ten minutes, it would have been worth living.
Chief, at the back of the bridge, had no orders to give. It was just as well. He would hardly have trusted himself to speak.
The wardroom was crowded. It was a party, and the Seahounds were not buying any of the drinks. The flotilla had a cruiser to its credit, and it was to Seahound that the flotilla owed it.
They had bathed, read their letters, drunk some gin and read the letters again. The Captain, leaning on the bar with one foot on the brass rail, was thinking about his own letters, when, glancing round, he saw Chief, a happy Chief who smiled down into his glass before he drank.
“Plenty of mail, Chief?”
“Plenty. One letter.”
“I’m sorry.” He knew that Chief’s home affairs were wrong. The Engineer had never spoken of it, never hinted at it, but in a submarine these things became plain. Particularly when two men knew each other as these did.
“It’s all right. It really is. One letter, Arthur. Pam’s joined the Wrens again: she’s trying to get out here. Damn it, it’s true! I’m not dreaming, am I?”
“You’re not dreaming, Chief. I’m so damned glad. It’s the best thing I’ve heard for months.”
“You know, I feel more engaged than married. Like looking forward to a honeymoon. Everything seems to have happened at once.”
“I think this calls for a gin.” The Captain called, and the gin came, and while they were drinking it Number One fought his way over to their end of the bar. He swayed slowly to and fro between the Captain and Chief.
“Been on the blower, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. Have a gin.”
“Thank you, sir. You did give me permission to get spliced, didn’t you, sir?”
“Yes. Why – you’re not going to, are you?”
“Yes, sir. Just asked her.”
There they were, thought the Captain, all of them, back again. Himself: well, he could see to that. Chief: married, and happy for the first time in two years. A solid, reliable man, old Chiefy. Work himself to death on the quiet, and still the same old grouse, the same steady, quiet influence in the ship, the same quiet control of his department. And Number One: always in the right place doing the right thing at the right time, never expecting any thanks for it. Both of these men, thought the Captain, deserved to be happy all day. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Sub standing in a group of his young friends. There was the odd one: for his age, an enigma. Why should one so young be only happy on patrol, in action or with the prospect of it? Why should anyone feel like that? It paid dividends, though: the Captain knew that whenever they sailed, the weapons would be in tip-top condition, and on patrol he had noticed that the Sub seemed to regard every shell that missed as a personal failure. But the mainspring, the thing that made the youngster tick, was never in sight.
There they were, the team, the first eleven: four very different people blended into a unit which, placed at the head of a ship’s company as good as Seahound’s, produced the answers.
“You’re very quiet, sir.”
“‘m. Well, Chief, you’re not the only one that gets letters, you know.”
The doctor, twiddling the knob of the loudspeaker, yelled for silence, and got it. The man in London came through loudly and clearly:
“An Admiralty communiqué issued an hour ago announces that the Japanese heavy cruiser Yashima has been torpedoed and sunk in the Indian Ocean by His Majesty’s Submarine Seahound. The Seahound is commanded by Lieutenant-Commander Arthur Hallet, D.S.O., D.S.C., Royal Navy. The communiqué adds that the submarine underwent a severe depth-charge attack immediately after the sinking, but that no damage or casualties were sustained. The submarine has now returned to her base.
“Usually reliable sources in Washington have indicated the possibility of talks, in the not too distant future, to investigate opportunities for…” The doctor switched it off.
“Fame at last,” murmured the Captain. “Steward: drinks all round, please.”
Tiny, after an hour in the bar, had engaged the Padre in a theological discussion. Interest in such matters was one of the stages which he passed through during any celebration: from God, he usually went on to ghosts. The Padre was accustomed to this routine, and did his best to humour the big man. Offering Tiny a cigarette from his tin, he argued, gently:
“But my dear old Tiny, if God did not forgive, Heaven would be empty!”
“How do you know it isn’t?” Tiny smiled craftily.
“Well, one can—”
“You’ve never been there, have you?”
“Really, Tiny, if you’re going to argue at all—”
“And if you drink any more of that stuff,” muttered Tiny, darkly, “you won’t ever go there. You’ll come along with the rest of us.”
The Sub goggled at his First Lieutenant.
“You don’t mean it?”
“What in hell’s the matter with you all? What’s so funny about me getting engaged?”
“Nothing at all. Congratulations, and all that sort of thing.”
Tiny told him, “We thought you were married already, to the jolly old White Ensign.” Sub laughed.
“When the Padre asks if there’s any reason why this couple should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, I’ll jump up at the back of the church waving a White Ensign and shouting ‘Bigamy! Bigamy!’”
“That’s enough from you, Sub. Go and fetch the bottle.” He muttered to Tiny, “Damn fine reception a chap gets when he announces his engagement.” Tiny slapped him on the shoulder.
“The thing is, old boy, nobody believes you. They think it’s the gin. But never mind, I’ll believe you – how many have you had tonight?”
Number One spent the next night in the submarine. One Officer was Duty each night, and had to sleep in the submarine instead of in his cabin in the Depot Ship. One third of the ship’s company formed the Duty Watch and also slept on board.
At nine o’clock he did Rounds, walking through the boat from one end to the other, checking that all was safe and properly squared off. Rounds ended back in the Control Room, and Number One dismissed the Duty Petty Officer. The hands relaxed, returned to their letter-writing and other pastimes. Number One dropped into a chair in the Wardroom and reached out for a pile of letters that awaited censoring.
Censoring was a bore. He hated reading other peoples’ letters, but it had to be done, and he had acquired the art of glancing rapidly down the page without taking in any of the private contents, only his eye catching any place-names, dates or words like “patrol”. He finished the last letter with a sigh of relief, stuck down the flap, stamped it “Passed by Censor”. Then he put the pile of letters into the postbox outside the wardroom.
The system of having one night in three compulsorily on board was a good one in some ways, thought Number One, as he brought a heap of paperwork out of his drawer. It meant that this rubbish got dealt with instead of being put off from day to day and eventually causing trouble. Nobody liked paperwork, but everyone had to put up with it, everyone from the Captain of the flotilla to the Cox’n of a submarine. But a good Depot Ship, like this one, could do a lot towards keeping it down to a minimum.
Amongst other things, the First Lieutenant had to keep the men’s personal records up to date. Thumbing through a pile of them, he looked at the space in which each man’s private occupation was noted. The Gunlayer was a market gardener, the Gun Trainer a brewery hand. Rogers had been a milkman, while Parrot had described himself as a grave-digger. Number One, as he looked through the papers, felt a slight envy of these men who had a second trade, while he had only one.
He stood up, switched on the loudspeaker over his head: it was time for the programme known as ‘Forces Favourites’. A woman’s voice announced a number for Alf, Pete and Stooge, who had been waiting to hear it for a long time and were looking forward to getting home to their families in Croydon. This record had also been asked for by the Bats Brigade of Number Six Mess, H.M.S. Tapeworm. The disc screamed into its millionth reproduction: of course, it had to be her, the Sweetheart of the Forces. He reached up, switched it off.
Before he turned in, at about eleven o’clock, Jimmy walked for’ard and climbed up through the hatchway into the cool, clean air. It was very quiet. Seahound lay with three other submarines of her own class: the one outside her had only that day returned from patrol. The four sister-ships rubbed sides, as though taking pleasure in each others’ company, and there was about them even here an air of purpose as though they knew that they were only resting before new battles. The oily water lapped softly on their bulging saddle-tanks, and the submarines moved very slightly while the hemp ropes creaked as they strained under the changing weight.
“‘night, Hodges.” The sentry saluted.
“G’night, sir.” Number One slipped quietly down the ladder, edged round a heavily-weighted hammock and went aft to turn in and to dream of Mary-Ann.
They lay spreadeagled, naked on the soft, warm sand, only blue sky in sight except, if you bent your head back, for the line of palms that fringed the beach. This was a wonderful place for bathing, Sweat Bay: the rest of the fleet, the surface ships which were berthed in the other part of the harbour, used the crowded beaches to the north. Here the party of submariners was as often as not the only group on the beach.
Jimmy raised himself on his elbows.
“Come on, Tiny, you mass of blubber. Come and swim some of it off.”
“Quiet, Skinny. You’re jealous of my manly body.”
Jimmy interrupted him, sitting up quickly and staring out to sea.
“What the hell?”
“Uh?” Sub sat up, looked the same way. Landing Ships.
“What are they?”
“Landing Ships.”
“Landing Ships?” Even Tiny sat up. “What are they doing here?” Tiny always asked questions like that.
“Anchoring.” They were, too. The men on the beach heard the roar of the cables running out as they watched the fleet of queer-looking vessels: they hadn’t known that there were any of these in the Indian Ocean.
“There are rather a lot of them,” observed Tiny. “Reminds me of the gulf of Suez, a month or two before we went into Sicily.”
The ships were lowering their Assault Craft to circle around, more and more joining those already in the water. The sea was soon dotted with hundreds of the smaller craft. Gradually a certain order grew out of the mass: they were forming long queues alongside their parent ships, embarking men.
Tiny murmured, horrified, “I hope they aren’t all coming here!”
But they were: a wide arc of Assault Craft, a long, unbroken line, was moving towards the beach. Soon it was possible to see the men in them. The line swept into the surf, anchors plumbed down from the sterns of the craft and their bows touched along the whole length of the beach. What looked and sounded like a crazy Army poured out over the sand, discarding shirts and trousers: white skin straight from England, not yet browned by the sun. An invasion fleet, or part of one, had evidently just arrived from its home ports.
Tiny gazed dismally at the crowded beach, and groaned.
“It’s like Margate,” he commented. “On a blasted Bank Holiday.”
Number One said, “Looks more like an Invasion, to me. Coming to swim, Sub?”
As they walked down to the water, Number One muttered, “Sub, I’m just beginning to get an idea of what we were doing down in the Straits with those soldiers.”
“Oh?”
“For Christ’s sake, man: look!” Number One pointed at the mass of Landing Craft, the horde of men.
“A new D-Day, Sub. D-Day in Malaya. That’s my guess.”
Perhaps, thought the Sub. Perhaps he’s right. There was in these days a bigger thought that he had, a thought that had started when he heard a remark of Chief’s, in the bar, on the night they returned from the last patrol. Chief had said to the Captain, “Too many things are right tonight. Too many things, all at once. This sort of time doesn’t come twice.”
Sub had bitten on to that thought. He thought that Chief was right. They had all been looking forward to Victory Day, VJ. They had discussed ways of celebrating it. Sub remembered a young Army man, a Lieutenant in the Tank Corps: they had been friends on the troopship, and when the Army units landed first at Suez and the Navy men leant on the rail to watch them go as they waited their own turn to land, someone had said to him, “John, I don’t think we’ll see that soldier again.”
The soldier’s tank had been blown up a few weeks later. Sub thought that perhaps the Seahounds had already seen their VJ Day: nobody would see a better one. But as he ran into the shallow warm water, he thought: I imagine too much; I think a lot of damn nonsense.
On the upper deck of the Depot Ship, all hands were fallen in for Sunday Divisions. The crew of each submarine was fallen in separately: in another place were the Spare Crew, and on the quarterdeck were the Depot Ship’s own men. Orders rang out clearly over the harbour as the platoons were called to attention, inspected and stood at ease.
The Captain stopped opposite Able Seaman Rogers.
“Get a haircut, Rogers, and don’t turn up for Divisions looking like that again.”
The Captain of the Flotilla walked round with his Staff, inspecting each platoon in turn. As he turned away from the last man in Seahound’s rear rank, he said to the Captain, “Your men look fit, Hallet. Some of ’em could do with a haircut, though, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, Hallet: join me in my cabin, after Church.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The great man passed on to inspect another submarine’s crew. The Captain snapped, “Number One!”
“Sir!”
“See that those men have their hair cut before Rounds tonight.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Parrot, the submarine’s unofficial barber, grinned to himself in the rear rank. It was an ill wind, he thought, that blew nothing in nobody’s way.
“Seahound Ship’s Company – right turn! Quick march!” They marched down on to the well-deck, which had been rigged under canvas for the church service. The Padre stood ready on a small dais: a table in front of him, covered with a Union Jack, was the altar. He had a little chapel, down below, but it was by no means big enough for all the men now ranged before him on benches across the wide deck.
“O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the sea: who hast compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end: Be pleased to receive into thy almighty and most gracious protection the persons of us thy servants, and the Fleet in which we serve. Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, and from the violence of the enemy: that we may be a safeguard unto our most gracious Sovereign Lord, King George, and his Dominions, and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions: that the inhabitants of our Island may in peace and quietness serve thee our God: and that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land, with the fruits of our labours, and with a thankful remembrance of thy mercies to praise and glorify thy Holy Name: through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
A low growl of “Amen” rose from the ranks of sailors, and Arthur Hallet found in his mind the words of another prayer which, not long ago, it had been his duty to read to his men:
“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the sea…”
Over each peaceful ship in the harbour, a Church Pendant hung motionless in the still, hot air. The sea lay flat, blank-faced, hiding its million secrets.
Arthur Hallet knocked on the door of the Cuddy, heard the loud “Come in!”, placed his cap under his left arm and turned the door handle with his right hand.
“Gin or sherry, Hallet?”
“Gin, thank you, sir.” The Staff Officer, Operations, was there with Captain Meadows.
“‘Morning, Arthur.”
“Hello, Stinky.” He used the nickname under his breath. If Captain Meadows had discovered that his S.O.O. was commonly known as Stinky, that officer would never have heard the end of it. As things were, he had very little peace. Meadows was a big, florid man: he looked the conventional country squire, but that part had been allotted many years ago to his elder brother. He was a popular Captain (Submarines), as popular with the sailors as with their officers: his loud voice, powerful physique and even stronger language had endeared him to them all. Over and above that, he had a wide and accurate knowledge of his job, and a shrewd insight into the makings of a man. For a stranger it took a little time to learn these truths, since his bluff, sailor-like appearance and address gave a first impression of a man who was a bit of an old fool. Meadows was no man’s fool.
“Plymouth, Hallet,” he observed, pointing to the gin bottle as his steward poured out the liberal measure that he had been taught to pour. “Lots of chaps say that Plymouth isn’t what it was, but I can’t drink anything else. Pink?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well, Hallet, first of all I’ve to tell you that you’ve got a bar to that D.S.O. You’ve earned it. Shut up, you young ass. I hope to get a D.S.C. for your Number One and your Chief, and we may manage a Mention for young Ferris. By the way: I’ve had a complaint about him, from some woman called Compton, in Kandy. But we’ll talk about that another time. With any luck we’ll get a decent allocation of medals for your Ship’s Company: not a word, of course, until I’ve got it on paper.”
The S.O.O. began to murmur congratulations, but Meadows cut him short.
“Now, Hallet, where’ll we send you this time? Somewhere nice and quiet, for a rest?”
“I don’t think that ‘d do any of us any good, sir. I’d like – may I make a suggestion, sir?”
“What the hell do you think I asked you for?”
“Well, sir, we can find our way through that minefield, now. There’d be some targets lower down.” Meadows grinned broadly, took a sip at his gin.
“What do you think, S.O.O.? Send him down to make a shemozzle off Malacca, eh?”
“I think it’s a good idea, sir, so long as he comes out straight away when he’s shown he’s down there. Can’t get caught hanging around in that alley.”
“All right. Fix it. Steward! Fill these officers’ glasses. And mine… here’s to you, Hallet.”
Half-past nine: Sub, in Seahound’s Wardroom, was busy with some official correspondence: there was more to be dealt with, and tonight, when he was Duty, was the time to get it done. But to hell, he thought, there are lots of duty nights to come. He shoved the papers back into their cardboard folders, slid the folders into a converted gas-mask locker. He had a new Peter Cheyney story that had arrived in the last post: he pulled it out of his drawer, settled himself in a corner and began to read about Slim Callaghan and the women with long shapely legs and lots of money. This was undiluted escapism. They didn’t fall like that, not in real life: you had to fight for them, one way or another.
He put the book down, wondered what the noise was about. That was Shadwell’s voice: “Why, y’little pimp, I’ll kick y’ flippin’ –—— up y’ flippin’ –——!” Feet rushing, shouts, Rogers shouting, “Ar, shut it, Shaddy, for flip’s sake!” A thud, more angry voices, a roar from Bird: “Stow it, y’ silly bastards!” A series of bangs that sounded like a man’s head being thumped on the deck. The Sub leapt out of the wardroom, ran for’ard: where in hell was the Duty Petty Officer?
In the for’ard compartment, half-a-dozen men were fighting on the deck. Three of them were trying to hold down Shadwell: it took only one to hold the telegraphist, who was evidently the cause of the big torpedoman’s displeasure.
“Get up, and stop that Goddamned row!”
The Sub was dwarfed when Shadwell, obeying the order, flung two men off his back and rose to his feet. The telegraphist, a man named Barney Rookes, stood panting heavily, his back to the bulkhead door. The Sub stood between them: he noticed a galley knife in the telegraphist’s hand.
“Drop that knife, Rookes.”
“I wasn’t going to use it, sir. I just ‘ad it in me ‘and.” Rookes’ mouth was split and bleeding.
“Drop it.” The knife clattered on the iron deck under the torpedo racks.
Shadwell growled, “Like flip you wasn’t goin’ t’ use it, yer dago bastard!”
“That’s enough from you, Shadwell. Bird, where’s the Duty P.O.?”
“Went inboard, sir. To fetch something.”
“Go and get him. Rookes, go and wait in the Control Room.”
“I didn’t start it, sir.”
“I didn’t say you did. Go aft.” The telegraphist lurched away. Chief Petty Officer Rawlinson dropped through the hatch. Sub moved out of the compartment, beckoned him. He walked aft as far as the Petty Officers’ Mess.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Went up to the Mess, to get this book, sir.”
“You know damn well you’ve no business to leave the boat without my permission.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Shadwell and Rookes were fighting. Find out what it was all about, and report to me in the wardroom.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The Sub sat down at the wardroom table, cursing quietly. Now both men would have to come up as defaulters: there was enough to do, enough to worry about, without this sort of thing.
Rawlinson reported. The telegraphist had knocked into Shadwell, who was writing a letter. Shadwell had cursed him, told him that just because he never wrote letters to his whore at home there was no call to go buggering up other people’s letters. Rookes had assumed the term “whore” to have been applied to his wife. He had grabbed the knife, which had been lying on the lockers, and had flung himself on Shadwell.
Shadwell said that he hadn’t even known that Rookes had a wife. All he knew was that the bastard had a lot of pictures of naked women stuck up all over the Wireless Office: he didn’t like Rookes, he said, and he reckoned that he’d bumped into him on purpose. Then Rookes had attacked him with a flippin’ great knife, and he, Shadwell, had only defended himself.
“All right. Bring them up now. Rookes first.”
He walked into the Control Room, heard Rawlinson bark, “Telegraphist Rookes: get y’ cap!”
One at a time they came before him: Rawlinson ordered, “‘Shun! Off cap!” and read the charge.
“Anything to say?”
Each told his story, Rookes bitter, conscious of his battered face, Shadwell innocent and apparently shocked at the other man’s rough behaviour.
“First Lieutenant’s Report,” snapped the Sub. Tomorrow morning they would see Number One, who would either deal with the matter himself or, if he thought the case more serious, pass it on to the Captain. Sub wondered if he couldn’t save everyone a certain amount of trouble: he called the two men together, unofficially.
“Look,” he said. “You’ll both be seeing the First Lieutenant in the morning. Meantime, to save any more of this nonsense, listen to this.
“Rookes: Shadwell didn’t know you were married. The word he used was not directed at anyone in particular. Do you accept that?”
Rookes muttered that he did. He had difficulty in moving his lips.
“Shadwell: Rookes thought you meant to insult his wife. If you’d thought that someone had used an expression like that about your wife, I reckon if you’d been the smaller man you’d have grabbed the nearest weapon and used it, eh?”
“No, sir. Well, I dunno, really.”
“Good God, man! Someone refers to your wife as a whore, and you don’t do anything about it?”
Shadwell scratched the side of his head. “Well, y’ see, sir, in a manner o’ speakin’, she is.”