Dive in the Sun (4 page)

He squeezed the button of the periscope hoist-switch and the thin tube hissed down into its well. He must keep going now. Must keep his mind on the present.

‘Ninety feet, Number One.’ He cleared his throat to disguise the harshness which had unwittingly crept into his tone. ‘Steer three-five-oh.’

Taylor spun the wheel easily and watched the compass ticking round its case. ‘Course three-five-oh, sir!’

Curtis leaned across the table at Jervis’s side. He could feel the warmth of his body against his arm, and shuddered at the thought of his groping through the dark water in his skintight diving suit. He picked up the dividers and concentrated on the wavering pencilled lines and the craggy, uneven outline of the Italian mainland.

‘Three hours to daylight,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘We’ll surface then and get our last good fix.’

‘Where shall we hide up while we’re waiting, Skipper?’ Jervis’s voice was also low, as if the enormity of their task had humbled him.

‘Well, as you can see, the coastline up to the harbour approaches and main channel are pretty shallow, so I think we’ll settle on the bottom about here.’ He indicated a huddle of tiny figures on the chart. ‘There’s a sort of valley just there, carved out of the sandy bottom by the fast current which sweeps round the headland. The locals apparently call it “
il dietro del camello
”, the “camel’s back”. It’s a good sixteen fathoms deep, so we should be fairly snug there until nightfall, when we shall make our first run-in.’

He felt Jervis shiver, and he glanced at him sharply. ‘D’you feel all right about cutting the nets?’ He tried to keep the fierceness from his voice, and added suddenly, ‘We shall at
least
have surprise on our side.’ And not much else, he thought bitterly.

Jervis smiled quickly, his face pale against the glare of the chart-light. ‘I’m quite looking forward to it, Skipper! I was afraid the war would be over before I’d even finished my training. It all seems worth while now!’

Duncan groaned loudly behind them. ‘For Chrissake! The war’ll go on for ever! Years an’ years! Don’t you fret, son, you’ll have plenty of time to be a ruddy hero!’

Jervis laughed uncomfortably and looked at Curtis, his eyes grave. ‘Well, you know what I mean, Skipper. My father has always impressed it upon me that it’s vitally important for an officer to have war experience. It’s such a terrific help in later years,’ he finished lamely.

Curtis looked away. It was amazing to think of this boy discussing the war so dispassionately and calmly, and to think that it might only be an interlude in his naval career, when in fact they were crammed together in this little steel shell, nosing through enemy waters with four tons of high explosive to keep them company.

His father, he thought … so he, too, had a father driving him on. Suppose the war did allow them all to survive? He almost groaned at the idea of such a possibility. But just suppose. What would happen to them? Duncan would be all right, and probably Taylor would be quick enough to adapt himself, but would Jervis really be able to settle down to the rigours of a peace-time Navy? And as for me, he thought, suddenly angry … what would I do? Go back to my father’s company, or try to break away on my own?

He remembered the last and only time he had tried to do just that. He had, through a few dubious contacts, managed to entangle himself with a group of young people in Chelsea. It had all seemed so different and vaguely daring. The loose talk, and midnight pyjama parties, and a few unsatisfactory meetings with trousered, overpowering girls who described themselves as either art students or models. It had been new, and for him, a glimpse of another life. But although they had been willing to accept his company, and had made him
welcome
, he had never been quite one of them. Always, behind him, lurked his father, and his background. In desperation he made the fatal mistake of trying to buy his popularity, and he still felt the quiver of complete shame he had experienced when one of the girls had said, ‘Does your dear daddy know you’re out so late, spending his cash?’ He had driven home like a maniac, their laughter still in his ears.

He realized that Jervis had asked him a question, and the boy prodded the chart with his finger.

‘… I mean, shall we leave the harbour the same way as we enter?’

‘We’ll have to wait and see what the exact situation is before I can answer that. According to reports there are at least two nets to get through. Then we’ll have to creep right across the harbour, and that’ll mean dodging the harbour traffic and hardly using the periscope at all, and then I’ll try to get up alongside the main loading jetty.’ He rubbed his chin slowly. ‘The dock is apparently right alongside, and we should be able to duck underneath and drop the charges.’

‘Here, Ian, come an’ wipe down the flamin’ boat!’ Duncan’s voice cut across their conversation like a saw. ‘She’s runnin’ already!’

Jervis seized the big roll of old towelling and began to mop the streaming plates free of condensation. The air was still fresh, but the damp chill was already making itself felt, and they were all grateful for their extra clothing.

Curtis was glad to be left alone. He felt that by turning his body to the chart he could blot out the others, and by concentrating on his proposed attack he struggled to shut out their bantering conversation.

He tried to picture his boat as she must look to the fish. A small, whale-shaped object, thrusting her blunt nose through the dark water; blind, but for her instruments; helpless and lost, but for his calculations. Strangely enough, he felt a little calmer, but he had drained away so much of his energy that he found it difficult to decide whether or not that was a sign of hope or of resignation. He reached for his notebook and started again.

They would lie on the bottom for the following day and start to move in on the harbour defences just before nightfall. They ought to be at the first net before dusk, to allow Jervis a bit of practice before his real job started. If all went well they should be clear of the harbour and on their way out to the open sea by five in the morning. The charges would be set to explode beneath the dock at six, so they should be well clear before the pursuit started. Then rendezvous with the towing submarine the following night. He began to sweat again. That was less than forty-eight hours away! Yet it was a life’s span, an eternity!

He forced himself to think of the Allied armies crouching on the Sicilian shores, waiting to make their spring across on to the Italian coast. What would they be thinking? Not about this ruddy dock, he thought fiercely.

‘’Ere, can one of you gentlemen give me a break on the wheel?’ Taylor glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘An’ I’ll get a nice cup of char goin’.’

‘Sure. Take over, Ian. Old George’ll show you how to mix a good brew.’ Duncan laughed lazily. ‘Perhaps that’ll be some use to you in your career, too.’

Jervis grinned and slid into Taylor’s seat, his hands gripping the brass spokes of the wheel. He was used to Duncan’s humour, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to react to Taylor’s casual acceptance of his companions. If they had all been officers it might have been different, he told himself, but each time Duncan shared a joke with the petty officer, at his expense, he felt a needle of resentment prodding him. I’ll get used to it, he thought; we’re just four men. He glanced quickly across at Curtis’s shoulders, stooped over the table. Perhaps we’re only three men, and a leader of men! He smiled at his own reflection in the compass, embarrassed by the complicated depth of his own thoughts. Must be going off my chump. He spun the spokes and started to hum to himself.

The electric kettle began to whistle shrilly and Taylor deftly busied himself with the tea.

He had never quite got used to the process of preparing food or drink on board. He always wanted to laugh at his own
antics
as he crawled and ducked about the tiny stove, going through the ritual which his mother had called, “Wettin’ the bed!”

Poor old Mum. It couldn’t be much fun for her, with the old man away at the docks most of the time, or bending his elbow in the Bricklayer’s Arms, and spending most of her nights in the shelter at the end of the road. He remembered the shock he had received on his last leave, when he had turned the familiar corner and stood stock-still to gape at the savage gaps in the shabby terraced houses. He had never really thought much about the air raids before. When it had been mentioned in the petty officers’ mess the others had groused and grumbled about the “bleedin’ civvies”, or had pointed out that the Jerries were getting a bit in repayment. But standing there on the corner, where he had grown up, had played about with the girls, and cheeked the coppers who came running and puffing after the street bookmakers, it had suddenly seemed very real, and very personal.

After that he had given his soul to the midget submarine’s engines, and moulded himself into the framework of her small company. He smiled as he thought of Jervis’s expression when he had first been introduced. Poor little bugger, he didn’t seem to know whether to shake his hand or to put him in the rattle for not saluting!

He handed a mug of tea to Duncan, and for a second their eyes met. Good old Steve. Maybe I’ll go out to his country after this lot’s over. Mum’d probably kick up a fuss about leaving “the street”, but it’d do her good. It’d be a new chance for all of them.

He refilled the kettle methodically. We’re all stark, bleedin’ mad, he thought—drinkin’ tea on the bottom of the bloody ocean, an’ me dreamin’ of home!

Duncan raised his mug. It looked like an egg-cup in his huge fist. ‘Here’s to yer! What a life!’

Taylor smiled his secret smile. ‘Shouldn’t ’ave joined if you can’t take a joke,’ he answered automatically.

Curtis took his mug of tea and lowered himself carefully into his metal seat, and cursed softly as a trickle of condensation
found
his neck. He sipped the tea slowly, and noticed that already it had attained the bitter taste which seemed to pervade the whole boat after it had been submerged for any time at all. He stared bleakly at the curved steel side and the quivering depth gauges. Somewhere beyond the toughened metal and the silent water lay the quiet, sleeping coastline, and he wondered vaguely what sort of a life the Italians would lead once the invasion had started, and which way their loyalties would lie. It was unlikely that their German masters would allow them much choice in the matter, he decided.

If only we could get on with the attack, and get it over, one way or the other. The waiting, and the probing, the constant watch over depth and speed, course and distance, only added to the constant worry and the twisting agony of fear.

He attempted to remember his reactions before his last operation, but he only succeeded in obtaining a few distorted images of the past. Like a flashback in an old film. He found he was squeezing the mug savagely, so he carefully stood it on the corticene deck covering, where it vibrated in mocking defiance to the tune of the motor.

It was with something like relief that he saw the hands of the brass bulkhead clock creep round, and he began to shift about in his seat in anticipation of doing something. Anything was better than listening to the others talking, and watching the instruments ticking and winking at him from each direction that he turned his sleep-starved eyes.

No orders were given, but each man moved quietly to his allotted place and sat waiting.

Curtis ran his hand slowly across the coarse material of his battledress, and felt the hard pressure of his stomach muscles. He had the overpowering urge to yawn and keep on yawning. With grim determination he gritted his teeth together and stared at the lowered periscope. He knew only too well that the urge to yawn was the most significant symptom of all. It was the open sign of fear.

He pulled himself together with a jerk, aware that Duncan was watching him and that they were all waiting for him to set the wheels in motion.

‘I’m going up to have a look.’ His voice was clipped but quite calm. ‘How’s the trim?’

‘Craft trimmed for diving.’ Duncan squinted at his gauges and juggled with the controls. ‘Steady as a rock.’

‘Right. Two-five-oh revolutions. Periscope depth.’

There was the barest tilt to the deck as the craft swam towards the waiting sun, and Curtis screwed his body into a ball, forcing himself down low against the deck, ready to use the periscope at the first opportunity.

‘Nine feet, Skipper.’

He held his breath, and pressed the button of the periscope-hoist. He checked it slowly as it hissed out of the well, and then, with his face against the eyepiece, he continued to raise it until the bottom of the slender tube was just under two feet from the deck.

He watched, cold and fascinated, as the picture changed from a dark green, distorted jumble, to a sudden blinding light, as the lens broke the surface and cleared the friendly, glittering water. Scraping his knees, and heedless of the objects about him, he swung the periscope in a complete circle, from horizon to horizon and back again.

It was as if the stuffy, streaming control-room no longer existed. His body was still with the others, but his sight and his soul were free, and moving slowly and lazily across the clear green water.

He sniffed and licked his lips involuntarily, half expecting to taste the scent of the clean sea. But the oil and mustiness remained to remind him of reality.

After the darkness and the anxiety of transferring from the towing submarine, the waiting and the growing fear, the sight of the calm, deserted sea was breathtaking and somehow unreal.

He licked his dry lips, catching a brief glimpse as he did so of Jervis’s face watching him questioningly.

He swore inwardly, and forced everything from his mind. Everything but the winding strip of white sand and green trees which formed the full length of his vision. A few white buildings shimmered in the bright morning light, and across a sand-bar of a small cove he could just make out the shapes
of
some beached fishing boats. The periscope halted in its search as he fixed his eye on a tall, crumbling lighthouse.