"Wonderful work, Geoffrey!" exclaimed the C.O. as he came aboard, his quick ebullience spreading round him like an aura. "Come and tell me all about it — no hell man, don't worry about a written report yet. This is just for my private ear."
He looked at me keenly, noting probably the tight lines round the mouth, the stubble and the typical submariner's pallor.
"I've also got some news for your private ear."
He hustled me away, leaving John to do the donkey work
In his cabin he poured me a stiff gin. I sank into the so: cushions of his own favourite chair, the softness wrapping me round like a cloak.
He jerked out: "When I detailed you for the job, thought you might get her. But I didn't think you'd make it back."
I looked at the tonic fizzling slowly up in the glass. Like breaking surface on a dull morning, I thought. I wondered how many shells, or even how many lives, this one bottle of tonic had cost to bring to Malta.
"I didn't think you'd make it back," he repeated, flashing a quick glance at me. I could see what he was thinking; I was powerless to cover up: "He's done too many patrols punch-drunk; he doesn't hear the ashcans any more until they're close — too close. Once more — then it will be too late."
"Look," I snapped suddenly, so suddenly that my subconscious told me how jangled my nerves really were. I meant to tell him about the shelf on the sea-bed, the long weary hell of depth-charging and waiting, but something inside me balked.
"It was a bit tough, but the Ities didn't get too close. Broke some of the fittings. I'll send you a report of the damage," I said offhandedly.
The commander gazed at me steadily. "Trout's seaworthy, then?"
"Good God, yes!" I exclaimed impatiently. "This gin tastes wonderful."
"Yes, I suppose it does." His probing, assessing gaze irritated me.
"Look sir," I burst out, "I'll give the low-down, charts, position, damage and all the rest of it after I've had a bath. A night's good rest and I'll be ready for sea again."
He got up and stood by the porthole, swilling his drink round and round. Then he faced about suddenly.
"You're not going to sea again."
The shock of his words penetrated only dully. Punch-drunk.
"Not going to sea again?"
"No, Geoffrey."
I laughed grimly: "Battle fatigue — and all that. No reaction. Shaky hands." I drank down the gin at a gulp.
He burst out laughing. "So that's what is eating you! No, it's not that." He waved a signal slip. "Read it for yourself."
"… to report immediately to the Admiralty in London. Special air transport to be arranged for this officer." I gazed in wonderment at him. "What have I done?"
The. other man laughed again. "Search me. But," he added, "the Admiralty certainly saved me a tricky decision. I have lost one of my best fighting men."
"You might have anyway," I rejoined.
"When do I start?" I asked.
"You're still under my orders, and you're spending a couple of days catching up on sleep. The Admiralty will slap on another gong for that little business you've just done, but they can't give you sleep. I can. Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey Peace, D.S.O. and two Bars, etc., etc. Cheer up man! Meet me in the bar later."
I did. After the utter heaven of a bath and a shave and a complete change of clothes, I felt more like a human being again, although the odd feeling of looking at the normal world through the wrong end of a telescope persisted.
"Utmost priority!" The Royal Air Force officer, suitably moustached, threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Christ!" He turned angrily to me. "What do any of these bloody brass hats know about utmost priority? Have you seen the airfield? As full of craters as a whore's face! And I have to give you top priority to fly out of here! I couldn't fly out a flippin' boy's kite, let alone a naval officer." He snorted and drained his glass.
"Do you know what's going on here?" he went on. '' We're so bombed to hell that the Ities and Jerries only need to really come over in force and we've had it. Why, one parachute regiment would write off the airfield."
He signalled frantically for more beer.
' You naval types just don't know what's going on around here. A few bombs at sea, but you can always dodge them. And then — home with top priority — out of Malta! Hell!"
The C.O. leaned across to him and I saw the flicker in his eyes. He said quietly: "You're talking to the man who sank the Littorio battleship. Confirmed by air reconnaissance. Your crew rather jumped the gun with that emblem on the conning-tower."
"My God!" he roared. "So you're the… who sank that load of old iron! Torpedoes right up her arse!" He thumped me on the back and the others in the bar turned and grinned at the little comedy being enacted."… me! And I start a penny lecture about bombs! Barman! Line 'em up for the Admiral!"
At any other time I might have enjoyed his discomfiture and friendly amends, but tonight I wished him as deep down as my victim. Above all, I was aware of my curious sense of separation from the events going on, almost as if I had been a spectator to my own half-tentative efforts to reciprocate. I'd better get drunk, I thought, and when I wake up with a monumental hangover I'll really feel I've done something to justify my double vision.
We drank to my success.
"I'll get you out of here top priority even if I have to fly the bloody thing myself," roared the R.A.F. man. I saw a rating standing nervously in the door and, more nervously still, he made his way through the officers to our group.
"Signal, sir."'
"What the hell" burst out the C.O. "Can't a man have a drink in peace — ' His voice tailed off as he saw the look on the man's face. He jabbed his finger more nervously than ever at the superscription on the signal — "most secret."
The C.O. ripped it open and his right eyebrow rose a little. It was the only form of surprise he ever allowed himself. Otherwise his face, if not his eyes, remained inscrutable.
"Here, Blacklock, this concerns you too."
The R.A.F. man glanced at the signal form. He gave a long whistle. His eyes riveted on me and he made a little sideways gesture of the shoulder to the C.O.
"He might as well know about it, seeing it concerns him most of all."
Blacklock threw down the signal in front of me. "Admiralty to Flag Officer (S) Malta. Lancaster bomber S for Sugar leaving Maddocksford 0400 G.M.T. for Malta to transport Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey Peace to London. Utmost priority. The expeditious return of this officer to London must be treated as overriding consideration…"
Blacklock was a sound enough man to keep his mouth shut in the bar, but I could see he was thunderstruck.
"Have to make arrangements to get that damn great plane in here without wrecking itself in the bomb-holes. More joy for the pick-and-shovel brigade." He. looked at me with respect.
"You must be quite a boy in your own way," he said. Fancy sending a special plane out to fetch you. Personal service in war-time —- me!"
The C.O. looked thoughtful. "When do you think the Lancaster will arrive?"
Blacklock laughed. "He'll have time for a night's sleep. I'll give you the E.T.A when Gib. signals it. I don't know which will be worse, trying to bring her in at night, or during the day when the Jerries are sure to pick her up. We could get her away better at night, though," he mused, "but, Christ! can I get her off that piddling little runway? I hope they have the good sense to fill her up at Gib." He turned to me with a grin. "You'd remember it all your life if Malta fell because we used up all our petrol to fly out one of the Admiralty's favourite torpedo-boys."