Now, Britain and France and all the others were depending on charity for their survival. Canada and Australia were sending wheat and meat over. So were the Yanks, conscience money probably, McMullen thought. They thought they could buy their way out of anything. Spain and Italy had also joined in, shipping in as much food as they could to stave off the impending catastrophe. The coming winter was going to be another bad one, McMullen could feel it in his bones. It was still August but he could feel a chill in the air already. Another bad winter to knock a defeated Europe flat on its back again.
He finished off his supper and polished the plate with the last of his three slices of bread. “That wasn't bad Maisie, not so bad at all. Only a point you say? Well, perhaps them foreigners have something after all. Now, I got some good news for us.” He'd been bursting to tell his wife ever since he'd got back from his clearance detail. “The yard is opening up again. They're taking on workers and I start next week. I'll be a riveter again for a while. I'm back in a real job at last.”
Maisie McMullen forgot her depression and her face lit up. “Oh John, That's wonderful. How long's it for?”
“Couple of years at least the Union reckon. Two cruisers are coming in for a complete refit. Spent the war in Australia so they say, now they're off to South Africa. Here's the thing though. After that, the Navy's giving the yard a contract to build a submarine. Only that's a welding job there days so there are some coming over from Canadian Vickers to train us in welding. Union's got something to say about that. Welding's a riveter's job, stands to reason, but the steelworkers are claiming it’s their people who should be getting it. Union says could go to a strike in the end. Still, that's two years down the line they reckon.
His wife cleared the plates off the table. She had a surprise for her husband. When she'd picked up their weekly eight ounce bacon ration from the butcher, he'd told her there would be some sausages in tomorrow and she'd asked him to put three aside for her. Two points each. She'd also got a packet of the new instant mashed potato the Americans were sending over, just add boiling water the packet said. So tomorrow, her husband could have bangers and mash for his supper. That made ten points she'd spent this week, they still had six left and it was Thursday already.
Submarine Bunker, Faslane, UK
This was probably his favorite view, of all the spectacular sites in the great concrete bunker, this was the one that was truly awe-inspiring. After coming down in the lift and stepping out onto the gallery, he could see the whole of the left-hand bay containing the submarine trots stretched out beneath him. The right hand bay, the other side of the thick blast wall, had a problem. The roof of the bunker was massive, 30 feet of reinforced concrete topped with a further six inches as a fuse initiator. The Americans hadn't been able to drive a bomb though it, although the pockmarks in the top and the cracks showed how hard they'd tried. Then, one day, their Skyraiders had dropped a strange bomb, one that bounced across the surface of the water. Fortunately for the occupants of the right hand bay, the steel doors had been closed and they'd kept the strange bomb out but the blast had jammed tlie doors in place. The Germans had built the bunker so strongly, it was proving the devil's work to free them. Meanwhile, there were six perfectly intact Type XXIC U-boats in there, unable to get out.
All six spots in the operational bay were occupied, the first four by U-class submarines, the two furthest away by X-class boats. Commander Robert Fox could recite their names without prompting. Ursula, she was charging batteries, a plume of spray and steam was rising from the exhausts built into her after casing, only to be snatched up by the ventilation hood and carried away, outside the bunker. Then there was Undaunted, the last time Fox had seen her, he was limping into Churchill with her saddle tanks battered in where a German destroyer had placed its depth charges almost, but not quite, accurately enough to do for her. Next to her was Unbroken, the little submarine that had pushed right into the Kattegat and put four torpedoes into the German cruiser Prinz Eugen before getting back to Churchill with her fuel tanks dry. Finally Upstart was de-storing, she'd just come back from a training and monitoring patrol in the North Sea.
The Royal Navy had retained the U-class because they were largely British-equipped and were riveted. The later V-class had been divided out between the Commonwealth navies; they had American-supplied equipment and engines, ones that would cost hard currency to support. Anyway, the V-class were largely welded and it would take time to teach the British shipyard workers how to weld ships.
Right at the end of the line were two larger submarines, ones that overlapped the diminutive U class at both ends. A new class, one that incorporated all the lessons of the War. Derived from the U-class certainly, but radically different. Smooth, streamlined and as fast as a thief underwater. They'd been designed with a complete outer casing, not the saddletank design the British had used for so long. Still had four tubes forward but an extra set of reloads and two short tubes aft for the new anti-escort torpedoes. No gun. that was the big difference. No guns at all. Xanadu was the lead ship of the class, she'd made one patrol before the war had ended. Next to her, was Fox's new command, HMS Xena. New ship, just delivered from Canadian Vickers.
A command that he'd never expected to get. Fox had finished the war as a Lieutenant Commander with a splendid war record and, due to a complete inability to say the right thing to the right person at the right time, looked like finishing his career in the Navy as a Lieutenant-Commander with a splendid war record. In fact, by all rights, his career was already over. He had been passed over for promotion six months after the war had ended and had already started to look for a career outside the Navy. The problem was that the naval officers preferred choice for a post-military career, farming, wasn't practical in a Europe where crops just wouldn't grow and livestock died.
Then, during a particularly onerous meeting in Whitehall, a French Navy representative had started a long lecture on how the RN was going to have to learn to take orders from its betters, ones who hadn't run away to America but had stayed in Europe to make the best they could of things. The diatribe had been interrupted by Fox's fist breaking the Frenchman's nose. The resulting court martial had found him guilty (with extenuating circumstances) of 'Conduct Unbecoming' and sentenced him to a year's loss of seniority. That had put him back in the promotion zone and he'd been made Commander on the next list. Now he had command of HMS Xena. As he mounted the narrow gangway, he got the strange feeling that he was coming home at last.
Xena's wardroom was typical of a war-built submarine, everything done to save time and simplify construction. A central table flanked by seats that could be converted into bunks. A small bookcase, a barometer and a clock and a profusion of piping and ducts, punctuated by valve handwheels. It looked hideous but was severely practical. Exposed piping could be reached and fixed when depth-charging caused it to spring a leak, easy-to-access valves could be shut quickly when blasted open by near-misses. His officers were assembled, waiting for him.