Sleep held off, probably a result of the violent exercise of the evening, and the Sub’s mind ran over the excitements of the last patrol. The start had been unfortunate, a lesson that whatever you were doing and wherever you were you must keep an eye on the sky, even when you’re busy shooting at something on the surface and the shoot is taking all your concentration. They had started a patrol off the Nicobar Islands and the weather was kicking up a bit, the sea rough enough to make it tricky keeping periscope depth without showing too much periscope or even a bit of the bridge. On the second day Number One was on watch in the Control Room, when he sighted one of the two Tank Landing Ships which the enemy used for supplying the Nicobars and the Andamans. Jimmy’s poker-face grew a little redder than usual and he said all in one breath, “Captain in the Control Room, Diving Stations.” The bored men on watch were suddenly bored no longer: after a day or a week or two on patrol you began to feel that life was rather pointless when no enemy came near and there was no return for the continued discomfort.
“Tank Landing Ship, sir. Red four five.” The Captain took a look and saw at once that there was no chance of getting into position to fire torpedoes.
He hoped the enemy’s armament didn’t amount to too much as he said, “Stand by Gun Action.”
Up for’ard, the T.I. cursed under his breath and wondered why they bothered to do routines on tubes and torpedoes when the Japs only went afloat in rowing-boats.
The Gun’s Crew were closed up, and behind them the Ammunition Party had the first shells ready on the wardroom deck. The cook’s face peered anxiously out through the small aperture from the magazine, where he worked passing up shells during the action. He looked like a rat staring out of a drain-pipe.
The Captain, looking into the periscope, said, “Target a Tank Landing Ship. Bearing… that! Range…” he fiddled with a knob on the periscope, “Range… that!”
Sub set the angle on another machine and said, “Seven thousand eight hundred.” His face, he hoped, showed none of the anxiety in his mind. It wouldn’t be easy, shooting in this weather.
The Captain spoke again. “Enemy speed nine. We’re on her starboard quarter.”
Sub used the instrument again and reported, “Deflection two right.” He shouted up the Gun-tower hatch to the Gun’s Crew: “Bearing Red two-oh, range oh-eight-oh, deflection two right, shoot!” The order Shoot meant that as soon as the gun was ready and aimed at the enemy the Gunlayer could fire without having to wait for an order from the bridge. The Layer repeated back the order to show that he understood it.
“Down periscope… Surface!”
As soon as the submarine broke surface they knew how rough it was: when the Sub climbed out of the hatch into the bridge they were right over to port, swinging over: he saw the crest of a wave before it slapped into the bridge. A second later he was sitting on the front of the bridge, watching through his binoculars for the splash that would mark the fall of their first shot. No splash was sighted, so the shot was repeated with the same settings on the gun and the splash went up left.
“Right eight, shoot!” In line, short.
“Up four hundred, shoot!” The first shot couldn’t have been far short: this one was over. “Down two hundred, shoot!” Short, again. “Up one hundred, shoot!” A red-orange flash and a puff of smoke on the enemy’s bridge, right aft. But that had come too soon to be a hit: it was the enemy firing back. Seahound’s shell hit the Jap Landing Ship’s stern a few seconds later. That was at least a three-inch they were shooting back with from the gun-deck just abaft the bridge: it had to be knocked out, that gun. The submarine was rolling like a drunkard and her next shot missed, while the enemy fired again and the splash was plain to see a cable’s length on Seahound’s quarter. It was hell’s own job trying to shoot at this range on a platform that was about as steady as a bucking horse, but the submarine scored one more hit out of three more shots before the Captain yelled “Down Below!”
That meant an emergency, no time for securing the gun, no time for anything but getting down below like split lightning: the submarine would be on her way down before the hatch was shut, what American films call a “Crash Dive”. Sub blew his whistle, a long hard blast that sent the Gun’s Crew leaping for the hatch, leaving the gun aimed out over the port bow with the smoking breech still open. As the Gun-tower hatch clanged down, Sub jumped for the bridge hatch, dropping through on top of Wilkins, the Oerlikon Gunner, who wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid injury. As he dropped through, Sub looked up and saw the reason for the hurry: a Jap bomber with its nose down coming out of the sky like a rocket.
The next minute passed like half-an-hour, waiting for the bomb, but when the boat was steady at sixty feet the tense looks eased off and expressions of angry frustration took their place. The Captain muttered, “Stay at sixty feet, Number One…” He turned away, rubbing the side of his chin with the back of his left hand, and he added, “I’d like to meet that bugger again, one day.”
Perhaps they would, thought the Sub, dreamily. He was dropping off to sleep, and as he dropped off there was a smile on his face: in forty-eight hours’ time, he’d be on leave, he’d be in Kandy. He’d see Sheila.
Carrying his suitcase, the Sub walked from the café in Kandy’s main street, where the lorry had discharged its passengers, up and around the corner towards the Queens Hotel. The Queens was one of those places, like the Cecil in Alexandria, the Mount Nelson in Cape Town, or the Four Seasons in Hamburg, that nobody who visits the country can help having something to do with. In Kandy, no officer had ever been known to stay anywhere else, except perhaps out of town at a planter’s house. The reputed disadvantage of staying at a planter’s house was the overwhelming hospitality of some planters: an officer who returned from leave with the symptoms of delirium tremens was likely to be frowned upon.
The Sub handed his case to the hall porter, and leant over the reception desk.
“Ferris. I sent you a wire.”
“Yes, Mr Ferris.” The Singhalese clerk pushed the book across the marble counter, and handed a key to the porter. “Number thirteen.”
“Hell! Do I have to have thirteen?”
“You are superstitious, sir? It is the room you occupied when you were last here in Kandy.”
“Not particularly superstitious,” the Sub answered as he turned away. “But it certainly failed to bring me any startling success, last time.” Sheila’s green eyes were all over the place as he followed the porter through the foyer and acknowledged a minor salaam from the bar-boy. The bar-boy had an easy life: his customers supplied their own liquor, and, in return for the iced water or minerals that he produced, tipped him as though his services were of the usual value.
The porter deposited his burden on the huge bed, which, festooned with mosquito nets, still occupied only a small part of the room. The Sub tipped him, then emptied his case and rang the bell.
“Master?” A little brown man bowed himself in, grinning happily.
“I want these things pressed, and my half-boots cleaned.”
“Yes, master.” The little man pattered round, picking things up. “Master want bath?”
“Yes, please. At six.” He put all the bottles back in his case, and locked it, slipped a flask into his pocket and strolled down to the lounge.