The soldiers were a source of great interest to the submarine officers, who watched them and talked to them rather as prison warders might behave towards men condemned to the gallows. Nothing was too much trouble. The objects of their sympathetic interest, though obviously anxious for the dark hours to come, appeared unaffected by the imminence of what seemed at any rate to Chief to be a certain death. Chief made himself particularly helpful to the guests, continually making suggestions and offering friendly advice as to the best manner of handling canoes. He was a yachtsman himself, he explained, and he knew quite a bit about handling small craft. He left little doubt, in the course of his suggestions, that it would only be a one-way journey.
After tea they put the maps away, and the Captain, after a final talk with the Major, said, “Right, Number One. We’ll surface at nine-thirty. All canoes will be away by nine-fifty at the latest, and we’ll dive again at about eleven. You can tell the hands.”
Supper was ready at six-thirty, finished and cleared away at seven. Number One pressed the buzzer for the messenger, sent for the Cox’n.
“Cox’n: tell the T.I. to have the for’ard Mess unrigged. Everything in the gangway and in the Leading Hands’ Mess.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The Hands turned to, taking hammocks, kitbags, the table and everything moveable out of the for’ard Mess.
At about eight, the Captain said, “Sub. Get the canoes and tackles ready up for’ard.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Sub climbed for’ard over the heaps of gear that now littered the gangway. He found the for’ard compartment bare, except for some disconsolate seamen.
“Right. We’ll get the canoes out of the racks. Shadwelclass="underline" get the tackles ready.”
At half-past eight they were finished, the canoes lying on the deck ready to be hauled up to the hatch. A block was provided to be hooked on at the top of the hatch-way, the rope already rove through it and one end of the rope, fitted with a spring-hook, secured to the bow of the first canoe. Sub looked round at the preparations.
“All right, T.I.,” he said to Rawlinson. “It’s all yours. As soon as you hear me give three bangs on the outside of the hatch, open up fast. By the time it’s open you should have the first canoe right up behind it. If I blow one long blast on the whistle, you shut the hatch and clamp it, and it doesn’t matter who’s up top. You don’t wait for anyone to get inside. That clear?”
“Yes, sir. All clear.”
Sub reported to the Captain that all was ready. The Major turned to his officers and said, “Right. Get dressed.” The four of them went forward, collecting the sergeants on the way. Their packs were in the for’ard compartment with the canoes.
Shortly after nine o’clock, an unrecognisable Major returned to the wardroom. He was wearing an unusual sort of green battledress uniform, and all over him was strapped every sort of weapon from a knife to a Tommy-gun. His face and hands were blackened.
“We’re all set, Hallet,” he told the Captain. The latter stared at him, then turned to Number One. “Look out for me here, Number One. I’m going for’ard for a moment.”
In the for’ard Mess the Captain found seven other apparitions. He felt glad that he was not a guard on the beach: these quiet gentlemen who had sipped tea in the wardroom looked viciously efficient.
He said, “So long, you fellows; It’s been nice having you. See you in a couple of days, and I can speak for all this ship’s company when I say good luck. Au revoir, Major. Give ’em hell.” He shook their black hands, one by one, and he felt ridiculously emotional.
“Cheerio, old man,” said the Major. “You’ve done a thundering good job for us. Day after tomorrow: two blue flashes, eh?”
“Two blue flashes,” agreed the Captain, and he turned on his heel and made his way back to the Control Room.
“Red lighting,” he ordered. “Diving Stations in five minutes’ time.”
Chapter 7
“Stand by to surface.”
The Captain stared into the periscope as he gave the order and the report came back from the compartments. They had closed in towards the beach, as close as they could go submerged. Number One turned to the Captain.
“Ready to surface, sir.”
The Captain took a final look all round, then stepped back, and Featherstone sent the periscope down.
“Surface!”
Sub was standing by in the wardroom with Bird and three other seamen. As soon as the Captain and the Signalman had vanished up the ladder into the Conning Tower, he brought his party into the Control Room where they stood waiting for the order to go aloft.
“Slow ahead together,” came the order from the bridge, and the messenger sprang to the telegraphs. They were moving in.
“Control Room!”
“Control Room.”
“Casing party on the bridge.” Sub jumped on to the ladder and his party scrambled up behind him.
On the bridge, he caught his breath at the unusual sight. They were right up to the beach, a short, low-lying piece of land with the ground on either side rising sharply into cliffs. There was no moon, but they were so close that the silhouette of the land was quite clear, the high cliffs towering over the submarine. He wondered if anyone on those cliffs might be watching, waiting.
“All right Sub. Carry on.” Over the side of the bridge, finding the cut-away footholes by long practice without having to grope. As he hurried for’ard along the casing he grabbed a wheel-spanner from Bird who was close behind him, jumped down the three steel steps on to the pressure-hull and banged three times on the hatch with the wheel-spanner. He heard the clatter inside as they took off the last clip: evidently the T.I. had lost no time, because almost immediately the big hatch swung open. Sub grabbed the block with the ropes running through it and hooked it quickly on an eyebolt on the casing outside the hatch. The bow of the first canoe rushed up towards him as the men down below heaved away on the tackle: he grabbed it, snatched off the spring-hook, and dropped the gear back into the hatch. Bird and another man were already lowering the first canoe over the side: it slid rasping down the side of the casing and rode alongside. The Major and his sergeant were on the casing, climbing down over the side, and thirty seconds after the time that the hatch swung open the soldiers released the lines holding the canoe and the first one had gone. The second canoe was on the casing, and down below in the forward compartment they were snapping the spring-hook on to the bow of the third. Nobody had said a word.
The pitch-black night swallowed the tiny craft with their circling paddles: the sounds they made were inaudible at more than ten yards’ range. The fourth and last canoe was gone: Bird threw all the lines and loose gear into the hatch, and he and his men jumped after it. Sub slammed it down and as he turned away to get back to the bridge he heard the men inside working at the clips.
The sea lay as flat as a slab of polished marble, the air warm and soft. The coastline rose black behind her as the submarine turned and headed slowly, silently, out into the Straits.
The Captain said, “All right, Sub, you go down. Tell Number One to go to Patrol Routine, and run all the fans. I’ll stay up here. We’ll dive in an hour.”
There was a feeling of anti-climax. The wardroom seemed almost deserted, with only the few submariners to share it. In the Petty Officers’ Mess the Cox’n looked round the tiny space and murmured, “Blimey – what’ll we do with all this flippin’ room?” Up forward, the seamen were putting their gear back in its place. All thoughts were with the soldiers, hoping for them and touching wood. They had made themselves many good friends in the past week, shown themselves as good messmates. On the bridge, the Captain stared at the coast, expecting at any moment to hear the sharp rattle of machine guns or see the dazzling swoop of an alarm-rocket. But all was quiet, as quiet as the grave.