He stood up, switched on the loudspeaker over his head: it was time for the programme known as ‘Forces Favourites’. A woman’s voice announced a number for Alf, Pete and Stooge, who had been waiting to hear it for a long time and were looking forward to getting home to their families in Croydon. This record had also been asked for by the Bats Brigade of Number Six Mess, H.M.S. Tapeworm. The disc screamed into its millionth reproduction: of course, it had to be her, the Sweetheart of the Forces. He reached up, switched it off.
Before he turned in, at about eleven o’clock, Jimmy walked for’ard and climbed up through the hatchway into the cool, clean air. It was very quiet. Seahound lay with three other submarines of her own class: the one outside her had only that day returned from patrol. The four sister-ships rubbed sides, as though taking pleasure in each others’ company, and there was about them even here an air of purpose as though they knew that they were only resting before new battles. The oily water lapped softly on their bulging saddle-tanks, and the submarines moved very slightly while the hemp ropes creaked as they strained under the changing weight.
“‘night, Hodges.” The sentry saluted.
“G’night, sir.” Number One slipped quietly down the ladder, edged round a heavily-weighted hammock and went aft to turn in and to dream of Mary-Ann.
They lay spreadeagled, naked on the soft, warm sand, only blue sky in sight except, if you bent your head back, for the line of palms that fringed the beach. This was a wonderful place for bathing, Sweat Bay: the rest of the fleet, the surface ships which were berthed in the other part of the harbour, used the crowded beaches to the north. Here the party of submariners was as often as not the only group on the beach.
Jimmy raised himself on his elbows.
“Come on, Tiny, you mass of blubber. Come and swim some of it off.”
“Quiet, Skinny. You’re jealous of my manly body.”
Jimmy interrupted him, sitting up quickly and staring out to sea.
“What the hell?”
“Uh?” Sub sat up, looked the same way. Landing Ships.
“What are they?”
“Landing Ships.”
“Landing Ships?” Even Tiny sat up. “What are they doing here?” Tiny always asked questions like that.
“Anchoring.” They were, too. The men on the beach heard the roar of the cables running out as they watched the fleet of queer-looking vessels: they hadn’t known that there were any of these in the Indian Ocean.
“There are rather a lot of them,” observed Tiny. “Reminds me of the gulf of Suez, a month or two before we went into Sicily.”
The ships were lowering their Assault Craft to circle around, more and more joining those already in the water. The sea was soon dotted with hundreds of the smaller craft. Gradually a certain order grew out of the mass: they were forming long queues alongside their parent ships, embarking men.
Tiny murmured, horrified, “I hope they aren’t all coming here!”
But they were: a wide arc of Assault Craft, a long, unbroken line, was moving towards the beach. Soon it was possible to see the men in them. The line swept into the surf, anchors plumbed down from the sterns of the craft and their bows touched along the whole length of the beach. What looked and sounded like a crazy Army poured out over the sand, discarding shirts and trousers: white skin straight from England, not yet browned by the sun. An invasion fleet, or part of one, had evidently just arrived from its home ports.
Tiny gazed dismally at the crowded beach, and groaned.
“It’s like Margate,” he commented. “On a blasted Bank Holiday.”
Number One said, “Looks more like an Invasion, to me. Coming to swim, Sub?”
As they walked down to the water, Number One muttered, “Sub, I’m just beginning to get an idea of what we were doing down in the Straits with those soldiers.”
“Oh?”
“For Christ’s sake, man: look!” Number One pointed at the mass of Landing Craft, the horde of men.
“A new D-Day, Sub. D-Day in Malaya. That’s my guess.”
Perhaps, thought the Sub. Perhaps he’s right. There was in these days a bigger thought that he had, a thought that had started when he heard a remark of Chief’s, in the bar, on the night they returned from the last patrol. Chief had said to the Captain, “Too many things are right tonight. Too many things, all at once. This sort of time doesn’t come twice.”
Sub had bitten on to that thought. He thought that Chief was right. They had all been looking forward to Victory Day, VJ. They had discussed ways of celebrating it. Sub remembered a young Army man, a Lieutenant in the Tank Corps: they had been friends on the troopship, and when the Army units landed first at Suez and the Navy men leant on the rail to watch them go as they waited their own turn to land, someone had said to him, “John, I don’t think we’ll see that soldier again.”
The soldier’s tank had been blown up a few weeks later. Sub thought that perhaps the Seahounds had already seen their VJ Day: nobody would see a better one. But as he ran into the shallow warm water, he thought: I imagine too much; I think a lot of damn nonsense.
On the upper deck of the Depot Ship, all hands were fallen in for Sunday Divisions. The crew of each submarine was fallen in separately: in another place were the Spare Crew, and on the quarterdeck were the Depot Ship’s own men. Orders rang out clearly over the harbour as the platoons were called to attention, inspected and stood at ease.
The Captain stopped opposite Able Seaman Rogers.
“Get a haircut, Rogers, and don’t turn up for Divisions looking like that again.”
The Captain of the Flotilla walked round with his Staff, inspecting each platoon in turn. As he turned away from the last man in Seahound’s rear rank, he said to the Captain, “Your men look fit, Hallet. Some of ’em could do with a haircut, though, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, Hallet: join me in my cabin, after Church.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The great man passed on to inspect another submarine’s crew. The Captain snapped, “Number One!”
“Sir!”
“See that those men have their hair cut before Rounds tonight.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Parrot, the submarine’s unofficial barber, grinned to himself in the rear rank. It was an ill wind, he thought, that blew nothing in nobody’s way.
“Seahound Ship’s Company – right turn! Quick march!” They marched down on to the well-deck, which had been rigged under canvas for the church service. The Padre stood ready on a small dais: a table in front of him, covered with a Union Jack, was the altar. He had a little chapel, down below, but it was by no means big enough for all the men now ranged before him on benches across the wide deck.
“O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the sea: who hast compassed the waters with bounds until day and night come to an end: Be pleased to receive into thy almighty and most gracious protection the persons of us thy servants, and the Fleet in which we serve. Preserve us from the dangers of the sea, and from the violence of the enemy: that we may be a safeguard unto our most gracious Sovereign Lord, King George, and his Dominions, and a security for such as pass on the seas upon their lawful occasions: that the inhabitants of our Island may in peace and quietness serve thee our God: and that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land, with the fruits of our labours, and with a thankful remembrance of thy mercies to praise and glorify thy Holy Name: through Jesus Christ our Lord.”