“What of it?”
“Six months after that they was dear little co-belligerents, see? Now these Japs: you’ll ’ave ’eard the buzz as they’re goin’ t’ jag in soon?”
“I ’eard a buzz, but I dunno where it come from.”
“Never mind where it flippin’ well come from, Shaddy. You mark my words: come six months, they’ll be flippin’ co-belligerents.”
Shadwell looked contemptuously at his shipmate.
“Don’t be soft. There ain’t nobody left to belligerate against.”
“‘Ow about the Ruskies?”
“Wot, Uncle Joe? You’re daft. You’re flippin’ well barmy, d’ye hear?”
Early morning: the Sub lay on his bunk, knowing that in half-an-hour he would be called to take over the watch. The submarine was south of the minefields, nosing in at periscope depth towards the port of Malacca. From the remarks and orders that he could hear from the Control Room, where the Navigator had the watch and the Captain was keeping an eye on the approach, Sub gathered that the morning fog was still thick: he could picture the woolly blanket encircling the upper lens of the periscope, the water shining as though it had been wiped with an oily rag. He heard the Captain’s breathing as he leant over the chart-table, heard him softly curse the low visibility.
There ought to be something worth sinking, down here. No submarine had been here for a long time: it was as though they had been given the first licence to shoot in what had been a game preserve. The Captain was keyed up, anticipating a target: Sub thought, I ought to be, too. He felt as Chief always professed to feeclass="underline" what in hell did it matter if there was a target or if there was nothing? It was the low mood, one of the times when you looked round and noticed how squalid the surroundings really were: you thought of other men fighting in the open air, living more normally, not creeping about, eating and sleeping and peering through a blasted tube at the empty sea. The jokes were stale, the news was old, breakfast was always the same, hurried at that when it had to be gulped down quickly in order to take over a dreary watch.
Dreary? This was virgin territory, from a submariner’s point of view: it should be anything but dreary. Well, all right, perhaps there’d be something to sink. When it had been sunk they’d go back through the minefield, hang around looking for junks until the recall came. Two hours on and four hours off: sausages for breakfast, corned beef for lunch, sardines for tea and some revolting thing for supper. He rolled over, knowing that when he’d been on watch for half-an-hour this depression would be gone: so would the fog, lifting to reveal the entrance to the port. Perhaps also to reveal a target.
He thought, I might as well turn out now, clean my teeth: there was a horrible taste in his mouth. Probably, he thought, I have halitosis: must be rather unpleasant for everyone else. He swung his legs off the bunk, groped for his shoes under the wardroom table. He was trying to force his left foot into the right shoe, when he heard Saunders report Hydrophone Effect. He heard the Captain drop the dividers on the chart table, heard his voice saying for the millionth time, urgently:
“Up periscope.”
Silence now, while he tied the laces on his shoes, tightened the belt of his shorts. He stood up, shook Jimmy’s elbow: the First Lieutenant opened his eyes, stared unrecognisingly at him.
“Something happening, Number One. Probably Diving Stations in a minute.” Number One began to climb off his bunk, muttering.
They heard the Captain’s voice again:
“Can’t see anything. Are you sure it’s H.E.?”
“Yes, sir.” Saunders’ voice. “Green three-oh, sir, moving left to right.”
The Captain grunted, continued his search. Number One said:
“If this turns out to be bugger-all, Sub, I’ll fix you. I’ll—”
“Diving Stations! Stand by Gun Action!” Sub felt the old shiver in his stomach as he flung himself out of the wardroom.
“Down periscope.” The Captain grinned, rubbed the side of his jaw. “It’s that Tank Landing Ship again, Sub.”
The one they had missed last time they met it. The one with a big gun on the stern. The one that had an air escort, last time.
“Up periscope. Range… that! I’m on his starboard quarter. Enemy speed nine. Group up, starboard ten.”
Sub worked the handles on the calculating machine, lining up the dials. He got the deflection, passed it to the Sightsetter. The Gun’s Crew were ready, sleep still in their eyes, but that made no odds because they’d done this before in their sleep.
Sub remembered the first Gun Action of them all, the one against the trawler of Port Blair: he had felt scared stiff, himself, and seeing the apprehensive looks on the faces of the Gun’s Crew he had told them not to worry: only a trawler, he had said, this’d be easy. They’d never done it before, except on a practice shoot, and on a practice shoot there were never any shore batteries to shoot back. “Gun’s Crew closed up, sir.”
“Very good. Group down. Up periscope.”
They waited tensely while the Captain took a final check. He jerked up the handles of the periscope, stepped back, and the long, brass tube hissed down into its well.
“Fifty feet. Group up, full ahead together.” The deck angled under their feet and the hum of the motors rose under the full power of the batteries.
“Fifty feet, sir.”
“Stand by to surface.” Orders, reports.
“Ready to surface, sir.”
“Surface!” Sub sprang on to the ladder behind the Captain, heard the air smack into the tanks. Number One stood under the hatch, his hands on the side of the ladder.
He shouted, “Forty feet! … Thirty! … twenty-five! … twenty!” and then his whistle shrieked: Sub, craning his neck to look up, saw the Captain fling the hatch back. Behind the Captain, Sub scrambled up into the light, the dripping bridge. He took his weight on his hands on the cab at the front of the bridge, jumped up, swung his legs over: below him, the gun was swinging round towards the enemy, the breech was open and a shell was coming out of the hatch in the hands of the leading member of the Ammunition Supply Party. The Loader grabbed it, slammed it into the breech, the sights were on and the Gunlayer pressed his trigger. Watch for the fall of shot: Sub strained his eyes at the sea around the enemy.
Splash, left. “Right eight, shoot!” Another round crashed away, and a flash from the enemy’s stern was the sign of her first shot in reply. At least this was better than the last time, from the point of View of weather conditions: Seahound’s second shot fell short, in line.
“Up eight hundred, shoot!” Sub ignored the sound of the enemy shell passing overhead.
“Down four hundred, shoot!” That last shot of the enemy’s had fallen in their wake: the Captain bent to the voice-pipe, shouted for an increase in speed and put the wheel over to starboard. The Trainer slowly turned his wheel, keeping the gun trained on the enemy as the submarine altered course.
“That’s the stuff, Sub!” Yes, a hit, a lovely sight, only it’ll take a lot more than just one hit to finish the business: the Tank Landing Ship is all of thirteen hundred tons.
“No correction, shoot!” Another shell from the enemy fell on the submarine’s starboard quarter: Seahound was firing three shells for every two of the enemy’s.
A cheer from the bridge: a third hit. The Captain believed in giving encouragement when it was deserved: if that one had missed, thought the Sub, he’d have wondered what the hell I was doing.
“No correction, shoot!” The empty, scorched cylinder clanged out of the breech on to the gun-deck: already the breech was closed behind another shell.