“Keep on trying until you do. Then ring through to me here.”
“Aye aye, sir,”
He leant forward over the desk, his head on his hands. Staff Officers are hard-worked people at times like this. Odd, Seahound not answering: she should have surfaced, by now. Still, there were many possible reasons for the delay. He fell asleep at his desk, his forehead resting on his clasped hands. He was more tired than he knew: in that position he slept soundly, undisturbed for over an hour, while below in the wardroom and on the messdecks a thousand men sang songs and faced with a fantastic faith the Peace that lay ahead.
Suddenly a noise outside, the crack of a rocket exploding over the harbour as someone started a private celebration of the victory, woke him. He looked at his watch: eleven o’clock! Perhaps he had failed to hear the telephone, perhaps they had forgotten his orders. He picked up the receiver and rang through to the Communications Office.
“That signal got through to Seahound?”
“No, sir.”
“Keep on trying. All night, if necessary.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Frowning, assuming that expression of annoyance to hide the fear inside him, the Staff Officer, Operations, hurried down to report to Captain Meadows.
In the Wireless Office, a telegraphist sat at his bench, tapping out Seahound’s call-sign again and again. From time to time another man took over, gravely, realising the import, tapping out the dots and dashes, visualising the little wireless cabinet in the submarine, seeing clearly the face of his friend at the other side of the ocean. Behind the operators, a Chief Petty Officer Telegraphist paced up and down, a cigarette stuck on his lower lip and a frown on his lined face. He was thinking all the time, “Should ‘a got her, by now.”
After midnight, the Commanding Officer of His Majesty’s Submarine Slayer stepped over the gangway on to the Depot Ship’s quarterdeck. He and some others had decided to do their celebrating ashore, had caught a boat and called on the Wren Officers’ Mess with some bottles concealed in rolled bathing-towels. It had been a quiet evening: they sat on the veranda with the Wrens, and talked, remembered old times and tried to believe that it was all really over. For so many years they had thought about this day, and now it had come so suddenly that it seemed unreal.
He went up the ladder from the quarterdeck, and as he reached the top he saw the figure of the S.O.O., who was standing at the ship’s side staring out over the water in the direction of the harbour entrance. Slayer’s Captain tapped him on the shoulder.
“Wotcher, Stinky!” The other man turned quickly, and seeing his face the young submarine Captain caught his breath and hesitated a moment before he asked, quietly, “What’s wrong?”
“Seahound. All the recall signals are through except hers. She can’t have surfaced.”
“Oh, Christ.” What could you say, to a thing like that? They turned and walked together along the deck, down on to the welldeck and up to the Staff Office. The S.O.O. picked up the receiver.
“Anything?”
“No, sir. Nothing.”
“Keep trying.” He turned to the younger man. “Why don’t you go and turn in? You can’t do anything. You look pretty tired.”
“Me, tired? You look half dead. And what can you do? … Have you got any cigarettes?”
Number One had never seen such rain in his life. It was practically solid water: it could have been coming up out of the sea, as easily as falling out of the clouds: there was so much rain that it was difficult to see where it started and where it ended. It fell steadily, furiously, pounding and drumming on the casing and in the bridge, deadening the rumble of the diesels. Deadening sight, as well as sound: visibility was only about forty yards. Number One leaned against the front of the bridge, straining his eyes into the night. If anything was sighted, it’d be sighted at a range of forty yards, and that wouldn’t leave much time for thinking things out…
The Captain stood beside him. His presence annoyed Number One. On watch, he liked to be alone, like the film-star. Because the visibility was low, the Captain had come up and stayed up, as though he doubted his First Lieutenant’s ability to deal with any sudden emergency. But it was only a superficial annoyance to Jimmy: he knew that if he were in command, he’d be doing the same thing.
The Captain lowered his dripping face to the rim of the voice-pipe.
“Control Room!”
“Control Room.”
“Ask the P.O.Tel. how long he’s going to be with that blasted set.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The Cox’n, who was on watch, lumbered aft the short distance to the wireless office.
“Ain’t you found that flippin’ fault yet, Sparks? Captain wants to know ‘ow long.”
The P.O. Telegraphist had his head inside a grey metal cabinet. He was fiddling at something there with a screwdriver.
“Ger,” he answered. “flip orf.”
“Can’t tell the Captain that, Sparky. ‘Ow long?”
The P.O.Tel.’s long body began creeping slowly, feet first, out from under the bench. When he got his head out, he sat up and glared at the Cox’n.
“Tell ’im the flipper’s fixed.” As the Cox’n vanished into the Control Room, the telegraphist heaved himself to his feet and began tuning his receiver. He slid headphones over his ears, and settled down on the seat. It was hot and stuffy in the cabinet: it smelt of switches and fuses and valves. Several half-naked women smirked down at him from their positions on the thin, steel partition. He reached for a stub of pencil, and began to write down the jumble of code.
Presently he pressed the buzzer, and the Control Room messenger stuck his head round the door.
“Eh?”
“Tell the Captain – urgent signal addressed to us. Cipher.” The messenger met the Captain as he stepped off the ladder, soaked to the skin.
“All right. Give it to the Engineer Officer.” He heard Chief’s angry mutterings as the messenger woke him and gave him the signal.
“Urgent, sir.”
“Urgent be damned.” But all the same, he sat up and reached for his code-books.
A minute later, the Captain arrived in the wardroom. He leant one wet hand flat on the table, and eased himself sideways on to the locker.
“Well, Chief?” The Engineer seemed to be having some difficulty. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he was goggling at the sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up at the Captain.
“It’s— it’s—” he couldn’t say it. The Captain grabbed the signal from him. A look of complete astonishment crossed his face. Then, quickly, he remembered that it would be better to give the impression of having expected something of the sort. After six years…!
“Well, Chief. No more bangs, eh?” Chief still hadn’t found control of his tongue. He shook the Sub’s shoulder, and when he woke, mouthed at him excitedly.
“What in hell’s the matter with you?”
“He’s trying to tell you that the war’s over. Japs have jagged in, Sub.” The young man stared, trying to get it into his head.
“Oh… I see.” He paused, looking at the Captain. He didn’t know whether he was glad of this or not. He supposed that it would be expected of everybody to be pleased. He remembered that he was still tired and that soon he’d be called for his watch, war or no war. He lay down again, and closed his eyes.
“Thought your pains had started, or something, Chief,” he murmured, and chuckled to himself, already halfway back to sleep. The Captain wrote out a short signal, and handed it to Chief.
“Fix it up and send it off.”
On the bridge it was still raining hard. The Captain heaved himself out of the hatch, and stood beside his First Lieutenant.