Chapter 29
Admiral Sir Julian Christopher refrained from beating about the bush because he understood exactly why the man sitting in front of him did not want to hear what he was going to say next. This being the case the deed was best done swiftly so they could both swiftly move onto more agreeable territory.
“I’m not quite sure exactly what kind of medal Her Majesty plans to stick on your chest when you get home, Collingwood,” he smiled wryly, “but take it from me that it will be a bloody big one!”
Captain Simon Collingwood, still a little pale-skinned in his tropical rig although his forearms, brow and the point of his nose were pink, freshly burned by the Mediterranean sun, wore a studiously neutral expression. He had no intention of blotting his copybook with an ill-advised remark.
“Thank you for saying so, sir. One was only doing one’s duty to the best of one’s ability.”
“Quite,” the older man agreed. “The First Sea Lord has instructed me to inform you to hand over command of HMS Dreadnought to Commander Forton not later than 23:59 hours this day, Collingwood.”
“That’s a bit sudden, sir.” This was not an objection, merely a dead pan observation in lieu of an objection.
“You will be flying back to England with the Prime Minister on Monday morning. Mrs Thatcher wants to hear all about your adventures.”
“Oh, I see…”
Julian Christopher had never met the Dreadnought’s illustrious commander until two days ago, at which time he had had no opportunity to exchange more than a few passing professional courtesies. Collingwood had given him a whistle stop tour of his command, introduced him to his officers and men. Every single one of his men, in fact, because that had mattered more than anything to him. Now he viewed the younger man thoughtfully. The astonishing thing was that but for the October War this extraordinary officer would almost certainly never have got the chance to command HMS Dreadnought! So much for the Submarine Service’s command appraisal systems!
“We’re sending you home to take over the Bureau of Submarine Construction. The ‘Bureau’ doesn’t exist yet so you’ll start with a clean slate. The First Sea Lord has ordered me to notify you that on arrival in England you will be promoted Rear-Admiral. In your new post you will report to Flag Officer Submarines but will have direct access to both the First Sea Lord and the Secretary of State for Defence. Sir David,” Julian Christopher explained, trying to remember what his old friend had said verbatim in yesterday’s telephone call, “Sir David has advised the Minister of Defence that all work on uncompleted conventional submarines should be halted and that all available resources should henceforth be devoted to the construction of nuclear-powered vessels. He believes that you are the best man to head up the program.”
The commanding officer — for the next few hours, anyway — of the Royal Navy’s first and only nuclear-powered submarine took the news stoically. Lieutenant-Commander to Rear-Admiral in eighteen months was a lot to take onboard all at once. Ought he to pinch himself?
The thing that registered was not his unexpected promotion — bypassing ‘Commodore’ — to Admiral, a thing unheard of in modern times but that through his own moral cowardice and unforgivable dithering, he now found himself in a somewhat deep personal hole that was entirely of his own making.
“I’m flattered, sir.” Collingwood hesitated. He badly needed to confess his sins. “It was just that I was hoping to have a little longer to, er, address certain personal matters here on Malta before I was, er, posted behind a desk.”
The Commander-in-Chief raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry. You must be on that plane on Monday.”
“It can’t be helped, sir.”
It was not until Simon Collingwood stepped out into the street that it hit him and the numbness began to spread. He walked mechanically, retracing his steps back through the narrow alleyways to the gate house where he had left his driver, smoking and chatting with the other drivers.
HMS Dreadnought had been rushed into service this time last year, since when too many quick fixes had been implemented to keep her at sea and he had very nearly worked the boat to destruction. The submarine needed six months, possibly a year in dockyard hands and the nearest dockyard which had the specialist technicians, capacity and equipment to heal her many ills was in Plymouth, England. Another option under discussion was to send her to the Electric Boat Yard at Groton, Connecticut. Understandably, with the Scorpion incident unresolved in Philadelphia, the Admiralty did not want him going anywhere near the United States of America.
Simon Collingwood had wondered when the axe would fall.
The Bureau of Submarine Construction…
He had thought his masters would take longer to make up their minds about his next posting; never mind, so be it. There was no point moping about things. In a way it made things more straightforward, he had run out of time to prevaricate with himself, or to put off the inevitable any longer. If he was going to make a complete fool of himself it was better to do it sooner rather than later. In this brave new post-war World it was a criminal mistake to wait overlong, or to put off any decision that was better made quickly.
“Take me to the Pembroke Barracks,” he directed his driver. The man had leapt to attention at his return, grinding out his cigarette underfoot.
Collingwood stared out of the window of the car as it pitched and rolled, jolted and groaned over the disintegrating roads that seemed ubiquitous wherever one walked or drove on Malta. The dusty prickly pear bushes were mostly fruitless. He had been advised not to attempt to peel and eat the flesh of the ‘pears’ raw. Eating them uncooked was a sure-fire guarantee of the runs. He would have liked an opportunity to explore the island, to feel the warm sun on his face. Back in England it would be spring almost, chilly in the mornings, often wet and cloudy, a little dour and sad he suspected.
The last year had been an insane roller coaster; getting Dreadnought to sea, the hurried working up and trials period, the first surreal patrol which had ended with the sinking of the USS Scorpion and the near destruction of the boat. He was still trying to make sense of the controlled madness of the last month; the incident-packed first official war patrol of a Royal Navy nuclear-powered hunter killer submarine. Dreadnought had steamed into the Grand Harbour with a Jolly Roger flying from the raised periscope stack, the first submarine to return to Malta flying a Jolly Roger since World War II.
However, the thing he would never forget as long as he lived was the expression in Maya Hayek’s eyes as she looked back at the submarine in the moments before she and the others were driven off in the Bedford trucks taking her to the refugee reception centre at the Pembroke Barracks.
He had demanded to know where the twenty-two refugees, two old men and the twenty women and children he had rescued from their sinking boats between Cyprus and Crete — in what already seemed like another lifetime — were being taken, what was going to happen to them and who exactly was responsible for their immediate welfare. He had delayed their departure for over an hour until he had been reassured, exhaustively on all counts, by an irritated lieutenant-colonel on the C-in-C’s staff. It had transpired that there were quarters already allocated to the refugees, that they would be checked and assessed by medical officers, and allocated new documents as soon as they arrived at the Pembroke Barracks Reception Camp. Inevitably, the refugees would be stateless for a period while it was established if they wished to remain on the Maltese Archipelago, or to travel on elsewhere. They would not be ‘sent back to wherever they came from unless they so wished’. Moreover, while it was likely that officers from the Intelligence Staff would, at some stage, wish to interview the adults this was entirely routine for all newcomers. Thus reassured, Collingwood had spoken to all the adults, and very briefly privately to Maya, promising that he would ‘find time to visit you all in your temporary home and satisfy myself that you are well and that you are being properly treated’.