At about the time when Retaliate's officers were in the restaurant at Skansen, Engineering Mechanic Ernest Kyle found himself in a more modest establishment in another part of Stockholm.
He had gone ashore that evening with his fellow libertymen, but as so often happened he was odd man out. His messmates had broken up into small cheerful parties, but they had not invited him to join them. Well, if they didn't want him, he'd just as soon be on his own. Of course he felt a bit lonely, but that was because he was in a foreign country. He wished he were back home in Southsea chatting with Mum in the kitchen. Always warm and friendly in there. Dad was no good; usually around at the pub boozing. But Mum was a real good sort. Always kind and helpful and pleased to see you. "You ought to find yourself a nice girl, Ernie," she'd say. "I don't want no nice girl, Mum," he'd answer. "I've got you."
Well, perhaps he'd take her advice in Stockholm. He didn't know too much about girls, but he could always learn, and if he found one this evening it would help him to forget the submarine, and Chief Shepherd, who made his life a flipping misery. He'd fix Chief Shepherd sometime if it was the last thing he ever did.
At about 2100 that night he was in a tavern near the docks, feeling a lot better. Stockholm wasn't so bad after all. Some of the people around him seemed to speak English. Sven was a good chap, a sailorman, too, from a Swedish tramp steamer. Didn't mind standing his round either. That reminded him; how was the old money lasting out? He looked through his wallet. Still plenty. And there was the money he was keeping for Mum's present.
"Sven ole pal—'ave another pint." He slapped the Swede on the shoulder.
The Swede shook his head. "Ve hed enough; better you stop now, Ernie."
"C'mon Sven," he insisted, "one fer the road."
"Ernie, you like meet that nice girl Ingrid I tell you about?" said Sven with a wink.
He wagged his finger at the Swede. "Look, Sven, you think I'm drunk. Well I'm not, see. An' I don't believe there's any Ingrid."
"I go fetch her." Sven disappeared and, to Ernie's astonishment, was back five minutes later with Ingrid; large, blond and friendly.
"Cor," said Ernie with undisguised admiration. "Smashin'." He bought her a soft drink. Got himself a nice girl now. They laughed and chatted until Ingrid said in a low voice, "Better we go to my home. There we can talk and hear what we are saying." She smiled archly at him. Ernie couldn't believe his luck.
They got into a taxi. Ernie had no idea where they were going, but he had his arm around Ingrid and gave her a squeeze which she returned.
Ingrid's flat turned out to be a sort of bed-sitting room. Nice place, Ernie thought. He stretched out his legs and lit a cigarette. He felt warm and at home.
"I'll make some coffee," Ingrid said. "You wait."
Soon she came back carrying a tray. The blood went racing to Ernie's head. She had changed into a silky pink affair, like the movie stars wear. As she leaned forward to put down the tray, the wrap fell open and Ernie saw her breasts, full and inviting. He experienced a sense of delicious shock. Roughly he pulled her down beside him. She struggled, but not too hard.
Moments later, as waves of passion broke over him, Ernie was startled by the door opening and the sound of a man's voice.
"So," said the stranger softly.
Ernie saw something in the man's left hand, and turned quickly to look at Ingrid, who was standing there smiling in a strange way. So it was a trap. The man moved toward him. Ernie raised his arms to defend himself, but he was too late. There was a shattering, crashing sound and blinding white lights danced in front of his eyes.
Next morning after breakfast the first lieutenant was summoned to the captain's cabin. Shadde was writing at his desk. He nodded distantly. "Kyle still adrift?"
"Yes, sir. We're landing a patrol at ten hundred to see if we can find him."
Shadde frowned. "Can't make it out. Our people don't do that sort of thing. Quite a good type, isn't he?"
"The chief thinks so, sir."
Shadde shook his head. "Hope they find him. I don't like leaving a man behind. That's not happened to us before."
"I expect we'll get him back, sir."
The captain seemed not to hear. "Got your program for Copenhagen ready, Number One?"
"Yes, sir, all lined up."
"Good. Now close the door and sit down. There's something else I want to talk to you about." Shadde looked at the first lieutenant for some time before continuing. "Last night at Skansen." He puffed at his cigarette.
So that's what he's leading up to, thought Cavan.
"I would have expected you to support me when I explained the customs of the service to the doctor. You know as well as I do that Symington behaved badly. Nothing wrong in exchanging pleasantries with Gracie and Springer. But sitting there drinking with them! Apart from the fact that it's damn bad naval discipline, it was damn bad manners toward me." Shadde glared at Cavan. "And yet you supported him. Why?"
The younger man looked him straight in the face. "Frankly, sir, because I saw nothing wrong in what he did. Nowadays—"
Shadde raised his hand. "I'm not interested in your views, Number One. I sent for you so that you'd be in no doubt about mine. There's more to it than you probably realize," he added. "Symington's attachment to Gracie is undesirable. Because of their differences in rank, social standing and—er—background, the friendship is— Well, to put it bluntly, it's odd."
"Odd?"
"Yes, odd. You've noticed, haven't you? Symington's effeminate. And Grade's a bit pink and boyish, you know. Damned good chief PO telegraphist—but he's only human, Number One. Symington's an officer; he's rich, and he's very much a member of the upper classes, wouldn't you say?" Shadde's voice was mocking. "Don't pretend you can't see what I'm driving at."
"Only too clearly, sir." Cavan's measured voice was dangerously near to insult.
The captain ignored the innuendo. "In fact, I think they're a couple of queers."
Cavan struggled with his indignation. It was difficult to believe Shadde was serious. "I couldn't disagree more," he said.
"Well, it may surprise you to know that not so long ago I saw Symington and Gracie come out of the W/T office together—"
Cavan's contempt was now plain. "Everybody knows they're keen on photography, sir. They use the office for a darkroom."
Shadde quickly challenged him. "How do you know? Been in there with them? I'm not impressed with that story, Number One. Prefer to rely on my own observations."
"And jump to incorrect conclusions," said Cavan rashly. He was getting angry, and that was unwise. He got up.
Shadde's eyes narrowed. "Now look here, Number One, I know you think you could command this submarine better than I do. But while I'm in command, Retaliates going to be run my way. We're going to have discipline with a capital D. This is eight thousand tons of submarine. Four hundred and twenty-five feet long. Three decks. Officers' cabins. Air conditioning. A ruddy doctor. Cinema shows. One hundred and five officers and men." He stood up and faced Cavan, eyes smoldering. "You know the importance of this submarine. You know that our U.S. friends stung the British taxpayer close to thirty million pounds for each Polaris boat. That money wasn't spent for fun. If you think hard, it may even occur to you that we only did it because we want to survive. Or d'you prefer not to think of these sordid things?"
I'd like to tell you what I think of you, Cavan thought.
"It's necessary for me to talk like this, Number One, because you and others here don't seem to realize what's happening. What we do, and how we do it, can be vital to our side one of these fine days. And how we do it will depend on our discipline. That"— he shot the word at the first lieutenant—"is why I won't have any officers hobnobbing with chiefs and POs ashore."