For a moment they stood locked in silent antagonism; then Shadde walked over to his desk and sat down. "You will always support me in future in matters of discipline, no matter what you think. Understand that? No matter what you think!"
When the first lieutenant had gone Shadde wearily stubbed out his cigarette. The depression of the night was still with him, and this discussion had fanned his inner tensions. Cavan was smug. Never put a foot wrong. King's Cadet at Dartmouth. Rugby for the Navy. Served on the Royal Yacht. It would be the Staff College next. I'll shake him up, thought Shadde, by God, I will!
But it was Symington at the bottom of it all. Why in God's name did they have to send him, of all people?
That day they showed him the signal! It was burned into his brain: "Lieutenant G. A. F. Symington (N) to Retaliate for navigating and watchkeeping duties." When Symington joined, the first lieutenant brought him down—an elegant young man, pale and tall. Shadde looked hard at him.
"Any relation of H. H. F. Symington?"
"Yes, sir, my father. He sent you his regards, sir." Shadde thought he saw a flicker of amusement.
When Symington and the first lieutenant had gone, Shadde paced furiously to and fro. His tormented thoughts took him back to that night in Sabre. They were passing through the Lombok Strait to their base at Fremantle, Australia. They had sunk a schooner by gunfire a few days before, but otherwise it had been quiet, too quiet for the brand-new sublieutenant on his first wartime patrol.
But he would never forget that night. In an agony of recollection he pressed his knuckles into his forehead. From his bunk he had heard the insistent calclass="underline" "Captain on the bridge!" Within seconds the klaxon sounded for a crash dive. The officer of the watch and the lookouts came bundling down the conning tower into the control room as the captain raced in from the wardroom.
They leveled off at two hundred feet, reduced speed to two knots, stopped all fans and went into silent routine. Then the first chilling report from the asdic operator: "H.E.[1] closing rapidly—bearing Red one-six-zero, sir!" Seconds later Sabre was shaken by shattering blows. She thrashed and vibrated like a kicked drum. The hull plating whipped and squeezed and bounced, and men were thrown off their feet. He had never known depth charging before. It was fantastically terrifying. They were hunted for six indescribable hours. Toward the end he realized his nerve was going. For what seemed the hundredth time he heard: "H.E. closing rapidly, sir!" There was no way to get out. He was trapped! Without knowing what he was doing, he started to scream. He saw the astonishment on the faces of the men near him. Then the captain's voice, urgent, imperative: "Stop him, Number One!" Unbelievably, the first lieutenant had struck him full in the face. He had stopped screaming and slumped to his knees, sobbing, broken and humiliated.
No one in Sabre had mentioned the incident afterward. And when he left her at the end of the war the captain had said, "You're the best Third Hand I've ever had."
But Shadde could never forget the Lombok Strait; the scars of his burning shame would never heal.
And then the Admiralty had to send Symington's son to Retaliate. That supercilious manner must have behind it the knowledge of Shadde's shame. And of course Symington had spread the story in the wardroom. Shadde knew he was being crucified for that night in the Lombok Strait.
As the morning wore on, Shadde shook off the depression of the night. The prospect of getting to sea filled him with a sense of well-being. He could hear the hum of the submarine's auxiliary machinery and feel its vibrations, sounds and movements he knew and understood: the sedatives of all sailors.
Shortly before noon he gave Keely a signal for enciphering. It was to Flag Officer Submarines, repeated to the Admiralty and to submarine Massive, another Polaris submarine, at sea off Goteborg, giving notice of Shadde's intention to sail from Stockholm at two o'clock, one day after schedule. When Massive knew that Retaliate was at sea in the Baltic, she would enter Goteborg.
When Shadde walked into the wardroom the officers stood up, but he waved them down and told Target, the wardroom steward, to bring a sherry. He sat with one long leg over the arm of his chair, and it was evident that he was in a good humor. But how long would it last? Cavan and the doctor exchanged glances.
Shadde held his glass of sherry to the light and peered at it with one eye closed. "You chaps are lucky. Lovely day for the run down to Sandhamn. Came up in the dark, so you don't know what you missed. One of the most beautiful passages in the world. Islands, trees, summer villas, blue water. It's fabulous."
Cavan had made the journey in daylight, as had Dwight Gallagher, the American officer assigned to Retaliate as Nuclear Weapons Control Officer. But they both knew it would annoy Shadde if they said so.
He sipped his sherry and went on. "Pity it isn't Sunday or you'd see the water between here and Sandhamn stiff with sailing craft. Every Swede's a sailor. Lot of ruddy ducks." He rambled on, not addressing anyone in particular, jumping from one thing to the other. No one interrupted. Suddenly he turned to Cavan. "Any news of Kyle?"
"No, sir. The patrol couldn't find him. The Embassy's trying police stations and hospitals."
"Postman back yet?"
"He's coming off at thirteen hundred, sir," Cavan said.
"Hope he has a letter for me." Shadde examined his shoes.
"I guess no news is good news, Captain." Dwight Gallagher was trying to cheer him up.
Shadde looked past him with that glassy stare. Gallagher tried another tack. "Taking a pilot down to Sandhamn, Captain?"
The question annoyed Shadde. "No," he said curtly. "Didn't need one in the dark coming up. Why should I now?"
"That's right. Of course. I only asked because in the U.S. Navy, in the same situation, we would take one."
Shadde looked at him coolly. "Yes, I suppose you would."
There was a long, embarrassed silence. Gallagher was well liked in the wardroom. Shadde stared at him. Now he would get his own back. "A rather nice test of seamanship, you see, not taking a pilot. Like the smart way our destroyers pick up a buoy. U.S. destroyers make such a business of it, do it dead slow. Like a sea burial." The analogy rather pleased Shadde; he smiled, a quiet, self-assured smile. "A sad sight, I always think."
Gallagher's face tightened; then he shrugged. He wasn't looking for quarrels. "Maybe you're right, Captain."
After lunch Shadde went to his cabin. There was no letter from Elizabeth. In the pit of his stomach, apprehension gnawed. Then Rhys Evans reported the engines ready for sea.
Shadde went up to the bridge. Cavan and Symington and the leading signalman were there. "Steering gear tested and correct, sir. All main vents cottered," Symington reported. And from the control room the coxswain's voice came up the voice pipe: "Coxswain on the wheel, sir. Main engines ready."
The early afternoon was warm and crisp and Stockholm lay bathed in sunlight; a jumble of modern and medieval, of warm reds and browns, and here and there the green mold of copper spires and domes. Shadde looked at his watch and then at the first lieutenant. "Ready to slip?"
"Ready to slip, sir."
When the submarine was headed east down the Strommen, the captain gave the coxswain the course to steer, and she began to gather speed. Ahead of her, coming up toward the harbor, was a small pleasure steamer, its rail lined with passengers looking at the big submarine. Watching them Shadde failed to notice the slow, at first barely perceptible swing of Retaliates bow to port until he heard Symington's warning.
In a flash he was at the voice pipe. "Starboard twenty!" he ordered sharply. But the bow continued to swing toward the steamer.
1
H.E. Hydrophone Effect — the noise made by a ship's propellers as heard on underwater listening devices.