Alexander Fullerton - Surface!

“They’ve got a nerve to call this stuff beer,” observed the Captain, lowering his glass.

“Tell y’ what I call it,” offered the Pioneer. “Horse-piss.”

Chief shook his head. “It can’t be horse,” he argued. “I’ve had that: it’s what they call beer in Egypt. This is quite different.”

“Some other sort. Elephant, eh?”

“Can’t be elephant. That’d be stronger. Something else.”

“Snake? Ah, that’s it! Snake! Boy – three more from the old snake. Then I’ll tell ‘y all about it. I’m up from C’lombo. Terrible.”

“I’ve heard it’s rather nice.”

“Nice? Boy, it’s all loose women! Looser ‘n you’ve ever set eyes on. I tell y’, I’m here for a rest. Couldn’t stand it! At me all day, they were. Terrible. A man like me doesn’t stand a chance. Not a chance!” He was excited, the veins swelling blue on his white temples: he swept out his arm in a violent gesture that threw his glass off the counter: the crash coincided with the opening of the club-house door. An ambulance man beckoned to the Pioneer.

“Come along now, sir.” The voice was quiet, assured in its power of command. “Come along, sir.”

“He wants to take me away!” The thin figure detached itself from the bar, stood hesitant, rather bent, eyes darting to and from the man in the doorway. His whole body shook, not only his hands.

“Wants to take me away!” he repeated, more loudly, staring crazily at Chief. His face began to crumple like a child’s before the tears, and while the ambulance man stood there watching and the barman slowly wiped the counter the Pioneer’s feet edged forward towards the door that stood open to receive him. The barman picked up a glass that was already clean, frowned at it while he twirled it in the towel.

Chief pushed away his unfinished drink.

“Jesus Christ!” he muttered. “There are worse things than war…”

Number One and the Sub faced each other across the wardroom table. They sat with their feet up on the lockers, for the battery boards that formed the deck had been removed to allow the electricians to top up the cells of the battery with distilled water.

The Sub said, “There’s a dance tonight, at the Club. Wish to God there were some more women in this blasted place.”

Number One smiled. “I’m going to ring up Mary-Ann.” He was still smiling to himself as he climbed across the framework of the deck and went into the Control Room. Smiley Martin had been a fly in the ointment for many months. Kneeling down, he cracked a joke with the Leading Electrician as he examined the top of a cell: he was looking forward to tonight.

Sub thought for a moment, undecided. He reached for a cigarette and was about to strike a match when he remembered that the battery was open: no smoking. The unlit cigarette in his month, he went for’ard, up the ladder and over the plank, up the long gangway into the Depot Ship. In the wardroom entrance he lit his cigarette, then picked up the phone and asked to be connected with the Wrennery.

“Mary-Ann? This is John Ferris. Sub of Seahound . Yes, I met you once at a party, with Smiley… Look, is anyone taking you to the dance tonight? … That’s marvellous! … Can I pick you up at the Wrennery? … About seven? … Fine. See you then.” He rang off, went back to work.

In the submarine, Number One looked at him and asked, “What are you looking so pleased with yourself about?”

“Oh, nothing. Just my usual cheerful self.” He thought for the first time: This is going to be a little awkward by and by. It was a dirty trick, but he consoled himself with the idea that love and war justified any extraordinary behaviour.

“Isn’t it about time to knock off?”

Number One looked at him. “No, not for another half-hour. If you’ve nothing to do I can give you plenty.”

“Oh, I’ve lots to do, thanks. I’m thirsty, that’s all.”

“Are you ever not thirsty?” Sub ignored the question, went for’ard to talk to Rawlinson.

At lunchtime he was drinking quietly in the bar with Tiny, when he heard his name almost shouted from a distance of about a couple of feet. It was his First Lieutenant, scarlet in the face.

“Come with me.” He followed Number One out of the wardroom.

“Sub, you’re required on board as Duty Officer tonight and every night for a week. I think you’ve been getting rather above yourself.”

“Damn it, Number One! You can’t do that! … I’ve got a date tonight, in any case.”

“No, you haven’t. I’ve explained that you’d forgotten you were Duty. She quite understood. I’ll be looking after her. You’re Duty for a week, and if there’s any argument you can see the Commander, now. All right?”

“All right.” You couldn’t always be clever, he thought. He moved back into the bar, and Tiny gave him a gin.

“Trouble?” asked Tiny.

“Oh, no. Cheers.” Seven days on board, in this heat. It was largely the fault of the heat, anyway. And there was Sheila, or rather the lack of her.

Next day, at about six-thirty, Number One and Tiny were drinking the inevitable pink gin in the bar of the Depot Ship, when Sub strolled in. He had been loading torpedoes into Seahound ’s tubes all afternoon, which had been a hot and tiring way of spending an afternoon when it was too hot even to light a cigarette without regretting the extra heat of the match.

“Hello, John,” called Tiny. “What’ll it be?”

“Pinkers, please.”

Jimmy asked him, “Don’t you ever do any drinking in the accommodation ship?”

“Oh, yes. When I’m not Duty.”

“Run two wine bills, I suppose?”

“Sh!” Sub had seen the Commander of the flotilla enter the bar. The Commander had an Army major with him, and they ordered drinks at the other end of the long bar. It wasn’t often that guests were seen in this ship, and Army men were like men from Mars. It was almost a surprise to see that they drank like other people. The Commander looked round, and his eye rested for a long moment on the junior officers. Number One had a nasty feeling that he was about to be informed of something wrong in the appearance of his submarine: the Ensign not flying free, perhaps, some gear left on the casing.

“You Seahound people. Come here.”

Number One and the Sub dutifully left Tiny and approached the two at the other end.

“Evening, sir,” said Number One.

“Evening. Want you to meet these young fellows, Major. Lieutenant Wentworth, Sublieutenant Ferris, of the Seahound . Major Worth.” The Major was a hard-looking soldier with a bayonet scar on his cheek.

They shook hands, and the Commander ordered fresh drinks. He said to the Major, “I’m afraid Lieutenant Commander Hallet won’t be back off leave for another week or so. But you’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

Later, Sub said to Number One, “Looks like we’re taking the Army to sea, this time.”

“A very clever deduction. God damn it: I hate these Special Operations.”

“Why? Makes a change.”

“A hell of a change. Overcrowded in the wardroom, then an operation that’s likely to be bloody dangerous and not even a sinking to show for it. I wonder if the Old Man knows about this?”

“Come to think of it, I reckon he does. He said something about not taking any reload torpedoes, this patrol.”

“Not any?”

“No, just the six in the tubes. That means canoes, I suppose.”

“Yes. Several canoes. And that means it’s not only the Major, but all his pals as well. Christ, why does it have to be us?”

The Captain and Chief were having a party in the small lounge of their hotel. There were the two of them, and two girls: one was a Wren officer, the other an American. They were drinking, and dancing to a radiogram that had seen better days. The Captain had taken first claim on the American girl, and the Chief had the Wren.