Alexander Fullerton - Surface!

“Look here, Sub,” he said, pointing to the grey tin boxes of Oerlikon ammunition which Rogers had stowed in the corner by the helmsman’s seat. “We can’t have all your department’s rubbish in the Control Room, you know.”

“Sorry, Number One. But where the hell can we stow it? The magazine’s full, we can’t put another sausage for’ard: poor buggers haven’t got room to spit as it is with all those bloody tommy-guns and things.”

“That’s your worry. Get this stuff out of here, now.”

“God blast all First Lieutenants,” thought the Sub. He was careful not to voice the thought. He shouted, “Rogers in the Control Room!”

“Want me, sir?” Rogers had been standing behind him.

“Oh. Yes, get these boxes of ammo out of here. Find some other place for them.”

“Blimey,” muttered Rogers. He set off for’ard again, peering into corners which were all full of something.

Presently the Gunlayer came along. “Sir: them boxes of Oerlikon. I could put ’em down below by the magazine, but the Engineer’s gear’s all down there.”

“Oh, it is, is it? Well, put it out, and put these boxes down there instead.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Sub joined the crowd in the Wardroom. There certainly wasn’t much room to spare. The Major introduced him: Captain Selby, Captain Bowers, Lieutenant Montgomery.

“Any relation to the man in the black beret?”

“None at all. I don’t even like being photographed.”

The Chief Engine-room Artificer spoke from the gangway.

“Engineer Officer, sir?”

“Oh, hell. Yes, Chatterley?”

“It appears, sir, that the Gunlayer ’as thrown our stuff out of the machinery space ‘ere. According to ’is orders, ’e says.”

“Sub!”

“Hello, Chiefy.”

“You can tell him to put it all back, if you value your skin.”

“I don’t. And I can’t. That’s my stowage space. Look at the orders.”

“And where the hell do you expect me to put my stuff?”

“Wherever you bloody well like, old boy.”

“I’ll see Number One about this.”

“Do. That’s where I started from. Ask him if you can put it in the Control Room. There’s an empty corner by the helmsman.”

Chief lurched away to find Number One. The Chief E.R.A. followed him, shaking his head sadly.

“Do any of you play bridge?” asked Captain Bowers, who had taken some cards out of his pack and was shuffling them quietly in the corner.

“No,” answered the Sub. “Don’t get time. We play Liar Dice, mostly.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You’ll soon learn.’’ Sub thrust his hand into a pigeon-hole in the correspondence locker and brought out five ivory dice. He threw them on the table.

“Look. Same hands as for Poker, you see…” The Army gathered round…

Sub was on watch at night, the silence of the empty sky and sea far more noticeable than the noise of both diesels turning over at three hundred and eighty revolutions to the minute. The sky was a velvet cushion, studded with stars, the sea a mirror of black glass. The sharp bow cut into it, spoiling the unbroken trackless water as a pair of skis can lacerate the smooth side of a mountain.

“Relieve lookout, sir?”

“Yes, please.”

He was thinking about his job in this landing business. Being the officer responsible for everything that happened on the casing, the steel deck on top of the submarine’s hull, it was his job to handle and launch the canoes. It had to be done quickly and quietly, in the dark, with the submarine trimmed down low so that the for’ard hatch was only just clear of the water. This put the submarine in a position to dive quickly if an emergency arose, reduced her silhouette and made the canoe-launching easier.

Luckily the sea was certain to be dead flat, down there where the Straits were narrower than some rivers. The for’ard hatch had to be open for the least possible time, for while it was open she could not dive. The canoes had to be hauled out one by one and launched over the side, steadied while their crews climbed into them, pushed off. Four canoes: it would take about five minutes, in the dark, within pistol shot of an enemy beach.

Sub only had that little part of the business to worry about. The Captain, down below in the wardroom, had very much more. If the enemy had the slightest clue that they were down there, he could just as well write his ship off. Within an hour of some little slip giving away their position, an Escort Group would be steaming out of Singapore. In the narrow waters there could be no question of escape. Anything could give them away. Six inches too much periscope, seen from the shore. A slight noise when they were dived, picked up on a Japanese hydrophone. A chance meeting with a patrol boat… and in any case, they had first to get through the minefield, a minefield that had not been passed since the day it was laid.

The Captain was having a conference with the Major. The wardroom table was covered by the chart of the area, military maps and aerial photographs taken by reconnaissance planes within the last few weeks.

The object of the operation on shore was as much a mystery to the Captain as it was to everyone else, except of course to the Army men, and of them only the Major knew the full details. Until the time came when they had to know, just before they landed, he told them nothing. The fewer that knew anything, the less chance there was of the Japs knowing. The submarine could be sunk, and the survivors taken prisoner, and the Japanese had many ways of extracting information from prisoners. Even the bravest had been known to talk, at about the time that they went out of their minds.

“Y’ know,” observed the Major, “we’re all going to find life damned monotonous, when this war ends.”

“I should think you probably will,” agreed the Captain.

“No, damn it, you as well: won’t you?”

“Perhaps, at first. But even in peace-time the Navy offers a certain amount of excitement.”

“I suppose it depends on the way you look at it,” mused the soldier.

“I was regular, you know: chucked it up. Couldn’t stand all the social nonsense. All the wives saying Yes sir, No sir, to each other, according to their husband’s ranks. Damn it, if I marry a girl, it doesn’t make her a Major!”

“It could be pretty frightful,” murmured Number One, thoughtfully. The Major turned to him.

“I was stationed in Malta, at one time. My Colonel’s wife went to have her hair done in a place that had little sort of booths, all partitioned off. On each side of her, behind the partitions, was a Naval officer’s wife. They must have thought the place between them was empty, because one of them suddenly said across to the other, ‘My deah, have you chosen your soldiah for the summah?’”

“Good Lord! That can’t be normal, can it?”

“Well, you see, in the summer the fleet used to leave Malta on a summer cruise. Chaps had a whale of a time on the Riviera, and all that sort of thing.”

Number One was very thoughtful, still. The Captain grinned at him.

“Worried, Number One?”

“No, sir, I’m not worried. But I’ve thought about it quite a bit, and I don’t think I’ll stay in the Navy after the war, not if they’ll let me out.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Yes, I am. I’m enjoying this war, and I like my job, and all that sort of thing. But in peace-time I’d be bored stiff. I’m sure of it.”

“You’ll get used to it, when it comes. And in any case, if it’s anything like the last one we’ll all be damn lucky if we aren’t thrown out when they start disarming… Let’s have the dice out: like a game, Major?” The soldier said he would.