Alexander Fullerton - Surface!

All the canoes are inside. “Down you go,” jerks out Sub, out of breath from the exercise: his men leap into the hatch, and he slams it shut and hurries aft along the casing to the bridge. He’s wondering who the little civilian is, and where are Captain Selby and one sergeant. At the same time he’s thinking “We’ve done it!”

The Major shook hands warmly with the Captain. He looked just about at the end of his tether, and so did his men. They had been burnt raw by the sun and looked as though they had had no sleep in all the forty-eight hours.

“This,” said the Major, “is Mr Jones.” The Captain shook hands with the little civilian.

Mr Jones, in spite of his dishevelled and careworn appearance, bore a certain dignity. It seemed possible to the Captain that he had another name and possibly even a uniform when he was elsewhere. The Major, at any rate, treated him with a comradely respect. They seemed to know each other well, and yet occasionally the Major took some trouble in stopping just short of the word “Sir”.

“Where are the other two, Major?” asked the Captain. The Major smiled.

“Oh, don’t worry about them.” The subject was closed.

After the soldiers and Mr Jones had eaten a large meal of corned beef, cold potatoes and mayonnaise sauce, followed by bread and cheese and coffee, the Captain pressed the buzzer for the table to be cleared. Then he reached into a locker and placed four tumblers on the table. He unlocked a cupboard and produced a new bottle of Scotch.

“It’s all yours, gentlemen.” The Major asked him, “Aren’t you going to join us?”

“No, thanks. We don’t at sea. Save up our thirsts until we get into Trinco.”

Presently the Major asked him whether he could give the sergeants a tot. Number One said, “The Cox’n’s looking after them, sir. Rum.”

“Oh,” said the Major. “Well, here’s to the Seahound . God bless you all.”

The diesels were taking them north, four hundred and twenty revolutions a minute up the Straits. They weren’t sorry to be on the move.

They stood on the bridge, the Captain, the Major, Mr Jones, and Number One who was the Officer of the Watch. The Seahound was out of the Straits and clear of the enemy, way out in the Indian Ocean.

The Landing Party were now fit again, well fed and rested, in boisterous spirits. Even Mr Jones’s emaciated form had new life in it.

The aircraft, a Catalina, swept round in a big arc as it eased itself down to the water, then straightened up and touched down gently, taxied towards the submarine that lay stopped and waiting. The Captain shouted down: “Send up the rest of the Army.”

The crew of the aircraft came out on the wings with cameras to take photographs of the submarine. The Major snarled:

“I’ll have all those films exposed, in ten minutes’ time.” Security, to the Major, was like air to a deep-sea diver.

The aircraft’s crew floated a rubber dinghy down to the submarine on a long line. One at a time, Mr Jones first and the Major last, the party was hauled across. The canoes were left in Seahound .

The Major and the Captain exchanged salutes, and shook hands. The farewells had all been said. They looked into each other’s faces, and were genuinely sorry that they might not meet again.

The Captain noticed that as Mr Jones climbed up into the Catalina, he was greeted with a considerable number of salutes.

With the signal that had ordered Seahound to meet the Catalina had come the order for their recall, and as soon as the Army men were safely transferred to the big flying-boat the Captain turned his ship on to the homeward course. Over the broadcasting system he congratulated the ship’s company on their conduct during the difficult time at the bottom of the Straits. “I’m proud of you,” he said, and he meant it. They settled down to the passage routine, looking forward to the rest that lay ahead of them, the baths and the other small comforts that were always luxuries for the first few days in harbour. The Captain looked forward to a letter from Cynthia, Sub thought about where he’d go for his leave and decided on Colombo, and Number One thought about Mary-Ann. They were sitting in the wardroom, Chief on his bunk as usual and the Navigator on watch, when Number One dropped his bombshell.

“Sir,” he asked the Captain, “what would you say if I asked permission to get married?”

“Good God! Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well I don’t suppose it’d make the slightest difference what I said, would it?”

“Er – not really, sir. But I believe one has to ask.”

“I suppose she’s white?”

The Petty Officer Telegraphist handed the Captain a cipher. “Just received, sir.”

“Well, let’s see what it’s about. Here you are Chief, get moving.” Chief sat up, mumbling to himself about the lack of peace and quiet and some people having to do all the work. The Captain threw him a pencil and Number One shoved a signal-pad across the table. Chief began to thumb wearily through the book.

“God damn and blast!” he said, suddenly. Their recall was cancelled. A Japanese cruiser had left Singapore, was believed to be trying to reach Rangoon to attack the Allied shipping that was concentrating there. All submarines were dispersed to cover every possible avenue of approach: Seahound was being sent to patrol off Port Blair, in the Andaman Islands.

Chief flung the pencil down on the table and said, “Lot of bloody nonsense. The Japs wouldn’t be such fools as to send a cruiser this far west.”

The Captain didn’t agree.

“It’s just the sort of thing they would do, Chief. They know they’ve had it, and we’re closing in. So a quick suicide raid is very Jap-like. Sink a lot of ships and throw away a cruiser in the process.”

“Well,” said Chief, “all that this is going to mean is three boring bloody days off those horrible little islands. We’ll be back in Trinco three days later than we should have been, and we won’t have seen a thing. If there is a cruiser, and not just a Flying Dutchman or a pink elephant, you can be quite sure it won’t come anywhere near us.”

The Captain was not there to hear Chief’s last speech. He was ordering a new course and an increase in speed. Chief heard the quickened tempo of the engines: scowling, he rushed aft to the Engine Room.

Sub went for’ard to the Petty Officers’ Mess, to have a word with Chief Petty Officer Rawlinson.

“Want me, sir?” asked the T.I.

“D’you remember, T.I., saying a few days ago that there wouldn’t ever be a target worth a torpedo?”

“That’s right, sir. They don’t need me in this ship. They need a flippin’ artillery sergeant.”

“What would you say, T.I., if I told you that a Jap cruiser had left Singapore and might be coming this way?”

“Well, sir, begging your pardon, I’d say you was off your rocker.”

Nobody was very excited, and most of the men were fed-up to hear that their recall had been cancelled. Nobody was fool enough to think that anything as big as a cruiser would come their way: that sort of thing didn’t happen. Anyway, they had had all the excitement they wanted in this patrol, and the idea of hanging around the Andamans in the hope of a bit more was not popular.

“Flippin’ drudge, we are in this ship,” remarked Rogers as he clipped his toe-nails. “Any flippin’ job they ‘ave, they say, ‘Oh, give it ter Sea’ound , she’s the flippin’ sucker roun’ ’ere.’ I ’spect ole Fatty” (he referred to the Captain of the Submarine Flotilla) “looks at his flippin’ yeoman and says, ‘What’s this? The Sea’ound coming back to Trinco? Can’t ’ave that – send her a flippin’ signal and tell her to go and flip around the bleedin’ Andamans for a bit.’ An’ orf we go.”