Alexander Fullerton - Surface!

After the strain of watch-keeping in enemy waters, the watches on the surface on the way home across the Indian Ocean were a welcome relaxation. Clad only in a pair of shorts under the blazing sun the men recovered their tan, drank in fresh air and looked forward to the spell in harbour. They took things easily, and with the knowledge of the success behind them and the welcome ahead they were happy days.

Sub came off watch at noon, relieved by Number One while the Navigator took a noon sight of the sun. In this weather, taking a sight was simple: it was when the weather was really bad that the process became almost impossible, when as soon as the sextant reached the bridge, wrapped in a towel, a green wave hurled itself into the bridge and the wet sextant was useless. The terrific motion of the submarine was no help, either.

Sub had stepped off the ladder in the Control Room and turned round to make his way into the wardroom when Chief Petty Officer Rawlinson stopped him.

“Torpedo Officer, sir. There’s a buzz that it’s your twenty-first birthday today. That right, sir?”

“It is, T.I.” Sub’s hand was grasped in the other man’s, pumped vigorously up and down.

“All the best, sir. Could you spare a moment? We’d like you to come for’ard, for a moment.”

They walked for’ard together, to the Petty Officer’s Mess. The Cox’n and the Stoker Petty Officer greeted him warmly, and, after pulling the curtain across the entrance to the Mess, the Cox’n handed him a glass with an inch of dark brown rum in the bottom of it.

“Thanks, Cox’n.” Sub threw it down in one gulp, as a proper sailor should, and they watched with approval in their eyes. He shook hands with them all, hoping that the burn in his throat wouldn’t make his eyes water and let him down in front of these men whose assessment of a man was valuable. As he left the little Mess, Shadwell was standing outside, waiting for him.

“Torpedo Officer, sir – would you come for’ard for a minute, please?”

Oh, my God. The Sub blinked. “Certainly, Shadwell. What is it?” He pretended he didn’t know what it was all about.

About a dozen sailors were waiting for him in the for’ard Mess. Bird handed him a glass of rum, and Rogers said, “Dahn the ’atch, sir.” They watched him closely as he threw the rum back into his throat.

“Thank you, gentlemen. The best twenty-first I ever had.” They laughed, liking him. Rogers muttered, under his breath, “Proper toff, young Subby.” Sub went aft to his lunch. The rum was warm in his stomach. What was it they called rum? Nelson’s Blood. No wonder Nelson was a ball of fire, with this stuff in his veins.

After lunch, Sub lay on his bunk, and he saw a picture of Sussex and the party that there would have been if he’d been at home. He could see all the faces that would have been round the table that evening, and he knew that he and those faces would never really know each other again. That had been the centre, the focal point of his life: now Sussex was only the background, something soft to think about.

These men were the friends he wanted, and this was the life he wanted to lead. That was why he knew that the future was going to be no good for him: he didn’t want it. His young world was tottering on the precipice of peace.

With the coast of Ceylon in sight, all hands were turned-to to make Seahound look her best. This was to be their hour, probably Seahound ’s last and greatest performance. Not the smallest piece of brass was left unpolished: by the time they were in the Bay, when Sub and the casing party came up, they felt as though they shouldn’t walk on the bridge or touch any part of it. The Gunlayer gave his beloved gun an admiring glance as he passed it.

“All right, sir?”

“Not at all bad, Layer.” No submarine gun had never looked better. Nobody would have thought that this submarine had been on patrol, and nobody would ever have dreamt that she had had such a rough handling. It was a strange thing, but understandable to a war-time flotilla, that a submarine arriving from her home port after a peaceful voyage could look weathered and battered, while the same submarine returning from a hard patrol could look like a showpiece for Navy Week.

Still out in the bay, they came in sight of the Depot Ship, and from her tall bridge a lamp flashed, a signal demanding that the submarine identify herself. The Signalman looked proud as he sent Seahound ’s signal letter and number flashing across in answer. On the casing, Sub’s party had the gear ready for going along-side, and now the men were lined up fore-and-aft, their white uniforms gleaming cleanly in the evening sun.

Over the submarine’s bridge flew the Jolly Roger, their personal flag. Above and just to the left of the grinning skull was a new red bar that stood for the cruiser, and in the centre at the bottom was a white dagger, the sign of a Special Operation. Everything that they had done or destroyed was there on the flag, the record of their victories.

As Seahound swung into the gap in the boom defences, a shrill V-sign hooted from the siren of the little boom-vessel. On her grimy bridge stood an officer and three ratings, shouting and waving their caps. The Captain gave them a friendly wave as the submarine swept through and past: ahead lay the Depot Ship, her decks lined thickly with sailors. Seahound crossed the stern of the big ship, and the two exchanged salutes, the thin pipe and the lordly bugle-call in answer. As the last note of the bugle fell silvery across the harbour, a thousand men began to cheer, a barrage of applause, their caps raised high, a sea of white over the massed brown faces.

This welcome, this salute from a ship so big to one so small, from so many men to so few, this was the highest praise that a submariner could ever know. Nothing could ever, so long as they lived, put such a thrill of pride into their slightly hardened hearts: for here submariners were being saluted by submariners, and who could know better than submariners when such a salute was deserved, who know better than submariners how much it meant?

Slowing, the submarine slid alongside. Heaving lines flew high to fall across the casing: rapidly they were hauled over, dragging the heavier ropes. A moment later Number One shouted over the front of the bridge, “Heave in for’ard!” And as he shouted he thought to himself that if all his life had been spent to accomplish the last ten minutes, it would have been worth living.

Chief, at the back of the bridge, had no orders to give. It was just as well. He would hardly have trusted himself to speak.

The wardroom was crowded. It was a party, and the Seahounds were not buying any of the drinks. The flotilla had a cruiser to its credit, and it was to Seahound that the flotilla owed it.

They had bathed, read their letters, drunk some gin and read the letters again. The Captain, leaning on the bar with one foot on the brass rail, was thinking about his own letters, when, glancing round, he saw Chief, a happy Chief who smiled down into his glass before he drank.

“Plenty of mail, Chief?”

“Plenty. One letter.”

“I’m sorry.” He knew that Chief’s home affairs were wrong. The Engineer had never spoken of it, never hinted at it, but in a submarine these things became plain. Particularly when two men knew each other as these did.

“It’s all right. It really is. One letter, Arthur. Pam’s joined the Wrens again: she’s trying to get out here. Damn it, it’s true! I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“You’re not dreaming, Chief. I’m so damned glad. It’s the best thing I’ve heard for months.”