Alexander Fullerton - Surface!

“You know, I feel more engaged than married. Like looking forward to a honeymoon. Everything seems to have happened at once.”

“I think this calls for a gin.” The Captain called, and the gin came, and while they were drinking it Number One fought his way over to their end of the bar. He swayed slowly to and fro between the Captain and Chief.

“Been on the blower, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. Have a gin.”

“Thank you, sir. You did give me permission to get spliced, didn’t you, sir?”

“Yes. Why – you’re not going to, are you?”

“Yes, sir. Just asked her.”

There they were, thought the Captain, all of them, back again. Himself: well, he could see to that. Chief: married, and happy for the first time in two years. A solid, reliable man, old Chiefy. Work himself to death on the quiet, and still the same old grouse, the same steady, quiet influence in the ship, the same quiet control of his department. And Number One: always in the right place doing the right thing at the right time, never expecting any thanks for it. Both of these men, thought the Captain, deserved to be happy all day. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Sub standing in a group of his young friends. There was the odd one: for his age, an enigma. Why should one so young be only happy on patrol, in action or with the prospect of it? Why should anyone feel like that? It paid dividends, though: the Captain knew that whenever they sailed, the weapons would be in tip-top condition, and on patrol he had noticed that the Sub seemed to regard every shell that missed as a personal failure. But the mainspring, the thing that made the youngster tick, was never in sight.

There they were, the team, the first eleven: four very different people blended into a unit which, placed at the head of a ship’s company as good as Seahound ’s, produced the answers.

“You’re very quiet, sir.”

“‘m. Well, Chief, you’re not the only one that gets letters, you know.”

The doctor, twiddling the knob of the loudspeaker, yelled for silence, and got it. The man in London came through loudly and clearly:

“An Admiralty communiqué issued an hour ago announces that the Japanese heavy cruiser Yashima has been torpedoed and sunk in the Indian Ocean by His Majesty’s Submarine Seahound . The Seahound is commanded by Lieutenant-Commander Arthur Hallet, D.S.O., D.S.C., Royal Navy. The communiqué adds that the submarine underwent a severe depth-charge attack immediately after the sinking, but that no damage or casualties were sustained. The submarine has now returned to her base.

“Usually reliable sources in Washington have indicated the possibility of talks, in the not too distant future, to investigate opportunities for…” The doctor switched it off.

“Fame at last,” murmured the Captain. “Steward: drinks all round, please.”

Tiny, after an hour in the bar, had engaged the Padre in a theological discussion. Interest in such matters was one of the stages which he passed through during any celebration: from God, he usually went on to ghosts. The Padre was accustomed to this routine, and did his best to humour the big man. Offering Tiny a cigarette from his tin, he argued, gently:

“But my dear old Tiny, if God did not forgive, Heaven would be empty!”

“How do you know it isn’t?” Tiny smiled craftily.

“Well, one can—”

“You’ve never been there, have you?”

“Really, Tiny, if you’re going to argue at all—”

“And if you drink any more of that stuff,” muttered Tiny, darkly, “you won’t ever go there. You’ll come along with the rest of us.”

The Sub goggled at his First Lieutenant.

“You don’t mean it?”

“What in hell’s the matter with you all? What’s so funny about me getting engaged?”

“Nothing at all. Congratulations, and all that sort of thing.”

Tiny told him, “We thought you were married already, to the jolly old White Ensign.” Sub laughed.

“When the Padre asks if there’s any reason why this couple should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, I’ll jump up at the back of the church waving a White Ensign and shouting ‘Bigamy! Bigamy!’”

“That’s enough from you, Sub. Go and fetch the bottle.” He muttered to Tiny, “Damn fine reception a chap gets when he announces his engagement.” Tiny slapped him on the shoulder.

“The thing is, old boy, nobody believes you. They think it’s the gin. But never mind, I’ll believe you – how many have you had tonight?”

Number One spent the next night in the submarine. One Officer was Duty each night, and had to sleep in the submarine instead of in his cabin in the Depot Ship. One third of the ship’s company formed the Duty Watch and also slept on board.

At nine o’clock he did Rounds, walking through the boat from one end to the other, checking that all was safe and properly squared off. Rounds ended back in the Control Room, and Number One dismissed the Duty Petty Officer. The hands relaxed, returned to their letter-writing and other pastimes. Number One dropped into a chair in the Wardroom and reached out for a pile of letters that awaited censoring.

Censoring was a bore. He hated reading other peoples’ letters, but it had to be done, and he had acquired the art of glancing rapidly down the page without taking in any of the private contents, only his eye catching any place-names, dates or words like “patrol”. He finished the last letter with a sigh of relief, stuck down the flap, stamped it “Passed by Censor”. Then he put the pile of letters into the postbox outside the wardroom.

The system of having one night in three compulsorily on board was a good one in some ways, thought Number One, as he brought a heap of paperwork out of his drawer. It meant that this rubbish got dealt with instead of being put off from day to day and eventually causing trouble. Nobody liked paperwork, but everyone had to put up with it, everyone from the Captain of the flotilla to the Cox’n of a submarine. But a good Depot Ship, like this one, could do a lot towards keeping it down to a minimum.

Amongst other things, the First Lieutenant had to keep the men’s personal records up to date. Thumbing through a pile of them, he looked at the space in which each man’s private occupation was noted. The Gunlayer was a market gardener, the Gun Trainer a brewery hand. Rogers had been a milkman, while Parrot had described himself as a grave-digger. Number One, as he looked through the papers, felt a slight envy of these men who had a second trade, while he had only one.

He stood up, switched on the loudspeaker over his head: it was time for the programme known as ‘Forces Favourites’. A woman’s voice announced a number for Alf, Pete and Stooge, who had been waiting to hear it for a long time and were looking forward to getting home to their families in Croydon. This record had also been asked for by the Bats Brigade of Number Six Mess, H.M.S. Tapeworm . The disc screamed into its millionth reproduction: of course, it had to be her, the Sweetheart of the Forces. He reached up, switched it off.

Before he turned in, at about eleven o’clock, Jimmy walked for’ard and climbed up through the hatchway into the cool, clean air. It was very quiet. Seahound lay with three other submarines of her own class: the one outside her had only that day returned from patrol. The four sister-ships rubbed sides, as though taking pleasure in each others’ company, and there was about them even here an air of purpose as though they knew that they were only resting before new battles. The oily water lapped softly on their bulging saddle-tanks, and the submarines moved very slightly while the hemp ropes creaked as they strained under the changing weight.