Alexander Fullerton: Surface!

“Plymouth, Hallet,” he observed, pointing to the gin bottle as his steward poured out the liberal measure that he had been taught to pour. “Lots of chaps say that Plymouth isn’t what it was, but I can’t drink anything else. Pink?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Well, Hallet, first of all I’ve to tell you that you’ve got a bar to that D.S.O. You’ve earned it. Shut up, you young ass. I hope to get a D.S.C. for your Number One and your Chief, and we may manage a Mention for young Ferris. By the way: I’ve had a complaint about him, from some woman called Compton, in Kandy. But we’ll talk about that another time. With any luck we’ll get a decent allocation of medals for your Ship’s Company: not a word, of course, until I’ve got it on paper.”

The S.O.O. began to murmur congratulations, but Meadows cut him short.

“Now, Hallet, where’ll we send you this time? Somewhere nice and quiet, for a rest?”

“I don’t think that ‘d do any of us any good, sir. I’d like – may I make a suggestion, sir?”

“What the hell do you think I asked you for?”

“Well, sir, we can find our way through that minefield, now. There’d be some targets lower down.” Meadows grinned broadly, took a sip at his gin.

“What do you think, S.O.O.? Send him down to make a shemozzle off Malacca, eh?”

“I think it’s a good idea, sir, so long as he comes out straight away when he’s shown he’s down there. Can’t get caught hanging around in that alley.”

“All right. Fix it. Steward! Fill these officers’ glasses. And mine… here’s to you, Hallet.”

Half-past nine: Sub, in Seahound ’s Wardroom, was busy with some official correspondence: there was more to be dealt with, and tonight, when he was Duty, was the time to get it done. But to hell, he thought, there are lots of duty nights to come. He shoved the papers back into their cardboard folders, slid the folders into a converted gas-mask locker. He had a new Peter Cheyney story that had arrived in the last post: he pulled it out of his drawer, settled himself in a corner and began to read about Slim Callaghan and the women with long shapely legs and lots of money. This was undiluted escapism. They didn’t fall like that, not in real life: you had to fight for them, one way or another.

He put the book down, wondered what the noise was about. That was Shadwell’s voice: “Why, y’little pimp, I’ll kick y’ flippin’ –—— up y’ flippin’ –——!” Feet rushing, shouts, Rogers shouting, “Ar, shut it, Shaddy, for flip’s sake!” A thud, more angry voices, a roar from Bird: “Stow it, y’ silly bastards!” A series of bangs that sounded like a man’s head being thumped on the deck. The Sub leapt out of the wardroom, ran for’ard: where in hell was the Duty Petty Officer?

In the for’ard compartment, half-a-dozen men were fighting on the deck. Three of them were trying to hold down Shadwell: it took only one to hold the telegraphist, who was evidently the cause of the big torpedoman’s displeasure.

“Get up, and stop that Goddamned row!”

The Sub was dwarfed when Shadwell, obeying the order, flung two men off his back and rose to his feet. The telegraphist, a man named Barney Rookes, stood panting heavily, his back to the bulkhead door. The Sub stood between them: he noticed a galley knife in the telegraphist’s hand.

“Drop that knife, Rookes.”

“I wasn’t going to use it, sir. I just ‘ad it in me ‘and.” Rookes’ mouth was split and bleeding.

“Drop it.” The knife clattered on the iron deck under the torpedo racks.

Shadwell growled, “Like flip you wasn’t goin’ t’ use it, yer dago bastard!”

“That’s enough from you, Shadwell. Bird, where’s the Duty P.O.?”

“Went inboard, sir. To fetch something.”

“Go and get him. Rookes, go and wait in the Control Room.”

“I didn’t start it, sir.”

“I didn’t say you did. Go aft.” The telegraphist lurched away. Chief Petty Officer Rawlinson dropped through the hatch. Sub moved out of the compartment, beckoned him. He walked aft as far as the Petty Officers’ Mess.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Went up to the Mess, to get this book, sir.”

“You know damn well you’ve no business to leave the boat without my permission.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Shadwell and Rookes were fighting. Find out what it was all about, and report to me in the wardroom.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The Sub sat down at the wardroom table, cursing quietly. Now both men would have to come up as defaulters: there was enough to do, enough to worry about, without this sort of thing.

Rawlinson reported. The telegraphist had knocked into Shadwell, who was writing a letter. Shadwell had cursed him, told him that just because he never wrote letters to his whore at home there was no call to go buggering up other people’s letters. Rookes had assumed the term “whore” to have been applied to his wife. He had grabbed the knife, which had been lying on the lockers, and had flung himself on Shadwell.

Shadwell said that he hadn’t even known that Rookes had a wife. All he knew was that the bastard had a lot of pictures of naked women stuck up all over the Wireless Office: he didn’t like Rookes, he said, and he reckoned that he’d bumped into him on purpose. Then Rookes had attacked him with a flippin’ great knife, and he, Shadwell, had only defended himself.

“All right. Bring them up now. Rookes first.”

He walked into the Control Room, heard Rawlinson bark, “Telegraphist Rookes: get y’ cap!”

One at a time they came before him: Rawlinson ordered, “‘Shun! Off cap!” and read the charge.

“Anything to say?”

Each told his story, Rookes bitter, conscious of his battered face, Shadwell innocent and apparently shocked at the other man’s rough behaviour.

“First Lieutenant’s Report,” snapped the Sub. Tomorrow morning they would see Number One, who would either deal with the matter himself or, if he thought the case more serious, pass it on to the Captain. Sub wondered if he couldn’t save everyone a certain amount of trouble: he called the two men together, unofficially.

“Look,” he said. “You’ll both be seeing the First Lieutenant in the morning. Meantime, to save any more of this nonsense, listen to this.

“Rookes: Shadwell didn’t know you were married. The word he used was not directed at anyone in particular. Do you accept that?”

Rookes muttered that he did. He had difficulty in moving his lips.

“Shadwell: Rookes thought you meant to insult his wife. If you’d thought that someone had used an expression like that about your wife, I reckon if you’d been the smaller man you’d have grabbed the nearest weapon and used it, eh?”

“No, sir. Well, I dunno, really.”

“Good God, man! Someone refers to your wife as a whore, and you don’t do anything about it?”

Shadwell scratched the side of his head. “Well, y’ see, sir, in a manner o’ speakin’, she is.”

Once again, His Majesty’s Submarine Seahound was about to sail from her base. Only one rope for’ard and one rope aft held her alongside, and as soon as the Captain came aboard and gave the order; these last links would be thrown off. Sub stood waiting on the for’ard casing: Bird, the Second Cox’n, stood massively beside him, coiling a heaving-line.

“Bit different to sailing from ’Oly Loch, ain’t it, sir?”

It was, indeed. When they had left Scotland, just over a year ago, they had left foul weather, a gale and bursts of hail. A squall had lashed across the Loch just as they were slipping their ropes and wires, and some of the men, with the sailor’s tendency towards superstition, had seen this as a bad omen for the future. But nothing had occurred to justify such fears, unless it had been the crossing of the Bay of Biscay in weather that made a misery of watchkeeping and a hell of everything except lying flat on your bunk, in that position with your knees up.