Alexander Fullerton: Surface!

The future? Dreams took the place of the future, dreams and a lack of thought. The future held nothing of interest, only the past held whispers of promise. In his mind there was no idea of what he wanted in the years ahead. But then, in war-time, people were killed. Knowing that he looked forward to nothing, the Sub sometimes wondered whether that would not, perhaps, be a logical conclusion.

The Captain, the Engineer and the Navigator sit round the wardroom table, having breakfast. The first Lieutenant is on watch in the Control Room, and the hiss that comes frequently from that direction as the periscope is raised and lowered tells its own story of a careful watch. The Sub, who was relieved of the watch an hour and a half ago, at six o’clock, is asleep in his bunk.

“Better shake John, Chief,” suggests the Navigator. “Won’t be anything left to eat.” Chief reaches behind him and hangs his fist on the figure in the bunk, and Sub heaves himself up on one elbow and stares moodily at the scene. Smelling sausages he feels better, swings his legs out and eases himself straight on to the locker which serves as a seat for two men.

“Morning,” he says, his eyes half open and looking for food.

“My God!” murmurs Chief, looking at him sympathetically.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I’ve heard the expression ‘death dug up’,” answers Chief, sipping his coffee, “and I’ve seen things crawl out of heaps of muck in wet gardens, but – did you sleep well, Sub?”

“Very amusing. Wilkins – coffee, please!” Able Seaman Wilkins brings it in and sets it down.

“Morning, sir. Bangers?”

“Yes, please. Did you eat yours, Chief?”

“No, I did not.”

“I’ll have the Engineer Officer’s too, please.”

“Sorry, Sub,” puts in the Captain. “I had them.”

“H’m. Wilkins!”

“Sir?”

“Have you reloaded the other two Oerlikon magazines?”

“Yes, sir.” Apart from being Wardroom Messman, Wilkins is also the Oerlikon Gunner.

Breakfast is finished and cleared away, and Sub turns in again. It is very warm and quiet, an atmosphere full of sleep for the men off watch as the submarine motors slowly along at periscope depth, thirty feet on the depth-gauges. The Captain climbs into his bunk and closes his eyes. Then he opens them again and presses the Control Room buzzer. A messenger appears.

“Sir?”

“Ask the First Lieutenant to see me.” The Captain stares at the wardroom lamp while he hears Number One send the periscope down before reporting.

“Yes, sir?”

“Let me know if you see any fishing-boats big enough to hold the Chinks we’ve got.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Number One moves back into the Control Room, and they hear him say “Up periscope”, the hiss and thump as it rises and stops. There is a loud cough, and Chief looks up to see Engineroom Artificer Featherstone drooping in the gangway.

“Want me, Featherstone?”

Featherstone regards him sourly. “Them flippin’ ’eads is flipped,” he announces. The Captain rolls over on his bunk.

“What, again?”

“Yessir. I’d like to catch the bugger that keeps flippin’ ’em up, sir. Spend ’alf me time off watch putting ’em right and before I got time to put me flippin’ tools away the bloody door’s open an’ shut a couple o’ times and the bastard’s floodin’ up and jammed!”

The Engineer Officer sticks his dirty feet into a pair of sandals that should have been thrown away a long time ago. “Let’s see what’s wrong,” he suggests.

“I know what’s wrong.” Featherstone’s off again. “Some bugger goes in ‘ere an’ does ‘is bit an’ leaves the flippin’ valve open. Or ’e tries to blow ’em with the valve flippin’ well shut.”

In a few moments, Chief comes back. “He’s quite right, you know. It’s time you people learnt to use the heads. Every damn day of your lives you go in there, and someone hasn’t got the guts to ask what he’s doing wrong.”

“Grumpy old bastard. If the heads didn’t go wrong occasionally your department ‘d have nothing to do. And it’s you that wrecks them, as likely as not. Shouldn’t eat so much.”

“Young man, I was blowing submarine heads before you were bloody well born!”

“Before I was born there wasn’t any such things in submarines. I’ve read about it. When they surfaced at night, chaps sat over the side of the bridge with someone hanging on to their feet.”

Tommy, the Navigator, grins at the cork-painted deckhead over his bunk. “That reminds me,” he says, “of the story about the sailor in Chatham dockyard who—”

“Shut up!” barks the Captain. “I want some sleep.”

Twenty minutes is all he gets, because Tommy has only been on watch in the Control Room for five minutes, having taken over from Number One, before he sights a fair-sized fishing-boat. The messenger shakes the Captain, who tumbles out of his bunk, takes a quick look and orders: “Diving Stations. Chinese passengers stand by in the Control Room.”

The submarine is on the surface for about two minutes, during which time the Chinese are hurried into the fishing-boat and the only occupant of that craft is supplied with an outsize tin of corned beef and a tin-opener. It is probably the most solid food the man has seen for years; and his puzzled expression is tinged with pleasurable anticipation as the submarine sinks slowly from his sight. Through the periscope from thirty feet the Captain is amused to watch introductions and explanations taking place in the fishing-boat, which is overcrowded enough without the owner and his guests having to bow to each other from precarious positions around the gunwales.

The Sub leant down to the voice-pipe and shouted:

“Control Room!”

“Control Room,” answered the helmsman.

“Tell the Captain: land in sight, red three-oh to red ten.”

Low on the port bow lay part of the East coast of Ceylon. Trincomali, the base from which the submarine flotilla operated, lay right ahead. Three and a half days ago, Seahound had left the Straits: this evening, she’d be secured alongside her Depot Ship.

The Captain, wearing only a pair of khaki shorts, arrived on the bridge and turned his glasses on to the hazy, cloud-like line of coast that would soon resolve itself into dark-green forests edged with white sand and an even whiter line of surf.

“Dead on,” he commented. “I suppose you’ll all disgrace me again, tonight?”

“Early night for me, sir.”

“One day, Sub, I daresay someone’ll get back from patrol and turn in early. But not before the Socialists or the Yanks have deprived us of our liquor.”

“Think the Socialists have a chance of getting in, sir?”

“A lot of people seem to think so. Get a bearing of the edge, when you can see it.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

In the Control Room, the Signalman was sitting with the Jolly Roger in his lap, sewing on the marks of a successful patrol. A group of men stood around, getting in the light and impeding his efforts with suggestions and advice. The Torpedo Gunner’s Mate, Chief Petty Officer Rawlinson, looked down at the flag with evident displeasure. “This ain’t a submarine. It’s a ruddy gunboat.”

The Captain stops at the bottom of the ladder.

“Cheer up, Rawlinson. We may use some fish, yet.”

“What on, sir? Junks?”

“There’s always hope of meeting something worthwhile, before we finish.” The First Lieutenant came for’ard, from the Motor Room.

“Number One: we’ll be in about five. Better get cracking on the brass.”

“Aye aye, sir. Cox’n in the Control Room.” A messenger went for the Cox’n.