Go In and Sink!

Go In and Sink! by Douglas Reeman Page A

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Authors: Douglas Reeman
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leaving so soon?’ Reply, ‘Not a lot.’ Poor old Bob, she must have given him a rough time.
    He turned slightly to watch as Sub-Lieutenant Warwick strode from beneath the conning-tower to speak with the Casing King. Against the thickset P.O. and the shining black shapes of the other seamen he looked even frailer than usual.
    A few figures were on the little H-boat’s casing alongside, waiting to let go. One shouted, ‘Good luck, mate!’ Another, ‘Get some sea-time in!’
    Despite the familiar shouts, encouraging or derisive in their normality, Marshall could feel the strangeness all around him. Pointing away towards the tossing white-caps he saw the U-boat’s forecastle like a long black arrowhead, the jumping-wire making a thin line across the skudding clouds and darkening sky.
    A light stabbed from the depot ship’s bridge and a few cheers echoed above the pounding diesels and insistent wind.
    Lieutenant Buck climbed up through the hatch and groped his way to the gratings, his pointed features very pale against the dull metal.
    ‘All ready, sir.’ He had a faint South London accent. ‘I’ve checked the list you gave me. I don’t think we’ve missed a thing.’
    Marshall waved his hand. ‘Let go forrard!’ To Buck he added, ‘Too late now if we have.’
    He felt the deck lift slightly as the wind edged the submarine’s bows easily away from the other boat. A wire splashed alongside and grated on steel as Cain’s men hauled it hastily inboard.
    ‘Let go aft!’
    More scampering feet, a man slipping and cursing in the wet gloom.
    ‘All clear aft, sir!’
    Marshall said sharply, ‘Make certain of that!’
    He saw Buck leaning over the rear of the bridge, knowing it would be all right. But to wrap a wire round one of the screws would put paid to their sailing on time. A bad start. Unlucky, some said.
    Buck reported, ‘All clear, sir.’
    Marshall nodded and turned to watch as the strip of trapped water between the two hulls widened still further. Faces on the other boat were already blurred, and on the depot ship it was impossible to distinguish men from fittings.
    ‘Slow ahead together.’
    He listened to the immediate response from the engines. Throaty, deeper than before, the screws lashing the water into bright froth astern before settling into a steadier pattern.
    ‘Steer two-nine-zero.’ He waited until the order was passed down the voicepipe and added, ‘Tell Number One to train the periscope on
Lima
. She’ll show her stern light in a moment. He can con the boat on that.’
    How quickly it had all happened. The boat was sliding away from the moorings. her sharp stem throwing up feathers of spray, while the bow wave sluiced aft along the fat saddle tanks.
    He heard one of the lookouts whispering excitedly to his companion and said, ‘Keep silent! Watch your prescribed areas and save the chat for later!’
    Buck called, ‘First lieutenant reports all well in the control room, sir.’
    ‘Good.’
    A cluster of gulls floated abeam, clucking irritably, trying to decide if it was safe to remain on the surface. In the fading light they looked like a discarded wreath.
    He shivered. The engines sounded very good indeed. He watched the armed-yacht turning steeply to lead them clear. She was beautiful. A millionaire’s plaything in happier times. Probably kept in the Med in those times. Warm nights. Tanned bodies and soft wine.
    He stooped over the voicepipe. ‘Watch her head, ’Swain. There’ll be a stiff cross-current in about fifteen minutes.’
    ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Starkie, the coxswain, sounded miles away.
    He was unusually small. Like a leathery ferret. What was he thinking, Marshall wondered? Starkie’s previous boat had been sunk by a dive bomber off the Hook of Holland. He had somehow survived with three others until picked up by an M.T.B. more dead than alive. Now he was back. Perhaps his wiriness had saved him. It was a fallacy that fat men survived better in the water.
    ‘Launch

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