Submariner (2008) by Fullerton Alexander

Author:Fullerton, Alexander [Fullerton, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: WWII/Navel/Fiction
Published: 2008-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

Heading for the wardroom, to pick up whatever mail there might be, with this lingering image of old Shrimp mastering a sadness to which by this time he was no stranger. He’d said to Mike once, in the course of an evening about half a year ago that had had something in common with a wake, ‘Times like these, mine’s a foul job. Best chaps ever left the womb – and all of us knowing the bloody odds …’ Shake of the head – dog coming out of water, shaking it off – ‘Had one too many, Michael, getting bloody maudlin …’ But thinking also about this Special Op – landing commandos, and not the 10th Flotilla’s, Shrimp’s private army of one officer and however many other ranks it consisted of now, who most of the time were kept kicking their heels with damn-all to do except help in reconstruction, bomb damage etc., and naturally didn’t look with much favour on others being sent in to do jobs they were here for. Which had happened a few times because there was a commando training establishment at Ismailia – down-Canal from Port Said, and first right – turning out canoeists and other cut-throats briefed in the latest tactics and equipment; Staff planners liked to employ them, rather than the old hands one had here.

Mike, like Shrimp, wasn’t all that keen on Special Ops. Especially not on stunts dreamt-up by Staff the best part of a thousand miles away.

‘Oh, hello there …’

Frank Dean – whom Shrimp had mentioned as sailing for patrol this evening. Red-headed, pale-skinned, mid-twenties, one of the newer COs. Shaking hands: ‘Heard you were in – and some patrol, uh? Darned great oiler and a tank-transport?’

‘They came along, Frank, that’s all. Pure luck, nothing else – except the fish ran straight. Where you off to this time?’

‘Kerkennah Banks, thereabouts. Not my favourite billet, but there you are.’

Tunisian coast – Sfax, Gabès, approaches from the north and northwest to Tripoli. Mike nodded. ‘Good luck, anyway.’ He’d never much liked those shallows, especially the Kerkennah end of it. ‘Off at dusk, are you?’

Heading for Ursa’s mail slot; Dean accompanying him across the cavern-like wardroom, apparently to check the contents of his own – getting there first and extracting a message slip which by the look of him he wasn’t too happy with. Telephone message, probably. While Mike was finding precisely nothing – pigeon-hole empty, nothing in it for him or for anyone else. Repeating to Dean, ‘Very best of luck, Frank.’ There’d no doubt have been mail for McLeod and the others, one of whom must have nipped ashore for it while he’d been closeted with Shrimp. Would have left his, though – skimmed through whatever there was, and put his back. As he, being always first ashore, normally did with the others’ stuff. Someone might carelessly have taken his with the rest of it? Or asked Walburton to clear the box for them, for some reason. Mike had given his

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