The bosun’s pipe whistled shrilly over the Tannoy. ‘Attention on the upper deck,’ commanded the disembodied voice. ‘Face to port.’
Omega’s captain and the submarine commander beside him lifted their hands in salute; heads high, Taureg’s officers returned it as the at-ease submariners snapped as one man to attention.
‘Three cheers for Taureg!’ came the order and once, twice, three times, hats and caps rose in the air and once, twice, three times the assembled well-wishers roared their approval.
So this was how a submarine came back from a successful patrol! And how very understated and very British, with every man of its crew trying not to show how pleased he was or how embarrassed, and quietly thanking the good Lord for getting them out of the mess in the Bay, and if He wouldn’t mind, could some other perishing submarine have the next thirty-eight? And whilst He was on their wavelength, how about a spot of leave …?
‘It isn’t!’ Only then did Jane see the flag. ‘Not the skull and crossbones!’
Tom Tavey laughed. ‘It is.’
‘But you wouldn’t think it would be allowed.’ Grown men on a killer submarine, flying a Jolly Roger! ‘Do they all do it?’
‘All of them.’ He nodded. ‘Every submarine takes one on patrol and someone sews on the bits as they happen. Take a look.’
The youngest of Taureg’s officers was holding out the flag for all to see, proudly proclaiming the success of their patrol and the reason for this, their special homecoming.
‘See the white bars in the top right-hand corner, Jane? They represent enemy ships sunk by torpedoes, and the crossed guns on the left means they’ve been in a surface action – that’d be when they got the German destroyer – and the dagger below is a special operation.’
Unbelieving still, Jane counted the white bars. Three ships sunk on this patrol; three merchantmen sent to the bottom, and thank God Vi wasn’t here to see this! ‘Special operation?’ she murmured.
‘Cloak-and-dagger stuff. Usually picking up an agent from one of the occupied countries, or taking one out. A couple of weeks back there was a strong buzz that Saffron landed one by dinghy into France. A young woman, I believe it was.’ He said it matter of factly, as if it happened all the time.
‘Then let’s just hope that Taureg has brought her back again,’ Jane whispered. What next would be asked of women and what would women do, when at last peace came? Would they, could they, after the sudden heady freedom thrust upon them by war, ever go back to what they had been?
‘You’re doing it again, Jane Kendal. Frowning. Looking chokka.’
‘I’m not. Really I’m not. It – it’s just the way my face is arranged, I suppose.’ Adroitly, she changed the subject. ‘What’s happening now?’
The returning submarine had nosed in to the depot ship’s side, and willing hands on the well-deck rails pulled on her stern lines, easing her closer, making her fast. Now the sentinel submarines were under way again, gently manoeuvring to take up positions alongside Taureg.
‘They’ve stopped engines. That’s the skipper and commander going on board her now. The pink gin’ll be flowing in the wardroom and there’ll be an extra tot for the lower decks, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He glanced down at his wrist. ‘Almost eleven o’clock. You’ll hear the pipe soon, over the Tannoy.’
‘Forgive me, but what’s so special about eleven hundred hours?’
‘What’s so special?’ His face registered disbelief, then his lips parted in a smile. ‘Eleven o’clock is tot time; time for spirit that oils wheels and greases palms and sometimes even settles debts. The rum ration, Jane. Oh, I can see I’ll have to teach you a thing or two about the Royal Navy.’
‘Oh, I know all about that,’ she returned airily, ‘but it’s only a drink of rum, after all …’
‘Lesson one, Wren Kendal. Rum is never drunk. It is sipped or it is gulped; sippers and gulpers, that is. And make no mistake, the rum ration is very important to a matelot; not only to be sipped or gulped, but something to be used for bargaining or the repayment of a favour, or even bottled and taken home on leave. It would be a sad and sorry day for the Navy if ever they stopped it. There’d be mutiny, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘But what about sailors who don’t like rum?’
‘Don’t like …?’ Tom Tavey’s face registered blank disbelief. ‘Well, there might be the odd one or two who’ve signed the pledge,’ he acknowledged, ‘and they get threepence a day on their pay if they don’t draw, as we call it. I’ve never met one, though,’ he added hastily. ‘There now!’ His face brightened as the bosun’s pipe shrilled over the Tannoy: ‘Up spirits! Up spirits!’
‘That’s it, Jane. Tot time. That’s the call for the leading hands to collect the rations from the rum bosun. Best pipe of the day,’ he grinned. ‘See what I mean? Soon cleared the well deck.’
And so it had. Taureg had done well and had received her just and sincere due, but this was tot time, and on board the depot ship Omega, first things came first.
‘Well, thanks for explaining it all to me, but I’ll have to be going too, I’m afraid.’ She turned to walk away, but he stopped her, a hand on her arm.
‘Come out with me tonight, Jane. There’s a good hop on, down in Craigiebur. Or would you rather see a flick?’
‘If it’s Love on the Dole, I’ve seen it, but thanks all the same.’ She’d been right, he was trying to pick her up, which was a pity, really, because she liked to dance. But dancing made her remember a cold Candlemas Eve, and every sentimentally crooned love song reminded her of something that was best not remembered, and she wasn’t ready, yet, to stick out her chin and smile.
‘The dance, then? The band is very good.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, over her shoulder. Tom Tavey was nice, but no, not just yet. And besides, he was altogether too attractive, too sure of his masculinity, and it unnerved her. ‘Sorry,’ she said again.
‘So am I, Jenny Wren.’
Eyes narrowed, he watched her walk away. Maybe she went in for officers, or maybe, he realized, she already had a boyfriend. A good-looker like her probably had half a dozen in tow. And she was good-looking, and intriguing too. Something to do with her eyes and the way they looked at you, yet saw nothing. And as for that red hair! Weren’t redheads all ice on the thatch but with a red-hot fire burning in the hearth? With luck, this one would run true to form. Then, remembering it was five minutes past tot time, he ran down the ladder to the well deck, and away to the spare-crew mess.
She was a little darling, though. Might be interesting to have another try. A girl who looked like Wren Jane Kendal would be worth it. Well worth it …
She turned to watch him disappear down the ladder. He did it nimbly, his feet scarcely touching the narrow steel treads. His shoulders, she tried not to remember, were broad, his skin attractively tanned. Ought she have said yes to his offer of a date, accepted the challenge in those probing blue eyes?
Shrugging, she walked slowly down the ladder. Accept? Of course not. How could she have? He’d called her Jenny, hadn’t he, and no one did that.
She blinked as she stepped back into the office, closing her eyes against the sudden change of light. Jock looked up briefly, then motioned for her to hurry.
‘Come on now, lassie. There’s a rush-immediate to be seen to. K-tables we’ll be needing. You call, I’ll subtract. Chop chop!’
The war had started again, but wouldn’t it be wonderful, Jane thought, if during those brief moments of stillness, no one had been wounded or blinded