Landfall

  One said: “That’s not what Rugson said. He said it was in Area SL.”

  “How did Rugson know? He only docked tonight.”

  “Rugson couldn’t have known anything about it.”

  “Well, he did. He closed with Porky Thomas, T.192, in the forenoon, and Porky said he sailed right through the place this morning just after dawn, and there was oil still coming up.”

  “Was Kitchen there?”

  “I don’t think Porky said anything about a drifter. Rugson didn’t say so.”

  “It could have been the place. I know, because Maynard said that Kitchen was standing by all night in case any of them got out. I think he’s out there still.”

  Somebody laughed shortly and turned away. “Not much bloody hope of any of them getting out now.”

  “Where did Rugson say this place of Porky’s was, then?”

  “Off Departure Point somewhere. In Area SL.”

  Somebody said: “That couldn’t have been anything to do with Caranx. They know where Caranx is all right. They got clothes up from her.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I overheard Dale saying something about it. He said Mitcheson had brought in clothes and stuff that came up in the boil when she went down. I think that’s right. Mitcheson came in yesterday, but he wasn’t due to dock till Friday.”

  “Where’s Mitcheson now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Somebody said: “They opened the Court of Enquiry over in Blockhouse this afternoon.”

  Behind the bar, in a pause between the serving, Mona said quietly to Miriam: “You was right about that submarine. I heard them talking. Caranx they said the name was. One of our own. Isn’t it awful!”

  The other girl said: “Did you hear them say one of our own chaps did it?”

  “You don’t say!”

  “I thought I heard them say that. One of the Air Force aeroplanes that bombed it by mistake.”

  “Not really?”

  “That’s what they was saying just now.”

  “But how could that happen? They got markings to show they’re English, haven’t they?”

  “I dunno. That’s what one of them was saying just now.”

  There was a momentary silence. Then Mona said: “Did Caranx commission here, do you know?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Submarines do mostly, don’t they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A fresh spate of orders came and stopped their chat.

  Towards nine o’clock Chambers crept into the city through the black-out in his little sports car with the dimmed headlights. He had finished the galleon, had painted MONA under the stern gallery in a wave of sentiment. He had not cared to face the ordeal of dinner in the mess, and he was very hungry. It was with difficulty that he had nerved himself to go into the snack-bar of the “Royal Clarence,” but he knew no other way to get hold of the girl. If he nipped in and out quickly he probably would not be recognised.

  He parked the car and went into the bar, cap in hand, his heavy grey-blue greatcoat pulled up round his ears. He thrust his way directly to the bar, blushing a little, and confused. Mona smiled at him, and he took comfort from it.

  “Half a can,” he said. She turned and brought it to him.

  “Look, Mona,” he said quietly, “I can’t go dancing tonight.” He saw the look of disappointment on her face. “I’m frightfully sorry, but I can’t make it.” He hesitated and looked at her appealingly. “Is there anywhere we could go and have supper, or something, instead?”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw, or thought he saw, one of the Wavy Navy staring at him. He said: “I want to have a talk to you.”

  “But why can’t we go dancing, then?”

  He said urgently: “I don’t want to do that. I’ll tell you afterwards.”

  She said: “We could go to the Cosy Cot, if you’d rather.”

  He knew the road-house at the entrance to the town, though he had never been there. “That’s all right,” he said. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “You know the back entrance round behind in Clarence Lane?”

  He said: “I’ll find it. What time?”

  “Five past ten.”

  The naval officers were talking in a little group and looking at him. He said urgently: “I’ll be there. Thanks awfully, Mona.” And with that he turned and made his way swiftly through the crowd towards the door.

  She stared after him, puzzled and disappointed. The Cosy Cot wasn’t half so much fun as the Pavilion, with the music and dancing, and the lights, and all. At her side Miriam said mischievously: “He ain’t half nice-looking, Mona. You never said he was an officer.”

  The girl said: “He doesn’t want to go dancing after all. He just wants to go somewhere and eat.”

  “Well, dearie, he’s got to eat some time. Perhaps he hasn’t had any tea.”

  She said discontentedly: “He could have had something to eat here, and then we might have gone to the Pavilion. I can’t make him out.”

  Her friend said: “Never mind, dear. I think he looks ever so nice.” A fresh wave of orders stopped their conversation.

  Chambers shot out into the street again in fear of meeting anyone in the black, unfriendly street. He was intensely hungry. It was three-quarters of an hour before he could meet Mona, and it was snowing a little in the darkness. He did not dare to go back into the grill-room for a meal, nor to any place where he might possibly meet naval officers. He got into his car and sat uncertain for a few minutes, wondering where to go to. Finally he drove up to the railway station, parked the car, and went into the buffet for a stale ham sandwich and a glass of beer.

  By five minutes to ten he was standing in the deeper blackness of the lane behind the hotel, waiting for the girl to come. He stood muffled to the ears in his greatcoat, cold and lonely, and uncertain of the reception that he would get from Mona. It now seemed to him to have been a piece of great foolishness to have come here at all. He’d only get a flea in his ear from her—another flea to join the many fleas that his ear now contained. He should have stayed in his room, taken an aspirin, and gone to bed.

  She came to him presently, within a minute of her time. He saw her first as a slight, dim figure in the doorway and stepped forward.

  She said: “Is that you, Jerry? It’s ever so dark.”

  He said: “It’s me all right.”

  “Where are we going to? The Cosy Cot?”

  He said suddenly: “Mona—look, there’s something you ought to know about. I mean, you may not want to come out with me when you know, so I’d better tell you now.”

  She stared up at him, dimly seen; a little flurry of snow swept about them. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  He said: “Do you know anything about submarines?”

  “They was talking about one of ours that had been sunk tonight in the bar. Caranx, or some name like that.”

  “Caranx was the name.” He hesitated, and then said: “Mona—I sank it.”

  She said: “Oh, Jerry …” There was a pause; she moved impulsively a little closer to him. “You poor thing!”

  There was a momentary silence between them, as if to mark what she had said. In that minute they both realised without words that their relationship would never be again the casual, happy-go-lucky matter it had been before she had said that.

  She said: “Was it an accident?”

  “A sort of accident.” He hesitated. “I didn’t want to go to the Pavilion … in case people saw me. Would you rather I just took you home?”

  She said: “But you want supper, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m all right.”

  “Have you had any supper?”

  “I’ve just had a sandwich while I was waiting for you.”

  The meals of officers were not very familiar to her. Tea did not bulk so large in their life as it did in hers. She said a little doubtfully: “Did you have tea?”

  “Not today.”

  “Do you mean yo
u’ve only had a sandwich since dinner? You must be hungry.”

  He smiled down at her; there was infinite relief for him in her concentration on mundane matters. “I dare say I could do something with a steak and chips.”

  “I should think so. Let’s go to the Cosy Cot. You wouldn’t mind that, would you? I don’t think officers go there very much.”

  “I’d like that. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not, Jerry.”

  They turned and walked towards the little car. The flying snow had blown into it a little and a thin powdering lay on the seat. It did not worry either of them very much. The thin layer on the road made driving easier in the black-out, and they made fair speed out to the Cosy Cot.

  He drove into the car-park and stopped the little car outside the blackened building, from which no light shone. He got out and helped the girl out from her side.

  “Before we go in,” he said huskily, “I wanted to say ‘Thank you.’” He took her in his arms and kissed her; she strained up on tiptoe and kissed him back.

  “Poor old Jerry!” she said softly. “Now that’s enough. Remember you’re hungry.”

  He released her, laughing. “I am so.”

  They went into the Cosy Cot. It was a long, panelled hall completely filled with small tables and thronged with people eating inexpensive food and drinking beer. Most of the men were in uniform, sailors and soldiers and airmen; Chambers was the only officer to be seen. There was a clamour of conversation and a haze of smoke: it was the non-commissioned counterpart of the snack-bar of the Royal Clarence Hotel.

  They found a table with some difficulty and ordered a steak and chips for Jerry and a fish and chips for Mona, with beer and cider respectively. It came presently, poorly cooked, but Chambers fell upon it ravenously.

  The girl watched him in bewilderment as he ate. What he had told her was that he had sunk the submarine, and it had been an accident. She did not know exactly what he did, or what his duties were. But in her short life she had met many men; she knew men far better than girls of a more exalted social class. She knew and could distinguish good men from bad men, silly men from flippant men, competent men who would get on from the charming inefficient ones. She could have put nothing of this into words, but she knew well enough. It was extraordinary to her that Jerry should have made that sort of mistake. In the terms that she had gleaned from the movies, it didn’t make sense.

  Twenty minutes later they were sitting very close together over cups of coffee, smoking cigarettes. Not far away from them a radio-gramophone was churning out a long sequence of records that made private conversation possible even in that crowded room—

  South of the Border,

  I rode back one day …

  There in a veil of white by candlelight

  She knelt to pray …

  The Mission bells told me

  That I mustn’t stay

  South of the Border,

  Down Mexico way …

  She said: “Jerry, what happened?”

  He turned to her. “I sunk it with bombs,” he said. The strained, haggard look that had left him for a little while came back as he spoke. “I thought it was a German one. And later they found out it wasn’t. It was one of ours.”

  “How awful! Didn’t it have any marks on it to tell the difference?”

  He said: “I’m quite sure it hadn’t—I’m sure of that still. But I suppose it must have had. You see, they got clothes out of it.”

  “Clothes, Jerry?”

  “Yes, and a couple of packets of Players’.” And then, in a flood, the story all came out. For the first time somebody heard the whole story, unrestrained and unedited in the pilot’s mind, told without fear or thought of consequences. The girl listened without interrupting very much, trying to understand the work he had to do. She was unused to mental concentration. Other people had always done her thinking for her. Here she felt instinctively, with all her being, was something she must try to understand if she was to help him, and she wanted most terribly to help him. She bent all her energies to the task of understanding.

  Presently she said: “Where did it happen, Jerry? Was it by Departure Point?”

  He stared at her. “No—it was much more towards the island. What made you think that?”

  “There was some officers talking tonight. They thought it was there.”

  “Well, it wasn’t.” He hesitated. “Did they know who sunk it?”

  “They knew it was an aeroplane what did it. I don’t think anyone knew it was you.”

  He said bitterly: “They’ll all know about it before very long.”

  There was a silence.

  She said timidly: “They couldn’t do anything to you for that, though, could they? I mean, it was an accident.”

  He smiled a little. “I won’t be able to stay on here, after this. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to stay in the Air Force after the war’s over.”

  “Oh …” She said: “Will they send you away?”

  He nodded. “I got it in before they did. I asked to be transferred away from here to some other job.” He turned to her, miserable. “That’s why I wanted to see you tonight, Mona. I’m going away.”

  She looked up at him, bitterly disappointed. “When are you going?”

  “Very soon—as soon as the Court of Enquiry is over. It’ll close tomorrow. I expect I’ll be going the day after that.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’m going to the Bomber Command. Either to France or somewhere in the north of England.”

  “You won’t be round Portsmouth any more?”

  He shook his head. “Not for some time. It’s better to get away and make a new start somewhere else.”

  She said: “I suppose it is.”

  He turned to her. “It’s been fun going out together,” he said quietly, “and dancing. But for that I should be glad to get away.”

  She said: “I’ve loved going out with you.” Tears welled into her eyes, but it would be absurd to cry.

  He said awkwardly: “You know I told you I was making a galleon?”

  She nodded.

  “Would you like to have it?”

  “I’d like it ever so, Jerry.”

  Desperately he sheered away from sentiment. “I mean, it’s rather an awkward thing to take in the car because it’s so delicate, you see. And I thought you might like to have it.”

  She said: “It’s terribly nice of you to think.”

  He said: “I’ll bring it to your house tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

  For a time they sat disconsolate over the litter of their meal, not talking very much, depressed by rather mournful dance tunes from the radio-gramophone, all about thwarted love. Presently he paid the bill and took her home.

  In the black street outside the furniture shop the car stopped for a few minutes; then she got out and went indoors, and went up quickly to her room. It was silly to be crying. He was a nice boy, terribly nice, but she hadn’t known him long. Not nearly long enough to cry about him just because he was in trouble, and because he was going away.

  Chambers drove back to the aerodrome, tired and resentful. He had passed the stage of being appalled at the loss of Caranx. He was still positive that the submarine carried no markings, but, marked or not, she had been out of position. In an impersonal way he was sorry for the people in her, but he was beginning to be sorrier for himself. He felt that he had not been careless, that he had done his job as well as anybody could. He felt that the Navy were making a scapegoat of him for their own ends. A great deal of criticism had been given to his own efficiency, but very little had been said of the undoubted fact that Caranx was in the wrong place.

  He felt that he was being used unjustly as a pawn in a political intrigue, that he was being disgraced and made to change his squadron without proper cause. In normal times the change would not have worried him at all, but leaving Mona hurt most damnably. Desperately seek
ing to comfort himself, he reflected that in time he might feel that he was well out of it. She wasn’t his sort, really. He was getting dangerously fond of her. He felt at home with her: that he could talk to her freely and she would understand.

  To hell with everything! If he had to go, let it be quick. If the Navy had to blacken his career, let them get it over and done with, and then let him get away.

  He drove into the yard, parked the car, and walked in the glow of the rabbit lamp to the back door of the mess. Up in his room he turned on his wireless to America and got a peculiar religious service, in which the Glory of God and the merits of Bergson’s Baking Powder were given equal prominence. It brought him comfort by diverting his mind to a trail of wonder, and in time he slept.

  Next day the Court of Enquiry sat in private, hearing no more witnesses. At the end of a couple of hours their findings were committed to typescript and sent by special messenger to the Admiralty, who in due course approved them. The findings were:

  That H.M.S. Caranx was sunk with all hands at 1541 on December 3rd, 1939, by the action of an Anson aircraft under the command of Flying-Officer R. Chambers, R.A.F.

  That the captain of the submarine was to blame for having departed from his time schedule without notification.

  That sufficient care had not been exercised by Flying-Officer Chambers in identifying the submarine before attack.

  That no useful purpose would be served by attempting salvage operations before the conclusion of hostilities.

  Captain Burnaby came out of the court-room and walked with Rutherford across the grassy quadrangle of the submarine depot to the commander’s office. Rutherford said heavily: “Well, that’s the end of that.” He must get those letters written now, and then it would be over.

  Burnaby said: “There’s one more thing. The Admiral wants us to draft the terms of the announcement for the Press Department.”

  The commander made a gesture of distaste. “All right, let’s get that over now.”

  They went into his bare little office. He took a signal pad and a pencil from the desk. “How shall we put it?”

  Captain Burnaby drew his brows together in a frown. “An accidental explosion, I should think.”