Submarine

In the circle of his binoculars he could see her better now, the black outline of her casing showing when she turned at the buoy. The after edge of her fin, sticking up like a matchbox on end, was slightly raked, and he could make out her periscopes and masts. Her square fore-planes were turned in and stuck upwards like the dorsal fins of a fish. Her fine lines were spoilt by the ugly bulb on her bows — presumably her sonar. A light, tinged red in this dawn mist, was blinking from her bridge: that was her, flashing her identification now that wartime radio restrictions were in force. The coastguard picked up his lamp and, moving outside to the small parapet, flashed back his acknowledgement. He returned to the warmth of the room and picked up the telephone.

'That you, pilot? Yes, Hilpsford Point coastguard here: Orcus is off the channel buoy..'

Ten minutes later the submarine was sliding up the channel, with only her wake ruffling the surface as she proceeded on her electric motors. Sinister, mysterious lone wolves, submarines always produced a tingle at the back of his neck when they appeared out of the mist, silently like thieves in the night. Submariners were a special breed, he knew that: not only because his father had served in 'the Trade' but also because these submarines and their men were part of Barrow-in-Furness. Vickers had been building submersibles for the Navy since the beginning of the century, from the tiny Holland boats to the huge nukes which were the capital ships of today's fleet. The coastguard officer returned outside to his parapet and waved back at the figures on Orcus' bridge. She must be in from patrol: patches of paint had flaked from her fin and there was a jagged gash in her after casing. Her White Ensign flapped lazily from a wartime staff erected on the fin; her sailors were breaking rank to man their wires. The poor sods, the coastguard thought. The Navy and the RAF were bearing the brunt of this bloody war. Up here, many of the Barrow girls had married sailors. But the public knew little about the struggle taking place out there in the Atlantic: the climate would change, he reckoned, when the appalling casualty figures were released. He gave his final wave. Orcus was end-on now and would be docking within the hour.

'Thanks, sir, for fixing everything,' said Lieutenant-Commander Julian Farge, as he banged shut the carriage door. 'I'm unused to travelling first-class sleeper.'

The ageing commander peered up from the platform of Lancaster station. 'I'll do all I can for you,' the Resident Naval Officer for Barrow said. 'Make the most of your leave.' He returned Farge's salute and strode towards the ticket barrier.

Farge extracted his pyjamas and sponge-bag from his pusser's grip which he then slung up to the rack above his bunk. He had had enough today and his Northwood visit tomorrow could be a drawn-out affair: the sooner he got his head down, the better.

The face peering back at him from the mirror of the toilet cabinet did not really reflect the exhaustion he felt, though there were grey half-moons beneath his tired, dark eyes and the lines at the corners of his mouth were more accentuated than usual. He always needed a shave at the end of the day, and his thinning black hair and the fuzz at the sides needed cutting. He did not like what he saw: he was twenty-nine and already beginning to look older than his years, beginning to show the pinched, anxious look of an officer reaching the end of the zone — not many more chances before being passed over for commander, when he'd have to join the shore brigade.

Tomorrow, if he could get away from Northwood, he might be able to reach home in time for dinner. He could do with Exmoor air on his week's leave: his hollow cheeks were pale, his scraggy frame needed filling, and his father usually managed to organize a meal, provided he was given warning. Farge dried himself and crawled between the sheets, the first clean linen he had known for weeks. He lay on his back, arms crossed beneath his head, going over for the hundredth time the events of the last fourteen days.