Free Go In and Sink! by Douglas Reeman Page A

the intercom. The Kiel dockyard workers had done a good job. Right at that moment there was a total weight impinging the pressure hull of some 80,000 tons, the displacement of the
Queen Mary
.
    But it had not settled anything. Everyone had to trust him and the boat. Know that together they could survive. Also he had needed to fracture that barrier between his two lieutenants as they eyed each other like strangers.
    He had snapped, ‘Three hundred and eighty feet, Number One.’
    Gerrard had nodded jerkily. ‘Very good, sir.’
    More groans, and a few flakes of paint which had drifted down like snow as the hull had taken the strain. As she levelled off Marshall had made another comparison. The surface was now the height of St. Paul’s Cathedral above their heads. Nothing happened, and when Frenzel had ducked through the after bulkhead he was quite satisfied with both hull and machinery.
    Marshall had said to the control room at large, ‘Now we all know.’
    But if it had given the company more confidence, it had done little to ease the tension between Gerrard and the navigator.
    Churchill opened the door and stepped gingerly into the cabin.
    ‘’Mornin’, sir.’ He placed a cup of coffee beside the bunk. ‘You want to shave today?’
    Marshall sighed and stretched his limbs. Encased in heavy jersey and stained sea-boots, he would have given anything for a hot bath, a shave and a change of clothes. But outward-bound it was too wasteful.
    ‘Just coffee. How are things?’
    Churchill rubbed his chin, ‘All quiet, sir. Nice’n steady. Twenty metres when I come through the control room. Let’s see now, ’ow much is that in
feet
?’
    Marshall grinned. ‘Sixty-five. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
    Churchill moved away. ‘Why can’t the bloody Jerries use civilised measurements like wot we does?’
    Marshall let the coffee explore his stomach. That at least was better than the previous owners had had, he thought.
    ‘Captain in the control room!’
    He was off the bunk and running the short length of passageway before the cup had rolled across the cabin floor.
    Buck was officer of the watch, his pointed features anxious as he said, ‘The hydroplane operator reported propeller noises at Green four-five sir. Very faint. Lost it almost immediately.’
    Marshall brushed past him and leaned over the operator who was crouching in his little compartment like a man at prayer. He tapped him gently on the shoulder.
    ‘What d’you think, Speke?’
    The leading seaman leaned back and moved one ear-phone aside.
    ‘I’m not sure, sir. It was just a blur. Thought it was a shoal of fish for a minute.’
    Marshall looked at Buck. ‘Sound the klaxon.’ He saw the lietuenant’s eyes sharpen. ‘Jump about!’
    The scream of the klaxon brought the off-watch men charging to their stations. Gerrard, paler than ever, arrived panting in the control room, his thin body bowed below the overhead pipes and valves.
    ‘All closed up at diving stations, sir,’ Starkie sat loosely in his steel chair, his fingers easing the brass spokes of the wheel, giving no sign that he had been fast asleep thirty seconds earlier.
    Marshall looked at his watch. It would be daylight of a sort.
    ‘Stop the fans. Absolute silence throughout the boat!’
    Gerrard asked quietly, ‘What do you think, sir?’
    He shook his head. ‘Could be mistaken. But we’ll take a look.’
    Gerrard nodded. ‘Periscope depth.’
    Marshall crouched beside the periscope, listening as the compressed air pounded steadily into the saddle tanks.
Easy. Don’t take her up too fast
.
    He snapped, ‘Raise the periscope.’ He held out one hand. ‘
Slowly!
’
    He crouched right down, almost on his knees, flipping open the twin handles as the periscope slid gently from the well. It felt warm, as indeed it was, to prevent the lenses from misting over.
    ‘Easy!’
    He saw the glimmer of grey through the lens, the froth of bubbles as it cut above the surface.
    ‘Periscope