He did not know to this day if his family were glad he had joined the Navy. They could do with the extra space he had left behind, but in some strange way seemed to resent his efforts to break away from the dreary surroundings which were their lot. When he had gone home with the new goid-wire tally on his cap, H.M. Submarines, for all to see, his mother had said flatly, ‘Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing.’ His father, on strike from the bus depot, had remarked, ‘Dead cushy from what it was in my day!’

  Lightfoot had not understood this hostility. He wanted them to be pleased. To wish him luck. It was strange how the ties of family seemed to hold him still, in spite of the distance.

  Bruce, or Porky as he was called because of his capacity to hold his beer, had come into his life during one of those rare fits of depression which occurred each time he saw the men reading their letters from home. There was never a letter from Battersea. Just a card at Christmas and one for his birthday. Yet Lightfoot dutifully posted a regular allowance to his mother and waited for recognition. Bruce had said on that first afternoon, ‘Wot’s eatin’ you then?’ He was hard-faced, with the belligerent look of a fighter. His Liverpool accent was as sharp as his eye, but he seemed genuinely interested in Light-foot’s problems.

  Then he had said, ‘Forget it, kid! I told my folks to get stuffed when I was thirteen I’ He had shown his strong, uneven teeth. ‘Jesus, the old man nearly threw a fit I’ He had squatted on the bunk, his eyes dreamy, ‘This regiment’s a pushover if you keep out of trouble aboard ship. Then, once ashore, you do what the bloody hell you like! You come on a run ashore with me, kid. I’ll show you!’

  And he had, too. Lightfoot had got drunk for the first time, but true to his word, Porky Bruce had shepherded him back to the Temei aire and safely past the cold eye of the duty petty officer. He had undressed him and cleaned the vomit from his shoes with the calm indifference of an old campaigner.

  They made a strange pair. Lightfoot, wide-eyed and desperately keen to prove himself; Bruce, brash and casual, with the hard-won knowledge of the lower deck to carry him through. Bruce seemed to have two faces. He worked on the sonar with Lightfoot and was extremely competent. Yet he made his skill appear like insolence, his brisk familiarity with his instruments seemed as if he was cocking a snook at bis immediate superiors.

  He had educated Lightfoot in his trade, and in the same manner had looked after him ashore. He had even laid low a marine outside a pub just to show his youthful companion how easy it was.

  Only once on board the Temeraire had he shown the latent force to his mess mates. A seaman had jokingly remarked about Lightfoot’s constant shoregoing habits with his unlikely friend, Bruce had seized the man and had shaken him gently like a rat, his face only inches away, ‘Me an’ the kid is oppos, see?’ Shake. Shake. ‘When I want your friggin’ advice I’ll ask for it, see?’ Another shake. ‘Any more squit from you an’ I’ll mark you for life!’

  And that was that.

  Then had come the night when things had changed. They had been together in a small pub outside Faslane. A dull place, full of sailors who were drinking because there seemed nothing else to do. Somehow or other they had got into conversation with a middle-aged civilian who told them he was a salesman. He had offered to drive them to his hotel where he had some bottles of better stuff than they were getting in the pub.

  Several drinks later they had gone out to the man’s car, and with a roar of noise had started down the open road away from the town. After a while Bruce had said thickly, ‘Must get out. I’m burstin’!’

  Lightfoot could remember every moment which followed. The car’s sudden acceleration, a momentary glimpse of Bruce’s startled face in the swinging headlights as he stood swaying at the side of the road.

  Lightfoot had not grown up in the slums without learning that such men existed. In fact, when he was only ten his best friend had been picked up by some man and taken behind the hoardings off the Falcon Road.

  Lightfoot remembered the man’s hot, frantic hand, the noise of the engine and the weird moonscape within the powerful headlights. He had wriggled on the swaying seat, struggling first with anger then with fear as the car drove faster and faster in time with the man’s voice.

  It had only taken a few seconds, yet it had lasted a lifetime. When Bruce had come panting along the road he had found the car against a tree and Lightfoot standing motionless beside it.

  The man lay a few feet away, his skull crushed against a piece of stone. In the headlights’ reflected glare they could see the blood shining on the grass, the pebble-like stare in the man’s dead eyes.

  ’I killed him!’ Lightfoot had listened to his own voice like a stranger. ‘He tried to …’ He had staggered vomiting against the car. ‘I pushed him hard and his door opened.’

  The headlights had died at that instant and he remembered Bruce saying harshly, ‘Serve the bastard right!’ The next piece of the pattern was harder to remember.

  Bruce stumbling in the darkness, making sure that they had left nothing in the car. Then the pair of them running like hunted animals beside the road, and ducking as an occasional car drove past. As they had reached the outskirts of the town a police car and ambulance had swept down the same road, sirens wailing and lights flashing.

  They had returned to the submarine and climbed into their bunks. Bruce had merely paused to say in a fierce whisper, ‘Take my word on it! The scuffers will never connect us with it!’ That was all he seemed to care about it.

  Looking back it was hard to understand what he had really hoped to gain by the sabotage. When the Temeraire had returned from her last batch of trials Lightfoot had waited for the police to board the boat and take him away. Nothing had happened at all. Everything seemed to be dwarfed by the news that the boat was sailing immediately for the Far East.

  Lightfoot knew he would be unable to stand the waiting any longer. He had to delay the departure so that he could make his way to London and explain to his family before they heard the story from someone else.

  Again he felt the tears welling up behind his eyes. He had even made a mess of that. He had dodged the trot sentry and found his way aft unseen. He had been at work with a hacksaw when Bruce had appeared at his side.

  ‘ ’Ere! Cut that out, you young twit!’ He had spoken in a grating whisper. ‘I saw you was missin’ an’ I guessed what you might try!’ He had seized his wrist in a vice-like grip. Гт in this too, remember 1 I told you before, the scuffers’JI never latch on to us. An’ anyway that bloody queer deserved what he got!’ Briskly he had smeared paint across the half-cut wires. ‘Now git forrard an’ for Chrissake take a grip on yourself!’

  The worst of it was, Bruce really did not care about it. He was up there in the film show hooting his head off as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Every time there was a pipe over the intercom or a petty officer called his name Lightfoot nearly fainted. He felt trapped and alone, with no one who could help but Bruce.

  The leading hand of the mess, a tall Devonian named Haley, sauntered past the bunk. ‘You okay, youngster?’ He peered in at him. ‘You look two-blocks to me!’

  Lightfoot bit his lip. ‘I’m all right, Hookey. Something I ate, I expect.’

  Haley nodded sagely. ‘That bloody Porky been feedin’ you some of his rum again?’ He grinned and walked over to join the others.

  Lightfoot remained staring at the bunk above. He had to get a grip on himself. Had to.

  The intercom broke into the music. ‘D’you hear there! Ordinary Seaman Lightfoot muster outside the wardroom!’

  Lightfoot shut his eyes and felt the nausea closing over him.

  *  *  *

  Colquhoun looked up from his thoughts as he heard the quiet knock on the wardroom door. ‘Come in.’

  Lightfoot paused uncertainly in the entrance, his cap held awkwardly in his hands, his eyes flickering around the deserted wardroom like, Colquhoun thought, a trapped animal.

  ‘You sent for me, sir?’ Lightfoot’s voice was husky.

  Colquhoun stared at him. Usually he saw the young seaman as a hunched figure over the sonar controls or another familiar face moving through the boat on some mission or other. Tonight he looked strange and quite different. His hair was dishevelled, as if he had just got out of bed, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

  ‘Just wanted a quiet word, Lightfoot.’

  The young seaman waited, the well-lit wardroom spinning around him like some maddened whirlpool. Only the seated officer remained unmoving and still, like an inquisitor.

  ‘I was a bit worried about the drill this morning.’

  Lightfoot waited for Colquhoun to continue. Any second now. The accusation, the beginning of the end.

  Colquhoun stood up. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ He saw the boy swallow hard. ‘You look like death.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’ Lightfoot tried to bring the moisture back to his dry lips. ‘Just a bit tired.’

  ‘I’m sorry I dragged you up here then. It was just to say that we’re having another drill tomorrow, and I thought it best to go over what went wrong this morning.’

  ‘Is that all, sir?’ Lightfoot stared at him as if mesmerised.

  Colquhoun gave a small smile. He could remember the angry confusion and then Wolfe’s ‘They don’t respect softness!’ ‘Some people take the view that it’s quite important. I just wanted to make sure that nothing goes wrong in our section again.’ He brushed his fair hair from his eyes. ‘It makes for a quieter life that way!’

  Lightfoot held himself upright with physical effort. He was safe for a while longer. In fact, the young sub-lieutenant was trying to be friendly. It did not seem possible. He managed to reply, ‘It was my fault, sir. I slipped up. The valve casing was loose and the vibration was getting on my nerves.’ He faltered, looking for the right words. ‘I’m sorry if I fouled up the exercise.’

  He looked so miserable that Colquhoun felt vaguely sorry for him. As soon as he had ordered a messenger to pipe for Lightfoot he had relented. He was not even sure of the real reason. He saw the boy’s eyes wandering about him as if marking the differences between his own way of life and those of Colquhoun.

  ‘Have you settled down all right?’

  Lightfoot nodded. ‘I like it very much, sir. It’s a bit different from what I’m used to.’

  Colquhoun knew something of his background and said, ‘Well, I expect even Battersea will seem good enough when you get back from this cruise!’

  Lightfoot’s chin lifted slightly. ‘I didn’t mean my home, sir. I was talking about leaving general service and coming to submarines!’

  God, you bloody fool! Colquhoun felt a flush rising to his cheeks. He wanted so much to feel at home with these men, to understand them. If he had to be in the Navy he did not want to be just another officer, like so many he had met.

  He said hurriedly, ‘You must think I’m an idiot! I didn’t mean to sound like that.’

  Lightfoot studied him gravely. ‘You don’t have to worry, sir. I’m used to it.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, you’re an officer.’

  Colquhoun laughed in spite of his embarrassment. ‘Well, I suppose that means something!’

  There was an awkward silence. Then Colquhoun said, ‘When we get to Singapore I expect there’ll be a good deal of sport going on.’ He made up his mind. ‘Do you like sailing?’

  It was Lightfoot’s turn to smile. ‘Never had much chance, sir. The Thames is pretty crowded off Nine Elms!’

  ‘I asked for that.’ Colquhoun tried to picture the seaman in the dismal surroundings which still seemed to haunt him. ‘I’d be glad to have you in my dinghy crew if you like. Are you interested?’

  Lightfoot thought briefly of Bruce and what he would say. Bloody officers! They’re all bastards! Then he said quickly, ‘Thanks. I’d like to have a go very much, sir!’

  He looked closely at Colquhoun’s pale face. It was difficult to spot where the difference lay. Perhaps in his easy, assured manner as much as in his accent. He thought that Colquhoun was not terribly good at his job, but then junior officers never seemed to be, anywhere. But he was different from the others. Not so sharp, not so quick with a reprimand when one was required and earned. He had heard Bruce say of him, ‘ ’E’s as soft as ’addock-water! ’E wouldn’t be where ’e was if ’is old man wasn’t a bleedin’ admiral!’

  Lightfoot felt a nerve jump in his cheek as Colquhoun said casually, ‘Let’s hope we don’t have any more wilful damage at Singapore. That might put the lid on everything!’

  He shifted uneasily. ‘This chap, sir. I—I mean, this one who did the damage.’ He forced himself to meet Colquhoun’s gaze. ‘Do you reckon they’ll find him?’

  Colquhoun heard a buzz of noise through the door. The film must be ending. He glanced at his watch. ‘Probably. We’ll just have to keep our eyes open, won’t we?’

  ‘What would make a man do it, sir? Maybe he had a reason.’

  Colquhoun watched him evenly. ‘But no valid excuse, I expect.’

  Lightfoot stepped back as Lieutenant Drew sauntered through the door and then said, ‘Well, I’ll check the gear tomorrow morning, sir. Before the drills start.’

  Drew raised an eyebrow as the young seaman hurried away. ‘One of your friends, Sub?’ He grinned. ‘Or are you just instilling a bit of discipline?’

  Colquhoun did not reply. He was still staring at the open door, the picture of Lightfoot’s face etched in his mind like a photograph. My God, he thought suddenly. It was Lightfoot! His guilt had been as naked on his face as if he had openly admitted to the sabotage attempt.

  Colquhoun sat quite still, dazed with the shock of his unexpected knowledge.

  *  *  *

  The following morning, as soon as breakfast had been completed and the boat cleaned for another day, the drills started all over again.

  Precisely at 0930 Jermain entered the control room and consulted the log. Then to Mayo, the O.O.W., he said, ‘Bring her up to periscope depth, Pilot. It’s time to take a look around.’

  Jermain half-listened to the brisk pattern of commands behind him. Everything seemed to be running smoothly this time, he thought. And the sonar department had reported another ship some five miles away on the port bow. She would make a good mock target for the torpedo crew, something stronger than a figment of the imagination.

  ‘Sixty feet, sir!’

  ‘Very good. Up periscope.’ He crouched down, his eye screwed against the slim monocular attack periscope. He blinked as a shaft of blinding sunlight lanced through the lens and then swung the handles towards the reported bearing.

  There she was. A low-lying freighter with a long trail of greasy smoke hanging in her wake like a banner. She looked at peace with the world, no doubt making for Sierra Leone, he decided.

  He turned the periscope through a full circle. The sea was flat and empty, a moving pattern of blue silk, glittering in a thousand hues in the reflected sunlight. He settled again on the lonely merchantman.

  ‘Down periscope. Exercise Action Stations!’ The alarm shrilled momentarily in the boat’s still air, and he watched the dock as men hurried quietly to their positions.

  ‘Steer one four zero. Reduce speed to twelve knots!’

  Wolfe picked up his notebook and stood by his side, his eyes expressionless as he watched the coxswain easing the wheel over.

  Jermain said, ‘We’ll attack with two tubes, and then run deep as if she had a destroyer escort, Number One.’ He broke off as the reports began to come in.

  ‘Target is bearing Red four five. Range ten thousand yards. Approximate course and speed zero five zero, six knots.’

  Wolfe said sharply, ‘I’d like to have a word with you after the drill, sir.’

  Jermain broke into his train of thoughts and stared at him. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Young Colquhoun, sir. I think he’s slack. I’ll have to bear down on him for a while!’

  Jermain felt a twinge of irritation but replied evenly, ‘Has he done something stupid?’

  Wolfe frowned. ‘It’s his whole attitude. Last night I saw him chatting to one of the men in the wardroom. I think he did it to spite me. I’d already told him not to try and curry favour with the men under him. But he’s too damn clever for his own good!’

  The petty officer at the plot said, ‘Target holding course and speed, sir.’

  Jermain snapped, ‘Start the attack!’ Then quietly to Wolfe, ‘For God’s sake, Ian, you can cope with that surely?’

  ‘Well, I’m new aboard here. I thought it might come better from you!’

  Mayo called, ‘Ready, sir!’ He was watching Wolfe’s face with considerable interest.

  ‘Up periscope!’ Jermain tried to shut out Wolfe’s set features and forget the ominous tension in his voice. He had sounded as if the matter was really important, not merely an everyday problem. Perhaps he was not yet ready for sea service again? Maybe the admiral had been trying to tell him just that when he had changed the orders.

  The old freighter swam across the cross-wires and settled as if caught in a mesh.

  ‘Stand by One and Two tubes!’ He glanced quickly at a messenger. ‘Check with’the T.A.S. officer and tell him I want a complete timing of the attack. Down periscope!’

  He expected to see that Wolfe had returned to his duties, but instead he stood facing him as stubbornly as before.

  Jermain said evenly, ‘Look, why not forget about it for a day or two? We’ve another three weeks yet before Singapore. You don’t want to be too hard on a man, or an officer, until you’ve had time to test his metal!’