were no specks or flaws in the top face and there was not a suspicion of damp mist in the glass. The ranging mechanism moved like silk. Dagwood swung the periscope, expecting the tell-tale shudder of an imperfect bearing, but the instrument slid round without a tremor.
‘It seems in very good nick, sir,’ he said.
‘It’s as good as the day it was made. You can say what you like about Jerry but his glassware is still the best in the world. Always has been. I’ve always believed that the Germans made the best periscopes in the world. I also think they made the best submariners too, though I suppose I shouldn’t say that. It must be something in their national temperament. Scratch a German and you find a submariner. Even their language suits submarines perfectly. I remember meeting Max Horton just after the war. It was the last time I saw him. He told me he’d just come back from Londonderry where some of the captured U-boats were lying. He told me about the German submarine crews. He said they were sullen, they were scruffy and smelly. He said they were the bolshiest-looking lot of ruffians he had ever seen and some of them had hair as long as a girl’s but . . .’ - the Admiral shook an emphatic finger at Dagwood - . . this is the point. They didn’t carry themselves like beaten men! They were all ready to carry on the war with the Russians! Remember, this was at a time when the U-boat Command had lost seven hundred boats out of a total of eleven hundred and half their officers and men were pressed men from the Luftwaffe! It hardly bears thinking about, Jones.’
‘No, sir,’ said Dagwood, seriously.
The Admiral leaned forward to emphasise another point. ‘I was telling our local Member the other night, the stupid little man doesn’t believe me, I said you will never stop the Germans messing about with submarines. You might as well try and stop the people of this country playing cricket. If you stop them building real ones they’ll build model ones. And if you take your eye off him for a moment Jerry will have a first-class, fully-trained U-boat fleet again before you can say Jack Robinson. That’s why I’m not worried about a Russian fleet of so many hundred submarines. There’s more to a submarine fleet than building submarines. The history of Russian submarines has been one long disaster. But if those submarines are designed by Germans and if their crews are German-trained and have a sprinkling of Germans amongst ‘em, then I’m ready to listen . . .’
‘Would you like lunch now?’ Patricia asked.
‘Take your glass in with you, Jones,’ said the Admiral.
They moved next door to the dining-room. Dagwood was struck by the room’s size. The table could have seated twenty people, but only three places were laid. The Admiral sat at the head of the table with Dagwood and Patricia on either side of him.
‘We don’t do much entertaining since my wife died,’ the Admiral explained.
The long shining plane of polished table, the tiny patch of silver, cutlery and glass at one end, the portraits along the walls, the high oak sideboard with its knobs and ornamentally- carved drawers, all reminded Dagwood vividly of nights when he had dined in large wardrooms where most of the members lived ashore and only the duty officers dined in. There was the same sense of continuity, the sense that the figures seated at table were the tangible representatives of a far greater company, invisible, yet whose spirits still permeated the room.
Without any warning, the Admiral bent his head and said grace. ‘No padre, thank God,’ he barked.
Patricia served them with vegetable soup. The Admiral shook his napkin from its folds and swept it across his lap. Dagwood followed suit although, he admitted to himself, with far less panache.
‘Help yourself to sherry, Jones,’ said the Admiral hospitably.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The Admiral crushed a piece of toast with his fist. ‘How’s our nuclear programme coming
‘It seems in very good nick, sir,’ he said.
‘It’s as good as the day it was made. You can say what you like about Jerry but his glassware is still the best in the world. Always has been. I’ve always believed that the Germans made the best periscopes in the world. I also think they made the best submariners too, though I suppose I shouldn’t say that. It must be something in their national temperament. Scratch a German and you find a submariner. Even their language suits submarines perfectly. I remember meeting Max Horton just after the war. It was the last time I saw him. He told me he’d just come back from Londonderry where some of the captured U-boats were lying. He told me about the German submarine crews. He said they were sullen, they were scruffy and smelly. He said they were the bolshiest-looking lot of ruffians he had ever seen and some of them had hair as long as a girl’s but . . .’ - the Admiral shook an emphatic finger at Dagwood - . . this is the point. They didn’t carry themselves like beaten men! They were all ready to carry on the war with the Russians! Remember, this was at a time when the U-boat Command had lost seven hundred boats out of a total of eleven hundred and half their officers and men were pressed men from the Luftwaffe! It hardly bears thinking about, Jones.’
‘No, sir,’ said Dagwood, seriously.
The Admiral leaned forward to emphasise another point. ‘I was telling our local Member the other night, the stupid little man doesn’t believe me, I said you will never stop the Germans messing about with submarines. You might as well try and stop the people of this country playing cricket. If you stop them building real ones they’ll build model ones. And if you take your eye off him for a moment Jerry will have a first-class, fully-trained U-boat fleet again before you can say Jack Robinson. That’s why I’m not worried about a Russian fleet of so many hundred submarines. There’s more to a submarine fleet than building submarines. The history of Russian submarines has been one long disaster. But if those submarines are designed by Germans and if their crews are German-trained and have a sprinkling of Germans amongst ‘em, then I’m ready to listen . . .’
‘Would you like lunch now?’ Patricia asked.
‘Take your glass in with you, Jones,’ said the Admiral.
They moved next door to the dining-room. Dagwood was struck by the room’s size. The table could have seated twenty people, but only three places were laid. The Admiral sat at the head of the table with Dagwood and Patricia on either side of him.
‘We don’t do much entertaining since my wife died,’ the Admiral explained.
The long shining plane of polished table, the tiny patch of silver, cutlery and glass at one end, the portraits along the walls, the high oak sideboard with its knobs and ornamentally- carved drawers, all reminded Dagwood vividly of nights when he had dined in large wardrooms where most of the members lived ashore and only the duty officers dined in. There was the same sense of continuity, the sense that the figures seated at table were the tangible representatives of a far greater company, invisible, yet whose spirits still permeated the room.
Without any warning, the Admiral bent his head and said grace. ‘No padre, thank God,’ he barked.
Patricia served them with vegetable soup. The Admiral shook his napkin from its folds and swept it across his lap. Dagwood followed suit although, he admitted to himself, with far less panache.
‘Help yourself to sherry, Jones,’ said the Admiral hospitably.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The Admiral crushed a piece of toast with his fist. ‘How’s our nuclear programme coming
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