Author’s notes:
This was inspired by a Reddit thread about the tradition of missing submarines being listed as ‘Still on Patrol’ or ‘Eternally on Patrol’ and a special radio message sent out at Christmas to those still on patrol.
Grey stood in one of the observation tubes projecting out from the control centre, staring out into the darkness. They were over the Pacific Ocean; the night was clear and far below he could make out the pinpricks of light that indicated the major cities of New Zealand. It was Christmas and he and Green were taking their turn on a shortened duty shift, as was everyone else, to let people circulate through the special Christmas dinner that had been laid on.
At the communications desk, Lieutenant Green checked the time and flipped a switch to the old analog radio setting, hardly used these days. A friendly male voice filled the room as he wished a Merry Christmas to the World Aquanaut Sea Patrol, the Navy units of individual countries, and wished a special Merry Christmas to those ‘still on patrol’. As the announcer began to reel off a long list of ship names, Grey cast his mind back to when he and his plucky little craft had almost joined that list.
It was an old mariner’s tradition.
Specifically, an old submariner’s tradition.
Aircraft, ships and spacecraft were either listed in service, retired from service, missing in action or destroyed in action.
But not submarines.
Those craft that failed to resurface and were never found, left in the deep with their fates unknown, were never missing in action. They were considered ‘still on patrol’ and listed as such. Initially an American tradition, it had been adopted around the world and every year at Christmas, a special radio message on equipment maintained just for this purpose – transmitting on a frequency the more ancient submarines could receive – would go out to those craft ‘still on patrol’ in the stygian waters of the deep sea.
Mariner’s lore told of the old days when ships would regularly vanish at sea; that same lore pointed out how, since the days of the first submarines, the number of missing ships slowly decreased.
Most people chalked it up to better ship building, radar, GPS navigation systems, weather forecasting and radios.
But submariners knew the truth.
Whispered in the racks, the stories and traditions passed down from the old hands to the new, told that if a submarine went missing it joined The Fleet that eternally patrolled under the sea. Not yet released from duty, they stepped in where they could, to save others on or under the waves. Their patrol only ceased when someone found their shattered hulk and they were removed from the roster of those still on patrol, or the last of their ship finally surrendered to the deep.
Old salts would tell of a tap on the shoulder that made them look and spot a hazard just in time, a falling crate that should have hit someone but moved mid-fall, a sudden shove out of danger, or a shout of warning when no-one else was there. People scoffed until they felt that spectral hand on their shoulder for themselves. Then they knew it was true.
Grey knew.
He’d seen them.
He’d almost joined them.
It had been when his accident happened, the one that would have had him permanently driving a desk until Spectrum recruited him.
He and his radar operator, Mike, had been putting the latest Stingray through her paces in a final set of sea trials. Then, without warning, the steering failed, followed by the ballast control and most of the electrical grid. He yanked the handle for the disaster beacon, but the cable snarled on something. They nosedived right into a seamount, the hull split and water gushed in.
Grey could still remember the crack his back had made when he tumbled and slammed into the corner of a plinth, and the dull thud of Mike’s head smacking into the sonar control board. In his nightmares, he could still hear the gurgling noises as Mike, unconscious and unaware, drowned in the rising water.
In some ways, Grey was glad he’d not seen it, but he always felt crushingly guilty for that thought.
It was while he was sprawled on the deck with numbed legs, half-propped up against the plinth with the red emergency lights pulsing around him and the frigid water lapping at his chest, that he’d seen the ghostly silhouette of another submarine on the radar screen. It faded into view, a slim shape that he later looked up in a book and could swear matched a Soviet Union-era Alfa attack sub. He heard the pings of active sonar lashing the hull as it homed in on them. Their radio crackled into life and a man announced, in a heavily accented voice, “Do not fear, tovarich, The Fleet are here…”
More pings of active sonar filled his ears as the radar screen started registering more contacts.
Then a miracle happened – the ballast control and pump board suddenly hummed into life just above his head.
He reached up, groping for the switches… and the sturdy little Stingray shuddered as he activated the emergency ballast blow and switched on the pumps, sending the craft caroming up towards the sunlight.
The radar screen cleared in an instant. “Farewell,” the radio had relayed the fading voice. “Do not forget those still on patrol.”
He shivered and turned to face the sea, as the list of names came to an end. Straightening, he stood at a sharp attention, hearing the rustle of clothing as Green did the same, and they both snapped off a crisp salute.
They would not forget those still on patrol.