With an absence of luck, there might not be?
CMBs needed dark nights to work in. Being so small and low in the water, hard to see except when they moved at speed, when they kicked up so much wash that they could be spotted as easily as battleships – they could lie stopped and be just about invisible. Being of shallow draught, they could sneak over shoals, too. Ideal for ambush, a quick torpedoing and escape. But a moon was as bad for them as daylight. They were no faster than the modem German destroyers, and they were made of wood and carried only one torpedo and the revolvers on their officers’ belts, while the Hun destroyers were steel bristling with four-inch guns and quick-firing two-pounders.
Have your outing now, he thought, addressing the moon’s sharp, fang-like shape. And tomorrow night, if you like. But after that – please…
Passing the naval headquarters buildings now, where this thing had been sprung on him this afternoon. A ray of light shone from one sandbagged doorway, glinted on a sentry’s bayonet; otherwise it was all quiet, dark, either deserted or very well blacked out. He walked on, wondering if that bit of moon might bring the Gothas. They’d come without any moon at all, last time. But on recent visits they’d been getting a hot reception, and all because Lloyd George had been in the town on an official visit in September and bombs had been dropped in his vicinity – at least, close enough for him to have been aware of them. Anti-aircraft guns for which General Bickford had been pressing since last year had been delivered within days! Nick thought, with his eyes on Zubian’s black shape outlined against silvered water, By this time tomorrow night I’ll know where we’re going, and what for… He would not, he thought, swap Midshipman Selby for the other one. He’d make the best of Selby – who might, for all one knew, be worth his salt when it came to action. It was remembering Underhill’s contemptuous expression ‘runt of the litter’ that had changed his mind. Hadn’t he been that, in some people’s eyes? If he dropped Selby he’d be doing him a thoroughly bad turn. If one knew for certain he wasn’t up to scratch, it would be justified, but on such small knowledge of him he didn’t believe it was.
The Prince of Wales pier was on his left, a long black finger poking south-eastward. He walked on, passing it, to where Mackerel lay in the angle between the eastern wall of the tidal harbour and the small jetty that protected it. He hardly expected to find much life in her; but at least he’d have been aboard, tried to say goodbye to his former shipmates. By the time he finished the torpedo-firings tomorrow, she should have sailed.
The gangway sentry peered at him as he approached. Then, recognizing him, saluted.
‘Evening, Jarvie. All well?’
‘Yessir, evenin’ sir!’
‘Anyone still about, d’you know?’ He started up the gangway. Jarvie told him, ‘They’re all in the wardroom, sir. Bit of a do on, I believe sir.’
Nick could hear it. Mackerel’s wardroom, evidently, were entertaining. Loud voices, laughter, party sounds… He stepped off the gangway and turned aft, went in through the blackout flap, painted canvas covering the doorway in the superstructure, and started down the ladderway. A voice from down there in the wardroom rose above the din: ‘Speech! Speech!’
Nick stopped, wondering what was going on. He heard Charlie Pym’s voice rise out of a sudden quiet.
‘Gentlemen… Unaccustomed as I am—’
‘Means ’e’s a virgin!’
‘Don’ in’errupt y’ first lieutenant!’
‘—I should like to say how touched, how deeply moved I am by the enthusiasm with which you have welcomed my replacing one who – who—’
Laughter… Gladwish’s voice cut through it: ‘One who’s come a cropper, that’s—’
‘One who’s come to say goodbye to you.’ Nick stepped through the doorway. He saw Gladwish, Grant, Watson; and Pym up on a chair, red-faced and with his mouth open. There were a couple of other men he didn’t know, a warrant officer and a sub-lieutenant. They all looked quite shocked at seeing him. Grant was blushing scarlet as he jumped to his feet, and Gladwish stammered, ‘Why, it’s – why—’
‘My word, you have surprised us.’ Pym climbed off the chair. ‘A little impromptu celebration of my elevation to first lieutenant. I’m sorry, it probably seems – well—’
‘It seems—’ Nick looked at him calmly — ‘exactly what it is.’ He saw Warburton, the leading steward, slip away. Pym offered, ‘Well, good heavens, you must have a drink!’
‘No thanks.’ Watson, the engineer, was trying to claim his attention. He nodded to him. ‘Hello, Chief.’
‘Wanna say – it’s a bloody rotten thing they done to you, it’s more’n a bloody shame, it’s—’
‘What are you talking about, for God’s sake?’
Gladwish nodded owlishly. ‘He’sh right. They should ’a given y’a medal, not—’
‘I wish I knew what any of you was talking about.’ Nick looked at Pym. ‘Can you tell me?’
‘Well.’ Pym shrugged. An exaggerated movement, but compared to Gladwish and Watson he seemed fairly sober. ‘I’ve mixed feelings, naturally. I mean, I’ve got your job, I can’t pretend I mind that… On the personal level though, of course, one’s sorry—’
‘I’m extremely sorry, sir.’ Midshipman Grant, who evidently had not been allowed anything or much to drink, was still pink with embarrassment. Nick asked him, ‘Sorry about what, Mid?’
‘Well — you being pushed out—’
‘Pushed out?’
He glanced round. They were all staring at him, doing their best to look sympathetic, on his side. He asked Pym, ‘Do you think I’ve been pushed out?’
‘Well.’ Pym half-smirked at Gladwish, then looked back at him. 'I’m afraid we know you have. That business ashore—the captain told me—’
‘What, that I’d been dismissed from the ship?’
‘Nothing as definite as that, but—’
‘I’ll be damned.’ He shook his head. It had been a long day, one way and another. ‘Well, I won’t try to convince you you’re all jumping to wrong conclusions. You are, but it doesn’t matter all that much… I only came along to say goodbye. I’ll be at sea tomorrow before you sail, so—’
‘At sea?’ Grant had asked the question. What did they think, that he was confined to barracks? Nick looked back at Pym. ‘I wish you luck. I hope you turn into a first-class number one.’
‘Well, I’ll certainly do my—’
‘You won’t, though. You’re too soft with yourself and too damned idle… Goodbye.’
He went out and up the ladder, stepped out, pushing the canvas aside, on to the quarterdeck. Moving quickly, trying to master anger and disquiet, and wanting to be away from them. He turned for’ard, towards the gangway.
‘Lieutenant Everard, sir?’
It was Leading Seaman McKechnie. There were quite a few other members of the ship’s company behind him. ‘Warby come an’ tol’ us you was aboard, sir.’ Warburton, he meant, the captain’s steward. ‘Come to say goodbye, sir?’
‘Yes, that’s about it.’
‘Sir – we want to say – well, the lads is sorry ye’re awa’, sir…’ A murmur of agreement came from the others with him. ‘Ship won’t be the same, sir, not now.’
‘Well – thank you.’
It was hard to know what to say. He certainly couldn’t tell them the truth, that they were the people he should have come to say goodbye to, the only ones he regretted leaving.
‘All I can say is I hope we may meet again.’ It was a crowd, now, filling this port side of the iron deck. He raised his voice, and called out, ‘Goodbye, and good luck to you all. You deserve it!’ He put out his hand: ‘We’ll meet again, I hope, McKechnie.’ Then he found that he was shaking all their hands, and they were singing all around him, For He’s a jolly Good Fellow… The Glasgow killick shouted in his ear, ‘I seen the wee lass tonight, sir, she said tae gie ye her love!’
He got away. In the wardroom they’d have had an earful of that singing; and Wyatt, if he�
��d been asleep in his cabin, might well have been woken by it. It would annoy Wyatt – and mortify Charlie Pym!
She said tae gie ye her love…
McKechnie must have seen her in that pub. And the pubs were all shut now. But he remembered where she lived: at least, he was fairly sure he’d be able to retrace the hurried, rather painful steps he’d taken on that fateful, rum-flavoured morning.
Not only rum-flavoured though: there’d been the taste of Annabel. And her touch, and her gentle voice, the affection in her eyes…
Reapers clipped tones echoed in his brain. You’d better not see the girl again.
Well, he’d given no such undertaking.
Left, here. Over the bridge at the end of Wellington dock. Now through there, the alley, and then right into Snargate Street.
There was a side street forty yards farther down. He saw Pym’s sneer, and stopped. Why give people like Pym what they wanted, why oblige the Charlie Pyms, for God’s sake? And a thought on the heels of that one: wouldn’t she have someone with her, by this time of night?
Reaper’s voice again: Nursery days are over, Everard. You’re fledged, now!
He turned about, went back across the bridge. Thinking of the man who might be with her now, this moment, making love to her, hearing that soft voice in his ear, seeing those wide eyes in the moonlight flooding in. But he was seeing a man with a ruddy-complexioned face and a black military moustache: not Annabel’s client, but Sarah’s lover.
The moon had slid behind a bank of cloud. Nursery days might have been over, and he might have been ‘fledged’; but he felt cut off, rootless.
Chapter 10
He held CMB 11 on the course for Dunkirk. The weather forecast had proved accurate: only a light breeze ruffled the straits, and the swell was long, leisurely; the boat skimmed it, swooping in long shallow dives and climbs, a rhythmic, waltz-time motion accompanied by her engine’s steady roar and the thudding of her bottom-boards against the sea’s solidity. Harry Underhill in CMB 14 was in station one cable’s length astern; there were thirty miles to go, two-thirds of the distance still to cover. Since these shallow-draught boats had seldom to bother about such nuisances as shoals, their route to enter Dunkirk Roads was ‘as-the-crow-flies’.
Nick jerked his head to Selby.
‘Here, you can have her. South seventy-three east.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
No snigger. Nick had asked him yesterday, during the torpedo firing practice, ‘Why d’you giggle whenever anyone says any damn thing at all, Mid?’; and he hadn’t done it since. It was surprising what a difference it made; when you separated Selby from his laugh, he became quite likeable. And yesterday afternoon Nick had made him take over for one of the torpedo shots, and he’d handled it perfectly.
Reaper had said to them in his quiet, matter-of-fact tone, ‘I want you to go over to the Belgian coast and bring back Weary Willie. That armed trawler the Huns anchor every night off Middelkerke, you know?’
He’d looked round at them – at Nick, Underhill and Treglown, and they’d all nodded. He’d added, ‘Intact.’
A cutting-out operation, in fact. Boarding-party in the ML, and the two CMBs to ward off interference. Very simple, really. Nick had been thinking about it ever since Reaper had given them the briefing, and he was still thinking about it now as he moved over to the cockpit’s starboard side, leaving Selby to drive the boat. On the way across he stooped to look in at Ross. The ERA was on his little wooden seat, peering intently between tall, bony knees at dials that told him about such things as revs, oil-pressure, temperature. She was a good’un, CMB 11 was, he’d told Nick. Some of the others had to be nursed like babies and still gave trouble. He was nursing this one, Nick thought, very much like a baby.
The action torpedo rested where yesterday a succession of practice ones had lain. This one wore a warhead, though, three hundredweight of explosive. He stroked the ice-cold curve of silver steel, and wondered if there’d be a use for it tonight. He hoped not. What was wanted was speed and silence and no trouble, no Huns seeing or hearing or even suspecting anything. The cutting-out had to take place within spitting distance of the coast at Middelkerke and only about five miles from Ostend. Thirty years ago it would have been done with cutlasses and muffled oars.
CMB 14 was a dark blob bouncing in a welter of foam two hundred yards astern, in this boat’s wake. They were travelling at twenty knots, a fairly economical speed that would get them to Dunkirk in plenty of time to refuel, have a snack and be on their way again. Treglown had set off in his ML much earlier in the day, and he’d have left Dunkirk before the CMBs got there. He had a PO, a stoker PO, three seamen, and one stoker as passengers; his own sub-lieutenant would be taking charge of them as a boarding party.
He moved to the for’ard starboard corner, leant with his arms folded on the coaming and his chin resting on his arms, watched the craft’s long grey bow rising to the swells and carving a path across them. After each swoop up there was a fall and a thudding jar as her forepart smacked down again and her 340 horsepower flung her at the next one. Not difficult to imagine how uncomfortable she’d be in anything like rough weather.
Cloud-cover was thick, unbroken. It had to remain so. Provided the night stayed dark, and they had a modicum of luck: or at least an absence of bad luck… Such as meeting a destroyer or torpedo-boat coming out of Ostend. They had a habit of prowling round old Willie, snooping up between the Ostend Bank and Nieuwpoort Bank, then turning back into the port again or up-coast. The CMBs’ function tonight would be to guard against any such interference, watch the approaches while the ML carried out her boarding and cutting-out, and then hang around to cover the joint retirement of the ML and her captive. If a torpedo-boat showed up, they’d try to lead it away and, if necessary, torpedo it. But only if it was necessary. So close to Ostend – and to Zeebrugge, for that matter – the important thing was not to attract attention. A Hun destroyer flotilla could be whistled up within minutes. Ideally, the trawler’s crew – although she was armed they weren’t trained, fighting seamen, apparently – would wake up to find revolvers at their heads; and the Huns ashore would wake to find Willie gone.
‘What the devil do they want us to pinch a trawler for?’ Underhill had been puzzled, after last night’s briefing. ‘We’ve got – what, eighty here already?’
Nick had been thinking about it too, and he had a theory that explained it and pointed to a much bigger issue than this little jaunt. But he gave the CMB man the same vague reason that Reaper had offered: this was the beginning of a switch to the offensive, a policy of keeping the Hun hopping and spoiling his sleep.
‘We want ’em on the defensive,’ Reaper had told them. ‘We’ve still got to guard the straits, but we want to go out and hit ’em too. As you know, Vice-Admiral Keyes is in command now – and he’s never been a man to sit back and let the enemy come to him.’
‘Right we are, then.’ Reaper had begun to roll up his chart. ‘Any other questions?’
There weren’t. He told Nick. ‘Work out your own detailed orders and carry on from here. It’s in your hands. Let’s have a tidy and successful operation. You’re not getting anything on paper – just go and do it… Perhaps you’ll see me to the gangway, Everard.’ He said to him privately, on the way down, ‘I said I want this Hun intact. That will include, of course, her crew.’
Nick thought about it for a moment. Then he asked, ‘Is that the priority, sir? Prisoners?’
Reaper frowned at him. ‘Is there any reason we can’t have the whole caboodle?’
‘No, sir. Just a matter of priorities, if anything should go wrong.’
‘I very much hope it won’t… You’re right to the extent that we haven’t any great need of another trawler…’ He’d said it vaguely, as if it didn’t really matter either way. The fact was, it had been said.
Nick nodded. ‘I understand, sir.’ But Reaper had been at pains not to be too precise. ‘The object is to take the trawler, crew and all.’ He
hesitated, near the gangway’s head now. ‘Look here-we wouldn’t want the Hun to think we’d just gone after prisoners. The object is to let him know we’re pushing him, that the straits belong to us… Makes sense, doesn’t it?’
Nick saluted. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
‘Goodnight. Everard. And good luck.’
He’d thought, watching the gold-peaked cap disappear down the depot ship’s gangway, that it was pretty obvious what was wanted, and what for, and why Reaper had been so mealy-mouthed about it. It was surprising Underhill hadn’t caught on too. But he and Treglown might not have known where Weary Willie came from, where she and her crew spent their daylight hours.
They didn’t ask, so he didn’t need to tell them.
After supper he’d gone up to the chartroom, alone, to work out the orders he’d give them in the morning. To start with, for his own benefit, he jotted down the essentials of the situation they’d be facing. For instance, that the operation had been planned not only for a calm spell of weather but also for an exceptionally low low-water. The Huns might be thinking themselves safe behind the Belgian shoals; they were shoal-conscious, they’d left the channels un-dredged in order to keep the Royal Navy off their coast. They might not think of CMBs and MLs, which drew so little water they practically walked on it… Second, there were to be two Dover destroyers patrolling near the pillar buoy at the Hinder, twelve miles north-west of Willie; when the trawler had been taken, she and the ML were to head straight for their protection. While any destroyers – Germans – which the CMBs managed to entice away were to be led east-nor’-eastward, into the minefield which Mackerel and her friends had laid a few nights ago.
Sixty Minutes for St George Page 17
