The Volunteers

by Douglas Reeman

  Yes, she would be wondering about them. Fingers crossed. About him in particular perhaps.

  Goudie’s voice cut through his aching mind. “Don’t doze off, Pilot!”

  Frazer nodded and thrust himself away from the screen. He had been nearly asleep standing up.

  Allenby found an unopened case of dressings and did his best to patch up the wounded and to remove the vicious splinter from Turner’s leg. It kept him busy and away from the dread of the dawn. He thought of the Wren called Joanna. When would she get his letter? Would she care?

  As the first hint of light touched the clouds the weary, depleted company stood-to at action stations again.

  Goudie seemed content to allow Frazer to rearrange his handful of men, but said, “Put the wounded to work too, and bring one of the stokers up from the engineroom. They can all manage something, even if it’s just praying!” It seemed to tire him and he fell into a restless sleep.

  The sun showed itself for the first time and the eastern horizon was revealed like a bright steel tape.

  The seamen fingered their weapons, and Archer stood very upright beside the two-pounder.

  The growing light revealed the extent of their damage. Splinter holes and punctures in the bridge plating. There was also a lot of blood; it looked pink in the scuppers as the spray drifted back from the stem.

  Above it all the ensign rippled in the breeze, clean and unnatural.

  “Green four-five!” Weeks’s voice made them jerk out of their thoughts. “E-Boats, three of ‘em.”

  There was a gap in the clouds and part of the sea was suddenly very bright and clear, like metal.

  Goudie croaked, “Get me up!” He twisted his head as the bells jangled through the boat. “Give me a hand, damn you!”

  Frazer raised his glasses and blinked as the glare came back from that patch of bright water. Then he saw them. They were moving slowly, in line abreast. Even as he refocused his glasses the other craft began to turn into line. They had sighted the MGB.

  Frazer said, “They’re coming.” He felt Allenby move up beside him. There was no point in sending aft to the Oerlikons. It would soon be over.

  Allenby asked quietly, “Will you fight?” He saw the look of wretched uncertainty on the Canadian’s face.

  “It would not be a fight, Dick. And with those helpless people below-” He shook his head. ead. “If it had been just one E-Boat, but it isn’t.”

  Goudie lurched against the side, his teeth gritted against the pain as Able Seaman Turner tried to support him. He too was weak from loss of blood.

  Allenby looked at them sadly. “How could we let them die, Keith?”

  Goudie took a deep breath and then yelled, “Look again!”

  He shook Frazer by the shoulder until his wound made him release it. “They’re ours.” He lowered his head so that they should not see his face. “They’re bloody ours, the Dogs.”

  Frazer watched the oncoming silhouettes. Of course, the Dogs. The name given to the biggers MTBs and MGBs, Fairmile Ds. They had often been mistaken for E-Boats.

  Frazer lowered his glasses, but he knew there was nothing wrong with them this time in spite of the mist.

  Allenby said in a whisper, “Tell the engineroom. Wright should know.”

  The three big Dogs swept down protectively on the little gunboat. Frazer could see their crews staring in utter silence, and then heard the leader’s loudhailer echo across the water. The most beautiful sound he could ever remember.

  “We are to escort you back to father unless you need a tow, or wish to abandon?”

  Goudie gasped, “Cap! Get my cap!” He jammed it, bloodstains and all, on his head and then dragged himself along the rail until he was up on the forward gratings.

  “Tow? Abandon?” He peered at Frazer. “Tell that ass, Able One will proceed to base as ordered.” He relented slightly. “Add, thanks for your company.” He slumped down and muttered, “Told you these were good little boats.” Then he fainted.

  An hour later the promised air cover arrived.

  Frazer, Allenby and Ives solemnly shook hands as the planes tore overhead, so close that they made the ensign flap as if in a gale.

  It was over.

  11

  FACES OF WAR

  COMMANDER AUBREY PROTHERO leaned on his desk and stared

  at the big map on the opposite wall. Somewhere above his head the usual din of rivet guns and machinery would be deafening as Portsmouth Dockyard continued its work of repairing ships of every kind, survivors from a dozen battles. They never stopped, not even for air raids, not any more.

  It was January 1944 and as he studied the large map he could follow the extent of the Allies’ success to their point of present stalemate. Six months ago they had invaded Sicily. Operation Husky had had its shaky moments but it had been an overall success.

  Then, in September, Operation Avalanche, when an even greater combined army had hit the Italian beaches; the operation had been aptly named, he thought grimly. But it was not another Sicily. The enemy had fallen back, but time and time again they had launched counterattacks of unbelievable ferocity. Now, with winter bogging down the Allied armies there was little real progress. The Eastern Front was the same, where millions of Russians and Germans fought, froze and died.

  Prothero’s thoughts returned to Sicily. He was proud of what his Special Operations Section had achieved. Like sharp prongs of the advance which goaded and harried the enemy whenever possible. On the whole, Prothero decided, the Royal Navy had done rather well. In September, for instance, midget submarines, X-Craft, had penetrated a Norwegian fjord and placed explosive charges beneath the enemy’s biggest warship, the battleship Tirpitz. Intelligence had reported that she would be out of the war, probably forever.

  And just a week or so ago the news of another victory. Admiral Fraser’s flagship Duke of York had fought and destroyed the battle cruiser Scharnhorst. The last of Germany’s big ships. It was odd when you thought about it. Scharnhorst had been the enemy’s most successful warship and had earned true admiration from the Royal Navy. Sailors were a strange crowd, he thought.

  Prothero glanced at the clock and then pressed his buzzer. The clock was still hung about with paperchains, reminders of Christmas, but hanging limp in the damp atmosphere.

  Captain Heywood would be here soon. He was never late or early, but exact. He was that kind of man.

  The door opened and Leading Wren Hazel looked at him questioningly. “Sir?”

  She was very attractive, Prothero thought, not for the first time. Lovely eyes and nice legs which even the regulation stockings could not spoil.

  “I want to make a couple of signals. Got your pad?”

  She sat down and crossed her legs, her dark hair shining in the hard lighting.

  A very self-possessed girl, Prothero thought. Even before her brother had been killed in that explosion. He pictured Allenby’s pale face that first day, and what he had done in Sicily. General Gustavo Tesini had played his part as promised, and as the Allies advanced so the Italian armies deserted to their side, a direct response, some said, to Tesini’s broadcasts.

  The little depleted team that had been Jupiter had scattered for a while after the two invasions. The boat had been taken to Gibraltar for temporary repairs and was now on her way to England again in the care of a passage crew.

  Frazer and Allenby had moved about in various craft, dropping or recovering agents, running guns-battlefield clearance stores as they were known-to Yugoslav partisans under their inspiring leader, a man called Tito.

  Goudie had been flown home after a brief stay in a field hospital. Prothero had visited him in the naval hospital here at Haslar. He had received a bad wound but was still as uncompromising and outspoken as ever.

  Now all anyone could talk or think about was the inevitable invasion of Europe. It would have to be Normandy. If it was so obvious the enemy must surely think the same.

  He straightened his back and felt his uniform protesting. H
e did not eat much and was not a heavy drinker. He loathed his girth, the discomfort of every movement.

  He dictated his signals with his usual brevity, his small eyes half closed in concentration.

  “And I want a copy to go to Flag Officer, Plymouth.”

  She looked up at him, her pencil poised above the signal pad. “Does that mean Lieutenant Allenby and the others are coming home, sir?”

  Prothero grunted. “Yes. Any hour, convoys permitting.” He studied her thoughtfully. She had large brown eyes. If only

  He asked, “Why the interest?”

  She colored. “They’ve been through a lot, sir.”

  It was no answer, but Prothero knew it was all he would get.

  “Tell Second Officer Balfour I’d like to see her, will you?”

  “I forgot to tell you, sir. She’s off sick. Third Officer Manners is in temporary charge of Ops.”

  “I see.” He discarded the idea of sending for Manners. A cold fish of a woman. A very suitable mate for Heywood.

  The telephone rang and Prothero picked it up instantly.

  Then he said, “Captain Heywood is here. Show him in, please.”

  She had a nice smile too, he thought wistfully. It never occurred to him that it was because they all liked him despite his bluff and sometimes blunt manner.

  Captain Heywood entered and sat down. He shivered. “Blowing like the Arctic up top,” he said.

  Prothero handed him his file of notes and watched his superior for any reaction as he read them.

  Heywood said eventually, “You seem to have thought of everything, Aubrey. Their lordships have agreed that you can begin moving your operational HQ to Cornwall without delay. There’ll be a holding staff left here, of course.”

  The move to the West Country had been Prothero’s idea. Their preparations and regrouping would be less obvious down there, lost amongst the gathering armada of ships and landing craft which were filling every harbor and creek as far as Land’s End and around into Wales.

  They had been offered a small hotel right on the River Fal, It would make a nice change. Prothero thought it might give his team of helpers a welcome release.

  Heywood said, “The good news is that I’ve got two more motor gunboats for you. They’re being refitted for Special Ops right now. As soon as they’re ready they can begin training together.”

  Again Prothero thought of the near disaster in the Med when one of his boats, code-named Able Two, had been lost.

  He had always wanted three boats. A better set of odds. A new HQ and better weapons. What of the people?

  Heywood said, “Their lordships have also given their approval to your suggestions. A half-stripe for Frazer, and a second one for Archer for obvious reasons. There’ll be some decorations too. A DSO for that lunatic Goudie, and a DSC for Frazer. Perhaps a couple of medals for the others.” “What about Allenby, sir?”

  “He has the George Cross, for heaven’s sake.”

  Prothero smiled. “So has Malta, sir.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll have to see. When they get back you can arrange some leave for them.” He frowned. “You’re sure you want Goudie to remain in overall command?”

  “No question about it, sir. He’s a natural. A bit of a rebel, but damn good.”

  “I had thought you might say otherwise. Major Thomas seemed to think Goudie was, well, not to put a point, round the bend.”

  Prothero shrugged. “Thomas had his own views, so do I, sir.”

  Heywood pressed his fingertips together and eyed him severely. “I know how you feel, but you’re wrong. To beat the enemy we have to use his own weapons and his own methods, no matter how ruthless they may appear. If the Germans terrify people, we must do it better. We need the Thomases of this world.”

  Prothero sighed. “If you say so, sir.”

  Heywood had already dismissed the matter. Like Sicily. It was all so much history now.

  He said, “I’ll inspect your HQ as soon as you say the word. “

  Prothero tried to contain. his feelings of uneasiness. The three boats would be safe and snug on the River Fal, but moorings everywhere were at a premium because of the growing invasion fleet. Just a few days ago the naval berthing officer there had telephoned him to complain about the lack of notice. He was not a bloody magician, as he had put it angrily. Prothero had smoothed things out eventually. But he knew that he had told Second Officer Balfour to complete those same arrangements weeks ago. She knew her job, and anyway the officer in question would want to make a pass at her, even on the telephone. Now she was sick. He would have to look into the matter, and fast before Heywood suspected something. He had about as much sympathy as a brick.

  Heywood said, “We’ll have the three boats repainted and given new pendant numbers. To all intents they will be part of a new flotilla.” He tapped his nose. “Top secret as always.” He stood up. “Must dash.”

  “Drink before you go, sir?”

  Heywood consulted his watch. “Sun’s not over my yardarm yet. I’ve not time anyway.”

  Prothero smiled. It was a game he liked to play. Heywood never got too close to anyone, he had noticed that. Afraid of soiling his reputation perhaps if someone else blundered.

  He accompanied the captain through the adjoining rooms, their ceilings covered with droplets of condensation.

  Prothero thought that some of his girls were looking distinctly pale. Cornwall would be better all round.

  Leading Wren Hazel was already typing out his signals ready to pass them through the SDO.

  Heywood did not seem to notice any of them.

  The Leading Wren glanced up as Prothero made his farewell. She thought of Allenby and his letter which was carefully folded inside her paybook.

  Frazer and Allenby entered the Special Operations Section and stared round with astonishment. There seemed to be very few people working in the cellarlike offices and the passageway was strewn with crates and steel cabinets. It looked as if a bomb had gone off. But Prothero was there, waiting for them, as if he had never moved.

  Prothero wasted no time. He glanced first at Frazer. “You’ll all be going on leave, and you will get your uniforms made up first, right’? I suppose you do know about your half-stripe?”

  Frazer grinned. “Yes. Thanks a lot, sir. I even feel different. “

  Prothero smiled. “Possibly.” He turned to Allenby. It was strange how Frazer was so tanned and yet Allenby seemed to remain as he was.

  “I expect it was all a lot different from what you expected. You did well, very well.”

  Allenby asked, “What’s happening here, sir?”

  “We are in the process of moving house to Cornwall. You’ll get your orders while you’re on leave.” He hesitated and glanced at Frazer again. “There is something I should tell you. As a Canadian you are entitled to transfer back to general service, or in fact to the RCN itself. I’ve read between the lines and I feel bound to tell you that if you went back to the Royal Canadian Navy you’d most certainly get your own command, probably one of the latest corvettes.” He watched Frazer’s features and saw the sudden indecision where before he had obviously been so glad to be home in one piece. “But I have to know before we begin working up the new boats.”

  Allenby suddenly felt deflated. He had been expecting to see Joanna Hazel; he had thought about little else once they had been put aboard a fast convoy from Gibraltar. Now she was gone; she might have changed anyway. Here, in this dismal place, he would have felt more confident. And now Frazer was leaving. He’d be a damned fool not to, after what they had just gone through.

  Frazer’s mind was in a whirl. Promotion, talk of getting a decoration, and now the chance of a command. He could barely take it in.

  Prothero said, “Anyway, get off on some leave as soon as the Intelligence people have done with you.” He had already spoken to Archer who had arrived back a day earlier. He seemed quite different, Prothero thought. Withdrawn, even morose. They might have to have a second think about h
im.

  Frazer said suddenly, “I’ve decided, sir. I’d like to stay.”

  Prothero beamed. He was glad he had been right about Frazer in the first place.

  Prothero said, “You both see now why it was hard to make the best selections from all the volunteers. Being good at your work is essential, but in Special Operations we need that bit more.” He rocked back onto his desk and added gravely, “But you know that now, eh?”

  Allenby saw Prothero glance at a pale outline on the wall where his clock had once been. He had to say something before Prothero dismissed them.

  “Will you have all your same staff with you in Cornwall, sir?”

  Prothero’s bright little eyes settled on him. So that was it. Allenby was a brave lad and his record was blameless. But he was no use at all at hiding his feelings.

  “There’ll be more of them this time. We shall have our own flotilla, so to speak. You, Frazer, will be second-incommand under John Goudie, so you may yet be sorry you turned down that transfer.”

  Frazer was pleased about Goudie. He had all but recovered, he had been told, and had been sent to a recuperation hospital, then on leave. Frazer had never believed he would come to like Goudie, let alone miss him.

  He asked casually, “Is Second Officer Balfour still your first hand, sir?”

  Prothero was about to end it, to shut them up on grounds of secrecy. But there was something about Frazer. He might be just what she needed. Lynn Balfour had gone to the new HQ in Cornwall as soon as she had recovered from her illness. The PMO had described it as strain and overwork. Common enough.

  He replied, “Yes, she’s there already.” He waited, judging the moment. “Cornwall’s a bit bleak at this time of the year. My PO writer is Cornish. She’ll buff you up on where to go.” He controlled his sudden envy with an effort. “But get that half-stripe stitched on before you do anything. Now, wait outside, I want to speak to Allenby.”

  The two officers glanced quickly at each other and Frazer winked.

  “Stay with it.”