The Gatecrashers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 6

by Alexander Fullerton

  “I had Eaton on this thing only about twenty minutes ago!”

  “So, I’ve warmed the ball a bit … But you’re OK, are you?”

  “You might say so, at a pinch. Ozzie’s still out for the count.”

  “Oh, is he … Well, d’you want someone to …”

  “No, I don’t!”

  Paul waited a moment. Then he tried again. “I was about to ask—”

  “I know, I’m sorry, I don’t want any bloody thing at all. Ozzie’ll soon snap out of it, and meanwhile we’re coping all right.” There was some distant mumbling: Gimber talking aside to Towne, he guessed. Then the voice came back: “Trigger agrees, we’re all right as we are. Benzedrine’s the answer … Any news?”

  There was no point telling him about X-8 and X-11. Paul said, “Nothing worth repeating. You’ll be up for a guff-through at two, right?”

  “If our luck holds out, we will.”

  He certainly wasn’t his normal self. Perhaps one shouldn’t have expected it. Paul told him, “I’m turning in, now. Talk again later.”

  “Ha. Sleep tight. Pleasant dreams.”

  “In four days’ time, Louis, you’ll be doing the sleeping-tight routine.”

  “D’you ever dream about her, Paul?”

  Hanging up, Gimber stared grimly at Towne. He muttered, “Four days …”

  CHAPTER TEN

  . . .

  Trench leant over the bunk, staring down at him. Looking for something he didn’t find. Outside, the sounds of work in progress were loud and constant—from the deck above, and from the jetty and from Foremost who was secured on the other side—while in this semi-dark cabin the tranquillity was an illusion, a phoney quiet in which Trench’s deep concern for Nick Everard’s life was at odds with his need to be elsewhere—in about half a dozen other places, at this very moment. He asked Lyric’s doctor, Cramphorn, “Is there really a chance he can take in what’s said to him?”

  “It’s quite possible, sir. And probably best to assume he can. I mean, for his sake.”

  Trench didn’t know what he’d meant by that. Foremost’s doctor—also an RNVR two-striper—saw the frown, and explained quietly, “Sort of to keep him in touch, sir. By engaging his attention, getting the brain back into gear, as it were. Could make a lot of difference.”

  Trench’s eyes rested for a moment on this other doctor. He didn’t look much more than twenty years old, but of course he had to be more than that. He nodded. “I see.” Turning back to the man in the bunk: wondering what it would be like to hear things that were said to you but not be able to answer or even signal that you’d heard.

  “Are you hearing me, sir?”

  To be asked a question would be even more frustrating. But it might be like hearing a voice in a dream, he guessed. He was still looking for reaction—for the movement of an eyelid, the twitch of a muscle—and not seeing any at all. Trench wasn’t enjoying this—either the situation itself or the charade of addressing someone who was so deeply unconscious that it felt like talking to a corpse. He had no confidence in being heard, or of doing any good at all: it was simply a matter of taking these quacks’ word for it, accepting that they’d have to know more about it than he did himself … “It’s Trench here, sir. I expect you feel bloody awful, but the doctors say you’re doing well, so there’s nothing for you to worry about. Just prove them right, get better—and I’ll handle the trip home, you’ve nothing to worry about at all.”

  Rubbish. He told himself, If he’s hearing me, he’s thinking, “What a load of codswallop!” He’d glanced round again, at the two doctors. Feeling idiotic … This cabin belonged to Lyric’s first lieutenant, or had done until it had been commandeered to become Nick Everard’s sickroom.

  Trench forced himself to start yacking again … “Everything’s under control, sir. We’re at Vaenga, in the Kola Inlet. I diverted because if we’d stuck to the Archangel plan there might not have been much left of us by the time we got there. You’re on board Lyric—they picked you up when Calliope went down. You’re in what the doc calls a coma, as a result of hypothermia—that’s a technical term for too long in cold water. It’s like a bang on the head, apparently—knocks you out … But you’re in good hands, sir, and they tell me you’ll be sitting up and taking notice before much longer.”

  Lyric was alongside Vaenga pier, and Foremost was berthed outside her. Some of the survivors had been moved into the AA ship, the Berkeley, while fit men or those only lightly wounded were being distributed among the destroyers. Only men who were considered unlikely to survive the journey home were being left ashore, but whether they’d survive here was something of a toss-up; the hospital was little more than a shack, with inadequate lighting, heat or sanitation and only the most basic equipment: the medical stores which had been on board Calliope were now at the bottom of the Barents Sea.

  Trench had brought the remnants of PQ 19 into the Kola Inlet soon after dawn this morning. The last hundred and fifty miles had taken twice as long as he’d expected, mostly because the Sovyetskaya Slava had been hit again, on the afternoon of the day of Calliope’s loss, and her speed reduced from eight knots to four and a half. Then the Carrickmore had also been hit and a fire started in one of her holds; she’d still been smouldering internally when the merchantmen had gone to their berths for discharging cargo. But yesterday there’d been only one attack, high-level and ineffectual. They’d owed this mercy to the wind having dropped overnight and the cloud thickening, pressing down towards the sea, providing cover which must have been infuriating to the Luftwaffe. So this morning Trench had delivered the Tacora, the Sovyetskaya Slava, Carrickmore, Republican, Ewart S. Dukes and Galilee Dawn and their more or less intact cargoes of war material. The Soviet tanker, as she’d plugged slowly on up the inlet with a tug to help her, had gone so far as to signal a “thank you,” which in Trench’s experience was unprecedented.

  He described these events to the unresponsive patient. There was some coming and going behind him while he was talking, and when he paused and looked round he found Sam Clegg, Lyric’s captain, at his elbow.

  “Crockford’s waiting in my day cabin, sir. D’you want him in here?”

  “No—we’ll go through.”

  Crockford was captain of Foremost, and Trench had sent for him to come over. Saving time, while he was here—two birds with one stone … Cramphorn was telling Clegg he’d stay with the patient; Trench asked him whether Nick would need to have someone with him all the time.

  The doctor nodded. “Within sight and sound, anyway. When he comesto,” he added more quietly, “or if he does … It could happen soon, or not for days … When he does, he probably won’t have any memory— for events or people, may not even know his own name, for some time … We’ll be keeping him here in Lyric, will we, sir? Home to the UK?”

  “Home to the UK, but I think not in Lyric. Although it might be an idea for you, Cramphorn, to stay with him.”

  Clegg asked, “Stay where with him?”

  “In Foremost. If these chaps will agree he can be moved. But I’d also suggest Cramphorn here might move over with him. Change places with your own doctor.” He’d glanced at Kingdon. “Simply for continuity. Cramphorn started with him, might as well carry on?” Trench beckoned to the two doctors. “Couple of minutes, he won’t come to any harm.” He asked them outside, out of earshot of the patient who might or might not have heard, “You do agree he shouldn’t be left ashore?”

  “Yes,” Cramphorn said, “same with all the hypothermia cases. There simply aren’t the facilities.”

  “But you think,” he nodded to Crockford as they filed into Clegg’s day cabin “you’re confident he can survive the trip home?”

  “No, sir.” Cramphorn shook his head. “At this stage, it’s a toss-up. But he’ll have a better chance coming home with us than he would have if we left him here. If we have a reasonably quiet passage.”

  “Nobody can promise that.” Trench lowered himself into an armchair. He told Foremost
’s captain, “I’m arranging for him to be moved over to you, Crockford, because being close escort you’re less likely to be dashing around, and the ride shouldn’t be as bumpy. Also—we’ve just been talking about this—I think it would be as well if Surgeon Lieutenant Cramphorn moved over to you with him, having looked after him up to now, d’you see. Sam here could have the loan of your doctor, a temporary swap?”

  Crockford asked, “D’you mind, Kingdon?”

  Cramphorn excused himself, to return to the patient. Kingdon left, to also put in hand arrangements for Everard’s reception on board Foremost. Trench talked to the two destroyer captains now. He was glad the doctors had agreed to change places. It had been his own instinctive preference, a choice of Cramphorn as the man most likely to keep Nick Everard alive. Trench was to admit, later, that it had been no more than a hunch. He’d simply wanted to give Nick Everard the best possible chance of survival that could be provided, and Cramphorn had seemed the best bet.

  He told Clegg and Crockford, “I can’t tell you exactly how soon we’ll be sailing from here, but I want to be ready to go as soon as we get the word. Fuel and fresh water’s laid on. You’ll have had that signal, I suppose?”

  They had. Clegg put in, “But no answer yet about four-seven ammo, sir.”

  “That’s being taken care of, don’t worry. And tomorrow forenoon I want all commanding officers on board Moloch for conference at 1130 sharp. I’ve no idea why we have to wait for permission to sail: the thing is to have everything on the top line so we can get cracking as soon as possible. In principle it’s been agreed that QP 16 can be sailed from Archangel with an escort of Soviet destroyers plus minesweepers who’ll be coming all the way with us. The ones we brought will be staying here as their reliefs, of course. But there’ll also be a small Russian oiler with the convoy—she’ll turn back to Archangel with their destroyers after we’ve fuelled from her. That’ll see us through until we meet the Bayleaf somewhere near Bear Island—thanks to the good sense of that man in there.” He jerked a thumb towards the sickroom. “But as I say, we may have to wait a day or two, or even several days. SBNO doesn’t know the reason—or isn’t divulging it, anyway.”

  Crockford asked him as they got up, “What’s made the Russkis so co-operative?”

  “I suspect they’ve been persuaded that until we get these empties home we won’t be bringing them any full ones.” Trench said, “While I’m here, I’m going to take another look at him. No need for anyone else to hang around, though.”

  Cramphorn was beside the bunk: he’d been talking quietly. Trench shut the door. “Any sign he might be receiving you?”

  “There couldn’t really, at this stage, sir.” The doctor got up, and pulled his chair out of the way. “But it’s worth trying.”

  “He could stay like this for days, you said.”

  “Yes.” The doctor opened his mouth to add something: then shut it. Trench crouched at the head of the bunk: the size he was, it was the only way he could get down to that level, without breaking his back.

  “It’s Trench here, sir. We’ll be moving you over into Foremost before long. You should have a more comfortable passage in her, and I’ve arranged that you’ll keep this same sawbones with you. His name’s Cramphorn— poor fellow … He’ll take good care of you until we get you home. Then you’ll be surrounded by all the experts and specialists, and I shouldn’t be surprised if one of the nurses was Australian … So just hang on, sir, take it easy, and don’t worry. You can leave all the worrying to the rest of us, for a change.”

  Cramphorn came with him to the doorway. Trench thoughtful as he looked at him. The doctor was a smallish man with steady eyes and a direct, take-it-or-leave-it manner. Scrawny little bastard, and he looked as if he could have used about twenty-four hours’ sleep. But then, who couldn’t have … Anyway, Trench had a good impression of him. He warned, “This man’s worth his weight in diamonds. Believe me, he’s one we can’t afford to lose.”

  Cramphorn said, “They all are.”

  Paul said into the telephone, “OK, Louis. We’ll reduce to five knots now. I’m due on watch, I’ll be up there when you surface.”

  “Wow.” Gimber’s voice was thin over the line. “The very thought makes my heart go pit-a-pat.”

  He’d got over his own seasickness, he’d said, although Ozzie Steep was still out of action. You couldn’t blame a man for getting sick, but Paul was still glad he hadn’t taken Ozzie for operational first lieutenant in Eaton’s place, which at one stage he’d considered. He went into the control room and addressed the helmsman: “Relieve officer of the watch, please.” Henning replied “Yes, please,” and Paul climbed up through the wind-tunnel of a conning-tower into the dark, swaying bridge.

  The weather hadn’t eased at all. Setter was making eight and a half knots, lurching clumsily through a whitened sea, rollers sweeping up from her port quarter. Spray burst in bathfuls across the bridge, flung up by her butting, slogging progress. He told Henning—ducking spray as he yelled it—“Revs for X-12’s surfacing routine, please?”

  Straightening, he got a faceful. Henning calling down for two hundred revolutions: then shouting as he turned to Paul, “I wouldn’t like to be surfacing that little object in this lot!”

  “You would if you’d been under for the last six hours with one of your crew puking every five minutes. I’ll take over, if you’re ready?”

  There wasn’t much to hand over. The course, the revs, when he’d last “blown round,” the captain’s night orders—which in any case were in the night-order book on the chart-table, and no different from last night’s or the night before. The main difference on this jaunt was that if you ran into an enemy—a U-boat being the most likely variety—the orders were not to attack, but to evade and remain unseen. It was obvious, however, to anyone with experience of night encounters on the surface that the odds were you’d see each other at roughly the same moment, so secrecy could best be preserved only by the quick destruction of the U-boat.

  But it would depend on the range and bearing of an enemy when you sighted him. The X-craft had all been warned of the possibility of sudden dives by their towing ships.

  X-12 duly surfaced, spent fifteen minutes impersonating a half-tide rock while she “guffed through,” then slid under again. Five minutes after she’d disappeared Paul told the W/T office watchkeeper to call through and check that all was well; confirmation of this came up the voicepipe at 0228, and he increased to revs for eight and a half knots again.

  He wished he’d been able to tell his father about this business. On the face of it, it was silly that he hadn’t. As if Nick Everard, of all living men, would have gone around talking about it! But the security angle had been stressed so hard, had been dinned into all participants so vehemently and regularly all through the training period, that you’d have hesitated to have whispered about it even to yourself. There’d been fatuous gags about security—like, “These orders are to be burnt before being read.”

  He swung the binoculars slowly across the bow, intently following the indefinite curve of dark horizon. Mountains of sea, white flashes like bowwaves everywhere you looked: the only comfort was that a real bow-wave would look different. When you saw it, you’d know it … His father would hear all about this Operation Source eventually, of course, and he’d understand the need there’d been for secrecy. Despite this, Paul still wished they’d been able to talk about it together.

  Gimber had been doing his first lieutenant’s job, taking her down to ninety feet and—in a manner of speaking—levelling her there. If you could use the word “levelling” when she was being flung around like an old boot in a mill-race.

  Ozzie Steep yelled, “Take over, shall I?”

  Gimber looked round at him. He also noticed an expression of alarm on Trigger Towne’s now fully-bearded face. Towne had that blue-black, silkylooking growth that made the brightness of his eyes seem like a madman’s. Ozzie Steep’s eyes, in contrast, were as dull as if he was looki
ng at you through dirty water. He looked weak, and—despite that offer—unsure of himself.

  “You’re not fit yet, Ozzie. Maybe tomorrow, if the weather eases—or when Setter dives.”

  “But I’m fine now, skipper!”

  “So you can do some wiping-up.” Gimber pointed. “There, to start with.”

  Towne had got out of his seat; he put a hand on Steep’s shoulder as he squeezed past. The other hand latching on to an overhead pipe for support. He shouted to Gimber, “After end. Tail-clutch.”

  Wherever you looked, condensation gleamed, trickled. Keeping her almost dry was a full-time job, and there was plenty of other maintenance as well, so if Steep could lend a hand now it would make life a lot easier.

  Every time Setter’s stern rose, X-12’s bow was wrenched upward. But Setter was rolling as well as pitching, so the imparted motion was lateral as well as vertical. As it continued hour after hour, day and night after day and night, it caused a degree of strain and discomfort that made you hate that thing up there—to a point where for an interval of peace you could have crawled for’ard and wound the handle that would slip the tow …

  Ozzie Steep’s conflicting feelings showed in his pale, ginger-stubbled face. He wanted to be doing his job, and it shamed him that he was not, but he also knew Gimber was right. Gimber guessing, meanwhile, at how anyone would be after such a period of chronic sickness: you’d feel hollow inside, weak and shaky … He shouted, with his eyes on the depthgauge and the bubble, “She’ll be diving tomorrow. It’ll be smooth-going, then, and you’ll be stronger, too. It’s not your fault, Ozzie, nobody’s blaming you.”

  It would be a lot easier and far less uncomfortable once Setter was dived for the approach to the Norwegian coast. But Gimber doubted whether he’d let Steep have charge of the boat even then. Not unless he got himself together very rapidly. This was no job for a man operating at half-strength. In the immediate situation, this crew’s lives depended on the man in the first lieutenant’s seat, and in the longer term one eighth of the operation’s chances of success rested in the same pair of hands. Just as much as in the boat’s commanding officer’s.