by Alan Evans
He turned, but Smith called after him, “You’re quite determined. Why?”
Morris paused with rain dripping from the peak of his cap as he stared down at his boots. He had borrowed someone’s trench-coat and it was too big for him. He said, “Because there must be something there. Bill, my observer, saw something. So — I suppose it’s for him. If I don’t do it then he was just — wasted.” He looked up at Smith. “D’ye see, sir?”
Smith nodded. Morris said, “I thought you would.”
Smith watched him trudge away across the pave then turned and boarded Sparrow.
* * *
Late that same evening, the 9th of July, Sparrow had taken on ammunition and coal; the signs of the latter were hosed away and the rain helped, falling steadily and bringing dusk early as Sparrow slipped, moved out into the channel and headed towards the sea and her U-boat sweep off the Nieuport Bank. Smith, huddled in oilskins on her bridge, listened to the jaunty notes of Galt’s mouth-organ and watched the low, black shape of a CMB slide out from the Trystram lock ahead of them and turn seawards. The man at her wheel, also in oilskins, stood very tall in the cockpit and Smith thought it might be the American, Jack Curtis. But the light was going, the rain driving between, and the CMB hauled rapidly away and out of sight. When Sparrow’s stem lifted and dipped to the sea in the Roads there was still light to seaward, a greyness on the horizon and he could make out the low, fat bulk of the disabled Marshall Marmont where she lay at anchor with the other monitors. She was due to be towed into the dockyard for engine repairs. Garrick would see to it.
Sparrow picked her way through the shoals off Dunkerque and stole up the West Deep, a dark ship on a dark sea with the night and the rain folding her round. Smith said quietly, “Mr. Sanders.”
“Sir?”
“Eyes skinned and ears pricked. Go around and rub it in.” And Dunbar added, “Here are my keys. Unlock the small arms and issue ’em.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Sanders disappeared from the bridge. Because Sparrow was sneaking into the enemy’s backyard and ever since Evans’s men in H.M. Destroyer Broke had fought hand-to-hand with the crew of a German destroyer in the Straits of Dover, small arms had been issued when action seemed likely.
Sanders’s departure made a tiny bit more room on the bridge, crowded anyway with Smith and Dunbar, Gow hanging over the wheel, the signalman, the bosun’s mate at the engine-room telegraphs, look-outs, the crew of the twelve-pounder. Sparrow’s crew was at action stations. Nieuport showed soon on the starboard bow and steadily drew abeam. Dirty night or no, they could see the town as a flickering glow against the low clouds and the sullen rumbling of the guns came to them across the sea. It fell behind as Sparrow fractionally altered course and headed farther out, running steadily, quietly through the night with only the low drum-beat of the engines.
Smith had told them where they were headed and why, that they were to hunt U-boats in the waters off Nieuport and north to Ostende and every one of them knew that ‘hunt’ was a double-edged word and Sparrow could become the prey. And they knew that there were German destroyers based at Ostende and Zeebrugge, big boats and faster than Sparrow. Sparrow’s only hope was to surprise a U-boat running on the surface because, with no reason to submerge, she could cruise faster and more economically on her diesels. But even a surfaced U-boat was hard to spot while Sparrow was a big, tall target and her smoke made her taller still.
Dunbar grumbled, “Black as the inside of your hat. More like winter than high summer.” The rain had stopped but there was a chill dampness in the air, the clouds hanging low. There would be more rain. He grumbled but he knew very well that the last thing they wanted was a fine night.
Sanders was back on the bridge. He muttered uneasily, “Couldn’t see a battleship in this, never mind a submarine.”
So it was no surprise that they almost ran her down. They were so close to her that the look-out’s yell of “Dead ahead! Boat —” formed part of a chorus.
Dunbar at the same instant rapped, “Port ten!”
And Smith: “CMB! Hold your fire!”
Sparrow’s stem swung away even as it seemed to hang over the CMB and then the destroyer swept past her. She lay only feet away and they saw a blur of faces aboard her, a man crouched behind each of the Vickers machine-guns she carried, one forward, one aft. She rocked to Sparrow’s bow-wave and then to her wash as Sparrow drew past her.
Smith said, “She’s stopped. Probably in trouble. Turn and close her.”
Sparrow continued in her turn, came around as Dunbar ordered, “Slow ahead both.” The engine-room telegraphs clanged and Sparrow slowed. They searched the darkness for the CMB, lost now, but — “Port beam, sir.” The look-out pointed and there she was, still rocking. Sparrow crept down to her.
“Stop both,” ordered Dunbar. Sparrow lay about ten feet away but drifting slowly down on the CMB. Smith saw that instead of torpedoes she carried a dinghy lashed on over the chutes. A party were already in Sparrow’s waist hanging fenders over the side to protect the CMB’s fragile hull. As the gap closed, the men forward and aft aboard her threw lines that were caught and she was drawn in alongside. It was CMB 19.
Smith peered at her, lifted the megaphone and called, “Mr. Curtis?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes, sir. Can I come aboard?”
“Yes.”
Smith slid down the ladder to the iron deck and walked aft to meet him. Curtis stank of petrol and oil and his face was smudged as if he’d drawn a dirty hand across it. He was naked except for his cotton drawers and his hair was plastered wetly to his skull. He was breathing heavily. “Sir! Am I glad to see you. We’ve fouled both our screws. Ran across a whole mess of wreckage, timber, with a trailing wire. The wire’s wrapped around and around them. Me’n the engineer, we’ve been over the side working on it but it’s nowhere near free.”
Smith said, “All right. We’ll tow you.”
“Thank you, sir, but it’s not that simple.” He hesitated, glanced around at the surrounding seamen and said, “Can I talk with you privately, sir?”
Smith blinked. “If it’s essential. But I don’t want this ship lying stopped any longer than she’s got to be. For obvious reasons.”
“Yes, sir. Only take a minute and it is essential.”
“Come on.” Smith strode quickly aft until they were clear of the party in the waist. “This will have to do.”
“Dandy, sir. Fact is, we’re on detached duty and I understand it’s Intelligence. That’s all. Our orders are to pick up a party from the beach north of Ostende. There’s a definite time and it’s getting close. We can’t make it, but I think somebody has to.” He stared at Smith. “They’ll be waiting.”
“What time?”
“Twenty minutes after midnight.”
Smith peered at his watch. It was 11.32. He snapped, “Show me on the chart,” and hurried to the chart-table abaft the first funnel.
Midshipman Lorimer was stooped under the hood of the charttable, recording their course. Smith dislodged him without ceremony and with Curtis at his side peered at the chart. Curtis picked up a pencil. Water dripped from his hair on to the chart and he swore softly and wiped at it with his hand. He used the ruler, measuring carefully and drew a neat cross on the chart.
“That’s the spot, sir. I landed them there last night.”
Smith saw it lay just south of the area of woodland at De Haan about forty miles from Dunkerque and fifteen from Sparrow now.
Curtis said, “It’s a bit tricky but it worked out right last night. The idea was we should cruise about a mile off-shore. Two lights would be shown. I was told they were to be set up by a couple of people, farmers maybe, banging lanterns in their barns so they’d be seen at sea and nowhere else. We were to get the lights in line and run in on that bearing real slow and quiet. When we were close inshore we were to wait for a signal. They tell me the Fritzes patrol the shore and we had to wait till somebody flashed a
n A and that meant the patrol had passed. We got the signal and landed them in the dinghy, then hauled out. The same schedule goes for tonight. The party we had to collect will flash an A when the coast is clear and then we were to take them off in the dinghy — the CMB’s too noisy to run right in. But the timing is very important. The two lights to give the bearing will only be shown for fifteen minutes. They daren’t risk any longer. So — whoever goes to make the pick-up has to be cruising on station at twenty after twelve. From then he’ll just have fifteen minutes to pick up the lights and run in. And it’s got to be done quietly. There are shore batteries at Ostende and light guns at De Haan and all down the coast and —”
Smith snapped irritably, “I know that, damn it!”
“Sure.” Curtis pushed his hair back from his eyes. “Sorry, sir.”
“How often have you done this?”
“This is the first time. I guess maybe it’s the first time it has been done. I asked why and got told it was none of my damn business, but they did say the weather had been bad for flying people in and two of them meant two aeroplanes or two trips. And that there was someone able to get in and organise the reception committee so I didn’t have to worry.” He laughed shortly at that. “But that’s all I know.”
Someone able to get in? Maybe a neutral, a Dutchman whose business took him frequently into Belgium, who could arrange for the lights to be lit and the boat to be met, if it came, when the weather was right? It was a possible explanation but only that. And it was not Curtis’s business, nor Smith’s.
He stared at the chart, already seeing the problems, planning. “Anything else? A challenge? Passwords? And how many in the party?”
“Two, sir. And the challenge is ‘Sword-bearer’ and the answer ‘Nineteen’. And one of the people is —”
“What?” Smith spun round from the chart. “Sword-bearer!”
Curtis glanced at him, startled. “That mean something to you, sir? Are you involved in this already?”
Smith took a breath. “I didn’t think so.” Sword-bearer. Schwertträger. It couldn’t be coincidence. He pushed out from under the hood and said, “We’ll try to do it.”
Curtis looked relieved. He said, “I’m obliged, sir. I feel real bad about it, those people hanging on.”
“Not your fault. Just bad luck.” Smith eyed him. “I don’t want to tow you now because I’ll be in a hurry.”
“Don’t worry about us, sir.” Curtis started to edge aft. “We’ll clear those screws. You want us to follow on then?”
“No.” The CMB would arrive too late to do any good and might get in the way if Sparrow had to fight or run and both were likely. “You can do no more. As soon as you get under way, head for home. Now get along.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Smith saw him start aft and himself turned back to the charttable and laid off the course himself, checked it, showed it to Lorimer then ran forward. As he climbed on to the bridge he saw the CMB drifting away, Curtis already crouched in her stern by the dinghy there, waiting to go down into the sea again as soon as Sparrow pulled away and her wash had cleared them. Smith remembered Curtis had been about to tell him something. “One of the people is…” But whatever it was, it was not important enough to delay because every second counted. He ordered, “Course is six-five degrees! Revolutions for twenty knots!”
Dunbar ordered, “Starboard ten! Steer six-five.”
Gow acknowledged, “Steer six-five degrees, sir!”
The engine-room telegraphs clanged and Dunbar spoke into the voice pipe. “Revolutions for twenty knots.” Sparrow’s screws turned, slowly, then gradually the beat of the engines quickened. The CMB was left tossing astern of them.
Gow reported, “Course six-five degrees, sir.”
Smith turned on Sanders and Dunbar. “We’re going to take some people off the beach.” Dunbar only grunted but Sanders’s mouth opened in surprise. Smith told them Curtis’s orders then went on: “I want the whaler ready to slip and I want two or three extra hands along.” If they were discovered there might well be casualties and extra hands would be needed then. “Boat’s compass and torches. Small arms for everybody. That means revolvers with an empty chamber under the hammer and safetycatches on.” He paused to take a breath and saw Sanders staring at him, swallowing with excitement. Smith went on, “I’ll go in the whaler with Lorimer. Tell Buckley to come along as well. We’ll need a buoy to rendezvous on. I want a boat anchor slung below a grating. On the top of the grating lash an empty oil drum with a crutch hanging inside on a length of twine. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Sanders looked disappointed. Had he hoped to be going in the whaler? But Dunbar would have need of him.
“Get on with it, then.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Sparrow was running near twenty knots now, the wind plucking at them on the bridge and her engines pounding away, thick smoke rolling astern of them. They would make an easily-seen target but that was a risk that had to be taken. Curtis had said that time was important and it would be a close-run thing at twenty knots. Less would not do.
They raced on through the night and the report came up from where young Lorimer was hunched over the chart. “Ostende on the starboard beam.”
No doubt it was but there was nothing to see, only the lowering black clouds that merged in the darkness with the oily sea, a sea split white by Sparrow’s bow wave that spread out on either side of her in phosphorescent silver to be swallowed by the wash from her whirling screws.
With Ostende astern Sparrow turned at Smith’s order and closed the shore. “Half ahead both.” Sparrow slowed and the vibrating of the frame eased. And later, “Slow ahead.”
Sparrow was creeping on to her station but that station should have been taken by Curtis’s CMB and she only drew three feet. Sparrow was drawing nine and Dunbar had a man in the chains just below the bridge with the lead going. His voice came up to them: “Quarter less three!” Sparrow had barely sixteen feet of water under her. She was not running aground but it was close enough.
Smith nodded at Dunbar and he ordered, “Port five.” He stood by the compass as Sparrow’s head came round. “Steady…steer that.”
Smith said, “Look out to starboard. For two lights.” As if to frustrate them the darkness became impenetrable blackness as a squall swept over them, rain lashing down to drum on oilskins and wash over their faces as they strained their eyes into the night. Then the squall was gone but the darkness still hid the shore from them and nobody cursed that. Sparrow nudged steadily through the sea, a quiet ship now so they could have talked in normal tones but voices were hushed. The nearest of the German batteries at Ostende was barely three miles away to the south and the guns at De Haan no farther north. If Sparrow had ventured into the enemy’s backyard before, now she was at his back door. Only the night protected them from that cross-fire.
Smith looked at his watch again. It was twenty-one minutes after midnight and Sparrow must turn soon, creep back along her course…
“Abeam!” Dunbar snapped it as Smith saw it — no, them. Two lights, almost in line and still closing…? Yes.
Smith said, “Stop her when they’re in line! Stand by the whaler!” He saw the boat’s crew milling aft, the whaler swung out on the davits. He told Dunbar: “Patrol along this line. You won’t see that marker buoy we’re putting over, nor hear it, but we’ll find it. When we see you we’ll flash a K and that’s what you’ll answer. Take care you don’t run us down,” he finished dryly.
Dunbar grinned tightly. “I’ll watch it.”
“It shouldn’t take more than an hour. If we’re not back in two then clear out and head for home. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.” Not looking at Smith, both of them looking out to starboard at the twin pinpoints of light that were close together now — Dunbar ordered, “Stop both.”
The way came off Sparrow as Smith slid down the ladder to the deck and hurried aft. Stroke and bow were already in the whaler, st
anding between the falls. He saw that stroke was McGraw, the tough. He was right for this job. He heard Lorimer order, “Lower away,” and the boat was lowered into the sea and her crew dropped down into her. As Smith came up Lorimer held out a bundle and said breathlessly, “Pistol, sir. Checked as you said an’ Mr. Sanders checked all the others himself. Compass is aboard, and here’s a torch.”
“Very good.”
Lorimer went over the side and into the whaler and Smith stripped off his oilskin, belted the big Webley pistol around his waist and jammed the torch in his pocket. He could see in the stern-sheets of the whaler the grating with the lashed-on drum. He looked up at the bridge for Dunbar but instead saw Sanders there. Then Dunbar stepped out of the shadows to say gruffly, “Look out for yourself, sir.” Smith glanced at him, taken aback. Dunbar said, “You’ve done a hell of a lot for this gimcrack flotilla; you’ve made it work. You’ve done a lot for the men. And for me. I’m grateful.”
Smith could not see Dunbar’s face and hoped Dunbar could not see his. He muttered, “Rubbish!” And turned and climbed down into the whaler.
Dunbar shook his head and grinned to himself, said under his breath, “You hard-faced bastard.” And lifted a hand.
As the whaler pulled away from Sparrow, Smith remembered he had told Trist that Dunbar was a good officer. He had meant it. He knew as the boat turned to point at the unseen shore that he could depend on Dunbar. That was reassuring, as was the crouched bulk of Buckley, set solidly right forward in the bow.
Once clear of Sparrow they stopped briefly to drop the grating over the side and saw that it rode to its anchor. From inside the drum came the metallic clunk! as the sea set the crutch, an iron row-lock dangling inside it on a length of twine, swinging to bang against the side. Smith saw Sparrow was under way and heard the beat of her engines. He turned away from her. Lorimer had the helm and was peering into the binnacle of the boat’s compass. Smith asked, “Bearing?”
