Two seamen had been allowed home because of the air raids, One had lost his mother in a hit-and-run raid near London. The seaman was nineteen, but had become the man of the house when his father had been killed at Dunkirk. The other had lost his wife. She had been caught when the bus carrying her home from an aircraft factory had jolted over an unexploded bomb.
Buck had gone off on a lone fishing trip, leaving a telephone number where he could be reached. One of the depot ship’s officers had remarked that the inn to which the number belonged was most attractive. As was the landlord’s wife. More to the point, the landlord was in Ceylon with the R.A.F.
But as is the way with sailors, most of them remained close by the ship. After craving for leave and cursing all and sundry because of the lack of it, they restricted their runs ashore to the naval canteen, two pubs and the somewhat primitive hospitality of a nearby farm, where it was rumoured the owner manufactured his own ‘juice’.
A twenty-year-old stoker named John Willard went ashore on local leave with no intention of returning at all. His desertion cast a pall of gloom over the rest of the company, spoiling their well justified pride in what they had achieved together.
Simeon had said of the deserter, `He must be caught and brought back. I don’t care how they do it. I don’t give a bloody damn if some redcap blows his stupid brains out!’
The young stoker’s home was in Newcastle, but he was picked up by two officers of the S.I.B., who had been warned to watch out for him, within fifty miles of the loch.
It was never healthy to keep a man aboard a submarine who tried to desert. There was too much scope for wilful damage or careless inattention when a man hung under a cloud like that. But again, he had to agree with Simeon. It was equally unsafe to let the man pass through the usual channels of court-martial and punishment. In a detention barracks, and afterwards in any ship or harbour where he was sent, the aggrieved stoker might blurt out the secret, or even part of it, which would then filter through to other, hostile ears.
The stoker was brought back to the Guernsey, handcuffed to his escort and guarded by two plainclothes men from the S.I.B. Marshall watched the sorry little procession as it was assisted from the guardboat and wondered what he should say to the man. It was a strange feeling. For once he could do or say practically what he liked. Browning had told him so. Simeon had added his own signature to the report of the man’s arrest.
As he sat in the borrowed cabin Marshall considered his new situation. His role, his command, even his company were on the secret list, restricted to a mere two or three hundred people. In a war which involved many millions they were pretty good odds. To the enemy U-192 was written off, one more victim of the Atlantic battle. In the Navy’s official records she did not exist. Marshall and his men were listed merely Naval Party so-and-so on special duties. Top Secret. It could have meant anything.
But in reality he commanded a submarine and was responsible for real people. Stoker John Willard was one of them.
As he sat at the littered desk Simeon stepped into the cabin and slid the door behind him. As impeccable as usual, his face was set in an impatient frown.
`You going to see this chap now?’ He threw his oakleaved cap on to a chair and groped for a cigarette.
Marshall nodded. `Yes. My Number One’s still on leave. The navigator will deal with it.’
Devereaux would like that. The second time he had been called to act as first lieutenant because of Gerrard’s absence.
Simeon blew out a stream a smoke. ‘Devereaux seems a good type. Proper background. Makes a change these days.’
Marshall sighed. It was hard to stay calm, to remain uninvolved with Simeon’s likes and dislikes.
`By the way,’ Simeon was peering through a saltstained scuttle, his eyes reflecting the grey water below. `You’ll be shoving off in about two days time. Your orders will be arriving later this afternoon. Just the bare facts of course. I’ll fill you in on details.’
Marshall was about to answer when there was a tap at the door and Devereaux stepped over the roaming, his features urbane as he reported, `Prisoner and escort, sir.’ He glanced at Simeon without any change of expression.
Through the open door Marshall saw Starkie, a sheet of plywood under his arm, pinned to which were the details of the stoker’s crime. The coxswain looked slightly rumpled, as if he had just been called from his bunk.
`Very well. Remember what I told you. This is not a trail, Pilot.’
Devereaux straightened his cap. ‘As you say, sir.’
The stoker was duly marched in and stood between his escort and the coxswain while the latter rattled off the date, time and place of the offence, where he was arrested. None of it seemed to have any effect on the prisoner, nor was it possible to picture him as a deserter.
Willard was small and round-faced, looking even younger than his years. Whenever he had noticed him in the past Marshall had seen him as one more of Frenzel’s scurrying, boiler-suited mechanics, usually covered in grease and oil. More part of the machinery than an individual person. Now, in his best uniform, a gold-wire propeller on one sleeve, he presented the perfect picture of innocence and vulnerability.
‘What do you want to tell me, Willard?’ Marshall kept his voice calm. Willard looked as if he might crack if anyone shouted at him.
`Say, Sir? What should I say?’ He shuffled his feet. ‘I mean, sir, what-‘
Starkie who was holding, the prisoner’s cap, snarled, ‘Stand still! Answer the captain! ‘Old yer ‘ead up!’
By the scuttle Simeon breathed out noisily, the sound like an additional sign of their displeasure.
Devereaux said smoothly, ‘Just tell the captain why you tried to desert.’
They all waited.
Willard was staring at some point just above Marshall’s right shoulder, his face twisted into a mask of concentration.
‘I dunno what to say, sir. How to begin.’ His chin trembled slightly as he added, ‘It’s me mother, sir.’
Marshall dropped his gaze to the desk. `Your divisional officer, Lieutenant Frenzel, speaks well of you. You’ve not been in trouble before. If your mother is sick you should have come to one of your officers and-‘
Willard was speaking very quietly, as if he had not heard a word. ‘Me dad’s a prisoner-of-war, sir. He was taken at Singapore. Only heard last year. We all thought he was dead. When I was on me last long leave before I was drafted here, sir, I went home.’ He swallowed hard. `She was-‘ He tried again, `She was with this bloke.’
Marshall said, `All right, Cox’n. You and the escort can fall out.’ He looked at Devereaux. `You too.’
The door closed behind them and Willard looked at Simeon, then at this own wrist as if expecting to see the handcuff still there.
Then he said, `There are two other Geordies in the crew, sir. I mean chaps from Newcastle. We all joined up together. They know me mother. If they ever found out she was….’
Marshall wished Simeon would go with the others. He asked. ‘Is that why you went home!’
The stoker nodded jerkily. `She wrote to me, sir. This bloke had been knocking her about. Threatened to carve her if she told anyone. He’s a big bloke, with several mates, too. He’s been living off her, you see. Put her on the game.’
Marshall looked up, seeing the agony on Willard’s face, the disgust and the pity. It was all there, like the pathetic determination which had taken him south to put matters right.
He asked gently, ‘What did you hope to do?’
‘All this training we’ve had, sir.’ He took half a pace forward but recovered himself. ‘I’ve never been no good in a scrap, but those commando blokes taught me how, sir.
How to fight dirty, to win. The only sort of fight those bastards understand!’
The telephone jangled on the desk, making the stoker gasp with alarm.
Marshall snatched it up. `I said no calls!’
But it was Browning. He was speaking very quietly.
`Sorry ab
out this. Is Simeon still with you?’ Marshall said, `Yes, sir.’
`How’s it going?’
Marshall glanced at the stoker. He was shaking badly and his eyes were bright with tears. Anger and humiliation perhaps. Or the edge of despair at this sudden interruption.
`Fair, sir. Could be a lot worse.’
Browning coughed. `Bit awkward. I’ve got a call on the ship’s line from the base. Personal. For you.’ A pause. `Can you take it? I’m afraid it must be now.’
The phone crackled as Browning transferred the call. Then a woman’s voice said, `I want to speak with Lieutenant Commander Marshall, please.’
`This is Marshall,’ He kept his eyes on the closed door, hearing her quick intake of breath despite the bad line.
`Steven. This is Gail.’
Marshall shifted his gaze very slightly. The young stoker was swaying from foot to foot, his face like chalk. Simeon was standing by the same scuttle, brushing a speck of dust from his cap. He did not seem to have realised what was happening.
`Well?’
‘Roger’s going to ask you to come over to the house.’ She spoke quickly, as if afraid he was going to hang up. `I knew you’d make some excuse not to come, so I thought if I-if I said I wanted you to….’
Marshall cleared his throat. `Right.’ What the hell was he saying? `That will be fine.’ He put down the phone.
Simeon said sourly, `Browning again? Can’t it wait?’
Marshall looked at the stoker. `You’ve been a bloody fool, do you know that? You were going to pick a fight with some local tough and probably cut his throat into the bargain. What the hell good would that do for you or your mother?’
Willard said in a whisper, `Had to do something, sir.’
`Right now I’m depending on you, Willard. Your place is here, amongst your friends, people who rely on you as you have been made to do on them.’
He was only half listening to his own words. Why had she called him like that? Taking the risk of rousing Simeon’s suspicion and worse.
He continued, `I’ll get the welfare people to check up on your story. If it’s true, I’ll do what I can, or rather the Navy will. If not, I’ll see you stand trial. But either way, I want you here, under my command, right?’
‘Yessir.’ Willard gaped at him incredulously. `Thank you very much, sir.
`You’ll be confined to the depot ship until otherwise ordered. Fall out.’
The stoker turned and almost tripped over the coaming as he stumbled through the door.
Sirneon opened his cigatette case. `Bloody hell. His mother’s on the game and he wants to save her! I suppose he’s afraid she’ll have half the jacks from the Home Fleet banging on the door next time he’s on leave!’
`Is that what you think?’ Marshall leaned back in his chair, watching him curiously. `I was trying to see our last patrol as it must have looked to that young stoker. His first-ever action. It was probably hell in the engineroom when the supply boat blew up. Like a volcano.’
`So what? We’ve all been through it.’ Simeon sounded indifferent.
`He must have come back full of it. Then he found that letter waiting for him. All round him his friends were writing to their families, mothers mostly, with a company as young as this one. How do you think he felt?’ He stood up, suddenly sick of Simeon. Of the land. `What would you have felt?’
Simeon raised his hands. `Fair enough! Keep your hair on! It’s your pigeon anyway.’ Then he said in a matter-of-fact tone, `Come to dinner tonight.’
Just as he had been planning to refuse, the answer came out equally firmly. `Thanks, sir. I will.’
`Good,’ Simeon walked to the door, `Any priests in your family?’
Marshall smiled. `Not as far as I know.’
`You surprise me.’ Then he was gone.
Marshall sank down on the chair again. How easily he became riled. He smiled to himself. Getting past it. He wrote a short note on Willard’s folder and closed it. What did it matter what happened to Willard’s mother? They were stuck with him no matter what his reason for trying to desert. In the war they were trying to win why did any individual count any more?
Devereaux stepped into the cabin. `Instructions, sir?’
He pushed the folder towards him. `Welfare people.’
Devereaux grimaced. `Great.’
`I suppose it is. People do matter, you know. In the long run.’
He stood up and walked out of the cabin, Devereaux staring after him with unusual astonishment.
Marshall studied himself in the cabin mirror for several seconds. Despite a steward’s efforts, his best uniform still showed a few creases in the wrong places. Where it had lain folded in a metal trunk for far too long. But at least it did not feel damp, and the fresh shirt added the right touch of luxury.
`All set?’ Simeon appeared in the doorway swinging his cap negligently in one hand. `That’s better. You look a proper hero!’ He stepped into the cabin. `Or as Buster would have it, a real submariner!’
Marshall smiled dryly. `Two a penny around here, I should imagine.’
`We’d better get moving then. These roads, as they are laughingly described, are bad after dark.’
Together they made their way to the upper deck and then into a waiting motor boat. The sky was very dark but without cloud. It would be a fine day tomorrow, Marshall decided. The first feel of proper spring.
Their shoes rang hollowly on the wooden pier, and Marshall realised with a start that he had hardly set foot ashore since taking command. He had certainly not been outside the base area.
A well-polished car was throbbing at the end of the pier, and a seaman stepped out, holding the door for Simeon to enter the driving seat.
Simeon waited.for Marshall to get in and then called to the seaman:
`Give her a good polish again tomorrow!`
The rating bobbed his head. `Aye, aye, sir!’
Simeon let in the clutch and said evenly, `I always have the car brought to the pier. Saves groping about amongst the others.’
You would. Marshall watched the shielded headlights swinging across hurrying figures, sentries and barbed wire. Simeon had spoken to the sailor like a personal servant. Or the hall porter of a good hotel. As everywhere else, it seemed he had his ‘life well organised.
Once past the gates Simeon pressed on the speed. Again, it was with a practised recklessness, cutting bends, making dark, anonymous figures jump aside for safety. The car was a good one. Expensive.
`It’s not much of a house. But I got the admiral to lend me one of his chefs. The food’s palatable but I’ll be glad to get somewhere civilised again.’ He swore as an army lorry hurtled past in the opposite direction, the driver yelling into the headlights. Simeon muttered,
`Bloody pongos 9’
The journey took about half an hour. During the whole time Simeon hardly stopped talking. About his work with the Intelligence services, his general views of the war, many of them openly critical of both Government and High Command. Marshall was surprised at his frankness, especially in view of their first meeting. Perhaps Simeon regarded him as a mobile extension of his own ideas and strategy, or part of some wider experiment which he had not so far completed. Several times he mentioned important names, men who appeared only in newspapers as far as Marshall was concerned. If he was boasting Simeon gave little sign of it. It was his world, the arena for power and influence.
They shot through a wide gateway and slithered to a halt beside some parked cars. Simeon consulted his watch. `Took longer this time. Must drive faster in future.’ He glanced quickly at Marshall. `Let’s go inside.’
Marshall followed him through a heavy, studded door. It was curious the way Simeon had attached importance to his driving skill, his ability to reach here in so short a time. More importance, or so it seemed, than his place in affairs. within the Service. Did it really matter, he wondered, and did Simeon secretly envy him for what he had seen and done in his own world of close combat?
; It was a very pleasant house, comfortably furnished. Lived in. A log fire burned cheerfully in an open grate, and the room to which Simeon guided him gave off an air of rural prosperity.
`Few others for dinner, I’m afraid. Can’t be helped.’ Simeon gestured to a cabinet. `Mix yourself something. I’m going to wash.’ He added, `Not like you. Didn’t get time before I left the Guernsey.’
Marshall smiled grimly. It was just as if Simeon always had to add his little rider. To prove that he was the busy one. A man in constant demand.
He opened the cabinet and regarded the span of bottles with surprise. No shortages here. He selected some malt whisky and half filled a glass. He found that he needed it more than usual. It could turn out to be a tense evening.
A door opened behind him, and he turned, the words ready on his lips. But it was a complete stranger. Not Gail.
She was dressed in a tweed skirt and plain black jersey. In the soft lamplight and the flickering log fire Marshall thought she looked tired, irritated perhaps at his being in the room.
`I’m sorry.’ She picked up a magazine and dropped it again. `I did not know anyone was here.’
She had a faint accent. French possibly.
He said, `I’m Steven Marshall. Let me be the one to apologise.’
He watched her as she moved to a chair. Very easily and lightly. Like a cat. She had short dark hair, it was probably black, he thought, and her eyes, which were large and partly in shadow, seemed very steady. Almost too steady.
She said, ‘Chantal Travis.’ Then she smiled. It was grave but managed to light up her face nevertheless. `My home was in Nantes.’
She crossed her legs and leaned back against the cushions. Relaxing appeared to be difficult for her. She seemed to be listening, and only half with him.
`Are you staying here?’ He hesitated, seeing her hands clench slightly. They were small. Well shaped. `I don’t mean to be nosy.’
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