But Chaldon St Mary had an inlet and faced the English Channel, and it was only sixty miles from the Cherbourg peninsula, German-occupied France, a few hours away by E-Boat or fast minelayer, much less by bomber or fighter.
As the old hands often remarked, ‘They’ll be back in bed with some French tart while we’re still reloading!’
The inlet itself had experienced the biggest and ugliest change. It was wired off from the main road, with armed sentries at gates which were rarely left open. There was even a small regulating office for the master-at-arms, the Jaunty, and his staff, which had once been the school’s bicycle shed. The school had become the wardroom, and the playground where local children had run and dreamed had been labelled Quarterdeck, where the White Ensign flew from its own mast. If you walked across the playground without saluting, you could expect no mercy.
The inlet was filled with various small craft, with what appeared to be a scrapyard at one end near the entrance, rusting hulls which had been cannibalized to refit others, a half burned-out landing vessel regularly used for experiments both above and below water, barbed wire running down and into the sea itself, where a long spit of stony sand was only visible at low water. There were deadly reminders, also, little boards with the skull and crossbones to warn of the minefield laid here at the outset, and a solitary cross, its identifying name long since washed away, where a sapper had put his boot in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was a fine and surprisingly clear day, the Channel blue-grey in the distance but an almost smoky green in deeper waters and the approaches to the bay. There were plenty of people about, loading and unloading stores, being inspected or receiving orders for some new exercise, and two dogs were chasing one another along the waterside, local or unofficially owned by some of the sailors; nobody questioned it. It was that sort of place.
A few turned to watch as a small, paint-spattered yardboat chugged past a trot of moored ex-fishing drifters awaiting refit or overhaul, and turned slowly towards the opposite shore.
The yardmaster, a civilian who had worked in and around the area for most of his life, eased the throttle, and watched the vessel moored across his course as it seemed to loom up and away from the disorder and scrap beyond.
He felt his teeth tighten around his unlit pipe and glanced at his companion. So many, and yet he never got used to them. Lieutenant Chris Foley, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, was on his feet, unaware of anything but the vessel ahead, a motor launch, one of the navy’s Light Coastal Forces. Not a motor torpedo boat or gunboat, which made up the sharp edge of coastal forces, the Glory Boys as they were disdainfully or enviously called by those less active, but a hard-used maid of all work. And she was his own command, had been for almost two years. It was still hard to believe.
The yardboat turned again, slowing even more. Giving him time.
One hundred and ten feet long with a low, compact bridge and slightly raked mast, he knew every inch of her. She mounted a small three-pounder gun forward and twin Oerlikon twenty-millimetre guns aft, with a third amidships. The MTB and MGB types might betray a gentle amusement, comparing this with their nightly raids and clashes in the Channel or off the Hook of Holland, in the thick of it, but together they had seen and done it all. Escorting furtive coastal convoys in the dead of night along these same coastlines, chasing up stragglers and exchanging angry signals and threats with masters who had been at sea all their lives. Picking them up when their luck ran out, and bomb or mine had taken its toll. And burying them, if it came to that.
She was so near now that he could pick out the familiar scars and scrapes along her wooden hull, which even the new coats of dazzle paint could not completely disguise. Her number, ML366, freshly painted also, stood out like a private welcome.
Her three-shaft Hall-Scott petrol engines could still give twenty-two knots; she had managed twenty-five with the wind up her backside, as they said, and against all the rest she could have been a millionaire’s personal yacht.
It was time. The yardmaster said, ‘Done all we could. Only four days, remember?’
He shook his head; the lieutenant hadn’t heard a word. Young and fresh-faced, he could smile more than some of them, and his men seemed to like him for it. And he had lasted longer than a lot of others he had met. Maybe that was it.
‘No sign of rot, then?’
The yardmaster grinned. He had heard. ‘Far as I could tell. Mahogany, though. Ripe as a pear if it gets the chance.’
They were alongside; two figures were waiting for him, and there was a fresh new ensign rippling from the gaff. He knew it, but it was still a surprise, even a shock. Harry Bryant, his Number One, had already left, promoted lieutenant and on his way to a course which would lead to his own command, a motor torpedo boat. It was what he had always wanted: he would be one of the Glory Boys after all.
They had been together for nine months. There were only twenty in ML366’s small company, and there was no room for secrets. You knew a man’s mind, his hopes, and too often his destiny. There were a few more sharing their cramped world now because of their new duties, the job as they called it. But without Harry Bryant it would not be the same. Even if it had to be, for all their sakes.
‘Welcome aboard, sir.’ It was Dougie Bass, the coxswain. A leading hand in fact, he ran the boat as if he had been born to it. In small craft you had to be competent in all kinds of tasks which extended far beyond the badge on a man’s sleeve or his rings of authority. Bass had once been a waiter on the railway, the crack Bournemouth Belle, where among other things he had chosen to become an excellent cook. The signalman had been a fairground attendant, when he had worked at all, and had learned to shoot for prizes to pass the time. He was a good enough bunting-tosser; but put him behind their twin machine-guns and he could show where he truly belonged. Foley had recommended him for a decoration after their last confrontation with the Luftwaffe. They were still waiting.
A gun boomed across the inlet, and they turned to look at the shore.
Bass studied his watch. ‘It’s over, then.’
There had been a ceremony of some kind; the establishment’s captain had gone to it, some of the top brass as well. The press, too; they seemed to love anything like that.
Commander John Critchley had been a legend, the man who had never seemed too busy or too tired to listen. And a full commander; even now, after four years of war, it was still rare to meet up with an R.N.V.R. officer in a brass hat. Really Not Very Reliable, they had scoffed in those early days. It was different now: the amateurs had become the true professionals. The regulars who had not kept up or refused to change had become very thin on the ground.
Foley could recall the moment exactly. The morning after the farewell party for Harry Bryant. The hangover. Trying to discover what had happened, seeing the face and remembering the man. The legend . . .
And the date. He could remember tearing it off the calendar in 366’s tiny hutchlike wardroom. September third. Four years exactly from the Sunday when war had been declared. Men had grown from boys in that time. An equal number had died. Commander John Critchley . . . He sighed and said, ‘We’d better move ourselves, ’Swain. The new boss is coming today.’
He walked towards the bridge, past the storage space for the ground mines they sometimes carried. It was not the time to worry about a change of leadership. That was vague enough anyway, with more than a dozen departments working in countermeasures. It had been something new for them, or maybe Critchley had made it seem that way.
And if he thought about it, Foley knew he had been lucky. He had seen and done more than most, right from the beginning when as a young subbie, newly appointed from the Supplementary Reserve, he had found himself in charge of a motor launch and on his way to Dunkirk. His total experience had been evening or sometimes weekend training, learning the mysteries of pilotage and navigation on well-worn charts, squatting around tables at the local reserve unit. Trying to read semaphore while somebody flagged signals from the chu
rch tower, or wondering what use it was discovering how to fix and unfix bayonets.
Dunkirk had changed all that. It was not fear he remembered, nor even the sense of helplessness and enormity. It was anger, and sometimes he could still feel it, even after all this time, when the actual scenes and events had become blurred, confused, like fragments of an old movie. The ceaseless attacks by enemy aircraft, while they had stared at the sky and prayed for the R.A.F. The unmoving queues of khaki on the beaches, if you could get near enough. Dying, broken ships everywhere; the navy had lost twenty-seven destroyers alone during the evacuation. The miracle, some had called it. But the little ships of Dunkirk were the true heroes. Pleasure launches like Foley’s, which had probably never been out of sight of land before, tugs and fishing boats, and the proud blue and white hulls of the lifeboat service, old pros and yachtsmen in anything that could stay afloat. There had even been a paddle-steamer, one of the many which had taken families on trips to Southend and Brighton in those impossible days of peace. Foley paused at the hatch coaming above the ladder. Familiar smells: the galley, the ever-lingering stench of petrol. They had been together so long they did not need to be reminded of the brutal difference between this and other boats that were diesel-powered. Here you could brew up in seconds: the notice No Smoking Abaft the Bridge was only for visitors.
But, for a moment, the picture returned. The paddle-steamer, stopped and slewing round in the current, only one paddle thrashing at the water until it, too, fell motionless.
It had been attacked, raked by enemy aircraft; even as they had drawn near Foley had seen one of them through his borrowed binoculars, climbing so effortlessly, and sharply defined against a patch of blue sky.
The stricken paddle-steamer had to be taken in tow, and he felt the same frustration as on that day. Hazy memories of heaving-lines, and rigging some kind of tow-line. The launch was not powerful, and his small crew of sailors had been snatched from the training intake at Portsmouth. They were willing enough, but looking to their officer for a solution.
The worst part had been the listing steamer. They were near enough to read her name, Worthing Queen, and see her decks crammed with soldiers. There had not been an inch of space for a man to walk. Some stood in tight groups, huddled against deck houses and broken equipment; others lay together where they could, staring at the sky. Some might have been dead; there was blood near one of the paddle-boxes, and the scars of an earlier air attack. Some of them had been fully dressed, and were wearing their steel helmets and carrying weapons of some sort. Others were half-naked, perhaps dragged from the sea after some other disaster.
Only one figure had stood out. A soldier standing upright on the old-fashioned, varnished wheelhouse, a Bren gun held almost casually, it had seemed, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He had watched the little launch, might even have thrown up a wave or a salute.
Someone had yelled, ‘The bastard’s comin’ back again, sir!’
Foley had walked to the boat’s only armament, an old American stripped Lewis gun, probably a relic from the Western Front and the days of Biggles.
And all the while he had been conscious, deafened if that were possible, by the utter silence. Just the throb of the boat’s engine and his own breathing. From the paddle-steamer with its helpless cargo of exhausted, beaten men, there was neither sound nor movement. And Foley had felt only anger.
He had heard the Bren first, sharp but brief; the magazine only held thirty rounds. Funny how that snippet of his peacetime training had remained; and the soldier had probably been hit anyway.
He had peered through the sight and felt the gun bucking wildly, the blurred arcs of the aircraft’s propellors and the stab of machine-gun fire matched only by the insane scream of its engines.
A long, long time ago now, but it had stayed with him. The luck, and a moment of pride. Nobody knew if he had even marked the plane. Some of the German’s fire had made a mess of the launch’s foredeck, to within a yard of where he had been standing, but the plane had not returned for another attack. He had watched it, low on the water, fading from view, smaller and smaller until it was gone altogether. He recalled one of his men thumping him on the back and stammering an apology for forgetting himself. Another had been shaking his fists at the sky and weeping.
But the old paddle-steamer had made him remember it, and the exhausted, despairing men who had seen this as their last and only chance of getting back to England. After the retreat through unknown and sometimes hostile countryside, the waiting and the attacks and the diminishing hopes, his lonely gesture of defiance and fury on their behalf had done it. As if they had been given new life, every man had seemed to be on his feet, cheering and waving, clinging to one another, some shouting wildly across the water towards the launch. Even those unable to stand had attempted to join in. And others, who would never stand again, had somehow shared it. It was not something he would ever forget. Or want to.
He was about to lower himself down the vertical ladder when he heard Bass call, ‘Boat comin’ alongside, sir.’ He sounded as if he was covering up a grin.
Foley turned and rested his palms on the handrails. He could even feel the faint tremble of machinery. One of the Chief’s generators, but it felt like 366’s own breathing. He shook himself. He had to be on top line today. They all must, with the new boss coming. And a regular officer, too, not like Critchley. Even he had somehow heard about the Dunkirk incident, had punched his arm and given his famous smile. Things might be different from now on . . .
The boat nudged alongside, Bass watching grimly until the rope fenders were in place.
The sub-lieutenant who climbed lightly aboard was almost what Foley had expected. He knew all that there was to know about 366’s new Number One. Nineteen years old, three months’ sea time in a clapped-out destroyer, a short course at H.M.S. Hornet, and now here. He looked even younger in his brand-new Number Fives, his reefer dragged off one shoulder by his respirator haversack.
He saluted. ‘Come aboard to join, sir. Sorry I was held up – lot of traffic on the road.’
Foley tried to push his thoughts aside. Harry Bryant was gone. It was the way of the Andrew. Never look back.
He thrust out his hand. ‘Glad to have you. I’ll put you in the picture while you settle in.’ The subbie’s name was Tobias Allison. A bit of a mouthful, he thought. ‘What do you like to be called? This is a small ship, so we’d better get it right from the start.’
Allison stared at him and then smiled. ‘“Toby” suits me, sir.’
Foley glanced over his shoulder. ‘Have Number One’s gear taken below, ’Swain!’
He could almost hear Dougie Bass saying, ‘Old Chris’ll soon get him sorted out!’
He smiled. It had been a long time. Old Chris . . . Foley was twenty-five.
He led the way down to the wardroom, which his own little cabin adjoined. Foley had served in two small craft before 366, and was accustomed to the lack of space; his cabin, like an enlarged cupboard, was a luxury compared with the others. He saw Allison’s eyes moving everywhere, and wondered what he was thinking. An elderly destroyer on the East Coast run would seem like a cruiser by comparison.
‘I’ll show you around myself as soon as I can. I’ve got to hang about until I know what’s happening. We have a new senior officer taking over today.’ He smiled at the subbie’s uncertainty. ‘I think!’
It was strange for the boat to be so still, as if she were listening. The W/T office which was just through the door was silent, without the usual stammer of morse or the crackle of some garbled broadcast. And music, sometimes; it was vaguely unsettling to hear German voices.
But they had been given three days’ leave, more to allow a quick overhaul than for anyone’s personal benefit.
Foley came from Surrey. A long way there and back in wartime, but it was worth it, and his mother and father were always glad when it happened. Almost grateful, he sometimes thought.
Allison had removed his new cap; he had
fair, unruly hair, and looked even younger without it.
He said, ‘We heard about Commander Critchley often enough, especially at Hornet. When I got to Dorchester I was told about his death.’ He hesitated and looked around at the small space they would share, perhaps understanding for the first time how his life had changed.
Foley said slowly, ‘It was a bit of a shock to everybody. He made quite a mark in our sort of work – everywhere he went, really.’
He heard someone bringing Allison’s cases down the ladder, whistling tunelessly. Another face: Titch Kelly, seaman gunner, a Scouse from Liverpool who had managed to get into more trouble than most in the three years he had served in the navy. He had somehow managed to find himself in the notorious Detention Barracks at Canterbury, and had survived. As a final chance or out of sheer desperation, somebody had accepted his request to join the new Special Service, risks or no risks. The drafting office had jumped at the idea, and Titch Kelly had not faced a defaulters’ table since.
If he had not been away on that brief leave, Foley wondered if he might also have gone to the memorial service. There would have been some familiar faces, friends too, the ones you tried not to worry about in case it was their turn. Or yours.
But mostly it would be ceremonial. Showing respect. Not like the usual funeral: the burial march, the grim faces, the eventual firing party. The worst part was seeing the parents, if they were present. He thought suddenly of this last visit to his home in Surrey. How old they had looked. Like those others . . . Critchley had no parents, and in any case there would be nothing left to bury. There never was, with a beast.
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 3
