Twelve Seconds to Live (2002)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He heard Bass’s boots on the ladder. He did not even have to raise his voice.

  ‘Some of ’em are returnin’ now, sir. Look pretty smart too, like a bank ’oliday!’

  You never knew with 366’s killick coxswain if he was being serious or not. It was probably the best way to leave it.

  Foley said, ‘Go up and have a look,’ the slightest hesitation, ‘Number One.’

  He felt for the keys in his jacket pocket, but realized that Allison was still standing by the narrow table, his fair hair shining only inches below the deckhead light. He looked serious, even solemn. Vulnerable.

  He said, ‘I won’t let you down, sir. I wanted more than anything to be here, in a boat like this.’ He paused. ‘I’m ready.’

  It was strangely moving, and Foley tried to smile. ‘Shove off, Toby, and watch your step. They’re a good bunch, I’d not ask for better, but they have their difficult moments.’

  Surprisingly, Allison grinned.

  ‘The new officer, you mean, sir?’ He picked up his cap and the light glinted on the label inside. Gieves, not one of the cheap tailors which had sprung up around every base and barracks as soon as the recruiting had started. ‘I’m ready for that, too!’

  The curtain fell across the door and Foley glanced into his own cabin. A bunk, chart drawers underneath, a steel cupboard that still rattled at sea despite all the Chief’s efforts. Seagoing gear always within reach, oilskin and the faithful duffle coat, the cap with a badge so tarnished that it was almost green. And the scuffed seaboots, broken in at last and comfortable, but difficult to kick off in an emergency if you wore thick stockings. But it could be done: his others were on the bottom of the North Sea with the boat. It could be done.

  He picked up the folding picture frame. His parents in one, his young sister in the other. A little girl such a short while ago. Not any more. It was all his mother had been able to talk about. She was in love, with an airman she had met at some local dance for a fund-raising charity to help the disabled. A flier, apparently. His mother had been upset, even outraged.

  ‘A Pole! Not one of our boys, but a Pole!’ It had sounded almost obscene.

  He had spoken to his sister for only a few minutes before he had gone to the railway station. They usually got along very well, but this time he had been aware of the difference. It was all too common in families separated by war. His mother might have good reason to worry.

  Foley had had some experience with women, but only once had he felt something which had truly disturbed and excited him. She had found someone else. That, too, happened often enough.

  In love. Even his sister’s voice had changed. Lovers, more likely.

  He peered at his reflection in the little mirror. The same face, but visibly tired and strained. Because of the visit home, the long haul back here? He recalled Allison’s quiet determination. We were all like that.

  He pushed the thought away and returned to the adjoining compartment. He could almost see Harry Bryant slouched in his usual corner, with one of the terrible magazines he always seemed to find somewhere.

  It hit him like a fist. That day when the news had broken about Critchley, after the farewell party. Bryant had been trying to close an overfilled suitcase, and had turned his head to stare at him. There had been no smile that time, no shared joke.

  ‘Critchley? I always thought he was a shit! I never trusted him for a bloody minute!’

  Foley left the wardroom and went to the ladder. Soon he would be too damned busy to have time to brood.

  But Bryant’s words refused to leave him.

  ‘Almost there, sir.’

  David Masters came out of his thoughts with a jerk, his mind tired, or merely dulled by the car swinging this way and that, hedgerows or slate walls almost touching the side.

  ‘Thanks.’ He saw her gloved hands on the wheel, the effortless way she manoeuvred around a parked farm wagon. It was a powerful vehicle which had been sent to collect him, a Wolseley, someone’s pride and joy before the war, he had no doubt.

  He had seen her watching him in the driving mirror, the same way as she had greeted him after the ceremony. Formal, even distant; she was used to this sort of mission.

  It was cold: there was no heating in the car, and he could see little of her face above the woollen scarf and upturned collar.

  He had found it difficult at first to become accustomed to women in uniform around every naval base and establishment. Now it was impossible to imagine being without them, in offices, or working with coding and signals departments, in Operations rooms or at the daily grind of cooking in shore-based galleys. Always there to cheer when an escort returned from some dicey convoy when, perhaps, a U-Boat had been accounted for. Or watching in silence at the other returns, with the flag-covered bodies laid out on the deck.

  Masters moved his shoulders against the damp leather, recalling the ceremony. Many senior officers; even an admiral had come all the way from London. Bumper Fawcett had been there, but had made a point of keeping his distance apart from a brief, ‘Good turnout, what?’ and a searching gaze. No display of warmth which might be mistaken for favouritism. Without realizing it, he had come to know Bumper Fawcett’s set of rules.

  The car braked and he thought he heard the girl mutter something through her scarf.

  It was another farm truck. A big man in boots and heavy coat, probably the farmer, was pointing with his walking stick and speaking with three others. It was something else which had taken a lot of getting used to: they wore British battledress, which was marked with coloured patches to distinguish them as Italian prisoners of war. Working on the land where they were most needed, replacing men who had been called up or volunteered for the armed forces, they might even have taken part in the battles in North Africa.

  Things must be more promising if they were allowed to work in an area like this, so close to the sea. Did they accept it? Did they never think of escape? One of them was nodding and smiling at the old farmer, the others turned to stare at the car, and the girl behind the wheel.

  Masters said, ‘They look happy enough.’

  She let in the clutch and swung past the truck. ‘They get what they want around here, or so I’m told, sir.’ Angry, bitter, or just impatient. ‘Here it is, sir.’

  He saw open gates and a curved drive, a stone house with shutters, larger than most of those he had seen on the way. It had the usual shabby wartime look, the drive lined with weeds, the ground blackened by oil from parked vehicles. There was a van here now, with Royal Navy painted on the side, into which some ratings were loading boxes, while a petty officer stood nearby with a list, smoking a cigarette.

  The Wren said, ‘Your gear arrived this morning, sir. The P.O. steward took care of everything.’ She half turned as if to look at him, or the house. ‘His name’s Coker, by the way, sir. Long service, three badges.’ The scarf had slipped; she had a nice mouth. But she did not smile at her own concise summing-up of the man who obviously ruled these commandeered quarters, where Critchley had lived for some of the time.

  Masters felt the car door open. The working party stood in various poses of attention, the P.O. was saluting, the cigarette gone.

  ‘Lieutenant-Commander Masters, sir?’ The eyes moved briskly over him. ‘All ready for you, sir.’

  It was suddenly very quiet, apart from a wind through gaunt, leafless trees. The journey had taken less than ten minutes, but with the sea hidden by a rounded shoulder of hillside he could have been a hundred miles from it.

  She was out of the car too, reaching for his case and respirator. Beneath her jaunty cap with its H.M.S. cap tally her hair was very dark, almost black.

  The petty officer asked, ‘Got enough petrol, my girl?’

  She nodded without answering and looked at Masters.

  Dark eyes, too. Off for a run ashore; somebody’s girl, he thought.

  It was getting worse. Amongst total strangers, like losing contact on the field telephone at the moment of confrontation with a
mine . . .

  He said, ‘I didn’t catch your name, in all the rush.’

  ‘Lovatt, sir. Leading Wren.’

  He heard the sailors shuffling their feet, wanting to finish their work and go.

  ‘Going somewhere nice, I hope?’

  She reached for the door handle. ‘Dorchester, sir. Another passenger.’ She looked past him. ‘Petty Officer Coker is coming now.’

  It still would not fall into place.

  Then he heard himself say, ‘Lovatt. I knew someone of that name . . .’

  She was back in the car, the window wound down despite the keen wind.

  ‘My brother, sir. He was in Tornado.’ She let in the clutch, and the driveway was empty.

  The strident jangle of the telephone was like the scream of Action Stations, and for what seemed an eternity Masters was pushing at the bed as if he was trapped by something. And yet the lights were still on, the room exactly as it had been before he had fallen on to his side and closed his eyes.

  The table with the cigarette box, an ashtray with his filled pipe beside it, unlit, unsmoked. He could almost hear Bumper Fawcett’s words. I forgot. You’re a pipe man. The strange room, high-ceilinged, wallpaper faded and colourless in the harsh lights.

  He picked up the telephone and realized for the first time that he was fully dressed. The petty officer named Coker had wanted to provide a meal. Instead . . . He glanced at the decanter and empty glass on the bedside locker.

  He cleared his throat and peered at his watch. Who on earth would be calling now?

  He said, ‘Masters.’ The line was dead. They probably thought he was too tired or too drunk to answer.

  ‘There you are! Thought I’d get you in the end. Settle in, old chap?’

  Masters rubbed his eyes. It was impossible. It was Bumper Fawcett, at this ungodly hour.

  ‘You’ll get it from Operations shortly, but I thought you’d like it from me, what?’

  Masters straightened his back, waiting for the pain. There was none.

  ‘Operation Avalanche is a fact of life! The invasion of Italy has begun! It’s official!’ There were sounds in the background, and another voice, a woman. Masters stared across the room, through the door to an adjoining one.

  He had opened one of the tall, old-fashioned wardrobes, and been confronted by a complete uniform hanging there like a silent onlooker. He had not needed to see the three wavy rings on the sleeves, the decorations, and the oak-leaved cap neatly placed on the shelf above. There had been a smell of perfume too, although the house had been stripped of everything else, and he had wondered why Critchley’s uniform had been left behind. Until today he had never met Critchley’s wife, younger than he had expected, and accompanied by a Wren officer from the admiral’s staff in London, no doubt to keep her company, comfort her if need be. Otherwise she would have been the only woman at the service. She was still quite alone.

  A quick glance, a handshake, her fingers like ice, her face obscured by the hat and the veil. And she had lived here, in this commandeered house, been here when they had told her what had happened. Perhaps on this same telephone.

  ‘You still there? Good. Now listen. As soon as more reports of the landings come in, we’ll have a meeting. Things will move fast – the Germans are not going to like their Italian allies if, or rather when they cave in under the attacks!’

  Masters gazed at the window; there was a hint of grey around the blackout screen. He felt like death. Bumper must have the very top security rating if he could spill so much over the line.

  There was a click. The admiral was no doubt already ringing someone else.

  He put the receiver down slowly and considered it. Expected, and yet still a surprise. The campaign was spreading, and only two months after Sicily. The way back.

  He thought of all the faces he had seen today, the hands he had shaken. Some he had known since the earliest days, when he had taken his first instruction, almost cold-bloodedly, it seemed now. Officers drawn to the risk or the danger by the obscure call from the Admiralty, for a secret mission with the Land Incident Section. Some volunteered because they were bored with their appointments, others because they were too young and untrained to know any better. There were a few who had nothing more to live for.

  Was I one of those?

  Magnetic mines, growing more sophisticated and treacherous with every passing month, ruled their lives. The training done, there was always the first incident, the beast.

  A driving force, obsessive; Masters could feel it now, and wondered how he had survived, let alone found himself guiding others on the same dangerous course.

  It had become personal. His mind, his ears, his fingers not only against the weapon but a human being, somewhere, who had designed and set the beast into motion. A living thing, an entity.

  It was behind him now. It must be. For others, if not merely for himself.

  There were faces he did not know, yet. Ones who asked, The new boss, what’s he like? A man you could trust your life to? Or just another stranger? He touched the scar. No wonder the girl had been watching him in the driving mirror. Her eyes might have been saying, Why him, and not you?

  He strode to the window and dragged the screen aside. It was still dark, but he could discern the curve of the hill and, he thought, the ragged line of trees.

  And there were a lot of faces missing. Too many . . . Inexperienced, over-eager, careless. In most cases you could never know, unless by some last desperate call over the intercom. And even then . . .

  He thought of Critchley again, the abandoned uniform. Like a reproach. He had scanned a brief report, the discovery of the mine, a petty officer’s statement, how he had been surprised that such a senior officer had been sent to deal with the incident. The driver, who had described how he was told to take cover at the very beginning. Rear-Admiral Fawcett had pencilled in an aside to explain that Critchley had been at a meeting when he had been informed of the mine. An officer of the nearest Render Mines Safe group had been delayed in a car accident. Critchley must have acted on impulse. To showthem . . . Masters could hear him saying it.

  He leaned forward and felt the cold air through the glass. From this height he could see beyond the hill to a harder, darker line beyond. The sea.

  He heard someone moving about downstairs. Coker, the P.O. steward. Long service. Three badges. As mixed a collection of people as you could discover anywhere, to be welded together, to use all their experience in protecting and saving others, part of the ultimate weapon for victory.

  It’s up to you.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs, and the clink of crockery, and looked at the sea again.

  Me, and a few thousand others.

  He smiled, surprised that it came so easily, after so long.

  He was back.

  3

  Survival

  David Masters had been about to leave for Portland when the call had come through. At dawn that day there had been an air raid alert, common enough even when some of them proved to be false. Masters had heard the staccato bark of gunfire while he had been sitting on the edge of the bed in the room with its damp wallpaper. Not close, and it had not lasted for long.

  Captain Hubert Chavasse, who commanded the establishment at Chaldon St Mary, had been wary about it.

  ‘You were going to Portland anyway. Rear-Admiral Fawcett will be on the phone before another hour passes, I’ve no doubt about that, so perhaps you could let me know what’s going on!’

  Chavasse was a precise, if impatient, officer of the old school, abrasive when he considered it necessary. The inlet was littered with hoists and machinery, and surrounded by makeshift huts for the ratings, further disfigured by hastily built air raid shelters for these occasional hit-and-run attacks. But to him it was a naval establishment, and in his eyes it would stand against any other.

  It had been a solitary plane, spotted flying in from the Channel, low over the water, then climbing and turning above one of the beaches near the road
to Weymouth and the Bill. No bombs had been dropped, and there had been no reports of mines being laid in or around the bay.

  By a twist of fate the aircraft had been caught out by one of the army’s local mobile batteries, which had been formed to deal with similar individual attacks. The plane had been shot down. The army was dealing with it.

  Until the telephone call. Portland had sent a mine disposal team; the admiral had thought it necessary.

  Chavasse had said, ‘Just take a look, Masters.’ He rarely used first names. ‘No chances, right? Can’t afford to lose you at this stage!’ His short, barking laugh had followed Masters out to the waiting car.

  It had taken more than an hour to cover only a couple of miles; the road had been jammed with service vehicles which seemed to reach as far as the eye could see. Impatient military policemen, redcaps, on foot or motor cycles, were somehow managing to turn the traffic round on the narrow road and divert it through Dorchester.

  An air attack now and half the transport in southern England would be wiped out, Masters thought.

  He was not the only passenger. Paymaster Lieutenant-Commander Brayshaw was also going to Portland on a mission for Captain Chavasse. He was the captain’s secretary, and probably knew more about the organization, the efficiency or weaknesses of the establishment, than anyone else. Quiet and easy to talk to, he was doubtless just what Chavasse needed. Masters suspected he had been sent along to make sure that things remained under control.

  The car, the same big Wolseley, jerked to a halt, the tyres embedded in the roadside mud.

  ‘Up there, sir. I can see the turn-off.’

  It was even the same driver, cap tilted forward, hair black against her collar. Masters had heard that she had applied for a transfer to Plymouth, where she had originally been stationed, the day after his arrival. Five days ago. She was still here.

  Another redcap appeared and waved them around the last bend in the road where a barrier had been erected, and while other cars and lorries headed away for the diversion, the Wolseley was suddenly alone. Brayshaw wound down a window and peered at the sky. It was completely clear and blue, no vapour trails to betray aircraft, only the distant line of barrage balloons towards Weymouth, like basking whales in the hard sunlight.