Twelve Seconds to Live (2002)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He shut the window and shivered. ‘The old stable door policy, I see.’ Then, ‘What do you expect to find when we get there, David?’

  Masters had heard him asking questions in the makeshift wardroom. Not mere empty curiosity; he was genuinely interested. Perhaps the white cloth that separated the stripes of gold lace on his sleeve also separated him from the ones who went out to risk, and often to die.

  Masters watched the road curving again beyond the windscreen, the way her gloved hands controlled the wheel; one who was used to driving. Strange if you thought about it. It took so long to train drivers when there were more essential trades to learn that they were always asking for people who had already learned to drive, in that other world before the war. The leading Wren was one of them. He smiled to himself. He was not.

  He considered Brayshaw’s question and waited for the face to form in his mind: Lieutenant Clive Sewell, who seemed too old for his rank, and must have scraped through all the objections to achieve it. A serious, intelligent face, thinning hair, and a careful, deceptively hesitant manner of going about his work. He looked like a schoolmaster, which in fact he had been before joining the navy and volunteering for the misleadingly named Land Incident Section almost as soon as he had passed out of King Alfred as another Wavy Navy officer.

  They had met several times, had even completed part of the mine warfare training at Roedean together. A man you could trust with your life.

  He replied, ‘The plane might be a minelayer. A Junkers 188. Not used as such normally, but you never know. Clive Sewell will have a pretty good idea. Otherwise it would all have been tidied up by now.’

  He saw the driver’s hair catch on her collar as she turned slightly. Listening? Or keeping her distance? She had applied for a transfer back to Plymouth, a base where she would be too busy to remember. To blame.

  Brayshaw straightened his back and exclaimed, ‘Here they are!’ He seemed genuinely excited, free, for an hour or so, from Admiralty Fleet Orders, signals on every subject, inspections and official functions, and Chavasse’s daily routine eccentricities, of which apparently there were many.

  Another group of khaki figures and two parked jeeps, and, further along, a field ambulance, the red crosses very stark in the sunshine. Like blood.

  There were also blue uniforms. Something of a relief.

  Brayshaw said, ‘May not take too long, eh?’ He saw Masters’ hand move to the scar on his face. He knew quite a lot about Lieutenant-Commander David Masters: how he had turned his back on the sea and had thrown himself into the private, deadly world of mine disposal, becoming one of Vernon’s leading authorities before arriving in Dorset. Dedicated, and yet something more. A man who would be attractive to women, although he had heard nothing about that.

  Masters said, ‘Here comes somebody who’ll know.’ He had not heard Brayshaw; he had been recalling Fawcett’s comment. The mine was cheap to produce: it caused costly delays. It would certainly play hell with the exercise at Portland which he had been invited to observe. The admiral would be livid.

  He studied the figure by the roadside as the car rolled to a halt. Tall and square, with a strong, weathered face, he wore no oilskin or protective clothing over his reefer jacket, as if he were oblivious to the bitter air. Short grey hair beneath his cap, and medals from another war. He carried the single thin stripe of a warrant officer on his sleeve, a Gunner (T) from the Portland team. Another old sweat. What might have happened without them?

  The man saluted, fingers very straight to his peak, as if on parade. Chavasse would have approved.

  He said, ‘Bird, sir. I got the message that you were comin’. Managed to keep the gawkers away.’ Clipped, formal. Efficient. In the navy anybody named Bird was always called Dicky. Masters could not imagine anyone who would dare with this formidable gunner.

  He climbed out of the car and glanced around. A stone wall, and another big field beyond. It could have been anywhere.

  Bird said, ‘I’ll show you, sir.’ He pushed open a gate and indicated some deep mud. ‘Watch yer step, sir.’

  Masters turned and looked back. The sea in the background, the car with one door hanging open. Brayshaw had gone round to sit beside the driver, perhaps to get a better view.

  A few of the soldiers were tossing stones at a tree stump in some sort of contest. Eager to go, bored with it. Only the quietly throbbing ambulance was a reminder.

  He was still surprised that he could walk and climb without becoming breathless, or checked by the pain in his back, like those first months after he had left hospital.

  Bird watched him grimly. ‘Over there, sir. Follow that line of bushes.’

  Masters studied the side of the field and took out his binoculars. A slight adjustment, and the scene seemed to leap at him. He took another breath and looked again. The aircraft must have been partially under control when it had plunged out of the dawn sky. The field must have appeared safe, and a desperate, perhaps injured pilot did not have much choice; the hedge would slow if not halt his landing. It was clear enough now in broad daylight. The last barricade of hedgerow was piled up and over a thick stone wall, an old building or barn, its crumbling beams just visible. But the wall was solid, had likely been here for a century or more.

  The aircraft had been torn apart, but had not caught fire. Only the tail section looked undamaged, the swastika holding the light as if still unvanquished.

  Bird said quietly, ‘Mr. Sewell’s over there now, sir.’ Masters felt his eyes. ‘Knows you well, ’e tells me.’

  Masters nodded, lowering the binoculars to allow his mind to settle.

  ‘Does he have his rating with him?’

  ‘Aye, sir. There’s a deep ditch over there, by the far gate. He’s in there, intercom in use. Should be safe enough if . . .’ He did not continue.

  ‘I’ll crawl over and have a word with him.’ He saw the gunner’s sudden concern, could almost hear what his orders had been on the subject. He added, ‘The intercom, that’s all.’

  The gunner almost smiled. ‘I should ’ave said, sir. One of the Jerries is, or was, still alive in that lot. But Mr. Sewell thought it best to keep things as quiet as possible, until . . .’

  Masters saw the pensive, schoolmaster’s face in his mind again. It was what he would think. And all this time they had been stuck in crawling traffic. He stood up and said, ‘Stay here, Mr. Bird. If I duck out of sight, you hit the dirt, right?’

  Bird studied him again, impassively. ‘Be right ’ere, sir.’

  Masters walked deeper into the field. There was a fold across it which he had not noticed in the binoculars. It was deeply scarred, with fragments of metal flung on either side to mark where the aircraft had struck and rebounded for the last and fatal impact.

  Two, perhaps three times he dropped to his knees, ready to cover his head and ears with his arms, but there was only silence, and the light breeze in the bushes. He wondered what the admiral would say if he eventually turned up with his uniform covered in mud. He stopped it right there. If you could joke about it, you were over the edge.

  He waited, and then out of nowhere he heard someone speak.

  ‘Got it, sir. I’ve put it all down!’

  The ditch was a good choice; he was on top of it without even seeing it, or the upturned face only feet away. He put a warning finger to his lips and then lowered himself down beside the rating, Sewell’s assistant. All those other times. The assistant was dressed in seaman’s rig, a torpedoman’s badge on one sleeve. Masters knew he had been with Sewell for some time, and yet he looked more like a boy than a man. He was kneeling on an oilskin, his cap nearby on his tool pack, and he wore a headset with speaker attached, something Sewell must have invented for the job. The usual intercom lay nearby, humming softly.

  Masters took out his binoculars.

  ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The eyes moved slowly across his uniform, the rank. ‘We knew someone was coming, sir, but . . .’ He lifted his head and peered
again through the bushes.

  Masters recognized the anxiety, the strain. Waiting was always the worst part. Almost.

  He said, ‘What’s your name, by the way? I’m Masters – I know your lieutenant pretty well.’

  He saw the young sailor’s breathing steady as he nodded and answered, ‘I know, sir. He told me about you.’ He looked down and Masters saw the drawing pad he was holding against his knee. He noticed the hands too, well shaped, almost delicate. ‘My name’s Downie, sir.’

  One hand flew to his switch as a voice came out of the intercom. ‘He’s there with you, is he?’ Sewell, sounding clear and untroubled. ‘Tell him I can’t hang about any more. The kraut has just died, poor chap. I’m going to have a go.’ The smallest pause. ‘So be ready, all right?’

  Downie said quietly, ‘There were three in the crew, sir. Two died in the crash. The other one was too smashed up to move. And Mr. Sewell said it was too risky.’

  Masters took the pad. ‘May I?’ Downie was already worried. His own arrival would not have helped.

  The sketch was clear and professional. ‘This it?’

  Downie nodded, his head still half-turned, watching or listening it was hard to tell.

  Masters studied the drawing and the calculated measurements, and pictured the two of them discussing it on the intercom, Sewell with a dying German beside him. About two feet long, not unlike the ordinary incendiary bombs which were released in thousands across towns, docklands and factories, anywhere within the bombers’ range. But thicker, and heavier.

  He heard Downie say, ‘He said he’d never seen anything like it before, sir.’

  ‘Neither have I.’ He knew Downie was staring at him, perhaps surprised by the confidence. But he was seeing the aircraft in his mind. A Junkers, a stretched version of the original JU 88, which had made its mark as a bomber and reconnaissance plane in several theatres of war. But usually with a crew of four. A new role, then?

  He raised his head again and trained the binoculars towards the wreckage, and the stone wall beyond. One small bomb. To be dropped on its own? No others had been reported. Something would have been found by now. He thought of Captain Chavasse, with Bumper Fawcett breathing down his neck. They could all wait.

  He said, ‘You’re a bit young for this kind of work, aren’t you?’

  Casual and easy. For both their sakes.

  ‘I’ll be twenty in November, sir.’ The defiance made him seem even younger. ‘I did quite a few jobs for my father before I joined up. Wiring, that sort of thing.’

  The speaker crackled again. ‘Ready, Gordon? I’m going to take another measurement.’

  Masters lifted the binoculars once more. ‘I’ll bet your parents got a shock when you joined this section.’

  Downie’s pencil moved quickly on the pad, but he said without raising his voice, ‘It was because of them I transferred, sir. They were both killed in the big raid on Coventry.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  The youth looked at him. ‘It’s all right, sir. This is important to me, that’s all.’ He touched his switch. ‘Shall I tell him it’s you here, sir?’

  Masters shook his head. ‘It’s hard enough without someone looking at your efforts.’ He saw another face, that of the man who had been his own rating assistant, in those early days of ‘the job’. He had gone back to general service, to a battleship. For a quieter life, he said when they had shaken hands for the last time. He had been a torpedo gunner’s mate when last he had heard. A regular, he might end up with warrant rank like the formidable Mr. Bird back there on the road. He felt his mouth quiver. Dicky.

  The silence seemed to press down on him. Waiting. Doing nothing to help.

  ‘Have you always wanted to do this kind of work?’

  The same quick, almost shy glance. ‘I hoped to be a vet, sir. I’m good with animals.’

  Masters watched his hands, supple, but stronger than they looked. He could well imagine him with animals.

  The voice again, calm and unemotional.

  ‘I’m having a go now. The first screw, and the little crescent-shaped catch I described. Have you got it down?’

  Downie looked at his pad. ‘Got it, sir.’ Then he said, almost in a whisper, ‘Take care, will you?’

  But Masters saw that he had switched off the speaker before he had spoken. He tried to imagine what it must be like working in a half-wrecked plane with three dead men for company.

  He studied Downie’s drawings again. He had noted that the bomb, or whatever it was, had no markings on it, unlike the usual unclassified information stamped or painted on such weapons. Experimental? Untested?

  He shifted his hip and briefly felt the old pain in his back. What fate had drawn so many strangers together? A boy who had wanted to be a vet, a schoolmaster, a lieutenant he had once known who had been a comic on the stage at Blackpool. And Critchley, the adventurer, Fawcett had called him. And me.

  The speaker said, ‘Coming out now. Hold your breath, Gordon, my lad.’

  Masters felt his jaw clench, remembering it exactly. That first, purposeful contact.

  He saw Downie close his eyes tightly, then open them as if someone had spoken to him, reminded him.

  He said, ‘Past the gate, sir. A sort of stone bridge.’

  Masters nodded. The last resort, and the first lesson if you wanted to survive. You always marked your line of escape. Just in case. For Critchley there had been nowhere to run, and he had known it. Must have done.

  The speaker murmured, ‘It’s out, by God!’ They could hear his harsh intake of breath. ‘Now write this down.’

  Masters watched the pencil. It was quite steady. Poised.

  The next voice was that of a total stranger. Disbelief, anger, and a stark acceptance which was even beyond fear.

  ‘Get out! It’s blown!’

  Masters’ mind clicked like the switch. The drawing was a good one, Sewell’s instructions precise. The fuse had become active; there was no time to reach the other ditch.

  He swung round, horrified, as he saw the youth standing fully upright and staring at the wrecked Junkers.

  He seized him and pulled him down, sprawling across him, fighting him as he tried to free himself, their faces inches apart.

  The detonation was like a thunderclap, and the sky filled with flying debris and great clods of sodden soil which seemed to kick the breath from his lungs. Smoke too, and the sound of flames; the aircraft had finally exploded.

  But through it all he heard Downie’s voice. So close to his face that he could feel his anguish, the wetness on his skin.

  And his words. ‘He was my friend!’ Torn out of him, like an epitaph. It was something he would never forget.

  Captain Hubert Chavasse stood with his feet apart, hands in his jacket pockets, the protruding thumbs jutting forward like horns. The room was very bright, and slightly hazy with smoke although Masters could not recall seeing anyone pausing to light a cigarette. Outside the shuttered windows it was dark, and had been for some time; he could hardly believe that it was still the same day.

  He glanced at the others, Brayshaw, the captain’s secretary, making notes, clarifying an occasional problem if Chavasse threw him a question. Two lieutenants from Operations, a Wren second officer representing the signals department, another Wren, a petty officer, legs crossed, taking shorthand.

  Chavasse stared around the room. ‘Nothing left out, I think? Countermeasures Section informed from the outset. The boffins from Vernon will have been and gone by now. Not much left to sift through, I’d have thought.’ He hurried on. ‘Rear-Admiral Fawcett is fully in the picture, and we can expect him down here tomorrow. I sometimes wonder if he ever sleeps! So we must be up and about early. I’ll not have anybody finding fault with my establishment.’ He looked at the clock. ‘So, if there’s nothing further . . .’

  One of the lieutenants asked something about the army being included in his report; Masters barely heard him.

  He was remembering
the blazing fuel, the fragments of the fuselage flung about like so much rubbish. Chavasse had been right. Not much to sift through. A sickening job at the best of times, when there was nothing at all after an explosion, an ‘incident’. Rags and torn flesh, but the boffins from Vernon were hardened to it. They needed to be.

  When he had given his own account he had been conscious of the utter silence. Only the Wren’s pencil had moved as he related what he had seen and found at the field where a man he had known had been killed.

  Perhaps, like so many, Lieutenant Clive Sewell, ex-schoolmaster, would have died for nothing. But the drawings and notes on his assistant’s pad, coupled with any scrap of material evidence the boffins might find in that blackened, grisly confusion might in the end save lives.

  He had been aware of Chavasse’s irritation when he had added, ‘In my opinion, it was a new type of weapon, unknown to us until today. Strong enough to be dropped from an aircraft without exploding on impact, but small enough to be used against moving targets, ships or personnel.’

  Chavasse had snapped, ‘We can’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know anything for certain.’ It had been an open rebuke.

  Masters had said, ‘But for Lieutenant Sewell’s persistence, and the information he relayed to his assistant, that might be true, sir. But I believe we have discovered something important, perhaps vital.’

  He had sat down, and had seen Brayshaw give him an almost imperceptible nod. Sympathy or support, he could not decide which.

  Brayshaw had stayed with him all day. They had continued on their way to Portland, where the flag lieutenant had told them the proposed exercise had been postponed, if not cancelled, due to the incident, and that the admiral was either too angry or too busy to hold the meeting. He stared at the shuttered window nearest to him. He would have to go back to that house again. He could not recall if he had told the driver, or even if he had eaten anything. Every bone and muscle was aching, but he knew he would not rest or sleep. We obey orders, we do as we’re told, we live, we die. Was it that simple?