The youth, Downie, had exclaimed suddenly, ‘Magnetic, sir!’ No question of doubt. How it must have been with Sewell.
Masters had watched the old hull swinging on the warp, felt his hand on Downie’s shoulder even as he was shouting, ‘Down, all of you!’
Even then a few faces had turned to stare, or humiliate the new boss. The explosion, muffled though it was by a few feet of water, was loud and violent. Gulls had risen screaming from the other vessels nearby, and when the spray had settled the drifter was awash, and two boats beyond the slipway punctured by flying fragments. Perhaps their first real evidence. The experts would know. Might know. And nobody had died for it.
He had left the lieutenant in charge until a recovery team arrived; a shamefaced officer, but one with a previously successful record. Masters had told him, ‘Always look for the unlikely. That will be it!’
He had eventually arrived back at the base to hear about the change of orders. The first thing he had seen had been the wrecked Wolseley piled onto the back of an army pick-up truck inside the gates.
He had seen Captain Chavasse immediately. He had been almost affable.
‘Seems my secretary took it upon himself to take charge of things. Wouldn’t have thought it of him. A paybob after all, eh?’
The girl was in hospital. Out of danger, they said, but it seemed a near thing.
He stared at the telephone. The hospital, when he had finally got through, had been less than helpful. ‘Your officer was dealing with it. I’m afraid that’s all I’m permitted to say.’
Your officer was Brayshaw, and he had been sent to Portland with some additional information for Fawcett.
And now this. He glanced around the room, and through an open door at the rumpled bed where he had tried to sleep. Nothing had changed, except Critchley’s spare uniform had disappeared.
His suitcase was on the bed, still open and, he guessed, perfectly packed. Coker was good at his job, and never seemed surprised or ruffled by anything.
Masters looked at the signal pad beside the telephone. Today he was going to London. Just like that . . . He contained the anger, realizing that it was because he was tired. He wanted to wait and hear if any useful information had been gleaned at Bridport, and why it had been considered necessary to take the three MLs away from his control at this very moment.
Coker was saying, ‘I’ve got all the details here, sir. The car will take you to the station and the Rail Transport Office will be ready to look after you.’ He was ticking the points off in his mind, his smooth, pink cheeks slightly puffed out in concentration. ‘The R.T.O. will be expectin’ you in London too, sir, no matter what time the train gets in. Hotel room, ration card, travel warrant, all taken care of. Might make a nice break, sir.’ He gauged the moment. ‘All the lads think you’ve earned it.’
He walked to a window and readjusted the limp curtains. He had served over twenty years in the navy, with only one year’s break when he had been discharged, in 1938, before the Germans had marched into Poland. He had joined up during the depression, when the streets had still been full of men from the Great War, selling matches, wearing their medals in the hope of some sympathy, or simply begging. He was an orphan, raised by an uncle in the East End of London who had been more than eager to rid himself of the responsibility.
Chatham Barracks had been his first encounter with the peacetime navy. Overcrowded, noisy, and sometimes violent, it had been a harsh initiation. Coker had never been particularly strong, and had almost failed his medical examination. Never make a seaman. But you can always apply to be a cook or a steward. As if they were the bottom rung of the fleet’s ladder.
Coker had never looked back. He could shrug off the messdeck jibes about nursing the officers, the pigs down aft as they were often dubbed, and discovered a new strength by watching and studying his charges in the wardroom, something denied him in Mile End and the Hackney Road.
He had met and served all kinds of officers. Good, arrogant, and downright useless. Others stood out, but not always the ones you might expect. When he had been promoted to leading steward, he had served in a battlecruiser where the captain had been a baronet. In a destroyer, the commanding officer had worn the Victoria Cross, a true hero in every sense, yet a man who never forgot your birthday or some other special date, when he would offer you a glass of his own Scotch.
He regarded Masters thoughtfully. Never seemed to sleep, never appeared to rest when he was up and about, not bothered about food either. Always at it. And yet he’d found time to ring the army hospital about the Wren who had been driving him since he had joined the base from Vernon. Coker gave a small smile. No wonder the hospital didn’t want to chat. Most of the inmates were ATS girls who’d got themselves knocked up by the local Romeos in uniform.
He glanced around the room. A dump, he thought. It had been a vicarage in the old days when the farms had all depended on this one village, then a boarding house, but who would come here, he had often wondered. The war must have been a bloody godsend to the landlords, whoever they were. He nodded to himself. But it’ll do for me. It was no use thinking about after the war; it would go on for ever at this rate. North Africa, the Atlantic, Sicily, now Italy. After that it’ll be across the Channel for the real push. And there’ll always be the Japs at the end of it.
He ran the place much as he wanted it. He could always get fresh eggs and good cuts of meat when he needed them; it was surprising how some duty-free tobacco, or NAAFI chocolate, ‘nutty’, could dodge around the ration book. Over twenty years in, and three badges on his sleeve. He would rate Chief Steward yet. With some cushy, shore-based admiral, maybe . . .
Coker had never married. It had been close, but she had made it a condition that he should work his ticket and leave the Andrew. After what it had done for him? The places he had been and seen? China and the Yangtze, the Med where all the blood and shit was flying right now, even down with the South American squadron in those far-distant days when the mess bills had bankrupted many a green subbie. Give it all away to be the ragged kid with his arse hanging out of his trousers? The drunks on a Saturday night, and their screaming women. He smiled. And the cops coming down on all of them, and enjoying it.
Masters asked suddenly, ‘Commander Critchley’s wife, did she reside here most of the time?’
Coker came out of his thoughts. One thing you learned as a senior steward was the importance of discretion.
‘Hardly ever, sir. They had a fine house in London, Hampstead, a lovely place. I went there a couple of times, to help out. They had other houses too. A real gentleman, ’e was.’
Masters nodded. The place had lacked any woman’s touch. Coker knew a lot more than he would admit. On guard, as he was now, when he had dropped an aitch, something he was usually careful to avoid. He would make a perfect gentleman’s gentleman.
It hit him again. London. To have a meeting with an officer or officers from Intelligence. Because he had made waves about it? Or had Chavasse been upset by something he had said or done?
He stared through into the other room, almost expecting to see the uniform and oak-leaved cap still hanging, the constant reminder. A real gentleman.
But the smell of her perfume still lingered. He glanced at Coker’s smooth features. He would know that, too.
Coker said, ‘Car’s arrived, sir,’ and closed the suitcase carefully. ‘Good driver. Fixed it meself.’
Masters thought of the wrecked car, the dried blood on the buckled door. Did she still blame him for her brother’s death?
‘If any letters come for me . . .’ He picked up his cap. There would not be any, except another bill from Gieves. Coker knew that as well.
‘I’ll see to it, sir.’
Ushering him out, the car door already open and waiting. He looked up at the windows. A vicarage . . . He should have noticed their shape. Now only the old church remained to remind the local people, and it no longer even warranted a full-time clergyman. One cycled over from Lulworth Cove
for special functions, and another part-time padre, an ex-deepwater fisherman by all accounts, filled in the gaps. On Sundays the organ was played by one of the base telegraphists. The congregation usually numbered about a dozen.
Coker cleared his throat. ‘It’s not my place, sir . . .’ He hesitated and knew the driver was cursing him, looking pointedly at his watch.
Masters smiled.
‘Go on.’
Coker continued, ‘An old ship of mine, a P.O. steward like meself, over at Harwich at the moment.’ He made up his mind. ‘He tells me that ’e served with your father when ’e was captain of Senegal. Always speaks proud of ’im when we get a chance to meet.’
Masters looked at the sky; it would rain again shortly. He had learned something of Coker’s background and upbringing in the short while he had been here. They had one thing in common. They were both orphans.
He said, ‘The young rating who helps me––’
‘I heard, sir.’ The aitch was back.
‘He’s at a loose end. Find him something to do while I’m away. He’s good with anything electrical or mechanical.’
Coker smiled. To anybody else it would have looked like a wink.
‘Say no more, sir!’ He stood back as the car turned towards the road.
His friend the petty officer chef joined him by the fence. He wore a filthy apron over his white trousers, and a cigarette dangled from his lip.
‘You an’ your bleedin’ officers, Bert! Come an’ ’ave a bacon sandwich an’ a wet!’
Coker glanced after the car, frowning, then decided against it.
‘No wonder you stay holed up in your galley!’
The chef grinned. ‘Roll on my twelve!’
Coker ignored it, used to him. He was thinking of the officer who had just left for the station. How long would Masters last, he wondered. He walked into the high-ceilinged entrance hall and looked at the silent telephone. It was so easy to see her standing by it, as she had been that morning.
Suddenly he was glad he had told Masters about his father and his ship, Senegal.
‘Now, about that drink, Nobby!’ and they both laughed.
The navy’s way.
‘Right then, settle down, everybody. This shouldn’t take too long.’ Lieutenant-Commander Tony Brock, D.S.C. and two Bars, R.N.V.R., looked around the wardroom table. ‘And remember, we have two gentlemen of the press with us, so mind your manners.’
Foley lowered his notepad to glance over at the two in question. One, of whom he had vaguely heard, had swept-back fair hair and was wearing khaki battledress, with a bright red silk scarf around his throat to give the right effect. His companion, much older, looked uncomfortable, even nervous amongst the officers of the three MLs.
Brock was in his element, totally sure of himself, big and broad-shouldered, his ginger beard perfectly trimmed, his hair almost brushing the deckhead, eyes everywhere until they suddenly came to rest on someone or something. His boat was slightly larger than the others, Canadian-built and fitted with better ventilation, so that the rising cloud of cigarette and pipe smoke hardly intruded.
He said, ‘You know the drill. We shall clear the coast around sixteen hundred, no earlier unless the brass kick up a fuss. Head sou’-east and make for Cape Barfleur and then Seine Bay. A minelaying run, but as we only carry nine each we’re not going to start another war.’ He laughed and showed his strong teeth, enjoying it. Watching the nervous journalist as he wrote something on his pad.
He flattened the chart on the table. ‘The krauts have been running a lot of fast coastal convoys of late. Too many, or so their lordships would have it. But the R.A.F. have been knocking their railway system around, and they don’t have much choice.’
Foley saw it in his mind; he had done it often enough, but not recently. He looked at the other commanding officer, Lieutenant Dick Claridge of ML401. His Number One was whispering something in his ear. Another new boy, like Allison. Could hardly sit still. Brock’s first lieutenant was Royal Naval Reserve, ex-merchant service, with a lined, experienced face. Foley wondered what he thought of his skipper. Brock carried an extra lieutenant who was from Operations, one of Captain Chavasse’s trained spies as he had cheerfully introduced him at the outset.
Brock turned quickly as an engine roared into life, and his eyes moved to Foley, who gave the slightest nod. It was 366, testing something.
A lot of people said Brock was too full of his own desire for publicity, or glamour, some called it. But he was as sharp as a tack and tolerated no slackness.
Brock said, ‘Your man Shannon’s on the job. Good show, Chris.’
He continued, ‘We lay the mines as directed, and return to base. We shall have back-up from C/F of course. Three MGBs to make sure we don’t get lost.’ There were a few wry grins, and Dick Claridge’s new subbie said, ‘We’ll show them!’ That brought some real laughs.
The journalist with the red scarf leaned back on the bench seat and asked, ‘Is there some other reason for an isolated operation like this? I’d have thought with all the activity in the Med they’d have greater call for Coastal Forces craft.’ He smiled. ‘Even MLs, in that theatre?’
Brock nodded. ‘True. But the route along from Cherbourg to Dieppe has been getting away with it. Should go smoothly enough – you won’t need your brown trousers, not yet anyway!’
They both grinned. Like adversaries, Foley thought.
He leaned over to Allison. ‘All right?’
Allison rubbed his chin and stared at his own notes. ‘I was thinking of our last run, sir. Those E-Boats could have been based around there.’
Foley thought of the dead airman . . . the girl on the pier . . . the smashed-up car.
He said, ‘Check the Met report, will you, Toby? Don’t want it too damned clear.’ He saw his sudden uncertainty. ‘We’ll drop the bloody things and run for home.’
Allison seemed satisfied.
Foley stared over at the journalists again. He could see it in print already. During the night, units of our light coastal forces, under the command of Lieutenant-Commander Tony Brock, carried out a daring raid against enemy shipping.
Brock was saying, ‘That wraps it up, I think. We shall slip and proceed as planned. Commanding officers’ conference at fifteen hundred.’ He looked at each face in turn. ‘Nobody goes ashore, no matter what cockeyed reason he gives, right?’ His eyes rested briefly on the lieutenant from Operations as he added drily, ‘No careless talk that way, eh?’
It was breaking up, each man glad to get back to his own command. Lieutenant Claridge followed Foley to the ladder and said, ‘I see you’ve lost your old Number One. Gone to better things.’ He looked at his own replacement. ‘We all have to start somewhere, I suppose.’
Foley thought he didn’t sound very convinced.
He felt someone touch his sleeve. It was the other journalist.
‘I’m told I’m to come with you – Mr. Foley, isn’t it?’
Foley smiled at him: there was not much else he could do. The man looked either unwell or scared to death. Behind him he could hear Brock laughing and joking with the star journalist, with the red silk scarf. Once the visitors had gone Brock would be opening the bar. He had been heard to say, ‘Well, you can’t take it with you, can you?’
Foley said, ‘Just Chris will do. I’ll take you across now so you can look around the boat, speak to anyone you think will help. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Mark Pleydell.’ It came out like an apology. ‘Can you show me the lavatory, before we begin?’
Foley guided him up the ladder, pausing only to wave to Brock. Brock did not respond, but he knew he had seen him.
‘We call them heads, um, Mark. Might as well get it right when you’re dealing with a bunch of hardened sailors. You’ve not done much with the navy, I take it?’
They were on deck, and the wind was cold and damp. Perhaps there would be some rain. It might help things along.
The other man said, ‘No. The R.A.F.,
usually.’
Again it seemed apologetic, but it caused Foley to turn and stare at him. Mark Pleydell: the name and the voice he had heard on the B.B.C. programme At the Front, which his father always listened to. The sea, the air, the desert. The voice that brought it to living room and bar, to parents and friends, to lovers, all those who were left behind.
Pleydell had been on one of those massive air attacks, over Hamburg or some other heavily defended city. So calmly described, and recorded over a main target, a shipyard, as it had been happening. Hard to believe it was the same man; only the voice lingered. And now all he wanted to do was find the heads.
He said quietly, ‘Use my cabin, such as it is, Mark. The heads are right next to it. If you need to know anything,’ he tried to grin, ‘and I’m not too busy, just ask away!’
Pleydell grasped the guardrail and allowed a seaman to steady his arm while he climbed over to the boat alongside.
‘You I know about, Chris. Forgive me, but I asked for your boat on this trip.’
Allison found him in the wardroom.
‘The Met report forecast is dry and clear in the Channel, sir.’ He looked surprised when Foley grinned and said, ‘Good. Then we’re probably in for a Force Ten!’
He had seen Bass waiting by the bridge. He would speak to 366’s small company and put them in the picture. By now, they counted on it. And they had more than earned it.
Allison said, ‘Our journalist,’ and looked uncomfortable. ‘He’s not quite what I anticipated.’
‘I expect a lot of people say that about us, Toby.’ He nodded to Bass. ‘Muster the hands, ’Swain. Then get them all fed and ready for sea.’
He peered into his cabin and saw the locked drawer. She was going to be all right, might even be allowed to listen to the radio, if it was that kind of hospital. He heard the thud of shoes and seaboots on the sloping planking. The three MLs were filling the inlet, or almost, as 366 must have looked in that Teddington boatyard all that time ago. When his sister had still been in school uniform, and would never have dreamed of falling for a Polish airman.
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 9
