Twelve Seconds to Live (2002)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Masters walked to the stairwell. No matter how big the war became, the small, personal touches remained. And they mattered.

  He could still hear Downie’s despairing cry. He was my friend.

  He started down the stairs. ‘Could you call that army hospital for me? Find out how our Wren Lovatt is getting on?’

  Coker watched him pause to examine the old clock. He called, ‘She’s bin moved, sir. I called meself, yesterday.’

  He heard the car roar into life as the front door closed behind Masters’ shadow.

  He thought of the talks he had had with the kid, Downie, while he had worked on some repair job or other. About the officer who had been killed. Not like hero worship, but the kind of deep friendship you rarely discovered outside service life. Some might sneer at it; others might be more suggestive. But Coker had stood at so many tables and listened to his various charges, his officers, that he had learned not to fall in with the easy smut.

  And Masters, who seemed to have no life of his own beyond duty and authority, could still find time to care about the lonely ones like Downie. He smiled. He should think a little more about his own troubles.

  He studied the telephone, which was linked to the one downstairs. Where he had last seen her. It must be the same woman; she had been enough to turn any bloke’s head. He had thought so at the time . . .

  He heard one of his messmen clattering about in the ‘galley’, as the P.O. chef called it, and looked at his own sleeve. Get three gilt buttons on your sleeves, and a chief petty officer’s badge, and you can say what you like. Until then, keep your thoughts to yourself.

  He heard the car roar out of the gate. Lieutenant-Commander Masters would have to watch his step. After that other telephone call, he had never seen Commander Critchley again.

  The Officer-of-the-Day was in a bad mood. The whole thing had got off to a really foul beginning. It had started at Colours when the captain, of all people, had noticed that some ratings out of the rig of the day had been loitering near the quarterdeck, a couple of them not even bothering to salute when the ensign had broken out in the stiff breeze. You could never be too careful with Captain Hubert Chavasse, especially when you were the O.O.D. He stared out of a window, hating what he saw. A silted-up creek, half cluttered with wrecked or damaged vessels. An old school building and some bricked-up cottages, and yet Chavasse insisted on treating it as if it was Whale Island’s gunnery school, or some other crack establishment. It took more than barbed wire and the White Ensign to perform miracles.

  He saw Jowitt, the master-at-arms, watching him from his own little lobby. The Jaunty would be enjoying it, seeing an officer all screwed up at the start of his day.

  He looked at the clock. Masters would not be back for an hour. The Operations officer was adamant. We have to deal with it. There’s a flap on. There usually was in this damned place, he thought.

  The master-at-arms was speaking with his subordinate, the regulating petty officer, the crusher, as his breed was known on the lower deck. He saw Jowitt nod, his heavy face giving nothing away. Then, unhurriedly, he marched down his little path and waited for the officer to open the door.

  ‘Got ’im, sir. Comin’ in now, at the double, I told ’im.’

  ‘Right.’ He looked at the ensign, to make sure it had not fouled the halliards in the breeze. He did not belong here; it was simply part of a divisional course he had been ordered to attend. A bad report from Chavasse could ruin everything.

  He saw the tall sub-lieutenant standing where he had left him. Very new, very young, and if he was anything like a few of the others he had met here, very sure of himself.

  ‘I’ve found a rating who can assist you. The transport’s ready and waiting. You’ve got the location, I take it?’

  Sub-Lieutenant Michael Lincoln, R.N.V.R., said, ‘I’ve always worked with someone I’ve known for a while.’ He glanced at the two straight stripes on the O.O.D.’s sleeve. ‘It helps.’

  ‘He’s good at the work. Been doing it almost since he joined.’ He was losing his way. ‘That should be enough, surely?’

  The Operations officer peered out at them. ‘Still here? Better chop-chop, the beast is too close to the railway main line for comfort!’

  The Jaunty barked, ‘In there, my son!’

  The newly arrived sub-lieutenant regarded the youthful seaman with the torpedo badge on his sleeve with more than a little doubt.

  ‘You’re ready for this, are you?’

  Downie said, ‘I’m experienced, sir. Eighteen months.’

  The O.O.D. put in, ‘A good record too, I’m told?’

  ‘We did eleven major incidents together, sir. And others.’

  Sub-Lieutenant Lincoln smiled. ‘What are we waiting for?’ He watched Downie pick up his pack. Eleven major incidents. He had known men killed dealing with the first one.

  Lincoln had been well trained, prepared would be a better term, but had not expected to be given a job on his first day here. He had seen the O.O.D.’s expression, recognized it; it was still happening even now, when the navy was officered and manned by volunteers and hostilities-only personnel.

  Another raw subbie, so give him hell.

  He thought suddenly of his father, his amusement turning to anger when he had told him he had been accepted for the navy, leaving his work as trainee surveyor with his father’s firm.

  ‘They’ll soon put you in your place. I know their sort, toffee-nosed lot, you’ll see!’

  His father was a builder, and their home was in south-east London. The war had meant a complete end to all non-essential building work; his father must have been staring ruin in the face. But he was a hard, self-made man, and when the bombing had started in earnest, especially in the docklands and East End, he had seen and seized his chance. Factories and even tiny workshops had to be kept moving, no matter what. War Damage Repairs became the key for the building industry, even those with little or no experience. And there was good money in it, too.

  No wonder he had thought it stupid of his only son to imagine he could step out of line and become a naval officer. A pilot in the Fleet Air Arm at that!

  Lincoln had failed in the first attempt. His eyesight was good, or so he had thought, but it seemed not good enough to fly. He had been ordered to take an appointment at the naval barracks in Chatham, where he had first entered the navy before going onto his officers’ training course at King Alfred.

  His father had been almost jubilant about it.

  ‘Told you, didn’t I? But you knew best!’

  Then Lincoln had seen the blunt announcement in Admiralty Orders that volunteers were required for special and dangerous duty.

  When he had been accepted for the Land Incident Section and sent to H.M.S. Vernon for training, he had told his father what he had done.

  His father had always been one with the quick, often crushing response: Lincoln had seen his mother growing old because of it. Looking back now, he realized that on that occasion he had not uttered a single word.

  There was a car waiting, and a camouflage-painted van warming up behind it. Lincoln had heard the crosstalk on whether he should be sent to the incident or not. There was a flap on . . . It seemed he was the only officer available at this time. He had heard Masters mentioned too, and remembered him from Vernon. Knew what he was talking about, and never pushed anyone to or beyond his limit. He had been there.

  Downie was clambering into the car. Eleven major incidents. He didn’t look old enough.

  Lincoln said to the driver, ‘You know the place?’

  ‘Piece of cake, sir.’

  The car set off, and Lincoln saw the master-at-arms turn away to deal with some sad-looking defaulters, obviously something that truly counted in his book.

  He glanced at Downie’s hands, resting on his knees, his pack held by its strap. They were completely relaxed. Eleven major incidents . . . Did he never consider . . . ? He stopped it right there. It was always the same. Looking for an excuse, or finding fault, like
his father?

  He said, ‘Who do you work with on a normal routine?’

  ‘I’ve been helping Lieutenant-Commander Masters, sir.’ Defensive. Wary, too. ‘My own lieutenant was killed.’

  Lincoln bit his lip, unprepared for it. ‘Bad show. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It was worse than that, sir.’

  Lincoln did not press it any further. Somehow it would be pointless. How did he know?

  Instead he said, ‘Can I ask how old you are? You seem pretty young for one so experienced.’

  Downie turned and looked at him for the first time. ‘I’ll be twenty in November, sir.’

  Lincoln grinned and thrust out his hand. ‘Then wish me luck. I’ll be twenty-one that month.’

  The driver kept his eyes on the narrow lane, looking out for the next bend, but he had overheard most of it.

  What a job. Must be tired of life, the bloody lot of them.

  He did not understand that the first, important barrier between his two passengers had been broken.

  It was fifteen miles to the reported location, but as on all those other occasions it seemed to take an eternity. The driver was a good one, and with a military policeman leading the way on his motor cycle, waving other vehicles to one side or off the road, the time should have passed in a flash.

  Downie knew it would be different, and yet he was still shocked that he had been unable to adjust. He could have refused; Lieutenant-Commander Masters had said that he should be on light duties until . . . He stared at some small cottages as they passed. Or unless.

  The sub-lieutenant, after their initial exchange, had lapsed into silence, leaning forward every so often to peer over the driver’s shoulder.

  Downie made another effort. ‘I know the place, sir. About five miles from Corfe Castle, north of St. Alban’s Head. The railway line from Poole is close to the sea.’ He frowned unconsciously. ‘Intentional or accidental, it could cause a lot of trouble.’

  They passed a line of parked vehicles, mostly military, a couple of redcaps watching to make sure that nobody tried to get past. They waved to the M.P. on the motor cycle, and threw up salutes to the car.

  Downie felt his stomach contract. He should have eaten some breakfast. He had already heard about the flap, and had seen two other teams leave for incidents elsewhere along the coast. He should have refused . . .

  The road was empty now; there were probably whole convoys of trucks and cars, drivers and passengers cursing to high heaven while they waited for the signal to move. Trains as well. A mine could bring everything to a standstill just by being there.

  He pulled in his stomach muscles but the feeling would not go away. A tightness, almost like nausea. He should be used to it.

  They were passing open fields now. A man with a dog watching from a sagging gateway. Like the one in that field where they had seen the crashed Junkers, and heard the injured airman gasping and whimpering as they had been digging in and arranging their equipment.

  The driver was braking. ‘Here it is, sir.’

  Two more soldiers were in the road, another crouched on a bank of earth, a radio handset held loosely beneath his chin. He saw the vehicles and gave a thumbs-up to someone who remained invisible.

  Downie knew that, too. The relief: somebody else had arrived to take over. He tried not to lick his dry lips. Us.

  A corporal walked to the car and said, ‘Two hundred yards, sir.’ His arm was raised stiffly like a signpost. ‘That clump of trees. There’s an old shed of some kind, not used for years, I’d say.’ He eyed the sub-lieutenant impassively. ‘Not much cover, I’m afraid, sir.’

  Lincoln climbed down and stamped his feet on the road.

  ‘God, it’s bloody cold!’ He looked at the trees. ‘You saw it, then?’

  The corporal nodded. ‘Reported it at once.’ It sounded like of course. ‘A big ’un. More than that, I couldn’t say for sure. Parachute’s caught in the trees. I’ve put a marker in position.’

  Downie had picked up his pack and joined the others beside the car. He watched the driver, and heard the impatient mutter of the engine. Eager to go. He turned up the collar of his greatcoat and felt the same sense of shock; he did not even recall putting it on.

  Lincoln looked over at him. ‘All set?’

  ‘Where’s the railway, Corp?’

  The soldier glanced at him, surprised. ‘In direct line.’ He pointed again. ‘Couldn’t be much closer.’ He repeated, ‘No cover there, either.’

  The other soldier said, ‘There’s a pile of railway sleepers beside the track, sir. Pretty solid, although . . .’

  Lincoln said, ‘It’s better than nothing.’

  And then they were walking together, their breath floating beside them in the cold breeze.

  Downie looked at the green bank of hillside. Somehow you always knew there was the sea beyond.

  No houses this time. Not like all those others. Deserted, abandoned; small, personal things scattered or left where they had fallen. Like it must have been in his home town, Coventry, after the biggest raid.

  He had never really known anywhere else in his life, not until he had joined up. In his mind he could always visualise that same street, as if it might still be there in some other world.

  Even the school had been only two streets away. There had been a grocer’s on the corner, and a pub on the opposite one. His father’s shop had been next door to it. His father was a quiet man, gentle, but even he had shown annoyance when broken bottles and other unmentionable items were left abandoned in his shop doorway.

  They handled any kind of wireless or radio repair work and, on rare occasions, the sale of a new set. Charging accumulators for the older radios, wiring, fitting electric fires, they never turned anybody away. People came to chat and pass the time of day, until the pub opened, and Downie, almost without knowing it, had become as expert as his father. He remembered his uncharacteristic anger when he had listed his various skills to the recruiting officer, and had seen him write down shop assistant.

  Too shy, his mother said. You must speak up for yourself in this world. It had been much the same when he had joined up. The banter and the brutal humour of the lower deck.

  Until his divisional officer had sent for him, and had told him about Coventry. Even their old dog Bertie had been killed. That was why he had wanted to be a vet . . . he remembered telling a grave-eyed Masters about it.

  He recalled the pretty Leading Wren in the car, the one in which she had so nearly died. She had tried to console him, without words, just her hand against his face. Trying to share it.

  Lincoln came to a halt. ‘There’s the railway at last.’ He slapped his stomach. ‘Out of condition. Too many pink gins!’

  Downie glanced at him, knowing he was talking for the sake of it. Worried, nervous? Yet he gave off an air of confidence. Impatience, that was it. He heard his friend’s voice, clear and sudden in his mind. Confidence is a trap. It can kill you.

  He took a firmer grip of his pack and said, ‘I can see the sleepers they told us about, sir. They look as if they could take a knock.’

  ‘Good thinking. Run out the wire from there. You know what to do if . . .’ He did not finish.

  ‘Yes, sir. I know.’

  They walked on in silence. Once, Lincoln turned to look back. Downie did not. They were quite alone.

  He had only been home to Coventry once. The mass graves, places where he had grown up recognizable only by street signs, if they were still standing; like Portsmouth when he had transferred to H.M.S. Vernon to begin his training. He had felt it there, too, an army of dead spirits trying to rise through and above the ruins to take revenge.

  The parachute was the first real marker. It usually was.

  Downie felt something was wrong. Maybe his nerve had gone.

  He heard Lincoln murmur, ‘Not too sure about this one.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘Quite a steep slope, so the blast would make itself felt directly on the railway. There’s nothing to stop it. Trains might have
passed through after this one was dropped. The vibration could have set it off. Somebody should have made it clear before we came out.’

  Downie waited. Lieutenant-Commander Masters had probably come along this same line. Poole was the next stop. He suddenly recalled the P.O. steward who had found him so many little jobs to do. To keep you out of trouble, my lad. How they had talked, about Coker’s service life, and then about Masters’ father who had been killed in a peacetime explosion at sea. A destroyer captain; one of Coker’s pals had served under him.

  Downie had found himself talking about the Junkers, how Masters had come out to the danger area, and had thrown himself over him to protect him when the mine had exploded, filling the sky with debris and huge clods of earth.

  Coker had commented thoughtfully, ‘Never stops, that one. Something drives him all the time.’

  He looked now at Lincoln. He had watched Sewell at work on so many occasions, had got to know and respect his different moods, had learned so much from them and from him. Clive. He was surprised he had not seen it earlier. Sub-Lieutenant Lincoln was nothing like Sewell or Masters. He was trying to prove something, perhaps for his own sake.

  He stared at the trees, moving slightly in the breeze from the sea.

  ‘Wind’s getting up, sir.’

  ‘Don’t remind me!’ He had spoken sharply, and added as if in apology, ‘Must get closer. It’s taking too long. All we need now . . .’ He broke off to stare at the sky as a fighter plane, a Spitfire from the note of its high-pitched whistle, appeared over the hill, catching the sun and flashing like a dart before vanishing over the next ridge.

  Lincoln grimaced. ‘Doesn’t know how lucky he is!’

  Downie twisted the strap of his pack again. ‘We can go together, sir.’ For an instant he thought he had gone too far, that strain and memory had made him forget the rules, officer-like qualities, O.L.Q.s, Sewell had called them, and had made him laugh about it.