Brock’s boat was slowing down, the sea lifting and surging over the bows.
‘Close shave, Chris! Good thing you were on the ball! Cheeky bastard, eh?’ Suddenly formal again. ‘Keep closed up! Report damage and casualties, if any! Dick’s taken a few bricks, by the look of it!’ The wash mounted again; Brock was on the move.
‘If not us, then what was that E-Boat doing there?’
He did not realize he had spoken aloud. Allison said, ‘Waiting for something bigger, sir? The LCT would avoid a torpedo, even at minimum setting.’ He faltered. ‘I think.’
Foley touched his arm and felt him jump. ‘Or something smaller. Maybe you’ve got something.’
The E-Boat did not return, and at first light three Spitfires droned over the little convoy for the final approach to the inlet. One of the motor minesweepers had been raked by cannon fire, but nobody had been touched. Dick Claridge’s ML401 eventually worked alongside the pier, with four canvas-covered bodies laid out on her deck.
Brock wasted no time when he came aboard.
‘Good thing you had your wits about you, Chris. But mostly just luck, I suspect!’ He was grinning, so that some of the sailors turned to watch, to share it. Like old comrades. But Brock left nothing in doubt. ‘Otherwise, old son, even your famous luck wouldn’t save you!’
After Brock had departed to make his report Foley walked slowly through the boat, greeted with nods and smiles and the usual thumbs-up from someone he had known longer than most. The Chief, Ian Shannon, came up to shake his hand, regardless of the oil which bonded them together.
Luck, but how could it last? Had he not stopped, the E-Boat would have raked them when it had passed astern at full speed. With the German’s heavier armament and some forty-two knots to back it up, these decks would have been a bloody shambles.
He thought of the letter again. I was afraid. Something he had always managed to control, which any ship’s company should be able to take for granted in their skipper.
Afraid, then. Perhaps because he had found something which was outside this perilous, overcrowded existence.
Bass called, ‘The Boss is comin’ aboard by the look of it, sir!’ He waited, gauging the moment exactly. ‘We’re all in one piece. I’ll bet Jerry wondered wot th’ ’ell ’ad caught ’im with ’is pants down!’
He hurried away to make certain that the gangway was manned for visitors.
It was as well that he did not look back, Foley thought. Luck was never enough.
She lay very still on the bed, listening to the wind sighing around the old house, rattling the window of her room. Outside it would be pitch dark, the road deserted. She could faintly hear voices, even at this hour: the waiting room, where a few patients would still be sitting and exchanging conversation about their ailments, or managing to remain apart in their thoughts. She had been born in this house, had grown up with it.
There was only a table light switched on beside the bed. The familiar picture over the empty fireplace had been slightly tipped at an angle when she had arrived. She moved the sheet across her body. She had been here for five days. It was still hard to accept.
A door banged and she heard someone leaving, coughing as he or she departed. When he was finished in his surgery her father would come and see her. Even that was strange. How’s my girl coming along? As he might to any patient, but not to a daughter. Maybe that was his strength.
She moved to one elbow and looked around the room; it seemed so small, not as she remembered it when she was back with the navy. Three weeks’ leave . . . She felt guilty whenever she found herself counting the days before she would be going back to duty.
She glanced at the little drawer in the bedside table. His letter was inside, and she wondered why she had not told her parents about it. It had been delivered by a sailor on a motor cycle, according to one of the nurses. She had wanted to meet and talk to him, to try and discover . . .
She had read the letter several times. His concern for her health, the treatment she was getting. How long it might take. How she was missed. Nothing about himself at all. Maybe that said everything.
She thought of the moment she had been preparing to leave the second hospital, one of those which had only been partly taken over by the armed services. Unable to dress in the uniform a Wren had brought for her, she had held herself upright against a chair and stared at herself in a long wall mirror. She was lucky to be alive. Black and blue, dirty yellow where the bruises were beginning to fade. Her father had remarked on it when he had examined her that first time, when she had lain here listening to the car pulling away from the house.
‘Plenty of rest, my girl. I wish we could do so much more for you. But at least I’m in charge, and can make sure nothing goes wrong.’
Her mother had been there, the nurse again. Calm and contained while her daughter had been lying naked. All the lights had been on then, revealing the bruises, the livid scar where she had felt the glass gouging into her thigh and groin. The pain, and the terrible fear that she would lose consciousness, and die without fighting back.
‘He was just in time, inexperienced or not.’ Her father had sounded almost detached.
She thought of the letter. The things he had not written, the things she had seen on his face when he had come to visit her. To find her. Inexperienced. It angered her more than she would have believed possible.
She touched her body; there was only a loose dressing now to protect the scar. Her inability to recall the crash, the sequence of events which had followed, was almost the worst part. She knew that piece of road very well, but could remember nothing of the impact, only a sensation of falling, losing consciousness. Then the awareness that she was unable to move, of pain, and a terrible sense of danger. And silence. Then the hands, his hands, firm, insistent, holding her, opening her clothing, pausing on her breast; he might even have been talking to her, willing her to hold on. She had imagined that his hands were warm, until she had realized the warmth was her own blood. Mostly she remembered the strength of his grip, hard into her groin, the sense of shock which had persisted even then. Of her arrival at the hospital she recalled little but vague shapes and looming faces, pain and the inability to move. She touched the dressing. The skin was smooth, shaved, and she had felt nothing. A necessary precaution, her father had said. Was that all it meant?
She heard the buzzer sound; the next patient was being summoned. She lowered her legs over the side of the bed and carefully put on her dressing gown. Soreness, like the bruises, remained, but the real pain was gone. She caught her expression in the mirror. Almost . . .
Across the landing was her brother’s old room. That had been the most brutal reminder of how things had changed in this house since Graham’s death in the submarine Tornado. As if time had stopped, but could somehow be restarted at any given moment. She had gone into look for something and had been shocked to see it exactly as he must have left it, as he would find it if he suddenly walked through the door. The photographs of his cricket team, and another of him with his two best friends at college. Graham had loved listening to jazz, and his gramophone and its piles of records were all arranged as before. She had found herself touching the record sleeves; his old favourites, Louis Armstrong, Bessie Smith, and the top one, Fats Waller’s ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’, had all been carefully dusted. Even his dressing gown was hanging on the door.
The room at least was still alive.
A door banged, and she heard Mrs. Warren, Lucy, calling out something to the departing patient.
Lucy had been here as long as she could remember. Receptionist, assistant, housekeeper and friend, she knew everybody, and newcomers often consulted her before making an appointment. Her husband – she only ever referred to him as ‘Mr. Warren’ – was retired, but was seen about with his helmet and gas mask in his role as air raid warden.
She walked to the fireplace and straightened the offending picture. Lucy at least had been aware of her uncertainty, the lingering shock of the
accident, the close encounter with death. She could make a joke out of almost anything without offence; she was just being Lucy.
She had helped Margot to bathe and wash her hair, and had almost laughed out loud when she stood naked in the bath, confused and embarrassed.
‘If Mr. Warren could just see you, Miss Margot! Like one of his pin-ups out of Men Only, you are!’
Her spare uniform was lying carefully folded on a couch. That was the next battle. It was not the thought of going back; it was the idea of remaining here, in her own home, for three long weeks. It was so unfair to her parents, to Lucy, to the few other people she had seen since arriving, that she wanted to weep.
An aftermath of shock, maybe. But Graham’s memory was alive here. And she did not belong.
She left her room and walked barefoot down the stairs. The practice had overflowed into most of the lower floor. Even the dining room was laid out for the first aid instruction her mother gave a local women’s group.
Her father was in his study, his glory-hole, he called it. Littered, untidy, and lined with books, some so old that they were almost falling apart, but she knew from experience that he could put a finger on anything he wanted. How she had always liked to see him, relaxed, if he could ever be, reading, or smoking a pipe, which he rarely did anywhere else.
He looked up as she walked into the glory-hole. ‘I think you should put some proper clothes on, my girl. It’s a little draughty at this time of the year. Coal rationing, you see.’ He chuckled. ‘But you wouldn’t know about that in the Royal Navy!’
She settled herself into one of the few chairs not littered with papers or medical journals.
She said, ‘I’d like you to meet him, Daddy. I think you’d get along well.’
He put an unused pipe cleaner into his book to mark the page and said, ‘I’d like to meet him, very much, of course I would. He was there at the right moment. We all owe him that.’
She touched her thigh and moved slightly to ease the tightness of the scar. Her father said suddenly, ‘Goes deeper than that, does it?’ He smiled. ‘I know how you must feel, but gratitude is no true basis for something permanent, you know. Take it from me.’
The door opened slightly, and Lucy said, ‘You’re missing your programme, Doctor. Mrs. Hillier kept me chatting longer than usual . . . never knows when enough is enough, that one!’ Just for an instant her eyes shifted to the girl in the dressing gown. ‘I’ll bring some tea in a minute.’
Margot looked away. Even Lucy understood. It was hopeless.
The radio crackled into life, a calm, unhurried voice. ‘It was my first real introduction to the work of the Royal Navy’s Light Coastal Forces.’
Her father muttered something and made to switch it off. ‘Well, thanks to Mrs. Hillier, I’ve missed it!’ He glanced across as Margot exclaimed, ‘No, Daddy, leave it on. Please!’
‘. . . I shall never forget it. The courage and determination of those same men, boys, some of them, left me moved beyond words. I saw men die; one was well known in this profession. I watched ships burn. I was afraid. What kind of men can confront these hazards, sometimes night after night in the seas around our coasts? There were faces which would not have been out of place at Jutland, or at Trafalgar. And one in particular, who for me symbolized the strength, and the modesty, which must surely lead to victory. The captain of this particular “little ship”, still in his twenties, but with a record of gallantry which was already known to me, remained with me long after I was safely ashore. When we first met I asked how I should address him. “Chris will do,” he said. I shall never forget.’
The B.B.C. announcer’s smooth voice cut in. ‘That was Mark Pleydell, in the latest episode of At the Front. Next week he will be visiting . . .’ The set went dead.
She stood beside the other chair, her hands on her father’s shoulders. She had not even felt herself move.
‘Now do you understand?’
The war correspondent named Mark Pleydell had been there with him, had seen what Chris endured or expected every time he went to sea.
And in my way I shall share it. Gratitude does not come into it.
She felt her father lift her hand to his mouth and kiss it, something he had never done before.
He repeated, ‘I’d like to meet him very much, of course I would.’
Another door slammed, upstairs this time.
As if Graham was back, and ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’ would soon be shattering the stillness.
The moment was past.
The messenger held the door only half open, and said, ‘The O.O.D.’s respects, sir, and your transport will be here shortly.’ His eyes flitted around the small room. ‘Ten minutes at the most.’
David Masters stepped back from the tiny window that overlooked the Operations Room in the main part of the building, in time to see the seaman’s expression. No doubt wondering why a place so important should be crammed into such a dump. The window had only just been installed, and there was still brick dust on the pile of folders beneath it. It enabled him to look directly at the operational plot, as well as the big chart that displayed all the latest incidents, according to their importance or otherwise; in some areas there did not seem room for any more of the brightly coloured markers. It also allowed the staff to work without the feeling that somebody was always watching them.
The messenger jerked his head. ‘There’s a Lieutenant Foley who says he has an appointment––’
‘Yes. I’m expecting him. Thanks.’ He noticed the heavy drops of rain or sleet on the seaman’s cap and watchcoat. He had not looked out of doors since he had arrived, and that must have been earlier than he had realized. He had heard Colours being sounded on the bugle, and then after the appropriate interval, Carry On, the little base and establishment returning to work as usual.
But it was not as usual, not this time. He had sensed it as soon as he had entered his cramped office, and the Operations Room in particular.
There, the day was marked by long periods of boredom, waiting for something to happen or some signal demanding action. And interludes of strain, dealing with an incident, or several, trying not to reveal involvement or distress when an operation went wrong, and someone paid for it with his life.
This morning he had felt an almost buoyant atmosphere, not unlike his return from London when the news of Tirpitz had broken.
He glanced at his greatcoat, which was lying over a chair. Brand-new, delivered from Gieves yesterday.
Like a stranger’s, he thought. Something he had not owned since he had been promoted. A raincoat or comfortable duffle had seemed more useful, more appropriate. Or had he been deluding himself again? Trying to close the door on that other life, and where his old greatcoat now lay.
But Coker had been pleased. ‘Quite right too, if I may say so, sir!’ He had peered suspiciously at the grey light. ‘Looks like being the right day for it, an’ all!’
And there had been the phone call from Bumper Fawcett. Did he never sleep? Not alone, certainly. He had heard a woman’s voice in the background.
‘I’m coming straight down! Not having a bunch of chair-polishers getting the jump on my department! Remember, top security all round, it’ll be like a bloody hornets’ nest before you know it, what?’
Masters rubbed his chin, surprised that it was smooth. He must have shaved in two minutes. His case was on the floor near the greatcoat. Coker had insisted, ‘You might have to hang about, sir. Don’t want those Osprey people showing us up, do we?’
He heard voices, then a tap at the door.
Foley, too, was dappled with sleet, and had obviously walked up from his motor launch without bothering to put on anything heavier than his working uniform.
Masters smiled. ‘Sorry to drag you up here, but I’m about to leave for the Bill and I wanted to see you first.’ He saw the momentary uncertainty, the shadows beneath the lieutenant’s eyes. ‘Everything all right at your end?’
Foley nodded. ‘A bit of a filter-pump
failure, but we’ll have it fixed before the end of the forenoon watch.’
Masters looked at the new greatcoat and its bright gilt buttons.
There it was again. Like Coker. Something personal, possessive. Foley had said we. Some skippers would have been content with they.
He said, ‘It’s all Most Secret, but in a place like this it will be hard to keep it that way.’ He touched a signal folder on the littered desk. ‘Your initiative two days ago brought results. I intend that in the backwash of things your part does not go unnoticed – unrewarded, if you like.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. It was only a feeling . . .’
Masters tapped the folder. ‘Hear me out. A feeling, fate, luck, call it what you will. But you acted as you thought fit, when nobody was in close company to offer advice or orders to the contrary.’ He had walked to the little window without knowing it. One of the duty officers was actually laughing at something, and others were drinking tea as if they did not have a care in the world. ‘A Royal Air Force Sunderland of Coastal Command was returning from patrol on that same morning when you caught the E-Boat napping, coming in from the Western Approaches, probably thinking of nothing but getting back to base and a warm bed.’ Without realizing it he had raised both hands, like an arrowhead. ‘They were flying low, very low, and trying to avoid the worst of that fog, remember?’
Foley said, ‘Worst I’ve known down-Channel for some time.’
‘And suddenly there it was, right beneath them. Not even the fog tried to hide it.’ His hands came together. ‘A submarine.’ He saw Foley’s surprise. ‘A midget submarine, experimental or one of their latest secret weapons, there was no way of knowing.’ He walked back acoss the room, his hand brushing Foley’s shoulder as he passed. ‘Fortunately, for us, that is, the Sunderland had already been involved in a fruitless attack, a U-Boat sighting report, and had dropped all its depth charges. Otherwise the midget sub would be just another cross on a chart.’
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 15
