Twelve Seconds to Live (2002)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Masters sensed that she had changed in some way. More confident and less reserved, perhaps more mature; a very different girl from the one who had told him about her brother upon his arrival from Vernon. Only two months ago? Less.

  He had spoken to the P.M.O. about Foley. ‘Could have been worse, much worse.’ The great man had paused. ‘What can you expect when they send young chaps out to fight in wooden boats? In this day and age!’

  Foley was going to be all right. The girl had spoken to him only once.

  ‘Thank you for your message, sir. My friend Julie told me. I felt a little better after that!’

  He had seen her watching him a few times in the driving mirror. Had her blonde friend told her about Elaine de Courcy, how she had made such a hasty departure from the conference in Chavasse’s office? It might make an interesting topic of conversation at the Wrennery, or even here, for that matter.

  He came out of his thoughts as a whistle shrilled, and somebody yelled an order. Whatever it was, it bounced around these forbidding rocks and boulders like several different voices. Such a strange place . . . you could imagine a stagecoach clattering through, with Sioux warriors firing off arrows and looted Winchester rifles while they pranced up there against the sky.

  There was a sharp bang, nothing more, not even a puff of smoke.

  Masters heard one bearded commander growl, ‘Waste of bloody time! Another dud!’

  He watched the huddle of uniforms around the admiral who had come from Plymouth to observe. In other groups he recognized several members of the countermeasures section, some new to the work, others who had been on the job for months.

  He was reminded suddenly of Fawcett’s comment when he had mentioned Dicer Lewis. Now he’s dead. Nothing we can do about it. Was that all it meant to him?

  He caught sight of Sub-Lieutenant Lincoln on the outskirts of the largest group. His assistant, Downie, was with him, as if they did not belong to the main body of the gathering.

  He turned as he heard Brayshaw’s voice, or rather his laugh. Like Fawcett’s aide displaying his watch, it was his way of sending a signal.

  Brayshaw said cheerfully, ‘Of course, David – you know Captain Wykes, don’t you?’

  Wykes thrust out a bony hand before Masters could salute.

  ‘Good to see you again.’ He nodded towards the beach and the dispersing onlookers. ‘I’ve seen better fireworks at the last night of the Proms!’

  They walked along the path while Brayshaw found something to interest him amongst the scattered rocks.

  ‘I gather you are keen to see me?’

  Masters said, ‘I was worried about Elaine. But I expect you know what happened yesterday after Rear-Admiral Fawcett’s inspection, the “post-mortem”, as it were.’

  Wykes glanced sideways at him. ‘Bumper was in fiery spirits when he called me. Likes things to go his way.’ He quickened his pace. ‘I can’t tell you a thing. But you know the drill as well as anybody. It was rather sudden, not a lot to go on, but I had to act on it chop-chop, just in case.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  Wykes smiled. ‘I didn’t hear that, old chap.’

  Masters felt the conversation slipping away from him. ‘But she’s a civilian.’

  Wykes stopped in his tracks and looked at him. ‘So were a lot of people before the war.’ He gestured towards a column of sailors who were making their way back towards the harbour. ‘Them, for instance. But not everybody wears a uniform.’

  Masters faced him. ‘Some time ago you mentioned the Channel Islands, how they might be connected with the supply of the new German explosives. Her father is or was involved. Responsible, even?’

  ‘Putting two and two together does not necessarily make four.’ Wykes looked back at the main group; the admiral’s brightly oak-leaved cap was moving. It was over. For the moment. Wykes patted his pocket, ready for that first cigarette. Then he said, ‘You have a quick mind, old chap. And a good memory. I can use both.’ He reached out and touched his arm, like the day they had met. ‘And you care. I’ll keep you posted, when I can.’ A shutter seemed to drop and he turned to throw up a salute to the admiral as he strode past. ‘Good morning, Sir Richard. It’s all coming along, I see?’

  The admiral was looking at Masters, but answered, ‘Still alive, are you, James? You must divulge the secret some time!’ He nodded to Masters. ‘Your people are doing fine work – tell them so from me, will you?’

  Wykes watched the procession move on, and sighed.

  ‘God has spoken.’

  Brayshaw had caught up with them. He glanced from one to the other and said hopefully, ‘Time for a glass before we leave?’

  Masters stared at the sea, and measured the time and distance, recalling Fawcett’s warning. Or had he imagined that also?

  He answered, ‘Always.’

  He turned up the collar of his greatcoat. But the scent of her perfume had gone.

  The yardmaster and his chief shipwright stood on ML366’s foredeck and compared their notes. It was the last of the four boats he had visited, and his patience had worn thin.

  ‘I’ve already told your senior officer what I think, so I don’t need to go over it all again.’ He glared at Allison’s single wavy stripe as if to emphasize the point. ‘I could lose a month’s work in this boat alone, right, Ben?’ His companion nodded. ‘But I’m told I can have two weeks and no more. After that, the powers that be have other ideas for you. An’ besides, we’ll need the berth.’

  Allison listened to the whine of drills and the thud of hammers. The yardmaster had got all of his men working at first light, or so it had felt. A handful of key ratings would remain aboard for some of the time; the rest were being given leave or billeted ashore. In small vessels it was always resented, like an intrusion. As Bass had remarked, ‘You need to screw everything down, or else the dockyard maties will nick it!’

  Allison gazed across the inlet. Hardly a dockyard. ‘I think we need more time.’

  The yardmaster snapped, ‘Tell them!’ He closed his battered notebook. ‘Say hello when you see your skipper again. I hear he’s eager to get out of the sick quarters.’

  Allison followed him to the brow. ‘You know my C.O. then?’

  The man opened his book again but changed his mind. ‘Chris Foley? Who doesn’t?’

  ‘I’ll tell him. And thanks.’ When he looked again, they had vanished. Two weeks. He stared along the deck, at the chips and scars on the side of the bridge, the blackened paintwork by the companion ladder. Each time he saw it he could feel the searing heat, the flames darting ahead of their extinguishers, the splintered planking. The dead telegraphist.

  Their senior officer, Tony Brock, had already been aboard to see for himself.

  ‘You’ve got to keep an eye on things, Sub. All the time. They’ll curl up and have a bloody snooze if they think they can get away with it.’

  Allison had asked about the order and timing of things, but Brock had answered, ‘Tell them what you want. You’re the first lieutenant around here, so just get on with it.’

  Allison and Bass had seen him over the side. The killick coxswain had remarked, ‘We’ll manage, sir. That’ll stop some people fartin’ in church!’

  He had meant Brock.

  The idea of some home leave had almost vanished. It would have been nice to be greeted like a hero by his mother and father, and maybe a girl he had got to know over the months and his irregular periods of leave.

  Better still, a girl like the one he had bumped into at the sick quarters when he had visited the skipper. The one who had been here to see them return to their temporary base. A real girl. She was driving the Boss’s car again, so soon after the accident. Another Wolseley, not the Austin Seven she had joked about. Foley had told him about it. Shared it. He recalled the yardmaster’s comment, a man who was not, he guessed, easily impressed. Chris Foley? Who doesn’t?

  The cap she had been wearing was still in Foley’s locker. What would it be like, he wondered. Reall
y like? He had become used to blushing at some of the crude descriptions and remarks deliberately uttered in his presence, to shock and embarrass him. He glanced along the scarred deck. Here, at least, they seemed to respect him. But what would it be like?

  ‘Anyone in charge ’ere?’

  Allison came out of his thoughts with a jerk, and stared at the newcomer in the filthy boiler suit who was carrying what looked like a tool box.

  ‘I am.’

  The man was unimpressed. ‘You’ll do, then. I’m the base engineer.’

  Allison looked round for Bass but he had disappeared. ‘You want the Chief.’ He led the way. ‘I’ll take you.’

  You’re the first lieutenant around here, so just get on with it.

  When he returned to the deck he was surprised to find a Wren waiting by the brow.

  She was holding an official envelope and a pad for signature, and he noticed that she had the crossed flags and letter ‘C’ of a coder on her sleeve. More to the point, she was very attractive.

  ‘Are you in charge?’ The slightest pause. ‘Sir?’

  He nodded. ‘First lieutenant.’

  She opened her pad. ‘I’d have thought . . .’ She stopped and held out the pad. Allison saw her looking at the damage and then remembered. She had been one of the Wrens with the skipper’s girl, on the wall when they had come alongside. Two days ago. It did not seem possible.

  He ran his eyes over the envelope. ‘I’ll be seeing my C.O. later today. I’ll show him this. He likes to know what’s happening.’

  Two yard workers were pedalling along the jetty on their bicycles. Both gave loud whistles, and one yelled, ‘Wot about it, darlin’?’

  Allison was suddenly angry. ‘I’ll report you!’ He shook his fist, but they were already out of sight amongst the litter of fittings and repair work.

  She was watching him, surprised, but smiling.

  ‘Wow! That showed them!’

  Allison tried to recover his dignity. She was very pretty, her hair a little longer than regulation requirements, and she had an accent which his mother would describe as ‘cultured’.

  She said, ‘It looks even worse in this light. It must have been terrible. Your captain was injured.’ And seeing his confusion, she added gently, ‘His girl is a friend of mine.’

  Allison walked with her to, and then down, the brow before he knew what he was doing.

  She paused, looking at him, her lips parted as if she were going to say something.

  Allison said, ‘I was wondering. If I can get ashore. Maybe you’d care to join me for a drink somewhere.’ He clenched his fists with embarrassment. It was happening again, after all this time. Like a hot flush. He was actually blushing.

  ‘There aren’t too many places around here.’

  It was all going wrong. She probably thought he should have known, or maybe that he was too young. And she was right.

  She pulled an old bicycle from behind a pile of oil drums and carefully dusted down the saddle.

  ‘But call the Wrennery when you get a spare moment. If I’m off watch, I might be able to meet you.’

  She hitched up her skirt and hoisted her leg over the saddle.

  Allison felt as if his face was on fire. Even the regulation stockings could not conceal that she had very nice legs.

  ‘Who shall I say . . . ?’

  ‘Ask for Toni. It’s what they call me!’

  He watched her pedal unhurriedly down the road towards the Operations section, her hair blowing rebelliously beneath her cap.

  He groped his way up the brow again.

  Her name was Toni. What they called her. He thought of her smile when he had yelled at the dockyard maties.

  Wow!

  Bass was aft, apparently arguing with one of the work force. It had started.

  He suddenly grinned and strode towards them.

  He was the first lieutenant.

  Chris Foley thrust his arm into his jacket and reached behind for the other sleeve, gritting his teeth against the pain. Perhaps because of the clean shirt, it seemed easier this time. He glanced at his reflection in the wall mirror as if he were studying a subordinate, or a total stranger. Looking for flaws. After the usual shabby seagoing gear he even looked different, he thought. Allison had brought him his proper Number Fives when he had made a visit to tell him about the repair work, and any other news he had been able to gather.

  He buttoned the jacket carefully, but it felt looser than before. The going had been rough, but he had not thought that he might have lost weight.

  He looked at the bed nearest the door, occupied by a casualty who had been brought in during the night, the skipper of one of the trawlers used for laying marker buoys. A boring but necessary job, hardly ever out of sight of land. It was impossible to be vigilant all the time. Sister Titmuss had told him a German aircraft had come out of the sunset, an accidental encounter, perhaps, with the pilot already thinking of getting back to his airfield in France.

  The man’s jacket hung on a chair by the bed, bearing the single interwoven stripe of an R.N.R. skipper. Foley could see his head on the pillow; the sparse hair was almost white. A man who should have quit the sea long before this, but one who had been ready when he was needed. Foley was not sure how many the trawler had carried, but air-sea rescue had picked up only three. The trawler had disappeared.

  The door opened an inch and Sister Titmuss murmured, ‘That’s more like it.’ He, too, looked at the occupied bed and pursed his lips. ‘P.M.O.’s on his way, so if you . . .’

  ‘I know. I’m going out right now.’

  The SBA followed him into the corridor, watching every step. ‘Don’t try to climb Everest, will you? Not just yet, anyway!’

  Foley walked out into the sunlight. Hard and bright, the air very cold like that last day on the bridge. He could hear the din of drills and saws from the yard, but made himself turn away towards the main buildings. They had their work cut out to meet the deadline; there was no time to be wasted looking after their commanding officer. They knew how he felt. Sightseers, like passengers, were no use at all.

  He had worried about Allison, but perhaps in its way it was the best thing which had happened in his short career. He was cheerful, confident, altered in some way Foley could not define.

  He had reached the offices, and saw Brayshaw’s chief writer observing him from the door marked Captain’s Secretary.

  ‘He’s expecting you, sir.’ He glanced quickly over Foley’s uniform. ‘You look well, sir. I’m glad.’

  Brayshaw gripped his hand but refrained from shaking it.

  ‘Still sore, is it?’ He waved him to a chair. ‘Good of you to trot over here!’

  Foley leaned back, with care. He had noticed that the Wolseley was not parked in its usual place. Masters must be away somewhere, visiting the site of an incident, meeting new officers who had volunteered for special service, like all the others he had seen since bringing ML366 to this small, crowded place. Or perhaps over at Portland. Margot would be with him, driving again, when it had once seemed impossible.

  Brayshaw said, ‘I suppose you’ve been told by just about everybody that you are still officially standing down from active duty?’ He nodded. ‘Thought so, although your S.O. will soon be screaming about being short-handed.’

  ‘But I thought Lieutenant Baldwin was the only death?’

  Brayshaw looked away at something. ‘True. But Lieutenant Claridge has been sent on leave, so his Number One’s holding the fort.’

  Foley found that he was gripping the arm of the chair, his body suddenly chilled. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There was an air raid on Southampton the other night. Hit-and-run. Nothing new, I suppose.’ He looked at him directly. ‘Dick Claridge’s home bought it. His wife was killed.’

  ‘He was always worried about her. Because she worried about him every time he put to sea. He never said as much, but it was always there.’

  Brayshaw frowned as a telephone began to ring on his
desk. It stopped almost immediately, intercepted by the vigilant chief writer.

  ‘Situations change, people don’t. In war you take risks – some take risks all the time, as you know better than most. But it can’t change how you feel, how you care, right?’

  He paused, looking towards the window. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Masters will be here at any second. He and I have to see the Old Man about one of the subbies. A Mention in Despatches has come through.’ He nodded. ‘There’s the car now. We should be tied up for an hour.’ The merest smile. ‘I shall make certain of it!’

  Foley stood up. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll not forget.’

  Brayshaw called after him, ‘I shall expect an invitation . . .’ He broke off and sighed; Foley had gone. ‘You’re right for each other. The bloody war can wait!’

  Masters came in and walked briskly to one of the big, old-fashioned radiators, and held his hands over the hot pipes.

  ‘Did you tell him, Philip?’

  Brayshaw touched the gold lace on his sleeve. ‘About him being given a half-stripe?’ He shook his head. ‘About losing his ML and being given another command? I told him about Dick Claridge instead.’

  Masters looked at him as if he had misheard. Then he nodded very slowly.

  ‘You did the right thing.’ He glanced at the window as a car door slammed. ‘I envy them.’

  Brayshaw thought of the girl with the chestnut hair, the way they had looked together, been together, in a room filled with people.

  But he said only, ‘We’d better not keep the Old Man waiting, eh?’

  He had heard a lot about envy during his naval service. It was the first time he had seen it for himself.

  She sat quite still, with her back pressed against the driving seat, her hands clasped in her lap. People who passed the parked car, going about their normal duties, would glance at her and imagine she was relaxed, perhaps bored, waiting for her passenger.