Twelve Seconds to Live (2002)

by Reeman, Douglas

  There was no choice anyway.

  He said flatly, ‘Let’s do it, then.’

  Using any kind of spade or tool was out of the question. If anything metal came into the mine’s magnetic field it would end right there and then.

  Using their bare hands they began to dig and scoop the heavy, wet sand. The air was as cold as ever, but after a few minutes Lincoln imagined he was sweating. There was sand everywhere, in his hair, inside his sweater and underwear, between his teeth.

  And all the time it was getting lighter, so that small items stood out, an undisturbed tray of enamel mugs, where some workmen had been interrupted by something. An old and tattered Daily Mail and an empty cigarette packet. He paused and rested on both hands, feeling his lungs pounding. He must be out of condition. The thought made him want to laugh out loud.

  He saw Downie, almost on his back, one leg hidden by the great trunk of the mine, and wondered what his father had been like. He would have been proud of his sonright now . . .

  Once he paused, breathless, to peer at his watch. They had been burrowing like moles for almost an hour.

  Downie had produced a small brush from his satchel and was busy clearing away the last of the sand.

  Just one wrong move now. Lincoln dragged himself over and down into the trough and said, ‘Let me.’ He took the brush and used his fingers to feel the way around the final curve of metal. It was like ice.

  He said softly, ‘Got it.’ Their eyes met over the angled mine. ‘Hold your breath, Gordon!’

  Again, it was like watching somebody else, or going through the drill as they had under training. The spanner in his hand was warm from his pocket.

  He blinked rapidly as the wind blew some sand into his eyes. ‘Damn!’

  Downie reached across the mine, his arm inches from the fuse, and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. Lincoln noticed in those few seconds that his hand was bleeding badly, cut on something in the sand. He recalled what Masters had told him about Downie’s skill, and his ability to remain calm as he had been sketching the details of a mine while his lieutenant had been on the other end of the intercom. Doing it . . .

  Lincoln licked his lips and took the first pressure. He felt the sweat running down his spine. It felt like ice-water.

  ‘Come on, for Christ’s sake!’ He had spoken aloud without realizing it.

  Downie put his hand over his and said, ‘Here we go, then.’

  The keeping ring moved, only a fraction. Lincoln nodded, his head jerking like a puppet’s. ‘Again!’

  He felt it move freely. The worst was over. They had done it. He had no need of the stethoscope; it was so quiet he would have heard it had it gone active. And there was nowhere to run.

  The fuse came out of its sleeve without obstruction. But if anyone had attempted to move the whole mine to a more accessible place Lincoln had little doubt as to what would have happened.

  They lurched out of the trough. Lincoln even managed to pat the cold metal as he hauled himself up and into full daylight.

  He leaned over, and for an instant thought he was going to vomit. Like that last time.

  But he felt calm, if slightly unsteady. Like a hangover, he thought vaguely.

  ‘Call ’em up, Gordon. Tell them the show’s over!’

  As Downie turned towards the abandoned intercom Lincoln caught him by the arm. ‘Better have that cut seen to. The sappers may have a decent first aid kit.’ It was not at all what he had meant to say. He made another attempt. ‘I was thinking. We’re both being given leave.’ Downie was staring at him as if reading his lips, his eyes filling his face.

  Lincoln said roughly, ‘You can come up to my happy homestead. You’d be more than welcome.’ He saw all the doubts and questions as if they had been shouted aloud. ‘My mother will make a real fuss of you. And besides, it’s your birthday next Tuesday, right?’

  Downie swallowed and wiped his hand on his filthy uniform as if it needed brushing. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I think you mentioned it just after we first met.’ It was a lie; he had glanced at Downie’s pay book, which had been on a bedside locker at the sickbay.

  ‘If you’re sure I wouldn’t be in the way, sir?’

  Lincoln smiled. ‘Mike, remember?’

  Downie picked up the intercom and pressed the button. It took him several seconds to speak.

  Lincoln turned and looked at the beast. It was madness of a different sort. And he was glad.

  Perhaps it was only then that he began to realize what he had done.

  Chris Foley paused outside the hut marked Yard Master, his mind still grappling with the news which had changed everything. In the navy, especially the wartime navy, you never took anything or any day for granted.

  He swung round with one foot on the wooden steps and stared along the littered yard, the jetty where she had been standing to see 366 come in, where the ambulances had been waiting like those other times. For only a few seconds there was a lull in the din of saws and hammers, drills and clattering machinery, as if out of respect. Or dismissal.

  He still could not believe it. Promotion to the acting rank of lieutenant-commander was one thing. In the past it would not even have been a dream. All those months, all those miles, different faces and accents, mannerisms and loyalties. Something you had to expect. But ML366 had always been there, his own command. People had come and gone, transferred or sent on courses, promoted, and sometimes put ashore for good, wounded or killed in action.

  He had held command for longer than most. Survived. Maybe he had always taken it too much for granted. And now he was losing her.

  He could see the main gates from here, where he had kissed Margot in the car to the accompaniment of wolf whistles they had scarcely heard. Yesterday. Masters must have known; so must the captain’s secretary, but it all had to go through the right channels. Promotion, court-martial, sudden death, the navy had a correct procedure for everything.

  A man in a boiler suit strolled past and remarked, ‘You can go straight in, Guv.’ He walked away, whistling, without a care in the world.

  But Foley was still staring along the jetty, hearing the voices, seeing the various expressions of the men he knew so well when he had told them. Not like any big warship, or even the destroyer Allison had known before moving to Coastal Forces. It was true what the old hands said; it was a family.

  What could you say? I hope the new C.O. treats you well. It’s been nice knowing you, even the skates amongst you. That had raised a few smiles. Then what? Just walk away from it?

  He rapped on the door and pushed it open.

  Lieutenant-Commander Tony Brock was standing by a window and close to an old-fashioned stove. It was rare to see him in proper uniform; usually he appeared either in seagoing rig or a favourite fleece-lined R.A.F. flying jacket. And leather wellingtons which were so worn and stained it was hard to think of them ever being new.

  Today he wore his best uniform, the wavy gold lace on his sleeves not even tarnished, the ribbons on his breast, the D.S.O., the D.S.C. and Bar, as fresh and clean as if they had just been stitched into position. He stood, square and upright, his eyes very calm, which was also unusual, Foley thought.

  Brock said, ‘Bit rough, was it? Decided I’d leave the stage to you just now. The formalities can wait.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘I thought it better if we met here. We’ll not be disturbed. I hope.’

  Foley sat in one of the chairs, careful to avoid rubbing his injured side, although he had not thought about it before. The yardmaster’s office was remarkably clean and uncluttered, unlike his domain outside, with plans and printed lists of spare parts and accessories, and work schedules to match the noise of the men at work in the yard.

  Brock was in his late thirties, old for Coastal Forces, and looked older. Even his neat beard and clipped hair did not disguise the strain.

  ‘I’ll come to the point, Chris. I know it’s a bad moment, it always is. I’ve had a few times myself. But the war’s movi
ng on, and we have to keep up with it – it’s what we do, what we are. I’ve been with Captain C/F this morning and he agrees, albeit reluctantly, that provided you don’t officially object, you will be transferred to a new command.’

  Foley thought of the neatly worded information. Without feeling. An experimental vessel, only just completed, a fast minelayer still in the builder’s hands. At Falmouth, Cornwall. There was more, a whole lot more, but choice did not come into it.

  Brock was watching him impassively. ‘It is entirely voluntary, of course.’ He smiled briefly. ‘You know what they say about a volunteer in this regiment. It’s a man who misunderstood the question in the first place!’ He gave his short, barking laugh. ‘I told CCF you’re the one for the job. Experienced, smart and careful. Not one of those death-or-glory boys – I can manage without types like that!’

  Foley said, ‘I’m told that there are two of these experimental boats?’

  ‘Right.’ Again the grin. ‘So much for bloody security, eh? But you’re correct, just two, so far. Fairmile gunboat hulls, four-shaft motors, which will give you, wait for it, thirty-six knots, how about that?’ He moved to the window and stared at the overlapping hulls and dipping cranes. ‘I said at the time it was utter madness, or conceit, to send those coastal minelayers. Two slow, far too limited.’ He punched one fist into his palm. ‘Straight in, hit ’em, and out again, that’s what we need!’

  ‘It was such a surprise, you see . . .’

  Brock waved him into silence. ‘If you turn it down they’ll let you keep your half-stripe, but I doubt if you’ll command anything else, respect least of all! A lot of good blokes have gone west over the last four years, we’ve both seen them go, only too bloody often! If we don’t owe anything to their lordships, and the people who think they’re running this war, then we owe it to the ones we served alongside.’ He winked. ‘Good sales pitch, eh? Time for a noggin if we can find one!’

  He walked to another door, then changed his mind and said, ‘I know your thoughts pretty well. But let me put it this way. I’ve been through the reports so far, and I can assure you that ML366 will be laid up for some time.’ He ticked off the points on his strong fingers. ‘Shaft, starboard outer, is badly distorted, a replacement job and all that entails. Multiple hull damage from a whole year’s operation without a proper refit.’ He regarded him steadily. ‘At best she’ll be limited to inshore support and convoy work, something which would be wasted on someone of your experience. So take it while you can. I’ve no intention of becoming one of yesterday’s heroes and used as a bloody door-mat when this lot’s over and done with, and neither should you. You’re good, so don’t bloody well waste it!’

  Almost what he had said to Allison just now. He had been surprised, shocked, his new confidence gone. He had simply stood there, framed against the burned paintwork where he had risked his life without question, had proved what he could do.

  Quite subdued, he had said, ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  The door slammed open and the yardmaster marched into the office and threw some plans on his table. ‘All done, then?’ He smiled at Foley. ‘Glad you made it. Time you had a break, in my opinion!’

  Brock jammed on his cap and strode out into the sunshine. ‘All right for some!’

  Foley looked towards the jetty and the crowded moorings.

  He had heard it said often enough about leaving one ship for another. No matter how close a relationship it had been, never go back. It is never the same. You might not even be remembered. The ranks soon closed.

  They had to.

  He said, ‘Have they selected a new skipper yet?’

  Brock casually returned a young sailor’s salute.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? Dick Claridge is getting her. His own boat is in even worse shape. Experienced chap, keep him fully occupied during the refit, too.’ He glanced at the vessels at their moorings, their ensigns bright in the hard sunlight. ‘Tough about his wife, but there it is.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘The bar should be open by now.’

  They headed towards the main building and Brock said, ‘You will still be under my command, so to speak. I’ll always be open to discussions. But one word of advice. Don’t stick your neck out for anybody else.’ Then he smiled, the mood passing. ‘Door-mat, remember?’

  Foley was thinking of Allison, and what might happen when Dick Claridge took command. They could be good for each other, and for the boat.

  A new command. Moving on, like the war. But it was still hard to accept.

  He would call Margot and tell her all about it.

  That was the real difference. This time, he could share it.

  Brock had stopped to speak with a nervous-looking midshipman, but caught up with Foley as they walked across the ‘quarterdeck’ and saluted in unison.

  Brock said, ‘Nice enough lad, son of the commodore at Harwich. But I told him he should get a decent tailor. He looks like something out of the scran-bag!’

  They entered the wardroom and Brock tossed his cap at one of the stewards as he waved to various individuals who were already in the bar. Foley had known him for a long time, at a distance. The decorated hero, the tough commander who never backed down, ‘Bash on Regardless’.

  But afraid more than anything that one day he would be forgotten.

  Captain James Wykes walked to a frail-looking safety rail and stared down into the shimmering green water. The lighting came from below and round the sides of what had once been a swimming pool, the main building having been a boarding school where many of the pupils were the sons of serving officers, or officials in the colonial service. Those boys were now evacuated, and some were doubtless already serving in uniform of one sort or another.

  On the outskirts of Weymouth, it was suitably placed for Portland and even Plymouth, its change of role now accepted for the duration.

  Swimming pools, especially in school, had a particular smell which never seemed to change, regardless of time and use. Wykes could remember the endless instruction when he had been a cadet at Dartmouth, even now, after what felt like fifty years, when the call for backward swimmers had been sounded. Chlorine and wet bodies; those who could not swim and were frightened, those who would drown rather than admit it. Wykes had hated it, but he had managed, somehow, to get through.

  There was a different sound also. An echo which had never left his mind, when someone had called out for help, or an instructor had pointedly humiliated another boy in front of his classmates.

  He tested the rail with his hand and looked at the two frogmen paddling back and forth above the submerged lights. Like black seals. He patted his chest to restrain an early cough. More deadly than seals.

  One of the frogmen had glided alongside the pool’s main occupant. Even here, held in position by head and stern lines, the German midget submarine looked alive. Menacing, rocking this way and that as the first frogman clambered onto the small space behind the perspex observation dome.

  The catch of the season, some wag had called it. Most people had forgotten all about it. The ‘catch’ on display in that gloomy vault, where he had first seen it, its dead crewman stretched out beside it, another exhibit for the experts to prod and examine with their usual relish.

  The enemy were constructing a lot of them, more advanced even than this one. If they were allowed to run loose when the time came to invade occupied France, it could cause disaster. The reported sinking of the coastal minelayer was proof, if any was needed, what one determined man could achieve. Eventually, more direct action would have to be taken. That was not his concern.

  This midget submarine, which had been captured after its pilot had lost consciousness, had been fitted for laying small mines. The boffins had stripped and reassembled the fittings and equipment again and again, until somebody high up had produced a full report. One torpedo, steered by a brave or reckless crewman, could destroy a big ship, filled with troops or vital stores. A few such craft, fitted with mines, could
go even further; they would smash an invasion before it had started.

  A simple idea, like the X-Craft which had crippled the mighty Tirpitz deep inside her boomed and guarded fjord. Or the Italian ‘chariots’ which mined the battleships in Alexandria, and had penetrated the anchorage at Gibraltar itself. Brave, lonely men, not unlike those who pitted their wits against the mines being dropped over here; hardly a week passed without hearing of a mine or unexploded bomb claiming another such hero.

  He had often wondered in the past what made such men and women act as they did. Courage, a total disregard for personal risk, pride, or a need to take revenge? All or none of these? He thought suddenly of David Masters, what he knew of him, what he had seen of him. There was guilt, too. A debt to pay.

  He had done that well enough.

  There were voices on the stairway, coming up here, where proud parents had once stood and watched their offspring win events for the old school. Or being bullied as backward swimmers, he thought.

  Like some of our own people. Agents dropped by plane, or put ashore from fishing boat or submarine, with a mission, or merely to contact a source of information. A tiny piece of the wider pattern. Wykes had met a few of them, but not many. There were others, better qualified, and hardened to that side of operations. Success was rare and priceless. Its cost did not bear thinking about. The torment and suffering of those who had been betrayed or captured, and the risk taken by every single agent was well known. He sighed and turned to greet his visitors. And yet there were those who readily volunteered.

  They were an unlikely pair. The small, stooping man with thick spectacles who had difficulty standing or sitting still was called Beamish, and he was one of the top brains in the world of explosives and fuses, a leading boffin whom Wykes had met many times. Beamish would explain every device in detail, step by step, in the manner of a rather bored schoolmaster. It was a wonder he was still alive.

  The other visitor, tall and powerfully built, and wearing the uniform of a Capitaine de Vaisseau in the Free French navy, was Michel Lalonde. An expert in matters relating to German bases and supply lines, especially in his own occupied country, he was a strong, aggressive character with, Wykes suspected, little love for his British ally.