The sergeant said, ‘On the left side, sir.’ He did not get out of the car. ‘Mrs. Patterson’s place. Near miss last month, poor old girl.’
Lincoln checked his pockets, then deliberately stepped over the tape which had been pulled across the street. A sign which said UNEXPLODED BOMB lay on the ground. Which raid, he wondered? It looked as if there had been several.
‘Come on.’ He heard Downie fall into step with him, his feet loud on the littered pavement.
Lincoln paused and looked along the empty street. Some wickets had been chalked on a wall, where children had played cricket in happier times. A shop with all the front blasted out had a sign painted beside it, Open As Usual. Some wag had added the word More. It was not very different from the street where he had lived for most of his remembered life.
‘This is it, sir.’ Downie was waiting by an open door. The hallway had been stripped, the plaster gone from the ceiling. But it was still a house. A home.
The mine had ploughed through the back of the building and come to rest in what must have been the living room, where Mrs. Patterson had probably sat in the evenings, trying to lead a normal life. There were smashed slates everywhere; the parachute must have caught on the broken timbers remaining after the previous raid. Lincoln stared up at the fragment of sky he could see beyond the leaning shape of the mine. Roach was right. A Type Charlie.
Dust was falling; it was snow. Tiny flakes, when moments ago the sky had been clear.
He said abruptly, ‘Go and find a place to take cover. Run out the line. You know what to do.’
‘I’d like to stay.’ Downie opened his satchel. ‘It looks easier than the last one. Why don’t we . . .’
Lincoln knelt and touched the mine for the first time. It would be simpler and safer to detonate it right here, from a safe distance. There was not much left to preserve. People should not be expected to endure such conditions.
He thought of Crozier, and of Masters, what he would say and think when he got back from whatever he was doing. Get on with it. But it mattered. Of course it mattered.
He brushed the dust and plaster from the fuse cap.
Go by the book. Just like the classroom. Take your time. You’re not going anywhere.
Downie was beside him, tools ready, one hand resting on the cold metal, near his.
Lincoln said, ‘After this, I think you’d better get a transfer.’ He heard his intake of breath, an unspoken protest, but he persisted, ‘I’m no good at this. At anything, can’t you see that? When I got my Mention, it was for nothing – it was the dog that saved you, not me! I couldn’t move. I was going to tell you, I wanted to, but things seemed to carry me along. And then . . .’
Downie said quietly, ‘I knew. I didn’t lose my memory. I only pretended. It was better that way.’
‘All the time, you knew, and let me go on playing the hero?’
Downie said, ‘Let’s keep together,’ and smiled. ‘Mike?’
They both looked up as an aircraft roared over the street, that familiar whistle of the Spitfire. What Lincoln had once wanted to fly. To show his father. To prove something.
The sound died away but the vibration remained a little longer.
Enough to make the mine slide a few inches into the bank of fallen bricks. Lincoln cried out as the full weight of it ground over his foot, crushing it inside his boot, pinning him there. The agony was overwhelming.
He saw Downie staring at him, then turning as they both heard the soft, almost gentle whirr of the mechanism.
Then and only then did Lincoln manage to scream. ‘Run, Gordon! Run!’
In fact it was not much louder than the fuse.
Downie knelt beside him and clung to his arm. He might have murmured something.
Then there was nothing.
David Masters jerked his body back and forth in the cramped seat and rubbed his eyes roughly with his knuckles. It was unnerving. Despite every precaution he had felt himself becoming drowsy again, head lolling against the perspex dome, mind drifting. It played every kind of trick; even the sound of the electric motor was lulling if you allowed it.
He adjusted the air supply and peered out into the darkness. Fewer stars now; perhaps just as well.
He checked the time and went over the final approach, piece by piece.
There was a boom of buoyed nets across the narrowest part of the entrance to the bay. The Germans were taking no chances; perhaps they had the X-Craft in mind after the successful attack on the mighty Tirpitz.
But it would not work here. Even at high water one of those little four-man submarines would be hard put to squeeze under a fully loaded freighter to lay the explosive charges. At the change of tide, it could even be crushed under the target and go sky-high with it.
The intelligence report had described the boom, and the elderly passenger boat which was used to open and close it. After this, they would probably not need the bay again.
High water was just before dawn, when the freighter was expected to quit the bay and pass over the mines.
Masters could picture them in their special torpedo-shaped container, directly under him. When they were set off by the freighter he would be well away, provided the batteries and the air did not run out. Waiting at the rendezvous for Trojan to appear.
The midget was fitted with a small homing signal, rather like the ones carried in dinghies for finding airmen down in the drink. Like the one Lincoln had discovered in the wreck of the Latchmere. He frowned. Something still troubled him about that . . . He rubbed his face. He was drifting again, at a time when he needed to be fully alert.
And the young seaman, Downie. He could still hear his cry of despair. He was my friend.
Then suddenly he heard it, felt it. The thrum-thrum-thrum of a heavy marine engine. He stared abeam and twisted round to look over the quarter. Not an E-Boat, fewer revolutions, but what was it doing here? Then he saw the darker shape of the vessel, on the port bow, making no wash, but from the bearing he knew it was heading for the boom. But how could that be?
He saw the blink of a signal lamp, a recognition of some sort to the shore battery, or another unseen position around the headland.
As if to settle the matter the boat’s sides lit up, dangerously bright against the black water, leaving nothing in doubt.
Before the light cut out, Masters saw the painted replica of the red and white pilot’s flag.
He was fully awake now. Like a slap in the face and worse. All that work and planning crammed into this operation and they had missed the one glaring flaw. Nobody had thought there would be a special pilot, coming here, just to make certain everything went smoothly.
He could see it as if it had already happened. The pilot would be on board the freighter when she passed through the boom. The pilot cutter would go ahead to a planned rendezvous so that he could be taken off without delay once the freighter was clear.
He forced himself to confront it. The pilot cutter would spark off the mines before the freighter was anywhere near them. A good captain and pilot would still have time to stop or run the ship ashore. Either way, the plan would be wrecked.
He looked at the compass and altered course very slightly. It gave him time to consider what he must do. There was no other way. And there was no one he could ask.
He would have to steer across the entrance immediately after the cutter had gone, and drop the mines at the last moment.
There would be no rendezvous with Trojan; she would have long gone. No skipper would risk his command on the surface in daylight, off an enemy coast. He would be abandoned. To go ashore and give himself up? To try and find somebody who might hide him until he could contact one of Wykes’ agents?
He thought of Elaine’s description of her own experience: the Germans were not likely to be in the mood for leniency. An example would have to be made, if only to save the neck of the German officer responsible for the security arrangements.
There was no other way. Accept it. No wonder they had issued him with a pistol.
The final alternative.
He steadied the hull on a new course to cross to the shelter of the headland.
For a moment longer he imagined he had dozed off, or slipped into a semi-conscious daze.
Then he heard it. The same powerful diesel. He rubbed his face to restore his senses. How long had it taken? What was happening?
He saw the momentary crest of broken wash, and felt the sea push the midget on its beam like a toy. The unmoving shadow he had identified as the old boat used to open and close the boom was as before. The pilot cutter was heading away, the boom was shut again. He had not even seen it.
Slowly at first, and then quite calmly, he accepted the facts.
The pilot had remained aboard the freighter. He was probably going all the way to St. Malo. Or thought he was.
Masters readjusted his seat and tested the air. He had stopped counting how many times.
The delay so far had cost him the rendezvous with Trojan.
He felt his face crack into a smile. ‘Good luck to them!’
The way was clear. He would move into position, as planned, and start the attack. After that?
Bumper Fawcett would be on his toes, in touch with Wykes or one of his contacts at the Admiralty. He steadied the steering, and deliberately flicked down the four small switches on the panel. All red. Bumper would hear all about it. Miracles take a little longer.
Aloud he said, ‘Here we go, then!’
He peered at the slow-moving shadow of the headland. Closer, closer.
And she will hear about it, too.
Afterwards.
‘Course, North-fifty-East, sir.’ Bass watched the dim compass light flicker, but knew from experience that it was eye-strain. How many hours had they been out at sea? He pushed it to the back of his mind as he heard Sub-Lieutenant Venables say, ‘Sixteen, sir!’
Bass could picture the released mine falling astern, responding to its sinker, to be ready for the next Jerry who came this way. Venables had a stop-watch in his hand. He was like that, he thought. He could not really take to him. Even the other subbie had been all right once he got the hang of things. He wiped his mouth, tasting the salt and the high-octane.
He saw Foley moving to the port side of the bridge. Pitch-dark, but no hesitation now. They were all getting used to Firebrand, and Bass no longer felt so guilty about his transfer.
Foley raised his binoculars and looked astern. Four more mines to go. At the briefing before sailing he had heard all about the need for more minelaying in French coastal waters. Combined R.A.F. and American bombing raids of railways and marshalling yards were playing hell with German supply lines, and their coastal sea-routes were becoming vital.
He heard the first lieutenant giving orders to the working party down aft, Kidd still not raising his voice.
He imagined he heard a splash, and Venables said, ‘Seventeen, sir!’
Foley glanced at the sky. It was cloudy again, and there was snow frozen on the bridge screen, like sandpaper on the handrails.
Even with all this going on around him, she was never far away. She would have to watch her driving if it was like this where she was . . .
And Masters; he wondered what he was doing. It had been fairly obvious in the briefing that he was somehow involved with the secret operation Pioneer. Maybe this minelaying was connected with it in some way.
The motion was heavier now; getting rid of the mines had something to do with it, but Firebrand was off the Cherbourg peninsula, 366’s old stamping ground, and feeling the strength of the Atlantic coming up the Approaches.
‘Eighteen, sir!’
Foley looked at his watch. It would be light by the time they sighted Dorset again, but a flotilla of motor gunboats would be waiting to escort them for the last stretch.
They had already made contact when still within sight of the coast, and one of the M.G.B.s had made a signal. ‘Give it to them, Chris!’
When he had trained his glasses on the gunboat’s bridge he had seen her skipper grinning at him. It was Harry Bryant, his old first lieutenant. Not an M.T.B. after all, but still one of the Glory Boys.
He rubbed his gloves together. ‘We’ll have some ki after this, ’Swain.’
Bass grinned. ‘Too right, sir!’ He jerked his head as another mine went over the stern. ‘One to go!’
The signalman turned from the voicepipes. ‘Signal, sir! W/T says it’s Priority!’
‘Twenty, sir!’
Foley said, ‘Go down and get it, Sub.’
Kidd clambered into the bridge. ‘Something up, sir?’
‘W/T, Priority. Strange for them to break silence.’
Venables returned and said, ‘To all units, sir. Pioneer terminated.’
Kidd remarked, ‘We’re none the wiser. Must have blown it.’ Casually said, but Foley knew him better now. His way of concealing his feelings. His own bitter experiences.
‘Shall I lay off a course for base, sir?’
Foley walked to the rear of the bridge and saw some of the hands clamping down the empty launching gear. A good bunch. He was lucky.
Bass called, ‘Ki, sir?’
Let’s get the hell out of here before the krauts wake up to us.
He thought of Portland. The secret. The catch of the season.
There had been rumours. There always were. But there was something else.
He realized that Bass had asked him something, but his mind refused to let go. The staring face of the dying German in the little submarine, on that ill-fated operation with the coastal minelayers. Masters would know. Masters had known.
He thought of the girl with the chestnut hair, and Masters’ help in getting leave for Margot, so that they . . .
He swung round. ‘What time’s high water, Number One?’
Kidd frowned. ‘Where, sir?’
Bass exclaimed, ‘Gawd, there’s a big raid somewhere!’
Through the uncertain flurries of snow, Foley saw the clouds light up with an inner glow, red and orange like a furnace door flung open. Then came the explosion, loud and heavy enough to make the hull quiver, like one of their own mines.
‘That was no raid, ’Swain.’ He looked back at Kidd. ‘There!’
Kidd looked over the screen as it lifted and plunged against the dark water.
‘I served as an apprentice in one of the old railway steamers. Used to run back and forth to the Channel Islands. That’s where it happened, whatever it was.’
It all came together like forgotten fragments. Masters, and the captured midget submarine. The lovely girl who worked with the Intelligence people. She was a Channel Islander; someone must have mentioned it.
‘That was Pioneer. It wasn’t terminated after all.’ He was speaking to Kidd and all the others, and to his ship, his new command. ‘There’s somebody out there right now, trying to get home. That signal was to all units. But there’s only us.’
Kidd looked at the sky. The glow had vanished, as if it had never been.
‘It’s a hell of a risk, sir.’
‘For me, you mean? I’ll carry the can, right?’
Kidd nodded gravely. ‘Right. Somebody will be on the phone to Admiral Dönitz right now. The whole place will be like a hornets’ nest.’
‘He had time to get clear. Otherwise it wouldn’t have happened.’
Like that other time. Another voice. Not a warning, but a plea.
Kidd said suddenly, ‘Let’s take a look, sir. I’ll lay off the course.’
Foley walked to the voicepipes. ‘Chief? We’re going to search for somebody.’ He could imagine Price’s face now; the memory of Shannon was already fading. ‘So when I call down, give me all you’ve got, right?’
Morgan Price sounded very calm. ‘The whole lot, sir.’ With pride. Like Pottinger, the leading hand who had choked off the messenger for trampling over the new decking in hobnailed boots, in his ship.
Another signal, as he had expected. Return to base.
Another hour went past, the sky got lighter, the
sea stayed empty. Hostile.
Kidd said, ‘We tried, sir. But for your own sake . . .’
They might never meet up with their escort. Tony Brock would not be pleased, and neither would anyone else.
‘Bring her round, Number One. Ring down half-speed. I’m only sorry that––’
‘W/T, sir!’ It was Venables, his reserve suddenly gone. ‘Faint signal!’
Kidd said, ‘Might be a downed flier, sir. But if you think it’s worth risking?’
‘I do. So let’s move it!’ Sharper than he had intended. ‘Sorry, Number One. I’m getting past it.’
Surprisingly, Kidd grinned. ‘I’ve got a six-year start on you!’
Half an hour later they found him, the tiny rubber dinghy almost awash, Masters sprawled across it, one arm dangling in the icy water.
Foley stood in the forepart of the bridge, his glasses trained on the drifting dinghy.
‘Dead slow.’ He tried to hold the glasses steady against the heavier motion as Firebrand eased down. ‘Scrambling net, starboard side. Two good men.’
He heard Kidd say, ‘I’ll go myself.’
Foley lowered the glasses and wiped them. The snow was getting heavier. But it was Masters, and he had not moved. Probably dead, after all he must have gone through.
How did I know it was him? It had to be.
‘Stop engines!’
He strode to the side and leaned over the screen, saw Kidd and a seaman hanging down on the scrambling net, the sea swooping over their legs as the hull swayed in the current.
Pottinger was at the guardrails and suddenly turned to peer up at the bridge. He was grinning. Laughing.
Bass breathed out slowly, ‘He made it, God damn it!’
When Foley looked again the dinghy had been hauled aboard. A trophy, or an excuse, should they need one when they got back.
Masters had snow in his hair, and his lips were blue with cold, but he managed to climb into the bridge, clinging to Kidd’s arm until he was seated in one corner, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
He said, ‘You came back for me.’ Then, ‘I’m glad it was you.’
It was a moment Bass knew he would always remember.
Old Chris’ll get you home, you’ll see!
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 34
