by Alan Evans
Brent broke in: “Telephone! How?”
“From the house of a friend.” So Albert would be waiting for her, she was certain of that, but she had an awful fear of what would follow later.
David did not like the idea. Put this girl ashore again? She was watching him, leaning back into one corner of the little wheel-house with her legs braced against the pitching of the boat as it raced out to sea. Brent’s arms were outstretched to the bulkhead to hold himself steady. The girl was determined, he could tell that from her set face, her hair clinging damply around it. She was slender in the tightly-belted trenchcoat, seeming fragile, but she was strong. He knew the strength of that slim body.
Suzanne urged, “I only have to go from the shore to the river and that’s little more than a kilometre inland. Then I’ll go down the river to St. Jean.” She stopped, had nearly said, “You know it”, but checked herself in time.
David Brent remembered the river and how it ran down to the town. He remembered how she had looked the first time he saw her. He said harshly, “I’ll have to think about that.” He would say no more and led the way back to the bridge, the tearing slipstream and drenching spray.
He stood at the front of the bridge by Grundy. The other three boats were now in company and had fallen into the arrowhead formation. Crozier’s boat tore along to starboard while Dent and Vance had taken station to port. All four boats raced out to sea, bows lifted and sterns squatted on cushions of foam, engines bellowing.
Brent narrowed his eyes against the lash of the spray. He was conscious of the girl behind him. She had followed him up to the bridge again but had the sense to stay at the back out of the way. He glanced around and saw a seaman clambering up to the bridge with one arm wrapped round a huge bundle, the other clutching dexterously at one handhold after another. That was Cullen, experienced and sure-footed on the pitching deck. Grundy said he had the makings of a good man and only needed “straightening out a bit”.
Cullen handed the bundle to Jimmy Nash, who shook it out. The oilskin flapped on the wind, clapped like thunder but then he helped the girl to put it on and fastened it about her waist. David thought how true to form it was that Gentleman Jimmy had sent Cullen below to fetch it. He grinned.
The outsize oilskin hung about the girl like a tent. When he had first seen her, at the party in the embassy in Paris a year ago, she was demure but shapely in a little black dress and gloves. He was on leave, waiting for an appointment to another ship. She told him she was British by birth but held French nationality now. She was a bi-lingual secretary and had come to the party with her boss, head of a French firm that did a lot of business with Britain.
He remembered he had said, “I’ve had enough of this place. Let’s go out on the town.”
She had looked up at him seriously for what seemed a long time and he had wondered: What the hell? Then she had given him a small smile and said, “I’d love to.” And when he left her at the door of her apartment in the early hours of the morning she had said, “I’m going to Normandy tomorrow for a few days. Will you come with me?” And that was the start of the affair.
He remembered how the river ran close to the coast at the place where she wanted him to put her ashore, and how it meandered down the ten kilometres or so to St. Jean. He stared out to sea, thinking. Suppose…
“Lights! Starboard bow!” That was Jimmy Nash making the report: “The fishing fleet again.”
The drifters were three to four miles distant. Brent turned his eyes away from the lights and instead searched the outer darkness to starboard and port. Blackness. There could be another fleet out there, invisible without lights. All you would see of another boat would be the white blaze of her bow-wave and wake. And those of an E-boat showed less than those of a M.T.B. because the E-boat ran lower in the water.
His eyes changed focus and found Chris at the back of the bridge. Brent wondered about Tallon’s relief and his own as they’d raced away from the shore. Fear? Or a healthy respect for danger and gratitude for a narrow escape? And he thought again of the river winding down to St. Jean. Suppose…
*
Rudi Halder lowered the binoculars and let them hang from their strap on his chest. He balanced easily on the bridge of the E-boat as it rocked gently in the swell. The three boats lay with engines stopped, still, within yards of each other. So he could hear, above the soft wash and slap of the sea, the occasional low murmur of voices aboard the boats on either side. Their captains, Fischer and Petersen, stood on their bridges as Rudi did on his, watching, listening. Their heads frequently turned to look to him, waiting for his orders. These were Rudi’s boats and he had trained their crews, led them and driven them. He was proud of them.
He estimated the fishing fleet was about ten kilometres away and to seaward. His boats had stopped twenty minutes ago. At that time he had heard the distant rumble of engines, but the sound had receded and died, tantalisingly. Rudi thought they had been headed for the coast, and waited.
Now his head turned quickly and he knew he had been right. There was a crackle of firing from the direction of the coast, muted by the miles of sea between, and he saw tiny red sparks of tracer floating in the night sky. Then he heard the engines again, distant but approaching from the land.
Bruno Jacobi’s voice came deeply: “Sounds like the same boats coming out.”
Rudi grinned at him. “Right.” For a few seconds longer he stood with head cocked on one side, listening to the engines, the sound rolling over the sea like far off thunder, the herald of a storm. He saw the other two captains turned to him and he lifted his voice to order, “Start up!”
*
David Brent saw the mist as a floating greyness ahead of the boat then a second later they ran into it. He blinked, and as quickly the mist had gone. He glanced out to starboard and saw the lights of the fishing fleet clearly. So the mist was drifting in on the wind from the port side, had been left astern but there might be more of it ahead. He stepped around Grundy at the wheel, gripped the throttle levers and eased the speed to twenty-five knots. That would give them all a little more thinking time if the mist suddenly thickened about them.
The fishing fleet was abeam now and soon he would have to make the turn to take the boats around the drifters. He had to make a decision about the girl and his course of action, talk to her again, and to Tallon and the other captains. Time was precious. Whatever he decided to do, he had to bear in mind that the boats must be well on their way home before the dawn. Otherwise they could be caught on the open sea by enemy aircraft.
He glanced astern and saw the other boats had conformed to his reduction in speed, were neatly holding the arrowhead formation. In the night they were dark silhouettes riding the silver furrows they cut in the sea. Beyond them was the outer darkness with visibility of about five hundred yards at most.
He saw Suzanne Leclerc tucked away in a corner at the back of the bridge, beckoned her to him and asked, “You said the time of the train was put back? You know the timings?”
The girl nodded, “All along the route. It was delayed three and a half hours, but that only made the raid more dangerous. It was the battalion bivouacked around the bridge…” She stopped because David Brent no longer seemed to be listening to her, was peering into the night.
He muttered, “Bloody fog!”
She went back to her corner, wondering.
*
The E-boats ran into the fog and Rudi Halder cursed softly as the boats on either side of him disappeared. He was aware of Bruno Jacobi glancing quickly at him then turning away to peer ahead. He would be wondering if Rudi was going to reduce speed. Rudi was not. He had decided on this interception course and speed and he would hold both. But this fog was the devil! He could miss the Tommis — he was certain there were British boats ahead of him, somewhere — or he could run right into them. He could hardly see beyond the E-boat’s bow, let alone penetrate the grey curtain. If another craft appeared before him now he would collide with it: Smash!
Bruno Jacobi bawled, “Damned fog!”
Rudi nodded but did not turn his head, leaned forward, arms on the bridge coaming, eyes narrowed against the mist streaming past…
They burst out of it. One second they were wrapped around by the fog and the next they were tearing through open water straight towards the Tommis. Rudi had time only to see there were four boats, two in front of him and two more beyond them. Then he snapped into the voice-pipe, “Hard aport!”
The coxswain in the wheel-house below the bridge spun the wheel. The boat heeled in the turn and as she straightened out of it he saw the boat astern and to starboard swinging to follow him. The Tommis were barely more than a hundred yards away on the same course and now the 20mm. cannon in the bow below Rudi opened up, followed a blink later by the other aft in the waist. He was almost blinded by the muzzle flashes and the flying tracer. He could not make out the other two E-boats but saw their guns firing. Now he was leading them in echelon, both of them astern of him and a boat’s length between each. That way they weren’t bumping in each other’s wash.
There were strings of red tracer coming the other way now as the Tommis replied, and he saw from the angle of the tracer that he was drawing ahead of them, making better speed. Something beat like a hammer on the cupola around the bridge and he knew that was the enemy fire hitting. He held the course another few seconds as the 20mm. cannons banged away, then ordered again, “Hard aport!” He laid a steadying hand on the coaming of the bridge as the boat heeled, his head turning to look astern. He still could not see the Tommi boats, would not get his night vision back for some minutes, but the white blazes of their wakes and the lines of tracer showed their position. He could not see any fires but they had been mauled, he was sure of that. The cannons of the three E-boats had hosed the Tommis at point-blank range.
Then he was into the fog again, the guns ceased firing and Bruno Jacobi was bellowing congratulations. Rudi nodded, grinning. It had been a good attack. The entire action had lasted less than a minute.
*
The attack had achieved total surprise. David Brent saw the E-boats duck back into the fog that came down behind them like a shutter. He could charge after them into the fog, pursue them blind on the chance that he could bring them to action again. At another time he would have done so, wanted to do it now, but his orders were to avoid action, to carry out his primary task. “Starboard twenty!”
Grundy spun the wheel again and Brent’s boat swerved away from the fog. The others followed and fell into the arrowhead formation again. Brent glanced to starboard and then to port. The three other boats were maintaining course and speed, not making any signals for help. That did not mean they had escaped damage. They must certainly have suffered.
Jimmy Nash had expected them to hunt down the enemy and fight it out. Then he remembered Brent’s orders to avoid action — but also his relief when the raid was aborted. Nash stepped close to David Brent and ground out, “The bastards jumped us!”
Brent thought that was the whole idea and Jimmy knew it, was only voicing his anger. So David just nodded acknowledgment and looked past Nash to where the girl stood at the back of the bridge. She was all right but had been lucky. He reproached himself for not sending her below — but that would have been no guarantee of safety. A shell from a 20mm. cannon would rip through the hull as if it were paper.
He wondered where the E-boats were now.
*
They were clear of the fog and Rudi Halder had altered course so that they were running out to sea. Bruno Jacobi, braced on thick legs against the bucking of the boat, shouted, “That was a damn fine action! In — bang! — and out again before they knew what the hell was going on!”
Rudi grinned at him. The fog had helped; that had been lucky. But the boats had been well handled, the attack carried out perfectly. Rudi answered above the boom of the engines, “We’re not done with them yet.” And as Bruno looked questioningly at him: “When they’ve finished counting the damage they’ll head for home. We’re going to lie out along their probable course and hit them again, when they’re already dreaming about their beds and their girls, and their eyes are growing tired.”
Bruno laughed.
*
David Brent saw that the lights of the fishing fleet were far astern now and he ordered the change of course to take the M.T.B.s circling around the drifters and then northwards. The boats heeled in the turn and settled on the new heading and he knew that would not be lost on the girl. She would conclude that he was going to put her ashore as she had asked. She might be right.
Suzanne had been deafened and blinded, shaken by the fire-fight between the boats. But now her sight and hearing had returned, her hands did not shake because she gripped the side of the bridge to hold on against the pitching of the boat. The terror had receded. Now there was only the bellow of the engines, the black night all around and the cold, driving spray.
She saw David’s face turned towards her, as he had looked down at her in the darkness outside her flat in Paris when she asked him to go with her to Normandy. She had driven them down in her open two-seater the next day, her hair flying in the wind as they slipped out of the blaze of sun into cool shade beneath the trees marching along the roadside. Her hands on the wheel were slim and brown, innocent of rings. She had told him, “I was brought up in this part of the country. I could find a job here any time I wanted.” And: “I keep the cottage as a place to get away to.” She did not tell him why she needed to escape.
The cottage had only one room. You could lie in bed with the window open and listen to the sea, watch the dying fire in the hearth and imagine pictures in the flames…
Suzanne became aware that David Brent was at the throttle levers, easing them back, and the boat was slowing, stopping. The engines were suddenly silent and the bow slumped from its racing attitude so the boat wallowed low and level in the sea. The other three boats stopped close alongside and edged in closer so that a man could make a long stride from one to the next.
David turned to the girl and, as if reading her thoughts of a moment ago, said, “You talked of travelling down the river to St. Jean. I want you to tell me about sentries, patrols, defences. There’s a map below in the wheel-house.”
Suzanne nodded: “I can do that.”
He watched her drop down the hatch, then he turned to the other boats. Crozier, lying close on the starboard side, had little to report. He had seen even less of the action than had Brent and his boat had not been scratched. Dent and Vance had borne the brunt of the attack by the E-boats, both had taken hits but all on the upperworks so they were not making water and their engines were unaffected. Little Dent had one man slightly wounded, and Vance two. All were minor cuts from flying splinters. None of the eight commandos aboard each boat were hurt.
Tommy Vance had one man dead. The blanket-wrapped body was now being lashed to the deck in the stern. David Brent asked, “Who?”
Tommy answered, low-voiced, “Garbutt, sir.”
David remembered Garbutt as a thin, cheerful youth of no more than eighteen. He sighed bitterly, but thought they had been lucky, might easily have suffered worse damage and casualties. He wondered about the action’s effect on the morale of the crews. That kind of reverse might destroy confidence, instil an unhealthy excess of respect for the enemy. But he did not think that was the case with these men of his. They were not silent and brooding. They were working or keeping a look-out but there was a low murmur of conversation and someone was humming softly. David picked out the tune: “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”. He called dryly, “You won’t hear any nightingale out here,” and heard chuckles.
Brent told Jimmy Nash, “I want to see all captains in the wardroom in five minutes.” He glanced at the soldier. “And you, Chris, please.”
Tallon replied ironically, “My time is yours. I’ve a highly trained, wound-up platoon, seven of them with enough explosive and know-how to blow up the Forth Bridge. But you might say we’re a
ll dressed up with nowhere to go now.”
Brent looked at him thoughtfully, then said, “We may need them all.”
He swung down through the hatch to the wheel-house and Tallon looked at Jimmy Nash. “So what is this for? And why are we hanging around here?”
Jimmy said, “We’ll find out in five minutes.”
Tallon muttered, “It looks like a wash-out to me.”
Jimmy Nash privately agreed, but said nothing, remembering Tallon’s relief when they had to flee from the coast.
Chris Tallon scowled bad-temperedly. He wondered if his relief had shown, though he was sure he had seen the same reaction in Brent. Tallon knew the reason for his. He was ready to fight but hoped for a fighting chance, not to be thrown in hastily in an attempt to save a lost cause. But there was also bitterness. He was retreating again. He would have to tell his men and he knew what they would say: “Just like one more flaming exercise then, sir.” They had trained enough, had keyed themselves up for this.
But David Brent had said, “We may need them all.” So…?
Brent turned Bill Emmett out of the wheel-house and replaced the navigator’s chart with a map of the area ashore. Chris Tallon, up on the bridge, had another. Both were marked with the site of the intended landing now abandoned, and the bridge that was to have been blown.
Suzanne looked at the map. It was small scale and covered a section of country around St. Jean some forty kilometres square. Suzanne sketched quickly on a spare sheet of paper as she talked: “St. Jean and the region around it have been quiet. There’s been the occasional arrest of someone caught listening to the B.B.C., or making rude signs at the Germans, but no actual resistance. So there is just one battalion of infantry based in the barracks in the new town, here, across the bridge from the old port.” The pencil tapped the sketch.
