Charles Villiers turned off the bedside light and opened the heavy black-out curtains for a moment. Bright moonlight, and there were wavering beams from searchlights a long way off, south of the Thames somewhere. He returned to the bed and sat down before switching on the light once more. His unopened newspaper lay beside him; the war in Sicily was all but over, and the friction of retreat was already showing itself between the Germans and their disheartened Italian allies.
He remembered how Ross had come to the hotel on their return from Portsmouth, how they had discussed Pryce’s sudden change of demeanour, although he had regained his energy when the orders for Ceylon had been finally approved. Had Pryce’s lapse been because of Sinclair’s early and obviously unexpected release from medical care?
It was a marvel that old Ossie Dyer hadn’t tumbled the reasons for his questions. He was usually sharper than a tack.
The telephone jangled noisily. It would be the manager, as discreet as ever, announcing the air-raid warning with the courteous suggestion that it might be safer in the hotel cellar-cum-shelter until the all-clear.
An unknown voice said, ‘Lieutenant Villiers? I have a call for you.’
It was a bad line, like a W/T set full of static, but he knew her voice instantly.
She said, ‘It’s me . . .’ the slightest hesitation, ‘Charles?’
He gripped the telephone tightly. ‘What is it? Where are you?’
She replied, ‘I just wanted to thank you properly for your kindness when you came to Portsmouth – to Haslar. You were so good, so quick to understand.’
Villiers thought of Ross’s cool intervention. But for that . . . He said, ‘I know that your husband has left. Don’t say anything about it on the phone. We might get cut off.’ He tried to smile, to reassure her over the miles. ‘Careless talk, you know. I know I’m not supposed to say it, but it’s wonderful to hear you. You could be right beside me. I wish you were.’
For a moment he imagined he had gone too far, that she had hung up.
Then she said, ‘Good luck, and take care of yourself, won’t you?’ There was a catch in her voice. It must have cost her a lot to make this call.
He said, ‘I must see you before I leave.’ The line crackled but nothing happened. ‘I promise not to upset you. I want to tell you – no, I need to tell you . . .’ It was all going wrong.
She said, ‘I have another interview in two days’ time. I – I could meet you afterwards, if you like.’
‘Like?’ He swallowed hard. ‘Come to the hotel. The Malacca Room, remember?’
She was crying now, but very quietly. ‘I’ll never forget. Your great grandfather. What did you say to that Polish officer?’
‘You’re too young to know.’ He held the telephone pressed hard to his ear. ‘We can talk.’ She could not answer, and he said, ‘Until Thursday.’ She had replaced the telephone, but he said, as though she were still listening, ‘I shall be here.’
Then he took a bottle of Plymouth gin marked Duty Free, H.M. Ships Only from the cupboard, and groped for a glass.
It was probably madness, but she must not be hurt by it.
When the all-clear wailed across London he was asleep, fully dressed, the gin unopened. He could not remember sleeping without the nightmare for a long, long time.
Lieutenant-Commander James Ross gripped the guard-rail and paused to stare up at the ship’s superstructure. He had all but forgotten what a big ship was like. Outwardly, this was a powerful cruiser where never a day passed without men mustering for this or that to the lordly summons of a bugle. But H.M.S. Endeavour was not what she appeared, and like a few sister ships was in fact a fast minelayer, her belly usually packed with a lethal cargo of some four hundred mines. She was designed to dash in, sow a full field of mines and speed out again before there was time to seek her out from the air. Captain Pryce’s cohort had boarded the minelaying cruiser at Liverpool and after the first leg of the passage to Gibraltar they had had cause to be grateful for their choice of transport. Endeavour was so fast, in spite of her size, that her escort of four fleet destroyers had been hard put to keep up, even when the minelayer had reduced to her economical cruising speed.
Another world. A full wardroom, meals properly served by white-jacketed stewards: a far cry from the mud and stealth of enemy harbours, where at any minute they might have been sighted and attacked. Out of courtesy, Endeavour’s captain had offered Pryce the use of his own quarters. Pryce had accepted with unseemly haste.
The war they had come to know, respect and sometimes fear fell rapidly astern with each turn of the screws. Long-range aircraft, U-Boats and commerce raiders were almost unknown here, and this morning they had sighted the far-off blur of land: Sierra Leone. Africa.
Ross continued with his walk, determined to keep as fit as possible, in spite of the large meals and lack of exercise. He saw Tucker standing by one of the boat davits, shading his eyes to watch some strange birds skimming within inches of the creaming bow-wave.
They met every day, like lost souls in this ship with her complement of over four hundred officers and ratings. Ross had still not become accustomed to the sight of Tucker in his new fore-and-aft rig of petty officer, with its gilt buttons and crossed anchors on the sleeve. But it suited him, just as he had known that Tucker would suit it.
Tucker straightened up when he saw him. ‘Cheeky little buggers, them birds. It’s a wonder they don’t drop dead with fatigue!’
Ross nodded. The ship was steering south-east. They would put in to Simonstown, South Africa, in a few days. He had been there before as a young subbie and he knew Tucker had, too. A sailors’ town. Hot, not too expensive, and friendly.
Tucker said, ‘Still find it a bit strange to be messing in the P.O.s’ mess. But they’re a good bunch – seem to think we’re the nutcases for doing what we do instead of serving in big ships.’ He grinned, his eyes crinkling. ‘Of course, they’d say different if they got tin-fished with a load of mines down below!’
They lapsed into a companionable silence and watched the spray drifting astern from the stem.
Tucker was thinking of his last few days of leave, the consternation when he had appeared in his new uniform. All his father had been able to say was, ‘Well, blow me. Blow me! Just look at our Mike!’ Even his old gran had given him a hug and wished him well. Usually she never had a kind word to say for anyone. His mum had questioned him about his next assignment and had warned him to watch out for them coloured girls.
It made you laugh, really. His mum had never been further than a trip to Southend for the day.
He said, ‘Pity Mr Villiers couldn’t have come along with us, sir. He’ll be feeling a bit out of it, I expect.’
Ross smiled. Tucker was a marvel. He spoke to just about everybody and made friends with most of them; he had even dared to caution Captain Pryce when he had been handling a loaded pistol without first checking the safety catch. It was rare to see Pryce at a loss for words.
He thought of that night at the St James’s hotel. They had had rather a lot to drink, and in the course of their conversation Villiers had told him about his great grandfather, Captain Charles Villiers, Far East trader and deep-water sailorman; how the business had started at Hong Kong where he had discovered that half of his crew were falling ill, poisoned by the harbour’s supply of drinking water for the hundreds of ships that came and left on the tide. He had bought a fresh-water concession with some smart, clean lighters and trustworthy people to handle his business affairs. The name of Villiers had become known worldwide, but few realized that it had all begun with the sale of drinking water.
Villiers had not mentioned his parents and young sister, and Ross had not asked him. It was there in his voice, his eyes, his obvious affection for the life they had all once shared.
He said to Tucker, ‘A nice chap. Should fit in well. But I agree with you about his being left behind. It’s a matter of collecting some last bods for our section – a couple of divers and some mechanics. I
don’t know the full strength of it yet.’
He thought, too, of the girl he had met only briefly at Haslar Hospital, Captain Sinclair’s young wife. She was the other reason for wishing Villiers had come with them aboard the minelayer. He tried to dismiss it from his mind. If he had had one reservation about Villiers joining the section it had been because of his past, the obvious hatred he felt for those who had murdered his family, his desire for revenge. Such forces often made a man behave recklessly, and with total disregard for others who relied on him. Ross could well imagine the Royal Marine being like that, the man of action and impulse rather than reason. Now that he knew Villiers a little better, he had no fears in that direction.
But he could see his face, the girl’s, too, when they had confronted one another at Haslar. It would be madness for them to become involved. A brief affair? Even that could be destructive.
We are going to a war we know very little about. Ross had always dreaded the possibility of an operation going wrong, and ending as a prisoner of war. But he had never been afraid. He had helped to drag German survivors from the freezing water when minutes earlier they had been doing everything possible to kill one another. A blanket over the shoulders, a cigarette put between shivering lips, a tot of rum if there was one handy. After that, they didn’t seem very different from his own men.
But the Japs . . . He had seen it in Villiers’ eyes. A young man driven so brutally by grief and horror that he had even agreed to land in Singapore on some crackpot mission or other, no doubt dreamed up by another Pryce, if there could be such a thing.
And what about you? It was like another voice. What would you do in his place?
The tannoy squeaked, and then came the trill of a boatswain’s call.
‘Up spirits! Senior hands of messes muster for rum!’
Ross shook himself mentally and tried to smile. This was reality. All that counted, until the job was over and done with.
When he examined his thoughts again, all he could discover was envy.
4
The Real Thing
THE ARRIVAL AND disembarkation of Captain Pryce’s Special Operations Reconnaissance Force at Trincomalee, the Fleet’s main anchorage on the eastern coast of Ceylon, was something of an anticlimax. Far from feeling like part of a completely new theatre of war, September had brought to them a strange sense of unreality, and isolation from the ‘real thing’.
Some old Army married quarters had been converted into accommodation for the naval party while the chariots, which had travelled from England in the belly of the big minelayer, were transferred to a small depot-ship with all the necessary facilities, and a fine machine shop for the artificers and torpedomen.
Empty blue skies, white uniform shirts and shorts: all the stark changes were matched only by the news from home. As expected, the Allies had invaded southern Italy. Not an island this time, but part of Europe itself. It had not been easy. The Germans had been prepared, and had barely relied on the Italians. They had fought back with artillery and tanks, and an entirely new weapon, a radio-guided rocket which could be homed on to a ship from the air, had made its first appearance. Several major warships had been damaged, including the veteran flagship Warspite,the darling of the Mediterranean, and others had been even less fortunate. But despite some misunderstandings between the allied commanders, the attacks had been forced through. Operation Avalanche had succeeded.
Pryce’s chariot crews, used to the bitter waters of Scottish lochs and the North Sea, were amazed by the beauty and warmth of the coast where they exercised in an underwater world of red and white coral, passages through dark rocks and swaying flowers so exotic and ornate that it was often hard to concentrate on the rules of attack.
There were six chariots altogether, with crews and spare hands and a considerable back-up of ‘experts’, who ranged from explosives instructors and survival teams to a lecturer on tropical diseases.
On this hot evening, Lieutenant-Commander James Ross walked into a pool of light outside the door marked Captain-in-Charge and then hesitated. Pryce had asked him to ‘pop in’, but he obviously had somebody with him: Ross could hear his short, barking laugh. What did he want this time? He thought suddenly of Villiers. His passage to Ceylon had been further delayed, and Ross sometimes wondered if that meant all this had been for nothing; that somebody on high had decided there was no need to proceed with a further expansion of this or any other Special Operations group.
A seaman who was sitting beside a small table with a telephone said formally, ‘The captain is with a senior Army officer, sir. Shall I call him?’
Ross shook his head. ‘No, but thanks. Is there anyone in Operations?’
‘Only the duty P.O., sir. Ops at Base are still handling the main traffic’
Ross walked away and along one of the newly constructed corridors that had been built to link the various offices and storerooms. The operations room had once been an ordinary bungalow, but had been completely transformed by all the usual hanging maps and signals information. A few Wrens worked here during the day but, unless there was a flap on, it was very much a nine-to-five Navy.
A signal flimsy had been left under a polished piece of stone and he paused to glance at it. It was not vital: it merely warned someone about a forthcoming squash tournament.
‘Can I help –’ the smallest hesitation. ‘Sir?’
Ross realized that there was a Wren seated at the biggest desk marked S.O.O. She was hardly a staff officer; Ross was not even certain that the Force rated one at this early stage. On one sleeve she wore a petty officer’s rank, like Tucker’s but for the colour, and on the other the crossed flags and letter of a coder. She had a pencil in one hand and he saw a half-completed crossword puzzle under her elbow.
‘Are you in charge here?’
She regarded him calmly, her eyes almost tawny in the hard glare from the lights. ‘Yes, sir. Petty Officer Mackenzie.’
Her cool manner made him unnecessarily angry. ‘I’m Lieutenant-Commander . . .’
She stood up in one easy movement. ‘I know who you are, sir. We all do.’
It was not exactly insolent. Nor was it respectful.
He said curtly, ‘The signals file – Immediate.’ When she showed no response, he added, ‘Today’s. I’d like to see it.’
She smiled; it made her look very attractive. ‘Not possible, sir.’
‘I’ll sign for it, if that’s what’s bothering you!’
‘It’s not bothering me, sir. Captain Pryce has ordered that it can only be done with his consent. I would be in trouble if I broke the rules.’
Ross said, ‘I need to see something.’ It was useless. He had the feeling that she was enjoying it. She had dark glossy hair – it could even be jet black. There was something unusual about her, he thought; foreign, if there was such a thing.
She said, ‘I can get you anything else, sir – cup of tea if you like?’
‘Thank you, no. I’ll see Captain Pryce if that is what I must do.’
But when he looked back she was bending intently over her crossword.
A strange encounter. Perhaps she disliked officers, or men in general?
I’m losing my sense of humour. Stupid to let it rattle him.
He reached Pryce’s door and the rating on duty said, ‘He’s expecting you, sir.’
He found Pryce in a jovial mood. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. It’s restricted, of course, but tomorrow the whole world will know!’ He pointed to a chair. ‘I’ll bet they’re celebrating up in the lochs tonight, or whatever the damned time is there!’
Ross waited, still puzzled by the girl’s hostility.
Pryce said, ‘All our faith in smaller underwater weapons has been justified, Ross. Some of our X-craft – the signal did not specify how many – penetrated the Norwegian fjord where the Tirpitz has been skulking all this time. Nets, booms, patrol-boats, the lot! They bloody well did it! Laid their charges and crippled the brute, probably for good!’
Ross stared at him, the picture refusing to form in his mind. He had often thought of transferring to X-craft, the midget submarines that had been one of Ossie Dyer’s projects. Small, they carried only a four-man crew, and yet they had done this, the impossible. Tirpitz was the most powerful warship in the world, after her sister-ship Bismarck, which had destroyed the Hood in northern waters where a man’s survival was limited to minutes. Bismarck, too, had been sunk, but it had taken most of the Home Fleet and a lot of luck to do it. And while Tirpitz remained, even if she never ventured out from her Norwegian lair, desperately-needed ships had had to be tied down just in case she might make a sudden sortie.
He asked quietly, ‘What happened to our chaps, sir?’
‘What?’ Pryce was in another world. ‘Oh, not sure of that either. Some were taken prisoner, but still . . .’
But still. Ross said, ‘I wish we’d been in on it.’
Pryce looked at him curiously. ‘Which was why I chose you for this job. We will always have casualties. Officers who lead by example are something else.’ Then he said, ‘As it’s a special occasion . . .’ He opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of malt whisky. Then he pressed a bell. ‘Only one glass, dammit!’
Ross watched him. Pryce was genuinely pleased about the mighty Tirpitz. Even Churchill had admitted that it would take at least two British battleships in company to stand a chance against her. But he was on edge. Perhaps in some way he also felt left out.
Ross said, ‘I was hoping to see the latest signals about our people from England. Lieutenant Villiers . . .’
The door opened, and the petty officer Wren stood there, regarding him with the same cool eyes.
‘No tea after all, sir?’ To Pryce she said, ‘I came myself. The messenger has gone to the heads.’
Pryce nodded vaguely. ‘Quite. Quite so. Could you find me another glass?’ The door closed.
He opened a drawer. ‘I’ve got the signals right here.’ He gave Ross a searching glance. ‘I sensed a little tension just now. You’ve met our formidable Victoria, then?’ And he laughed shortly. Then he said briskly, ‘Say what you like, she did more than anybody to set up these offices and equipment for us. A very intelligent girl. Lucky to have her.’
A Dawn Like Thunder Page 6
