It was 5.45. They walked out into the late afternoon sun and dawdled towards the quay, where a few men were already waiting. Philip could see Anderson sitting on the harbour wall, and next to him, Murray, reading a book. A figure, familiar to them both, bent to pick something up from the ground, then straightened up and saw them approaching. Tucker’s eyes swivelled towards Rosie and Philip saw the hurt. ‘I bloody knew it, Seymour!’
Rosie kissed Tucker on the cheek. ‘How are you, Edmund? I’ve missed you. They feeding you all right?’
‘What has he got that I haven’t?’
‘Me, I suppose,’ she said, smiling and touching his arm. ‘What did you find on the ground?’
Tucker opened his palm. ‘Florin.’
‘That was lucky.’
Tucker grunted.
Anderson got up and walked towards them. He could scent injury a mile off, Philip thought, steering Rosie a little apart. Evidently Anderson probed the nerve almost immediately, because they heard Tucker’s snarled ‘Fuck off!’ and saw him move away quickly, hands thrust into his pockets.
Other figures approached, moving slowly, stick figures that turned into soldiers that turned into people. Jimmy Burns was one of the last. He seemed happier, or more resolved, perhaps. He did a quick head count. One missing. ‘Where’s Strang?’
Philip squinted into the distance. ‘I can see him.’ Rick Strang had made a friend. A small, blackish dog with a white chest followed close at his heels.
‘I don’t know how to get rid of it,’ Strang was grinning broadly. ‘Poor thing doesn’t seem to have a home to go to.’ The dog, a blunt faced terrier-type, sat down at Strang’s feet, looking up at him with adoring brown eyes. All Strang needs is a tail to wag to be a dog himself, thought Philip.
Murray looked up from his book. ‘Seymour brings his girlfriend and you bring a dog, Rick… Are you trying to tell us something?’
‘It must be a bitch,’ crowed Anderson. ‘Is it a bitch, Strang?’
Strang looked at Burns, quite unfazed. ‘Can I take it to the ship?’
Jimmy seemed filled with generosity. ‘All right. I suppose we could always get the navy lads to drop it back if it causes any trouble.’
Several navy lads, with Ross sitting in the stern of the boat acting as cox, were at that moment rowing towards them. The boat had a motor but rowing was part of naval fitness training and Ross was roaring them on.
‘Nine minutes, fifty seconds,’ Ross announced, as they arrived at the quay. ‘Let’s see what you can do with a full complement of soldiers.’
‘And a dog,’ said Burns, smiling at Ross. The two had become good friends over the last fortnight.
It wasn’t the place for a long goodbye. Philip held Rosie’s hand tightly, feeling her nails digging into his palm. ‘I’ll not wait,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear to see you go.’ He kissed her.
‘I’ll see you in a few days.’ He kissed her again. ‘I will come back.’
‘Seymour?’
Philip clambered into the boat and sat down. Next to him, on Strang’s lap, the dog gave a little shudder of contentment. Rosie was walking away, the hat and bluebells trailing from one hand.
‘Your bloody dog’s full of fleas,’ complained Philip, wanting to be gone, to be on their way, to not have to watch her diminish and disappear. They were all set, surely? But it seemed one of the ratings had gone off to collect bread, and there was another ten minutes for Philip to contemplate the Rosie-less quayside, time enough for Rosie to get back to her reproachful uncle, before Ross finally roared to the sailors, hunched over their oars, ‘Prepare to row!’
‘Not what I expected at all,’ her uncle said, ‘gadding about, neglecting your chores, not to mention breaking precious things …’
‘ROW!’
‘Just look what you’ve done,’ he said, showing her the two halves of the Sacred Heart.
The sailors gave a tremendous pull on the oars and the boat shot away from the quay. Within two minutes, land was far away. It was the last time they went ashore.
12
Falmouth, 25 March 1942
They were getting dressed when Anderson started swearing and hopping around on one foot. He had one boot on and was staring with horror into the other. ‘All right you fuckers, let’s have it! Which of you bastards crapped in my boot?’
‘That’ll be Spike,’ said Tucker. ‘Did it in mine the other day.’
Anderson looked over to Strang’s empty bunk. Just as well he always got up earlier than everyone else, Philip thought. Murray came out of the washroom with a towel around his neck.
‘Look what Strang’s fucking dog’s done!’ Anderson thrust the boot under Murray’s face. ‘Fucking crapped in my fucking boot!’
Murray put on his glasses and peered into the boot.
‘Are you sure Spike coils to the left?’
‘Don’t fuck with me Murray,’ Anderson was beside himself with rage, literally hopping mad, which was ironic, thought Philip, because it was the kind of thing Anderson would have planned for someone else – though perhaps shit sandwiches might be more his line. Stuff he’d learned in prison.
Anderson needed to punch someone. He looked over at Philip. ‘It’s not fucking funny, Seymour!’
Murray intervened. ‘It is funny, Ronald, but it wasn’t intentional, was it?’ The technique of using Anderson’s first name seemed to do the trick. For a moment they were all back in Murray’s classroom.
‘Well tell him to take that fucking grin off his face then!’
Murray raised an eyebrow in Philip’s direction.
Anderson pulled off his soiled sock, flung the boot down and left. They heard him thumping lop-sidedly up the stairs to the upper deck and then the whole cabin collapsed in laughter, grown men bent over in mirth, like schoolboys who’d just pushed a stink bomb under the headmaster’s door. Murray waited until the laughter had died down and then said quietly: ‘I don’t know which one of you saw fit to empty his bowels in Anderson’s boot, but it was a bloody stupid thing to do. We have to work together, however difficult a character he is.’
Tucker was red in the face. ‘It was Strang’s dog, I told you.’
Murray looked at him over his glasses. ‘Oh no, I don’t think so, Edmund. Spike lacks the necessary elevation.’
There was an awkward silence, finally broken by Philip. ‘Strang’ll keep his head down all right till breakfast. Anderson won’t touch him in front of Jimmy.’
‘And by then, let us hope the stink will have died down,’ said Murray, picking up the abandoned boot and sock.
That was Murray’s function in the group, thought Philip, as he watched the older man walk towards the washroom, holding the offending articles away from his body. He would do what others wouldn’t – clean up shit for instance – to make sure the team pulled together.
It was four days now since they had gone ashore and Strang had adopted the dog, and the atmosphere was electric. They all knew departure must be imminent but still nothing had been said and the relentless routine of training continued. People were getting impatient, even angry. If they had to go on this God-awful mission, why couldn’t they bloody well get on with it?
After breakfast, Philip’s group of fourteen commandos gathered as usual in the purser’s office for Jimmy’s morning briefing. Anderson was already there when he arrived, savagely sharpening a pencil with his penknife.
‘You probably know that the launches we and the other small teams will be travelling in have been ready for action for several days,’ Jimmy began. We have been waiting, though, for the key vessel in this operation, the one that will destroy the dock gates.’ They all knew he was referring to Campbeltown, the ship that since its arrival in Falmouth ten days earlier, had been undergoing an amazing transformation into a ‘German’ destroyer, thanks to a team of carpenters and painters working non-stop. ‘I’m pleased to report the work was completed earlier this morning.’ There was a breathless pause. ‘We leave tomorrow,’ Jimmy said.
>
There was a moment of silence and then a ragged cheer. Jimmy grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Thank God, eh?’
‘Where are we going then, Burnsy?’
‘Hold on Edmund. Let me get through the details for today, first. There will be rather a different schedule. Training on deck till 12.00 hours as usual and then after lunch, free time until 16.00 hours for you to write any letters you want, plus for one or two of you’ – significant glances – ‘to complete writing your wills. I know it’s difficult but I must have them before we go.’ He paused. ‘I would also like you all to write to me.’ He looked around the room. ‘No, Edmund, not to tell me how much you love me, but to outline what your ambitions are when…this is all over. There’s a question on your face, Rick,’ he said to Strang. ‘The reason is…I would like to know if I can be of any help to you in achieving your objectives – in life, not in war. And if there is anything I could say on your behalf when the time comes, or if I could put you in contact with someone else who was in a position to help, I would like you to give me that chance.’
Philip saw Burns was rather embarrassed by his own request, but he ploughed on, almost pleading. ‘It won’t take you long, and it’s my, rather inadequate, way of saying “thank you” for being the best bunch of lads in the whole operation.’ There were sheepish grins at that. Philip didn’t much care for being called a ‘lad’, and probably Murray, at thirty-six, didn’t either, but the sentiment was right, and the letter idea a decent offer. Jimmy’s family were semi-noble, apparently. Unusual, Philip thought, to be both part of the British establishment and Catholic, but the fact the family’s Elizabethan pile was in Norfolk made sense to him now. All those rebellious Catholic Dukes of Norfolk down the ages…
No doubt Jimmy had the connections to make things happen, and some of the commandos would be grateful. He could see Tucker’s mind turning over the possibilities right now. But not me, thought Philip. Why was that? Something to do with pride, he supposed. Yes. It offended him a little, this seigneurial offer. He might not be so grand as Burns, but he had his own status, had got to Oxford, would make his own way, thank you all the same.
‘From 16.00 hours onwards,’ Jimmy continued, ‘it will be checking kit, cleaning weapons, making sure absolutely everything is ready. Remember, clean clothes reduce the possibility of infection in the event of injury, so no dirty kit.’ He looked around the room, ‘You know the timings, you know what you have to do within those timings. I am confident that the speed and surprise of our attack will ensure its success. We will be in and out of there before Jerry has noticed.
‘Now. Our target.’ There was silence while Jimmy pinned a large sea chart to the wall.
So it was France. He’d known all along hadn’t he? Up the Loire estuary to St Nazaire. Tucker looked over. He needed Philip to mouth the word ‘France’ over to him. Jimmy was speeding on.
‘The voyage over is down to the Navy of course, but I want you to be assured that all has been planned down to the last detail.’ He traced a route marked on the chart with his finger. ‘From Falmouth quite a long distance south, so as to put any watching enemy off the scent. Then east. Then north.’ Jimmy pointed to a spot where there would be a rendezvous with a submarine that would guide them right to the mouth of the Loire. ‘I want you to know that some of the best minds in the country are involved in this operation. It is a big one, the biggest we have ever been in on. Over six hundred men have a part to play.’
That was a bit of an unfortunate number, thought Philip, Tennyson’s poem starting to gallop in his head.
‘Then up river,’ said Jimmy, his finger moving slowly up the long estuary, which narrowed more and more as it approached St Nazaire. ‘With luck, our disguise will see us the six miles up river to the dock itself.’
Cannon to right of them… How long was a league anyway? Or half a league? Well. It wasn’t worth thinking about. But it would take a lot of luck to go six miles, guns to right and left and in front, without being found out and fired on. Into the mouth of Hell, all right.
It would be a very long and dull voyage over, Jimmy was saying. ‘There will be very little to do but sit and wait, so bring playing cards, books, paper, whatever you need to pass the time. Any questions?’
‘What about morphine, Jimmy?’ said Murray, evidently not distracted from the horror of what came after.
‘I will carry morphine for the rest of you. Burns lifted his pack on to the table in front of him and patted the front pocket. ‘In here. If I am not in a position to issue it, this is where it will be.’
Anderson spoke up. ‘Isn’t it about time we got the revolvers to keep?’
Jimmy laughed. ‘Want to shoot someone? But yes. Of course. They will be issued this evening during the final briefing.’ He looked around the room, but there were no more questions. ‘All right then. Final thing is the password and response. Plenty of Ws to fox the Germans.’
The last afternoon was gloriously hot and the deck filled with the prone bodies of men – shirts, socks and boots removed – soaking up the sun. Tucker and Philip sat in the shade cast by one of the suspended lifeboats. Philip was trying to write a letter to his parents, resting a pad of paper on his drawn-up knees, but childhood memories, most of them bad, kept getting in the way. He wrenched his mind around to a good memory – the time he’d found the dinosaur bones with Will… but that wouldn’t help him write this bloody letter.
Philip tried to visualise his parents as living, breathing people he cared about. It seemed important that he should be able to see them in his mind, but all he could come up with was a picture of the rectory as a dolls’ house open at the front and his parents as stiff dolls made out of pipe cleaners and wool. Tucker’s voice intruded.
‘I’ve had another dream, Phil.’
Not now, please. He tried to concentrate. His pipe cleaner mother stood behind a chair in the kitchen, issuing orders to a bent Mrs Edwards doll. His father, a vicar doll with fluffy grey hair, was propped uselessly against the desk in his study.
‘I was in me dad’s shop, Phil, only it didn’t look like it. Well, it could of, but I couldn’t see, because it was pitch dark. But I knew where I was because of the cold and the smell.’
The lights in the dolls’ house went out. Philip heard in his friend’s voice a needy edge. He set down his pad. ‘Is it one of your long ones?’
‘Nah. Only short, Phil. I promise.’
‘Well go on then.’
‘I remember putting my hand down on the block and feeling the little notches in it, you know from the knives and choppers we use, and I walked towards where the door was supposed to be but it just got colder and colder and I kept nudging into things and feeling them swing away from me and suddenly I knew where I was.’ Philip waited. He was convinced Tucker enjoyed concocting these visions of horror, spinning them out to increase the suspense. ‘I was in the cold store in me dad’s shop, and the things I kept bumping into were carcasses. I ran my hands down one, thinking, “A pig, this one, bloody great big one,” and I came to where the trotter should be and found a foot, with five toes on the end. Then I woke up.’
He looked over at Philip, expecting some response, but Philip was seeing the bodies in the cold store, imagining the butcher’s hook thrust into the chin, the swell of the ribcage and the dreadful gouge below where the innards and genitals had been removed, the long pale legs dangling towards the ground. Like disembowelled traitors, their terrible ends sketched in detail for children to pore over in school textbooks. Like the death of Mortimer described in Froissart’s chronicles that had so appalled and fascinated him at school – privy members cut from him and cast into a fire, and his heart also, and then quartered, and his quarters… Philip picked up his pad and tried to focus. ‘Dear Mother and Dad…’
‘I reckon it’s the old man having a go at me,’ said Tucker. ‘I wrote to him, you know. I told him.’ Tucker had agonised for days over whether to tell his father he did not, after all, wish to follow in his steps as a ma
ster butcher, because he’d decided that after all the rationing, there’d be money in the restaurant business.
‘Well, don’t just sit there hugging yer knackers. Say something.’ Tucker sounded fine, now he had offloaded his vision.
‘Right… Next time you have a dream, I don’t want to know about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re always so bloody…graphic.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Pictures. I can always picture the details.’
Tucker nodded. ‘That’s why I tell you.’
‘What?’
‘To get rid of them. The pictures.’
‘I know that’s why you fucking do it, Edmund! I’ve got enough horrible bloody imaginings swimming around in my head without yours in there too.’
‘Spooks you, does it?’
‘If you like, yes.’
‘Well… I reckon it serves you right.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nicking my girl.’
‘I’ve explained. I’m sorry. It just happened. I didn’t plan it.’
Tucker grunted but said nothing. The dog Strang had adopted was snuffling around nearby. He cocked his leg on a coil of rope and looked hopefully towards the two men.
‘Here. Spike. Here boy.’ The dog trotted over. Tucker clasped the square head in his hands. ‘Listen Spike, want to be me new best pal? I’ve had this dream and I want to know what you make of it.’
Philip watched, amused. Spike rolled over, surrendering his blotched tummy to be tickled.
Bringing the dog on board had been an almost unqualified success. He had become a general pet, lavishly rubbed, scratched and provided with scraps in addition to two full meals from the kitchen. He particularly enjoyed a game of tug, showing what Strang said was his Staffordshire bull terrier blood in hanging on with the utmost tenacity to anything he was offered.
The War Before Mine Page 9
