A perfunctory snort of laughter, then silence.
Tucker broke it. ‘Anyone for brag?’ Cards slapped down on the table, coins chinked. Voices murmured, grumbled, bubbled up in protest, clapped laughter. Philip slept.
‘How did you manage that, you bastard? Been out for four hours.’
They were no longer playing. From behind a huge pile of coins, Tucker tore at a ham sandwich. Strang’s head rested on his folded arms. Anderson lay stretched out on the bench, eyes closed.
‘Only thirty-two hours to go then,’ said Philip.
‘Feeling all right?’
‘Yes. Sea’s a bit calmer.’
‘Think we altered course about half an hour ago. Going due east now. You missed your turn to go up on deck and play with the guns. Murray’s gone in your place.’
Philip sat down beside Tucker. ‘Where’s Jimmy?’
‘He’s up there too, talking to Ross.’
‘Is he avoiding us, do you think?’
‘Must of been the love letters we wrote him.’ Tucker folded the last of the sandwich into his mouth and jerked a thumb across to where a huge ham was now hanging from the ceiling, a dagger embedded deep in the meat. ‘Anderson’s been using it for target practice. If you’re peckish, you can help yourself.’
Philip wasn’t peckish. Though he no longer felt seasick, fear crawled through his guts. He felt shrunken, wanted to hug himself, cover his balls, as though that was going to protect him from the Germans.
Tucker extracted a threepenny bit from the pile of coins, reached across and tapped Strang on the shoulder. ‘How about a game of Up Jenkins, Rick? You, me and Phil.’
Strang lifted a bleary creased face from the table. At only just twenty he was the youngest of them; just now could pass for a sleepy child. ‘All right then.’
‘I won’t look,’ said Tucker, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing the threepenny bit towards Philip. ‘One of you hide it.’
Philip tucked it inside his right hand, and he and Strang lined up their fists on the table.
‘Ready.’
Tucker scrutinised the fists. ‘Take it away,’ he said, tapping Strang’s right hand with his finger.
Strang slowly opened out an empty palm.
‘Take it away.’
Strang showed his other empty hand.
Tucker tapped the fist in which Philip was holding the coin. ‘Up Jenkins!’
What was it with Tucker? He seemed to home in unerringly. ‘You looked!’
‘Did not. Anyway, it’s your go, Phil. Shut your eyes… Okay, ready.’
‘Take it away. Take it away. Bugger.’
Murray clattered down the stairs, ducking his head at the bottom to avoid hitting the ceiling.
‘Feeling better, Seymour? It’s your turn to go up.’
A cool, fresh wind hit Philip as he surfaced, blinking in the bright sunlight. Ross, handsomer than ever, like some modern day Hawke or Boscawen, stood at the wheel. He turned and gave Philip a wave. In the stern, Jimmy sat with his back against one of the fuel tanks, knees drawn up, beret on. A letter fluttered in one hand but he was studying something on the deck beside him. Glancing up, he greeted Philip. ‘Seymour!’ he shouted. ‘Feeling better?’
Philip squatted down beside him. ‘Look out,’ said Jimmy, ‘you’ll squash him.’
A small beetle clung to the deck about six inches from Philip’s boot. ‘You’d think it would get blown off wouldn’t you? All the way from Falmouth.’ They both looked at the tiny insect for a moment, its armoured body somehow anchored to the planking.
‘Be nice to get him home, wouldn’t it?’
A voice interrupted them. ‘Oy! Are you up here for training or what?’
The rating Tucker didn’t like was called Wilde. He certainly seemed to enjoy issuing orders. ‘Get your shoulders into those holders! Swivel up! Down! Across! I said across! Line up your target!’ He stood over Philip while he scrabbled about on the ground practising changing the drums for the Lewis. Bloody man never cracked his face. After ten minutes, Philip’s patience began to wear thin.
‘Look. Can we give it a rest? You’re supposed to be firing the guns. I’m going ashore to blow things up…’
‘You just listen, Pongo, or nobody’ll get ashore. If there’s a jam, you’ve got to know how to unjam it, fast.’
‘Will it jam?’
‘Usually does.’
Tucker had kept himself busy counting his coppers. ‘Four pounds sixteen and six,’ he said, as Philip sat down again.
‘What are you going to do with it, Edmund? The last thing you want is a pocketful of coppers to help you sink to the bottom.’
‘Christ, you’re right there.’
Murray had his nose in a book.
‘Pride and Prejudice? Given up on your Russians?’
‘Yes, Seymour. I thought something lighter might be suitable.’
‘What’s it about?’ Anderson’s interjection surprised them both.
‘Umm. It’s about a delightful young woman called Lizzy.’
‘What’s she look like?’
‘Oh very pretty, I think.’
‘Big tits?’
‘Not whoppers, as far as I can make out, but she’s got four sisters, and one of those might have dairies to suit. The youngest is said to be “well grown” as a matter of fact.’
‘How old is she, then?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Oooh, yes,’ Tucker smacked his lips. ‘Sounds just the job for you, Anderson.’
Strang said, ‘Too young to know any better.’
Murray raised his palms in a placating gesture. ‘As I was saying. It’s about all these sisters and their search for husbands.’
Philip expected Anderson to sink back into his usual taciturnity. But the book seemed to have captured his interest. ‘Snare any, do they?’ he asked.
‘It looks likely that they will.’
‘Typical. Any soldiers in it?’
‘Several. Main one’s a bit of a bad lot. Gives his ferret a run in the youngest without marrying her…’
‘A man after me own heart. Any battles?’
‘No. Surprising lack of combat. It seems all these soldiers ever did was play cards and go to parties.’
‘Lucky bastards.’
‘All right if I get back to it now then?’
‘What’s her name, the youngest?’
‘Lydia.’
‘Lydia. Nice name.’
At last they were allowed on deck. The sun had just set, and shadowy, silver-fringed clouds raced the convoy, now moving fast through a calm sea. Ahead, just a dark bulk, was the Campbeltown. Behind and on either side, other launches ploughed ghostly blue-white furrows in the sea. Invisible at the rear of the flotilla came the two destroyers. Excited by the speed and purpose, by the surge of water against the hull and the wind in his face, Philip joined Ross where he stood near the wheel. ‘Are we on schedule?’ Ross turned and cupped a hand to his ear. Philip spoke more loudly. ‘Are we on time?’
Ross beamed. ‘Within a couple of minutes.’ They weren’t quite shouting, but it was like talking long distance on the telephone. ‘The navigation’s straightforward up to the mouth of the Loire. Then it gets tricky, not so much for us as for Campbeltown – wouldn’t care to have the steering of her there. Clearance of inches in the centre of the channel.’
‘Go on, you’d love it. You’re loving this whole thing.’
Ross’s teeth gleamed. ‘Actually, you’re right. Best fun I’ve had in years.’ He turned his gaze to the rating at the wheel. ‘All right on your own for five minutes?’ The sailor nodded. Ross offered Philip a cigarette and they walked towards the stern. It was more sheltered there, so much quieter. They smoked in companionable silence for a while.
‘Don’t you ever get the wind up, Ross?’
‘No. I think I’m a bit odd in that way. Lack of imagination, I expect.’
‘Leaving anybody behind?’
‘Not really. Perhaps that help
s with the fear thing. Girlfriends, but no one special, and my old mother in Ireland. Never her favourite.’
‘Your father’s dead?’
‘Yes. Funny. I have been thinking about him. He taught me to navigate using the stars, you know. I must have been ten. He came home on leave from the Great War and we had a few days in Abersoch. Took a boat out two or three nights in succession. Then he went back and got himself killed at Paschendaele.’
‘I’ve been having visitations from the past too,’ said Philip. ‘Not as logical as yours, though. You are navigating under the stars, if not by them.’
‘I suppose so. I still use the things he taught me, actually. To confirm the accuracy of the instruments.’
Jimmy and Anderson joined them. The wind flapped through their trousers.
‘Ross was about to tell me how to navigate by the stars,’ said Philip.
‘Oh, was I?’
Tucker, Strang and Murray arrived. Murray looked at Jimmy and Jimmy flinched. Murray patted Jimmy’s shoulder lightly. Two pats. All of them are here now, Philip thought, all my comrades.
Anderson spoke. ‘I always wanted to know how to navigate.’
At this moment, I even like Anderson, Philip thought, looking at them gathered around Ross like children round a storyteller. ‘All right,’ said Ross. ‘First find the North Star. See the line of the gun? Follow it up.’
Philip guided Strang’s hand up into the sky. ‘Your mother, Rich,’ he whispered.
‘Where is it? I can’t see.’ Anderson, the confused child.
‘Look, follow the line,’ Philip said. ‘The bright one.’
‘You don’t have to hold my hand, you fucking shirtlifter.’
‘Everyone got it? Right. The North Star, for those of you ignorant landlubbers who never made the connection before, always points north. If it’s all you’ve got to position yourself by, it stops you heading in completely the wrong direction.’
‘So, we’re heading east now.’
‘Yep. Useful, isn’t it? After that, things get a little more complicated…’
When Philip took his eyes from the heavens for a moment he met Murray’s eyes, staring back. Murray smiled, and his gaze moved on. As if memorising our faces, Philip thought.
My dear Burns,
I realize you may not be expecting a letter from me, because, as you know, I am ‘fixed up’ after the war at my old school, provided all promises are honoured, and I have no reason to expect they will not be.
I am writing for another reason; two reasons in fact. First, to compliment you on a job well done. Whatever happens in the next few days, Jimmy, you have done everything possible to prepare us for it. You took a positive jumble of men and made us into a team. As an older man, I was perhaps more resistant than most to becoming part of a team, and I apologise for a certain disinclination I must occasionally have made evident, but you succeeded. Much to my astonishment I found myself loving messing about with the boys. It has been like having a ‘second go’ at youth.
I have a feeling I will not be coming back, and a strong conviction you will be. That is my second reason for writing. I may have become prey to superstition, but I think not. Please visit Sally when you return and give her the enclosed letter. Let her know how happy being a commando made me; that I was calm in the face of death (as I hope I will be); and how much I love her and the girls.
Don’t feel burdened by this, Jimmy. I am not – though I am occasionally regretful. Why is everything looking so bloody beautiful?
There is a film that keeps playing in my head, spotted and flickering like the end of a newsreel, but immensely comforting. Cricket on the village green. I am walking in to bat; Sally is in the little shed beside the pavilion, spreading slices of bread with egg and cress; the girls are chatting to some likely lads by the scoreboard. The sun is wonderfully warm on my back as I settle myself at the crease and look down the pitch to where the opposition’s brute of a bowler is racing towards me. He hurls the ball down and I middle it beautifully and we all watch, even Sally, who by a miracle is outside, clutching a checked cloth and shading her eyes with her forearm as the ball soars up and up into the air, going miles beyond the boundary, beyond the little cluster of spectators, heading straight for the sun.
The film clatters off the reel and the vision is over. Strange isn’t it, that a lifelong socialist should find cricket, in the end, the cause most worth fighting for? And I have never been much of a bat.
We will not talk about this letter. If I do make it back please file it away as evidence of my approaching senility. If I don’t – then you know what to do.
May your life be long and happy, Jimmy, and your thoughts, just very occasionally, on your friend and comrade,
Wilf (Murray)
It was a look of love, Philip realised. Murray loves us.
Twenty-two hours to go. Lying on a bench seat, Philip dreamed he was peering down a dark and immensely deep stairwell, listening to the faint howls of Spike coming up from the bottom. Rosie was there, begging him to go down the winding metal steps and fetch the dog. But as soon as he began the descent, he felt the surface disintegrate into scree beneath his feet. He was slipping; he could not stop himself; the howling became louder and louder and there was a sharp smell in his nostrils.
He woke with a jerk and lay still for a moment, his heart pounding. The smell was still there. Philip raised himself on his elbows to see Tucker sitting up, peeling an orange. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Had it for ages,’ said Tucker. ‘Don’t you remember? You got one and all.’
Philip shunted along the bench to be nearer his friend. ‘Not that orange?’
Tucker spoke through a mouthful of fruit. ‘What’s French for “I’m English. Can you hide me?”’
‘Je suis anglais. Cache-moi.’
‘Having me on. Sounds more like catch me.’
‘Easy to remember then, isn’t it? See a Frog and yell out “Catch me.” Now give me a piece.’
Tucker speared the last segment on the end of his knife and handed it over. Then he wiped his hands on a large handkerchief and stretched out on the bench. Philip lay awake, listening to the movements and voices on deck. There was still a long time to go. They’d taken a course south-west from Falmouth, and were now going due east, in order, Ross had said, to convince any enemy observer they were headed for Gibraltar. Having put Jerry off the scent, they would then head north for the mouth of the Loire. Gibraltar. That would be nice. It could still be called off… The number of times the more experienced men had talked about missions being cancelled at the very last moment.
Tucker was snufflingly unconscious. Why couldn’t he sleep, too? He needed rest. A Schubert song came into his head and he saw the awful Jane Trevelyan warbling the words, while his mother nodded approvingly from the piano.
‘Come gentle sleep, bring sweet repose,
Daylight has gone and moonlight glows…’
But instead of sending him to sleep the song took him back to the rectory and the excruciating boredom of musical evenings, part of his mother’s attempts to arrange ‘suitable’ friendships for him, when all he wanted was to be accepted by the village boys. Which had only happened once. For about five minutes. The time in the bell tower when he’d touched the new bell.
Philip willed himself to stop. There. Stop right there in that happy moment. But his relentless child self began to march Abel, Davy and Will down the steps to the vestry, and then out into the graveyard… and it was another hour before sleep finally came.
14
Aboard ML12, 28 March 1942
Tucker stirred and sat up. ‘When’s breakfast?’
‘Bastard. It’s only 5 a.m.’
‘I got three hours, then. Fancy bacon and egg?’
The galley was clogged with unwashed dishes, Tucker made some room and got down to making breakfast for anyone who wanted it. After existing in a fug of cigarette smoke, fried food and male sweat for nineteen hours, Philip was beginning
to empathise strongly with convicts on the way to Australia. He wanted to wash, but water was reserved for drinking only. So much for all the instructions on keeping the skin clean in order to lower the risk of infected wounds.
They ate with concentration. ‘Bacon too salty by half,’ Tucker announced, finishing the last rasher.
Strang said, ‘That thing Ross told us we could do with our watches and the sun. What was it again?’
Jimmy looked at his watch. ‘Okay, it’s 06.00.’ He held up his empty plate. ‘Here’s the sun. Take off your watch and line six o’clock up with it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Find the place half-way between the six and the twelve and that’s going to be south.’
‘Here. By the nine?’
‘That’s it. Go in that direction and in the end you’ll get to Spain.’ Jimmy put down his plate and started to pile others on top of it.
‘Not much point clearing up,’ said Tucker. ‘There’s no room in the galley.’
‘What we need them for, anyway?’ Anderson said, pulling open the nearest porthole. Got our mitts, haven’t we?’ With a flick of his wrist he sent his plate skimming over the furrowed sea. Amid shouts of laughter, they all skimmed plates across the water. The table bare, they ran to the galley for more. Plates flew from every available porthole. Tucker’s winnings went next, great handfuls of coppers chucked into the ocean.
‘Make a wish!’ yelled Tucker. Philip threw, watching the coins separate in the air before pocking the surface of the water like heavy rain. Just one more time with Rosie, that’s all I ask.
They sat down and lit cigarettes. ‘That was four quid, that was,’ said Tucker, sorrowfully.
Strang’s thoughts returned to Spain. ‘What if it’s a cloudy day and you can’t see the sun?’
‘Well then you must use the road signs,’ said Jimmy. ‘Remember the towns I told you?’ Jimmy looked around the table.
‘Nantes and then La Rochelle,’ said Philip.
‘Yep.’
‘Then I’ll get a signpost to Spain will I?’ said Strang.
Tucker looked at Jimmy. ‘But we’ll probably get back on the launches? Don’t you think?’
The War Before Mine Page 11
