by Nevil Shute
He agreed. “What we want is a nice wet, misty Saturday night.”
“What does the fishing fleet do on Saturdays?”
“Goes into harbour, late at night. They never go out on Sunday. They sail again on Monday morning, very early, before dawn.”
“The Raumboote go in too?”
He nodded. “The coast should be quite clear around the Saints late on Saturday night. It would be sheer bad luck if they ran into anything.”
We discussed the arrangements for a little; given the right weather, it seemed pretty safe. The weather had broken up nicely, and it looked as if we were in for a good long spell of rainy, unsettled stuff coming in from the Atlantic.
Presently he said: “I saw Major Carpenter, from Honiton, on Tuesday. They’re very busy with the new stuff for the flame-thrower.”
I said: “What’s that?”
He grinned. “I thought you knew about it. They’re going to run the thing on Worcester Sauce.”
I stared at him. “What’s Worcester Sauce? I thought they ran on oil.”
He said: “Well, oil is still the basic part of it, of course. But they’ve got this sort of cocktail now — oil with a lot of solids in solution in some way. Carpenter was giving Rhodes a pretty good boost over it, as a matter of fact. Making solid things dissolve in oil is what he knows about, it seems.”
I thought about the perfumes and the soya oil. “That’s true enough,” I said. “That is his line in peace-time.”
“It all sounds very complicated,” he said. “They do it during the cracking process. I didn’t understand, but the result is Worcester Sauce.”
“How does it differ from oil?” I asked.
“It’s hotter, and it leaves a nice warm glow behind,” he said. “That’s why they call it that.”
I did not smile. “What’s it got in it?” I enquired. “What are the solids that they put into the stuff?”
He told me.
I sat in silence for a minute. I am no chemist, and I don’t know much about what those things do to you. “That’s pretty nasty stuff,” I said at last.
“Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t like to get a burn with it myself.”
“It’s all right — internationally — is it?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not gas and it’s not an acid. But anyway, if the Boche had thought of it first he’d have used it against us fast enough.”
There was no denying that. All I said was: “Well, they’ll have to be damn careful in handling it that they don’t burn themselves.”
I went away soon after that, but I was troubled about Worcester Sauce. I went down to the club for lunch and there I saw Margeson, the surgeon-commander. I got him on one side in the smoking-room. “Look,” I said. “There’s something I want to ask you. Keep it quiet, though.”
“What’ll you have to drink, old boy?”
“I’ll have a gin.”
They came, and then I told him about the oil and the other things. “Suppose you got a little splash of that on you,” I said, “burning. Would it be very bad?”
He stared at me, gin in hand. “You mustn’t do that,” he said. “You’d be better off if you drank it.”
“It makes a very nasty burn?”
He laughed shortly. “That’s putting it mildly. I don’t believe that it would ever heal at all.”
“I mean, just a little splash, about the size of — that,” I said.
“Small or large, it’d go septic right away. And it would go on going septic for a very long time. It’s horrible stuff, that.”
“It’d heal in the end?”
“It might do, if it didn’t start a cancer.”
We went in to lunch.
I went up to the library that afternoon, still troubled in my mind, and got a copy of The Hague Convention, and took it down to my office. I read it through that evening. But in those far-off days before the last war nobody had even thought about flame warfare, so it seemed. Certainly they had never visualized the use of Worcester Sauce against the enemy, and there was nothing in the wording to prevent the use of it. There was no paragraph to say that if you hurl a jet of blazing oil against the Germans you must use clean oil.
I took the Convention back to the library and went to bed, but I didn’t sleep very well. I suppose I had been doing too much work.
About a week after that we sent Geneviève out again, one Saturday. The weather forecast was fairly promising, and she left Penzance about midday as before. She had definite instructions to avoid the enemy this time; all she had to do was to land Simon and stand out to sea, returning the next night to pick him up. McNeil went down to see her off; I did not go.
By midday the next day she was back again. The weather had cleared up off Ushant and turned into a fine starry night, with visibility unlimited after the rain. It only lasted a few hours, but it spoilt their game. If Simon had been ashore already Colvin would have risked going in for him to take him off; as things were they abandoned the venture and came home. I was very pleased with them for that. It was the proper thing to do, and sensible.
It meant they lost another week, however. We had planned the whole thing for a Saturday night, so that Simon could go into the town with the peasant crowd on Sunday; I was unwilling to consent to a fresh plan to save the week. I kept them where they were, kicking their heels in Dartmouth for that week. Rhodes, I know, spent a good deal of that week away with the Honiton organization and at the refinery, so that when they finally did sail they had Worcester Sauce for fuel in the flame-thrower tanks. I shut my eyes to that. If she had been a proper naval vessel I should have had to have taken notice of it, but a fishing vessel requisitioned by the Army was another matter, and I let it go.
They sailed again on the next Saturday, this time from Dartmouth. Three weeks had elapsed since they had destroyed their Raumboote and the nights were much longer; it was the second of October. It was a nuisance going to Penzance, and another possible source of leakage of information; they were all in favour of sailing direct from their base over to the other side.
The lapse of three weeks had both favourable and adverse features. It would be more difficult, perhaps, to find out after that time whether the loss of the Raumboote was considered to be accidental — or it might be easier, because there had been more time for gossip to get out. If the Germans were suspicious, as it seemed to me they must be, it was clearly a good thing to go over on a night when the fishing fleet would be in harbour and the Raumboote too; Geneviève would be less likely to run into trouble on the other side, especially after three weeks. Time would have elapsed for things to simmer down a bit, and vessels which had been urgent on patrol for a week might have gone back to other duties.
The forecast for the region between Ushant and the Saints was wet mist and fog, probably lasting over the week-end. I was down at Dartmouth to see them off that time with McNeil. Simon was wearing a dirty, torn blue suit of poor cloth and a continental cut, with pointed yellow shoes, a yellow celluloid collar, and a vivid orange-and-blue tie, rather torn. He had a very old black felt hat on his head with a blue band. He looked like nothing that you ever see in this country; I hoped he knew his stuff for Brittany.
The rest of them were in their fishing clothes; as usual it was raining when they went. There was no ceremony or leave-taking. I stood on the hard at Dittisham with McNeil and watched them cast off the mooring; the little truck was close behind us with the Wren. They passed a warp from the mooring to the transom and let her swing to that as they cast off because the tide was on the ebb; then they let go and went away between the wooded hills, down past the town, out past the harbour mouth on their way over to the other side.
We turned back to the truck; they would be gone more than two days and I was going back to London. The Wren opened the door for us to get in, and I noticed she was looking tired and worn. She looked as if she wasn’t sleeping well.
I said: “You don’t look so grand, Miss Wright. When did you have your last
leave?”
“About six months ago, sir.”
“About time you had some more,” I said. “I’ll mention it to N.O.I.C.”
She turned to me. “Please don’t do that. I’m quite all right, and I couldn’t go on leave just now.”
“Why not?”
“Not in the middle of all this, sir. I’m quite well, really. I don’t want to go away.”
I thought before I spoke again. She was quite calm and not hysterical or anything like that, but she was looking rotten. The officers were used to her, of course, and that went for something; a strange driver would be just a little bit more burden upon them. And then there was security to think of too — and Rhodes.
I turned to McNeil. “We’ll have to think of leave,” I said. “It might do the whole outfit good if they had a spell off between this and the next operation.”
That was on Saturday morning. I worked on Sunday at my office in the Admiralty because with all the time that I was spending upon Geneviève my normal work was getting in arrears. I had arranged with McNeil that we should meet at Paddington next day and go down on the midday train to Dartmouth; the ship could not arrive before Monday evening at the earliest. But at about ten o’clock on Monday morning, when I still had an hour and a half more office time before I went, McNeil rang me up.
“Martin,” he said urgently. “Look. We’re talking on an outside line. Something has happened in the town we know about. It happened last night or early this morning. Can you come over right away?”
I said: “I suppose I can. Is it good or bad for us?”
“Good for the war. I don’t know anything about — about our closer interest.”
“I’ll come round,” I said.
I was with him in his office about ten minutes later. He had a flimsy on his desk marked in red MOST SECRET. He passed it over to me. It said:
DOUARNENEZ. October 4th. Two Raumboote lying alongside the west harbour jetty have been destroyed by a violent fire commencing about 01.00. The fire involved two 75-cm. HA/LA guns mounted in emplacements on the jetty. German casualties are believed to be considerable. Allied action is suspected, and the civil population are greatly excited. Germans have been attacked and murdered in the streets. Ends.
I read this through a second time without speaking. Then I said: “This is to-day’s date. This all happened only a few hours ago.”
“That’s right,” he said. “It was early this morning.”
I waved the flimsy at him. “Where did this come from?”
He said a little shortly: “We get these reports.” He screwed the flimsy into a spill and lit it with his lighter, held it until it burned down to his fingers and dropped it in the ash-tray.
“What do you think it means?” he asked. “Did they go right inside the harbour in the middle of the night to do their stuff?”
I sat there brooding for a minute or two. “If they did that, I don’t see how they possibly could get away,” I said at last. It was better to face the facts. “Do you?”
“No,” he said heavily. “I don’t.”
There was nothing we could do about it, and no chance of further news. McNeil took some action of his own that was not my affair, and we went down together on the midday train as we had fixed. It was a silent, anxious journey for us both.
We got to Dartmouth at about five o’clock and walked up to the Naval Centre. The truck was parked outside it and the Wren was there with it; she stood up and saluted when she saw us. “Wait a bit,” I said to her. “I shall want you.” We went into the office.
Nothing had come through about our ship. It was too early anyway for us to have heard anything unless she had put in to Falmouth or Penzance, and she had not done that. I had arranged this time for her to be admitted to the port during the hours of darkness on the proper signals; the nights now were so long that that was necessary. I checked up that this was all in order, and then went outside with McNeil.
There was still about an hour of daylight. I said to the Wren: “Take us up to that Watch Point again — where we went before.”
“Very good, sir.”
As we drove out of the town McNeil said cheerfully: “How’s the rabbit?”
She did not answer for a moment. Then she said: “He’s dead, sir.”
“Dead? How did that happen?”
“He was killed in the air-raid.”
I said: “I’m very sorry about that.” She did not answer, and we drove on to the Watch Point in silence.
The evening light was grey upon the sea when we got there; the rain held off, but it was heavily overcast. There was no report of our ship; indeed I had not expected that there would be. I had a word or two with the old petty officer and told him what we were expecting; then there was nothing we could do but hang around and wait. We should have been more comfortable in the hotel, perhaps, but after London the sea air was fresh up on that cliff.
I went aside presently and found Wren Wright sitting in her truck. “Miss Wright, I’m very sorry to hear you lost that rabbit,” I said. “Was Rhodes upset?”
“He was a bit,” she said. “He was such a nice rabbit.” She hesitated. “I think he felt it frightfully,” she said. “You see, there was his dog as well.”
I hadn’t heard that one, and with a little encouragement she told me all about Ernest. She seemed to know a good deal about Rhodes. She told me how they had found Geoffrey in his hutch.
“It was after that he went and worried them at Honiton to get out this new oil,” she said.
“Worcester Sauce?”
She nodded.
“Did he tell you what was in it?”
She shook her head. “He only said it makes burns very bad to heal. He was terribly — bitter, sir, after the raid.”
There was nothing to be said to that; it was just another little drop to swell the flood of misery that comes from war. I turned back to the Watch Point, but there was nothing new. It was now very nearly dark.
There was no object in staying there; they might come in any time during the night, or else they might not come at all. McNeil and I went out presently and got into the truck again. I said to the Wren: “Take us down to the hotel — the one upon the quay.”
“The Royal Sovereign.” As we drove down I was thinking out what we had better do. I felt that it was necessary for me to meet the ship as soon as they came in, whatever hour it was. I had arranged for the young surgeon-lieutenant with his ambulance to be at Dittisham all night if need be; that was fixed up. But when they came in, quite apart from wounded men, they might want anything. They might have prisoners — all the officers might have been hit — they might have urgent news for V.A.C.O. — anything. There might be any kind of an emergency demanding energetic action, when my brass hat and McNeil’s red tabs would carry weight.
They could ring up the hotel from the Naval Centre when news of the ship came in. I could get the Duty Officer to do that.
We drew up outside the hotel and got out; it was dark by that time. I said to the Wren: “I shall want this truck to-night, Miss Wright, as soon as they get in. You’d better park it here and let me have the key. Then you can get along.”
She said: “That’s quite all right, sir. I’ll be here.”
“They may come any time,” I said, “or they may not come in till to-morrow.” It was blackly in my mind they might not come at all. “If I want the truck to-night I’ll drive myself.”
She said: “I’d rather wait.” And then she said quickly: “It might be very awkward if they came in and they — they kind of wanted anything and you hadn’t got a driver, sir.”
I hesitated; there was truth in what she said, although I knew that wasn’t her real reason. She followed up before I could speak.
“I’ll just slip back and tell them at the Wrennery and get my coat, sir. I won’t be more than ten minutes.”
I said: “All right,” and turned into the hotel with McNeil. We decided that the only thing to do was to have dinner and sit by the fi
re till something happened. I rang through to the Duty Officer and told him where we were, and then we went and washed and had a gin in the bar, and presently we had another. McNeil said: “Is that Wren of yours outside?”
It was raining in the street; I could hear it rippling in the gutter. “I expect she is,” I said. I went out to the door; in the dim light I saw the dark mass of the van parked by the pavement a few yards away. I went out in the rain and tried the door, and there she was, sitting at the wheel.
“You’d better come inside, Miss Wright,” I said. “It’s cold as charity out here.”
She said: “I’m quite all right, sir.”
“You’d better come on in. Brigadier McNeil wants to buy you a drink.”
She laughed shyly and got out. I took her into the hotel and took her coat; we went into the bar. McNeil was very good with her. “On a cold night like this I should think you’d like a ginger wine,” he said. “With or without gin?”
She said: “Lieutenant Rhodes gives me a tomato-juice cocktail when we come in here.” She was refreshingly naïve. “I think I’ll stick to that.”
He ordered it for her. I was not very familiar with the drink, and said: “Does that have gin in it?”
“Non-alcoholic,” said the brigadier. He took it from the barmaid. “It’s just tomato-juice and...other stuff.”
“Worcester Sauce,” the barmaid said. “Tomato-juice and Worcester Sauce, that’s all it is.”
That made a little silence; we none of us could think of anything to say. We talked about the weather and the war for a bit, but none of the subjects that linked us together could be talked about in a bar, and in the background of our minds was Worcester Sauce.
We took her in to dinner with us, after a little argument. “I had my tea in the Wrennery before you came,” she said. Still, she managed to do pretty well in spite of that, and we gave her a glass of port to top up with, and then we settled down in long chairs before the fire in the smoking-room to wait.
We were still waiting there at midnight, half asleep.
I stirred as it struck twelve. I said: “You’d better go on back to the Wrennery and go to bed, Miss Wright. I don’t suppose they’ll come now.”
