by Nevil Shute
From the shore on their port side a brilliant sheet of white light shone out behind them, and focused instantly to a sharp pencil of great brilliance, groping and searching astern of them. Another sprang out, farther along the shore, an intense white eye. In the white light Simon saw the gunners, led by Boden, spring across the hatch; the Bren guns spat and rattled and the second light went out abruptly. But now the first had found them, and from shore rifle-fire zipped over them and smacked into their sides.
They were driving astern from the harbour at a good speed now, making stern first out into the bay and the shelter of the rain. From the shore end of the jetty a stream of tracer came out suddenly, spraying around them and a little to the port side. Then, providentially and mercifully, Boden’s gunners got the other searchlight, and the firing crossed them and sprayed wide upon the starboard side, bright sheaves of little yellow sparks. The white illumination vanished and they were back in the half-light of the fire at the jetty, now much farther off.
Colvin, wrestling with the wheel, made heavy with their stern-way, said: “Watch out for them searchlights.” And as he spoke, a third blazed out at them on their port bow from some point above the jetty in the town. It lit them mercilessly, and in a moment the cannon fire was flying through the air at them again, bright yellow sparks.
The gun was somewhere at the shore end of the jetty, firing down its length at them. Colvin hauled madly at the wheel; a few feet more to starboard and the jetty itself would interpose between them and the gun. The Bren guns clattered at the third searchlight. There was a deafening crack beside them, and the framework of the wheel-house on the port side shivered and collapsed. Simon was on that side; he swung half round and his left arm flew backwards; he staggered for a moment, and recovered himself. At the bow there was a flash and flying timber. Amidships there was a flash and a bright yellow fire that sprang up suddenly around the flame-thrower. Then Rhodes, muffled in his anti-flash clothing, was rolling on the hatch; the fire ran along the deck as if pursuing him.
Abruptly there were flashes on the jetty, and the tracer that had been flying round them ceased. The Bren guns were still firing at the searchlight, and in a minute that went out. Now there were only isolated rifle shots directed at the fire amidships at the flame-thrower.
Colvin roared out: “Get that fire out, quick!” and saw Boden with a foam extinguisher. Presently there were two extinguishers in action, and the fire died down.
The engine was stopped, but the ship had good stern way upon her still. Already the blaze upon the jetty had grown dim; it was raining heavily and the rain made a curtain to shield them. Unless there were another searchlight very near they had respite for the moment. Another searchlight came on a long way to the north, two miles away, perhaps. It lit them up, but not intensely.
Colvin shouted: “Don’t fire at that!” The curtain of the rain, he thought, would shroud them from the shore in that weak light. The beam wavered, and began searching farther out to sea, and they were back in the half-light of the fire upon the quay.
By his side, Simon was holding the artery of his left arm; his hand was a mess of blood. He said: “I am all right. The engine, is that hit?”
“I dunno.” Colvin turned. “André la voile.”
Boden answered: “André’s been hit, sir. You want the mainsail?”
“Aye, get it up quick, ’n let’s get out of this.”
The wind was in the south-west; under sail they could do no more than reach across the bay in the direction of La Chèvre or Morgat. They could hardly beat up into the wind at all; their sail was too small for that. The most that it would do for them was to carry them out into the bay away from Douarnenez.
Colvin called Rollot to the wheel, and leaped down to the engine-room. The two engineers were uninjured and were already hard at work, but it was clear that they had a big job ahead of them. Water was pouring from the aft cylinder; a gaping hole showed in the deck above. In mixed French and English Colvin heard their diagnosis. The engine was jammed, immovable. The piston in that cylinder was cracked or seized; it would be necessary to take off the pot. There were some fractured fuel oil-pipes as well. There was no other damage. They would do all they could, but it would be, perhaps, three hours before they could attempt to start her up again.
Colvin went back on deck. The sail was up and Rollot was at the wheel; they were drawing forward. The fire upon the jetty was now less intense, and gave them little light. He spoke to Rollot about the course, then went forward. Simon was sitting on the hatch and Rhodes was putting a dressing on his hand; Boden was still watchful at the guns. One of the Danes was very badly hit. André, the maître, was dead up in the bows.
So, in the darkness and the rain, they drew away from land.
Two hours later they were about two miles east of La Chèvre. Searchlights were still groping for them in the bay, but the rain saved them from detection. Their quiet passage may have helped, of course, under the sail alone. They had a respite and down in the cramped engine-room the men worked like beavers. With great difficulty they got the cylinder off. The piston was cracked and useless, and the connecting-rod distorted. They took off the piston with a hacksaw, undid the big end and drew out the connecting-rod through the crank-case inspection cover, and made a fibre plate to cover over where the cylinder had been, They repaired the shattered water pipes and fuel pipes with insulating tape and cod line, and at about 03.15 in the morning Colvin heard the engine run. It ran with a good deal of vibration and a hard, uneven beat, as was only to be expected on five cylinders. But it gave them about eight knots of speed, and there were still three hours of darkness before them in which they could clear the land, and the rain held.
And that, really, is all there is to say about their venture. They headed straight out into the Atlantic, meaning to give Ushant a wide berth and make for Falmouth with their wounded. With the dawn the wind began to veer towards the north, about force 5 or 6, and settled to about north-west by 09.00. They were somewhere to the north of Ushant then, and making only about four knots through the water on their course for Falmouth against the foul wind; the prospects of getting in before dark were poor. The only port open to them in the hours of darkness was Dartmouth, so they bore away up Channel and hoisted their sail to give them a lift along. They sailed and motored slowly through the day with continual engine stoppages. They berthed at Dartmouth at about 03.00 the next morning, and moved up to Dittisham soon after that.
One personal incident occurred that morning that I heard of some time afterwards. They were going to bed in the villas; the doctor was looking after them, and I had gone back to the hotel. Colvin went in to Boden’s room and found him sitting on the bed, still in his sea clothes, too tired to undress.
“Say,” he said wearily. “You want to get to bed.”
The lad raised his head. His face was very white at all times, and his hair a staring red; with his fatigue, in the hard light of the unshaded bulb, he looked desperately ill.
“I just sat down for a minute. The surgeon gave Rollot and Jules a draught or something. He’s staying here till morning.”
“I know that,” said Colvin. “Did he give you one?”
“I don’t need anything. I’ll sleep all right.”
“Let’s see you do it. Give me your boots; I’ll pull them off for you.”
Obediently Boden stretched out his right leg; Colvin took the gum-boot and wrestled it off. “Say,” he said, grasping the left one. “I spoke pretty sharp that time you said I ought to write to Junie. I ought to have clipped you on the jaw.”
Boden smiled faintly. “Do it now, if you like.” The other boot came off, and he lowered his leg to the ground. “Are you going to write to her?”
The older man stood silent for a moment. “I dunno,” he said at last. “I dunno why you want to get me talking about Junie all the time. It don’t do any good. Come on now. Get up, ’n get your clothes off, ’n get into bed.”
Obediently the other got up and
stripped off his jersey. “Don’t you ever want to see her again?”
“I dunno. Junie’s a young woman still. If she can meet up with some proper guy that has a settled job, ’n can treat her right, I’d not want anything better for her. Suppose I was to write, I’d only get her unsettled all over again.”
Boden stopped in the act of pulling off a sea-boot stocking. “It gets you,” he said, staring at the other. “It got me, just the same as it’s got you. So that nothing’s ever quite the same again.”
There was a pause. Then Colvin said roughly: “Go on and get into your bed. I dunno what you’re talking about.”
Boden pulled off his clothes in silence. Presently he said: “How many Jerries do you think we scuppered?”
“I dunno,” said Colvin. “Forty-five—fifty, maybe. Rhodes said he put eight hundred and thirty gallons of that Worcester Sauce on them, all in next to no time. I reckon we got all there were.”
Boden said: “Counting the ones in the first boat, that’d make sixty or seventy in all.”
“I guess so. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.” He got into his bed. “Thanks for tucking me up; I might have sat like that till morning.”
“You R.N.V.R. want a nursemaid with you,” said Colvin. “Good night.” He switched out the fight, closed the door behind him, and went to find the young surgeon.
“Look in upon Lieutenant Boden, quiet, in half an hour,” he said. “If he’s awake give him a sleeping dose.”
9
I WENT up to N.O.I.C.’s office next morning and rang up the admiral. He asked that Simon should go to him to report. I told him Simon was in hospital, and he asked for Colvin; I promised to take Colvin to him as soon as we had got the party straightened up.
I met McNeil and had a short talk with him; then he went back to London on the morning train. I was left to do all that was necessary. I had a talk with N.O.I.C. and made arrangements for Geneviève to go on to the slip; she was leaking badly. While she was there we could survey her for repair.
I talked of leave to the old commander. “I’m going to send the whole ship’s company away for ten days’ leave,” I said. “The shore party can do anything that’s necessary. About that Wren who drives their truck. If you agree, I think she’d better go as well.”
“If you like,” he said amiably. “That’s Wren Wright?”
“I think that’s the one,” I said. “She’s refused leave recently, I understand, because she wanted to see the thing through. They may as well all go together; then they’ll all be fresh when they get back.”
He nodded. “What are you going to do next?” he asked. “Are you going on to do it again?”
I was silent for a moment. “That depends on what the vessel’s like,” I said. “I’d like to pack this party up, myself, and do something quite different. But I’m afraid that other people will decide that one.”
“Why do you want to pack them up?” he asked mildly. “They seem to be a most successful ship, from what I hear.”
I did not really know myself, to express it in words. I only knew that I had a feeling that they’d done enough. “They don’t run under proper naval discipline,” I said at last. “I don’t think it’s a sound arrangement to mix nationalities in a ship’s company like that. It may work well enough for a time, but it can’t go on.”
I went up to the hospital soon after that to see Simon, but he was still asleep. I went down to the dock and had a talk with the manager, and then I went back to the hotel for lunch. I telephoned for a car after lunch, and Wren Wright came with the little truck and we drove out to Dittisham.
She was looking pale and drawn. “ ’Afternoon,” I said as I got in. “You’re going off on leave. The whole ship’s company are getting leave. Has N.O.I.C. told you?”
“They told me at the Wrennery, sir,” she said. “I think I’ll probably be going off to-morrow morning.”
I said: “A change will do everybody good. Where are you going to?”
She said: “To Derby.”
“I thought you lived in Norwich?” I said idly.
“I do. I’m going first to Derby, and then on to Norwich.”
How she spent her leave was no concern of mine, but the mention of Derby struck a chord somewhere. Derby, somehow, was a part of this affair. I sat in silence for a few minutes as she drove through the lanes, and then it came to me. Derby was where Rhodes’s mother lived.
At Dittisham I found them all up and about, smart and clean in new uniforms. Already Geneviève had disappeared, towed down the river to the shipyard by a motor-boat. I told Colvin that all the lot of them were to get off on leave. I told him that he’d got to produce the report, since Simon was in hospital.
He said awkwardly: “I’ll do my best, sir, but I don’t write so good. I’d rather someone else did it.”
Boden was there. He said: “I’ll write it, if you like.”
“Aye,” said Colvin, much relieved. “You write it, ’n I’ll tell you where it’s wrong.”
I left them to it, and went on to fix up the leave of the Free French and the Danes. McNeil was arranging hospitality for them in London in conjunction with their own headquarters; most of them had nowhere of their own to go to. Presently I came to Rhodes.
“You’d better give me your address on leave,” I said, “in case we want to get hold of you.” I got out my notebook and a pencil.
“I shall be at Derby for the first four or five days, sir,” he said. He gave me the address. “After that I’m going on to Norwich.”
I shut my notebook with a snap. “I suppose I can get that one from the Wrennery,” I said. He grinned, and flushed quite pink. It was odd to think that that lad had done what he had on Sunday night.
When I came round to Boden and to Colvin I ran up against a difficulty. Each of them came to me in turn and asked if he could stay at Dittisham. Boden came first.
“I don’t want to go away,” he said. “One of us ought to stay here to look after things. I don’t want any leave.”
“I want you all to get away,” I said. “The vessel will be in the shipyard for ten days, and longer.”
“I’d rather stay here. I’ve got nowhere special that I want to go to.”
I knew that this lad wanted careful handling. “You’ve got a home in Yorkshire, haven’t you?” I said. “Your people will want to see you.”
He was silent. At last he said: “I suppose I ought to go and see my people. But I shan’t stay there more than a day or two. After that I think I’ll come back here.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “You won’t come back here till your leave is up. That’s an order.” I paused. “I tell you what you can do, if you like. If you get fed up with Yorkshire there’s a lot of paper work about this thing wants doing in my office. You can come down to the Admiralty and give me a hand.”
He brightened; he was evidently pleased. “That’s awfully good of you, sir. I’ll be with you on Monday morning.”
Colvin came next, and he said much the same as Boden. “I guess I’ll stick around,” he said.
I put that idea out of his head. “You can go to Torquay if you like,” I said. “But nobody stays here.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to go to Torquay.” That rather surprised me. “I got no roots in this country,” he said. “Not like them R.N.V.R. boys.”
“You’ve got to come with me to Newhaven to see V.A.C.O.,” I said. “After that I’ll find you a job if you want one, but you don’t stay here.”
He grinned. In the end I sent him up to Scotland with the East Coast convoy out of London, to tell me how the double Vick formation against E-boats worked out in practice. He put in a very clear and informative report, written up for him by Boden, at the end of his leave; so that was quite good value.
I had tea at Dittisham with them, and then went to Dartmouth in the truck, with Rhodes in the back, to go to see Simon in the hospital. I found him awake and in a bit of pain from his injured hand; m
oreover, he was in an open ward, so I didn’t stay very long. In any case, McNeil had taken his account the night before.
He told me that they had taken off the remains of the third and fourth fingers that morning, and tidied up the rest for him. “I shall not be long here, in hospital,” he said. “A week—no more. Then I shall be back at duty.”
It occurred to me that this was probably another one; none of these fellows seemed to have much use for leave. “I don’t know about that,” I said. “You won’t be fit for duty, and I want everyone to have a spell of leave.”
He said: “There is no time for that. As soon as the ship is repaired, we must go again, with guns. How long will that be?’
“Ten days or a fortnight.” McNeil had told me something about his new idea that morning, but I was by no means sure that I agreed. “Tell me,” I said, “what is it that you want to do, exactly?”
He leaned forward from his bed, tense, eager, and a little feverish. “To-day,” he said, “Douarnenez will be seething hot for revolt against the Germans. We have shown them what the English can do now. The next step is to bring them arms. Seventy Tommy-guns, and about three thousand rounds for each—Colvin says that we can carry that much in the ship. Then, when we want to land a force in Brittany, we shall find them fighting at our side.”
A nurse swept down upon us. “This patient is not to get excited, Commander,” she said severely. “You may talk for two or three minutes longer, but not if he goes on like this.” She laid him back upon his pillows and smoothed out the sheet.
“Over-enthusiasm,” I said. “That’s what you get, you see.”
From bis pillow he eyed me earnestly. “You will see Brigadier McNeil? I cannot say how important it is. They will receive the guns and hide them, secretly, to use to help us when our fellows have to land one day.”
