by V M Knox
Holding the Sten in his right hand, he again checked the time. Zero, two, fifty-eight hours. ‘Have you done this sort of thing before, Arthur?’
‘I was once involved in an altercation involving guns. But not one with a German submarine.’
‘Are you an accurate shot?’
‘Yes. Although I am not sure how I will fare against automatic weapons.’
The ensuing silence told Clement they both knew how it could go. He gazed upwards and silently recited the Lord’s Prayer. It is amazing how many stars are visible when there is no ambient light. He wondered why he had spent so little time doing things like star-gazing. The view at night would be spectacular from the Downs. He closed his eyes. He would never see it now.
‘What do you think of our chances, Clement?’
‘Not good.’
Time passed, the only sound was the lapping water; the rhythm of the endless waves on the shingle shoreline. Clement closed his eyes and rolled over and listened to the hypnotic sound. Soothing, gentle. He burrowed his shoulders into the shallow depression seeking any measure of comfort the cold earth afforded. The temperature dropped. So did the conversation; there was nothing to say. Besides, voices at night carry for miles, especially with the light wind. Clement pushed his hand under his coat and flicked on the torch to check his watch. Zero, three, forty-five hours. Soon. Fifteen minutes to zero hour. He rolled onto his belly and holding the binoculars once more scanned the foreshore. Morris lay on the grass beside him, his hat over this face, his police service revolver in his grip. He nudged Morris who rolled over, his eyes staring out to sea.
‘Do you see anything?’ Morris whispered.
‘Not yet. But it won't be long.' Clement shivered. It seemed colder to him but perhaps it was just that he knew the time was approaching. He’d read somewhere that the night is coldest at four o’clock. He trained the binoculars on the shoreline, scanning right to left, then out to sea, scanning and sweeping over the waves. Moonlight, silver and bright, cut into the scene, like a dagger plunging from the horizon and pointing straight at them. The light played and sparkled over the ever-moving surface.
It appeared; the thin, black periscope slicing through the water. Then the dark hull began to rise from the depths. Even though Clement was expecting the submarine, actually seeing it sent shudders through his body. He lowered the binoculars and stared into the night.
‘What is it?’ Arthur whispered.
‘They have arrived.’ He passed the binoculars to Morris. ‘The submarine, not the targets,’ he said, reminding himself that Phillip Haswell was his enemy.
Clement checked his watch again. Zero, three, fifty-eight. The trio would be on the beach within seconds. He held the binoculars again to his face and relocated the periscope. What he saw made his heart skip a beat. In the moonlight the dark form took on a shape and a presence of satanic evil. He had never felt or witnessed anything like it. The black mass, sinister and silent rose before him. It had appeared without any sound and was lying in wait for its prize. Clement’s open mouth was dry and he knew his eyes were wide. He could feel his eyelids had opened so wide it was almost uncomfortable. But the sight was mesmerising.
‘How far off the shoreline is it?’ Arthur asked.
‘About half a mile.’
Clement watched as the conning tower hatch opened. A minute later he saw a silhouette climb out and descend onto the submarine’s deck. A small dinghy was lowered and the man climbed over the side of the submarine and into it. Clement watched the conning tower. No-one else left the deadly hulk.
A crunching sound cut into the cold air. In an instant the mesmeric hold of the submarine on his concentration vanished. Several sets of feet were running over the shingle. He held the binoculars steady and focused on the sound of running feet.
‘Now!’ he said, grabbing his Sten. He and Morris stood, and ran forward. As they crossed the road they cleared the ridge top and descended on to the beach. The motorcycle engine roared somewhere off to his left. A shaft of light from the motorcycle’s headlights coursed over the beach. Clement stopped and he saw the beam of light cut into the night. In its glare he saw legs, torsos, then arms, running, two men, one woman. Within seconds, gunfire exploded in rapid staccato cracks. He saw one of the men turn and drop to the beach, the flash from the muzzle of the gun strobing yellow in the blackness as the bullets sprayed the beach. Clement heard the motorcycle engine still going but the machine was stuck in the shingle, lying stationery in the loose surface. Bullets shattered the sides, and the headlight was extinguished. Within a second the fuel tank exploded, the noise and searing light piercing the night around them. For one second Clement could see three figures on the shingle at the water’s edge. Another round of bullets sprayed the burning motorcycle. Clement wondered about Johnny. In the confusion, he and Morris ran for the break in the barbed wire, his feet falling on anything, his eyes searching for the driftwood plank over the barbed wire. Rushing forward, Clement crossed the break, the shingle sliding and slipping beneath his feet. ‘Arthur, stay behind me and off to my right,’ he shouted, turning his head back to see the Chief Inspector only a few paces behind him. The machine-gun fire stopped.
In the silence, Clement fell to the beach, the Sten in his grasp. He heard Morris fall onto the shingle behind him. He couldn’t see the group now. In the confusion he and Morris had advanced across the beach about fifty yards. Lying on the shingle, listening to his own breathing, Clement was convinced that his enemy did not know of his or Morris’s presence.
Everything was silent. He waited. He could hear, in the light wind, the sound of oars in the water followed by a bump. Repeated. The light wind was bringing the sounds to them. He knew it was the dinghy. The small craft was hitting the last pylon, the waves buffeting the boat against the wooden pole.
Then he heard running feet.
As the feet ran across the shore the rapid firing started again, the yellow strobing flashing, coursing across the shoreline. Clement thought the firing was random, and he guessed his position was still unknown to the gunman. He could hear the bullets hissing and pinging off the shingle. He lay on the beach, his head down and waited for the barrage to stop. Turning his head to one side, he saw the gunman strafe the beach again. The yellow flicker of the bullets leaving the muzzle exploded in the night and he caught a glimpse of the man, backlit from the firing weapon. An outline of the face only, but it was enough.
‘Stop firing!’ a panic-stricken voice screamed into the night air.
Clement recognised Phillip’s voice in the hysterical shriek. It shocked him for one moment. Standing and holding the Sten to his shoulder, Clement fired at the face he had known for three years. Two sharp cracks sounded in the night. He saw Phillip fall. Clement dropped and rolled several times to his left over the round, hard stones. But the hail of bullets was not directed at him. He rolled once more. The firing started again. A further round of shots strafed across the beach, followed by the sound of running feet. But the pattern was different. Someone was injured. The running was laboured. Clement looked up from his position lying on the shingle wondering if the man with the limp had been shot. The yellow flashes were coming from behind one of the pylons. The pattern continued. Running. Firing. With each round a spray of short, staccato shots flew across the stretch of beach, but the gunman was moving to the next pylon with each burst. Clement could tell that the firing was wild and not aimed with any accuracy. He watched the glow from the muzzle move further towards the sea. He could hear Morris behind him, then another set of feet. He hoped Johnny’s. Standing, Clement ran forward, dropped to the ground again and lined the Sten up with the pylon at the end of the old groyne.
The low sound of an engine filled the night. Clement thought it was a diesel motor; the slow chugging sound of a small launch. From where he lay on the shingle, he looked up. Out of the blackness a search light lit up the shoreline. He lowered his head, his Sten on his chest, and rolled sideways away from the shaft of light, their pos
ition no longer unknown. Lowering his head, he waited for the rapid fire. Bullets skited across the shingle, pinging off the stones. The light was on the pylons now. Each one was illuminated in turn until he saw them, bright, in the intense beam break cover and run into the low waves.
Clement could not tell if the launch was friend of foe, but it no longer mattered. He would use it. He stood again and ran forward. The old rotting pylons of the groyne stood out, brighter than day in the blinding light. He heard splashing. Then he saw two people, a woman and a man holding hands as they ran into the water. He saw the man toss the weapon into the sea and swim towards the dinghy. They had separated, the woman still behind the last pylon. Machine-gun fire coursed from the motor launch. Clement could hear the bullets splashing and skipping across the water; the high-pitched spitting continued, several rounds hitting the water-sodden timbers of the pylons.
Clement stayed low. He rolled sideways, then two seconds later he rolled away once more as the bullets fired again. Al-though he could not be sure, the bullets from the launch did not appear to be directed at the beach. Keeping his head down, he looked back. The light strobed across the beach again, then swept over the water. In an instant he had seen Morris and Johnny lying flat on the beach behind him, lit up in the glare. Clement stood, and running forward, fired the Sten, sending a sweeping spray of bullets into the sea.
The light swung off the beach and onto the water. Morris had been off to Clement’s right, lying flat on the shingle and about twenty feet behind him. To his left Johnny was closer, a Sten in his hand. Clement did not know if either or both were hit. He stared into the night. The launch worried him. The light went away from the shore again and onto the water surface. He looked up. In the distance he could see the outline of the submarine; its sinister dark presence impassive to the mayhem around it. The man in the dinghy was standing now, his blonde hair caught in the fierce glare of the launch’s light. The man was firing in a wide arc, defiantly spraying bullets across the water towards the motor launch. Clement rolled again, over and over, away from where he had lain on the stony beach. Lying his head along the barrel of the Sten, he closed one eye and stared down the sight at the dinghy. Pulling the trigger, he heard the bullets skimming the water. He rolled again, left then right. The man in the dinghy once again directed his fire onto the beach, the bullets striking where Morris and Johnny had been pinned down. The strafing continued, the yellow light from the machine gun indicating the arc of the gunman’s aim. Spitting bullets were still hitting the water.
Clement guessed the man who had swum towards the dinghy was now either dead or in the craft, but the girl, if not already dead, was still behind the pylon. He wondered why the men would sacrifice themselves waiting for her. He stood and ran forward, firing at the last pylon, running across the shingle towards the water’s edge. The bullet hit hard. Clement’s upper left arm was stinging as though he had been bitten by a large dog. It felt warm. He dropped again. He couldn’t see the girl behind the pylon. Holding the Sten to his right shoulder, he laid his head along the barrel, his eye on the sight. His arm felt heavy and painful, but he fired again into the night in the direction of the dinghy and unleashed the remaining contents of the magazine.
The search light flashed again. Clement saw to his left, the man in the dinghy was down. With the boatman down, the two escapees would have to swim to the boat, board it and row away themselves. But for some reason the limping man, if he was alive and in the dingy, was waiting for the girl. In that instant Clement knew he had them. He looked again at the dead boatman, whose body was half in and half out of the water. Another flash of the spotlight revealed the limping man hunched over in the dinghy, his body still as the boat floundered in the waves.
Clement fitted a new magazine and fired the Sten. He saw the hunched body move only slightly with the impact of the bullets. The girl, Jane, was in the water, an arm raised in the waves.
It was over.
The motor launch’s engine roared and although Clement could no longer see the craft, he heard it disappear into the night. Lying on the beach, he grabbed his binoculars and scanned the sea, about a half mile offshore. The black conning tower was sliding down into the waves. He watched it, spell bound, until it disappeared.
‘Everyone alright?’
It was Johnny’s voice.
‘Yes,’ Morris responded.
‘Fine,’ Clement heard himself reply but he wanted Jane. And he wanted the dead traitor, the unknown third person. Standing, Clement reached for another magazine in his belt and reloaded the Sten as he ran forward crossing the shingle. He heard his boots splash into the water and felt the rush of cold water around his ankles. He held the Sten chest-high and let off another round of bullets into the air. ‘They are all dead and you have nowhere to go! Swim to the beach and come out of the water with your hands over your head!’ he shouted. He kept the barrel of the gun on the girl as she swam towards the shoreline.
Johnny stood and, running forward towards the girl, dragged her to her feet.
Clement tossed the Sten back towards the beach and plunged into the sea. He ignored the pain in his upper arm and swam out through the waves towards the dinghy, grabbed the rope on the bow of the small craft and pulled it towards the shore.
A line of people now stood on the beach. From their naval uniforms Clement guessed they were Johnny’s people. He glanced at Arthur Morris. Chief Inspector Morris had been allowed to do his bit, but it had been Johnny’s call all along. Strangely, Clement found it insulting. More for Morris than himself. The unknown silent men moved forward into the water and dragged the dinghy high up the beach. Two men now had Jane at gunpoint. Clement glanced at the girl, but he needed to know. Standing, he clutched his bleeding arm and walked towards the craft. Morris was beside him. The Chief Inspector reached forward, and grasping the coat of the dead man, rolled the body over and switched on a torch.
Chapter 30
Clement felt himself starting to shake. He lurched backwards, his lungs sucking in the cold air, his mind reeling. Before him, in the dinghy, lay Peter Kempton, his fixed unseeing gaze staring into the night sky, his body ripped apart by bullets. The pain in Clement's arm was intense now and he wasn’t sure if he was falling. He could hear the waves. He could hear the sound of feet on the shingle. The waves; always the waves: incessantly caressing the shore and the ears. But he could no longer see; everything was dark now. Yet he could hear voices. He had no concept of the physical world around him. Time had stopped. The gentle hush of the waves penetrated his consciousness. He seemed to be falling. He heard the soft thud. He was floating, downwards, and it was hot: his skin prickled with the heat. Something hard was under his head and he could hear raised voices above him. He closed his eyes.
‘Clement?’
It was a voice Clement knew.
'Can you hear me, Clement? Everything is alright. You are safe now,' Mary said.
He tried to speak but a stab of intense pain coursed through him. Despite this, he smiled. Mary. For a few seconds he allowed the sound of her voice to linger. But in his mind he saw the running legs. Crunching. Running feet over shingles. Strobing yellow flashes. Machine-gun fire. Rapid. Fall! Roll left. Roll right. Shafts of piercing light. The yellow light flashed in his memory. They were exposed, the blinding light lit them up like actors on a stage. Shoot at the beam. ‘Get it out or we’ll all be dead!’ he screamed. The blonde man in the dinghy was firing. Now the man lay slumped over the gunwale. U-boats. Phillip. Was he dead? The searing light from Johnny’s exploding motorcycle. Johnny. Roll right! Roll left! Fire! Jane. He had to get Jane. Pain, hot and stabbing. ‘Stop!’ he shouted. He felt a restraining hand on his chest. Someone was beside him. He felt the needle enter his arm. The pain was subsiding. He slept.
For some minutes he watched her knitting, the needles clicking, the thread unravelling.
'Mary?' he said.
The needles stopped and she leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
'What time
is it?' he asked.
‘About eleven o’clock,’ Mary said.
‘What day is it?'
‘Tuesday.’
‘Where were you?’ he asked, reaching for her hand.
‘In London, Clement. I still do some work for The Admiralty. Johnny Winthorpe recruited me last year along with many other former secretaries. I’m sorry, Clement but I was not permitted to tell you. And Gwen knows nothing about it. I haven’t had to do anything until recently. And certainly nothing as exciting as you. I follow people and courier things. It was I who spotted Jane. I saw her at Victoria Station as I was returning home, that unmistakable travel bag was in her hand. So I followed her onto the train. But not before I got a message to Johnny via the station master.’
Clement understood all her absences now. ‘I suppose it was you who put my name forward to Gubbins?’
She smiled.
He struggled to sit up. ‘Where are we?’
‘Rye Hospital. You were shot, Clement. We will be home tomorrow if the Doctor says you are well enough to be moved.’
Doctor. Phillip Haswell. ‘Is Phillip dead?’
‘Yes,’ she said. He could hear the sad note in her voice. He wondered why. He looked around the hospital room. They were alone. ‘Am I the only sick man in Rye?’
‘Johnny arranged the private room.’
The door opened and Arthur Morris entered. ‘How are you, Clement?’
‘I’ll live, Arthur. What’s happening?’
‘Commander Winthorpe is still in Rye. He and I have been interrogating the girl. Her real name is Katarina Klausmann and she has confessed to luring Stanley Russell to his death. Bundles of five-pound notes were in her pockets. Stanley died at Mr Kempton’s office in the raid as we thought. But it appears that there is another sad note to all this.’
‘Which is?’
‘It appears that Phillip Haswell was innocent.’