Drummond looked away, his mind shocked. Poor Frank. All these months. Lying there, or trying to learn to walk on artificial legs. Probably reading about the flotilla, the Warlock, and all the rest of them, or hearing about them on the wireless.
Aloud he said, “I should have gone to see him.”
The Wren replied quietly, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. Like this.”
He touched her arm. Wishing she were Sarah, so that he could tell her about Frank.
He said, “No. You did right. You made it seem more human. Thank you.”
Drummond walked towards the entrance doors, knowing the Wren was still staring after him.
That night he was sitting in his cabin drinking and thinking of all the things which had happened since he had been given the old Warlock. The ship moved restlessly at her moorings, pushed by a mounting wind. She was very quiet, as most of her company were ashore on local leave. Tomorrow forenoon, off to sea again. But tonight he would be alone. And think.
Feet banged on the ladder and Selkirk thrust aside the door curtain and said gruffly, “Can I share a drink with you?” He seemed dazed. “I’ve seen Kimber. He told me.”
Drummond said, “Sit down, man. ” He poured some brandy into a glass. “Here.”
Selkirk stared over the glass, his eyes misty. “They’re going to make her into a bomb. A floating bomb.” He tossed back the drink and added savagely, “In God’s name, how can they do that to a ship!”
“I’m sorry. You know that. ” He watched the man’s anguish. Despair. He asked, “Will you be staying?”
Selkirk stood up violently. “You bet. You never know. There might be a chance of saving her.” The spark died just as quickly and he said brokenly, “Poor old girl. What a bloody thing to happen!” And he slammed out of the cabin.
Drummond sat down heavily. A ship condemned. Elsewhere a man had died.
Sheridan appeared in the doorway, his shoulders glistening with rain.
Drummond pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Number One.”
The other man sat, watching curiously as Drummond poured him a large drink.
He said, “It’s blowing up a bit, sir. Be a rough passage tomorrow for any weak stomach.”
Drummond did not seem to hear. He said softly, “Your predecessor has just died.”
He had telephoned the hospital himself after leaving Naval H.Q. The doctor on the other end of the line had been evasive until he had told him that Frank had been his friend.
The doctor had said awkwardly, “I am afraid that Lieutenant Cowley killed himself. There was nothing we could do.”
Sheridan replied, “I’m sorry, sir. I did not know him, of course, but I have heard that you were both very close.”
Drummond said, “We are going on another operation shortly.” He did not look at him. “I just want you to know that I’d like you to be with me. I’ve treated you harshly, often unjustly. Perhaps it was because of Frank. Anyway, I’m sorry.”
Sheridan stared at him. He knew well enough that most of the trouble between himself and Drummond had been of his own making. He recalled Wingate’s words. Not fit for a command. And now the death of a man he had not known had changed everything. Cowley’s presence had remained in the ship, like an invisible barrier. Now it was gone. He was accepted. He saw the strain returning to Drummond’s eyes and cursed himself. More than that, he was needed, just as Galbraith had implied all those long weeks ago.
He said, “I don’t think I’d be any good as a commanding officer anyway!”
Drummond looked at him and then poured another drink. “If you can say that, there’s hope for you yet.”
Vice-Admiral Brooks entered his map room by a small side door and nodded amiably to his chief of staff. The room was packed with officers, hardly one of whom was of lesser rank than captain, or its equivalent in the Army and R. A. F. Brooks held up a wizened hand.
“Smoke if you wish, gentlemen. And at the same time pray that the air-conditioning does not fail. It would be a grevious loss to our cause if all the top Service brains died from tobacco smoke. “
It brought a wave of chuckles. Brooks was always a popular speaker, and the fact he was well aware of it helped considerably.
He said, “First, I would like to thank all of those present who have worked so hard with my department over the past weeks to make this plan a possibility.” The wizened hand gestured to a large table, discreetly covered by a cloth. “The possibility is about to become reality. “
He paused long enough to allow an aide to light his cigarette, and for the assembled staff officers to settle themselves in their uncomfortable folding chairs. Inside the bunker it was damply warm, and it could have been any time of the day. In fact, it was evening, and up above in London there was an air-raid commencing over the south bank of the Thames, and several streets blazing to mark the fall of incendiaries. November was always a bad month for air-raids. Cloud cover, the natural misery of cold and short rations. It was no joke spending the night in an air-raid shelter with a blanket and a Thermos of weak tea, Brooks thought.
Beyond the air-raid he could visualise the other theatres of war. Italy, where the first stirring advances had slowed into a stalemate of snow and slush. And a German army, which even in retreat was still hitting back, and hard. On the Russian front it was the same tale. Vehicles and men in a white panorama of chilling, agonising endurance. The Allied victories in North Africa and Sicily, the Pacific and the great naval feats against the Tirpitz and the Norwegian fjords had become part of the past. Something in favour, but still the past. Next year. In the next few months the Allies would move against northern Europe. Every officer in the room knew it, almost to the date, and the millions beyond the steel doors were equally certain that there was no other way to a complete and final victory.
Brooks coughed. “And now, gentlemen. Operation SmashHit is poised in the wings.”
He could feel the excitement like a drug. He did not like the code-name, but a member of the War Cabinet had expressed the opinion that it would appeal to the younger people. They, after all, had to do the fighting. It was a fair point, Brooks conceded.
In a way it was rather sad. All these familiar faces. Men who had dropped into occupied Europe to arrange supplies and to organise the Resistance from anyone who could pull a trigger or light a fuse. There were many no longer here, who had paid the price of daring. There were others who had commanded raids on enemy coasts, trained men from peaceful walks of life who became professional fighting men who did not need an order to kill. They acted by instinct now, playing the enemy’s game, and making up for so many retreats and an inability to grasp that war is not for amateurs.
Once the final invasion of Europe was begun, his special force of inter-service experts would be scattered to individual sections. It was sad indeed. Like the breaking up of an old and tested college.
He saw Beaumont sitting with his arms folded, eyes straight ahead. Behind him, the only one in civilian dress, Miles Salter, puffy-eyed, as if he had slept badly for weeks.
He said, “Uncover the table, Thompson.”
The officer removed the covering with a splendid swirl, rather like a matador, Brooks thought.
He forgot him and everything else as the table and its miniature coastline and port installations were laid bare in the overhead lights. The model was said to be perfect. It should be, too. R.A.F. reconnaissance planes had provided pictures, and a wealth of information had been amassed from such varying sources as peacetime travel agents and amateur yachtsmen.
“There, gentlemen. St. Nazaire. A German base of some importance, as last year’s attack will bear out.” He took a pointer and held it above the sprawling concrete installations. “The Normandie Dock, so called because it was built to hold the great French liner of that name, and still the best for repairing the largest enemy warships. Despite last year’s attack, and the damage done by our valiant sailors and soldiers, much work has been done to put the dock area back into commis
sion. Further, the German engineers have constructed another docking area, much along the lines of their highly successful U-boat pens, for the sole benefit of their new midget submarine arm.”
The air buzzed with excited comment, but when Brooks glanced at Beaumont he saw he was staring ahead of him as before, his forehead shining damply in the glare. Beaumont did not need to examine the model. He had looked at it every day since it had been made.
Brooks continued dryly, “The time is now ripe for Smash-Hit to be put into operation. Only by an immediate frontal attack from the sea with a massive charge of explosive and the subsequent havoc of released water can this objective be destroyed, or at least crippled until after an Allied invasion. Bombing from the air has proved ineffective. The concrete emplacements are too strong, the losses of men and aircraft too savage to continue in any sort of strength. But if we fail to put this complex out of action, the enemy will be able to continue using it for her remaining capital ships like Scharnhorst and Moltke, and for all the other surface war vessels which could be employed against our invasion forces. What chance would frail landing craft and heavily laden transports stand against even one sortie by such ships? Just one setback would be enough for the enemy to recover from the initial surprise. After which … ” He gave a narrow shrug. “Frankly, we cannot endure another failure. It is as simple as that.”
Like an actor taking up his cue, Captain Kimber stepped up to the table.
“As you know, we have been assembling men and studying the objective carefully. Unlike last year’s raid, we will have two destroyers instead of one, each of which will be loaded with
explosives. To all intents, floating bombs. ” He shut the picture of Selkirk’s face from his mind. “Two other destroyers, Warlock and Victor, will accompany them. To cover their attack and render any sort of aid they might need. Both of the latter have been in training with the commando units.” He saw an army brigadier nod to confirm it. “And are now on their way to Falmouth.” He glanced at the clock. “In fact, they should have arrived there an hour ago. ” He looked at Brooks, wondering if the admiral was thinking how it had all begun in that Falmouth mortuary. He said, “Coastal Forces are supplying M. T.B.s to combat fast enemy surface craft. M.L.s will be used to ferry the commando ashore to attack shore installations in depth.
He glanced at an air vice-marshal with grey hair. “The Royal Air Force will, needless to say, be supplying a full range of background bangs and grunts to keep Jerry fully occupied!” It brought some laughs, as Brooks had said it would. He became serious. “Because of the enemy’s vigilance, and the fact that once our surprise has been overcome he will see the attack as a near copy of the last raid, both Lomond and Ventnor will be fitted with short fuses. I do not have to explain to everyone here the importance of timing and co-operation. ” Nobody was smiling now. “Without them, this could turn into a bloody sacrifice to no good purpose. With them, and a lot of courage besides, it might well prove to be the first chink in the enemy’s West Wall. “
As he paused, both to draw breath and to recall if he had left anything out, there was a burst of clapping. Magnified by the bunker’s massive walls, it sounded like a stampeding mob of barefooted madmen.
He held up his hand. “Captain Dudley Beaumont,” he paused, seeing their faces, watching their new confidence, “will be in overall command. If any man can pull it off, he will.
He hated the way they clapped and cheered. It was almost obscene when you stopped to consider what it would cost in lives whether it was a success or failure. Perhaps he had been working too long on Brooks’s many projects. Or maybe he was too old for this sort of thing. He watched Beaumont’s shining face as he stood and then bowed very slightly to the excited gathering. Perhaps it was just Beaumont.
Miles Salter caught the captain’s eye and excused himself through the little side door. He had a lot to do, a report to prepare for immediate release if Beaumont succeeded with Smash-Hit. He grimaced and rubbed his eye. It would not stop blinking since that terrible raid on the fjord. Even though Lomond had stayed outside, the air attacks had been terrifying. Salter had been crouching with his cameraman; gasping and retching as each stick of bombs had whistled and exploded on every hand. And when the Whirlpool had gone up with all those mines aboard, the cameraman had run below to hide. One result was that they had had few useful films, other than those taken in Iceland and off Bear Island. All the actual raid had been hidden by the land, and he still could not believe that Warlock and Ventnor had been able to do it on their own and still fight their way back to the others.
He paused by the press room and saw the usual weary gathering of war correspondents. As he turned the other way he heard a girl’s voice and knew it was Sarah Kemp.
“Just a moment, Miles! I must speak with you!”
He turned heavily and waited for her to catch up. God, she was beautiful, and after the talk of death and destruction she looked particularly fresh and desirable.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days!”
He grinned. “Here I am, darling! Ready and willing!” She did not smile. “I’m serious, Miles. You’ve been avoiding me. “
“Yes.” He sighed. “You’ve got your new assignment. I thought you’d be busy enough.”
She looked at him anxiously. “A stupid job. Anyone could do it. I’ve been cut off from the Special Operations, I’ve even had my pass taken away. But I’m still on your staff, Miles, so what the hell is going on?”
Salter watched her worriedly. She was really concerned. Near to tears, which was not like her.
He said abruptly, “Canteen. Cup of char. ” He took her arm. “We can talk there.”
He watched her stirring the awful canteen tea, the way her perfect breasts were moving under her dress. Just imagine it. With her. Pushing aside her protests, and then…
Salter asked wearily, “What’s the trouble?”
“I’m not a child. I know there’s a big one coming off. I want to be involved with it. Because of …“She dropped her eyes. “I don’t have to spell it out to you, Miles.”
“True. ” He studied her for several seconds. How wrong he had been about her. He said, “You don’t get it at all, do you?” He played with his spoon. “Captain Beaumont doesn’t trust you. Because of your brother. Because of Keith Drummond, too, in many ways. I wanted to get rid of you months ago. To transfer you to a nice department where you could work with sane, everyday people. I thought you’d be safe that way. Out of his reach.” He knew she was staring at him incredulously but could not stop. “I’m as much to blame as anyone. When you’re a real-life journalist, and you get dropped into an organisation like this, you can’t help yourself. You make a story, and then the story makes you.” He added bitterly, “Beaumont would riot hear of your being transferred. He wants you where he can manipulate you. Like he does me, and damn near everyone else. “
“You sound as if you hate him?”
“Hate?” He looked at her and gave a crooked grin. “He scares me to death. Like Frankenstein’s monster. We’ve made it, and can’t do a goddamned thing to control it.”
She gripped his hand across the stained table. “Thanks, Miles. But I must see him. I love him. It’s real this time.”
He nodded, watching her hand on his. “I can see that, my love. ” He made up his mind. “A minesweeper came into port yesterday. It had shot down a Dornier with one ancient machine gun. Either that or the German pilot had heart failure. ” He saw her desperate eyes, and for a moment longer enjoyed her need of him. “The boat is down in Falmouth. I can get you a special pass and travel documents for that. All you need.” He took her hand and examined it closely. “Falmouth could be just what you want. ” He squeezed it. “And Christ help us if you let the cat out of the bag!”
She stood up and said huskily, “Thank you, Miles, I’ll never forget this.”
He watched her go and called, “I’ll still want that story about the minesweeper’s bloody Dornier!” He gave a gr
eat sigh. Well, why not? It would probably be the last time they ever met.
17
Smash-Hit
DRUMMOND thrust open the wardroom curtain and stepped inside. He had just come from the chart room by way of the upper deck, and had noticed how treacherous everything was underfoot. Sleety rain had left a layer of slush on decks and fittings which could hurl the unwary into something hard or jagged. It was strange he could consider such minor injuries, he thought. With Operation Smash-Hit now firmly fixed in his mind.
The two destroyers had tied up in Falmouth that evening, and almost before the engines had fallen silent Drummond had received the next draft of his orders. He was glad of one thing. That Kimber was prepared to leave the briefing to him and nobody else.
Now, as he saw their expectant faces glowing in the comfortable wardroom lights, he was not so sure. Some of them would soon be dead. Perhaps all of them.
He had already told Sheridan. It was. the beginning of a new trust, a bond between them. Carefully begun, handled like something fragile but infinitely precious.
Sheridan said formally, “All present, sir. “
Drummond gestured around him. “Please sit down. I’m the visitor here.”
He thought of the Victor alongside, of her R.N. V. R. captain, Roger North. He would be telling his people now. In his own way, as Drummond was about to do. Not treating them like machines, as a remote staff officer might have done.
He began, “The last weeks of training have brought us all very close together. The old hands teaching the new. The new bringing fresh ideas to replace some of ours. Working in and out of Greenock, seeing the marines and commando doing their exercises, has told you that we’re getting ready for something big. Even Midshipman Keyes must have found time between writing letters to realise that!”
They all laughed, and even Keyes overcame his embarrassment at being the centre of attention.
“So I’m going to put you in the picture. It’s soon now. In fact, we must be ready for the signal to move at any time from now onwards. “
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