The Dearest and the Best

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Perhaps it’s England,’ grimaced Harry.

  They were silenced by the arrival of a chief petty officer who came from the inner door and said amiably: ‘Ah, all here now are we, sirs? Will you be so kind as to follow me.’ He strode noisily along a corridor with rooms on either side, compartments full of the stutter of typewriters and teleprinters. A dark Wren, her tunic buttons tight over her bust, handed the petty officer a sheet of paper as he passed. ‘Thanks, lovely,’ he said and led the junior officers on. They paused outside a double door. ‘Commodore Howlett lives in here, sirs,’ he announced like a butler. ‘He wants to have a chat with you.’

  They trooped into the office and arranged themselves along the back wall, while the commodore, after glancing up, returned to frown through rimless spectacles over a sheaf of papers. An attentive captain waited seated at his side. It was the captain who eventually looked up and said: ‘Ah, so you’re all here,’ as if he had not noticed them file in. He stood back and the senior officer at the desk said: ‘I’m sorry there is nowhere to park yourselves, gentlemen. In this department at present we don’t have a lot of time to sit down.’

  Tentative smiles went along the line of youthful officers. He regarded the young men grimly. ‘Each of you gentlemen has, during the past year or so, served with ships of the French Navy.’ He checked down a list next to his elbow. ‘Roberts,’ he said, ‘the Dunquerque . . . Sanders, the Richelieu . . . Lovatt, the Arromanches . . . and so on.’ He glanced up. ‘Barraclough . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You were seconded to the Surcouf, I see. What was she like?’

  ‘Tremendous, sir,’ replied the youth eagerly. ‘Biggest submarine in the world, sir . . .’ He paused and said awkwardly, ‘I expect you know, sir.’

  Howlett smiled at the eagerness. ‘Yes, I had heard,’ he said. ‘She even carries a seaplane, doesn’t she?’

  ‘I’ll say she does, sir. In a hangar by the conning tower.’

  ‘You enjoyed serving with her? You got on well with your shipmates?’

  ‘Rather, sir. They were –’

  ‘Right,’ interrupted the commodore sharply, uncomfortably. ‘That’s fine.’ He looked very grey, thought Harry, almost haggard. ‘We have an unpleasant task before us,’ he announced. ‘Without embroidering the facts, it is to be our job to take over a number of French ships to see that they do not fall into German hands. When France threw in the towel they promised that Hitler would not get his fingers on their fleet, but, needless to add, it seems very likely that Hitler will get his fingers on it. Most of the larger vessels, the Dunquerque and the Richelieu, for example, are overseas, but others are in British ports. Here in Portsmouth, at Sheerness and in Plymouth. The Surcouf, for example,’ he glanced, almost a challenge, towards Barraclough, ‘is at Plymouth. So is the Arromanches.’ His eyes went to Harry. ‘It will be necessary to take charge of them. We sincerely hope with the cooperation of their captains and their crews. Otherwise it will have to be . . . well, otherwise.’

  A cold place formed in Harry’s stomach. He could hardly credit what was being said. He heard Barraclough draw in a distressed breath.

  ‘I can’t take any questions,’ said the commodore. ‘This is not a matter for discussion. But I thought it was my duty to tell you myself rather than let you find out the other way. Captain Verry here will give you further instructions and detail you to the various operation groups. Detailed briefing will be carried out before twenty-two hundred hours today. Gentlemen, thank you. That is all.’

  They marched deliberately from the room like men made prisoners, back along the corridor, raising hardly a glance from the busy rooms on either side. The captain remained behind and the chief petty officer led the single file across the main concourse to another elongated room, like a station waiting-room, with heavy polished benches down each side. Above the gaping marble fireplace was a photograph of the King in naval uniform. A spiritless-looking plant stood in an urn in one corner. The windows looked out on the dockside, ships and water, shades of grey in the wet day.

  The chief petty officer said nothing more but left them to sit like children on the brown benches and closed the door behind him with a firmness that suggested he feared they might abscond. For a minute or more the young men remained silent, some staring straight ahead, some studying the regal portrait, others finding something of interest in the listless plant. Eventually it was Harry who stood and walked the two paces to the window. Looking across the anchorage, through the low day, he could see a clutch of small craft, minesweepers, minelayers and two torpedo boats, with a large motherly vessel alongside. It was clearly flying the tricolour.

  ‘What d’you think they’re going to do?’ The words came from Barraclough.

  Harry turned. All at once he saw how idiotically juvenile they all looked. One was trying to grow a nautical beard. He said: ‘Take over the French ships. By fair means or foul.’

  ‘By peaceful or otherwise,’ corrected Barraclough. He turned on Harry. ‘You were on the Arromanches?’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Harry. ‘Two months ago.’ He waited cautiously, but then said: ‘I can’t believe it. If they’re right here – God, there’s some of them right outside this window . . . if they’re in British ports then you’d have thought that they’d just come over to us as a matter of course. It never occurred to me . . .’

  ‘Things don’t occur to you,’ the one trying to grow the beard said, ‘do they?’ He looked at the door as if he might be overheard. ‘I thought the French were on our side . . .’

  ‘They were on our side,’ grunted Barraclough. ‘But they’ve surrendered lock, stock, barrel – and ships. Politicians give the orders, remember, not captains. Captains don’t matter.’

  Harry turned savagely back to the window. ‘They’ll have to come on our side,’ he said. ‘Christ, they’ve got to. What about this de Gaulle man? I thought he was in command now. I can’t believe they’d turn around and fight us.’

  Violently the door banged open and the junior officers stood hurriedly. It was Captain Verry. He was alone and he closed the door, quietly, behind him. He had heard the last words spoken by Harry and he looked heavily at him. ‘I hope they don’t put up a fight, sub-lieutenant,’ he echoed. ‘I hope to God they don’t.’ He looked around. He was a fierce-looking man with a soft voice. ‘All right, chaps, sit down. Let me tell you what this is all about.’

  The two lines of uniforms sat on the benches. The captain went to the top of the room where he stood under the chin of the King. ‘Everyone is aware of how you’re feeling, and how you’re going to feel if this business backfires,’ he said. ‘And everyone is very sorry about it, particularly me because I’ve also served in French vessels and I have friends too. But having said that, we are now going to forget that aspect of it. We’re not here to make decisions, only to carry them out.’

  He produced a big blue handkerchief and twice blew his nose violently. ‘What is important is that the ships of the French Navy are sailing with us at the end of this week and not with the Germans or the Italians. It’s a straightforward matter. They are getting their orders from their new Government in Vichy and those gentlemen are under the thumb of Hitler. We have issued an ultimatum to their ships, wherever they are in the world. Those in foreign ports have been told to sail for America, other neutral countries, or French overseas territories, like those in the West Indies, so we can keep an eye on them. Either that, or throw their lot in with us and sail for Gibraltar or Alexandria. This is no secret now. They know and we know, and, of course, the Germans know. That is outside your concern, however. Your concern is with vessels in British ports, like those craft outside this window in the harbour. We require those ships intact. We hope their crews will volunteer to remain with us, with the Free French forces, and will hand over the ships on demand. If they resist, or if there is any attempt to scuttle the ships, then we must use force against them.’ He looked around grimly. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is it in a nutshell.’


  He paced the length of the long room, like the commander of a submarine, brushing along the knees of the young men. ‘I’m not taking questions,’ he told them. ‘Your individual, operational questions will be dealt with at your final briefing tonight. The CPO will be back to direct you to your operational area. Some will remain here in Pompey, another group will be transported to Plymouth and a smaller number to Sheerness.’ He had reached the door. The chief petty officer was waiting outside. ‘Right, chief,’ said Captain Verry, ‘tell these young men what to do next.’

  The chief, brisk and businesslike, strode into the room and said: ‘The officers for Plymouth and Sheerness will be picked up by transport at fifteen hundred hours, which will give you time to get into battle order, draw arms and ammunition, and get something to eat. The mess has been alerted and they’re expecting you in half an hour. The Portsmouth group will remain in their quarters until called upon.’ He lifted a list attached to a board. ‘First, the Plymouth contingent, sirs.’ He lifted it closer as if his eyes were not good. ‘Sub-lieutenant Barraclough, Sub-lieutenant Lovatt . . .’

  Seven of the junior officers left for Plymouth. They went in a small naval bus, oddly like a sports team going to an away fixture. There was sufficient room for each man to have a seat to himself and they chose to sit like that. No one said very much during the four-hour drive along the coastal road. Harry sat on the left-hand side of the bus and watched the dull sea, framed with barbed wire, with gun emplacements and watching places. Sentries stood at junctions and near concrete emplacements, expectantly facing the Channel.

  The coast towns, in peacetime so full and lively at that time of the year, were desolate, empty but for a few people walking, heads down as they would in winter. Hotels piled with sandbags stood along the seafront like elderly men in mufflers. The stormy wind rocked a line of sad, obsolete coloured lights; the sands were flat and bleak. Offshore merchant and naval vessels moved cautiously, noses to the waves.

  They reached Plymouth in the early evening, Drake’s redoubtable old city, the passage place of the Pilgrim Fathers; its dockyards and streets full of the stuff of the navy. It was a place of legends and brave men, where battles had been refought in taverns since the days of the first Elizabeth. As they reached the Hoe and the little bus went close to the sea, Harry looked out over the great anchorage to see if he could detect the shape of the Arromanches. Barraclough, who had been on the other side of the bus, moved across to stare out into the harbour also. Neither said anything until they stopped outside the naval barracks – a terrace of former hotels – and were leaving the bus. Then Barraclough said: ‘Right then. Into bloody battle.’

  A spray of rain fell across his face as, standing on the pavement after the bus had driven away, he looked out to the famous dockyard. His expression creased bitterly, as though it were the rain that distressed him. ‘God,’ he said to Harry. ‘There she is. Look, you can’t mistake her.’

  Following the direction of his finger Harry saw the submarine Surcouf lying quite close inshore, wallowing low and long in the grey Plymouth water. ‘She’s a hell of a size,’ he said.

  ‘Biggest in the whole world,’ muttered Barraclough again with some pride. ‘The spotter plane is housed under the gun in the conning tower.’

  Abruptly he turned and went up the steps into the requisitioned hotel. Harry paused and looked up. The front of the heavy-jowled Victorian building had been daubed in camouflage grey, even to white-topped waves between the first and second floors.

  The name ‘Hoe View’ was still in chipped but bright golden letters across the front of the building and, true to the idiosyncrasies of wartime planning, the letters glowed even on the dull day, as if they had been polished. Perhaps that was an item of double-disguise as well. Harry walked up the outside steps and into the gloomy hall. The reception desk was still in its place and was occupied by two WRNS, one thin, tight-haired, the other round as a balloon; like Laurel and Hardy. Peacetime posters had been left on the walls, attractions for the holiday-maker of the final peacetime summer, all that long year ago, perhaps the last holidaymaker of all. A boat trip navigating the River Dart, a bus tour of Exmoor, joy trips in a biplane.

  ‘This way, sir,’ boomed the big girl. Her small companion waved at him as if he might not realize whence the words were emanating. He smiled conventionally and went towards them. The little one was already holding out a piece of paper. ‘Sub-lieutenant Lovatt,’ she recited. ‘Must be.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘You’re the only one left,’ she pointed out, giggling. ‘If it wasn’t you – then you shouldn’t be here at all!’

  He almost said that he wished he were not, but he merely took the paper. It said he had been assigned to room 22, which he could make use of until the following day. Dinner would be at eight and all arriving officers were expected to be in the briefing room at twenty-two hundred hours.

  ‘In the ballroom, the briefing is,’ announced the fat girl seeing that he had read the instruction through. ‘The ballroom,’ she repeated, looking as if she expected an invitation to dance. She made a little cradle with her arms as she would have done with a partner and he laughed obligingly. ‘I wish that’s what it was for,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it is,’ joked the little one. ‘We’re having a band in, aren’t we, Cheryl?’

  ‘Save me the last waltz,’ said Harry. He went up to room 22, took his shoes off and lay on the bed. The walls looked chill. There were no bedclothes, apart from a coverless pillow and a holed eiderdown on the bed. The holes had been made by a cigarette, each one round and brown, done neatly, done purposely so they looked as if bullets had passed through. There was a flowered jug and washing bowl in one corner, with only a dead spider in the jug. The curtains sagged, looking as though they had been forced apart at some time. He tried to draw them but they began to tear at the top. Rain was smearing the four big panes of the window. He thought he would be glad when it was dark.

  The French, he told himself, would not make trouble. He lay back on the burned counterpane and remembered again his days on the Arromanches. How could they? Not those jolly-hearted young men, René, Clovis and the rest. Never. After all they were in it with us; we were their allies; the Germans were the enemies, worse, their invaders, their conquerors. Surely every Frenchman would want to fight them. It stood to reason . . . didn’t it?

  Unusually for him, he dozed. He awoke almost an hour later and stared about the room like a prisoner aroused in a cell. Sometimes, as a boy, he had frightened himself by the imagination of how terrible it would be to wake up on the morning they were going to hang you. He got up stiffly and went to the lavatory in the corridor. There was a corroded bath in there. When he turned the tap the water came out like thin tea. He let it run and went back to his room for the flowered jug, hoping that when he returned it would be clearer. It was not but it was steaming hot so he filled the jug anyway. He washed and shaved in the brown water and then went downstairs. It was just before eight and naval officers were appearing in the foyer and making their way to the dining-room. He was surprised there were so many. They talked as they went, filling the lofty stairwell with a buzz. He saw Barraclough with three of the other young officers who had come with them from Portsmouth and he joined them.

  In the dining-room there was a table reserved for them. The others were all obviously familiar with both the surroundings and each other and took no notice of the newcomers. There was good-natured talk and some laughter during the meal, although at Harry’s table the young men ate for the most part in silence.

  One of the youths, sitting opposite Harry and finding it embarrassing not to converse, began talking about butterflies. Some of the others stared at him with expressions of disbelief, but he chatted determinedly on. Politely Harry agreed that they were fascinating and added that he lived in the New Forest and had spent some hours catching butterflies when he was a schoolboy. ‘The Marsh Fritillary,’ said the youth staring accusingly across the table,
‘is to be found in that part of the country but it’s becoming rarer.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Harry flatly. ‘I didn’t realize that. Probably I had something to do with it, then. Catching them.’

  ‘Men will be getting scarce at some time,’ put in Barraclough from the lepidopterist’s right arm. ‘They’re in danger of being wiped out too.’

  His neighbour was not deterred. ‘If we looked after the Grayling and the Clouded Yellow,’ he enunciated, ‘then perhaps humans might also have more chance of survival.’ He dug doggedly into his sultana pudding and custard.

  When the moment for the loyal toast arrived, a lieutenant-commander at the distant end of the room rose, a man as thin as a rope. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘Admiral Jackson is unable to be here this evening. Some sort of minor flap. Probably the German invasion or something.’

  ‘A Red Admiral,’ said the butterfly boy, ‘is really a Red Admirable, you know.’

  There was laughter from around the tables at the joke about the invasion. The lieutenant-commander said: ‘Anyway, he’s asked me to apologize. He hopes to be back in occupation of this chair tomorrow. It therefore falls to me to propose the toast of His Majesty the King.’

  In the old naval tradition, the toast was taken sitting down. The braided sleeves raised their glasses. ‘The King,’ they echoed.

  The senior officer then immediately rose. ‘Our second toast,’ he intoned. ‘Gentlemen, be upstanding. The toast is Our Allies.’

  Harry watched Barraclough’s face tighten. ‘Our Allies,’ came the echo about the room.

  ‘God bless them,’ said someone close by.

  ‘God help them,’ corrected Barraclough quietly.

  At midnight they moved into positions among the jetties and buildings of the dockyard. There were contingents of marines and armed sailors moving through the shadows, shuffling, so that their boots did not sound on the ancient cobbles and stones of the dockside, so that no echoes were set up. Harry watched the dark figures moving. Out in the anchorage the French ships lay still, apparently asleep. The marine officer who had given them the final briefing had made a sour joke about it being the first time the British had known the opportunity to fight the French since the days of Napoleon. He had told them that they must regard the operation as action against an enemy. While he was talking in the hushed and crowded room, Harry wondered where his own youth, his days of innocence, his days of catching the Marsh Fritillary had gone.