Emerald Decision

by Craig Thomas

  Gilliatt heard the reluctance in Ashe's voice even in the tinnily distorted tones that came from the telephone. For him the horizon was bounded by the sweep deck, and the eight men on it with him. Beyond that, only the sense of the ship's bow moving through dangerous water, cutting deep enough to contact one of the black mines reaching up from its sinker on its thin wire towards the Bisley's hull. The fear was suddenly bilious in his throat and then he swallowed it and it was gone. It was an almost controlled habit of fear every time they began a sweep— every man on the sweep deck, aboard Bisley and in the flotilla shared it — but one which was familiar and transient.

  The chief petty officer in charge of the sweep deck under Gilliatt stood next to him, his horizons only those of hands and procedures and techniques and implements. Gilliatt nodded to him, and he began snapping out his orders. Each man was suddenly aware of the forward movement of the minesweeper. The sweep wire, which would cut the wires holding the mines beneath the surface, was run from the port winch to the bollards, and then the port davit lifted the multiplane otter — looking like a child's elaborate sled — to the stern for the sweep wire to be shackled to it. Then the float wire was attached to the heavy Oropesa float, and a seaman checked that the float's flag was secure. In a calm sea, the men worked with the uninterrupted smoothness of a shore drill or of machines. Then the float wire was attached to the otter, which would move through the water, beneath the surface, controlling the depth and passage of the serrated sweep wire.

  When they had attached the sweep wire to its companion implements, Gilliatt spoke into the telephone.

  "Sweeping deck closed up and sweep ready for streaming, sir."

  Then he moved cautiously, like a factory inspector, around the float on its chocks, the suspended otter, the winches and tackle. One last look. He returned to the telephone. Ashe's voice was still tinny and unsubstantial but less colourless and afraid. Oiled by routine.

  "Stand by to stream, Number One."

  "Hoist float and turn outboard," Gilliatt ordered the Buffer, who bellowed the order.

  "Stand by ready to slip," Ashe ordered.

  "Stand by, Chief Stoker."

  "All hands, clear of wires," the Chief Stoker yelled, an excitable Londoner who enjoyed his authority on the sweep deck.

  "Stream sweep," Ashe ordered over the telephone.

  "Watch your hands, Jarvis!" the Buffer yelled at one of the young seamen hoisting the Oropesa float. The calm sea had made him careless, or perhaps his nerves were worse because he knew for certain that the mines were there. His white face glanced thankfully towards the Buffer. The float was now suspended above the side of the minesweeper, the crewmen reaching up, arms outstretched in supplication as they steadied the float, appeasing some god with this committal of the float to the sea.

  "Aye aye, sir." Gilliatt yelled direct to the sweep party. "Lower float and slip!"

  The float hovered outboard, then moved gently, sedately down to the surface of the water.

  "Float clear, sir!" the Buffer called from the ship's side.

  "Stream sweep, Chief Stoker," Gilliatt ordered.

  The otter rattled against the stern before it entered the water. The serrated sweep wire sped easily over the racing bollard, down into the green water after the float and the otter. The Buffer stood near the sliding wire, which was marked at intervals, calling back the marks to Gilliatt.

  "One hundred fathoms, sir." The wire slid on, alive and eager. Removed and independent from them. The float was moving away and out from them suggesting the great and increasing arc of the sweep wire between it and the ship. "Two hundred fathoms, sir."

  "Good. Check speed, Chief Stoker."

  The float bucked like a prancing thing, a whale's back or a porpoise celebrating life, then it settled and moved across the quarter in a wide arc to port.

  "Another hundred fathoms, gently, Chief!"

  The float checked again as the sweep wire slackened.

  "Three hundred fathoms, sir!" the Buffer yelled.

  "Check, check, check, Chief."

  "Winch brake on, sir!"

  "Very good, Chief."

  "Sweep wire taut, sir!" the Buffer called.

  "Lower away kite, gently, Chief."

  The kite was lowered over the stern. It was a second otter, to hold the sweep wire at the required depth, acting in concert with the otter beneath the float at the other end of the great arc of the sweep wire. The Chief Stoker called the depth of the sinking kite.

  "Five fathoms, sir — ten fathoms — twenty fathoms, sir—"

  "Easy, Chief."

  "Twenty-five, sir."

  "Secure kite wire, Chief."

  "Float running well," the Buffer volunteered.

  Gilliatt lifted his binoculars and checked the distant float as it rode steadily out on the port quarter, ahead of the second ship in the "J" formation, HMS Knap Hill. He knew just how the float should move through the water, and he had taken to the expertise of minesweeping gladly and enthusiastically after the deadening years of desk-bound intelligence work. The float rode like a thoroughbred — it was all right. Satisfied, he picked up the telephone.

  "Sweep running smoothly at twenty-five fathoms, with three hundred fathoms of sweep wire streamed, sir."

  "Very good, Number One. Post look-outs and report immediately any mines cut. We're not even sure of the density of this field — the tide could have shifted a few, but they should be in good nick. Pilot will plot every one cut."

  "Aye, aye, sir. I'll stay on the sweep deck for this lap. We may lose an otter or a kite. Sweeping our mines must be different from sweeping Jerry's!"

  Gilliatt watched Knap Hill steaming cautiously, safely ahead in the arc of Bisley's sweep wire. He had no reluctance concerning his position as First Lieutenant aboard the flotilla leader, admitting rather the subtle, almost febrile, nerve of pleasure because his ship led the sweep, every time. Something close to the edge.

  The flotilla moved steadily into the field. Gilliatt kept his glasses trained astern for an interminable space of minutes — aware of the bulk of the minesweeper at his back, thrusting ahead as if throwing out some obscure and ill-calculated challenge — and then he saw a mine bob to the surface, winking in and out of sight with the slight swell. The solid evidence that they were into the minefield plucked at his breath now, and he heard his heartbeat loud in his ears, punctuated by the first rifle shots from the side of the trawler. He waited, but the mine did not explode. It disappeared in the swell and did not re-emerge. The water had washed into the holes made by the.303 bullets. When it had gone, Gilliatt remembered to replace his cap with the steel helmet that hung across his shoulders. The rest of the sweep deck crew had retired behind him already.

  In the distance, there was a fount of white water as a mine exploded, but no thump of shock-wave reached them. Then a second fountain, and a third. The flotilla's sweep wires were cutting the first leg of the prescribed path with an uninterrupted regularity. A fourth fountain, then a mine bobbing perhaps a couple of hundred yards astern of the Bisley, almost immediately sending up its fountain of water like a signal of its release as rifle fire exploded it. A slight tremor ran through the deck plating, and the shock of water thumped against the stern of the minesweeper.

  At the end of the first lap of the sweep, Bisley hoisted the signal to take in port sweeps and stream to starboard in readiness for the second leg. It was a quick turn around — the men on Bisley's sweep deck working even more like automata, drilled, oiled, perfect — in the reasonably calm water, with sufficient breeze blowing offshore to take the funnel smoke clear of the look-out's arc of vision. A flow of sightings and detonations continued to reach Bisley until the flotilla was some miles into the second leg — the grey dawn light had strengthened but the low cloud remained, diffusing the weak sunlight so that it rubbed against the eyes like an irritant — but then minutes went by for Gilliatt on the sweep deck without a fountain of white water and without Bisley cutting a single mine.

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nbsp; For over a mile, there was a preternatural stillness that was undisturbed even by the steady beat of the engines. No rifle fire, no detonations. The telephone rang and Gilliatt picked it up.

  "Is the sweep running well?" Ashe asked.

  "All in order, sir."

  "We haven't cut a single mine for more than a mile, Number One. Pilot has marked the area. Damned odd. We'll finish this lap, then run another leg and check as we sweep. I don't like it—"

  "Sir?"

  "I don't know what I mean, Number One."

  "Couldn't it be the minelayers, sir? Or perhaps the mines laid haven't been released from their sinkers?"

  "I'd expect that of an enemy minefield laid in a hurry — but not of the Manxman and Co.! Stand by, Number One."

  Gilliatt remained puzzled until they had completed the second leg of the sweep. Within minutes of Ashe's gloomy, mystified comments, they began cutting mines again. When they had reached the end of the lap, another quick turn around was followed by the port sweeps being streamed again for the third lap. As the flotilla, trailing as before behind Bisley, moved towards the suspect area where they had cut no mines, Ashe sent a signal by lamp to the rest of the flotilla.

  "Watch sweeps closely. Indicate anything unusual and any mines cut from now. Report immediately with three siren blasts."

  Gilliatt felt his body tense, as if a net had closed over his skin and was being pulled tighter. Instinctively, he seemed to know the moment when Bisley moved into the empty area, and found himself waiting for the lack of danger, a false and more dangerous safety.

  On the bridge the pilot, an RNVR Lieutenant, checked his chart as Ashe sat drinking a cup of cocoa, knowing that his own deliberations were matched by the more inexperienced guesses of the pilot. They were both thinking that they had stumbled across the beginnings of a swept channel across the British minefield running roughly from north by east to south by West.

  Then three blasts on a ship's siren, followed by a detonation. Ashe looked up, and the pilot nodded.

  "Just over a mile, sir," he said.

  Gilliatt watched the first fountain of water, then a mine bob to the surface which had been severed by their own wire. Rifle fire detonated it within another minute, and the fountain of water remained on his retinae, superimposed upon the long minutes of silence and calm sea. The double-image chilled him.

  At the end of the third leg of the sweep, Ashe looked up from the bottom of his cup, held still as a chalice in his hands. He had come to a decision which pressed itself urgently upon his attention. He looked across at the pilot.

  "Pilot, we'll detach from the flotilla, steam to the suspect area and make a search through it." He paused, as if the next words were too difficult to utter in the same level voice. "We'll check out your theory of another swept channel across our own. It's too important to wait until we've finished sweeping. The rest of the flotilla to continue with the sweep."

  He turned to the Chief Yeoman of Signals. Having broached the subject, it was easier to continue. "Ask the First Lieutenant to come to the bridge. Then prepare to take a signal to the Admiralty."

  "Sir!" the Chief Yeoman replied, turning to the bridge telephone and passing on Ashe's order to Gilliatt. Then he moved across the bridge to Ashe, signal pad and pencil ready. Ashe rubbed his grey, drawn face, and then spoke slowly and steadily. "Make to Admiralty. Immediate. Repeated to DMS, to C-in-C Western Approaches, and NOIC, Milford. "Intend checking suspect area in minefield, apparently cleared, four miles into area from westward, running North by East to South by West and over one mile in width. Will report immediately search carried out." " He looked up at the Chief Yeoman for the first time. "Take that to Lieutenant Bennett and ask him to code it up and have it transmitted immediately. Confirm when signal has been passed. Then we'll signal Knap Hill, repeated to the whole flotilla." Ashe was speaking like a machine, with a voice that stepped on thin ice beneath which dark, chilly emotions waited for him.

  Gilliatt arrived on the bridge, pausing at the top of the ladder as if he had burst upon some solemn ceremony that could not be interrupted. Ashe went on, speaking now to the leading Signalman whose Aldis lamp was already sighted back towards Knap Hill astern of Bisley: "Make to Knap Hill. Assume command of flotilla for next lap. Am acting independently for special purpose. Will contact you at end of next lap with instructions."

  The lamp chattered in the silence as Ashe beckoned Gilliatt and the pilot to the starboard forward corner of the bridge. Gilliatt could see the marks of concern like scars on his captain's face but felt he was only looking into a mirror. Possibilities too huge and threatening to voice or contemplate lurked just at the back of the forebrain. Ashe's whisper seemed entirely appropriate.

  "I'm worried, Number One. It doesn't make any sense—" He was moving backwards in time, reaching the shore of fact that lay over the horizon of speculation they could both see. "If there was no major error by the minelayers, and all those mines don't have damaged or faulty release-gear, who's responsible for the hole in Winnie's Welcome Mat?" Gilliatt realized he didn't want an answer. "I've told the Admiralty we'll carry out an independent search from north to south in the area Pilot has mapped. We'll steam ahead of the flotilla to the area on the fourth lap and then stream double Oropesa at the same settings—" Ashe raised his hand against an interruption Gilliatt had no intention of making. Rather, he was allowing his captain to express authority, certitude at a moment when he needed such a reassertion of self. "I know we'll be taking a chance of blowing ourselves up on one of our own mines — and with my luck it wouldn't" be a dud — but we have to solve this, Peter." His face darkened. Gilliatt had the impression of an actor reciting carefully rehearsed lines. The emotions were genuine, but they lay as a mask over other, less controllable, feelings. "The Admiralty boffins and DMS will buzz when they get my signal." The last words were a reassertion of wardroom manner, enclosing the self in safe, pre-war attitudes. Jolly good show—

  Gilliatt wished he could re-enter reassurance's safe, comfortable room. He nodded, and added merely, "Very good, sir." Ashe studied his face as if for mockery for a moment before he continued.

  "You prepare the double sweep, Number One. Pilot, make sure we sail down the middle of the suspected channel."

  "Sir." The pilot rubbed his long sallow cheeks as if to smooth out the entrenched lines or rub away the habitual stubble of beard. He appeared about to say something but took his cue instead from Gilliatt's silence. Ashe dismissed them both with a curt nod.

  Gilliatt returned to the sweep deck to organize the double sweep, while the pilot returned to his navigation table. Ashe stood morosely, wrapped in a tight net of gloomy prognostications now he was silent again, in the starboard for" ard corner of the bridge until Bisley approached the suspected channel.

  "Five minutes, sir," the pilot called from his table.

  "Very well, Pilot," Ashe replied in a rusty, unused voice. "I want a course to steer to the northern edge of the suspect area, and then a course to steer down its centre. As he finished, a seaman from the signal cabin came up onto the bridge and seemed immediately unsettled by the suppressed, intent silence. He handed Ashe the Admiralty's decoded reply.

  "As soon as check carried out to limits of area required in operation signal report back. If area is clear as believed detach from flotilla and proceed with all despatch to Milford where NOIC will give berthing and movement instructions."

  Ashe held the signal in a hand he concentrated upon keeping steady for a long time. Then he dismissed the seaman with a nod. Ashe sat down in his captain's bridge chair delicately, as if his bones were made of glass. To Lieutenant Cobner, the pilot, he looked extremely old. Cobner dismissed his own surmises, shutting out everything except the chart under its table-light, the course he was plotting.

  Eventually, he said to Ashe, "Steer 040, approximately two miles, sir, then turn to 198 degrees."

  "Aye, aye, Pilot."

  Cobner waited as he would have on some important, personal decision un
til Ashe gave the order to the officer of the watch, a young sub-lieutenant standing behind the yeoman. Cobner visibly relaxed.

  Bisley reverberated to increased speed and to running across the swell as she changed course. Ashe said again to the officer of the watch: "Warn the Chief Buffer that I want no one below decks unless absolutely necesssey while we do the search sweep. Check all watertight doors and bulkheads. Warn the Engineering Officer, and every member of ship's company must be wearing lifebelts— you, too, sub!" The little personal joke fell heavily, inappropriately into the deep pool of the bridge's atmosphere. The sub-lieutenant proceeded to transmit Ashe's orders.

  "Ready to turn now and point new course, sir," Cobner said.

  Ashe raised himself from his chair and took over at the compass platform. Clearing his throat, he began barking his orders down the voice pipe to the wheelhouse where the Coxswain was now closed up and at the wheel. The Coxswain CPO had the gift of touch-steering, and Ashe always used him for anything other than routine. But the knowledge that CPO Fenwick was in the wheelhouse gave him no confidence now. Every perspective of sense or thought rendered old routines, old comforts, illusory.

  "Starboard 15!"

  "15 of starboard wheel on, sir." Bisley leaned to port as she swung round to starboard.

  "Midships."

  "Midships, sir!"

  "Steer 198, Cox" n." Then he said to the yeoman: "Tell the First Lieutenant to stream sweeps." The yeoman picked up the bridge telephone and transmitted Ashe's message to Gilliatt on the sweep deck with his crew.

  Gilliatt watched the wake of their change of course dissipate behind them, and the smoke from the rest of the flotilla — small grey shapes sailing a different course — dragged into stiff, unreal shapes by the offshore breeze, and shut out reflection. There was a peculiar pointlessness in opening perspectives which were better shut off by a concentration on the smaller futilities of routine.

  "Stream sweeps, port first!" Both sweeps were in the water smoothly and swiftly, veering out onto their quarters. When the kite had been shackled to each sweep wire, they, too, disappeared into the green water. The small grey toys of the flotilla had now passed astern of the Bisley. Distant explosions, fountains of water, the pattering of gunfire. Normality. "Sweeps running smoothly," he said into the telephone. He could feel the ship straining against the drag of the double sweep, feel the reverberation as Ashe increased revolutions.