by Max Hennessy
‘There is a future,’ he insisted. ‘Come with me when I leave. We can be married in St Jean de Luz.’
She smiled in a way that seemed to imply willingness but she still made no promises.
They left the hotel together. It was clear the end was near because the guns now seemed to be only at the end of the street. Teresa looked tired but she seemed to have recovered her spirits.
‘I’m glad what happened between us did happen,’ she admitted. ‘With all the world dying about us, it makes it all the more sensible that the rest of us should go on living.’
They spent the day in the old Citroën trying to contact people and send them to the British Club. They were all ready with what they could carry, all save Mrs. Fotheringay, who had disappeared from the address where Kelly had found her the previous day, and they decided she’d gone alone to join Miss Jenner-Neate.
When they reached the club in the evening it was drizzling a little and the streets were empty. ‘Looks a bit like Liverpool on a wet day,’ Kelly said. ‘With the shops shut, the Irish away at Blackpool and the Protestants staying at home and keeping the King’s Peace.’
The smashed rooms contained thirteen depressed-looking people and Miss Jenner-Neate was in a fury.
‘Mrs. Fotheringay’s dog’s disappeared,’ she said, ‘and she insists on looking for it.’
They led those who’d arrived down to the jetty and aboard Jimmy. The Greek captain was almost in tears at the delay, and unless the missing people turned up in the next hour or two, it was clear they were going to be delayed until the following evening because, with the Italian guns now able to cover the harbour and the German bombers constantly overhead, it would be impossible to move except under cover of darkness.
‘Perhaps there are others we can persuade to leave,’ Teresa said.
Kelly was unwilling but she was insistent. ‘We have twenty-four hours,’ she pointed out. ‘And Neila is still arresting anybody who’s ever indulged in defeatist talk or done anything to harm the cause.’
It was impossible to argue with her. She seemed lost in a morass of her own thoughts, and he saw there were tears in her eyes as she drove off in the old Citroën.
The city seemed fuller and the people more terror-stricken than ever. The Italians had occupied Torrelavega, cutting off the retreat of the Basques to Asturias, and there was wild firing in the streets. Two battalions came stumbling through, exhausted and defeated.
‘Estamos copados!’ they were shouting. ‘We were surprised!’
A battery of 75s followed to protect the city centre but the gunners clearly had no wish to stay long because they were without ammunition. A squadron of Doniers came over, invisible in the darkness, and the 75s fired their last shells. A few men knocked out windows and made holes in walls for a last stand, and as night fell it was possible from the Jauregui Hotel to see flames and smell the smoke.
There was no sign of Teresa returning and once again Kelly grew worried. A lorry went past, crammed with typewriters, files and desks, a guard sitting on the back, his heavy boots dangling. A rash of new posters had appeared on the walls, carrying a crude political appeal to every Republican to denounce defeatist or rightist talk, but they were ugly, lacking in style and totally devoid of skill.
Worried, as soon as it was light Kelly went to the British Club, hoping that Teresa had gone there. But there had been no sign of her. There was a message from Smart in Badger, however, warning him that the bombing had forced him to take the ship to the safety zone for neutral ships at the other side of the bay.
It was beginning to look difficult now, and, guessing Teresa would turn up later, Kelly headed for the quay to make sure the Greek captain held to his promise. It was dawn and the water was lapping against the steps. Even the gulls had not yet roused themselves, and in the early morning freshness there was a curious kind of foreboding. When he reached the waterfront, he found that Jimmy had disappeared. The Greek had finally thrown in the sponge and bolted without waiting for the last of his passengers, and, livid with fury, Kelly returned to the British Club to count noses. There were still nine British nationals left, together with the Albanian and Miss Jenner-Neate. There were also one or two Spanish sent by Teresa, and Mrs. Fotheringay had turned up, in high spirits at having recovered her dog. He told her icily that she’d risked everybody’s life for her bloody dog, and she promptly burst into tears.
There seemed nothing to do but find a launch and get them out to Badger, but the harbour was full of confusion. The minesweepers which had kept the bay clear of mines were just heading away from the quay for Santoña, packed with people. The terms for the capitulation had just been received and there was little doubt now that they’d be accepted.
The August sun polished the closed and level waters of the harbour until they shone like silver. By this time the first of Franco’s troops were pushing into the city and the balconies were already full of hangings in the colours of the monarchy, and even fascist songs were being heard. Every boat in the place with an engine and a great many without were following the minesweepers packed until the gunwales were only just above the water with suitcases, bedding and people. Even as he watched, he saw a rowing boat capsize and the people fished out of the water by a following launch, wailing about their lost belongings.
In the end, he found a whaler and with the greatest of difficulty an ill matching set of oars, and, with the Albanian, carried them to the boat. Then, leaving the Albanian guarding their prize, he went to fetch everybody from the British Club.
When he arrived there was still no sign of Teresa and Miss Jenner-Neate handed him a letter. He recognised the writing on the envelope at once and as he opened it he saw it was on notepaper headed ‘Office of Chief of Police.’
‘I am being allowed to write this note to you, George Kelly,’ he read. ‘Because I have helped people out of compassion, I am accused of treachery and informed that I must pay for it. I am not afraid. I am a good Catholic, despite my Republicanism, and the step into the darkness is really only a step into another life beyond. Perhaps we shall meet again. I send you my love and my life. Your Teresa.’
For a moment he stared at it disbelievingly, then slowly, his hand crushed the paper into a ball and he swung round on Miss Jenner-Neate.
‘Get everybody together,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the Chief of Police’s office. When I return we’ll be leaving.’
The Presidencia was calmer than the town. Basque guards wearing berets watched by its garden wall but inside they were preparing to hand over to the advancing Franco troops. The man Kelly spoke to was nothing but a clerk and he seemed already to be afraid of death. ‘Colonel Neila flew to France this morning,’ he said.
‘What about prisoners?’
‘There are no prisoners, señor. The last were released when the Colonel left.’
Kelly placed the letter he’d received on the desk and smoothed its crumpled surface.
‘This woman,’ he said. ‘Where is she then?’
The clerk took the letter and studied it. Then he slowly lifted frightened eyes to Kelly’s face and pushed a sheet of paper across. It bore the previous day’s date and was scored across by a stroke of red ink.
‘They were shot last night, señor.’
The paper contained seven names and the last one was ‘Condesa de Fayon.’
That night, with the town sporting fascist colours and emblems and the Falangists firing from the balconies, Kelly led the group from the British Club to the harbour. His face was taut and bitter and he was filled with loathing for his charges. They had risked the necks of sailors, and finally taken Teresa’s life. She was now only a cherished image to be hugged to himself like a secret. He’d been full of an irrational and indefensible belief that he’d only had to speak to her to claim her, but war, politics and the ambitions of ruthless men had snatched her away into the darkness, and he felt he couldn’t even bear to think of her.
Between the blocks of flats and thick rows of sandbags
were motor lorries, the pavements packed with men and women holding children or lying down with them to sleep on the ground. On the quays, men were throwing arms into heaps – rifles, revolvers, machine guns, cartridge belts – and more men were marching into the port to disarm and disperse. There was a mist like milk on the water as they climbed into the whaler where the Albanian was sitting shivering.
Tersely, Kelly explained to people who’d never handled a large sweep before what they must do and they pushed off in the dusk, the oars crashing against each other. Gradually they got the hang of it, and in the mist picked their way down the harbour to the open sea. There were empty and capsized boats everywhere, floating oars and what seemed to be dozens of bodies, but by the grace of God they made it to the neutral zone and finally bumped alongside Badger. The other British aboard greeted them rapturously and in his cabin, staring at himself in the mirror, Kelly heard a tap on the door.
It was Smart. ‘It’s the evacuees, sir,’ he said. ‘They’d like to have you in the wardroom. They’d like to propose a toast.’
Kelly lifted his head. ‘Tell them,’ he said slowly and coldly, ‘to go to hell.’
He was still lying wide awake in his bunk when they struck the mine. The crash flung him to the deck and he picked himself up, shedding the books, papers and other articles that had fallen from the shelves on top of him. As he hurried on deck, still dazed and stunned, the ship lay dead in the water, steam roaring into the darkness. Men were running in all directions, but there was order in the confusion. Crash mats and hoses were being dragged forward, and he was pleased to see that orders were being given calmly. A centuries-old discipline had taken control and Badger’s crew were getting on with their jobs quietly.
‘Them fucking Spanish!’ someone said, but it wasn’t a cry of panic or even of fury, just one of disgust.
The ship was taking in water forward and amidships. ‘A’ gun was useless, the boiler room was flooding and the wardroom a shambles. By the grace of God, the party for the refugees had just finished and they’d been led to one of the mess flats where they’d been given hammocks. They clustered on deck now near the torpedo tubes, frightened, tired and bewildered, and Kelly saw the indefatigable Miss Jenner-Neate bullying them into some sort of order.
The engineer was just reporting to Smart. Number two boiler had just gone out and there were no electrics and no hydraulic power. The engine room had been only superficially damaged, however, and the engine room staff were struggling to shore up the bulkhead and pump out the boiler room.
‘How about casualties?’ Kelly asked.
‘So far four killed,’ Smart said. ‘But we think there may be a couple more. Seven injured two seriously. We’ll be towing her into St Jean de Luz. We’ve already radioed and Brazen’s answered. More than likely it was a German mine laid by an Italian ship. It’s as bad as being at war.’
Kelly turned. ‘As bad as?’ he snapped. ‘Dammit, we are at war! Here, it’s just started a little early.’
Four
The late March dawn came wet, cold and grim, the waves changing gradually from night-time black to iron-blue and eventually to a cheerless green-grey.
The war had come exactly as Kelly had predicted. With disarmament and pacifism rampant in Britain, the will to withstand the bullying of the dictators had been sapped. Appeasement wasn’t just the will of the politicians, it was the will of the nation – something that had become obvious from the tumult of joy when Chamberlain had returned from Munich after knuckling his forelock to Hitler – and the Czechs, the Austrians and the Albanians had been sacrificed to the dictators in the hope of buying them off. Unfortunately the dictators had asked for more and, shamed at last into standing up for the Poles, a nation they couldn’t even reach, London and Paris had finally been edged – ‘shoved’ was perhaps a better word – into war. And Kelly, with the bonus of an extra stripe on his sleeve, had been snatched from the shore job at Portsmouth, where he’d found himself after a year on the staff of the C-in-C, Home Fleet, given the Flotilla leader, Feudal, and a group of ill-assorted escorts and thrust into convoy duties across the Atlantic. Like everybody else, he knew little about the job and was having to learn as he went along, but it was better, by a long chalk, than Portsmouth where the house he had occupied – wired like a battleship with naval-type switches and plugs and shades like plantpots – had been furnished by a predecessor with the imagination of a cockroach.
As the light increased, the first things visible were the white crests of the waves, then he picked out the veins that marked where the wind had clawed them down the lee side. The sky was filled from one horizon to the other with close banks of cloud that looked like old hard-packed snow, grey, dirty and ugly, and the rain fell in squally flurries in a steep, slanting drizzle that blew across the ship, blurring the horizon, so that the point where the watery sky met the sea was ill-defined, as if the two elements ran into each other and they were steaming into a sombre moving mass that curved down ahead of them and swept back below.
From Feudal’s bridge, Kelly stared back at the convoy he was leading. As the long steely waves from the south-west swept by in a never-ending succession, the ships bobbed their heads, bowing in obeisance to the gale before lifting them again and falling once more, to raise their sterns as they slid into the trough ready for the next act of obeisance. The smaller ships seemed to vanish entirely in the vast valleys of water until only their funnels and mastheads were visible and they seemed at times to be on their last long journey down to the immemorial ooze two miles below.
Behind Feudal, beyond the commodore ship, there was a forest of moving masts, funnels, samson posts and cargo booms, as freighters, tankers and passenger ships rolled and pitched and danced eastwards towards Britain. As the convoy executed its change of course, it was not at first noticeable, just that the ships appeared to be showing a different profile, and where Kelly had been looking at their bows now he was on the starboard beam as they swung to port. Every ship did the same thing, swinging slowly, adjusting position so that they simply changed lines and faced the stern of a different ship.
As the watery sun sent an unexpected ray down from the packed clouds, the light caught the curve of wet bows. The change of course put the wind in a different direction and instead of the spray swinging back on either side of the bridge, it now slashed directly across it, soaking the men who stood there so that they hitched at the towels they wore round their necks as scarves.
Though to other ships her decks seemed empty and she seemed to be devoid of crew, in fact Feudal was humming with activity. Throughout her length, auxiliary machinery, dynamos and ventilating fans filled the alleyways with background noise, and the cooking smells that pervaded the ship mingled with the smell of oil, vomit, and that curious acrid blend of steam and electricity which was always present where there was marine machinery.
Despite the curious passivity of the front in France – what the Americans with their gift for apt phrases were calling the Phoney War – nobody aboard was kidding himself that Britain had taken advantage of the lull. At home there were still plenty of holidays, and even with the war privilege had not vanished. Though the wealthy younger elements were rushing to the services, their parents were carefully establishing themselves in comfort in safe areas, determined to survive, and there had been little increase in war production. The Air Force was still short of aeroplanes, and the Army was still short of tanks, and there was a story, probably apocryphal, about a staff course at Camberley where an officer had been criticised for an overdeveloped sense of humour for mounting an imaginary anti-tank gun up a tree. He had defended himself briskly with the information that he had no idea what the weapon was like because he’d never seen one and, so it seemed, neither had anybody else.
The Navy was as short of ships. Though Britain had the largest and most professional navy in the world, it was desperately in need of reinforcements. Its strength on paper was misleading because half its ships had been designed for the earlier
war, and though some had been refitted, many were obsolescent and some positively obsolete. Of those commissioned between the wars, some were magnificent but there were others, designed in a penny-pinching era, that were useless for fighting yet too slow to runaway.
Though the Navy still remained the darling of the British people, who considered it its bulwark against aggression, the men in it knew that out of fifteen capital ships only two were of post-1918 vintage, and Kelly had long suspected in any case that battleships’ bulk and low speed made them vulnerable to air and undersea attack, so that they could never be exposed without a fleet of smaller vessels as escort. Yet, because only a battleship could confront a battleship and since the Germans had built them too, blue-water admirals, who believed that ack-ack was better for ships than fighters, had been glad to build them in reply and they would have to be housed in secure anchorages until needed, absorbing thousands of men who might usefully have been employed on escort duties. It had not even been a battleship which had scored their only real success to date, the crippling of the pocket battleship, Graf Spee, in December, but three cruisers, every one of them outgunned.
It was a far grimmer war that was being fought by the lighter forces – and even they were far from perfect for their job. A destroyer was not an efficient escort vessel because her torpedoes were pointless for that duty, her low-angle guns valueless against aeroplanes, and her tremendous speed rarely needed. Her enormous engines occupied space that was needed for fuel and she required an unnecessarily large crew. The new escort sloops and corvettes that had been planned, though slower and smaller, were not only less cramped, but also less complex, and they could be built much more easily, while their armament laid stress chiefly on anti-aircraft weapons and depth charges.