Bryant, bawling to be let through, finally got to the bridge platform; Gilman was just behind him. He looked around for Scarlett and saw him lying on the platform below, half propped against the bulkhead. He saw Bryant and croaked at him. The British officer got to his side. ‘I told you, Alan,’ he said. ‘I goddamn told you. It was my big mouth.’
‘You’re talking balls,’ said Bryant fiercely. ‘Where are you hurt?’
‘Something’s got me in the back,’ muttered Scarlett. ‘There’s a hole you could crap through. One of the medics had just plugged it.’
Bryant heard Schorner shouting at him. He ran to the bridge leaving Gilman on the lower platform with the wounded American. Schorner was blackened, with blood all down his battledress. ‘Are you hurt, sir?’ asked Bryant.
‘Very hurt,’ returned Schorner. ‘But not physically, son. What a stinking disgrace. Look at those men.’ He put the loudhailer to his lips and bawled through it again. The men he shouted to took only a brief look before scrambling for the side and jumping over. ‘Half the poor bastards don’t have their life vests fixed,’ muttered Schorner. He turned to Younghusband. ‘Lieutenant, how are we doing? How long before this thing sinks?’
Younghusband replied: ‘I’ll give her half an hour, if she gets no more torpedoes.’ He was weak and shaking now. He heaved himself upright. ‘Hear that?’ he said suddenly. ‘Listen. You can hear their engines. There must be a whole flotilla. They’re either coming in for a last bite or they’re pissing off. Sorry about the language.’
They all tried to hear over the shouts and rabble aboard the LST. Smoke was obscuring most of the vessel now, men running in and out of it like rushing ghosts. Younghusband listened again. They could hear the loud E-boat engines now, like motorcycles revving on a track. The sound increased and then, miraculously, moved away. ‘They’re going,’ said Younghusband, wryly smiling. ‘They’re going home.’
‘And we’re sinking,’ said Schorner. He turned and looked through the smoke towards the bow of the landing craft. There was less noise on board now, less shouting coming through the blackness. Voices came from the water instead. ‘Can we get the gate down?’ asked Schorner. ‘The sea’s pretty calm.’
‘You want to get the ducks in the water,’ guessed Younghusband. ‘Not a bad idea.’
‘Sure, and that amphibious tank,’ said Schorner. ‘Might as well use them as lifeboats.’
‘We could try,’ said the British officer. He sank down to the slanting plates of the deck. The dressings on the stump of his arm were dripping blood.
‘Bryant,’ said Schorner, ‘get as many men together as you need and have them man the amphibians. Get the wounded, as many as you can, aboard them. As soon as the gate is lowered we’ll get them into the sea. Okay?’
‘Right, sir.’ Bryant saluted and climbed down from the bridge. Gilman was still standing by Scarlett. ‘How is it, Oscar?’ asked Bryant. Scarlett nodded. The English officer looked around, trying to see through the confusion. ‘Where’s Captain Hulton?’ he asked.
‘Maybe he’s gone to see his mother in Georgia,’ suggested Scarlett. He laughed extravagantly and then coughed, bringing half a pint of blood cascading from his mouth. Bryant glanced at Gilman. ‘Stay with him, Gilman,’ he said. ‘We’re going to try and launch the ducks. He’s got to be on one of them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gilman. ‘Have they gone, sir? The Jerries?’
‘I think so,’ said Bryant. ‘I bloody well hope so.’ He turned and went through the smoke. He could feel the craft rolling around with the currents and the wind. Men were lying all over the deck, many of them with the stillness of death on them. Among them he saw Hulton, lying with a suitably outraged expression, his eyes closed. There was blood all around his neck. Bryant went and touched him. He toppled to one side, his face remaining vexed. Bryant began to pick out soldiers who were still on their feet.
‘Colonel Schorner is going to try and get the amphibians launched,’ he shouted. ‘You men get to them and get the wounded aboard.’ He suddenly saw Albie Primrose. ‘Primrose,’ he called. ‘We’ve got to get these ducks launched. You drive one.’
‘Right, sir,’ said Albie quietly. He added: ‘You seen Ballimach, sir? The big guy?’
‘No,’ replied Bryant. ‘Come on, Primrose. This thing will be turning over.’
Albie moved to the nearest duck. He did so without hurry, as if he did not care greatly. ‘Usually,’ he muttered, looking through the smoke again, ‘you can’t miss Ballimach. You look and there he is.’ He pushed back his helmet and putting his small hands to his mouth yelled: ‘Ballimach! Where the hell are you?’ Ballimach did not answer.
The gate of the LST began to move then, the bow opening like pincers, the ramp creaking down as it was intended to do when the vessel was close inshore. It was sinking now but without drama or hurry; the ship behaving better than the men. The list had evened out, the breach made by the second torpedo poetically balancing the first on the opposite side. Schorner was calling orders to the men from the bridge. There were fewer than a hundred left aboard now. The bows were fully open and the gate was almost down. ‘Great,’ he said over his shoulder to Younghusband trying to keep the vessel straight with the current. ‘You’ve done a great job, sailor.’
‘Thanks, sir,’ said Younghusband. He was hanging against the rail, giving orders in almost a whisper to the helmsman. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell my mother.’
Schorner looked at him. ‘We’ll get you aboard the first duck to get off, son,’ he said. He could see the Englishman was losing blood heavily again.
‘Don’t worry yourself about that,’ said Younghusband. ‘I’ll be all right here. I’ll have to stay aboard for a while anyway.’
Schorner said: ‘Stay aboard? Why?’
Younghusband tried a laugh. It did not work well. ‘Captain and his ship, you know. That stuff.’
‘This isn’t a goddamn ship,’ said Schorner savagely. ‘This is a sardine can.’
‘It’s a ship to me,’ argued the young officer mildly. ‘There, we’ve got the gate down now. I should get your vehicles off as quickly as possible, sir.’
With another astonished look at the youth, Schorner turned and went down to the deck. The engines of the ducks were already revving, water wriggling through the gate ahead. Men were clearing away debris that would prevent them driving off. Now the E-boats had gone there was order once more. ‘Okay,’ Schorner shouted. ‘Tell that tank to go.’
Bryant at the forepart of the ship, up to his knees in water, beckoned the tank on. It rumbled forward and dropped into the sea, wallowing, but then, a curious sight, paddling away as its marine screws took over the propulsion. The ducks followed, running down the ramp and into the water. Daybreak had begun to crack across the sky and in the first grey light came the strange sight of the vehicles driving from the stricken vessel as if from a garage.
Schorner was on the last duck. Bryant moved towards the rear of the emptying LST. Its great deck opened like a smoke-filled cave before him, a primitive place, dark and full of shadows and death. ‘I’m going to get Scarlett, sir,’ he said.
‘He’s aboard already,’ said Schorner. ‘And that English soldier of yours.’ He looked backwards towards the wrecked superstructure. ‘Go get that madman off the bridge,’ he said. ‘You talk to him. He won’t listen to me. We’ll wait – but hurry.’
Bryant climbed to the bridge platform once more. The smell of burned flesh was like roast beef. He saw Younghusband leaning, apparently nonchalantly, on the rail watching the smoking world. ‘You’ve got to go,’ he said briskly. ‘Orders from Colonel Schorner.’
‘Sorry, chum,’ said Younghusband. ‘I’m not going yet. Get that floating Cadillac off.’
‘I’m ordering you to leave,’ said Bryant briskly. ‘Who do you think you are, the fucking boy on the burning deck? The wounded have been cleared as far as we know.’
‘Some of my crew are below,’ said Younghusband. ‘Can’t be moved.’ He smiled. �
�Listen, I’m not trying to get a medal. Now all that junk is off she’ll probably float a while longer anyway. Christ, half the navy must be on its way now. We’re only six miles off-shore. Surely somebody must know. The destroyer may come back from chasing the E-boats. They’ve got no chance of catching them. You go on. Save yourself for D-Day.’
Bryant realized he was adamant. ‘You’re mad,’ he said. ‘This thing is going to turn over at any minute.’
Younghusband grinned. ‘If you think that, I should piss off fairly quickly, old son. Cheers.’ He turned his back and went to the rear of the bridge section. He had his arm inside his tunic now and the front was wet and red. ‘Bryant,’ called Schorner hoarsely from below, ‘get that officer down here.’
‘He refuses, sir,’ he called as he clambered down. ‘He says he’ll stay,’ he said when he reached the amphibian. ‘He doesn’t seem to think it will sink. But he wants as little weight as possible. He says the sooner we get off the better.’
Schorner hesitated. Then he said to Albie, ‘All right, Primrose, get this thing moving.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Crazy young bastard,’ he said. ‘If I was that age I’d want to live, like hell I would.’
Seagulls came with the daylight, cruising and crying as if distressed by the wreckage, human and material, that was spread across the flat, dawn waters of the Channel. They dropped and picked morsels from the surface. From the amphibian Colonel Schorner looked out on the sad and astonishing scene. The English coast seemed so near it looked touchable; they could see smoke rising from houses. And yet all about them were the bobbing reminders and remains of the night of death. The LST, as Younghusband had prophesied, remained floating a mile away, the port side of the nose down, starboard stern up, like a flotsam orange box.
On the far spread of the horizon, as a sun full of mocking promise rose into an innocent sky, were ships, many ships, apparently unconcerned that the enemy had penetrated them and made such a victory for himself. Schorner’s heart was bitter. He looked out at the stoic vessels. ‘Where were you when I needed you?’ he muttered. He and Bryant crouched coldly on the deck of the vehicle. Scarlett had died an hour before, convinced to the last that the disaster was caused through his careless tongue. Bryant had argued all through his last minutes that it was not so, that many factors could have brought out the E-boats, the most likely being the observation of the fleet from an evening reconnaissance aircraft or the great increase in signal traffic which the Germans would have detected easily. Schorner asked Bryant what Scarlett had worried about. ‘He had a mad idea that all this was his fault,’ answered Bryant hopelessly. Then he realized what he had said. ‘He was just wandering, delirious, sir. He died arguing about it.’
‘Nice of him to take the blame,’ muttered Schorner. ‘Somebody has to.’
Among all the floating wreckage and the bodies of men who had died before they ever saw a German appeared one strange humped object, jolting gently on the petrol-coloured sea. Albie Primrose watched it idly, then with growing grief and realization. ‘Sir,’ he whispered to Schorner. ‘Sir, that looks like Ballimach, sir. Those things are his cable drums.’ The amphibian was making a little way, waiting with the others spread around over a square mile to be picked up. The large body of Ballimach, with its ridiculous twin drums on the back, came conveniently to the side as if the dead man had recognized his friends. ‘It is,’ trembled Albie. ‘That’s him all right. You couldn’t miss Ballimach any place. Not even in the ocean.’
Schorner touched his arm. ‘Take it easy, son,’ he said. ‘A lot of guys have lost their pals.’
‘I guess there’s no room to bring him aboard?’ asked Albie, looking around and knowing that there wasn’t. The craft was crammed with soldiers, weary, wounded, dying and dead. ‘There isn’t,’ Bryant said softly to the American. ‘Not for someone as big as that.’
Albie was still staring at the floating face-down figure. It looked like a man studying the seabed. The pants had ballooned clownishly. ‘No, there never was a lot of room for Ballimach,’ said Albie.
He put his arm over the side and caught the stray end of one of the field telephone cables. Thus he held on, towing the big dead man alongside the boat, carefully watching, steering like a boy with a big toy boat.
The cumbersome HMS Oregon had now moved alongside the amphibian in the distance. Schorner could see lines being thrown from the destroyer to the hulk. There was no movement on the askew deck. He wondered whether Younghusband had lived and thought again how much someone like that had to live for. Bodies still floated among the debris in the sea but there were no further signs of living men. The sun rose higher, beaming strongly, ironically and cruelly on the placid aftermath of disaster.
‘Two other ships, sir,’ said Bryant suddenly pointing landward. ‘They’re just coming out.’
‘Maybe they had to finish breakfast,’ commented Schorner sourly. The men in the duck watched, faces like stones, while the two vessels, small minesweepers, made their way across the limp water. One curved off towards the more distant amphibians, now drifting more than a mile away, and the second lost way two or three cables’ distance from the amphibian. They were British ships. The clean crew hurried on to the rail and stood staring at the ravaged soldiers crouched in the odd boat.
Gradually the minesweeper manoeuvred alongside. Ropes were thrown to the amphibian and the two craft brushed. ‘Wounded first,’ ordered Schorner quietly to the men on his boat. ‘Tell them, in case they don’t know we’ve got wounded,’ he said to Bryant. It was as though he delegated the task to him because he spoke the language.
‘We’ve got a dozen wounded men,’ shouted Bryant to the white-faced sailors above. ‘They’ll be coming off first, all right?’
‘Right you are, soldier,’ called a cheerful voice from the bridge of the minesweeper. Bryant felt Schorner look up sharply. It was the captain of the small vessel, another Royal Naval Reserve lieutenant. ‘Bit early for fishing,’ he called, to them.
‘Tell that bum to clamp up,’ muttered Schorner angrily.
Bryant felt his own anger rising also. ‘Would you mind getting on with the job, lieutenant,’ he called. ‘We’re not in the mood for jokes.’
‘Bit touchy this morning, eh?’ returned the officer indomitably. ‘Soon get everything moving.’
‘Why,’ asked Schorner quietly in Bryant’s ear, ‘do the British cover everything – even a fuck-up like this – with a fusillade of funnies?’
‘I wonder myself. The stiff upper lip’s all right in its place, I suppose, but to hell with the red nose and squeaker.’
They began to raise the wounded to the deck of the minesweeper, dozens of hands reaching to help. The lieutenant wandered conversationally down to the rail as it was happening. He leaned down and Schorner and Bryant saw a face haggard far beyond its years. ‘Bastards those E-boats,’ he said. ‘They got at us in March, you know, sir. Only just finished patching this thing up. Eight of my chaps killed. They’re totting up quite a nice old score one way and another.’
After the wounded they passed up the body of Scarlett and three others who had died. Albie was still towing Ballimach. ‘Could you help get my friend out of the water, please,’ he called to the sailors on the deck. ‘He’s kinda heavy.’
They clambered across the amphibian and hauled the dead man with his idiotic cable drums from the sea. Albie turned away as they brought him out and stared towards the summery Devon hills.
Schorner was last on board. He climbed to the deck and wearily acknowledged the salute of the minesweeper’s commander. ‘Shankill, sir,’ said the young lieutenant. ‘Glad to have you aboard.’
‘Not as glad as I am,’ muttered Schorner. He leaned against the bulkhead.
‘Tell your chaps to make themselves at home,’ suggested Shankill amiably. ‘We don’t have a lot of room for passengers. The mess boys are getting tea. Or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Anything,’ said Schorner patiently. He jerked up, as did all the others,
at the close sound of gunfire. Some of the soldiers dropped on to the deck ‘It’s all right, chaps,’ Shankill called to them. ‘It’s only Oregon. She’s putting the LST out of her misery.’
They watched as the old destroyer, backing away, having taken off the last bodies from the LST, fired three deliberate shells into the drunken hull of the landing craft. As though affronted the ugly vessel jumped on end and then turned over like a dead elephant and quickly sank. Bubbles and debris rose.
‘Danger to navigation,’ Shankill informed them before they asked. ‘Might do all sorts of damage.’
Schorner thought he was speechless by now. But he looked broken and said to Bryant, ‘I’m glad that destroyer managed to sink something.’
The American colonel and the British lieutenant went below for their coffee. The wounded were laid out on beds and mess tables, a naval surgeon moving among them with two assistants. Plasma bottles hung like gourds from the ceiling. The two officers walked into the wardroom. Silently they sat drinking the coffee. ‘What a mess,’ sighed Schorner eventually. ‘I still can’t believe it happened.’
‘Nor me, sir,’ said Bryant. ‘Or how.’ They felt the minesweeper begin to move.
‘I’ll be one who wants to know the answer to that,’ promised Schorner. ‘How?’ He leaned back against the wall. His eyelids dropped. ‘Scarlett,’ he said, as if trying to remember someone from long ago. ‘He didn’t have to come. He just came for the ride.’
‘He wanted to,’ shrugged Bryant.
‘Not one of them ever saw a real German,’ sighed Schorner. ‘They came all those thousands of miles, went through all that training, and then they die without seeing the enemy. It doesn’t seem fair.’
Schorner did sleep then. He slumped against the wardroom wall. A naval steward came and eased him sideways, his head against a cushion. Bryant studied him and reflected again that he was a man at the point of middle age. The Englishman felt stiff and empty. Getting up from the seat he went in through the mess-room where the wounded were stretched. One man was chanting softly to himself, ‘… a doll that other fellas cannot steal. Those flirty floody guys, with their flirty floody eyes …’ Bryant staggered out into the beautiful day. On such days as this, he remembered as a boy running early to the beach to be there before anyone else, to see the new waves on the morning sand, to make the day’s first footprints, to find flotsam by the shore. Christ, there should be a lot of flotsam after this. From the rail, standing among the dumb, defeated men, he looked back on the sea strewn with bobbing bodies and wreckage. Full of sadness he turned and faced towards the land. Devon looked like paradise, early misty, summer green the slopes, white the houses. He saw they were heading directly for Telcoombe.
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