by Alan Evans
“Wot ship, Cap’n?”
“Free cheers for the Nivy.”
He was jerked out of his abstraction. The cab had slowed to round a corner and a group of urchins, ragged and dirty and mostly bare-foot ran alongside. He grinned, lifted a hand in salute and they cheered. A tiny girl shrieked, “Touch your collar for luck!” But Smith was no bluejacket with a collar to touch and the cab was trotting on now, leaving them behind.
And his thoughts turned not to Eleanor Hurst but to Marshall Marmont and Sparrow. His mind was busy with them when the cab pulled up at the door of the little house and he jumped down and threw at the cabbie: “Wait!” He dug into his pocket for the key and opened the door. The house was still, the sitting-room and the kitchen beyond were empty. “Eleanor?” He called her name again as he ran up the stairs, tapped at the bedroom door and went in. She was where he had left her in the bed, curled small, her face turned towards the window.
He said tentatively, “Eleanor? Don’t you feel well?”
“I’m not ill.” The answer was flat and she did not look at him.
He went to sit on the edge of the bed and said awkwardly, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“All right.” Her voice came muffled.
He was lost for words, knew vaguely what he wanted to say but not how to say it. He was sorry and grateful, fond of her. He picked up the leather case that held his razor, lather-brush and tooth-brush and glanced around but there wasn’t anything else. He looked at her and then down at the case and finally he said inadequately, “Thank you.” He tried again: “I won’t be far away and if I get leave I could come and —”
She said harshly, “No! You’re off to the bloody war and you won’t come back to me. Go away!”
There was a hammering at the door and the hoarse voice of the cabman called, “How long are you goin’ to be, guv? ‘Cos I’m booked for one o’ my regulars an’ I can’t ’ang abaht!”
“Coming!” Smith shouted it. He turned back to the girl but she neither moved nor spoke. He stared at her helplessly. She had known what he was and that he would have to leave her. What had changed her? Only a few short hours ago…He burst out, “What the hell’s the matter? What did you expect?”
She twisted in the bed and flung at him, “This! This is what I expected and I asked for it! Now get out!”
He shook his head, bewildered, and as the cabman banged again on the door said unhappily, “Well. Goodbye.”
He walked down the stairs, jammed the leather case into his valise and opened the door to the cabman. “Take the bag out, will you?” The cabman heaved the valise into the cab. Smith put the key on the hall-stand, picked up his cap and closed the door behind him.
He said, “Victoria, please,” and climbed into the cab. It lurched away as the horse broke into a weary trot. Smith ran his hand through his hair and jammed on his cap. He was sorry, and angry because he did not see what he had to be sorry for. It was a hell of a way to part. He glanced at his watch. There was a train he could just catch. If he went back to her now he would miss it. But for Eleanor, though, he would have spent the last two days wandering the city and making polite conversation with strangers because he would not impose on Sanders or the one or two like him. And there was more to it than that.
He shouted up at the driver, “Stop!”
The cabbie hauled on the reins, grumbling.
Smith looked out of the rear window and saw another cab leaving the house. A man stood at the door of the house, an Army officer, cap in hand. The door was opened and he stepped inside and out of sight.
Smith faced his front, staring blankly ahead. He could not believe it. She would not acquire another man, another lover so soon. It had to be coincidence…though she had known when Smith would leave because he had told her.
The cabbie complained, “Look ‘ere, guv’nor —”
“All right! Get on!” The violence in the tone jerked the cabbie back in his seat. Smith glared ahead. That was that. Now there were only the ships, his command. But he would not forget her. Besides, he had recognised the officer, the tall young man in the red-tabbed uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel on the Staff: Hacker…
It was only much later, staring out of the window of a train crowded with troops that he thought he was no nearer guessing the meaning of Schwertträger. And now a new dimension had been added: Spring tide. If the tide was significant then a time was set. But what time? And what was the threat? It was as if Eleanor Hurst’s casual words had set a clock ticking. And there was nothing he could do about it.
* * *
She had run down the stairs with her robe clutched about her carelessly, thinking the knock at the door meant Smith had returned. Then she said, “You’d better come in.”
Hacker stood by the table and said, “I have to go back to Dunkerque. What is your answer?”
She wondered if Smith had known she was afraid and did not believe so. He had taken what he wanted and what he needed and because she had not summoned up a brave smile to speed him on his way he had gone away miserably certain he had hurt her. She had learned a lot about him, knew that he wanted to be gentle. Well, she just wasn’t feeling very brave, he had been leaving her alone and at the end her nerve cracked and she lashed out at him.
But she wouldn’t crack again. She pulled the robe closer about her, looked up at the tall soldier and nodded. “Yes.”
* * *
For Smith it was back to sea and the grind of patrols. Marshall Marmont he used as a floating base as she swung to her anchor in Dunkerque Roads. Sparrow always had a sprinkling of men from the monitor aboard her, giving some of Sparrow’s crew a comparative rest aboard Marshall Marmont. And that was just as well because Sparrow did more patrols than any other ship in Trist’s command. And some of the monitor’s men got firsthand experience of patrol work and even tasted the excitement of a U-boat stalk, though it was unsuccessful. But as McGraw told them philosophically as they stood down after the action, weary and deflated, “Still, the bastard didn’t get us, either.” The torpedo had missed Sparrow by scant feet.
Always now when she sailed she did so with Galt playing his mouth-organ. ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the sea-side!’ Again that was at Smith’s order but Dunbar grinned at it. That was a rare sight. Dunbar was a more patient man these days but taciturn, unsmiling. He never mentioned his wife and child in all the long hours he shared the bridge with Smith. And Smith was aboard Sparrow on every patrol, with Buckley as a lookout or taking a trick at the wheel.
There was a bombardment when a dozen of Sparrow’s crew worked in Marshall Marmont’s turret and tasted the swallowing claustrophobia of entombment in an anchored ship under fire from big guns. The monitor made excellent shooting.
Finally Sparrow and Marshall Marmont formed part of the escort of a ‘beef’ convoy. Those convoys from neutral Holland to the Thames and the East coast carried beef but also butter, cheese and other foods. There was a theory it was purchased to stop the Germans buying it, an extension of the blockade, but Britain needed that food. The monitor was there only because the ships of the convoy were so old and slow that she was able to keep up. They joked that it was the slowest convoy of the war, or any other war, but when one ancient tramp was torpedoed it was Marshall Marmont who took the crippled ship in tow and Sparrow who shepherded them home.
McGraw bawled across from Sparrow when once during the tow she ran close alongside the monitor. “Ye cannae fool me! Yon tramp’s pushin’ ye!” And the men of Marshall Marmont laughed. They knew McGraw now as he knew them.
When they returned to Dunkerque the monitor’s engines broke down, she had to be towed to her anchorage in the Roads and her engineers said it was a job for the dockyard, but still they were a happy company. The ships were the same but the men were changed.
It was close to noon on what should have been a summer’s day. It was the 9th of July, but a light rain fell steadily and a ground mist covered the land as Smith stood on the monitor’s bridge and she was to
wed in. He was wearily content. He thought of Eleanor Hurst as he sometimes did and it still hurt. Sparrow had been laid up for another boiler-clean since Smith returned from London but he stayed aboard Marshall Marmont and sent Garrick on leave instead. He thought it was almost a month since he had seen her. It struck another chord of memory and he asked of the bridge at large, “When is the next spring tide on the Belgian coast?”
There was a stir on the bridge behind him, muttering. Smith grinned to himself. Did they think it was a trick question to keep them on their toes? Then Chivers, the gunnery officer, said, “Next spring tide is early on the 12th, sir, at 4.16 a.m. local time. That’s just after first light, sir.”
“Thank you.” The Kapitänleutnant had said, ‘Soon the blow will fall,’ and it had not seemed an empty threat. He had spoken in the knowledge that his death was upon him…One spring tide had come and gone since he had died. Smith wondered uneasily if Naval Intelligence had solved the mystery or whether it would only be solved when the blow fell — and it was too late?
Soon.
But when? Where?
Brooding set him pacing out to the wing of the bridge but as he did so he caught Garrick watching him. Smith realised he was scowling at his own thoughts but Garrick must be wondering what he had to scowl about. He tried to throw off the mood because there was no point in worrying over a problem he could do nothing about. “I think the hands can keep to their own ships from now on.”
Garrick nodded eagerly, emphatically, glad to see Smith smiling and to be able to agree. “It’s worked, sir. The men didn’t like being swapped about to start with and I was doubtful, but it worked. Dunbar is of the same mind.” Garrick was happy with his ship now. But then he said, “There are rumours the Army are getting ready for another big push.”
Smith grimaced. A ‘big push’ meant a big casualty list but that was the only thing certain about it. It might gain a few miles of ground or only a few yards.
Garrick said, “Wonder what the Commodore’s got for us? But whatever it is,” he added with satisfaction, “we’re ready.”
Smith thought that now, maybe, they were.
He knew he was sorry about Eleanor Hurst.
Part Three — From a Check…
Chapter Five
That evening Trist sent for Smith, the signal flickering out at Sparrow as she steamed up the channel and into the port of Dunkerque. Smith had transferred to her as Marshall Marmont anchored and now he watched the hands as Dunbar took her alongside. They were dog-tired but working cheerfully. He told Dunbar, “Coal and ammunition.” They were the only reasons Sparrow had got into the port. “Tell ’em I’ll give shore leave if I can but, of course, it will depend on what orders we’re given.” They all knew he thought they had done well; he had told them so.
If he had expected congratulations from his Commodore he would have been disappointed. He found Trist in a black mood, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and scowling at the big chart at the end of the long room, his Staff gathered around him. Or rather, scattered. They stood about in silence. As if they waited for Smith’s arrival? He thought he saw glances exchanged that were relieved or uneasy. Relieved that the whipping-boy had come? Smith was angry that he thought of himself as such but the feeling persisted. And the uneasy ones, who did not meet his eyes?
Trist grumbled, “I’m getting reports that the men of Marshall Marmont and Sparrow are starting to regard themselves as an élite, almost as a separate Squadron.”
Smith asked, “Reports from what source, sir?”
“That’s my affair.”
“The reports are incorrect. I believe the men have done well and I have told them so. That’s all.”
“I hope so,” Trist shot a glance at Smith and it was nervous. “Those ships are part of the Dunkerque Squadron under my command and they should not forget it. Nobody should forget it.”
Smith did not have an answer to that. He was bewildered. Did Trist seriously believe that Smith was trying to undermine his authority?
But Trist seemed to have finished with that topic. His eyes were on the chart again and he muttered, “They’re badgering us again about offensive action against U-boats. They want to know why you haven’t got more U-boats as you did that first one.”
So Trist’s boast about his idea of an anti-submarine flotilla working, had rebounded. Smith said, “We were lucky that night.”
“You sank her just seaward of the Nieuport Bank. They may still be slipping through there.”
Smith admitted, “It’s possible, but —”
Trist pushed on, not listening, obviously following a preconceived train of thought, “It is your considered opinion that operations in those waters are practicable?”
Smith wondered at the point of the question. The Navy did operate in those waters, laying mines for one thing. But — “Yes, sir. I think —”
Trist said, “Very well. I’m prepared to authorise you to carry out a limited operation with the vessels at your disposal. You are to make a sweep along the coast by night to seek out and destroy U-boats entering or leaving their bases or trying to slip around the end of the mine-net barrage like the other one.”
Smith said, “You mean — just Sparrow, sir?”
“Well, Marshall Marmont is hardly suitable.” Trist’s sarcasm brought a chuckle from one or two of his staff but the rest stayed silent.
Smith saw it. Trist was getting the best of both worlds. He was sending Smith and Sparrow on a sweep against U-boats that he could justify by the demands made on him for offensive action and by the precedent set by Sparrow when she sank a U-boat in those waters. Moreover, whatever went wrong he could lay at Smith’s door because he had given his ‘considered opinion’ that operations in those waters were practicable. Smith wondered if that was why Trist had the Staff there, why some looked unhappy; were they there to bear witness? He knew he could hedge and put his objections in writing: that the chances of Sparrow sighting a U-boat, let alone sinking one, were remote; that the chances of her meeting a big destroyer that would blow her out of the water, were not.
He knew that if he did object Trist might seize on the chance to have him relieved; his little flotilla would cease to exist as such. And Trist might well order Dunbar to make the sweep instead, and when Dunbar objected as he undoubtedly would, then Trist would start using words like ‘disloyalty’ and ‘collusion’.
Smith was getting to know Trist. There would be an unholy row and an inquiry that would uncover the truth about Dunbar being unfit to take his ship to sea because of drunkenness…‘Commander Smith! Did Lieutenant Dunbar, in your presence, make comments critical of your superior officer, Commodore Trist?’ It would be bad for the flotilla, the Dunkerque Squadron, the entire Dover Patrol.
He thought the war had gone on too long for Trist, who was worried, cautious, trying to please his superiors and yet risk nothing. Or risk as little as possible: one small, old TBD with a captain Trist considered dumbly insolent and a Commander he regarded as a threat to his authority?
Smith swallowed the bitter pill because he had to. “I’ll carry out the sweep, sir.”
He was at the door when Trist called, “What do you think of Dunbar, now you’ve had him under your eye for a time?”
Smith stood there stiffly, resenting this discussion of another officer before the listening Staff. He answered, “A good officer, sir.”
Trist pursed his lips. “Well, he’s your responsibility.” He had nailed that down in front of witnesses, too, but Smith did not care. He would answer for Dunbar and Sparrow, and Garrick and Marshall Marmont for that matter. Trist said, “I suggest you keep a close eye on him. You know my views on discipline. I will break any officer who falls short in that respect.” And then he smiled, “Good luck.”
Smith believed he meant it, really wished them luck, hoped Sparrow would come home with another sunken U-boat to report and so take the pressure off Trist, for a little while at least. “Thank you, sir.” But as Smith strode f
rom the big house into the air and breathed it deeply he thought, We’ll need luck but not Trist’s luck. That would not take them far. Trist had stated his intention, if obliquely: given the least excuse he would break Smith.
As he walked the last yards back towards Sparrow where she lay alongside the quay he looked beyond her and froze, seeing Hacker. The Lieutenant-Colonel on the Staff stood a hundred yards away by the Trystram lock, but despite the light rain and the ground mist that wisped in tendrils between, there was no mistaking that tall figure. Hacker was looking out over the channel with a hand raised, beckoning. Smith saw the canoe out there with the American, Curtis and Morris the airman aboard. Curtis paddled the canoe into the side of the quay at Hacker’s urging and climbed up to talk with the soldier.
Morris climbed up also, but walked along the quay towards Smith, who tried to put Hacker — and Eleanor Hurst — out of his mind. Nevertheless, he wondered absently what a ‘movements brass-hat’ could want with the lanky commander of a Coastal Motor Boat. Then Morris said glumly, “Filthy weather, sir.”
Smith smiled as he returned the salute. He liked Morris. “It keeps you on the ground. I’d have thought you liked that.”
“Normally I would,” Morris admitted frankly. “But I was hoping to have another go at flying over De Haan. The Squadron Commander won’t have it, of course. He says we’ve had too many losses trying it and got nothing out of it except my report. And that wasn’t much good.”
“So?”
Morris grinned sheepishly, “Well, to tell the truth, sir, he’s going into hospital in a couple of days — some shrapnel that got left in his knee they want to dig out — and as soon as he does go, and if the Army asks for a flight again, then I’ll ask the second in-command to send me. I think he will, provided the weather is fit for flying. But nobody’s flown for the past two days.” He saluted. “I’ll be on my way, sir.”