by Alan Evans
“Lights bear 132 degrees, sir.”
Smith nodded. That checked with the bearing he had taken aboard Sparrow. He ordered, “Steer for the lights.” And: “Tide’s nearly full. Watch it doesn’t set you to the south.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Smith stared ahead over the rhythmic bending and lifting of the men’s heads as they pulled at the oars, and he watched the lights, looked for the shore.
The lights went out.
He looked at his watch. Thirty-five minutes after midnight. The men who set the lights had been as good as their word. He could imagine them crouched in their lofts with the lanterns, telling themselves the lights should only be seen at sea, but suppose a land patrol somehow caught a glimpse of them? Or a cruising German torpedo boat? Wondering if at any minute rifle butts would hammer on the door…
He shifted restlessly. Too much imagination.
Lorimer was steering by the compass now, the faint light from the binnacle on his face and showing it taut with concentration. Smith wondered if he was more afraid of the approaching enemy coast and its waiting guns — or of making a hash of the job with the Commander sitting by him. Smith remembered his own youth and thought it was an even bet and grinned, chuckled. He saw McGraw’s startled face as he leaned forward on the oar and saw that grin, heard that chuckle. Smith straightened his face. The man would think him mad at a time like this.
He stared ahead and thought — at last he was sure he could see the shore. The phosphorescent line that marked the break of the surf on the beach was clear enough but now he could also see the lift of the dunes, a low black cliff against the sky. He called softly, “Oars.”
The boat drifted.
There was the slap of small waves against the side of the whaler, the faint regular sigh of the surf on the beach. And still, though distantly and only a mutter now, the sound of the guns at Nieuport. How long must he wait? Was the party ashore lying hidden, waiting for some patrol to trudge past and away? Or had they been discovered? Were the enemy waiting in the dunes for the whaler and her crew?
Somebody coughed and Smith said softly, “Quiet!”
He was certain the tide was setting them to the south and he told Lorimer, “Pull slowly to the north-east.” The oars came out and the men bent to the work again but pulling slowly now to hold them against the tide. Lorimer did not seem to be breathing, though his mouth was open. The other men’s breathing came loud in that quiet as they bent and pulled, bent and pulled, a slow, quiet stroke. It would be slack water soon but they must move before then…
The light blinked, blinked again, was gone. It had flickered briefly, low on the shore, almost as if on the sea. A short and long flash: ‘A’.
Smith said softly, “Steer for the light.”
Lorimer obeyed and the whaler’s head came round to point at the light. Smith saw the bulky figure of Buckley change shape in the bow as he turned to face the shore. Smith also saw the dull gleam of blued steel and knew that Buckley had his revolver ready, knew also that Buckley could be relied on not to blaze away wildly. He rose and crept forward along the boat between the men as they tugged at the oars until he crouched beside Buckley. And drew his own pistol. There was the shore now, the beach a paler shadow that started at the white line where the surf washed it and stretched back to the black shadow of the — dunes that lifted steep as a wall for twenty or thirty feet.
Flick, flicker. The light again from the shadowing wall of the dunes: short, long. The whaler ran into the surf, the bow grounded and Buckley vaulted over the side to stand up to his knees in the sea, holding her there, head turned towards the shore.
All of them watched the shore.
The rain came again in a flurry on the wind, driving across their faces and they saw him as a shadow that broke from the great shadow of the dunes and moved jerkily, quickly down the beach towards them. He came down to them through the rain, boots slipping in the wet sand until they could see the white face of him and Smith called softly: “Sword-bearer!”
The man halted, panted, then: “Nineteen!” The answer came breathlessly and he wavered on until he almost fell against Buckley who caught him and held him. He stood with mouth gaping in his white face, the long moustache a bar across it. He gasped for breath. So far as Smith could see in the darkness he wore a shabby suit, underneath it a shirt, collarless, open at the neck.
Smith asked, “Where’s the other one?” And peered past him towards the dunes.
The man shook his head. “Caught!”
“Get aboard.”
He tried weakly to climb in and Buckley put a big hand under his rump and hoisted him inboard where he collapsed by Smith and said, “In a minute- all right. I ran a long way. But in a minute —” He nodded.
Buckley shoved off, leapt aboard and now it was crowded in the bow. Smith was going to move aft but first he asked: “What happened? Who are you?”
The man lifted his head, smiled shakily. “Now, I am Josef. I worked in a hotel in London before the war and I am Belgian and that is enough for now. You understand?” And when Smith nodded, “We got through the wire about an hour ago.”
“What wire?” Smith interrupted.
Josef jerked a thumb to the north. “All around the wood. We were to find out what was in there. It seemed the only way was to break through the wire.”
Smith stared at him. The wood at De Haan. Where the fighters patrolled.
But Josef was going on, “I think the wire had an alarm. Yes? A wire with electric to a bell somewhere, you know? I think so. A patrol came up. We had to run, broke apart, I got away.” He was breathing easier now but his manner was abstracted, remembering, reliving the experience.
Smith asked, “Was your friend hurt?”
A shake of the head, but, “It was a waste of time. We learnt nothing.”
So his friend had been taken prisoner. Smith thought it might have been as well if the patrol had shot him. A civilian caught trying to break into a prohibited zone? They would try him as a spy and shoot him anyway. The rain still fell but the night was still, only the faintest creak as the men tugged at the oars, the sound of their breathing. He and Josef had spoken normally. He was aware the men were listening eagerly, intently to every word and so was Lorimer. That was not surprising.
The Belgian’s head came up. He said, “I fell in a ditch and crawled along it. I looked back for her but she had fallen. I saw them take her. I went on along the ditch and then ran again. I had to run a long way to get around them.” His hands moved in a gesture sweeping a wide curve.
But Smith said, “She?” And saw the men’s heads turning.
Josef nodded. “We posed as man and wife. A couple attracts less attention than a man alone. We had papers and a letter supposed to be from her sick mother in Clemskerke, asking us to visit her.”
Smith remembered that Jack Curtis had tried to tell him something, “one of the people is —” A woman.
There was silence in the boat, then Buckley ventured, “They won’t shoot a woman. Will they, sir?”
Smith thought they had before and they might again. And looked at with cold logic, as a spy a woman could wreak as much havoc as a man. He wondered how Buckley would feel if a woman betrayed his country, or his ship? If she was the cause of the destruction of Sparrow and all aboard her? But the crew of the whaler felt as Buckley did. A low mutter ran through them that was deep-throated like a growl.
Josef said bitterly, “They will shoot her.”
That brought the growl again and then McGraw spoke up and gave it frustrated, baffled voice. “Somebody ought to do somethin’!”
Smith snapped, “Shut up!” He stared over their heads towards the shore that was lost to sight now. “Oars!” The men rested on their oars and the boat drifted. “Flask!” Lorimer passed it forward and it came from hand to hand up the boat to Smith who unscrewed the cap and handed the flask to the Belgian. He drank and sighed, rubbed his mouth with the back of a grimy hand. Smith had come prepared: the flask
held navy rum and water, one to two.
Josef said, “They will take her to the guard-post and hold her there until transport comes from Ostende to fetch her. The Major will want to have first go at her, you see. He does not like the headquarters at Ostende so he will question her until he is sure he knows all there is to know. Then he will send her to Ostende. He will be able to —” He stopped, snapping his fingers for the phrase.
Smith supplied, “Crow over them.”
Josef nodded. “Yes. He is that sort of man. Very efficient but old for a Major. He believes he should have been promoted.”
“You know a lot about him.”
“Soldiers talk among themselves and the people listen.” Josef shrugged. “Also, this he did before when he caught a Belgian spying.”
Smith looked at his watch. Ten minutes had passed since the whaler ran in towards the light. A rescue attempt was out of the question. Madness. He would not risk the lives of this handful of men on an unplanned adventure into enemy-held country on the chance of saving this woman. The Belgian might be right about the Major but he might also be wrong and the woman already on her way to Ostende.
And even if she was not, what chance was there of setting her free? None.
He asked, “Where is this guard-post?”
Josef said, “About a kilometre or more inland. In a village, if you can call it that. There is one big house that is the guardpost now and some little houses around it.”
“And the guard? What strength?”
“Company strength or more. A hundred to a hundred and fifty men. One third of them on patrol, you know? The rest in the house.” He took another pull at the flask and then Smith took it from him. That would be enough. So was a hundred troops, more than enough to guard one woman, to prevent her escape…He paused and examined the thought. They would be careful she did not escape, their eyes turned inwards. But what of a rescue attempt from outside?
He would be a fool to try it.
He found them all watching him as he came out of his abstraction, and Buckley in particular with a knowing look that vanished into blankness as Smith’s eyes found him. Smith snapped at him, at all of them. “What the hell are you all gawping at? Where do you think you are? Idling on the beach at Southend with a bag-full of winkles and a belly-full of beer? You’re supposed to be keeping a sharp look-out! You’re sitting right off a German shore!”
That set them looking about them.
And it had put off the decision.
Eleven minutes gone.
He glanced at Josef, feeling that he was being forced into this by a streak of soft sentimentality he had no right to possess, not as an officer in command, but he demanded, “You could take us there?” It was only just a question.
“To the guard-post?” The Belgian peered at him. “I could. But it would not be easy. There is barbed-wire strung all along the dunes and the Germans patrol the top. Every gap in the dunes is filled with wire strung like — like the web of a spider. There is a gun or a machine-gun every kilometre, sited to sweep the beach. Trenches are dug behind the dunes. When I made the signal to you I had to crawl into a gully so the men at the guns would not see the light. There are troops billeted or camped close to the trenches. If there was an attack alarm the trenches would be manned in minutes. A landing by troops would be very difficult, perhaps impossible. But one or two men, moving quietly and keeping away from the guns and patrols, that can be done. We did it last night. But when we get to the guardpost? There is a company —”
Smith broke in, his mind made up, “I know. Will you take us?” And as the Belgian hesitated, “Then will you draw me a map?”
Josef’s teeth showed in a wry grin. “A map would not get you through the dunes. But you’re determined to try. So. I will take you there.”
Smith asked, “You have a report to make?”
Josef made a rasping, derisive noise. “Whoever makes the report can tell Intelligence that Josef said: ‘No luck. Keep trying.’ It doesn’t matter. They’ll keep trying anyway.”
Smith looked at Lorimer. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell Mr. Dunbar. Now put us ashore.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Lorimer’s tone was apprehensive. The boat turned in its length at his order and ran back towards the shore, the crew pulling eagerly now so Smith had to growl at them, “Easy!”
He went on talking to Lorimer. “I’ll take Buckley, McGraw, Galt and Finlay.” McGraw and Galt the toughs. Finlay he knew as a taciturn, competent seaman. He was glad he had brought the extra men — Lorimer would have just enough hands for the whaler, as it was.
“As soon as we’re ashore, run back on your course then lie by the buoy. When Sparrow comes she is to patrol as circumstances dictate but we will look to see her in —” He hesitated. A round trip of three kilometres but there might be delays. Delays! He almost laughed at the word. “Two hours. Say at two-forty. Lie at the buoy and from two o’clock onwards you’ll run in to the shore and out again, watching for our signal. An ‘A’. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
But Smith still hesitated. The men’s faces were turned towards him, listening. He said, “You’ll have your hands full.” And Lorimer was young, raw.
Smith stared at one face, older, weather-beaten, and the man picked up his cue and said, “Maybe if I took the helm, sir, so Mr. Lorimer can watch his heading?”
He was an old hand, Smith knew, come back to the Navy from the fishing fleet, and he was privately telling Smith that he would look out for Lorimer. And himself, of course. Smith could read his mind: he didn’t want to pull around the North Sea all night while a green young squirt tried his hand at small boat navigation.
Smith nodded. “Do that.”
Buckley muttered, “Shore, sir.”
Josef was peering. He whispered, “That way!” And stuck out his left hand.
Smith hissed at Lorimer, “Ease to port!”
The helm went over and the whaler swung to port, crept on and crabbed in towards the shore as the men pulled slowly.
Josef whispered, “Here. The guns will not see us. We must risk the patrols.”
They swung to starboard, the men gave one last pull at the oars and the whaler ran into the surf once more. Smith strained his eyes against the darkness but saw only the pale stretch of the beach and the black lift of the dunes. Was a German patrol waiting for them up there? He could only bear the wash of the surf — then the whaler grounded. Smith and his little party tumbled out and Galt thrust at the bow of the whaler. It was backing off, turning, as they waded out of the sea and Smith led them at a trot up the beach, the big Webley revolver heavy in his hand. He ran crouching, expecting with every stride that the dunes would suddenly burst into the flash and rattle of rifle-fire. But then they were in the shadow of the wall of the dunes and he halted.
Josef looked about him, then pointed to his right. He led them now, along the wall of the dunes to where a gap like a gully cut in and upwards. He went on more slowly, a hand lifted cautioning, and Smith gestured the others into single file and followed on Josef’s heels. They passed the gully and saw it crisscrossed with a cat’s-cradle of barbed-wire. Just beyond the gully Josef began to climb the wall of the dunes using hands and toes. The wall was not so steep at that point. Smith followed him. As they came to the top the Belgian dropped on his knees, crawled to the summit then cautiously lifted his head. Smith could just see beyond him the posts marching away on either side with the barbed-wire strung between them. For a moment Josef knelt there, peering about him, then his hand lifted and he rose and led them on. They picked their way through the wire and beyond was a trench but it was no more than five feet wide and in turn they jumped it, crossed a track and followed the Belgian. Now they were winding through the dunes and after a minute or so he halted and turned to Smith.
“They patrol along the top of the dunes. You saw the track?” And as Smith nodded, “We were lucky. There will be other patrols but they keep to th
e road and the track. For most of the way we go —”
He stopped, searching again for a phrase and again Smith supplied it: “Across country.”
Josef nodded. “We go, yes?” He looked at Smith.
Smith pondered. They were ashore in enemy-held country; they were committed. And the woods at De Haan must be less than a kilometre away to the north…
He said, “Go on.”
Josef led on, the boots of all of them padding softly in the loose sand until they came out of the dunes. The ground beyond was open for a hundred yards but then a low shadow stretched across before them. Halfway across the open ground they came on a railway line, crossed its tracks and came to the shadow, that proved to be low scrub.
Smith whispered, “The railway. Where does it go?”
“Up to De Haan and on to Zeebrugge, or down through Ostende and right down the coast. The Germans use it, of course.”
Smith nodded and followed him again as they skirted the scrub, keeping close to its shadow. He noted the abandoned ruin of a cottage or barn, stored it in his memory as he was trying to count the paces, keep an idea of his bearings. The rain came again falling steadily. They moved through the silent country for a quarter-mile or so, Josef halting to peer about him and cock his head, listening. Then they left the scrub and he led them angling to the right and they came to a hedge. He followed it down to a gap, stepped cautiously through, head turning, and then waved them on. They came out on to a dirt road slippery with mud under the rain and the Belgian whispered, “Now we must go carefully. The village is close.”
On again with the squish and slither of their boots in the mud at the side of the road, the sound of their breathing and the tinkling trickle of a score of water courses. Josef in the lead, then Smith, McGraw, Galt, Finlay and Buckley at the tail. Until Josef stopped again and whispered, “The village.”
Smith changed the Webley to his left hand and wiped the sweat from the right on his jacket.