In Danger's Hour

by Douglas Reeman

  Sherwood heard his bag rattle behind the seat as the car lurched over to avoid a man pushing a bicycle. The man shouted something after them and the little Wren murmured, 'Stupid sod. trying to get his name in the papers.' She seemed to remember her senior passenger and added, 'Sorry, sir.'

  Bliss replied cheerfully, 'Just so long as we get there, eh?'

  Sherwood thought of the two bottles of gin he had in his bag, packed alongside his instruments. That was what he needed right now. Oblivion. He recalled his feeling of disbelief when Bliss had told him about Commander Foulerton. It did not seem possible that it could happen to him. He was a genius. A quiet, unassuming man who had known more about mines than any other human being, be they magnetic or acoustic, dropped from the air, or laid by any ship which could slip through the defences.

  As Bliss had been quick to point out, Foulerton had been a regular officer. But he had not mentioned that he had been a ranker, who had joined the peacetime navy as a boy, and had got there by his own sweat and intelligence. These rare characters who had climbed up to the quarterdeck the hard way were the backbone of the navy. He thought of Rob Roy's engineer officer, |ohn Campbell, and poor old Bone with his dentures and his stomach troubles. They had to stand aside now and leave the medals to younger men, but without them the fleet would never have put to sea.

  He leaned forward, as if his mind had been triggered like a time-fuse.

  'The sea. I'm sure I can smell it!'

  The Wren called over her shoulder but fortunately never took her eyes from the twisting road.

  'That's right, sir. That was Lyme Regis. We're in Dorset now. We should be there in an hour at this rate!'

  Bliss said irritably, 'A few hours sleep then. I hope somebody has remembered to arrange our messing and accommodation.' When Sherwood remained silent he added, 'Well?'

  Sherwood replied, 'I shall go to the place first.'

  The Wren had up to then believed that Bliss was some kind of V.I.P. Now she knew differently. The young, pale-faced lieutenant who rarely spoke or smiled was the one who counted forsome reason. She had been told nothing, so it was obviously important.

  Bliss said, 'It's up to you, of course —'

  Sherwood stopped it there. 'So it seems.'

  Sherwood touched the girl's shoulder and apologised as she-jerked with alarm.

  'Sorry.' He pointed ahead through the filthy windscreen. 'What's the next place?'

  She said, 'Bridport, sir. We stop for a road-check usually, provided the army or the Home Guard haven't all gone to the pub!'

  'I'd like to make a phone call from there.'

  She seemed to sense the tension, the sudden determination in his tone. 'Know just the spot, sir.'

  Sherwood took out his wallet and felt the small notebook in the darkness. Why had he taken her telephone number? What did he think he was doing?

  They^swept through a checkpoint, waved on by some vague, helmeted figures beside a sandbagged barrier.

  Bliss said, 'We could have been bloody Germans for all they know!'

  The Wren was glad it was too dark for Bliss to see her grin. She knew most of the personnel who mounted these checkpoints, and few of them would care to stop one of the C-in-C's own cars.

  She exclaimed, 'Here it is now, sir.'

  Sherwood felt the car slew off the road and saw a small inn, its weathered sign swaying slightly in the chill breeze. Like a scene from Treasure Island, he thought.

  Bliss said, 'Don't be too long.' It sounded as if he was trying to reassert himself. 'I'll just go and pump the bilges while we're here.' He peered at his watch. 'Why not snatch a pint? It's still opening time, or near enough.'

  Wakeford shook his head. 'Not tonight, sir, but thanks all the same. Tomorrow, well, now, that'll be different.'

  Sherwood touched his shoulder and opened the door. Probably too close to the truth for comfort, he thought.

  As the two officers left the car and separated in the darkness the Wren asked, 'What's it all about?'

  Wakeford shrugged. 'That's Lieutenant Sherwood. The one who was given the George Cross, remember?' He saw her eyes widen in the pale oval of her face. 'He's gone to phone someone. Probably thinks it's his last chance.'

  She looked away. 'You make it sound like the condemned man.'

  Wakeford sighed. 'He is, in a way.'

  Sherwood in the meantime had found his way into a bar which was barely furnished, with six farm labourers and two dogs the only customers.

  The landlord looked at Sherwood without curiosity. His old battledress with the tarnished gold stripes on the shoulders implied he was up to something. That was nothing new along this stretch of coast. It was safer not to ask.

  'Telephone, Skipper? Roight through therr —' His accent was as West Country as Drake.

  Sherwood sat on a small stool and held his book near a ship's lantern with an electric bulb shaped like an ancient candle. He dialled the number, then had to ask the exchange to help him. then he had a crossed line, and he thought he heard a car door slam: Bliss displaying his impatience.

  Sherwood tightened his lips. Well, let him. He's not taking the risks. A straightforward bed-and-breakfast job for him.

  A man's voice answered and Sherwood almost replaced the receiver. Then he remembered. She had said that she lived with her elderly parents.

  'Er, could I speak to, er — Rosemary, please?'

  There was a lengthy pause, as if the man was thinking about it.

  He said, 'It's a bit late, y'know!'

  Sherwood felt the desperation rising like a flood.

  'I must speak with her!'

  'Now just hold on, whoever you are. My daughter's not —'

  There was a muffled sound, and he guessed the telephone had been covered by somebody's hand.

  When she spoke the line was suddenly clear. It was as if she was right here beside him.

  'Who is that?'

  He tried to explain. 'I had to speak to you. To tell you —' He got no further.

  'Oh, Philip, where are you? I've been so anxious, so terribly worried. I thought you disliked me, that I'd done something -'

  He said, 'Please. Listen to me. I have to leave right now. It's a job I must do.' Now that he had begun he could not stop. 'I'm not sure what's going to happen.' He heard her sharp intake of breath but hurried on. 'I just wanted you to know what you did for me, how happy those days together really were.'

  She said, i know. I wrote to you several times, but —'

  'They're still following me, I expect.' He heard the car toot its horn. 'I didn't want to hurt you, Rosemary, you've had enough, but I couldn't be so near to you without —' He stared at the telephone, his eyes smarting. He was doing everything he had sworn not to do.

  She said, 'Don't hang up. Whatever it is, wherever you have to go, please take care, for me if nothing else -1 must see you again, Philip.' She waited and added, 'Are you still there?'

  'Yes.' One word, and he could barely get it out.

  'I shall never forget either —'

  Sherwood murmured, 'Goodbye, darling girl.' He put down the telephone and two pennies beside it before walking back through the bar. They were all still in their places. Only one of the dogs had moved.

  He climbed into the car without speaking.

  Wakeford asked quietly, 'All right, sir?'

  Sherwood watched the bushes gathering speed again. 'Yes. Now it is.'

  He did not speak again until the car rolled to a halt and the sea opened up to greet him like an old enemy.

  It took Sherwood only a few minutes to gather all the facts he needed. The mine's parachute had snared itself on some sunken boat, a local fisherman's apparently. The wind was still without much power, but there was a hint of more to come, snow too.

  In the back of an army fifteen-hundredweight Chevrolet, its red-painted wings marking it as one of the Bomb Disposal Squad, Sherwood studied the map, his breath mingling with that of two sapper officers, and a lieutenant from the naval base at Portland
.

  The mine was too close to the Chesil Beach, that strange ridge of stones which ran parallel to the coast, right down to the northern part of Portland Bill itself. It was an eerie place even in daylight, the graveyard for many ships through the centuries, although some were said to have been lured here by wreckers.

  Now, with the breeze sighing against the wet stones, and the knowledge that the mine was just offshore on a sandbar, it would make anyone's flesh creep.

  Sherwood said, 'It's low water. This has to be done quickly. If the parachute breaks adrift, or the mine is thrown up on this beach, we'll not get a sniff at it.' The two sappers nodded together. They had probably defused enough bombs and mines in their time. They would not be here otherwise. One said, 'We've rigged the line for tomorrow.' Sherwood lowered himself to the ground and sniffed the bitter, damp air. Tomorrow might be too late. Why did he think that? Was it because he knew his nerve would not last until then?

  'It's got to be now. I'll need two good lights.' He laughed to break the sudden tension. 'The black-out will have to put up with it!'

  'What's all this about lights?'

  Vice-Admiral Hargrave, followed by two aides, marched down the beach.

  Sherwood murmured, 'God, it's getting like a flag-day!'

  The vice-admiral studied the map and then said, 'You're right, Sherwood.' So far he had not spoken to Bliss at all. 'See that it's done.' One aide hurried away. To the other he snapped, 'Tell the police inspector to get on with the evacuation. Those cottages up there, and anyone else who might —'

  Sherwood was crouching beside his bag. 'Get blown up, sir?'

  The vice-admiral chuckled. 'Sorry about that.'

  Sherwood took Wakeford's thin arm and led him away from the others. 'According to the map there's part of a concrete wall which the Royal Engineers built here as an exercise. Run the telephone line up to that and keep out of sight.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Sherwood touched his lips; they were bone-dry. 'Look, I can't keep calling you Leading Writer Wakeford, now can I, under these sorry circumstances. What's your first name?'

  Wakeford looked at the beach. 'Horace, sir. A name I have always detested.'

  It was suddenly very necessary to find and keep close contact with this gentle man. He would probably be the last one to hear his voice; would need to write it all down, so that the next poor idiot - He persisted, 'What did the kids at school call you behind your back?'

  Wakeford seemed to brighten up. 'Stinky, sir, because of my job.'

  'So be it.' Sherwood handed him his cap. 'The inshore sounds are a nuisance. I must be able to hear.' He gripped his arm. 'Off you go. If I say the word, hit the deck sharpish!'

  Wakeford stared at him in the darkness. 'If, I mean, sir, how long?'

  Sherwood picked up his bag. 'If the fuse goes, there's usually about twelve seconds to play with.'

  Wakeford watched him stride down the beach where more anonymous figures hovered at the water's edge, while some stood in the sea itself, holding a small rubber boat.

  Sherwood saw the sappers paying out a field-telephone line while they waded through the shallows, pushing the boat ahead of them. Once the tide began to turn it would be too late yet again. As he held on to the boat and sloshed through the water with the others, Sherwood tried to remember everything he had learned about this type of mine. Packed with over fifteen hundred pounds of deadly hexanite. Enough to knock down several streets, or demolish a cruiser.

  A sapper switched on one of the lights, and Sherwood could imagine the consternation on the shore. It was so close it was startling, lying half-submerged, the torn parachute vanishing into the shadows of deeper water. The mine was cleaner than usual because of the sea. The one he had dealt with before had been grimy with black filth from the exhaust smoke of the plane which had unloaded it. He could see the identifying letters and figures shining in the hard beam, the way it appeared to roll about in the current. But that was only a trick of the light -otherwise he would be dead.

  'All right, Sergeant, take your chaps off now.' The men moved back into the surrounding darkness.

  Sherwood felt the sea breeze like ice on his face. He had tried to make it sound encouraging for Wakeford's sake. Twelve seconds. Maybe. But here the real difference was that there was nowhere to run, no empty house, or garden wall, or as in one incident, pressed against a railway embankment. That one had exploded and he had seen two complete railway carriages fly over his head as if they were paper kites.

  He tested the telephone. 'D'you hear me, Stinky?' He made himself chuckle, although he felt as if the breath was being strangled out of him.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Write this down. It's a Type Seven. That's the only classification we have to go on so far.' He measured it with his eye, moving the light an inch at a time until the beam was shining beneath the slopping water. 'About nine feet six long, I'd say.' He paused to tug his bag clear of the water on to a small hump of sand. The sea sounds seemed so loud out here. 1'he tiny purr of the fuse would probably pass unheard. Not that it would make any difference anyway.

  'I've found the fuse.' He fumbled for his special callipers, the ones he used to prevent it from moving and coming to life. He wiped the spray, or was it sweat, from his eyes. The callipers locked on to the keeping ring which held the whole fuse in position.

  Sherwood rocked back on his heels. 'There's something wrong.' He did not realise he had spoken aloud.

  'What is it, sir?'

  'Not sure.' He peered into the water again. Was his mind playing tricks or was it already deeper?

  it's too easy, Stinky. All I have to do is unscrew it, just like the earlier models.'

  Wakeford said, 'Be careful, sir.'

  Sherwood smiled despite his raw nerves. Careful. Commander Foulerton had died trying to defuse one of these mines. He was a true expert, a professional. Otherwise, this mine might indeed be one of the easy jobs. Lucky to have been washed clean by the sea, to have come to rest the right way up.

  Sherwood moved slowly along the mine, his free hand feeling it as if it was alive.

  He returned to the fuse again and touched the keeping ring with his fingertips. A few turns, and the whole thing would slide out. Not easy, but not impossible.

  It was then that his hand began to shake as if he had a fever. He put the light in his bag and gripped his wrist with the other hand. For Christ's sake, not now! He tried again. If they were on dry land, he would risk attaching a tackle to the hoisting flaps. As if to mock him the wind ruffled his hair, and part of the sodden parachute floated against his thigh like a shroud.

  There was no more time. His whole body was quivering. What he had always dreaded more than anything.

  He picked up the lamp again and began another careful inspection. A voice seemed to jeer at him. You're putting it off. It's over. Why not give the brute a kick and end it all right now?

  He tried to cling to fragments of memory, like a man caught in a dying ship's final whirlpool. Her voice on the telephone. When was it, one, two hours ago? Was that all?

  He pulled out the special spanner he had had made for himself at Vernon. Foulerton had probably used the original one.

  He stared wildly at his flickering reflection in the water. Hoisting flags'. It seemed to scream out at him so that he almost dropped the lamp.

  He spoke carefully on the field telephone. 'Stinky. This mine has hoisting flaps. They stopped using them eighteen months ago.'

  'I — I don't understand, sir!'

  'Don't try, old son.' He recalled his words to the Canadian major in Sicily when Ransome had run to the stretcher. 'Just pray!'

  He lined up the flap with the fuse, tightened his spanner around it and then stared at the low clouds.

  Twelve seconds. He put his weight on it. Nothing happened at first, then it scraped away from its new paint and began to turn.

  He gasped, it's under the flap, Stinky.' He let the lamp fall into the sea by his boot, which had now filled with icy wa
ter. Another turn, and another. How much time would he have to know what was happening?

  He shouted, 'It's here, under the flap. I'm doing it now.' He inserted the callipers and began to turn. Suppose Foulerton had seen it too, and this was the real booby-trap.

  He yelled, 'Well, it's too bloody late now, you bastards!'

  The fuse slid into his fingers, and the sudden silence seemed to probe his ears like fingers. He returned to the original ring and inserted the callipers. Inside the gap there was the second fuse, now made harmless by his discovery. But for some warning instinct the mine would have exploded at the first or second turn of the keeping ring.

  He heard Wakeford calling, 'Are you all right, sir? Please answer me!'

  He bent over against the mine and gasped into the telephone, 'Come and get me out of this! I — I can't move!' He vomited over the telephone and hurled it into the water.

  Men were running through the water towards him, then someone put his arm round his waist and a voice shouted, 'Here, lend a hand! The poor bastard's done his bit for the night!'

  Then there was Wakeford on the Chesil Beach, although Sherwood did not remember how he got there. It was no longer empty, but dark figures ran and bustled in all directions.

  Commander Bliss reached out and took his hand. It was like a piece of ice.

  Bliss said, 'I wondered what you chaps did. Now that I know, I'd still like to be told how you do it! That was a bloody brave thing you just did.'

  Sherwood tried to speak, but nothing made sense. He was shaking so badly he knew he would have fallen but for the others holding him. The Wren driver wrapping a rug over his shoulders, laughing and sobbing at the same time, the vice-admiral thumping the beach with a walking-stick and booming, 'Well, how about that, eh?'

  Wakeford whispered, 'What is it, sir?'

  'Just get me away from here. Somewhere I can use a telephone.' Then he fainted.

  Bliss said, 'Call up Rob Roy. Tell her captain. He wanted to be told at once, though we were all expecting it would be tomorrow.' He glanced up at the clouds as the wind whipped his coat against his legs. 'Then it would have been too late, I fear.'