Outside on the road it seemed very cool, even cold. Smith snapped, `Give your captain a hand.’ He watched their figures start to melt into the shadows and then said to Cain, `Just one last thing.’ He trained his machine-pistol on the left-hand corner of the wall. `Then we’ll follow along.’
Bent almost double, their silhouettes grotesque against the pale wall, the two sentries from the rear of the post edged cautiously towards the gates. They did not want to go inside. The explosions and gunfire, the stench or the shattered corpses told them clearly what had happened. But they had to go just the same. To know. To be sure.
Smith took aim and fired a full magazine, the rasping clatter of gunfire echoing back from the wall like some additional marksman.
He looked unwinkingly at the two inert humps below the wall and then said, `That’s it then.’ He jammed in another magazine. `It should give us an hour or so.’
Cain stumbled after him, his mind cringing, the pistol dangling at his side. It was not real. It could not happen to him. In a moment he would awake. Snap out of it.
Smith fell in step beside him. `Here. Have a cigarette! He lit his own calmly, then stooped to pick up a small round stone. Before putting it in Cain’s pocket he said, `There. You’ve got a piece of enemy territory all for yourself. More than some ever get.’
Cain sucked on his cigarette and coughed hoarsely. He thought of Major Carter, all bloody and broken. Not a man any more. Just a thing. A nothing. And that poor girl, what they were doing to her. He thought too of Marshall, the way he had carried her from the post. No sign of weariness. He had marched out as if he was carrying the most precious thing in the whole world.
Cain recalled his own wife in Harwich.What would he have thought if it had been her on that table?
Smith halted and waited while Cain vomited against the roadway. `All right now, P.O.?’
Cain wiped his mouth with his sleeve. `Sure thing. Just takes a bit of gettin’ used to.’
Smith smiled and glanced at the sky. It looked lighter already. `You never do that, my friend. Not in a million bloody years.’
Lieutenant Victor Frenzel stood loosely by his control panel watching the chief electrical artificer checking gauges for the umpteenth time. Around him in the control room it seemed extra quiet as the submarine continued circling offshore at periscope depth. They were still closed up at diving stations, supposedly ready for anything, the dimmed deckhead lights throwing gaunt shadows from bowed heads, and arms reaching out to make the usual adjustments.
Buck was at the periscope, his left arm draped over one of the handles as he made a slow, unhurried inspection. Number One and Devereaux were in the wardroom for some reason..
Frenzel glanced impatiently at the bulkhead clock. It must be getting light up top. Soon time to get the hell out.
Warwick was whispering with his senior gunlayer below. the conning-tower hatch, nodding every so often as the leading seaman explained some technical point or other. It helped pass the time. Deaden the anxiety.
Frenzel hated such moments. It had not always been so. Just since Captain Browning had sent for him to tell him the news. Poor old Buster. He had not known how to say it. He did not even seem to know there was no way of saying it. Not then. Not ever.
He clenched his fists as her picture came back again. And the kid. Such a little chap. Just like her.
They had been very lucky. He had married her early, when he had been a leading stoker. But for her he might never have got down to his books, never have discovered what she had seen in him.When he had been commissioned she had shared it. All the others had been on the outside. It had always been like that. He stared moodily round the control room. Fifteen years he had been in the Andrew. Since he was a boy. Apart from Starkie and a couple of others, he was the oldest one in the boat. But before, in other submarines, he had somehow managed to feel quite the opposite. He shivered. How long would it last?
Buck murmured, `Down ‘scope.’ He walked to Frenzel’s side. `Nothing.’
‘Is it light yet?’
‘I can see the headland. Getting a bit dodgy.’ He shifted uneasily. ‘It’s not the same without the skipper, is it?’
‘No.’
‘D’you reckon he was right?’
Buck seemed to want to talk. That was unusual enough.
Frenzel looked away. ‘What’s right anyway?’ He sighed. ‘He’s full of surprises, that one.’
‘They’ll crucify him for what he’s doing.`
Frenzel thought of the men he had seen brought aboard. ‘The Jerries will do that if they catch him.’
Buck’s remark had brought it home to him. It was different without Marshall. The captain was always close, ready to deal with things, make decisions, right or wrong. It was like losing a limb, or some essential part of the boat.
Keville, the artificer, turned in his seat. ‘All gauges checked, sir.’ He grinned. ‘Build good boats, the ferries do.’
Buck whispered, ‘Can’t wait much longer, Vic. What the hell will we do?’
Churchill padded across the deck. ‘Pardon, sir. Number One’d like you in the wardroom.’ He was speaking to Frenzel.
Buck grimaced. ‘Sounds like a decision.’
‘Maybe.’ Frenzel turned on his heel. ‘Indecision more likely.’
He found Gerrard and Devereaux sitting on opposite sides of the table below a solitary deckhead light. He heard someone moaning softly behind drawn curtains, and guessed it was Moss, the wounded agent. The place stank of disinfectant. The Italian was in another bunk, snoring fit to burst. He knew that the man Travis and the three agents were in Marshall’s cabin. Talking, threatening, he did not know or care.
Devereaux looked up, his sleek head shining under the light. ‘Ah, Chief, just the man.’
Gerrard said, ‘Pilot thinks it’s time to move out.’ He looked terrible. Gaunt and lined with worry. He seemed to have put on years in the last few hours.
Frenzel sat down but kept his eyes on Gerrard. He could not believe it. He replied flatly, ‘You’re in command. What do you think?’
Devereaux interrupted, ‘Fact is, Chief, I’m not sure we should stay here a second more. The C.O.‘s decision was beyond the widest interpretation of his orders. It’s obvious.’
Frenzel said, ‘Not to me.’ He looked at Gerrard again. ‘Well?’
‘I can understand perfectly. The captain did what he thought was right, but …’ I
Frenzel groped for a cigarette and changed his mind. Those words again. Right. But.
Gerrard said sharply, ‘What about your department, Chief?’ He sounded as if he was forcing a decision. ‘Are you satisfied with fuel and so forth?’
Frenzel stood up abruptly. ‘A good engineer is never satisfied with anything.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘Christ, I must be getting old. I should have realised. You want me to make it easy for you. Provide a let-out.’
Devereaux said, ‘It’s not like that. Number One doesn’t seem to know what ‘ He got no further.
Gerrard said harshly, ‘When I want your opinions, I’ll bloody well ask for them!’ He swung on Frenzel. ‘You don’t understand! I’m not trying to shirk responsibility!’
Frenzel stared at him. ‘What the hell has responsibility got to do with it?’ He walked round the table. ‘He’s your friend, isn’t he? Wouldn’t he do the same for you? At least have a try?’
Gerrard looked down at the table, I know. It’s not that.’
Frenzel added quietly, `I thought you had more guts.’
`What d’you know about it?’ Gerrard was on his feet, too. `You haven’t got a wife! It’s easy for you to make snap decisions which might kill all of us!’ He saw the expression on Frenzel’s face and said, hoarsely, `God, I’m sorry, Chief. That was unforgivable.’
From the control room Buck’s voice broke the sudden silence between them. `Dinghy in sight! Just saw the signal!’
Gerrard blundered between them, his feet carrying him automatically to his station fo
r surfacing the boat.
Frenzel thrust out one arm and prevented Devereaux from following. ‘D’you know, I’ve always thought you were a deep one. But I never imagined you were such a bastard.’
Devereaux faced him, his mouth clamped in a small smile. `I suppose you know what you’re talking about.’
`So do you.’ He dropped his arm. `You want to break him, don’t you? Just so that you can beat your little drum in the right quarters.’
He followed him towards the control room. If Buck had not broken the tension he would have said or done something which might have smashed their world forever.
He saw Gerrard slinging his glasses round his neck as he watched the lower hatch being opened. Devereaux had taken over as first lieutenant, and was apparently engrossed in studying the gauges above Starkie’s head.
`Blow all main ballast!’
Frenzel threw down his switches and half listened to the air roaring into the saddle tanks.
Marshall was coming back. And not a moment too soon.
13
Where no birds sing
‘If you’ll wait in here, sir.’ The orderly held open a door and waited for Marshall to enter the spacious room. `The captain will see you in just a moment.’
Marshall walked slowly to the one wide window which overlooked the harbour. Outside it was blazing hot, the glare throwing up shimmering reflections from the many anchored ships and broad expanse of blue water. Alexandria. He smiled wryly. `Alex’. But for the dazzle-paint on some of the ships, the neat lines of small buoys and floats which marked the underwater booms and nets, it could have been peacetime. There were awnings spread on most of the vessels, and he saw a marine band marching and counter-marching on the quarterdeck of a massive battleship. The bandmaster must be a real tyrant to keep them at it, he thought.
He turned and looked at the room. Its fine mosaic floor and domed ceiling gave it an air of calm, and after the passage from the depot ship where U-192 had secured just an hour earlier it felt as cool as a tomb. There was a solitary, marble-topped table, bare but for an old copy of the 7 atier and a dog-eared card which explained `what to do in an air raid’. Someone else who had waited here had scrawled, `Take cover in a bottle of gin’ underneath it.
Although the building was now classified as part of the naval command set-up, there was little else to show a change of ownership. It had once belonged to an Egyptian government official, but it was said that it was used more often than not by the King to entertain some of his friends. Marshall studied the huge murals which decorated the walls. Voluptuous dancing girls in every imaginable stance. Even the table legs were carved like nude women.
He turned away, recalling with sickening clarity the girl strapped to the table. A week ago. It could have been yesterday. He remembered her twisting in his arms, fighting him without strength or purpose, not knowing she was conscious or even alive.
When they had sighted the surfacing submarine and Cain had stood upright in the dinghy to wave his arms like a madman, she had not given any hint of understanding.
Once on board, with the boat submerged and heading out again into open waters, he had made sure she was comfortable in his cabin.
Major Cowan had protested, `But I’m trying to interrogate Travis in there!’
Marshall had snapped, `Do it somewhere else. Stick him in a torpedo tube, for all I care!’
For by then, within minutes of resuming command, he had discovered something else about Travis. He had not come willingly to help his own country. There had been a small attempt at sabotage at the site where he was employed, and quite unbeknown to him the wheels had started to turn. The Italians had panicked and informed the German Military Intelligence, who had immediately telephoned Gestapo headquarters. Most of the labour working on the site was recruited locally, or consisted of heavily guarded wretches from a concentration camp in the north. The Gestapo had begun to check more individual records, and Travis’s had been one of them. Their Paris office had sent
Mere no birds sing 273
details of Travis’s wife, of their suspicions about her connections with the Resistance.
The girl’s unexpected arrival had sprung the odds against Travis, and with moments to spare he had been smuggled through a tightening cordon. As the small party had moved through the countryside, resting briefly in `safe’ houses, or sleeping rough in fields, Travis had probably seen his wife as the main cause of his own destruction. But for her he would still have been working safely for the Germans. It was a well paid appointment with more to come. He had travelled widely before the war, and knew that in the unlikely event of the Germans losing the last battle, he would be well placed to disappear into a neutral country, to bide his time until the moment was ripe for his return. They always needed good engineers, especially after a war. And he was very good at his work.
Over and over again Marshall had tried to imagine the sort of man who would knowingly let his wife, no matter what had changed between them, go straight into the hands of the Gestapo. Just to give him time to get away. To allow men like Cowan and Simeon an opportunity to discover the full extent of the enemy’s strategy.
Having no doctor on board, Marshall had done all he could to make her feel safe, even if he could not share her inner reactions. Churchill had proved to be a tower o: strength. Waiting on her. Seeing she was left undisturbed. Guarding her like a watchdog.
Day after day, hour after hour, while the boat had felt her way clear of enemy-patrolled waters, Marshall had waited for a sign. But she kept in the cabin, with just a small light above the bunk for company.
The S.A.S. lieutenant had said, `Let her be, Captain. It’ll take time. And a whole lot more.’
They had surfaced to send their private signal, and just as quickly the reply had come back to them. DestinationAlexandria. Maximum security as before.
Only that morning they had surfaced at the exact time arranged, to be met and escorted into harbour by a motor gunboat of the Special Boat Squadron. With her false screen rigged once more, the U-boat had been led to a moored depot ship, and within minutes, or so it had seemed, had been additionally camouflaged with canvas dodgers, paint. ing stages, and anything else which might avoid interest. Not that there was much likelihood of that. The harbour had plenty of evidence of repair work and hasty overhauls. One more veteran would excite little attention.
He recalled the first time she had actually spoken to him. He had been standing just inside the cabin, watching as Churchill had held a cup of soup to her lips. How small she had looked. Lost in a submarine sweater and somebody’s bestbell-bottom trousers.
She had suddenly pushed the cup away and had said huskily, `Where were you?’ Her eyes had filled with terror, like those of a trapped animal. ‘You didn’t come!’ Then she had fallen back on the pillows.
Churchill had said, `She ain’t makin’ sense yet, sir.’ He had been genuinely worried. `But we don’t give up where I come from.’
Marshall thought too of her body as it had looked when she had been brought aboard. The angry marks on her skin, the blood around her mouth. He had never known such unreasoning fury as at those moments. If he could have got his hands on Travis he would have killed him.
Once alongside the depot ship things had moved swiftly. Grim-faced officers had come for Travis and the three agents. Medical staff had looked after the girl and the wounded agent, Moss. The Italian, who had apparently enjoyed the passage to Alexandria immensely, had walked up the brow without assistance, waving to the watching sailors like visiting royalty.
Smith had been the last to leave. In the searing sunlight, in his filthy boots and leather coat, he had looked for all the world like another Peter Lorre.
`I wish you well, Captain.’ He had held out his hand. `You are a brave man.’ He had tapped his heart gravely. `But too much of this, I think.’
The door opened silently. `The captain will see you now, sir.’
Marshall followed him into a deserted corridor. In his whit
e shirt and shorts he felt out of place. Flowing robes, the scent of strong coffee and young girls would have been more suitable.
It was a similar room to the one he had just left, except that it was crammed with cabinets, telephones and littered tables. Even the dancing girls were hidden by maps and charts which hung from every wall.
Captain Browning was silhouetted against the window, his head shining like a chestnut in the reflected glare.
He turned and said, `By God, Marshall, you never fail to astound me.’ He gripped his hand and shook it slowly. `You look well, despite what you’ve been doing.’
Marshall placed his cap on a table and sat down. Brown= ing’s grip had changed. It was almost shaky. Like someone with fever.
`I’ll say no more.’ Browning settled himself in a chair. `Danger seems to agree with you.’
He did not offer him a drink. Nor did there appear to be any in the room.
`Commander Simeon will want to speak with you shortly.’ He lowered his gaze. `He’s with our Intelligence chaps. Checking what Cowan has discovered from Travis. I’ve read your report too, of course. About the destroyer being sunk by a guided bomb.’ He shook his massive head. `Terrible. All getting beyond me.’
`Which ship was she, sir?’ He saw her again. Charging in with her consort for the kill. His own command.
`The Dundee.’ Browning turned as if to look out of the window, the swivel chair creaking under his weight. `My son was midshipman in her.’
Marshall stared at him. All the time. It never stopped. While they had been at sea, as Smith had directed their efforts into one savage attack on the police post, others had suffered.
`I’m very sorry, sir. Were there any survivors?’
Browning took a deep breath. `A few. He wasn’t one of them, I’m afraid.’ He looked at Marshall, but his eyes seemed to go right through him. `I’ll miss that lad, you know.’
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