Twelve Seconds to Live (2002)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Again he had glanced over at Elaine de Courcy. Her own father, willingly or otherwise, must have had a hand in it. Collaborator. So where did she fit in?

  He had said, ‘Do the Russians know about it?’

  Wykes had groped for another cigarette. ‘We and the Russians are fighting the same enemy. That does not necessarily mean we’re both on the same side!’

  He had decided that he would never understand James Wykes.

  She would be with Wykes now, halfway to London, where all the loose ends would finally tie up. And still he knew hardly anything about her. Her mother was English, and living in the Channel Islands. If her father was working under pressure for the Germans, her mother would be seen as a ready hostage. Wykes had told him that at least two attempts had been made on Raymond de Courcy’s life. Terrorists or freedom fighters; as Wykes said, it depends on which side of the table you’re standing.

  One fact stood out. Elaine de Courcy was a link between her father and Commander John Critchley. At some stage, and Wykes had gone no further, Critchley had been prepared to help de Courcy change sides yet again, for old times’ sake. But who now would ever know?

  A telegraphist peered around a switchboard. ‘Phone call for you, sir.’ His eyes moved from Masters to the newly made window in the wall. ‘I can put it through to your office.’

  Masters hurried up the steps, his mind swinging between the latest operation and the discovery of the homing device aboard the wrecked freighter. It would probably be Bumper Fawcett, demanding to know the latest progress. If any. Don’t fall astern, Masters. I’m relying on you, what?

  He recognized her voice instantly. Calm, almost matter-of-fact.

  He said, ‘You’re calling from London. Did you forget something? If so . . .’

  She answered, ‘I’m here. We both are. It was decided, you see.’

  ‘Here, at the house?’ It was not making sense. Coker would be in a real turmoil. Or would he?

  ‘Didn’t want to scare you when you got back. In any case, you told me I would be safe here.’

  She was playing with him. Wykes was probably listening, enjoying it.

  And at the same time, he knew he was not.

  He wanted to stop it. Prevent it destroying something which could never work.

  The room with the uniform hanging in it, the smell of her perfume, still clinging to the place where she and Critchley had been lovers.

  ‘Are you there?’ Again the hesitation he remembered. ‘David?’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  The door opened an inch. ‘Can you come, sir?’

  It had saved him. He snatched up his cap, and saw his greatcoat folded over a chair. The way she had held it around her throat . . .

  Lovers. Why should he care? Why should it matter? It happened.

  The Operations Room had filled with people in that short while. Nothing else must get in the way.

  He saw the Operations Officer tapping out his pipe, the yeoman of signals speaking into a handset. It was time.

  Masters unbuttoned the top of his jacket and looked at the plot.

  But it did matter. There was no going back. No choice at all.

  The Wrennery, as it was nicknamed, stood a hundred yards or so from the church and the gates which guarded the naval establishment, one of the larger houses in the village, whose occupants had moved away soon after the outbreak of war. During the day it was pleasant enough for the girls who were quartered there, but at night, especially for those who were watchkeeping in Operations or the Signals department, it was prudent to await an escort from the main gates to avoid unwanted attention, and not only from passing servicemen. There was a bathhouse and shower room beneath the building which had once been a garage, and all the hot water was provided by a massive boiler. A young Wren had screamed the place down one night when she had seen the boiler man peering at her when she had been in the middle of a shower. An old man, but not too old, apparently, as someone had pointed out.

  Leading Wren Margot Lovatt sat on a cushion, her back against the wall in the room she shared with three of the Wren contingent. She wore warm pyjamas, and there was always a heavy sweater and duffle coat close by in case the air raid alarm sounded. Like schoolgirls having an unlawful party in the dormitory after lights out, she thought. Everybody seemed to have known it was her twenty-first birthday. There had been cake supplied from the main galley, complete with coloured icing and a full array of candles. Other, smaller cakes too, for handing round, enough to empty a ration book, she could imagine Lucy saying.

  Julie, another driver, with hair so blonde it looked white in the light of a solitary lamp, had given her some silk stockings. She had a boyfriend who was on the Atlantic run, which occasionally took him as far as the United States, where you could get such luxuries. She had touched herself suggestively and giggled.

  ‘Mind you, he wants paying for them!’

  And Antonia, known by everyone, even her officers, as Toni, who had presented her with a picture she had painted herself. She had been an art student until she had joined the Wrens, and had been regarded as a bit posh by some of the girls because her father was a knight. She took it all in good spirits, and could match any one when it came to humour. Like her painting, for instance. It depicted a squad of Wrens on a parade ground, although only their caps revealed their service. All were naked to the waist, bare-breasted and smiling coyly.

  A massive gunner’s mate confronted them, his face suffused with embarrassment and rage, while nearby a childlike subbie was hiding his eyes from the outthrust bosoms. The gunner’s mate was yelling, ‘Are you deaf, girls? I distinctly ordered a kit inspection!’

  It would have a place of honour, except perhaps when Second Officer Tucker was on her rounds. A formidable woman, she had been a teacher at one of the better schools. As Julie had said of her, ‘She would have been really at home with a swastika on her sleeve!’

  There had been wine, too: Lesley worked in the supply office. She had said, ‘It’ll not be missed, tonight of all nights!’

  Margot thought of the card and letter from her parents. Her mother had included a golden ‘key of the door’; she had probably forgotten she had originally got it for Graham for his twenty-first birthday. Her father had sensibly sent money. Neither had ever commented on her returning to duty ahead of time. Like shutting a door; like Graham’s room. A full stop.

  Julie was saying, ‘Let’s have another look at it, Margot.’

  She opened her pyjama jacket and turned slightly so that the little pendant might catch the light.

  The girl from Supply, Lesley, said, ‘It’s lovely. He’s got good taste, that’s for sure.’

  Julie reached out and unfastened the next button, and the next. ‘Don’t fuss, just for once!’

  Margot sat still as the other girl pulled the jacket down over her bare shoulders. She repeated, ‘Don’t fuss, girl! Just imagine this is a lovely ball gown, and that the orchestra has just struck up!’

  Nobody spoke, and the room, the whole house, was suddenly silent.

  Toni, whose father was a knight, said, ‘I’ll do a sketch of you, if you like. Surprise him.’

  Margot touched the pendant and her breast. ‘When all the bruises have gone.’ She wanted to stop, cover herself, but they were her friends. They needed each other. Sometimes more than they would admit.

  A truck rattled past the house, and there was singing, lusty but strangely sad.

  Bless all the sergeants and W.O. ones

  Bless all the corporals and their fucking sons,

  For we’re saying good-bye to them all . . .

  Lesley said, ‘The redcaps’ll catch that little lot down the road!’

  But Margot heard none of it.

  Today she had been there, but not in time to see him. Not soon enough to hear him speak.

  Only the vibrant snarl of those engines, the flurries of pumps and the acrid smell of high-octane. No Smoking Abaft the Bridge.

  She had imagine
d the sailors, some of his seamen, in their long white sweaters, chinstays down, a touch of smartness for leaving harbour, if you did not look too closely.

  Loosening the mooring lines, singling up, a quick grin here and there, a shouted word to some particular chum in another boat.

  They accepted it. They could even joke about it.

  She had a glass in her hand and heard Juliesay, ‘’Bout the last of it, I’m afraid. Bloody lucky I’m not driving tonight!’

  Toni had wriggled onto her knees and had produced her familiar sketch pad.

  ‘I’m going to do a rough right now. I can see it!’

  Margot wanted to protest. Perhaps she had had too much to drink? A motor cycle roared along the pitch-dark road. Probably a despatch rider with orders from H.Q. or Portland. But for those few seconds it sounded like the sudden surge of speed, the lithe grey hulls heading into danger.

  She allowed the pyjama jacket to fall from her body and said, ‘Then do it like this, Toni.’ She wanted to say something to cover her true feelings, to joke about the picture of the gunner’s mate. She knew that if she did, she would break completely.

  Instead she held the pendant again and pressed it into her skin.

  ‘I’m here, Chris.’

  So that he would know.

  Chris Foley leaned over the chart, his elbows pressed on the table while he concentrated on the pencilled calculations and fixes, feeling the pressure this way and that while 366 rolled on a regular, unhurried swell. Silent routine, with everything but essential machinery switched off, so that inboard noises seemed all the more intrusive. Boots scraping on the open bridge above, the occasional clink of metal as a gun moved restlessly on its mounting. Somebody coughing, then stifling it as if that might betray them.

  He tried again, the brass dividers moving over the well-worn chart, tracing distances and soundings, the uneven line of the coast . . . The enemy.

  Nothing new, not that far from their last minelaying mission. To hear them discussing it at the conference you would think it was too familiar even to question. The old hands knew it was dangerous, even fatal, to allow it to become familiar. The young ones soon learned. Or else . . .

  You always felt vulnerable without power, without movement, but at times like this listening and hearing were more important.

  The chart light seemed almost blinding in this small, screened space. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and took another look at his notes; he might not get another chance before the job was done. Or all hell broke loose.

  He recalled Tony Brock’s indignation at the conference. ‘Why us? The R.A.F. could sort this lot out with a couple of raids! Waste of effort, I call it.’ Brock was always able to work up a fury without effort. He was up there now at the head of the flotilla, still fuming. This time he was not the senior officer in charge, and taking orders from somebody else, a straight-laced regular, had been too much. Foley felt his lips crack into a grin. Brock’s men called him ‘Bash On Regardless’ behind his back. It suited him.

  He adjusted the towel around his neck. It was time to move. Listen and wait. The operation was to be carried out by vessels designed and built for the work, coastal minelayers, which carried fifty or so mines. The professionals. They were described as fast, but the best they could manage was fifteen knots, after they had unloaded their deadly cargo.

  Foley massaged his eyes and tried again. The Operations Officer had said that reliable intelligence had located German midget submarines experimenting or training in the Seine Bay, either at Le Havre or close by at Trouville. They would need supplies, and because of the destruction of vital railway links those would have to come by sea, and at night.

  Foley stood away from the table and straightened his back. Maybe tonight. He recalled what Masters had told him about the midget submarine which had been towed into Portland. It had been a secret, then. He moved out of the chart space and waited for his vision to clear. It was not a secret any more.

  He glanced back at the chart space. Three coastal minelayers, a total of six motor launches and three motor gunboats as escort.

  As Brock had said, ‘In and out like a parson in a knocking shop!’

  And then he thought of the village pub, how they had clung to one another, oblivious of the watching eyes, uncaring.

  So much he had wanted to say. So much. Holding and kissing her. Afraid of hurting her, but barely able to let her go.

  You will take care, Chris? For me? And that was only yesterday.

  He thrust his way up the steps and into the open bridge. It was very cold. All the layers of clothing were not enough; the cold came from inside. Keyed up. She had told him how she had heard the correspondent on the radio, ‘Talking about you, Chris! I was so moved, so proud!’ Her eyes had been shining then, her cheeks wet. Yesterday.

  He held onto a flag locker as if to get the feel of the boat, his command. The men at their guns, straining their eyes into the night, their ears for that hated sound of E-Boat engines. See them first, and you’ve a fair chance. The voice of experience.

  Allison was in the forepart of the bridge. He lowered his binoculars momentarily as he turned to acknowledge him. More confident with every day, but still wary of his skipper after that brief flare-up. Signalman Chitty, muffled up to the eyes, one arm hooked around his machine-guns. Titch Kelly at his Oerlikon. The rest was lost in darkness.

  Foley moved up beside the coxswain.

  ‘Not much longer, I think.’

  Dougie Bass, his legs straddled on his grating, hands gripping the motionless wheel, glanced at him. ‘No mines on board this time anyway, sir. This’ll do me!’

  Foley beckoned to Allison. Was it that easy? Bass always had the knack of making it seem that way.

  ‘Go aft, Number One. Check with the Oerlikons and the depth charges. Minimum settings, remember?’

  ‘I’ve checked them, sir.’ He added hastily, ‘I’ll do it again.’

  Foley returned to the forepart of the bridge. If there were any midget subs about, a depth charge or two would put paid to them.

  He considered it. There was no need to ride Allison. He was keen, and he was learning. Then why . . .

  ‘Flak, starboard beam, sir!’

  Pinpricks of light, too far away even to hear the explosions of anti-aircraft fire. A raid, perhaps. Or a straggler trying to get home. There was a lot of cloud, and the distant shell bursts were soon hidden.

  Foley ducked below the screen and peered at his watch. Midnight. Trafalgar Day was over. He pictured the chart again. The minelayers should be unloading their ‘eggs’. And she would still be awake. Would be wearing the pendant . . .

  Allison was back. ‘All checked, sir.’

  ‘Warn the Chief, Toby. Stand by.’

  He heard Allison speaking to the engine room, and could imagine the reaction. What’s up with Old Chris, then? Losing his bottle?

  He thought of all the other motor launches. He knew all the skippers, at least by sight. Survivors. He wondered if the telegraphist named Bush was regretting leaving 366 in spite of a likely promotion. Glad to be out of it, no matter how it had felt at the time. But when he was taken unawares, by the news on the radio maybe, During the night, our light coastal forces were in action, it would all come back. He remembered Masters’ face when he had been talking about the midget submarine and its dead German crewman. It never really left you.

  And there was Dick Claridge, following somewhere directly astern, no doubt cursing the folly of his superiors for sending his boat to sea without giving him time to break in the new hands. A good skipper, none better, but always on edge. He had got married six months ago, to a girl he had known since she had been at school. It was something you had to consider, whether it was fair to any woman to have to put up with the separation and the constant worry. It was not like having a shore job, or serving in some remote area. Any day, or night like this one, it might happen. And she would get a telegram, the telegram, which nobody ever mentioned.

  Suppose
Margot and I . . .

  He heard the extra lookout-cum-boatswain’s mate mutter something, and Titch Kelly’s sharp retort. ‘For God’s sake, take it off yer back!’

  Foley tried to loosen his muscles. The remark could have been directed at him.

  The explosion was sudden, and because of the stillness all the more menacing. Not close, but he felt the vibration against the lower hull, a nudge more than anything else.

  Foley waited, counting seconds. No flak, no gunfire. Maybe one of the minelayers had set off one of her own eggs? It was not unknown.

  Or maybe an E-Boat had been out there, playing the listening game as well, until a target had crossed its sights. In which case . . . He said aloud, ‘Well, ’Swain?’

  Bass said, ‘Torpedo, I’d ’ave said, sir. But nothin’ like I’ve ’eard before.’

  Foley did not move. One torpedo. The enemy coast was ten miles away, the minelayers less than two off the starboard quarter.

  ‘Tell the Chief, now!’ He had not even raised his voice. As if he had been told what to do. Obeying orders, except that nothing had happened.

  He heard Allison speaking on the intercom and wanted to tell him to be silent.

  It must have been a mine. The whole bay would be a hornets’ nest within half an hour.

  Allison called, ‘W/T, sir. Mayday from Galaxy. Torpedoed.’

  Foley nodded, trying to hold the fragments together. No wonder there had been no signals from the senior officer. Galaxy was his code name.

  There had been no warning, no time. The minelayer was probably sinking, some of her people injured or killed by the blast. Why no second explosion?

  Allison was standing close beside him, his night glasses moving slowly across the quarter.

  As if he had been doing it all his life. Foley said, ‘One tin-fish, Toby. Because that’s all those midgets can carry.’

  Bass exclaimed, ‘The leader’s started up, sir!’

  Brock was wasting no time, or chance. A twist of fate had changed things. He was in command.

  Foley gripped the screen as the engines coughed and roared into life. They were moving again. Alive, and not sitting ducks.