He had heard about Masters’ temporary replacement as soon as he had returned to duty: Lieutenant-Commander Mark Crozier, another regular, straight from H.M.S. Vernon like Masters, but there was no other similarity. So he would keep calm, not let it get to him.
‘Don’t I know it.’ He turned over some papers. ‘Sorry I’ve got to lumber you with this one.’ He looked up again. Pale eyes, very steady, very cold. ‘Southampton, or just this side of it. A beast reported last night, but our team from Portsmouth was diverted. So there’s no time to hang about. I’ll check on the state of things in the meantime.’ He pushed the familiar package across the desk with his other hand, the one Lincoln had heard about. Somewhere along the way Crozier had suffered an injury, a faulty detonator, somebody had said. He had lost most of his left hand and wore a glove to conceal its mechanical replacement. At any other time he would have been beached, and as a regular officer he would always have that at the back of his mind.
Crozier said, ‘Is your rating on top line?’
‘Yes, sir. He’ll be ready.’
Crozier let his gloved hand fall to the desk and thrust it out of sight, as if ashamed of the metallic thud.
‘I’ve seen his record, used to work with Clive Sewell. Knew him pretty well. Sorry he bought it. Surprised, too, that his rating volunteered to remain in the render-mines-safe section.’
‘You did, sir.’ He knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.
Crozier said coldly, ‘That is not what I meant. You get to rely on someone too much and you become vulnerable.’ His eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Or careless?’
The telephone rang and Lincoln tried to compose himself. Why did he always rise to it? Take it as something personal?
Crozier was saying, ‘Can’t help that, I’ve got work to do, unlike some apparently. Tell my driver to do it. Are you deaf, man?’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Fast as you can.’ He slammed the phone down. ‘The car will be ready in ten minutes. You can use my driver – we’ve wasted enough time as it is.’
Through the window Lincoln saw Downie sitting on a bench, turning his cap slowly in his hands. In his working rig, the worn satchel by his feet, still managing to look fresh and alert.
Lincoln tried not to go over it all again. It had started at the pub, his father’s local. Another of those boisterous, insincere parties where everyone had drunk too much. Downie must have seen it coming; he had wanted to stay away, and had offered to repair something in the kitchen. But Lincoln had insisted. Now it was too late.
He had heard one of his father’s friends having a go at Downie. Nice-looking lad like you, and no girlfriend to play around with? But then I suppose in the navy you make your own amusement, eh?
Lincoln could hear the laughter now, see Downie’s eyes watching him. He should have known, taken more care. Because of his anger, or the constant need to prove something. Like a voice repeating. He should have known.
It had been the last night of his leave. And there had been an air raid. Sirens, gunfire, ambulances clanging through the street.
Exactly like the nightmare. The shouting, the bared teeth. His father leaning over the bed, his voice like a scream. Too much to drink . . . they had both fallen asleep in the same bed.
He had seen his father’s fury and sweating outrage turn to shock, then fear when he had seized him and slammed his body against the bedroom wall. Even that seemed like part of the nightmare. Hitting him again and again, while Downie tried to pull him off.
I would have killed him otherwise.
They had travelled down to Dorset in the same train, but in separate carriages. That was yesterday.
The whole street must have known about it. Even his mother had been screaming at him, shielding her battered and bleeding husband, the man who had always treated her like a servant, and sometimes worse.
They had spoken only once. Downie had said, ‘Sorry about what happened. It was because of me.’
Lincoln had gripped his arm, angry, confused, determined. ‘Still want to keep us together?’
Downie had nodded. Nothing else.
Crozier said, ‘Still here, then?’
Lincoln left the office, closing the door as loudly as he dared.
It might all come out anyway. His father would say nothing; he put his own hopes and ambition before everything else. But somebody would. He saw Downie get to his feet and jam on his cap.
They regarded each other, officer and assistant. Part of the team.
‘Southampton. All set?’
Downie nodded slowly. ‘It’s good to be back,’ he glanced round, ‘sir.’
Lincoln heard a car start up and saw the gates being opened.
Good to be back. When they might both be dead before another day had passed. He had proved nothing. He had solved nothing. But he was ready, perhaps for the first time in his twenty-one years.
Leading Wren Margot Lovatt got out of the car and opened the boot. She was about to take Lincoln’s untidy bag when Downie shook his head and stowed it with his own.
She saw him smile, and felt the warmth of recognition, the memory of David Masters leading this youth from the field, the air still thick with smoke and the stench of blazing fuel. A burned-out plane and its dead crew, and the lieutenant who had held the George Cross. Downie’s officer. His friend.
In her two and a half years in the W.R.N.S. she had seen and learned a lot. A far cry from her quiet upbringing in Petersfield. The doctor’s daughter . . .
Perhaps women were quicker to recognize such things.
She leaned over to fasten the boot and felt the pendant move against her skin. Always a reminder, as if she needed one.
She looked at the typed destination, about fifty miles away. It should be quiet enough, through part of the New Forest. Like peacetime, if you could forget the checkpoints and the barrage balloons.
She said, ‘We should be there about lunchtime, sir. I know the road pretty well.’
Lincoln climbed into the back of the car. Downie, after a slight hesitation, got in beside her.
The gates slid past and they were out on the road.
She thought of that one visit to Firebrand. Chris had told her, ‘You’re a part of this. She’s not a rival.’
She remembered her father’s voice on the telephone when she had called to tell him she and Chris were getting engaged, whatever that meant in wartime, and that she wanted to bring him home, whenever that was possible. Her father had surprised her, more than she would have believed.
‘By all means. I was telling your mother the other day. It’s time we cleaned out Graham’s old room. I’ll get onto Lucy right away. Mister Warren is a good hand at decorating.’
He had been genuinely pleased, happier than she could remember. Maybe they had finally accepted what was past.
She and Chris were in love. It seemed to shine far brighter than the uncertainties. And . . . she confronted it . . . the danger.
She had told her closest friend some of it. ‘You see, Toni, I’ve never done it before.’
Toni had regarded her fondly, but with a certain amusement. ‘Twenty-one and a virgin? That really is something to brag about!’
She wondered if he had put Toni’s drawing somewhere safe from prying eyes. He would keep it with her cap, he had told her.
After that first time, when he had gone back to Firebrand to prepare for the takeover, she had lain alone in the bed and touched herself, where he had touched her, and remembered every precious sensation.
She was afraid, and she thought he was, too, although he was careful to hide it from her.
He was used to danger; he needed to be. They must hang onto every second together.
She saw the young officer’s eyes in the driving mirror and thought of Masters, the bond which had formed between them when everything had been against it.
Masters was away somewhere, and the two-and-a-half ringer, Crozier, had taken his place. Not for long, she hoped. Unforthcoming and impatient. She wondered what he
had been like before.
Downie was watching her gloved hands on the wheel. He had not learned to drive, although his father had owned a little van for the business. If there had been more time . . . He turned as they passed two large dogs jumping and snapping at a stick held by a grinning farm labourer. Now they were going to another job, and he wondered how Lincoln was taking it. If anything came out about the trouble . . . He frowned. When it came out, what would happen? To me. To Mike?
He saw the girl’s shoe press the brake pedal; it was probably the same hill where she had pranged the other car. She was very pretty. Her boyfriend was the lieutenant, now promoted, he had heard, who had been in command of the motor launch when they had found the dead airman; she had been there, waiting, when they had got back. And after Clive had been killed she had stroked his face, stopped him from breaking down completely.
Maybe he should request a transfer, before anything worse happened. Back to general service, or to another branch entirely.
He lowered his left arm and squeezed it between his seat and the door. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, the car bonnet swaying from side to side between the ragged hedges and past the occasional cottage. Then he felt his hand gripped tightly, only for a few seconds. But it was enough.
If there was any future, it was already decided.
Captain James Wykes took off his cap and shook it over the stove, the droplets of rain hissing back at him.
‘It’s all moving a little too quickly for my liking.’ He watched Masters unfasten his waterproof tunic and stretch the muscles of his back. ‘How did it go today?’
Masters recalled the moment when the perspex dome had been fastened down by the selected artificers who had followed his every move and request. It did not take long to get the feel of the midget submarine. Everything within reach, like a toy. A deadly toy.
‘It went well, sir.’ He sensed the other man’s uneasiness. It was rare for Wykes, he thought. But it was too late. Either it was on, or it would have to be cancelled.
He had gone over it a hundred times. The midget would be carried on a special trestle on the casing of a conventional submarine, complete with the container which held the mines, not an easy job for any submarine commander. The boat which had been chosen was Trojan. Another twist of fate: she was the same class as his own command.
Wykes said, ‘It’s yet to be confirmed, but all our information points to Monday. That gives us five days. The Germans have kept the area well sealed, as you can imagine. All the mines will be loaded into one ship, which will transport them to St. Malo.’ He snapped his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Piece of cake to them. In St. Malo they will be offloaded into big naval lighters, like those they used in the Med. After that, we’ve lost them. The next time we meet will be in deadly earnest.’
Masters saw the chart in his mind, surprised how easily it had all come back to him, after the desk and the ‘incidents’ he had visited in one role or another.
Time was the enemy. The midget submarine was too slow to make a safe approach under its own power. Trojan would have to get them as close as possible before being launched. Even then there could be problems. As one artificer had commented, ‘After all, sir, it hasn’t been done before!’
Masters had seen their faces, and could guess what most of them were thinking. Another death-or-glory type. Somebody with nothing to lose.
He could even smile about it. They were wrong on both counts.
A seaman brought some mugs of tea, and when he departed Wykes produced a flask and topped up each one with brandy. ‘Keep the ruddy cold out!’
It was cold, and the wind across Plymouth and Devonport Dockyard promised snow. Nobody really knew what it would be like once the midget was cast adrift and left to her limited resources, and the man at the helm.
Masters had thought about it when he had unfastened the wrist compass, the same one he had seen lying by the corpse of the previous pilot.
Wykes was sipping the hot tea. ‘We shall know by this time tomorrow.’ He half smiled. ‘I shall know, and I will tell you myself. You know the drill. Any letters you want to leave, I can deal with.’
It was still early, but already growing dark outside the building. When the dockyard workers went home another team would move the midget into one of the basins, and on board the waiting submarine. There must be no breach of security at this critical stage.
Wykes said, ‘She told me you’d been to see her, by the way.’
‘I don’t see that anyone could object to that, after all she’s been through.’
‘I’d have done the same. She’s a fine woman, a brave one too. Things often jump the rails on these missions. There’s always the risk of betrayal, or some misguided interference. She could have been killed, I know that, and all because a handful of “patriots” were ready to condemn her, simply because she was her father’s daughter!’ He was getting angry. ‘It was pure luck that some of our people were there and quick to act.’
‘She told you about the scars on her back?’
‘I saw them. Her hair, too. We shall have to accept that in any occupied country most people just want to be left alone, to survive, until by some miracle the enemy is not there any more. Maybe it would have been like that here, if . . .’ He took out the cigarette case. ‘But if is often the margin, eh?’
‘I’d like to call her when things start moving, sir. I tried a few times before I was driven down here.’
Wykes watched the smoke floating over the stove. ‘I know. I thought it best to prevent it.’ He shrugged. ‘In my place, God help you, you’d have done the same. But we’ll see. R.H.I.P.’
Somewhere a door slammed, and Masters heard a car splashing across the yard. So typical, he thought. Timed to the minute.
Wykes replaced his cap and said, ‘I must be off. I’ll be in London until Pioneer is completed.’
‘I don’t envy you, sir.’ Completed. One way or the other.
Wykes glanced around. ‘C-in-C Plymouth is in charge as of now. His staff will fill you in on conditions, and timing.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘Good luck. And remember, one hand for the King, eh?’
Masters watched him leave. He had first heard that sentiment as long ago as Dartmouth, when he had been a cadet. ‘One hand for the King,’ an old instructor had told him, ‘but keep the other one for yourself!’
A lieutenant coughed politely, the same one who had hardly been out of Masters’ sight since his arrival in Plymouth.
‘I can show you to your quarters, sir.’ Again, that curious glance.
Cell, more likely. ‘Thanks. Lead the way.’
He would write a letter. In the same breath, he knew he would not. It would help neither of them if he were killed or captured.
But she would know.
Operation Pioneer had begun.
H.M.S/M. Trojan left Devonport Dockyard under cover of darkness, guided almost as far as Plymouth Sound itself by a powerful harbour launch. Only a small, hooded blue sternlight led the submarine through crowded moorings and past heavier, anchored warships. It was bitterly cold, the conning tower and casing treacherous for the remaining watchkeepers on deck.
Once in open water all the usual checks were carried out, especially the trim of the boat, to allow for the midget’s extra load abaft the conning tower. For Masters it was a strangely unsettling experience. He had never been a passenger in a submarine before, except when he had been under training, and even then he had been given enough to do. But in Trojan he soon found time on his hands. Too much time.
He had met Trojan’s commanding officer two or three times; he could not recall exactly when or where. It was like that in submarines. The same rank as himself, an experienced skipper who had seen plenty of action in home waters and in the Mediterranean. He would not need to be reminded of this latest responsibility. He must keep to a time factor, and avoid every kind of shipping, which was hard enough in these waters. If enemy contact was made it would be up to him, his skill and determination, to
give them the slip. One depth charge, even a near miss, would finish everything. There would be nothing left.
Perhaps he had expected it to be easier, to be accepted, to fit in. Trojan was, after all, a twin of his last boat. He had noticed when they were at diving stations that the navigating officer had wedged his enamel mug under the ready-use chart rack, exactly as he had done during his short time in Tornado. When he glanced around he sometimes imagined different faces, heard other voices.
They had made him welcome enough, and had cheerfully found room for the four artificers who would have the final word on the midget’s readiness.
They surfaced at night, but no cancellations or new orders were received on the W/T. They had the sea to themselves.
Masters spent most of his time studying the chart and the drawings which Wykes’ staff had carefully marked, with notes about known local hazards. Trojan’s commander had joined him several times, and had checked the calculations which were already prepared for the midget’s solitary passage. On the chart the course appeared more roundabout than necessary, considering that speed was essential, but allowances had to be made for tide and current to obtain the best result with minimum delay.
Trojan’s commander had remarked, ‘Five knots is no pacemaker, David, but in those waters it’s much safer!’
Masters sat on a locker with his back to the control room’s bulkhead, where he was least in the way. Where he could see and feel everything, as he had done before. Until that day.
In those waters, the commander had said. Masters leaned forward and felt the waterproof tunic drag across his shoulders. Where had the time gone? They were in those waters now.
The soft, purring vibration of the electric motors, the tension, and the smell. People said that metal did not have a smell. How could it? They had never served in submarines. It had a smell, and a taste all of its own.
He watched the faces. The hydroplane operators, hands moving occasionally on their wheels, studying the tell-tale dials, holding the trim. The navigating officer at his table, feet wide apart, staring at his notes and licking the point of a pencil. And the coxswain, somehow always the centre of things, eyes never still. Compass, depth gauge, revolution counter. Like a submarine’s heartbeat.
Twelve Seconds to Live (2002) Page 32