Seaton walked into H.M.S. Syren’s long panelled wardroom and searched his feelings. In truth he had not expected to see it again. Not when he had watched the net-layer through his periscope, knowing he must still go on with the attack, trapped or not.
It was strangely quiet in the granite building. He had already heard that Vanneck and Gervaise Allenby had gone with their own boats to Scapa to await news of the attack. Seaton had not seen them on his swift return from the Shetlands. In fact, he felt as if his feet had barely touched the ground.
They had met with their towing submarine exactly as planned, and from then he had only blurred recollections. A passage crew had been ferried over to complete XE 16’s homeward run, while he and the others had manhandled Niven into the rubber dinghy to be pulled aboard the towing submarine.
Then, after handshakes and hot drinks from the submarine’s company, most of whom looked in worse shape than they did, it had been a matter of collapsing into bunks.
One thing stood out in Seaton’s mind, however. Apart from Niven, who had still been suffering from his underwater ordeal, there had been a real reluctance to leave XE 16 in the hands of a passage crew. In the past it had been quite different, or so he thought. Not this time. He had looked astern at the glinting shape rolling to the tow-line and had wanted to say something. To mark the moment, and what they had done together.
He took a glass from the steward and tried to relax. It had been good of Trenoweth to come down and greet them. Typical, too.
Drake said, ‘Cheers!’
Jenkyn, surprisingly ill-at-ease in his officers’ quarters, gulped down his drink and said, ‘Not’alf!’
Trenoweth was saying, ‘It’s all laid on. Two weeks leave, although I’d have expected more.’ He looked worried. ‘Unless of course the Admiralty is brewing something else.’
Seaton glanced at himself in the wall mirror. Apart from fresh underwear, he was dressed in the same clothing as before, and looked more like a survivor than a victor. He thought of the other two midgets waiting in Scapa Flow. If he had failed, they would have been sent in. Without a chance in hell.
Two weeks leave. He must be dog-tired. The words had only just penetrated. What would he do?
Drake said, ‘Poor old Richard. I hope they don’t keep him in dock for long.’ He looked at Trenoweth. ‘Got quite a knocking-about. Did well, I thought.’
Jenkyn nodded. ‘Yeh.’
The captain eyed Drake thoughtfully. ‘I understand you were going to spend your next leave with him and his wife?’
Seaton watched them both. For a moment he had imagined Trenoweth was going to add, ‘if you got back.’
Drake looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes, sir. But under the circumstances ...’
‘I think it’s a good idea.’ Trenoweth rubbed his hands. ‘I’m only sorry you can’t talk about what you’ve done. Can’t even give you a decoration while all this security stuff is going on.’
Seaton yawned. ‘Sorry, sir. I’m feeling it now. The floor just came up and hit me.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Trenoweth nodded. ‘I won’t keep you any longer.’ He shook hands with Jenkyn. ‘Well done.’
The E.R.A. grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He looked at the others. ‘I’m goin’ over to me mess. Then kip. For about a year.’
Trenoweth beamed. ‘Mustn’t forget your leave!’
Jenkyn turned away. ‘I ’adn’t, sir, believe me, I ’adn’t!’
Trenoweth said, ‘I just want a quiet word with you, David.’ He glanced meaningly at Drake.
The New Zealander seemed pleased to go. ‘Sure thing, sir.’ He shook hands. ‘See you when I surface. Better put down for a shake or I’ll probably wake up when the war’s over.’ He winked. ‘So long, Dave.’
He went out, and Seaton heard him whistling South of the Border.
‘Sir?’
Trenoweth eased his remaining leg and perched on the edge of his chair.
‘I think they’ve got a bit of a bloody nerve. That’s my personal feeling anyway.’
They were obviously somebody high up.
Trenoweth continued, ‘They want you to report to the Admiralty when you get to London.’ He waited, watching Seaton’s pale face.
‘I was de-briefed at Scapa, sir I can’t add much to the report.’
He got a mental picture of the silent steel deckhouses. How many had died there? Had they known what was happening?
‘Yes, yes, I know, my boy. I’d have thought it could have waited for two weeks. Until you were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again, eh?’
Seaton said wearily, ‘It’s all right, sir. Better get it over with.’
He thought of his father. He would have to see him. It was only fair. He thought too of Drake. His face as he had spoken about his leave. If he was after Niven’s wife, something would have to be done. One more raid like this last one and they’d be at each other’s throats if that happened.
‘I suppose so.’ Trenoweth poured some more whisky. ‘Venables wants to see you. And some of the Intelligence brains.’ He added angrily, ‘God, I wish I was going with you. I’d tell them a thing or two. Damned desk-warriors.’ He grinned. ‘I suppose I’m one of those as well!’
‘Hardly, sir.’ Seaton tried again. ‘I’d like to talk about the attack with you, when I’ve had time to think.’
‘Of course.’ Trenoweth’s voice was getting slurred. ‘Be happy to. You know that.’ He stood up carefully and leaned on his stick. ‘But memories fade, given time. In war, they must.’ He walked to the door. ‘Ask the doc to give you something if you can’t sleep. Tell him from me, I’ll kick his arse for him if he starts moaning about it!’
The door closed and Seaton leaned back in the chair. It was the same one he had used when he had come back that other time. Eating the steward’s scones.
Two weeks leave. He would break his journey to London. Go to Rosyth first and see Richard. His mind was getting confused. Or instead he could … a glass rolled across the floor, and he realised he had let it drop. He stood up, suddenly desperate, angry too at having to see Venables. Anybody.
‘Damn and bloody hell!’ His voice came back at him from the dark panels.
He walked unsteadily through the door, knowing a steward was watching him anxiously, and made for his room.
They were back. He must think of nothing else. Nothing more must concern him.
Working late in her office, Second Officer Dennison looked up as Trenoweth returned from the wardroom.
‘All right, sir?’
‘Not sure.’ He leaned on her desk and added, ‘He doesn’t say much, but he’s taking it badly.’
‘I don’t know how they put up with it.’ She tapped her teeth with a pencil. ‘Cooped up in that little hull. Wet, cold, and probable scared half to death.’
He nodded. ‘They do it for nice young women like you, and for silly old buggers like me.’ A smile spread across his face. ‘But at the moment I’m feeling not-so-old. Come out with me and celebrate, eh?’ He hesitated, unsure of himself. ‘Please?’
She was already putting on her tricorn hat. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ She was laughing. ‘Sir!’
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’ Captain Walter Venables strode around the desk and held out his hand. ‘Busy days.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘I’ll try not to keep you too long.’
Seaton sat down and glanced around the big room. It was much as he had imagined. Spartan, severe, with any sign of luxury removed for the duration. He looked at Venables. Like the man. All the superfluous trimmings honed away.
The room was part of a complex, deep under a London street. He had gone through several security checks to reach it, seeing busy typists from open doors, hearing the rattle of teleprinters, the vague stammer of morse.
‘I’ve studied most of the reports.’ Venables took out his silver case and withdrew it immediately. ‘I forgot. You don’t.’ He lit a cigarette for himself and continued, ‘Your attack was a complete success, of cou
rse.’
Seaton waited. Of course.
‘The Hansa was blown to pieces, and much of the surrounding area damaged.’ He flicked open a loose-leaf folder. ‘Several patrol launches were also sunk. Everyone is impressed.’
‘What about the enemy, sir?’
‘Usual follow-up. Arrests and searches for arms and suspects but the local Resistance took good care to prepare for most eventualities. And we made certain the Germans knew it was an underwater attack, after you were well clear, naturally.’ He closed the folder. ‘The Germans have no excuse for mass recriminations against the Norwegians. That was how it was planned. No loose ends.’
Seaton watched him. Venables was genuinely satisfied. With himself. Because of the raid, or maybe because he had been proved right.
The captain added, ‘By getting you into position before the target arrived, we cut the risk of discovery. By building up your chances of success, the risk of severe reprisals by the Germans was also halved.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘Some, naturally, will die. But as patriots they will be remembered. Not as the Germans would have wished, as mindless terrorists who brought death and destruction amongst their own people for a lost cause.’
‘I think I understand, sir.’
Surprisingly, Venables smiled. It made him appear ten years younger.
‘I’m glad to know that.’ The mood changed just as swiftly. ‘Two years ago, our Intelligence people, working with the Czech Free Forces here in London, planned a daring assassination inside Czechoslovakia. They were parachuted down to work with the local Resistance. The rest is history. They succeeded in killing Reinhard Heydrich, Hitler’s right-hand man, and “protector” of Czechoslovakia. But there was no thinking-through, no plans for the aftermath. The result? The Germans wiped out a complete village, Lidice, every man, woman and child. Then they ploughed up each street, razed the place to the ground so that not one brick was left standing.’
Seaton had heard about it before, but it was suddenly much more stark and horrifying. He thought of the steel deckhouses. The German soldier’s eyes as he had been dragged out to die.
Venables said, ‘It was appalling. Maybe Heydrich, the Butcher as he was rightly called, was a possible rival for eventual leadership in Germany. But dead, he became a lever for the occupying power to smash home its lesson of terror, once and for all.’
Seaton thought of the town above his head. Streets black with rain, shabby people, half-empty shops, and burned ruins where buildings had once stood. A city fighting for its life and, thank God, still free.
Venables looked at his watch. ‘We must get on. I just wanted to speak with you first. I know how you felt. What it probably cost when you realised what had to be done. But war does not change in some things. It makes us soil our hands occasionally.’
Seaton stood up, feeling strangely uncomfortable in a clean shirt and his best uniform. It usually hung in a cupboard in the chilly room above Loch Striven.
‘I have no intention of involving our people in reckless and profitless schemes.’ Venables picked up his cap. ‘We need friends in Europe and Scandinavia, not a vast army of terrified souls who are too frightened of brutal reprisals to help us.’
He led the way to the door. ‘This will not take long. They are both busy men.’
Seaton almost smiled. For a moment he had imagined Venables had been considering his feelings.
He thought of his father’s booming voice on the telephone. ‘Home again, David? You have a fine time, you Navy lads!’
The room he was shown into was smaller than Venables’, and slightly less grim. A desk, some map tables and steel cabinets were softened by a carpet and comfortable leather chairs. It was very quiet, its security made more apparent by a massive steel girder across the ceiling.
The two ‘busy men’ were standing, facing the door, as if answering a cue. One wore the uniform of an air marshal, the other was dressed in a dove-grey suit. Apart from their ages, they had nothing in common.
Venables said, ‘Air Marshal Noel Ruthven, newly appointed as head of Combined Special Operations.’
It was a firm, wiry handshake. Like the man, neat and confident.
Seaton got the impression Venables did not much care for him. The way he had laid a slight stress on the word ‘Combined’. No service ever seemed to get used to another’s involvement.
He looked at the other man. Thick build, with a broad, outdoor face which had once been handsome. But he had the mark of a heavy drinker. A man who enjoyed life in the fullest sense.
There was something vaguely familiar about him, and yet Seaton was certain they had not met.
‘This is Rear Admiral Philip Niven. Naval Intelligence, of course.’
Seaton shook his hand. Niven, he should have known. He pictured the face he had seen at Rosyth. Tense and pale, but still one of youth. It was hard to find a young face in that of his father.
‘Proud of you, my boy.’ The admiral’s voice was deep and rich. ‘Damn good show all round, I thought. I’m sorry I’ve been too tied up to see my son, but –’ He sighed and left the reasons unsaid.
Ruthven said crisply, ‘But we have not brought you from a well-earned leave to bandy praise about, Seaton. Fact is, we’re in a cleft stick. There may be an operation where you can be of use. Your success, your general behaviour and ability to make and change decisions, single you out as an obvious choice. Point is, could you do it again, so soon?’
Rear Admiral Niven sat down at the desk and said bluntly, ‘ ’Course he can, He’s young. A lion, like we all were at his age.’ He grinned. ‘In the Navy at any rate.’
Ruthven did not rise to it. ‘It is not a question of stamina.’ He placed a paper-weight in the form of a First World War fighter plane on the edge of a table. ‘We have no target this time. No set objective where we can say, go there and do a, b or c. Your submarine may become a means to something else.’ He smiled, and it was genuine. ‘I am sorry. You must be getting fed up with all this mystery.’
‘Lieutenant Seaton accepts the necessity.’ Venables spoke severely. Like a house-master protecting a promising pupil.
‘Good.’ Ruthven eyed him calmly. ‘Really, Walter, you must not take everything I say as a criticism.’
Seaton said, ‘My command is as good as the boat, sir. Apart from my diver, we have worked together for some time.’
The admiral said heavily, ‘We know your record, and as for young Richard, he’ll buck up his ideas all right.’
Ruthven said sharply, ‘Your son had to kill a man, Philip. Not through a bomb-sight or range-finder, but with his bare hands and a knife. You make him sound as if he’s malingering after the measles!’
‘What I meant, sir,’ – Seaton was suddenly tired. Drained – ‘was that if I am told what to do, I will answer you then. But I was going to recommend my Number One for a command of his own. He’s earned it ten times over.’
‘Out of the question, just yet anyway.’ Venables sounded relieved. As if he had been expecting an outburst of some kind. ‘We need teamwork. Of the highest order.’
Ruthven rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m satisfied. Your destruction of the Hansa will have made a tremendous blow to the enemy’s production of a new weapon. I do not imagine for an instant that one success will seal the enemy’s fate, and I hope nobody here would feel anything but caution. As our prospects for invasion in Europe grow more apparent, so Germany’s determination to smash those chances will become more pressing, with less regard for safety. Weapons will be built, rockets and guided-bombs far better than those they used against our landings in Italy just five months ago. Bigger and more powerful, with no thought for those who might get killed in their manufacture and operation.’
The little speech seemed to embarrass him, and he said, ‘Be off now, Seaton. Just wanted to see you, not build your image from two dozen reports and certificates.’
It was over, and they all stood up again.
Seaton asked suddenly, ‘Did the Germans kill any of t
he Resistance who helped me, sir?’ He could not stop himself, nor did he want to. ‘I realise I’m not supposed to know. But I’ve had time to think about them. Of what they risked for me.’ He looked at the massive concrete walls. ‘For all of us.’
Ruthven regarded him curiously. ‘Actually, it is difficult to collate all the reports. Many sources are lying low. Others are changing their locations, for obvious reasons.’ His voice softened. ‘One we do know, however, was the leader of the local group.’
Seaton stared at him but saw nothing. ‘Jens.’
He nodded. ‘Jens. The Gestapo were taking his wife away for questioning. Jens shot two of them before he and his wife were killed.’
Seaton murmured, ‘I see. Thank you, sir. He was a good man.’ He felt his eyes smarting again. ‘His wife sent us food the day we –’
Venables said, ‘You’re tired. Better cut along now.’
Ruthven walked over to Seaton and shook his hand. ‘Try and enjoy your leave. Don’t be ashamed of showing your feelings. It’s men I need, not machines.’
In the corridor outside it was cool and vaguely damp.
Venables looked at his watch. ‘Leave your address with the duty officer. Just in case.’ Then he was off, vanishing through yet another door of his complicated world.
Seaton slung his gas-mask over one shoulder and tugged his cap level across his eyes. He was glad to be getting out of the place.
A petty officer at a little desk looked up as he passed. ‘Airraid warning just sounded, sir.’ He grinned. ‘All go, isn’t it?’
Seaton found he was smiling back at the man.
Perhaps they were all going completely mad, without knowing it?
Geoffrey Drake stood with his hands outstretched towards a roaring log fire and listened to the rain pummelling the windows. He looked at the massive stone fireplace with its ornate, carved scrollwork. It could have been Tudor, but Niven had told him it had actually been built for another wool tycoon just before the Great War.
Drake did not really want to think about Niven. Not just yet anyway. He needed all his wits to cope with the situation.
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