The tide would turn now. Or rather, it would be turned.
Ted Farquharson had asked Nick last night, on board Defiant, “I suppose they wouldn’t leave you out here? No chance of this ship staying?”
“I wouldn’t think so. This is the American strategic area now. And we’ve got more on our hands than we’ve ships for anyway. Indian Ocean, Mediterranean, North and South Atlantic, and the Cape route to protect— and the Arctic, the Murmansk run, which is about all that’s keeping the Russians going … I doubt there’d be the slightest chance of it, Ted.”
“Pity.”
“You’ll look after Kate for me, that’s the great thing. I’m grateful. She’ll be safe, and making herself useful, and I won’t have to worry about her. Much better than if I lugged her off to England and had to leave her there alone most of the time.”
“I’m glad you look at it that way, Nick. And naturally we’ll be happy to have her around. I still wish they’d leave you out here as well.”
He didn’t know yet where he’d be taking Defiant when she was mended and fit for sea. To Colombo, Ceylon, perhaps, or to Kilindini in East Africa, where the newly formed Eastern Fleet was being established now, or back to the Mediterranean—which he’d have liked, for the chance of seeing Paul—or even possibly to the USA for the full refit his ship did really need. Perhaps back home to England … In due course, they’d tell him. Meanwhile, Defiant was conveniently immobilized, and he could count on having about three weeks with Kate.
Mary Farquharson said quietly, aside, “Shame you couldn’t have had a church wedding, Nick.”
“Yes. Kate would have liked it.”
It hadn’t been possible, because a dozen years ago he’d been divorced. And if that was the church’s attitude, so be it. He thought he had a reasonably sound idea of his own status as a Christian, and he didn’t believe the bishops or synods could be any more omniscient or infallible than, say, the Board of Admiralty. Which, on occasions over the years, he’d seen displaying fallibility to a marked degree. But for Kate’s sake he was sorry they hadn’t been able to do it in church.
“The marriage could be blessed, Nick, if you’d like that.”
He nodded. “I’m sure Kate would.”
“Well, when you’re out with us on the farm, if you’d permit it I might arrange for a ceremony at home? And a reception after, for our friends and neighbours to come and meet you?”
“You’re very kind. And—yes, as long as Kate would like it—”
“Kate like this, Kate like that …” Kate’s father, muttering as he joined them. The form-filling was all finished, and everyone was ready to move off to the hotel where champagne would be waiting in coolers. Ted grumbled again, “Now she’s Lady Everard, my life’s going to be pure hell. I can see that coming from forty miles away.”
On the town hall steps, sun glinted on the arch of naval swords. Cameras flashed. Kate’s arm in his, her weight against him. He wondered how long it would be before some of the pictures appeared in London papers, whether there was any hope his letter might reach Fiona before she saw them.
Down the steps. Grins from Gant, from Sibbold the doctor, Charles Rowley, Greenleaf, Chevening, Haskins the Captain of Marines … A crowd of sailors cheered: civilians clapped and called good wishes. Turning into Barrack Street where the cars waited … After a few days out at Tambellup they’d be moving into an hotel at Cottesloe, which Kate had said was a good place to stay; it also had the advantage of being close to Defiant’s dockside berth in Fremantle.
Eventually, there’d come a time to say goodbye—for God only knew how long. That would be—quoting her father—pure hell …
He told himself not to think about it. To forget everything, except Kate and the sheer, blinding happiness he had now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Morning after, in St Nazaire …
Jack wondered what the French were thinking of it: and whether the news would have broken in London yet. Probably not; Fiona wouldn’t know. Thoughts drifted, rather: you had to make an effort to keep them in line. Of course there’d have been no announcement made yet—if there were any surviving ships they wouldn’t be far off the French coast yet … Daylight, as he stepped out into it, on to the minesweeper’s deck with a German soldier pointing a rifle at him, was messy, stained with smoke still rising from a dozen different points. Stench of burning: and he was still feeling sick, as well as weak, from the quantity of filthy harbour water he’d swallowed.
The whole place was overhung with smoke. Blinking around at the greyish morning light he recognized the odour as being from burning oil and petrol. Fuel storage tanks on the other side of the Normandie Dock had been one of the commando targets—underground tanks, between the dock and the river. But there’d been the burning MLs on the river too … It was obvious, looking around at the general panorama of destruction, that the landing force must have achieved virtually all it came for, despite the ML losses. It was also a fair bet that not many of the raiders could have got away—unless they’d fought their way inland, which was an alternative the commandos had had in mind. Down to the south, perhaps into Spain, had been Trolley’s idea.
He didn’t remember being hauled out of the basin, but apparently a boat from this minesweeper had found him. It had also picked up Pettifer and Merrit. Merrit had been hauled out dead, and Pettifer had died since; Jack had identified both bodies and given the intelligence officer their names.
That was all he’d given the bastard, except for his own name and rank. He’d given that much to the naval lieutenant, the minesweeper’s skipper, before this Wehrmacht sleuth had come aboard and taken over the interrogation. The naval people had been very decent: their doctor had bandaged his head while he’d been still unconscious, and applied some kind of lotion to the worst of his burns. The burns were quite bad, and now he had his clothes on the ones on his arms and torso were painful. He hadn’t looked in a mirror yet.
He wondered where he was being taken now. The German army captain had been distinctly unpleasant during the past half-hour, annoyed by his refusal to answer questions. He’d made a fuss about a number— “name, rank and number,” he’d insisted, were the items a prisoner was obliged to divulge. Jack had explained that he was a commissioned officer and didn’t have one, and the intelligence officer—a man of about thirty, with a narrow, balding head and sharp features—had threatened that he could have him shot for refusing to supply it. Jack had said, “Fine, so have me shot. I still don’t have a number.”
The commandos had done their job, but he’d failed in his own. He’d also thrown away the lives of at least five good men in the attempt. He’d been too slow, hung on too long. When he’d realized that ship was coming straight at the E-boat he ought to have turned at once, even though it would have meant firing on the slant. The torpedoes would have done some damage.
“You are an officer of the Royal Navy?”
He’d nodded. Giving them his rank had already told them that much.
“Then why were you performing the duties of a soldier?”
“Was I?”
“On land, fighting?”
“They tell me I was in the drink.”
It riled him … Jack had been wearing only a blanket at the time, and his face hurt when he spoke. There was ointment—or lotion—on it. The naval man had muttered, à propos the bandage around his head, “You will not for a long time require to have your hair cut.” That was the doctor, who’d been with the captain of this ship: the one that had rammed the E-boat was in the outside berth, alongside, but it was this one who’d sent the boat to look for survivors. Rather surprising … Presumably the water had saved his life, by extinguishing the flames. It was speculation; he didn’t know much about what had happened, except that he’d been unconscious at the time and wouldn’t have suffered if he’d been left in it to drown. You had no choice: and he’d just as soon have changed places now with—say—Pettifer, or Slattery, or any of the others. They’d been his people, a
nd he’d lost them: there was a feeling of guilt in that—as if he, of all of them, should have died.
When the interrogator had decided to take him ashore, they’d given him his gear back. The clothes had been warm—they must have been in the sweeper’s engineroom to dry, he guessed, but the process hadn’t got far. Now, in the breeze that was carrying all the smoke out to the river, he was shivering with cold and worried about his clothes sticking to the burnt areas of his body. He hadn’t been listening very closely in there to the questions and complaints, partly because he wasn’t thinking of talking to them anyway and also because he’d had his mind on the others, who’d been killed. He hoped to God the Marines had come through all right. He felt particularly badly about Slattery and Pettifer, who were married men—had been married men. He’d asked Slattery once—on that Cornish hillside, during a turnip shoot—why he, with a wife and baby son at home, was going in for this kind of job, and Slattery had seemed surprised at being asked. He’d said finally, “Well, they’re—they’re like the reason. I mean, it’s for them, sort of thing …”
He was being directed down the minesweeper’s gangway to the quayside. A thick column of dark smoke was rising from the warehouse area. There were soldiers in helmets, carrying rifles, standing around on the quay. On guard against a new attack? He was thinking about stable doors and bolting horses when he heard a rifle-shot from the direction of the Old Town. One, then silence. Everyone listening and looking that way … The intelligence officer shouted something, and the guard behind Jack gave him a prod with the rifle barrel: one of the other soldiers called something to his friends, glancing at Jack and jerking a thumb towards the Old Town. They were grinning, looking at him, and one of them drew a finger across his throat. It was towards the Old Town they were expecting him to go, apparently. There didn’t seem to be any fires in that area: the smoke was coming mostly from around the Old Entrance and the Normandie Dock.
Normandie Dock, alias the Tirpitz Dock, alias the Forme Ecluse. He knew for sure that its operating and pumping machinery would have been destroyed, but he didn’t know whether Campbeltown had blown up yet. It was nine-thirty now, and the time-fuse had been supposed to set off that very large explosive charge by nine at the latest. One would surely have heard a bang that size—even miles away you’d hear it and feel it. And if it had gone off while he’d been unconscious, wouldn’t the Germans have had something to say about it?
It would be terrible if the device had failed; or if they’d found it and deactivated it …
Walking—they were marching him towards the Old Town—his clothes rubbed against burnt flesh and hurt like hell. He was walking peculiarly, like a duck, in his efforts to reduce the friction. If they didn’t shoot him, he expected he’d end up in some hospital, and then, presumably, a POW camp. Did they shoot commandos when they captured them? If they classified him as one, which they might …There had been threats, in German propaganda broadcasts.
The building they stopped at wasn’t far from the south end of the basin. There were soldiers on guard outside it, and steps up to a doorway which looked as if a bomb had gone off inside it. German officers were hurrying in and out, like bees in the entrance to a hive. Another building close by had been wrecked—by some internal explosion, it seemed— and every wall in sight was scarred and pitted. There wasn’t a window anywhere that had glass in it.
He wasn’t to be privileged to use that front entrance. There was another, steps leading down into some sort of basement. Two guards stood beside it with rifles at the ready. A stretcher was carried past by trotting soldiers: the body on it was covered by a blanket and German army boots stuck out at one end. His escort prodded him forward towards the basement steps: his interrogator, climbing the other ones, was straightening his cap and brushing down his tunic as if about to appear before his seniors. The soldier poked Jack again, harder than before: he stumbled forward, down the steps, and through a doorway with an arch on it.
Dim light, a crowd of men, conversation ceasing, heads turning. Commandos: prisoners …
“Hey, Jack!”
Frank Trolley. He was wrapped in a blanket. Gaunt, bony face and close-cut hair: he might have been some variety of monk. Bruised face, split lips … Grinning a welcome, holding out a hand: Jack took it with his left, the one that wasn’t burnt. Trolley was staring at Jack’s face: so were others round them.
“God’s teeth, what’s happened to you?”
“Only burns. I’ve got them all over, so don’t shove me around.” He guessed his face would be like raw meat, a rump steak saignant. “You OK, Frank?”
“Went in the drink, then fell into ill-disposed company and got beaten up, somewhat … Did you pull it off, your stunt?”
He shook his head. “Got the boat away, but then we were shot up and rammed, halfway to the target. My own damn fault.” He shut his eyes, reliving it for one ghastly moment: Slattery in the flames … He added, coming back to earth, “All my chaps were killed.”
“Not all.” Trolley jerked a thumb. “There’s a couple here. But I’m damn sorry, Jack—”
“Lieutenant Everard?”
Corporal Dewar, pushing through the crowd. And the red-headed Marine, Bone. “How’d you make out, sir? Where’s old—” His expression changed, as he got a clear look at him. “Oh, crikey …”
“What about Bowater and Laing?”
“Sarn’t Bowater got shot in the legs, before we’d hardly started. He’s with the stretcher-cases, wherever they took ‘em. Laing’s dead—I saw it, sir, he was charging up the gangway like a mad elephant and they shot him off it.” He was finding it hard to look at Jack as he spoke: his eyes kept sliding away to Trolley. Bone was the same. Dewar asked him, “What happened, sir?”
He was describing it, or attempting to, when the Wehrmacht interrogator came in, with two armed soldiers for his protection and also a German naval man, a lieutenant-commander or commander, in tow. At first he couldn’t see Jack, because of the ring of commandos round him. He shouted, “I require the Royal Navy officer!”
Nobody took much notice of him. Trolley muttered, “Last bloke we had in here was promising we’d all be shot. They found we were wearing our fighting-knives”—he tapped his left thigh—”and it seemed to upset them. I told him ‘There’s a war on, chum’ …You’d better see what the sod wants, hadn’t you?”
Jack wanted to know a few things first: he asked quickly, quietly, “Has the whumpf gone off yet?”
Trolley frowned: “They don’t know about it, as far as we can tell. For Christ’s sake don’t—”
Jack broke in, “Don’t worry … Has anyone at all got away?”
Trolley nodded, edging forward with him through the packed room. The interrogator had spotted Jack’s bandaged head and pointed him out, and the soldiers were pushing through to get him. Trolley whispered, “Some by boat and some into the hinterland. Mum’s the word, though, eh?”
“You! You Royal Navy officer!”
“I’m coming.” The soldiers closed in on him: he moved his hands outward to space them away, not wanting contact on his burns. He looked round at Trolley. “See you, Frank … Dewar—Bone—good luck.”
Outside there was a truck waiting, and they pushed him into the back of it. Both the guards got in with him and sat with their guns pointing at his head, and the naval man climbed into the front with the driver. The truck lurched forward, swung around in a U-turn and headed up towards the St Nazaire Basin, then along the eastern quayside past the minesweepers. There was a diving-boat out in the middle, opposite the U-boat pens, and he guessed they’d be locating the E-boat, prior to raising it. They’d enough trouble now without sunken ships cluttering the place up: with the locks out of action this basin would be tidal, and at low water the U-boat shelter might not be usable. The truck stopped where it couldn’t get any further—at the blown-up swing bridge at the Old Entrance—and everyone got out. There was a footway over the gap now, a plank and two wire cables to hold on to: they filed acros
s it, the commander leading and then Jack with one guard in front and the other behind him. Fifty yards ahead was the smaller of the two dockyard sheds which only a few hours earlier he and his team had used for cover; at least, and thank God, Bowater was alive. And the two others … They turned right as they approached the shed. Ahead and on the left then was the corner that had been their first stopping point after they’d landed.
The commander dropped back to walk beside him. He was short, dark, rather dapper. Probably on some shore staff.
“Your intention was to attack submarines in the shelter?”
His English wasn’t at all bad. Jack said, “I gave that other fellow my name and rank. I’ve nothing else to say.”
No argument, from this one. A shrug, a hint of a smile. Probably not a bad sort. Except that, if their positions had been reversed, Jack wouldn’t have given up so easily. The army one might have told him Jack had refused to talk, so the attempt had been perfunctory, just so he could say he’d tried … Ahead, the ruin of the control post for the outer gate, the winding-gear that moved the caisson to and fro, reminded him of seeing the commando demolition boys diving into it, when he and his team had been belting up this same dockside. It occurred to him that they were bringing him dangerously close to the caisson, which had Campbeltown stuck in it with more than four tons of explosive in her for’ard messdeck and a time-fuse that was already overdue in blowing.
A Share of Honour: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 4 Page 31