Pulling the trigger, the rifle went off in her hands, he stumbling back. Grabbing his right thigh, he looked towards her in disbelief, cursed her and then lifted the Thompson gun …
She threw herself down. Bullets tore into the wall above her. Stone chips flew everywhere, she forcing herself not to panic but to crawl away on her stomach.
He had toppled over but again was reloading that thing, had a satchel of ammunition over one shoulder but was having difficulty getting at it. There was blood on the fingers of his left hand, blood where he had gripped his thigh.
Scrambling over the dead man and yanking the rifle from him, Mary stood up and fired at Galway. Nothing happened. The trigger wouldn’t squeeze. Frantically thumbing the safety off, she pulled the bolt back and slid another cartridge into the breech. Galway had now reloaded.
Darting inside the ruins, she threw her back against the wall. The rifle’s safety catch had been on and the only thing she could think of was that the young man she had just killed had not been aware of it either.
Above the wind she heard a metallic click, a curse. Galway’s gun had jammed again. She stood and fired, hit him in the shoulder and, starting out at a run, didn’t look back, couldn’t do so now, had to reach the fog station, had to get away.
The door was open. Someone was standing there with the harpoon. ‘Hamish …’
Fraser dragged her inside.
The wind … always she would hear it in these last few moments. An hour had passed in which she had found herself unable to move. Hamish had lain on the floor of the corridor all that time, with only chance glimpses round the corner to search the slender slice of terrain that was visible from there.
Mary knew it was hopeless. Kevin and the others could rush the station at any moment. There were no windows—there was only that single door. During construction of the station, the boiler and its firebox had been bolted to the concrete floor, the foghorns installed and only then had the clapboard building been erected around them. Hamish would be cut down in the rush, herself forced back along the corridor to wait for the inevitable.
Besides the boiler and its firebox, there were some sacks of coal, two shovels and the foghorns which were silent. The short bit of corridor simply came straight in from the front door before abruptly turning to the right to pass the entrance to the boiler, the bulk of the building, such as it was, being crammed with its antiquated Victorian apparatus. There was a glass gauge that showed the level of water and a lever one pulled down, it looking more like the handbrake of a steam tractor.
Hoses piped steam to the foghorns; valves closed these off, allowing the steam to pass into the chimney when the horns were not in use and the handbrake up, but once this last was pulled down and locked into place with an iron cotter pin as thick as her little finger, the pressure in the boiler would build until automatically released through the horns every two minutes.
It was all very simple, but of little use, the absence of windows drastically limiting visibility.
Hamish had tried to reassure her but he’d known something very fundamental had happened to her and this was troubling him. To kill so ruthlessly was not an easy talent to acquire, not for a man and seldom for a woman. He had been humbled by what he had had to witness and was still frightened by it, afraid now, too, more than ever that he had lost her and would never understand.
And myself? she wondered, but had no time for introspection. The wooden shaft of the harpoon across her lap was driftwood grey, the iron shaft as thick as the heel of her thumb, its teeth barbed, their points, and that of the end, exceedingly sharp. The blade itself would cut through the thick hide of a whale and could be used, in a pinch, to slice up the blubber.
When Hamish said, ‘We’ve company,’ Mary gripped the harpoon and got to her feet to stand behind him. ‘It’s Huber, lass. He’s come alone.’
‘He’s a decoy. They’ll have worked their way up here and will be waiting right outside the door on either side. Galway …’
‘I thought you said he’d been wounded twice?’
‘That won’t matter, not with him. He’ll get up and …’
‘Lass …’
‘Hamish, we can’t trust any of them. I …’
He touched her cheek, then turned away before she could say anything further. Huber had come a little closer, but was still a good two hundred yards from them. Bareheaded, he had his coat buttoned up under the chin. A torn square of white cloth in his hand was tugged at by the wind, but would its release be the signal for the others to rush the station?
When he was about fifty yards away, Hamish told him to stop. Not for a moment did Huber’s gaze waver. ‘We want the wireless set, Doctor. Let us get off the island and we’ll agree to leave you in peace.’
‘What’s happened to the last of the lightkeepers?’
‘He’s safe with Ursula, but I must warn you that if you persist, he will be brought to the base of this hill and executed.’
They were going to rush them—Mary was certain of it. Kevin and the others must be standing just out of sight.
‘Please, this is not a trick, Doctor. The wireless set must not fall into British hands.’
‘The RAF and the Royal Navy won’t let you leave.’
Huber still held the white flag but was he now to let go of it? she wondered.
‘That is a chance we must take. U-397 can’t repair her damaged propeller shaft and must run on a single engine, but can still take us off the island and back to the Reich.’
‘What about O’Bannion and the rest of them?’ asked Hamish.
‘All but Galway will come with us. He’s badly wounded and not expected to live.’
‘He’s lying!’ hissed Mary. ‘Hamish, I know he is! They’re right outside the door. They’re going to rush us, darling. Please …’
‘Och, the vice admiral wouldn’t risk his life like this, and that’s the truth of it.’
‘Why must you argue? Why not listen to me for once? I’ve had to fight them, Hamish, have had to kill them.’
‘Lass, I know that.’
‘Then tell him he’s to be our hostage.’
Reluctantly Huber agreed, but asked to inform the others. Mary knew they would have to let him leave. Waiting for a rush that didn’t come, she wondered if his visit hadn’t been but a part of some larger scheme. Darkness would soon be here—would they set fire to the fog station?
When she told Hamish this, he said, ‘Och, I greatly fear they’ve something else in mind.’
Carrying a canister of tea, Huber soon returned. The last of the biscuits that had been in Angus’s tin were wrapped in the white cloth. To search him thoroughly, Hamish even had him empty his pockets and take off his boots.
‘So, Mrs. Fraser, our places are now to be reversed but we Germans cannot let your bravery go unacknowledged. Please …’ He indicated the tin mug he had just filled.
‘You first,’ she said.
He would grin and give her a shrug. ‘With pleasure then, and I salute you both, yourself especially, though I must say you do surprise me. To shoot so well and then to worry over a little poison or sleeping drug from that bag of your husband’s is rather odd, is it not?’
‘I simply don’t trust any of you. I’ve had no reason to.’
This one had changed. ‘Then let me tell you both that U-397 is equipped with an eighty-eight millimetre cannon as well as two antiaircraft guns. There are also MG42 machine guns and various other light weapons should an assault on this lonely refuge of yours be necessary. Now please, you do not look well. The tea will help you to regain your strength for the long wait ahead.’
At dusk the wind had fallen to a whisper. By then the RAF had flown more than ten sorties over the island and had repeatedly swept the surrounding sea for the U-boat. A ship, most probably a destroyer, was steaming towards the island. As yet, though, word of its hav
ing been sighted hadn’t come to Huber but he’d been warned of its presence by the wireless traffic he’d been given and knew that they’d not be allowed to leave so easily.
Not until 2100 hours did the ship begin to fire star shells into the air near the island, confirming that indeed it was a destroyer. The glow from the star shells, their myriad rain of flares, lit up the darkness, then their light would vanish and the island would again wrap solitude about itself.
When Kevin came up the hill, alone and unarmed, his hands on his head, Mary saw him first against the bursting of another star shell, and as the spluttering flares descended over the fields behind him, the ruined cottages stood out as stark reminders of all she’d been through.
He spoke not to herself, though, but to Huber. ‘One of the curraghs is down at the cove with the Aldis lamp. By midnight the seas will have calmed enough for us to be quit of this place. Dermid’s gone.’
Huber acknowledged the loss. ‘He was a good man. I had hoped we could get him away to safety.’
‘My little band of followers has been reduced to myself and young Kenneth McGrath.’
A boy of eighteen. ‘There’ll be others. You’ll be back, you’ll see.’
Kevin would be thinking of the Flight of the Earls and saying to himself that their cause had been as futile as his own.
Another star shell burst over the island. Both he and Huber knew they had very little time, that the destroyer would come in close with landing parties, yet they had to wait it out. U-397 had to maintain absolute wireless silence, nor could it signal to them by any other means.
‘She still has three torpedoes,’ said Huber. ‘All things are possible, and the British will be only too well aware of this.’
Even as he said it, and Mary thought him lying, there was a tremendous detonation out to sea, to the northeast of them. In spite of having to hold the rifle on them, Hamish and she left the building. A wall of flame, brilliant in the darkness, flashed twice, outlining the lighthouse and the destroyer clearly.
Smoke billowed from the ship, alarm buzzers sounded, and they could hear these from a distance of what must be nearly five miles.
‘So, the tide has turned in our favour once again,’ said Huber. ‘Always we keep a little something as a surprise.’
Near midnight the distant drone of engines was caught on the air and then lost. Huber was the first to notice them and to recognize their significance. Instantly he turned to look questioningly through the darkness at Hamish who said, ‘Och, man, go and raise that boat of yours and see if you can get off the island now.’
‘I want the wireless set.’
‘You’ll have it when we’re ready and not before then. Send Kevin to us when that U-boat of yours is in the cove. You’ll find the curragh to be of little use.’
Huber stood a moment facing them. Neither would know what was in store for them until it was too late. ‘Then it’s good-bye, Doctor, Mrs. Fraser. Auf Wiedersehen. Heil Hitler.’
Together, they watched him walk away into the night. All too soon they were alone, for he’d begun to run for the lighthouse.
Hamish tightened his arm about her shoulders. He didn’t say anything but Mary felt the sadness that was in him.
Then the sound came again. ‘It’s as if something is fighting its way towards us,’ she said, ‘but is still too far for us to hear it clearly.’
‘They’re motor torpedo boats out of Derry, lass, and there are two of them. The sub will have to come in, and Huber will have to tell it to do so.’
The drone of the engines steadily increased but soon others were added and a Bristol Beaufort or a Wellington flew over the island to drop parachute flares which lit up everything as they slowly fell. Some canisters were then pitched out—tumbling, black drumlike things. One hit the rocks near the lighthouse and bounced before exploding. Others fell into the sea to sink below the heaving waves and then erupt in fountains whose flat detonations made her cringe.
The aircraft came round again, flying so low she thought it would hit the lighthouse, but it lumbered over the length of the island and they saw the dark silhouette of it against the night sky above. More depth charges were dropped, this time farther out to sea. The plane jerked higher, the drone of its engines increasing as it climbed and banked towards the southeast.
As the last of the flares fell and explosions ripped the water, it headed off towards Derry and they listened to the dwindling sound of it with a sense of loss even as the drone of the motor torpedo boats increased.
Then another plane flew over and the pattern was repeated: first the flares—released from much higher this time—then the depth charges, but only after a sweep far out to sea. Everything was now etched in silhouette, the ruins, the road, the pier—Kevin and the others putting the curragh into the water. Even from a distance of three-quarters of a mile, Hamish and she could see them clearly. The sea was still too rough. More than once they had to drag the little boat back. A flare was falling directly over top. Mrs. Tulford had gone to join them. Had she killed the last of the lightkeepers?
There was no sign of him.
Suddenly everything began to happen at once, Hamish and herself to run from the fog station, trying to find a bit of cover as tracers marked the path of gunfire from the motor torpedo boats and arcs of light raked the island to concentrate on the lighthouse first. In a steady but undulating sweep, streams of bullets progressed towards the pier. Kevin ran. The others threw themselves down. Bullets ripped and pinged, hit the concrete, the oil drums, passed across the island and up the hill towards the fog station. Again the sound of the Thompson gun came to her, but now there was no longer the fear she’d experienced among the ruins, the terror. The sound was recognized for what it was, and she knew this and did not cry out to Hamish.
As abruptly as it had begun, the curtain of fire was silenced. The last of the flares had gone out.
Warily she began to pick herself up. Against the steady throb of diesels, there were the sounds of breaking waves and those of the wind.
‘Hamish … Hamish, where are you?’
The firing started up. Streams of tracers jerked and jumped and cut their swaths, only to suddenly cease, Mary scrambling towards the fog station. ‘Hamish … Darling, where are you?’
Had he gone down the hill to kill as many as he could? Had she forced him into such a thing?
The motor torpedo boats continued to circle the island. The steady throb of their engines was always there in the darkness but well offshore. They were taking no chances, must be biding their time and waiting for the aircraft to return. The boats would use their sonar and radar to locate the sub. Besides their torpedoes, they would carry depth charges of their own.
The fog station wasn’t far now, and when she got there, her foot struck something on the floor. ‘Hamish!’ she cried out and gingerly felt for him only to find the harpoon and take it up.
Making her way along the corridor, she went deeper into the building, would have to have the firebox door open, would need its light in order to reset the bomb, but would Kevin really come back for it?
Light flickered from gaps in the firebox door, making the dusty, open throats of the burlap sacks of coal seem as if standing sentinel while the pipes threw their shadows. Setting the harpoon down, she dragged the suitcase into the light. She would have to do it but could she really?
Putting the scarf back, Mary closed the compartment and the suitcase. It wasn’t Kevin who came. It was Dermid Galway and as he fired that thing in his hands, it shattered the silence, ripped apart the walls of the corridor, splintered the boards and made her shriek in terror and try to hide.
As she backed away, she heard him reloading. Sacks of coal were now in front of her, the suitcase and the boiler’s firebox door to her right, the armature for the foghorns to the left. Even as she got hesitantly to her feet and waited for him to kill her, Mary knew it woul
d be best this way for there would be no questions to answer, no excuses to make, no thoughts of ever being brought to trial and made a spectacle of.
As a single shot rang out, a stab of pain gripped her middle. There was a curse, another burst of firing. ‘Hamish!’ she cried as she snatched up the harpoon and Galway came at her out of the shadows but he’d been hit. Hamish had been waiting for him. Hamish …
The Thompson gun was being dragged along the wall and, as the Irishman rose up to steady himself, he said, ‘God’s curse upon you, woman!’ his voice breaking all about her now as blood trickled from a corner of his mouth and he fell to his knees before her. ‘DO IT!’ he yelled. ‘DON’T KEEP ME WAITING!’
Coughing blood, he tried to drag the Thompson gun into position. The point of the harpoon was levelled at his chest. ‘Do it, damn you,’ he muttered.
‘Mary, step away from him.’
Galway tried to reach the gun that had fallen from him as Hamish placed the muzzle of the rifle to his back and fired.
U-397 had surfaced but was still some distance to the north of the island. The brief flashing of Aldis signals gave their position; Huber signalling back from the ruins of the cottage nearest the pier. Against the deeper darkness of the waves and that of the night, the silhouette of the submarine momentarily appeared, only to vanish just as suddenly.
Its crew would be racing to uncover the deck guns. Mary knew there’d be a battle and that the sub could well be sunk, for the motor torpedo boats hovered somewhere off in the darkness, the throb of their engines coming and going against the deeper pulse of U-397’s diesel.
When a flare, lingering long in the sky, arced through the night to hang floating brightly above the submarine, men swung the eighty-eight-millimetre gun on her forward deck while others raced to help them and a deafening explosion was followed by the whip crack of the gun. Again and again the sub fired. Tracers were now pouring from one of the torpedo boats, the sound of its engines increasing steadily as it closed the gap between them, becoming louder and louder until she caught a glimpse of the boat’s silhouette as it leapt across the waves pouring its hail of bullets at the sub. The boat would hit the submarine with its torpedoes. They’d sink it.
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