Dark, slightly slanted eyes.
She looked shocked. He remembered how startled he’d been, at first sight of himself in the mirror … She’d stepped back, still with her eyes fixed on him. He saw her take a deep breath. Then her hand rose, pointing at him, and she asked a question in German. The raised hand was shaking. The question might have been something like Who are you? Or What are you? When he didn’t answer, just shook his head, it was followed by a quick, panicky stream of other questions. He guessed at What are you doing in my house? or How did you get in? and What do you want here? Then again, after a pause, the shorter one she’d started with.
He sat up. Moving slowly so as not to frighten her. He put his hands up, token of surrender.
“English.” He lowered his hands, and pointed at himself. “English prisoner of war. Escaped.” He made a mime of running, with his fingers, then pointed south: “Switzerland. Suisse. Schweitzer, whatever you call it … But—” he displayed his ankle, and indicated pain. Then he asked her, “Politzei?” He put his wrists together as if in handcuffs, and pointed to her, suggesting her going off to get them. “Finish. Kaput.” Pointing to himself again. Then “OK?”
She just stood there, staring at him. He thought she might have got the gist of it, more or less. She seemed less tense now, anyway. Probably getting used to his somewhat outlandish appearance, he thought. He’d be a terrifying thing to find, in one’s own house, but after that rather hysterical flood of questions she seemed to have been in good control of herself. He’d been at pains to talk gently, to make her realise he was no danger to her, but it would take a strong nerve, for a girl on her own. He guessed most would have screamed and run for it … If she did go now, for the police, he’d leave the house behind her, try to get to where he’d hidden the bike, and hide himself near it ready for a dash southward when it got dark. These ideas were forming in his brain while he waited to see what she was going to do: he was to remember those plans later, and realise he would never have made it. They’d have had road-blocks everywhere, thousands of men between him and the border.
She beckoned to him.
“Kom.”
He stayed where he was, watching her. She made gestures—miming the use of a knife and fork, eating. Then she pointed at him and began a different act—washing, he thought. Shaving? She was chattering in German too—in a low, persuasive tone, as if she was trying to convince him of something now.
He got to his feet. Leaning with one hand on the shutters, and keeping that foot off the floor. She turned away and walked out of the room, to the head of the stairs, where she stopped and turned to see if he was coming. Seeing that he was, she nodded approvingly and repeated, “Kommenzie.” That was what it sounded like. He limped down the stairs behind her, and followed her into the kitchen. She pulled out one of the two chairs at the table, and made him sit down on it. It looked as if she really was about to give him a meal! He felt dizzy. Being kind, he thought, before she turns me in. He wondered if she’d have been this kind if she’d realised he was quite capable of breaking her neck one-handed. She’d put some large pots of water on the back of the stove. Glancing at him occasionally, bustling round … Now she was slicing sausage and also a new loaf of bread: she’d taken it out of the basket. Then she was mushing up the partly cooked eggs which he’d left in the saucepan—she’d have taken it off the boil when she first came in. But all four eggs, with bread and several slivers of the sausage … His hunger was so intense that the prospect of a full meal was making him feel weaker than he had before: also he was self-conscious about dribbling and had to keep licking his lips. He mumbled, while she bent over her work at the stove, “Zehr gut. Incredible. I mean, you’re—wundebar!”
It was a word he’d heard. It sounded like a cross between a Mars and a Milky Way, but she seemed to get the message—she glanced round with a half-smile on her face, showing embarrassment and also amusement combined with that secretly-pleased look they always got when you hit the right note with them. But she might still have been scared of him, he suspected: she’d looked round again, as if wondering whether she’d been right about him … Her back was to him now. She was wide-hipped, heavy-thighed: it was the first impression he’d had of her, he remembered, when he’d seen her from that shed. It was odd that he hadn’t noticed the dark complexion. A trick of the light, perhaps … She turned around, and dumped a loaded plate in front of him.
“Bitte.”
A kind of triumph. Standing back, looking at him expectantly. He smiled, half bowed: she laughed, pointing at the food. He found the word he’d been struggling to think of: “Danke schön!”
He ate ravenously, while she watched. She didn’t eat at all, but drank milk, and poured some for him. He toasted her: “Prosit!” She giggled. He asked her with his mouth full, “Deutsch?” Asking her, was she German? She shrugged—it wasn’t exactly a denial but it wasn’t affirmation either—and answered with a sentence which he construed as “My man is German.” But it might have been “was German.” He asked her, waving an arm around, “Man here?”
“Nein.” Her face became heavier, older. She was about twenty-eight, he guessed, but for that moment or two she could have been forty. He thought she was going to cry. He would have liked to have asked whether the man was away in the Army, or in prison, or dead, or what … That empty photograph frame?
When he’d finished eating she directed him into the room with the washbasin and tub in it, then went back and began bringing the hot water from the stove. He helped with it, although she pointed at his foot and tried to stop him. She emptied most of it into the tub: he was anticipating luxury now of a kind he hadn’t dared even to think about. She’d gone off again, in the direction of her bedroom, and eventually returned with a pair of scissors, a cut-throat razor and leather strop, a shaving brush and a bar of yellow kitchen soap. He guessed the implements might be her man’s … She’d disappeared again, and came back with a bundle of clothes. Trousers, shirt, sweater with holes in it, felt slippers. The trousers were black and shiny from age, and the grey shirt was long enough to be a night-shirt. In fact it could have been … She pointed at his own clothes and at the washtub, then made motions of washing and wringing-out, indicating that she meant she’d do it for him: she asked him, “OK?”
He nodded, staring into her eyes. She was close enough to touch, and if he hadn’t known he stank he’d have kissed her. How this was happening, who she was or rather what her story was, why she was doing this …
She left him, and shut the door.
He thought—stripping, bathing, then trimming his beard but not shaving—that she could only be acting out of sheer kindness, perhaps the heightened degree of kindness of one who has some great sadness, suffering or anxiety of her own. And one should not expect too much: he had to accept, he knew, that afterwards she’d have no option, she’d have to turn him in. He’d make no problems for her: he liked her, and saw courage as well as kindness in what she was doing for him. He was in a state, he also realised—making use of this time to assess his position and hers and the way to handle it—a state of physical and mental imbalance—vulnerability might be a better word for it—and all emotions had to be closer than usual to the surface. When she’d been close to tears, back there in the kitchen, he’d felt like putting his arms round her, weeping with her—for her, for himself, for the sheer helplessness of the entire human race. And then the sudden urge to kiss her …
Well. She could go and fetch the military, if she wanted. He’d wait, be here when she came back with them. At least, he thought he would … Except they could hardly blame her if he took off: and having come this far, had this much luck—in contrast to the lousy deal poor old Frank had had—wouldn’t it be mad to give up now, if there was still a chance?
He found her in the kitchen, at the table, slicing carrots into a casserole. She looked him up and down: said something in German with a laugh in it, something that might not have been far from, “That’s a hell of a lot better!”
He wasn’t smelly any more, and his beard was trimmed. He stooped, and kissed her cheek.
“Danke schön. I don’t know how to thank you. You’re marvelous.” She sat still, with her dark eyes on his, knife in one hand and carrot in the other. He asked her, “Now—” pointing—“Polizei? Soldaten?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
6 November 1942: General Alexander to Prime Minister:
Ring out the bells! Prisoners now estimated 20,000, tanks 350, guns 400, mt several thousand. Our advanced mobile forces are south of Mersa Matruh. Eighth Army is advancing.
It was about an hour short of dusk. HF/DF had been eavesdropping on the chatter of six or seven U-boats ahead of the convoy and one back on the quarter, all of them identifiable by PO Telegraphist Archie Gritten as “old customers.” The enemy ranges and bearings plotted by Mike Scarr showed that the Germans were spread in a shallow arc right across the convoy’s front, at ranges varying between twelve and fifteen miles but remaining constant in that bracket. The enemy was keeping his distance and waiting for the night.
As a night, it didn’t promise well. Harbinger’s condenser leak had worsened, for one thing, and two merchantmen—the Orangeman and the Omeo—had reported machinery trouble and doubts whether they’d be able to maintain the present speed. Then an hour ago Mr Timberlake had visited the bridge to moan about how few depthcharges he had left. For once the gunner’s complaint was justified—even if it hadn’t been strictly necessary, since Nick was well aware of the number they’d been using. The battle to defend SL 320 had lasted a lot longer than anyone had foreseen—thanks to speed reductions and diversions—and in their daily-state signals Paeony and Astilbe had also shown stocks as running very low.
It wouldn’t be surprising if tonight all three did run out. It wouldn’t be the first time convoy escorts had been left toothless, either; but with so few escorts to look after sixteen merchantmen—all of them crammed with survivors from the other twenty-one—against a pack of eight U-boats who’d be doing their utmost to finish the job off tonight …
Nothing was getting any better.
Except Paeony’s 271 was operational again: one small mercy, attributable to Harbinger’s RDF mechanic, who’d been transferred from Astilbe.
In his noon signal Nick had repeated his request for reinforcements. He didn’t for a moment believe anything would come of it, particularly at the crucial time for “Torch.” But you had to try: and have that repeated distress call on the record. Sixteen ships left out of the original thirty-six—plus the Burbridge, thirty-seven … Who’d stand up for an escort commander who’d suffered losses of that size, or admit he’d been given a purposefully inadequate escort force? And ordered—verbally only, no evidence of it—to keep the U-boats with him? Who’d acknowledge—ever—that a whole convoy had been laid out as bait?
Not that he’d have sixteen ships tomorrow, anyway. Even though an evasive turn or two would be permissible now—now that all the assault forces would have passed astern, with no U-boats to bother them. The last of them would be inside the Mediterranean by dawn; and tonight the huge American outfit, UGF 1, would be splitting into its separate components aimed at points north and south of Casablanca.
Carlish was OOW, zigzagging Harbinger to and fro across the convoy’s rear. The trawler, Stella, was closer in, and the two corvettes were as usual up ahead. The merchantmen were in four columns of four, and Commodore Sandover was back in the saddle, on board the Dongola at the head of column two. The Burbridge was astern of him, in position twenty-two, with the Redgulf Star abeam of her as always, and the two rescue ships, the Mount Trembling and the Archie Dukes, at the rear of the two centre columns.
Nick didn’t much like this formation. It had been Sandover’s decision, of course, and sixteen divided naturally into four columns of four; but he’d have opted for a wider front and less depth.
There’d be no moon tonight, and the weather would make things easier for the U-boats in some ways. Asdics might get more of a look-in, he supposed, but sub-surface conditions would still be unpredictable, after the long period of rough weather.
Warrimer had moved up to stand beside him.
“Splendid news from the desert, sir.”
Nick grunted agreement, continued searching with his glasses.
Rommel was on the run. At least, his German troops were. They’d taken what transport remained, and left six Italian divisions stranded without much food or water or the means to move, just waiting to be rounded up. Rommel’s right-hand man, General von Thoma, had put on his best uniform before personally surrendering, and no less than nine Italian generals had turned themselves in.
Carlish was ordering starboard wheel. Nick added, to make up for the grunt, “Best news for a long time.”
But in a way it made one feel more than ever out on a limb. Here, the main task had been accomplished, but the enemy’s had not. Achievement of the convoy’s purpose had been paid for very highly, and the U-boats would be exacting further exorbitant fees tonight. Ashore, meanwhile, they’d be thinking of the victory in the east and the imminence of the “Torch” landings, not of SL 320 … He’d swung round, looking for a sight of the Burbridge among her lumbering companions. Grey hulls, white wakes, masts swaying against green sea, grey sky … He thought perhaps he could improve on that formation—if the commodore would consent to it. Also that if those two ships were likely to straggle, it would be better to reduce speed by a knot or two and hold the whole bunch together.
With the Burbridge in their centre.
There’d be time—just—to propose it to the commodore and make the changes, if he concurred, before the end of daylight made such manoeuvring too hazardous for the close-packed merchantmen. Glancing round towards Carlish, Nick happened to see Mackenzie, the doctor, coming off the ladder at the rear end of the bridge, coming forward with a sheet of pink signal-pad flapping in one hand. Looking pleased about something or other … Nick told Carlish, “Three-six-oh revs, Sub. And come round to—” he pointed—“there, up between the second and third columns.”
Mackenzie now: and this signal. Pink signal-pads were for cyphers, the secret signals in their various classifications.
“Just decoded this one, sir. It’s to us, from—”
“Let me see.”
It was to Harbinger, repeated to Admiralty and half a dozen other authorities from C-in-C Western Approaches. The message ran: Destroyers “Wesley” and “Vicious” detached from convoy HGS 114 will join you at first light tomorrow 7 November in position …
He looked up: Harbinger heeling to her rudder as Carlish brought her round. Mackenzie looked as pleased with himself as if he’d arranged for these reinforcements. Warrimer murmured—to the doctor, as Nick looked down to re-read the signal more carefully after that first quick glance at it—“Good news, is it?”
“I’d say it’s a life-saver.”
Nick was thinking that if those two ships had been joining now, there might have been some lives saved. But—dawn tomorrow … He handed the flimsy sheet to Warrimer. It was astonishing, completely unexpected, but it was also a day too late. In fact several days too late. But even if he’d had those destroyers with him now …
Well, he hadn’t. Effectively therefore, this didn’t change anything that mattered.
“Give it to Scarr. Tell him I want to know how that position matches our dawn DR.” He called over his shoulder, “Come up to four hundred revs, Sub.”
The plan he was intending to put to the commodore was to dispose the ships in five columns instead of four, but as there were sixteen, not fifteen, to pack six into the rear rank. Thus in ranks one and two there’d be five ships at one thousand yard intervals, and in the third there’d be six, with gaps between them of only eight hundred yards. It would make station-keeping more difficult for those six masters; but it would make infiltration from astern more difficult for the U-boats, too.
And having only three ships in each column instead of four meant fewer ships
on the convoy’s sides, which was where casualties tended to be most frequent. The Burbridge would be number two in column three, right in the centre, and effectively she’d have two ships astern of her—on her quarters—instead of one.
The house had gone silent, and Jack knew she must have put the child to bed. It was the routine here: the wireless was switched off at this juncture, but he knew she herself didn’t turn in right away because on previous nights there’d been an interval of an hour or so before the back door opened and shut—twice, with a space of a few minutes between her exit and re-entry. Each night the last sounds he’d heard had been that door shutting for the second time and then her movement through the kitchen and—he assumed—to her own bedroom.
She hadn’t been out yet. He pictured her sewing, or reading. Or washing the clothes he’d discarded. He wanted her to go on out, get the night’s outing done with; then he’d know another day was over and it was time to sleep. If you went to sleep too soon, you woke too early. It was extremely boring, just lying here in the silence.
He wondered whether she’d give him a meal again tomorrow. If it wasn’t Sunday. He wished he’d thought of asking her: he could have, since he knew that word, Sonntag. She’d surely have a calendar or a diary somewhere, and she could show him. Another thing he’d ask her, if she did invite him downstairs tomorrow, was to allow him to listen to her wireless, tune it to the BBC. It would be marvellous to hear what was going on—and in particular, whether anything had come of the offensive in the desert. Barmy Morrison had given them that item of news, having heard it over Hut Four’s clandestine set, in the Offlag. Barmy, typically of the idiot he was, had insisted on jabbering about it just when they’d been marching towards the sentry at the camp gate.
That could have happened a year ago, the way it felt now.
The Torch Bearers: The Nicholas Everard World War II Saga Book 5 Page 34