His mood changed and he said crisply, ‘You think we should let it go, don’t you?’
‘It’s not for me to say.’
‘My decision. I know. Look at it this way. There are two chaps out there, maybe hurt for all I know. Depending on us. It matters!’
‘I know that, sir.’ He added savagely, ‘Makes you sick – the job was aborted anyway.’
The skipper was staring at him in the encroaching darkness, his cap-cover touched with red by the strange glow. When that went, they would have to pull out. He said, ‘We’ll hang about a bit longer. Tell the control-room.’
The smaller of the two lookouts said, ‘Aircraft, sir. Starboard bow.’
They listened to the uneven drone until it was swallowed up by the sea noises.
The skipper said, ‘Jerry moving some gear, I expect.’ He could have been remarking on the weather.
The first lieutenant was still there. He asked, ‘Anything else, sir?’
‘No. Go below and get ready. It won’t be long now.’
He knew, even as the lieutenant’s head disappeared through the hatch that he had not understood.
He levelled his glasses again. How many millions of times, he wondered. Seeking out a kill, trying to avoid the hunters. And they all depended on him, on his eyes, on his conclusions after sighting a target.
This boat had been depth-charged several times, but somehow they had got out of it. He thought he heard the aircraft again, but it was something else.
He felt the small lookout stir and asked, ‘You all right, Nobby?’
The lookout was actually grinning. ‘Still thinkin’ about your lobster, sir. I’m more used to cod an’ chips, or a pint of whelks down th’ Old Kent Road!’
The skipper looked away, but was greatly moved. One of his men. The characters he had come to know and respect; and it went even deeper than just good sense. Like the little seaman from the Old Kent Road. He had seen him at the defaulters’ table several times, or had heard him being dragged aboard drunk by a shore patrol. And yet he was able to joke about it. To stand here if ordered until he dropped.
He knew they were staring at him as he leaned over the voicepipe.
‘Stand by, control-room. In just a few minutes . . .’ He wheeled round as the other lookout gasped, ‘There they are, sir! Port bow – I wasn’t sure for a second, an’ then!’ He was almost beside himself.
The skipper snapped, ‘Belay that, Number One. Open the fore-hatch. Two good hands and a heaving line, chop chop!’
The chariot was suddenly right here, swaying alongside, so much smaller without the six-hundred-pound warhead.
‘One of them’s injured.’ He gripped the screen with his hand until the rough steel steadied him. He saw Ross’s vague outline, could feel his concern as the handling party hauled his Number Two on to the deck casing.
The chariot was drifting away and already settling down, scuttled to save time. Another minute? How long would he have waited? Then, and only then, did he look up. Tiny bright stars; the red brushstroke had gone.
‘Clear the bridge.’ He jabbed the klaxon and heard it scream through the hull beneath him. The forehatch was shut, the deck empty. He closed the voicepipe cock and bent over the hatch. The small lookout was just about to drop down the ladder when something made them all look up. A great flash lit up the horizon, and the boom of the explosion rolled across the water to sigh against the saddle-tanks like something solid.
Somebody gave a wild cheer in the control-room, but all the tough little seaman could think of was the emotion in the skipper’s eyes.
Through the control-room and forward to the petty officers’ mess, the skipper was himself again. He could ignore the grins and the thumbs-up. It was relief, prayers answered, nothing more. His men.
He found Ross struggling out of his suit, and two of the deck party cutting away the Number Two’s equipment and mask.
The man called Tucker gasped, ‘Bloody wire, it was. Gashed my suit. Filled with water. Couldn’t breathe.’ His chest was heaving painfully.
Ross said, ‘Don’t talk. Rest now. I’ll get some pusser’s rum in a minute.’
The deck was tilting as the first lieutenant took the boat down, but that was outside. Tucker winced; there was blood on his neck where the net wire had snared him. His voice was suddenly level and clear as he said to Ross, ‘You came back. How did you know?’
Ross said, ‘I just knew.’ He glanced at the submarine’s young skipper. ‘You know these things, don’t you, when it matters?’
The skipper nodded and heard the control-room calling him back to his world.
‘Yes. When it matters.’ He walked away. A very near thing. For them all. One more time.
2
A Different War
THE HOTEL, SMALL by London standards, was well placed on one comer of St James’s Square. With even its name hidden by the usual pyramids of piled sandbags to protect the pillared entrance, it had all the appearance of a private club. In happier days it had been the haunt of visiting businessmen from the Far East, and at lunch-times the regular meeting-place of local publishers: a quiet, respectable place which had never accustomed itself to the ways of war.
Lieutenant Charles Villiers paused and glanced across the square. When he had been walking back to the hotel, he had stopped out of curiosity to look up Duke Street towards Piccadilly. In the hot, dusty sunshine he had watched the steady flow of people on either side of the road, and had been astonished that he had seen only one person not in uniform amid the dark and pale blues of the Navy and the Royal Air Force, and the overwhelming tide of men and women in khaki. So many foreigners, too, evidence if any were still needed of the Germans’ complete domination of Europe and Scandinavia: Poles and Dutch, Norwegians and Czechs and, of course, the Free French.
Villiers could not remember how long he had been walking, nor could he understand why he was not hungry: he had not eaten since breakfast, and this was early evening. Green Park, then St James’s Park, Piccadilly and along Jermyn Street, once the home of many an expensive tailor. Now those same windows displayed officers’ uniforms of the three services, rather than the sports jackets and flannel bags of that other world.
He entered the lobby and saw the manager, a feather duster under one arm, speaking busily on the telephone. Exactly as he had known he would be, like a round toby jug, with one lick of hair plastered down on his otherwise bald head. Of necessity he was manager, telephonist and receptionist all in one. But only for the duration, as he had proclaimed brightly when he had greeted him. A bit of a change from his usual guests, Villiers had thought. Staff officers were the regulars nowadays, not mere lieutenants, especially those wearing the wavy stripes of ‘temporary gentlemen’. The manager managed to bob and smile without missing a word on the telephone.
It was strange and a little unnerving that the manager, as well as the hotel, were so familiar, like old friends. Until he had signed the register two days ago, Villiers had never set foot in the place. Now he could imagine staying nowhere else, and wished he had come earlier. Unable to face it? Afraid of the memories it would release? He was still not sure.
He removed his cap and glanced at himself in an ornate lobby mirror. A young-old face, no longer a youth, not yet a man. Hair so fair that it had no colour in the bright sunlight, and a fine, even tan. Again he felt the uncertainty. The emptiness. His mother would have described it as the colonial biscuit-coloured tan.
He frowned slightly, remembering the voice in the park. He had been walking in the Mall when a car had pulled up beside him and a red, angry face had peered out at him. A full R.N. captain, with a small faded woman beside him. Probably his wife, poor thing. The captain had been almost beside himself; it was still hard to believe that he could have worked himself up into such a rage in so short a time.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, man? You’re improperly dressed, a disgrace to the uniform!’
Villiers glanced at the cap in his hand. He had
been carrying it then, enjoying the sun, watching the pigeons and ducks, some Wrens feeding them, probably released from the underground bunkers at the Admiralty nearby. ‘It’s such a nice day, sir.’
The captain had exploded, ‘I am on my way to the Palace, otherwise . . .’ Villiers had looked at him steadily and had seen the sudden uncertainty, alarm even. ‘I don’t know what the service is coming to!’
Villiers had heard himself reply, ‘It’s doing very well, sir. You really should go and see for yourself sometime, instead of behaving like a pompous idiot!’
The captain’s wife had pleaded, ‘Leave it, Henry. The young man is not himself, don’t you see?’
The car had driven off at speed. Its driver would have a good yarn to tell when he got back to his mess.
Villiers laid his cap on a table. Not himself. Round the bloody bend, more likely.
The bar was not very busy. It was exactly as he had imagined it when his father had described his visits to England. A miniature Raffles. There were two Polish officers at one table, and an Army colonel who kept looking at his watch.
An elderly waiter came over. ‘Sir?’
‘Pink gin, large one, please.’ He noticed that there was a newspaper on a nearby chair, the headlines almost loud enough to hear.
ALLIES INVADE SICILY. The Eighth Army alongside the Canadians takes all objectives on the south-east coast. The Americans land and swing towards the north.
He picked it up. There was a couple of pictures of Tommies giving the usual thumbs-up, and one of a destroyer at full speed making smoke to conceal an attack. Villiers stared at it. The way back. What they had all waited for.
His eyes lingered on the small item at the end of the main article. The Admiralty released information about operations which were carried out in enemy-held waters by some of their special units before the main assault, as a result of which many lives were saved at a time when the landings were at a crucial stage. He put the newspaper on the chair. So easily said. He wondered who those men had been, whether he had met them. If they had survived.
He looked up, aware that a woman had entered the bar. Both of the Polish officers were watching her like predators. She spoke to the waiter and he waved her to one of the small tables near by. He obviously did not approve of unescorted women.
Villiers took his glass from the waiter’s tray. The latter, without being asked, said, ‘Waiting for somebody.’ He frowned. ‘She says.’
Villiers watched her. Young and very pretty, with short, curly hair, she was dressed in a dark two-piece suit, probably grey, although in the filtered sunlight it was hard to tell. The effect was softened by a white, frilly blouse. She had dressed with great care, although she wore no stockings. He had heard the Wrens complaining about the shortage of decent stockings often enough. Above one ankle he saw a tiny scratch of dried blood. He looked away, clenching his fists as he remembered his sister. He had caught her shaving her legs one day and she had wrestled him out of the bathroom . . .
More voices. He looked up again: the scene had changed. The anxious colonel had gone and one of the Poles had moved over to the girl’s table, his face set in an amiable grin.
Like a slow film. The officer’s hand on her arm, her sudden anger, or was it fear? The rest was obvious. The Pole looked round as Villiers said, ‘Leave the lady alone.’
The man stared at him, the grin fading like the Cheshire Cat’s.
Villiers ignored him and said to her, ‘There’s a private lounge where you can wait.’ He sensed her doubt. Her eyes moved from his face to the wavy stripes on his sleeves. He added, ‘It’s all right, you know. I don’t bite.’ He smiled, and she was to remember long afterwards how difficult it had seemed for him to do so.
The second Pole called out something to his companion, but fell silent as Villiers bent over his table and murmured, ‘Do you speak English, good English, my friend?’
The man snapped, ‘Of course!’
‘Fine. Well, fuck off while you still can, there’s a good chap!’
He took her elbow and guided her away from the bar. There was a door, decorated with bamboo inlay and labelled The Malacca Room. Residents Only. It was empty – but then, it usually was, unless there was a guest sleeping off a good lunch.
‘Are you a resident?’
He looked down at her and smiled. ‘For the present. Sorry about all that. I expect you’re used to it. Pretty girl, the war, and too many servicemen looking for a good time.’
She was gazing round the room, so he was able to study her more closely. Brown eyes, nicely shaped hands.
She said, ‘I am waiting for somebody. I hope he’s going to give me a job. I don’t want people to think . . .’ She coloured slightly. ‘What is your name?’
‘Charles Villiers. I’m here for an interview too, of sorts, anyway.’
She watched him curiously. ‘And you really are staying here?’
He held out his sleeve. ‘Not on a two-ringer’s pay. Dinner here would make a real dent in my wallet.’ Then, ‘What time is this chap coming for you?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Two hours ago. I did telephone, but his secretary told me to wait. I hope it’s not much longer. I have to get back.’
‘Back?’
‘Southsea.’
There had been a lot of air-raids on the main lines to Portsmouth and attendant areas. It was hardly safe to be out late when that was happening.
She asked, ‘Are you in a big ship, or shouldn’t I ask?’ She was very nervous. Making conversation to cover it.
‘No, I’m ashore at the moment.’ He stood up quickly, like a cat. ‘What’s the name of this person? I’ll tell the receptionist, and I’ll get you a drink at the same time.’
She shook her head. ‘I – I don’t really . . .’ Then she nodded, her sudden determination making her look more vulnerable. ‘A sherry, then, thank you.’
He found the rotund manager by the entrance, peering out at the square.
‘I love these sunny evenings. Not blackout all the time, people coming and going with money to spend.’
Villiers gave him the man’s name and the manager said, ‘Ah, Mr Tweed – he comes in from time to time. I will let the lady know as soon as he calls.’ He glanced around, his face suddenly grave and troubled.
‘I was so sorry, Mr Villiers. We all were. I still can’t really believe it.’
Villiers gripped his arm. ‘I know. Thank you.’ He picked up the two glasses and walked back to the Malacca Room.
He almost collided with her and knew instantly that something had happened. ‘What is it?’
She made to open the door, but he put down the glasses and took her wrist.
‘Tell me!’
‘You were like the others. Fair game, did you think?’ She pointed at the portrait above the empty fireplace: a seafaring man with a telescope, the mast and yards of a tall sailing ship. She exclaimed. ‘ “Charles Villiers” – is that where you got the name?’ Her eyes were blurred with anger, disappointment.
But she did not resist as he put her down in her chair. Something in his eyes, his voice, his manner compelled her to listen. He said quietly, ‘That is Captain Charles Villiers – you were right. He was my great grandfather.’ She was staring at him as he dragged out his wallet and identity card. ‘See?’ Together they looked at the portrait. Villiers had searched it for some likeness to his father, but there was none. As he returned his card, she saw the photograph.
‘Who is that, your girlfriend?’ She spoke more calmly now and without animosity.
He put the photograph away and said, ‘My sister.’
He knew she was about to ask something and said, almost brusquely, ‘Take this card. I shall be here for a few days, so please telephone me if you are coming to town. If I am out, leave a message. I want you to promise.’
She did not flinch, even when he gripped her wrist again. ‘I promise, but I’m not sure . . .’
He smiled at her. ‘A promise will do.’
&
nbsp; The door opened an inch and the manager said, ‘Mr Tweed is here, miss. He has a taxi waiting.’ She walked out into the lobby and saw a vague figure by the door. But all she could think of was the tall, tanned lieutenant. The door to the Malacca Room was shut. It was as if she had imagined it all.
She hesitated by the desk. ‘Lieutenant Villiers – do you know him well?’
The manager shrugged and answered warily, ‘Not that well. A very brave young man, I believe. I knew his family, of course – his mother and father always stayed with us when they came to London. Second home, it was.’
The voice intruded, impatient and rather hard. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. We’d better get a move on.’
But something held her motionless, like his hand on her wrist.
‘Where did they live?’
The manager hesitated, afraid he was betraying a secret in some way.
‘Singapore.’
She could feel her heart beating, beating.
The manager said gently, ‘They were all killed. Murdered by the Japs.’
She thought of the little photograph she had seen in his wallet. Now he was the only one left. She lifted her chin and walked to the door, the manager’s words still in her ears: second home, it was.
She glanced across the square, golden now in the dying sunshine, then she looked at the man who had arranged to meet her. She was being stupid. She needed that job, more than ever now. A well-cut suit, slicked-back hair like the Brylcreem ads, and a smile that put the Polish officer to shame.
‘I’ve changed my mind.’ She turned to the taxi. ‘Will you take me to Waterloo Station, cabby?’
‘To the moon if you asks nicely, luv!’ He crashed his gears, grinning: the expression on the man’s face was a real picture. He had picked him up at a club, kept this nice little piece dangling. Well, sod him!
From the back of the taxi she watched the passing scene, so busy, so frantic after the south coast. Uniforms, soldiers with their girls, sandbags and walls cracked wide open by bombing.
A Dawn Like Thunder Page 3