Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  “Engine room . . . damage?”

  “None, sir—still at full power.”

  More messages came shouting back and forth between deck and bridge and other parts of the ship.

  “No penetration . . . glancing blow,” finally came the word.

  Below, the torpedo squadron under Lieutenant Forbes had recovered its footing and readied for another firing.

  “Petty Officer Rutherford,” called Forbes, “do you have the new coordinates?”

  “They’re coming now, sir.”

  Forbes waited.

  “Torpedo three,” George called out in another few seconds, “heading two-seven-nine.”

  “Prepare to fire,” called Forbes.

  “Heading two-seven-nine . . . ready.”

  Again Lieutenant Forbes gave the command to fire.

  “Torpedo away,” said the first gunner.

  As the British fleet under the command of First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill had dispersed from Scapa Flow in the Orkneys throughout the months of fall and early winter, gradually the threat to the coast of Great Britain itself lessened. The Fleet’s engagements with the German navy had during those months spread around the entire circumference of Europe into the North and Baltic seas, the Atlantic and Adriatic. The Mediterranean, where the HMS Dauntless had encountered a stray U-boat and was now battling for its very survival, had become the most strategic area of naval activity, just as the region of northern France and Belgium was for ground troops.

  From all three of Europe’s seas, Allied ships, the Dauntless among them, were converging upon the Aegean, where an offensive was planned against the Central powers of Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Turkey in support of Greece and Serbia.

  A dull underwater explosion sounded some two thousand yards across the water. A bulging bubble of blue capped with white slowly rose from the surface of the sea.

  “It’s a hit!” cried several officers’ voices on the bridge.

  “I think we got it!”

  On deck all those running about among the lifeboats stopped, their gaze riveted across the water. As the bubble rose, then exploded itself into the air, the tip of the submarine’s hull crested the surface momentarily at a dangerous angle, then disappeared.

  A great cheer went up from the deck. They would not need the lifeboats today.

  “Torpedo room . . . torpedo room,” came the message from the bridge, “stand down. You did it!”

  Above, Captain Wilberforce glanced around at his officers and exhaled a long sigh. A few congratulations and handshakes went around, but mostly more sighs of relief. “I would rather it not be communicated to the men,” he said with a relieved smile of his own, “but I don’t mind telling you . . . that was what they call a little too close for comfort. All right—resume your stations, send a crew to check for minor damage, and set course for the Dardanelles. We must be there on schedule.”

  62

  Intelligence in the Alliance

  It was not often that the German military confided in the Prussian Intelligence Service. Especially at these levels. Rald Wolfrik knew something big was in the wind the moment he was summoned to Berlin.

  But why him? he wondered. Unless the information he had passed on from Scarlino had paid off.

  Even he did not realize the level of the meeting to which he was bound until he walked into the room and saw Generaloberst von Bülow himself along with two or three others.

  They wasted no time getting to the business at hand.

  “I have been informed,” began the generaloberst to Wolfrik, “that you are involved in the covert British operation.”

  Wolfrik nodded.

  “Something has come up which may affect our plans—a defection . . . a serious one, at the highest level.”

  “How high?”

  “My own top assistant,” replied von Bülow. “He knows of the assassination as well as our invasion plans.”

  “You are, I assume, taking measures to prevent him from reaching England.”

  “Unfortunately, it is too late for that. He is already in enemy hands.”

  “In England?”

  “He slipped out of sight in Greece. We suspect that he is still on the Continent.”

  “Then he must be intercepted.”

  “Our orders are to eliminate him, along with the others. That is why we brought you here. We want you to handle the affair. Your Swiss contact, I believe, is serviceable in such matters.”

  “As might be our young English friend. He recently passed an important test, and we believe he will suit our purposes perfectly. In addition, we have learned more about the organization of which he is part. It is called the Fountain of Light.”

  “I am well acquainted with one or two of its principles,” rejoined von Bülow. “They operate out of a large house in Vienna. This is excellent. They will be able to help you. I will arrange to have you briefed in a few important matters tomorrow. Then get down to Vienna and contact a man called Barclay. He has helped me set up what has been a very effective link across the Channel. Tell me, is the young Englishman personally acquainted with the prime minister?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But he is said to have sufficient contacts to enable him to walk straight into Downing Street without raising suspicions.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Of course not. With such types, it is always best not to divulge too much until you have them caught in such a tight squeeze they have no alternative but to go along.”

  “And your Swiss colleague?”

  “I will contact him immediately. He is presently in Zurich. I will tell him to leave the other matter for now and meet me in Köln the moment I have arranged things with this Barclay.”

  63

  War Closes In

  Amanda sat in a train staring out the window at the passing countryside, considerably subdued since her departure from the chalet two days before. Moving across northeast France after crossing the border from Switzerland, she was bound for Paris.

  Her route had already taken her closer to the fighting in northern France and Germany than she had anticipated. She had been so insulated from the events of the war during her months at the chalet that she had had little idea how close it actually was. The moment she crossed the border, instantly the war—if not actual fighting, then certainly its effects—was all around her. France was not only one of the principal powers involved, unlike neutral Switzerland and Italy, this region between Basel and Metz represented the French-German border, and along it, included in the 400-mile entrenched line from the English Channel to the Swiss border, both sides were dug in and the fighting was severe. There were times they had been so close to the border yesterday that she could hear the sound of artillery fire in the distance. In every town or village they passed she saw signs of the conflict—soldiers in troop trucks, wounded men with slings and bandages and crutches, nurses and doctors, and columns of new recruits on their way to the front.

  Suddenly the reality began to dawn on her that she might be heading toward even more trouble than she had intended to leave behind. Not that she wasn’t relieved to be in France. It was almost like being back in England after all the long, frightening months in Austria. She was more comfortable with the French language than she had been with German. Yet still the war was all of a sudden so close.

  Mingled with Amanda’s observations were questions at last coming into focus of what she would do if and when she did get back to England alive.

  Where she would go, what she would do, she wasn’t exactly sure. She hadn’t really thought much about her prospects. Would she get a job? What was she suited for? What could her future possibly hold?

  She would probably look up Sylvia Pankhurst. She was the only friend she had. Actually . . . what else could she do? Maybe she could stay with Sylvia until she got on her feet.

  Perhaps Cousin Martha would help her again. She hadn’t thought of the lady in months, maybe in a year. She was reminded of Geoffrey, but then qui
ckly put the London Rutherfords out of her mind.

  Then again came the horrifying, sickening reminder—something like waking up from a bad dream—that she was actually married!

  Married!

  How could she have been so foolish as to rush into something so important on a whim?

  That was the biggest question about the future of all—what was she going to do!

  Divorce Ramsay? Would she be able to do that in England when they had been married in Austria? The thought brought Sister Anika and Sister Agatha to Amanda’s mind. It was all too confusing. She didn’t want to think about the chalet right now. She didn’t want to think about Ramsay. She didn’t want to think about whether divorce was right or wrong. She didn’t want to think about the future. She just wanted to feel English soil under her feet.

  A soldier came walking down the aisle toward her, limping, one leg heavily bandaged and with a soiled white bandage wrapped around his forehead. Amanda glanced from the window toward him.

  Suddenly with horror she realized that his right arm was missing!

  The sight of the empty sleeve of his uniform hanging from his shoulder filled her with strange revulsion and she turned away. The look in his eye—he was younger than she, a mere boy of nineteen or twenty—was of lostness, aloneness, sadness, and pain.

  Who was he? she wondered. Was he going home?

  Amanda’s thoughts turned to her brother, George. She had not thought of him in so long. She was glad he didn’t have to be in this war. The thought of George involved in the fighting was too awful. She could not hold it in her brain for long.

  The young man sat down just in front of Amanda. She could not keep from staring at his misshapen and armless body. She wanted to weep for him. But the season for Amanda’s tears had not yet come, and though her heart ached, her eyes remained dry.

  Beside her as they approached the station in Troyes, a man got up to disembark, leaving behind the day’s newspaper in his seat. Amanda picked it up. It was full of war news about troop movements and U-boats, ships and battles, the Schlieffen Plan and the Battle of the Marne, the Russian invasion and the trench warfare in Belgium. Amanda understood a little of what she read and skipped about among the headlines and leading captions.

  FIGHTING INTENSIFIES NEAR RHEIMS, read one.

  GERMAN AND ENGLISH SHIPS SUNK IN MEDITERRANEAN, read another.

  A short article about German submarines located in the North Sea between Scotland and Norway interested her and she read half of it.

  ALLIES BEAT BACK GERMAN LINE, PARIS SAFE FOR NOW, read one of the large captions. Amanda began to read the text of the article.

  “After penetration by German infantry troops in September, the Allied trench line roughly along the French-Belgian border now appears secure. The inhabitants of the great French capital are breathing much more easily now than during the panic of only a few short months ago. . . .”

  Paris, thought Amanda. Had France really been so nearly overrun and defeated!

  An article about spies now caught her eye and she began to scan it. As she did, words and phrases jumped off the page into her brain with a strange sense of familiarity, “ . . . infiltration into France and Britain, apparently a network capable of moving spies in and out of Britain at will. It is thought that some coastal location . . . British Army and Royal Navy command continues mystified how their messages are being intercepted. . . .”

  Memories of the Fountain and her hazy and unpleasant days in Vienna began to rise into Amanda’s consciousness. Why did something seem familiar here . . . what was the connection between this article and Vienna?

  Now came back to her words and phrases she had overheard at the house on Ebendorfer Strasse, “ . . . said he knew about the lighthouse operation . . . might know about the signals.”

  What kind of signals? she wondered. But there was more. As her consciousness slowly awakened she found echoing in her brain confusing reminders and bits of conversation she overheard when no one thought she was paying attention.

  “ . . . change the code . . . Morse . . . U-boats . . . land an invasion . . . the lighthouse cannot be compromised . . .”

  The lighthouse, thought Amanda. What lighthouse . . . and where?

  Didn’t she remember hearing Ramsay mention something like that too . . . or was it his mother?

  Was it connected—the spies infiltrating England, and what she had heard in Vienna?

  And why not? The house on Ebendorfer Strasse had been associated with the very assassins who had started the war—whether directly or indirectly she still didn’t know. But there must be a spy network along with it. Gavrilo Princip had hinted to her about such things. That must have been what she had overheard Muhamed Mehmedbasic talking to Hartwell Barclay about.

  Why had she not paid more attention? How could she have allowed herself to fall into such a state? What was it she had heard Mehmedbasic say?

  Yes, now she remembered!

  He had said to Barclay, “ . . . and I know about your lighthouse.”

  And Barclay had instantly become serious at the words. It must have been important.

  Whatever was going on, a lighthouse somewhere must be at the bottom of it!

  She had to get back and tell English authorities what she had heard.

  But then Amanda’s thoughts sobered. What would she tell them? What did she really know? She didn’t know where this supposed lighthouse was. Great Britain had thousands of miles of coastline and hundreds of lighthouses.

  Maybe it wasn’t on the coast of Britain. For all she knew, it might be a lighthouse in Greece. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t really have any information that would do anybody much good at all.

  64

  A Letter and a Nightmare

  Charles Rutherford awoke early. He had been doing so frequently these days, it seemed. It was still dark out. He turned on his light and glanced at his watch. Five-forty. That would make it between three and four in the morning back home.

  It was nearly time to be up anyway. He needed to tell Jocie what had happened two mornings ago. He might as well get started on it now. The ship would be reasonably quiet for another hour.

  He rose, dressed, and within ten minutes was seated at the small writing table in his cabin gazing at the small framed photograph of his wife in front of him.

  My dear Jocelyn, he began,

  I don’t know when you will receive this—we have not put in since passing Gibraltar and entering the Mediterranean, and already we have passed Malta and expect to see Crete soon. I have begun at least ten letters since we last saw England’s coastline, but as time passes I feel the constant need to begin anew, since what I may have written yesterday, or last week, no longer seems so immediate as the now. I shall probably post them all at the first opportunity, giving you a long string of letters begun . . . but all remaining unfinished!

  Christmas was particularly difficult for me. I am certain it was for you and Catharine as well. How I missed you and longed to be home! I relived every Christmas we have ever had together, I think, and the day was filled for me with visions of trees and stockings and your delectable rice pudding . . . but mostly just with thoughts of you and wanting to be with you. I love you more than ever!

  At least there were no enemy ships about, and we took the day to quietly remember our families. I led the men—I feel like calling them boys, as most of them are to my eyes—in the singing of some Christmas carols, which we concluded with sharing and praying together. It was quite extraordinary how men will open themselves to other men if given the opportunity, aided by a holiday and a little fear of what may lie ahead.

  All in all, under the circumstances, I felt it was a good day, one that drew the officers and men closer together, an important component of ship life. But what am I repeating this for? It is all explained in great detail in the letter I began the day after Christmas!

  In any event, George and I managed to have some time together as well and it was rich. We even squeezed i
n two epic games of chess—though I am no longer his match. He is so mild mannered, but ruthless with his bishops, knights, and rooks. I have never encountered so persistent and cunningly dangerous a queen! He is growing into a fine man to make both of us proud. His companions look up to him, and gradually I see leadership qualities emerging in him. I’m sure I have told you already that he is a petty officer now, in charge of all the radios on board, and second in command of his squadron. Though it is a severe grief to me to be away from you, to be close to him during this learning, maturing, critical time in his life makes it almost worth it. Nothing really makes it worth it, of course, but if there must be sacrifices, it is so good of the Lord to give us corresponding blessings along with them.

  As if the intensity of his thoughts in her direction had forced themselves into her own brain, terrifying visions and images began to rise within Jocelyn’s dreamy consciousness where she slept in her own bed at Heathersleigh. But they were not happy images of Christmas. . . .

  A ship was slicing through dark waters, tilted to one side. The sky was nearly as black as the waters, the only illumination coming from occasional bursts of fiery explosions in the air . . . silent bombs that gave no sound, only brilliant, terrifying light. Aboard the vessel were what seemed ten thousand men running to and fro in confused panic, resembling more ants than men . . . they were trying to scream for help, but their voices made no sounds and there was no one to help them. The explosions overhead closed in around them . . . now crashing upon the ship itself and exploding it apart . . . some of the ants were thrown into the air and overboard into the black sea . . . others scurried over the sides . . . the ship was aflame now, engulfed in its own certain death . . . over the side poured streams of the ant-men, crawling down the sides of the ship by the thousand, clinging to its lurching sides like insects. Back and forth the ship rocked violently, as if it were trying to shake them loose . . . more explosions . . . fire, fire everywhere. Into the water the ants poured . . . swimming now like tiny fish, but not fish who could live in water . . . fish-men who needed air and land . . . but without hope, for there was no land in sight, no land anywhere . . . only water . . . water. Gradually they began to sink, overcome by the turbulent black waters . . . struggling, gasping frantically for breath . . . sinking out of sight into the black—